Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hao knows it’s going to be a bad day when he doesn’t see a balance of 100,000 won in his Venmo account on the first of the month.  

Monday - 10:03 AM

Hao: of course you fucking forgot to pay child support this month

Hao: you’re such a deadbeat father

Hao: i’m giving you only one hour to venmo me

Hao: by the time i get out of my lecture it better be in my account

Hao: idiot

He sighs, shuts his phone off, and takes notes on his geology lecture that is so boring that it makes him consider clawing his eyes out. 

All he can think about is Hanbin. Not because he particularly wants to. More because there’s rage that twists in his gut whenever he even thinks of his stupid perfect face: at the way he thinks he can get away with ignoring Hao, at the way he refuses to pay child support even when Hao is drowning in bills this month, at the way he’s probably out fucking a ton of guys or something instead of texting Hao back, effectively neglecting the fact that despite being separated, they still have a household to maintain.  

After the lecture ends, the guy who’s been sitting next to him for the entire semester waves his hand; Hao sees it from the corner of his eye. The guy has glasses perched on his nose, a devious grin tracing his lips. Hao still doesn’t know his name this far into the semester.

He tilts his head, confused at the sudden call for his attention. The same look he used to give Hanbin when they were dating, and Hanbin would call him a puppy, kiss his face silly even when Hao protested. Thinking about that forces a frown on his face. He doesn’t want to think about that good-for-nothing deadbeat father anymore. He really should consider getting a brain lobotomy. 

“Are you okay?” the guy asks. There’s a concerned undertone there. 

“Yeah, why—”

Hao stares down at his hands. There’s blue ink splattered all over them from a pen that he must have exploded.

When Hao gets back from his lecture (after cleaning his hands in the run-down academic building bathrooms), he crashes on the semi-dysfunctional futon that he got on Facebook Marketplace for dirt cheap. Zero Cola crawls out of the den that is Hao’s bedroom and flocks over to him within a minute, meows until he scratches her in the place that she always loves to be scratched. 

An alarm that he set right before his lecture goes off, blaring the iPhone’s default radar ringtone that annoys him to death. It’s his reminder to continue harassing Hanbin on the dot at 11:03 AM, who still has not answered any of his text messages, so startingly unlike him. 

Hao smothers the worry rising in his chest, curses at his fingers that fling across the keyboard to maintain their original mission and channel all the anger he can into each message.

Monday - 11:03 AM

Hao: no venmo still?

Hao: do you want zero cola to STARVE and DIE

Hao: because thats the route youre going you cunt

Hao: i need money to pay for her food i dont get paid until next week

Hao: one more hour and i’m spamming the fuck out of your phone

Hao bites his lip a bit too hard; Hanbin isn’t here to yell at him when he does that, not anymore. Stares up at the ceiling, keeps his hand moving through Zero Cola’s black fur to prevent claws from digging into his skin. 

This is really unlike Hanbin. He usually responds within an hour maximum. Even after they broke up. When they were dating, he used to respond to Hao within seconds, minutes—was chronically online just for him. That obviously changed when they broke up about six months ago, but the length to wait for Hanbin to message him back has never been this extreme and climactic. 

He’s going crazy. Hanbin has to be dead or something. There’s no way in any universe he would ever take this long to respond to Hao’s message. As much as Hao calls him a deadbeat father as a stabbing remark, Hanbin has never neglected his duties of being Zero Cola’s separated father. He always gives the money to Hao on time. 

His heart hammers in his chest. When he closes his eyes, all he sees is Hanbin’s dead face staring back at him. He sees scenes of a car crash, where Hanbin is driving exactly the speed limit and obeying all of the traffic laws known to mankind because he is that good of a driver, and then a semi-truck just has to  head-on-collide with him, kill him to death. He sees scenes of a break-in at Hanbin’s insanely expensive apartment where he lives with Matthew, an intruder somehow skilled enough to bypass the advanced security system and receptionist at the front who only allows residents and their guests into the building unless they’re on the exclusive guest list (Hao would know). He sees himself at Hanbin’s funeral, helplessly watching the open-casket at the front, delivering a eulogy that reduces everyone to tears. It isn’t conventional for an ex-boyfriend to deliver a eulogy, but they would just have to find it in their heart to make an exception (even if Hanbin and him weren’t dating anymore, nobody can argue against the fact that he loves Hanbin more than anything, anyone. Regardless of if he bothers to pay child support or not). 

That’s it. Hao wants to throw up thinking about it, doesn’t want to have Hanbin’s dead face behind his eyelids anymore. 

Monday - 11:09 AM 

Hao: are you okay?

Hao: hanbin i’m sorry for being mean are you okay

Hao: answer your goddamn phone

Hao: you’re worrying me are you dead or something

Hao: please don’t be dead please answer me

Hao: did you get into a car crash

Hao: did someone break into your stupidly nice apartment we get it you’re rich

Hao: i really wont forgive you ever if you die like this

Hao: i will NOT be nice to you in my eulogy i hope you know

He watches the clock on his phone, aimless. Bites all of his fingernails off until he can’t anymore. 

One minute passes. 

Two minutes pass. 

Three minutes pass.

And then he’s out the door in his blue puffer coat. Sprinting through the streets of Seoul, all the way to the subway station.

“Zhang Hao.” He says his name sickeningly sweet because he wants to be mean. 

The receptionist glares at him, averts her if-looks-could-kill gaze to the computer where she rifles through Hanbin’s apartment guest list. Hao has always known that the receptionist hated him, but Hanbin never believed him. It’s definitely because she wants to fuck Hanbin or something. 

“I’m on the list,” he adds, just to flaunt that he is indeed on “The Exclusive List Of Guests Who Can Visit Hanbin’s Apartment,” even after their break up.  

It takes the receptionist longer than usual to locate his name on the list, and Hao forces himself to stifle any panic in his body. If Hanbin took him off the list, that grievance would go straight to the eulogy, among a string of many other grievances. 

The receptionist narrows her eyes at him. “Ah, found it. Surprised he still has you on the list,” she says, her voice sugary sweet. The edges of her lips quirk upwards, and it’s so fake that Hao wants to jump behind the counter that’s currently separating them and take her down to the ground with him. 

“You can go, Zhang Hao,” she dismisses, lacking the attachment of any formalities or honorifics. Which he doesn’t even mind that much, because he has always thought the Korean honorifics system was odd in itself, but it’s more about how this is a targeted attack designed to be hostile towards him. 

“Thanks.” He squares his shoulders towards the elevators, adjusts his posture. “Bitch,” he mumbles under his breath as he walks away, loud enough for the receptionist to hear. 

It’s all muscle memory as he presses the button to Hanbin’s floor in the expensive elevator that muses classic cliché elevator music. There are mirrors plastered on every wall of the elevator. Hao doesn’t even have an elevator at his apartment, and he lives on the fourth floor. 

Every time Hao rides the elevator to Hanbin’s floor, heat involuntarily creeps onto his cheeks. He always looks at those goddamn mirrors and thinks about that one time when they were still together and had sex in one of the elevators, how it became some sort of strange erotic game when they tried to determine if a person would walk in when the elevator door would stop at a floor and open.

It’s a secret that Hao is planning to carry to his grave. Or maybe he’ll add it into Hanbin’s eulogy, because it was his idea in the first place to have sex in the elevator. Hao definitely didn’t want to do it—not at all. Dragged against his will. 

Hao speed-walks down the hallway of the 12th floor until he’s standing in front of room 1210. It’s 11:45 AM now, and it’s been a lengthy affair to get to Hanbin’s apartment by walking, taking the subway, and then walking again through the neighborhood where all the fancy financial companies agglomerate.

He checks his phone yet again. There’s no notifications overlaying his lock screen’s wallpaper of Zero Cola laying on her back in a silly pose, which means Hanbin still had not texted him back, which means Hanbin was assumedly dead in a ditch somewhere. 

He lifts his hand, balls into a fist, and then knocks loud onto the door. When there’s no answer, he continues to knock, possessed by the growing dread of Hanbin really being dead. 

That’s when the door swings open. 

His ex-boyfriend stands there, his skin as white as a sheet. He blinks through his sleep crusted eyes, more than confused when he mumbles, “Hao?” 

Hao’s heart clenches in his chest, and he releases a breath that he had been holding since he left his own apartment to hunt down Hanbin. “You’re not dead?”

“What are you talking about?” His voice is deeper than usual, gravely. It’s his sick voice. For some reason, that makes Hao panic even more, the panic of Hanbin dying smothered but promptly replaced with the panic of Hanbin being physically unwell. 

“Are you sick?” he asks, even when he knows the answer. “You’re sick! Sit the fuck down, Hanbin, stop standing—“

“You’re the reason I’m standing. I was in bed before you came,” Hanbin says, and he sounds exhausted, but his tone isn’t accusatory. 

“Whatever, you asshole,” Hao bites out, but it falls out of his mouth more affectionately than he intends. “You need to be horizontal right now.”

He drags Hanbin deeper into his own apartment, slams the door behind them both. It still looks moderately clean, similar to the way it looked when Hao was in Hanbin’s apartment four days ago. He forces Hanbin into his room and pushes him to the bed so he can lay down, which would be a strange picture for any pair of exes, but they are different. 

“Do you have a fever?” He places his palm to Hanbin’s forehead but doesn’t feel the skin burning up beneath his hand. “Strep?” 

“I haven’t gone to the doctor yet. I’m too tired,” Hanbin admits, adjusting his head on the pillow as Hao hovers over him. “Why did you come?” 

Hao sticks his tongue out at him. The nerve of him to ask that question when Hao has all of the right to come and invade his apartment. “You didn’t pay your child support this month, thank you very much. Zero Cola is going to starve now.” 

“Oh.” His mouth falls open for a brief second. He looks stupid but beautiful like that, as he stares up at Hao, who cages him to the bed with his hands on each side. “I’m sorry. I was sleeping. I’ll do it now,” he says, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

Hao hates him. He hates that his simple words always somehow soften his heart and make him weak, unable to be angry at him no matter how much resolve he has. It’s undecidedly Hanbin’s worst quality, by far, if he had to choose.

“I thought you were dead. I was drafting your eulogy in my head,” he says, cheerfully. After a pause, he adds: “It was really mean.” 

There’s a small barely-there smirk on Hanbin’s pink lips as he holds his phone screen to his face, with Hao still hovering over him. The warm weight of Hanbin under him is comfortable, makes him not want to move. He should unpack that in therapy. “Because I didn’t respond to your texts in two hours? You must’ve been really worried about me.”

“I wasn’t worried about you,” Hao retorts. “You being dead would just be a huge inconvenience to me. I’d have to be a single father to Zero Cola.” 

Hanbin spills out a weak laugh that definitely doesn’t make Hao’s heart beat a beat too fast, clicks on his phone screen a few times until Hao’s phone rings. He digs it out from his jean’s pocket, sees the notification that Venmo user binhamster has sent him 100,000 won with the caption “sex with my ex.” 

Hao tries to stifle his laugh when he reads it but fails. It’s a recurring joke between them, Venmo-ing each other with the same caption every time to scare their mutual friends that lurk in the friend activity section of Venmo. They’ll probably be receiving a berating text from them in the group chat soon.  

“There, my child support has been paid,” Hanbin confirms. Then he squints more at his phone screen, scans it like he’s reading something. “You said you weren’t worried about me.”

“I wasn’t,” Hao says. 

“Do you want me to MLA cite your text message? 11:09 AM, from Haogguri,  ‘you’re worrying me are you dead or something.’ Maybe my reading comprehension is off, but you sound a bit worried to me.”

“That’s still my contact name?” he says, incredulous, because he doesn’t know how to defend himself against the being worried about Hanbin allegations, and he doesn’t want to address Hanbin’s sarcastic remark about having bad reading comprehension, especially when his English CSAT score is perfect, and he knows it. “You shouldn’t have a cute contact name for your ex.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be busting down the door to your ex’s apartment when he doesn’t respond after an hour, and yet here we are,” Hanbin counters. 

Hao rolls his eyes, flicks his finger at Hanbin’s nose. Not enough to hurt, just enough to shut him up for a little bit. “You shouldn’t still have your ex on the exclusive guest list so he can have access to bust down the door to your apartment.” 

He rises up from Hanbin’s bed, stretching his semi-numb legs. Without any words, he makes his way over to the door, ignoring the confused look glazing over Hanbin’s eyes at his retreating figure.

“Where are you going?” Hanbin shouts through the open door of his bedroom.

His ex certainly lacks a brain on occasion. “To get you soup at that soup place across from your apartment. Because you’re sick.” Duh.

“You don’t have to do that.” Hanbin adjusts his position so he’s sitting on the bed, staring at Hao through the door in an intense way. 

He really doesn’t have to, but his skin is still crawling. The dread from earlier of Hanbin being dead that later transformed into the dread of Hanbin being alive but sick still hasn’t been quelled, and he blames it on how he knows all too well about Hanbin’s tendency to not take care of himself, more prone to letting the sickness fester in his body until it passes him over. 

“Whatever. I’m going and coming back whether you like it or not,” he says. “I can’t believe you’re going to make me interact with that evil receptionist again. She wants you so bad.” He ignores the jealousy curling  in his stomach. It really doesn’t get to him like this, usually. 

“She’s not evil,” Hanbin says defensively. “And I’m not making you do anything. You’re the one with the agency here, and you’re choosing to go to the soup place.” 

He ignores Hanbin’s last sentence, only focuses on his defense of the evil receptionist. “She told me today that she was surprised that I was still on your guest list,” he says, already plotting what he’ll do when he has to see her after going across the street to the soup place.

A considerate hum. “I’m surprised too, honestly,” Hanbin admits, but he’s promptly met with a pillow to his face, thrown by nobody other than Hao, who then sneaks out the door to get soup from the soup place, because Hanbin never takes care of himself, so naturally Hao has to endure that burden as his ex-boyfriend. 

It’s the natural order of things around here. 

“Sex with my ex? Again? Just get back together already.”

“We didn’t actually have sex,” Hao insists like he always does, but that doesn’t change the bewildered look plastered on Ricky’s face, like he’s solving an extremely difficult math problem. Furrowed eyebrows and wide eyes as he stares at the most recent Venmo caption. “It’s literally a joke.”

They’re huddled together on Taerae’s navy velvet couch, pleasantly buzzed with warm cheeks. Their friend group usually parties like this every Friday, so that’s to say it doesn’t qualify much as a party and is better characterized as a get-together of some sorts. Everybody usually drinks cheap beer or soju, plays drinking games, and eats greasy takeout food once the night stretches too long and they need something to drown the alcohol in their stomachs. 

Tonight, they’re playing Beerio Kart with Gyuvin’s Nintendo Switch, a version of Mario Kart where the racers have to finish their drink before they cross the finish line and aren’t allowed to drink and drive at the same time. Hao’s already played enough to be teetering on the edge of tipsy and drunk, with a record of 3-2 in wins to losses. The floating feeling is already making him dizzy, so he opts-in to leaning against Ricky on the couch and spectating the rest of the races. 

Hanbin isn’t at the party this Friday because he’s still fighting his mysterious disease that turned out to be strep throat, which was discovered when Hao finally dragged him to see a doctor. Although he’s on bed rest for the time being (doctor’s orders… and also Hao’s orders), he’s stacked with antibiotics that he has to take at various times. It may have been a blessing in disguise, because Hanbin is absolute shit at Beerio Kart, always finishing in last place even when playing against bots, which Hao has never understood because he’s a great driver in real life. But maybe real life skills don’t translate well in the video game world when under the influence of alcohol. 

Ricky narrows his eyes, picks up some chips in a pink ceramic bowl that Taerae has laid out on the table in front of them. “Sure you didn’t. You two are weird as fuck.” Hao thinks he’s going to leave it at that, but Ricky decides to keep on running his mouth, like always: “We’re all starting to think it’s a bit between you two, you know.”

“A bit?” Hao tilts his head. 

“Yeah. Taerae has a conspiracy theory that you two never broke up and are just acting like it for the bit.”

The loud laugh flees from Hao’s mouth before he can control it, but it’s drowned out by Gyuvin and Matthew’s emphatic shouting at the television. They’re fighting for second and first place, both of their drinks finished, but Hao can see how Gyuvin is already white girl wasted judging by the way he can’t keep himself from swaying. 

“To do this for six months would be an extremely dedicated bit,” Hao admits. 

Ricky rubs his finger at his brow, like he has a headache from listening to Hao, even thinking about the situation at hand. “And that still wouldn’t be above you two. That definitely sounds like something you guys would do to spice up your relationship.”

“You all are so delusional. I’m sure you have a betting pool too.” Hao grabs at a handful of chips, tosses them in his mouth. When he averts his eyes back to Ricky, he’s met with the other staring back at him, and he has the decency to look guilty, like he’s been caught. Hao rolls his eyes. “Oh, shut up, Ricky,” he says, even when Ricky technically hasn’t said anything. 

Ricky shrugs. “What? I’m going to make good money from Gyuvin because he doesn’t believe it’s a bit.”

“For once in his life, Gyuvin is right,” Hao says, until he looks across the room at Gyuvin, who is yelling a ton of incomprehensible things at the top of his lungs before drinking a cup of beer, soju, and vodka mixed together. His face contorts into something really ugly after he swallows the evil alcoholic concoction, and it makes Hao want to retract his previous statement. 

“Sounds a lot like what someone would say if they were lying about being in a bit,” Ricky points out.

Hao smiles sweetly, announces his exit from the conversation by pulling out his phone from his pocket and not paying Ricky any more attention. “I’m done with you,” he bites out to Ricky, navigating to his messaging thread with Hanbin, where the bulk of his phone storage lies. He needs to delete the thread at some point so he can get back 20 GB of his phone storage (he can’t even take pictures on his phone anymore), but the thought of deleting every single one of his messages with Hanbin makes him think it’d be a greater loss to humankind than the burning of the Library of Alexandria. Their texts are important historical archives.  

Friday - 11:35 PM

Hao: don’t you dare forget to take your antibiotics

Hanbin: Thanks mom I won’t

Hanbin: Just took one hope you’re pleased

Hao: mom????

Hao: oedipus complex much

Hao scoffs and shakes his head, the blush (from the alcohol and the alcohol only) splattering across his cheeks. He feels insanely dizzy, and he doesn’t miss Hanbin, but he somewhat wishes that he were here so he didn’t have to deal with Ricky grilling him over nothing or Gyuvin drinking the worst mixed drink known to mankind. 

Hanbin: How’s the party

Hao: “party”

Hao: it’s fine you’re not missing much

Hao: ricky and apparently all the other kids think we broke up for the bit LOL

Hanbin: Wtf why

Hao: i think it might have to do something with the “sex with my ex” venmo captions so they think we’ve been fucking with them

Hanbin: What a dedicated bit that would be

Hao: exactly what i said

Hao: what are you up to

Hanbin: Trying to find something to watch on Netflix so I can ignore my sore throat

Hao: you mean trying to find something to watch by leeching off my netflix*

Hanbin: What can I say

Hanbin: Waiting for you to get a Hulu so I can leech off that too

Hao: in your fucking dreams

“Why are you smiling at your phone?” Ricky asks cutely, invading Hao’s personal space by hooking his chin over his shoulder on the couch so he can peek at Hao’s phone screen. It’s a surveillance state out here in Taerae’s apartment. 

“I’m not,” Hao lies, shoves him off. Tries to maintain his neutral face and suppress the smile that somehow always creeps onto his face when Hanbin is involved in things. “Stop being nosy, you cunt.” 

“You are smiling,” Ricky sings, and he must have not learned anything, because he leans further into Hao’s personal space, knowing that Hao is soft enough to not push him twice. “Are you texting your boyfriend?”

Hao looks right at Ricky, his smile morphing into a smirk. “No, I’m texting my ex-boyfriend who isn’t actually my ex-boyfriend who I broke up with for the bit.” 

That must be the end of Ricky’s bandwidth of dealing with all things Hao and Hanbin, because he grabs a handful of chips, stands up from the couch, and shoots a glare at Hao, who is still sitting and cradling his phone with his hands. 

“I get a headache dealing with you,” Ricky says as his parting words, and then he ventures over to Gyuvin, who is wobbling on one of the kitchen chairs and trying to make a grand drunk speech on how they should all go to a karaoke bar.

It’s slightly concerning that the masses all somehow agree with Gyuvin’s alcohol-induced speech, because everyone ends up filing to go to the karaoke bar soon after, making sure to clean enough so Taerae, the host of all their shenanigans, doesn’t wake up in the morning with a mess.

“I think I’m going to pass,” Hao says. His social battery has been slowly declining since the start of the night when they all went out to eat together, and he misses his uncomfortable and stiff mattress, wants to sink into it and let the alcohol carry him away into sleep. 

His friends protest a moderate amount to the point where Hao knows they’re only protesting so he doesn’t feel like he isn't wanted, but he appreciates the sentiment all the same. They eventually accept Hao leaving, and he boards the subway train after promising to text them when he’s back at home safe. 

Hao takes a drunk shower when he’s back, his stomach still curling over with sticky heat from the many shots of soju he took during dinner and Beerio Kart. He gets into his bed with the covers pulled over his face. Zero Cola immediately joins him, jumping up and finding her way under the covers. 

He opens his phone and sees the text that Hanbin sent about ten minutes ago. 

Saturday - 12:17 AM

Hanbin: Matthew said he’s coming home late because they're going to a karaoke bar because Gyuvin somehow convinced them

Hanbin: Are you with them?

Hao: check my location

Hanbin: Don’t have it anymore

Oh. Hao always forgets that he stopped sharing his location with Hanbin right after the breakup, in that strange three to four week period where they weren’t speaking to each other. 

He can’t tell if Hanbin is upset at that. His responses are always so goddamn vague that it makes Hao feel delusional. 

Hao: oops lol

Hao: yeah im home now i didnt have the stamina for karaoke

Hanbin: Okay good

Hao: you still netflix’ing?

Hanbin: Yeah I’m watching Breaking Bad

Hanbin: I miss human contact though I can’t wait until I’m strep-free

A smile somehow finds its way onto Hao’s lips when he remembers how pouty Hanbin was when they were dating and he had to go into quarantine after catching COVID. Hao is pretty sure his phone’s screen time reports were around 11 hours every day for that entire week, constantly texting and calling Hanbin so he could kill his lonely. 

Hao: poor thing you must be bored

Hanbin: I am

Hao: do you... want company?

Hanbin: Are you drunk?

Hao’s face involuntarily twists at that. It feels like an accusation. And he is drunk, thank you very much, but that isn’t the reason for why he asks Hanbin if he wants company. 

Hao: yeah sooooooo

Hao: i’m fine now the shower sobered me up

Hanbin: Okay sure hyung lol

Hanbin: Company might be good

Hanbin: Netflix party?

Hao: on MY netflix account

Hao: we can’t do that because you’re on my account you need two diff netflix accounts to do that

Hanbin: Oh whatever

Hanbin: Zoom then and I can share the screen

Hao: so corporate

Hao: i’m pretty sure netflix doesn’t let you share screen on zoom bc they hate us

Hanbin: Discord?

Hao: same as above

Hanbin: Rahhhh capitalism

Hanbin: I could FaceTime you and point the camera towards the screen

Hao: you know how this problem could be so easily solved hanbin

Hanbin: How?

Hao: if you didnt leech off MY NETFLIX ACCOUNT

The night unfortunately ends with Hao watching Breaking Bad through Hanbin’s blurry iPhone camera (because, again, he doesn’t have any resolve when it comes to Hanbin), falling headfirst into slumber twenty minutes into the show, and thinking it’s all in his sleepy imagination when he hears Hanbin’s deep voice mumble the softest and most gentle, “Sweet dreams, Hao.”

A few days later, he sees Hanbin in the flesh, completely free of any bacterial infection. Earlier, Matthew had spam-texted the group chat after getting out of one of his exams, saying that he completely blew it and he needed emotional support in the form of bubble tea and his dear friends. So here they all are, huddled in a boba shop as the day approaches late afternoon. Hao is admittedly half there for Matthew, half there because he wants a sweet treat to make life worth living, and only one tenth there for Hanbin, who loved the message immediately upon Matthew sending it, which meant he was making his grand re-entrance back to society.

Hanbin walks into the shop right as Hao swallows a tapioca pearl. The plain white shirt he has is too big for him and doesn’t cling to his figure, but it dips below his collarbone line enough that Hao sees his tattoo peaking out. Gyuvin waves him over to their table in the back with an enthusiastic hand, to which he perks up and makes his way over, his cat whiskers coming out when he smiles. 

When he arrives at the table, he makes small talk with everyone (yes he’s finally disease free, yes he’s sorry that he’s late he got held up at dance practice, yes he’s jealous that they went to karaoke without him because he was really looking forward to singing that new NCT song). Goes to the counter to order, picks up his drink, and then slides right next to Hao, even when there’s plenty of space near Matthew. 

“You’re no longer diseased,” Hao remarks as a greeting. Keeps his voice level, even if it’s an act of effort on his part to not let any excitement bleed out. 

“Haha,” Hanbin deadpans. His voice doesn’t sound sick anymore. “Don’t sound too thrilled, now.”

“Impossible,” Hao says, dripping in sarcasm, even when he wants to scream that he really is thrilled that Hanbin is strep-free. 

Ricky’s eyes are trained on the two of them as they have their own private conversation to the side of the rest of the group, and Hao knows better than to trust those eyes. He scowls at Ricky from across the table as everyone animatedly talks about the newest K-Pop girl group comebacks, and Ricky simply lifts his middle finger up at him, just barely above the table so only Hao can see. 

“You haven’t sent me any pictures of Zero Cola lately,” Hanbin says, lips jutting into a pout. 

“You have her all of next week,” Hao points out. As the primary guardian, Hao gets Zero Cola for three weeks of the month, while Hanbin gets Zero Cola for one week of the month. 

“But you get pissed at me whenever I don’t send you hourly updates on her whenever it’s my week to have her.” 

Hao is literally a hypocrite. How does Hanbin not understand that after dating him for three years straight? “I’m the exception to the rule,” he simply says.

“Says who?”

“Says me, when I literally birthed Zero Cola, and the court decided that I would gain custody of her because they thought I was a better guardian.” 

Really, the truth is that Hao is the one who actually adopted the cat in the first place, which is why he has more rights in their agreement. But it’s funnier to believe that he and Hanbin were actually engaged in a long-winded custody battle that wore both of them down until they came to their agreement, with jurors and lawyers and judges mediating everything. 

“Something is deeply wrong with you,” Hanbin declares, but he doesn’t sound hostile at all. Normal people wouldn’t expect Hanbin to follow up with this offer after saying that there’s intrinsically something wrong with Hao, but Hao isn’t normal, and Hanbin knows that: “Do you want to try some of my drink?”

Hao nods, to which Hanbin holds the drink out to him even though Hao has two hands of his own, carefully guides the straw towards his lips. Hao takes a sip. The taste of lychee melts on his tongue. 

“Mmhm, it’s good. Wow. That’s really good,” Hao says after he pulls off the straw with a nod of approval, then he mutters with his cheeks all puffed up, “I should’ve gotten that.”

“We can trade,” Hanbin suggests, like it’s that easy, even though he just ordered his drink approximately three seconds ago, so he clearly wanted that flavor above all flavors that were offered. 

Hao squints at him. “But I already ate all of the tapioca in my drink.”

Hanbin quirks an eyebrow. “So?”

“But you love the tapioca.” He can’t take the tapioca pearls from Hanbin. It’s the same as stealing a dog’s favorite toy. Or dangling candy right in front of a child’s face only to not hand it over. It’s incredibly evil no matter how you spin it; there’s no justification for that sort of action. 

“Just take it.” Hanbin shoves the drink in his face, already switching the drinks as Hao’s mouth falls open to protest. “Payback for me always leeching off your Netflix account.” 

“Do you think your bubble tea is worth me paying 13,500 won every single month for the past three years we’ve dat—”

He’s promptly shut up from the start of his rant when Hanbin brings the drink, and thus its straw, to Hao’s gaping wide mouth, and all Hao can do is clamp his lips around the straw, his skin tingling when Hanbin has that cocky smirk playing on his pink lips, as if he has the upper hand (he does). 

When Hao pulls off the straw, he immediately locks eyes with Ricky, who is staring at him like he’s amazed or disgusted or bewildered. Or maybe all of the above. Ricky then scoffs and mutters under his breath (can you call it muttering when the entire table hears?), “They make me sick.”

Some short backstory on Hao and Hanbin’s relationship. Or, what was once their relationship. With footnotes involved.

They’ve known each other for eight years. They’ve dated for three of those eight years.

They first kissed two months into those three of eight years. They had their first official date (even though they’d been technically going on dates that weren’t called dates) three months into their first year of dating. They went on their first trip together five months into their first year of dating, to Jeju.

They had sex for the first time a year into their relationship, but they had been trying before that, it just never worked. They said “I love you” for the first time when they had sex (successfully) for the first time.¹ Hanbin first called Hao “jagiya” a year into their relationship. Hao first called Hanbin “bǎobèi” a year into their relationship.²

They bought couple rings two years into their relationship. They came out to their parents two years into their relationship: when Hanbin brought Hao to his hometown for Chuseok, when Hao brought Hanbin to China for Christmas.

They broke up this April, when the cherry blossoms were starting to bloom, a few weeks after their three-year anniversary. It was a mutual breakup, but Hao was the one who brought it up in the first place.³ They didn’t talk for three to four weeks immediately following their breakup, mainly due to Hanbin’s wishes.⁴

Hao is aware that they have an unconventional relationship for ex-boyfriends. His therapist drills that into his mind all the time. They know no boundaries, they have mutual friends who think they’re insane, and they probably still love each other.

But the truth is that their relationship has always been unconventional. A whirlwind. Something that swallowed them whole. They were always winging it, never playing by any previously established rules or social conventions.

So they’re stuck in this gray area of exes-who-are-not-exes, and Hao doesn’t know if they’ll ever leave it. They made a stupid, terrible, horrible mistake that they both don’t know how to reverse.

It’s easier to pretend that they’re together, so they say too many inappropriate things that cross the line, they text each other far too often than what is socially acceptable, they continue to show their care in the most silent ways, even when they’re bursting at the seams to not say “I love you.”

But Hao has a secret. He says the words when nobody is listening, not even Hanbin. Silently hopes that it will somehow melt into him and trickle through his brain, and Hanbin will know he is loved by Hao, even when the words are said when he’s unconscious.

He’s said “I love you” when they were having a movie night, and Hanbin fell asleep when his head just happened to fall onto Hao’s shoulder.

He’s said “I love you” when Hanbin got too drunk off strawberry soju that one time, and he tucked him into his bed after helping Matthew carry him back home, left behind a glass of water and ibuprofen on his nightstand to alleviate a potential hangover.

He’s said “I love you” when Hanbin passed out from dehydration at dance practice, called over to the infirmary because Hao is still somehow listed as his emergency contact, cursing Hanbin for making it a habit to only drink coke zero and not take care of himself.

I love you.

Like a prayer, like an oath, like a promise.

1. Hao was the first one to say it. Hanbin said it immediately after, then got mad that Hao beat him to it. return to text

2. This was immediately said in response to Hanbin calling him jagiya. return to text

3. If there’s one thing in Hao’s life that he regrets, it’s being the first to bring up the idea of breaking up. return to text

4. They were the worst three to four weeks of Hao’s life. return to text

Chapter Text

“Clean her litter box once a day, and the entire tray should be cleaned during the end of the week. Make sure her water is always full. Give her 75% wet food and 25% dry food, heavy on the wet food because cats are prone to dehydration, so they need more wet food and dry food or else they might have long-term damage to their kidneys. Make sure to play with her. She loves to play and is extremely vulnerable to separation anxiety. And I’m sure she is going to miss me and be lonely, so please text me immediately if she starts meowing, and don’t you dare forget about the hourly updates—”

“Hao,” Hanbin says lightly. “I have been taking care of Zero Cola for two years.”

Hao blinks back at him. Once, then twice. Zero Cola is already snoozing away on a fluffy navy rug that hides the vinyl flooring of Hanbin’s apartment, oblivious that she is being traded between both of her separated fathers. Hao’s arms ache from carrying all of the cat necessities: a litter box, metal food and water bowls, just enough cat toys, the most expensive brand of wet and dry cat food that Hao could find at the pet store, a cat carrier in case Hanbin wants to take her on any field trips, a fluffy cat bed that was a complete waste of money because Zero Cola always chooses to sleep on the floor instead (but Hao swears that one day Zero Cola might really, really want to sleep on the cat bed). 

“I’m simply reminding you.”

Hanbin moves forward after noticing how Hao’s weak arms threaten to spill all of the cat necessities onto the ground, takes it all into his own hands to carry. This close, Hao can catch a whiff of cedar and jasmine from Hanbin’s perfume, distantly noting that it’s the same one he used to always steal from him when they were dating so he could smell like Hanbin. Diptyque Orphéon. 

Hao is not insane for memorizing Hanbin’s perfume brand and scent. It’s because he has an excellent memory. 

His ex-boyfriend gingerly sets all of the cat necessities to the floor, and Hao looks away immediately when he bends down in front of him. “You remind me every single time it’s my custody week,” Hanbin says. When he stretches back to standing, Hao meets his eyes, sees the loose smile on his too-pink lips.  

Hao half-shrugs. “You might forget.”  

“I’ll keep her safe,” Hanbin promises all too softly, and Hao realizes his own expression is probably twisted into a grimace with his eyebrows pinching in worry, and he knows that Hanbin’s reassuring tone is a byproduct of that. Despite all of his theatrics, Hao trusts Hanbin with Zero Cola, because Hanbin always took great care of Hao during and after their relationship, so naturally, that has to translate somewhat to cats, mathematically speaking.

Hao lifts his hand to his face; it’s warm to the touch. It’s probably because Matthew always sets the apartment thermostat obnoxiously high, enough to make it feel like they’re taking an early visit to hell. Hanbin allows him to do it, because he’s nice like that.

“Okay,” he says, too overwhelmed to say anything else. He hovers in the doorway, feeling slightly awkward. It’s half past seven in the evening on a Sunday, and Hanbin has all of his school supplies sprawled out on the dining room table a few feet away from the kitchen in preparation for the start of the week. The smell of pork floats in the air, which makes Hao’s hollow stomach grumble in want, because he loves pork and he hasn’t eaten dinner yet. When he flits his eyes to the right, there’s dirty plates stacked in the kitchen sink. Hao releases a breath stuck in his throat, because he’s glad that Hanbin seems to have already eaten well. “I should head off, then. Don’t forget!”

He’s placing his hand on the cold door knob when Hanbin blurts out, “Do you want my leftovers?”

Hao spins around on his heel. Looks back. “Why?”

Hanbin stares at him. His mouth is slightly agape, that familiar expression on his face for when he’s confused. “Because your stomach just grumbled, and I have leftovers because I made too big of a portion.”

“What? No, it didn’t.” 

Because God is against him, his stomach growls, an angry thing. 

“You heard nothing,” Hao says. 

Hanbin must perceive Hao’s denial of his stomach grumbling despite obviously being hungry as some type of strange roundabout rejection, so he offers: “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to, but you should at least take the leftovers.” He tip-toes over a few feet to the fridge, opens it, and then takes out a green tupperware box brimming with food, his long delicate fingers clenching around the ends. Hao is going to salivate. “You just need to return the tupperware when you’re done, because for some reason we’re running low. I have a conspiracy theory that it’s Matthew’s fault for our declining tupperware problem, but I’m not sure why he keeps stealing the tupperware and not putting it back. It’s so shady,” Hanbin rambles on. He snaps his mouth shut after his mini rant, shifting his weight between both of his feet so he’s awkwardly rocking side-to-side. Hao hates how this is all too endearing to him.    

“I can stay,” Hao says, ignoring how Hanbin’s shoulders fall out of relief. “Because I already have Zero Cola withdrawal.” 

He stays at Hanbin’s apartment. He eats Hanbin’s pork leftovers, which is better than anything he could ever make because he’s an alleged “kitchen nightmare.” They watch TikTok for far too long on Hao’s phone curled up on the couch with Zero Cola, because he argues that he has the best and most curated For You page of all time. They have a long-winded debate about whether Zero Cola would be accepted by a herd of capybaras after encountering a TikTok about a news headline where an orange cat was accepted by a herd of capybaras at a Malaysian zoo. In the middle of their debate, Matthew bursts through the front door after a group project meeting gone wrong, who then weighs into the debate. Hao leaves his apartment at 9 PM as the evening dips into night, and glares at the receptionist on the way out for extra measure, his stomach feeling full and his heart feeling light but heavy.

He doesn’t tell Hanbin that the exact reason he doesn’t like relinquishing his rights to Zero Cola in honor of their joint custody agreement is because he has nobody who waits for him like Zero Cola waits for Hao, not since Hanbin left.

If Jiwoong wasn’t dominated by the established social conventions governing a therapist and his client, then he would probably tell Hao that he is his worst client in the history of his entire therapy career, and there’s no hope saving him. But they do have a therapist and client relationship, so naturally, those things are off the table.

They have their sessions weekly on Wednesday from 3:00 to 4:00 PM. Jiwoong is only slightly older than him, undertaking a doctorate in clinical psychology at a neighboring university in Seoul. It’s his first year working as a doctoral intern at the university’s counseling center, so Hao is one of his first clients, and he truly feels bad for him. He knows he doesn’t make his life any easier. 

Their first session took place about five weeks after the breakup. Hanbin had started talking to Hao by that point after their strange three to four week no-contact period, but Hao’s stomach would still drop whenever they were confined in the same room with their friend group, even when they had a strict rule that they weren’t allowed to be in a room alone together (that rule held up for approximately one month until it dissolved).  

When Jiwoong gently asked why Hao was there, he offered one simple explanation: “Breakup.” 

Jiwoong then spent the rest of their first session trying to pry for the mysterious reason behind the breakup, because, well, he was doing his job. In return, Hao, offered far too many monologues on details of the exes’ first in-person meeting since the breakup, such as how Hanbin had a post-breakup glow-up by dying his hair from its natural black to rose gold (which was extremely out of character but he also looked so insanely attractive that Hao locked himself in the bathroom to cry over it). Or how there was a new tattoo painted over his bicep, and his biceps also appeared to be more sculpted than usual, because the breakup probably made him gain a gym addiction as a coping mechanism. Jiwoong didn’t really know what to do with all of that information, even when Hao thought they were essential details.

But over time, they’ve gotten to know each other better. Hao doesn’t even think it’d be a stretch to say that Jiwoong slightly understands how his demented brain is wired. He’s now fairly updated on the “Haobin” lore after one fateful session a few months ago, when Hao thought he should make Jiwoong’s job a little easier out of the pure goodness of his heart.

He would say that he’s made low to minimal progress on the Hanbin issue and high progress on overstepping Jiwoong’s boundaries. More because he refuses to lay himself on the metaphorical operating table to be picked apart without knowing a few details about the person behind the operation.  

So far, Hao has found out that Jiwoong is from Wonju, South Korea, that he’s happily engaged to a micro-celebrity actor named Seobin who’s been featured in a few Korean BLs (Hao spent one session only raving about the plot of one of the shows Seobin had been in, even when Jiwoong was trying to guide him back on track), and that together, they have no children but are instead proud “dog fathers” to two adorable maltese puppies. 

(When Hao is feeling particularly bad some days, he compares Jiwoong’s life to his, thinks that’s the future that they deserved). 

It’s 3:45 PM, so Hao’s session is nearing the end of its time, and he hasn’t spent it productively, mostly musing on about how it’s been a stressful week at school and he misses his cat and he should probably call home at some point because he doesn’t feel like he’s been a good son as of recent times. But Jiwoong knows him better now, can pry and pry and pry without Hao even knowing he’s doing it, right up until he’s spilling his guts to him.  

“So… let me see if I’m getting this correct. You thought Hanbin died because he didn’t respond to you in an hour or two, so you went to his apartment to see that he wasn’t dead?”

“Yeah,” Hao says, confused. He doesn’t think it’s that weird, personally. “I even wrote him a eulogy in my head,” he adds, because he is extremely proud of that drafted eulogy, and he knows if he ever got the opportunity to read it out loud, it would bring tears to many people’s eyes. 

“Well… Okay. Nice,” Jiwoong says, which is his textbook response for when he’s disoriented by what Hao has said but cannot say that out loud because he’s his therapist and Hao is his client. “I’d say this is a pretty good example of catastrophizing. It’s a cognitive distortion that makes you jump to the worst conclusion ever,” Jiwoong explains, pointing above his head to a framed flowchart in his office of the cognitive behavioral theory workflow that he went over at length to Hao a few sessions ago. “Remember when I taught you the CBT steps? I think it’s helpful to apply it to this situ—”

“But what if he really was dead,” Hao insists, suddenly interrupting Jiwoong. That same dread from a week earlier churns in his stomach, settles heavy. 

Jiwoong blinks like it’s all in slow-motion, looks a lot like a deer in the headlights. “But he wasn’t?”

“But he could have been,” he pushes. Hao steadies his breath, distressed over the thought of Hanbin being dead once again. “Who else in this world would have gone to see if he was dead but me?”

“Maybe his roommate,” Jiwoong offers. “Or a close friend.”

Hao shakes his head, too enthusiastic to prove Jiwoong wrong and force him to be on the same page as him—that he’s the only one who’s always looking out for Hanbin. Nobody else does that for him. Just Hao. 

“Well, his roommate doesn’t get home on Mondays until 9 PM because he has a tight schedule that day, so I would argue that time would be running out if he was dead. And, you know, the sooner that you report a crime has happened, the higher the chances are of it getting solved.” 

Jiwoong scribbles a few words on his notebook with a fountain pen. Not that Hao can see what he’s writing, but he’s always been semi-curious. Maybe once their therapist-client relationship terminates, he can ask Jiwoong if he can catch a peak at it, just for a brief second. 

“How do you know that?” Jiwoong asks him, tilting his head. 

“True crime, obviously.”

Jiwoong purses his lips. It obviously isn’t the answer he was seeking out, but he opens and shuts his mouth a few times, as if he’s wary of saying something that will make Hao become closed-off. “No, not that. I mean, how do you know Hanbin’s roommate’s schedule?”

“Oh.” A slow blink. “I mean, I’m friends with him too. But Hanbin told me.”

“Right… why?” It’s a genuine question. 

“I don’t remember. It just came up.” When they were dating, Hao had memorized the daily schedules of Hanbin and everybody that he was remotely close to. They were important details to Hanbin’s life, which meant they were also important details to Hao’s life through the transitive property.  

“Well…” Jiwoong trails off, scribbles a few more notes down on his notebook, and Hao really wants to jump from his seat and steal it from his hands, read all of its contents. He’s probably talking shit about Hao on those pages. Can a therapist shit talk their clients? Shouldn't that be against the rules or something? “How did it feel when you thought he was dead? What emotions were you feeling?”

The question catches him off guard. He doesn’t know if he can label what he felt, really. The gnawing worry that felt like it was stabbing at his skin. The heat creeping to every part of his body until it felt like he was being lit on fire. The nausea weighing down in his stomach that made him feel like he would projectile vomit everywhere.

“Just. Really bad,” Hao admits, less than eloquent, because there’s really no proper way to describe all of those ugly physical sensations that he felt. 

Jiwoong bobs his head a few times into a nod, tyring to encourage Hao to continue his train of thought, so naturally, Hao continues: “I was like, ah, this bastard can’t die on me right now. I’ll never forgive him if he does. Because if he died, Zero Cola would only have me, and Zero Cola is only a cat, so she wouldn’t have the mental capacity to know that Hanbin is dead, so she might think she’s been abandoned by him. So him dying would do irreversible damage to her psyche,” he explains. “And I also was thinking stuff like, how is he going to pay off his debts to me? Because he leeches off my Netflix account. If he’s dead, I can’t harass him about it anymore.” Hao half-shrugs, flits his eyes back towards Jiwoong after his monologue. 

Jiwoong is staring back at him, eyebrows arched impossibly high. “Well, those are more like thoughts rather than emotions, but we can work with that,” Jiwoong pleasantly says. “Let’s hold onto those thoughts. If you lost Hanbin, what would that do to you?” 

Hao looks back at him blankly. “I’ve already lost him.”

“No. I mean, if you lost him forever. If he was really dead.” 

A beat of silence.

“I’m sure it’d be upsetting for you, right?” Jiwoong asks. “He’s somebody you deeply care about even after your breakup. If he wasn’t important to you, then you wouldn’t have tried to seek him out if you thought he died. You’ve both invested a lot of energy and time into each other after being friends for that long, never mind that your relationship was long-term as well.” 

Hao wishes that he could argue with Jiwoong, but he can’t. “Yeah,” he simply agrees, then mulls over the idea of Hanbin actually being dead, gone forever, but he can’t imagine it because the idea feels too absurd to even entertain. “I don’t know what I’d do.” He opens his mouth. Clamps it shut. Opens it again. “It really did feel like he was dead when we weren’t talking. After the breakup.” 

He did know that Hanbin wasn’t actually dead during that three to four-week hell period, largely due to the fact that he constantly harassed Matthew to text him updates on Hanbin’s well-being, until Hanbin discovered their covert operation and forbade Matthew from texting the updates to Hao. That was allegedly the angriest Matthew had ever seen him. 

“How did you feel about that?” Jiwoong pushes. 

He doesn’t remember how he felt. When they stopped talking. Everything stopped. Blacked it all out. He doesn’t remember life without Hanbin. He’s always been there. 

A pause. “It sounds bad, but I kinda had the urge to break into his apartment multiple times, just to see if he had food in his fridge.” He knows that he’s not properly answering the question, but it’s the best he can do. When he glances up from the carpet to Jiwoong, he narrows his eyes suspiciously. “You can’t report what I said to the authorities, right? I really don’t endorse breaking and entering. It was just a weak moment in my life.”

Jiwoong rubs his fingers between his eyebrows; Hao distantly notes it’s the exact same motion from that time when Ricky rubbed his eyebrows at their friend group party last Friday. “No, Hao. That’s not how therapy works,” Jiwoong reassures him. “Well, we’re out of time for this session, but I’m going to give you homework.”

“Homework?” He never thought therapy had homework. 

“Yes.” Jiwoong nods for extra measure, tearing out a piece of paper from the secret mysterious notebook resting on his lap. He then clasps it shut, offering (or forcing) the ripped paper to Hao, who takes it with hesitant hands. 

“I know you still haven’t told me the reason for your breakup, but I want you to think hard about that. What has changed about your relationship after the breakup? What hasn’t changed about your relationship after the breakup?”

Hao glances down at the paper. The same exact questions that Jiwoong verbalized are scribbled down. He hums in admiration. Jiwoong has surprisingly pretty good handwriting. “That’s it?”

“Yes. But you have to come back with answers. No digressions allowed,” he tuts.

“But I really wanted to talk to you about the newest episode of Seobin’s BL for the next session, did you see the way he kissed that other ma—“

“Bye, Hao,” Jiwoong immediately shuts him down, standing up from his chair to guide Hao out of the door and release him back into the real world. “See you next week. Don’t forget to do your homework,” he says as a final reminder. There’s a loose smile on his lips, and Hao goes to protest that he thinks talking about Jiwoong’s fiancé’s acting endeavors kissing other men is a more productive use of the session next week than talking about Hao and Hanbin’s destroyed relationship. 

But then Jiwoong is shutting the door on him with a final wave, and the words stick in his throat.  

The first thing Hao does when he’s out of therapy? Text his ex-boyfriend, who he was talking about with a third party approximately five minutes ago.

Wednesday - 4:05 PM

Hao: are you home

Hanbin: No but I’ll be home in like two hours

Hanbin: Why? Is everything okay?

Hao: yeah

Hao glances up from his phone and spots a cute but ugly little white rat dog as he walks down the bustling Seoul streets, already en route to Hanbin’s apartment even when he hasn’t yet given him permission to invade his apartment. He stares at the dog, briefly considers snapping a picture and sending it to Hanbin, but then he remembers that Hanbin is the exact reason behind him not being able to take any pictures with his cell phone, hogging all of Hao’s limited phone storage in the form of too many messages in their texting thread. He really needs to delete those messages. 

Hanbin: Okay??

Hanbin: I don’t believe you for some reason

Hao: no im cool sorry i was going to write more and i got distracted by a cute ugly rat dog

Hanbin: Send a pic

Hao: nah

Hanbin: Um

Hanbin: Why not?

Hao: i cant do that

Hanbin: ??? Wtf

Hao: i just have zero cola withdrawal so can i see her

Hanbin: This is literally the 4th day this week you have hit me up about seeing Zero Cola

Hao: don’t forget i am the primary guardian

Hao: i could sue you, you know. make a post on reddit asking for legal advice and everything

Hanbin: That will not be necessary

Hanbin: You can come over later I can text when I’m home

Hao: okayyyyyyy thank you <3

Hanbin: <3

What the fuck. Hao blinks at the message, trips, and before he knows it, finds himself face-down on the ground, hands stabbing with pain from catching his fall. 

Instantly, somebody runs up. “Are you okay?” A woman who looks slightly older than him crouches down next to him, offering a helping hand. She’s dressed in a flowy red blouse and black slacks, assumedly one of the many white-collar workers walking home after gaining freedom from work. 

He takes the hand, his limbs stretching as he finds his footing on the sidewalk. Shoots a polite smile towards her and bows. “I’m okay. Thank you so much.” 

“Okay. You did take quite the fall there, though,” she remarks, not convinced that he’s actually okay. Then her voice dips slightly, a stern and lecturing tone underlying it. “Try not to look at your phone when you’re walking.”

He grimaces as the words tumble from her mouth, helplessly watching her walk away and melt into the crowd. His entire body aches from the fall, but the pain is nothing compared to being scolded by a millennial. 

Hao blinks in rapid succession, wondering if what happened actually happened. He then spins on his heel towards the direction of his apartment and away from the direction of Hanbin’s apartment, rerouting himself.

It’s all Hanbin’s fault for sending that stupid goddamn heart emoticon out of nowhere. If he didn’t do that, then Hao wouldn’t have tripped.

Five minutes after the fated fall, Hao finally gains the courage to unlock his phone. With his eyes glued to the screen, he stares at the heart emoticon that both of them sent to each other, a flush creeping down his neck. He must’ve absentmindedly clicked send before he even noticed it—too accustomed to his texting habit of casually tacking it onto the end of his messages with his friends. There’s been far too many times where he’s almost sent <3 to Hanbin post-breakup, but he’s usually always caught himself at the last moment when he proofreads his own texts, pressing the backspace button on his keyboard twice to erase every occurrence. 

Until now.

He pockets his phone. Those two heart emoticons don’t affect him. Not one bit. He gets lost in his head for longer as he walks down the crowded street.

On second thought, maybe it isn’t Hanbin’s fault for making him trip. Maybe it’s all Jiwoong’s fault for scrambling Hao’s tiny brain with all of his therapy talk and breakup talk and Hanbin talk. Maybe then, Hao wouldn’t have been so absentminded, and he wouldn’t have sent <3 to Hanbin, and Hanbin wouldn’t have sent <3 back to him, and that means there would be no cause for tripping over thin air. 

Or maybe, there’s a third option: that it’s Hao’s fault, that he has agency over his own life, and that the reason he virtually ate shit is because he was flustered over a heart emoticon like a middle school girl with a hopeless crush. 

He rifles his teeth between his bottom lip. That doesn’t sound right. He’ll go with option one: blame his ex. 

When Hao arrives back to his empty apartment that is notably absent of Zero Cola, he does these things, in this exact order:

1. Screams into his pillow for approximately five minutes. Or longer.
2. Stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, eyes snagging on his right cheek where a bruise is starting to form and tint the skin an angry red color. He’s going to rename the bruise and start calling it a battle scar instead.
3. Gathers ice into a small zip lock bag from his mini ice-maker.
4. Places the small zip lock bag on the battle scar to prevent further swelling.
5. Flops against his dirt cheap couch, his brain exhausted and overheated from all of the mental energy invested in therapy and analysis over a simple heart emoticon. 
6. Drifts to sleep and dreams of times before now.

Hao wakes up two hours later to exactly three text messages from the main offender of the heart emoticon fiasco. Thankfully, there’s no sign of a heart emoticon in the new messages.

Wednesday - 6:33 PM

Hanbin: I’m back at my apartment if you want to visit Zero Cola

Hanbin: She would appreciate a visit

Hanbin: [ATTACHMENT]

He blinks the sleep-crust from his eyes, vision blurry until it refocuses again on the bright screen illuminating the dark living room. He stares at the picture attached in their thread. It’s a photo of Zero Cola cuddling against one of Hanbin’s hamster stuffed animals, all cozy under Hanbin’s sheets. He’s jealous, but he doesn’t know whether he’s jealous of Hanbin for having Zero Cola within reach, or Zero Cola for being in Hanbin’s bed. A smile tugs on his lips before his eyes drift higher on the screen to their earlier messaging history, the familiar heart emoticon glaring back at him, and fuck, now his neck is flushed hot yet again. 

Hao: i just woke from a nap but ill be omw

Hanbin: Good 

Hanbin: Don’t start any fights with the receptionist

Hao: bold of u to assume I AM the problem and instigator.

Hanbin: Aren’t you?

Hao: haha. very funny.  

When Hao arrives at Hanbin’s apartment, he makes a beeline for Zero Cola, who is now chilling on Hanbin’s stupidly expensive couch. She appears indifferent to him, but Hao knows deep down she is enthusiastic about his fourth visit this week. It’s like he never left her. 

Hao bends down to the ground and picks up the cat wand toy that resembles a fishing pool lying on the floor of the apartment. He waves it around frantically, and Zero Cola jumps off the couch to run after it, her long legs stretching wide in front of her. She’s in an energetic mood. 

Hanbin watches the silent exchange, too used to this routine. Crosses his arms as he hovers over Hao and Zero Cola playing together. 

“What’s even the point of giving me custody of Zero Cola for a week if you’re just going to be coming over all the time?” Hanbin asks, even though this is a regular occurrence and happens every single time Hanbin has custody, so he should know very well by now that Hao is a helicopter parent.

Hao hums. Swipes the wand away from Zero Cola right as she’s about to place her little cat paw on the end the string. “Just think of it as a win. You don’t have to text me hourly Zero Cola updates anymore.” 

“You’ve already eaten all my snacks that I bought for this week,” Hanbin whines. It’s a true statement.

Hao shrugs. “I was hungry.” But Hanbin does actually look upset that Hao ate all of his snacks, doing that thing with his face where he thinks he’s masking it well, but the corners of his lips swoop downwards into a frown anyways, betraying his plan to hide his emotions. “I’ll buy you more. Promise.”

Hanbin simply nods, but his lips gradually lift into a smile, and finally, Hao can have a little bit of peace knowing that Hanbin isn’t upset anymore. 

There’s no mention of the heart emoticon incident from earlier, so Hao assumes that it was a simple act of reciprocation on Hanbin’s part when he received the accidental heart emoticon from Hao. He ignores how that makes irritation sizzle in his gut, the idea that it was only sent because Hao sent it first.

He doesn’t care.

Zero Cola doesn’t want to play anymore, laying in between both of them and extending her full body so they can pet every inch of her. Hao wonders if she knows that her fathers are separated, or if her tiny cat brain is too stupid to understand that. He almost wishes that he could be just like Zero Cola, not knowing a single damn thing. 

“I didn’t start a fight with the receptionist this time,” Hao tells Hanbin as they rake their fingers through her shiny black coat, both making sure that their hands don’t pet the same section of Zero Cola’s fur. It’s strange, how their hands used to always gravitate towards each other, and now, they can’t even pet a cat together without worrying about brushing hands. “I hope you’re proud. I took the route with more dignity and didn’t insult her back when she called me desperate.” 

“I am proud. It must’ve been really hard for you to hold back from insulting her,” Hanbin says, but his eyes hide a sarcastic glint behind them that only Hao can detect. 

“It really was difficult.” Hao removes a hand from Zero Cola in favor of placing it over his heart, feels it beating steady underneath. “Thank you for being such an empath.” 

Hanbin laughs all the way from his chest. “Of course. You know me.” Hao does know Hanbin. That’s all he’s ever known. 

When there’s a few seconds of delay, Hanbin speaks yet again. “Was your change of heart because you had therapy today?” It always surprises him. The fact that Hanbin remembers his schedule, knows that Wednesday is therapy day. 

He hums in consideration, setting his hand back onto Zero Cola, who stretches languidly. “Yeah. It feels immoral to be a bitch after having therapy.” 

“Well, did you give Jiwoong an easy time, at least?” 

The smile spreads all over his face like poison. “I did. We talked so much shit about you, though,” Hao says, sickly sweet. Sometimes they find their way into a bit, and things just unfold into a banter that undoubtedly makes them sound insane to the general population.

“Keep my name out of your mouth,” Hanbin bites back, but it’s void of anger, and Hao knows that he’s actively participating in the bit.

“But then what will I have left to talk about?” Hao asks. Half-joking, half-truth.

And then an interesting development occurs: the tips of Hanbin’s ears suddenly burn red, which is not the reaction that Hao expected to receive. It might be because of how blazing hot the apartment is from Matthew once again cranking the heat, but he doesn’t quite believe it, not when Hanbin is suddenly intent on dodging eye contact. 

“I think you’ll manage,” Hanbin says after a beat too long, averting his gaze from Hao to the apartment floor, as if the navy fibers from the rug underneath their asses are more interesting to look at than Hao. 

Hao arches an eyebrow. He wants to continue the bit, already having the snarky responses drafted in his head, but Hanbin is scratching the back of his neck that way that he does when he’s self-conscious, so he instead drops the subject, not wanting to further embarrass him, even when he’s confused at what exactly made him so flustered. 

There’s a lapse of silence between them, but it’s not uncomfortable or comfortable. Hao pulls his phone out from his back pocket to idly scroll through his Instagram feed, while Hanbin fidgets with one of the strings of the black hoodie that pools around his figure, which makes Hao annoyed at how insanely domestic he looks, because he used to steal that exact hoodie from his closet all the time. 

When Hanbin makes a noise from the back of his throat a few minutes later, Hao diverts his attention from an Instagram post of yet another couple from high school getting engaged, lifting his head. He’s staring at Hao with scrutinizing eyes that trace down the right side of his face, and Hao just knows what his next words are going to be.

“Did you have that bruise yesterday?” Hanbin asks, all curiosity. His hand awkwardly lifts halfway above his chest until he seems to gain some sense, blinking like he’s been possessed by something. The hand then falls, hangs uselessly on his lap. “Does it hurt?” he asks again, softer this time.

“No, I tripped today,” Hao says, lifting his own hand to his right cheek, where the battle scar blooms strange colors now, an agglomeration of blue and red and purple. The brush of his fingertips induces the dullest hint of pain. It’s not a massive battle scar by any means, but Hao can’t wait for it to fade from his face, because every time his eyes trace over it when he looks at the mirror, he’s haunted by that damn heart emoticon. “It doesn’t hurt anymore, though.”

This time, Hanbin fully brings his arm forward and doesn’t let it stop hesitant and halfway above his chest. Hao squeezes his eyes shut, expecting the pad of Hanbin’s fingers to find their way to the battle scar. 

But when his eyes flutter open, Hanbin’s right hand is finding its home underneath Hao’s chin. He curls his fingers, scooping his chin. They make direct eye contact as he does it, and it’s so quick that if Hao blinked he would miss it, but his skin runs unbearably warm all the same. 

“You’re so clumsy,” Hanbin tuts, and Hao doesn’t know whether to feel insulted by him or attracted to him. Maybe both can coexist. “Be careful next time,” he says seriously, and Hao is once again further proving how much of a hypocrite he is, because if those words were coming from that millennial’s mouth, Hao would go down with swinging fists, but since the words originate from Hanbin, it inherently takes on a different meaning. 

Hao swallows. Tries to sound unaffected. He is unaffected. Hanbin has fucked him unholy plenty of times, for Christ’s sake. Hanbin has seen him in far more compromising positions, like when Hao’s bare asshole would be laid out on display for him, like when Hanbin would be in the same bathroom even when Hao was perched on the toilet seat, fighting for his life. If there are four bases in a relationship, Hao’s pretty certain they’ve reached a base somewhere in the millions, if not billions. 

Yet Hanbin doing something as simple as scooping Hao’s chin somehow makes him feel just as vulnerable, if not more. 

He clears his throat in a desperate attempt to level his voice. “Don’t be mean to me. After I tripped, I got humbled by a millennial after she told me to stop going on my phone.” 

“Screenager.” 

Hao rolls his eyes. He shoots one final look at Hanbin before whipping out his phone again and proving the screenager allegations. He switches his mindless scrolling from his Instagram feed to his Twitter timeline. “Yeah. Whatever. At least I’m not the type of screenager to run a Jaehyun Instagram fan account when I was in high school,” he says, a not-so-subtle dig at Hanbin, who did own a Jaehyun Instagram fan account in high school.  

He’s scrolling past a strange meme on Twitter that he doesn't understand when the stuffed fish from the end of the cat wand toy slaps him square on the left side of his cheek, pointedly avoiding his bruised right cheek. 

When he jerks his head upwards, Hanbin is holding the cat wand toy in his hand, not even having the decency to look guilty. His smile starts, and it spreads. It unravels at his eyes first, the corners crinkling the way they do when it’s genuine and not rehearsed. Then his mouth is going wide, teeth poking out, whisker dimples coming out to further prove that Zero Cola is a direct descendant of Hanbin. 

If you ask him, Hao doesn’t feel like he did much of anything to warrant something so bright. 

“Who the fuck did you fight in the five days that I haven’t seen you?”

“Your mom,” Hao says, dodging from the pen that’s immediately launched at him. He has quick reflexes. Ricky hates him for it. 

It’s Thursday. Ricky and Hao are sitting at a table in the student union of their university in an attempt to finish the rest of their homework for the week before they damage their livers in the form of alcohol consumption. Their laptops are open, lecture notes scattered across the table, but like every single studying session that Ricky and Hao partake in together, the reason that they never get any work done slowly reveals itself when they get wrapped in the middle of a gossip session or a heated conversation. It’s also beneficial that they’re both Chinese, just for the added benefit of talking as much shit as they want in their mother language in spite of the overflowing and crowded student union. 

Ricky takes a sip of his strawberry milkshake and glowers at him from across the table. “Really mature. It’s not like you’re four years older than me or anything.” 

“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it,” Hao says, shrugging casually under the pointed glare. 

“Whatever makes you feel better,” Ricky dismisses Hao. He types a few words on his laptop’s keyboard, nodding at the screen, and then diverts his attention back to Hao’s battle scar that is still plastered on his face but well on the road to recovery. “But seriously. Who was it?”

Hao shakes his head. “I didn’t get into a fight. I’m an extremely peaceful person.” 

“Don’t make me laugh,” Ricky says, narrowing his eyes. All suspicion. 

After the breakup, Ricky became the designated person that Hao hung out with outside of their six person friend group’s hangouts (besides, well, Hanbin, but that’s a different story). Six months ago, the dynamics between everybody in the group were slightly stilted, and although they’ve been restored given that everybody sees that Hao and Hanbin are not constantly  at each other’s necks like most pairs of exes, if you squint, you can see how sides have vaguely formed. Matthew is obviously on Hanbin’s side because they’re roommates, Taerae and Gyuvin are waving the white flag as neutral parties who support both of them individually, and Ricky is on Hao’s side because of national pride and all of that. 

He decides to take a leap of faith and trust Ricky. 

Hao pauses. “If I tell you, you can’t tell anybody,” he says slowly, allowing the gravity of the situation to sink into Ricky’s brain. “Not even Gyuvin.”

Ricky knits his eyebrows in confusion. “I don’t tell Gyuvin everything.” 

“Don’t make me laugh,” Hao echoes Ricky’s words from earlier.

Ricky shuts his laptop and props his head on his hands, elbows on the table. “Okay. Fine. I swear.”

Hao swallows. “I accidentally sent a heart emoticon to Hanbin when we were texting, because you know, I do that with all of my friends,” he starts. “And he sent me one back, which I didn’t expect, because he always texts like he’s pushing thirty. So I tripped and fell to the ground, and it’s all his fault now that I have this battle scar,” he says, pointing at the expanse of skin that’s tinted a concerning color. He neglects the important narrative detail of the millennial humbling him, because he feels like the story is bad enough as it stands, and he knows Ricky will torment him even more if he knew. 

A beat of silence.

Ricky blinks.

Hao stares back at him, expressionless. 

There’s a fascinated sort of disbelief twisting Ricky’s face, like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or both at the same time. “That is not a battle scar. That is a down bad scar.” 

“I am not down bad,” Hao says, jumping to defend his honor. Seriously. He is not down bad. 

“You are. Physically and mentally,” Ricky counters. He momentarily takes a pause from bullying Hao to take another sip of his disgustingly sweet drink. “You cannot blame Hanbin for you eating shit. You’re the one who started it by sending the heart emoticon, anyways.”

“No, I didn’t,” Hao says, even though, yes, he did technically start it. He brushes the battle scar with his fingers, self conscious of the fact that Ricky called it a down bad scar. He is not down bad. Seriously. 

Ricky opens his laptop again. “Keep telling yourself that,” he says, which is his sign that he’s drained from dealing with Hao, turning back towards the forgotten homework in front of him. 

Hao glares back in response, but he takes the hint, because he also has his own stuff to do. He lifts one of his lucky black pens to the piece of notebook paper that Jiwoong dealt him for his therapy homework. It’s what he’s been working on during small lapses in assignments ever since his session on Wednesday, and he’s made some great progress so far. 

What has changed about your relationship after the breakup?

we venmo each other “sex with my ex” as the venmo caption to scare our friends

i don’t know every detail of his life anymore. like why wasn’t he at home for two hours when i wanted to see zero cola on wednesday? where was he at? with another man?

i can’t send him <3 freely anymore without overthinking it 

joint custody agreement

can’t text him constantly 

he’s more hesitant and makes me way more nervous

we don’t take pictures together anymore

we can’t say i love you anymore

nobody to text when i saw the TA that i hated from my class slip on the sidewalk that one time

he doesn’t make me cute playlists anymore

What hasn’t changed about your relationship after the breakup?

we still banter a lot

still the closest out of the entire friend group

he still takes care of me well it’s just more subtle and unspoken now

we still play with zero cola together (stay together for the kids)

he still offers me his food or drink if it looks like i’m not enjoying mine

can still notice small details about me/read me well

Hao picks at his chapped lips even when he knows he shouldn’t. It’s habit. Racks his brain for more, massaging his temples when he can’t think of anything.

“What on Earth are you writing?” Ricky asks, because he’s the nosiest person alive. His eyes scan the notebook paper in front of Hao, trying to decipher the upside down list. 

“What’s changed between Hanbin and I’s relationship and what hasn’t,” Hao mutters, not looking up from the paper. 

His brain helpfully supplies yet another addition to the “what has changed” column, and he scribbles the words “no sleepovers” under the category. He does really miss the sleepovers. Even the ones from before they were dating, when they would stay up late together to watch all of the end of year K-Pop award shows, and Hanbin’s jaw would clench in anticipation whenever they were announcing the winners, holding onto Hao’s hand so tight. 

When he doesn’t hear a response, he darts his eyes away from the paper and directs them toward Ricky, whose jaw is dropped impossibly low. “You have lost your mind. Is this really what you do in your free time?”

“No,” Hao bites back. “It’s my homework for therapy.”

There’s too much to unpack there, so Hao doesn’t blame Ricky’s indecisive mouth that snaps open and closed and open again—until he ultimately decides the best course of action is to not respond, shoving his nose down towards the textbook resting on his lap.

A hum. He returns his attention to the list. Nibbles on the end of his lucky pen, even when he knows he’s probably damaging his teeth or something. 

Hao thinks. Remembers that Hanbin still carries things for Hao, like his backpack, and how Hanbin remains chivalrous, even after their relationship ended. That’s a decent one to add into the “what hasn’t changed” category. 

He writes it down, making a grand effort to ignore the burning gaze in front of him that is most likely questioning his sanity.

Friday night begins like this: at a hole in the wall Korean barbecue restaurant around 7 PM. It’s the day of their friend group’s sanctioned parties slash hangouts, and this time, all six of them are in attendance since Hanbin is no longer battling strep throat this time around.

This, however, causes many problems for Hao. 

When they first arrive at the restaurant, it’s busy, the place flooding with people and hearty conversation. Hanbin immediately makes a run for the restroom because he had been complaining about having to pee for the entire duration of their walk to said restaurant, and Hao has to ignore the disappointment trickling in his gut when the two seats next to him end up taken by Matthew and Gyuvin (he still loves them). Hanbin ends up sliding into the last seat available, which is coincidentally the farthest seat away from Hao, diagonal from him. 

Hao is a government-assigned lightweight, so after taking a few soju shots alongside Gyuvin near the beginning of their dinner, there’s a pleasant feeling pooling deep in his stomach, warmth creeping on his cheeks. 

This is exactly what he blames when he lets his guard down. How he doesn’t reject the pieces of grilled meat Hanbin shoves his away, why he doesn’t question Hanbin’s terrible and half-hearted excuse that he happened to grill too much meat so he’s giving it to Hao, who has the largest stomach out of all of them. They barely even talk at the dinner due to their seating configuration. Hao doesn’t understand how Hanbin is always Hanbin.

He distantly notes that this should also be another entry on the therapy homework list, right under the “what hasn’t changed” category; it’s been a while since the crew has gone out to Korean barbecue, so Hao completely forgot about Hanbin’s vow to always grill Hao’s meat for him. 

The rest of their friend group thankfully don’t point it out, even when Hanbin has to reach across the table to give Hao the plates. Hao still endures a few bombastic side eyes directed his way from none other than Ricky. Hanbin doesn’t seem to notice it, at least. 

Later into the dinner, when he’s interrogated about his battle scar that is now faded but still noticeable under the amber lights of the restaurant, he retells the string of events where he was just staring at his phone and happened to trip on thin air. 

“But what was even on your phone for you to be so invested, hyung?” Gyuvin asks with bulging wide eyes, and Hao knows he’s only being curious just like he always is, but he hates him a little for prolonging his agony. Hanbin’s stupid heart emoticon pops into his brain yet again.  

Ricky smiles. It’s sugary sweet, but Hao knows better than to trust that smile. He’s speaking from personal experience. “Maybe he was texting somebody?”

Ricky is sitting across from him.

He kicks Ricky’s shin under the table. Right on target. Not enough to hurt, just enough to be a warning or a threat.

It strangles a startled pained noise out of Ricky’s throat, and when Matthew asks with a concerned voice if he’s okay, all he manages to grit out is, “Yep. Doing just fine.” 

After eating, they migrate to Gyuvin’s apartment that’s only a few blocks away. The plan is to have a game night, but the designation doesn’t serve any purpose since basically all of their hangouts unfold into game nights, whether it’s cliché games like truth or dare or card games like Uno that threaten to destroy their friendship. It’s just the natural course of events when you’ve spent too much time together, playing games together. 

This time, Hanbin somehow ends up sitting next to Hao’s left in their little circle, knees faintly touching with both of their legs crossed and folded. It's a better seating configuration, having Hanbin close to him like this. 

The game night unfolds like this. 

They start with Among Us. Hao hasn’t played this game in a long, long time. The last time he played it was back in the glory days of 2020 during quarantine, when he was stuck in South Korea and couldn’t find his way back to his parents in China. He was in his first year at university, while Hanbin was still in high school, and they hadn’t started dating yet, not until later. 

Hao then quarantined with somebody that his parents knew, a family friend that took care of him all throughout high school, when he first made the move from China to South Korea. Hanbin quarantined in his hometown, even though he had also been living with a family friend and attending high school in Seoul, the place where they both met. It was the longest that he had ever gone without seeing Hanbin, which meant that they Facetimed nearly every day, watched movies together on Netflix Party (the days where Hanbin hadn’t cancelled his own account’s subscription in favor of leeching off Hao’s account), and also played an unhealthy amount of Among Us games together. 

That’s a long-winded way to say that Hao hasn’t played this game in a long, long time, right up until Matthew forces all of them to re-download it to their phones. Taerae creates the room, and then they’re all running around in the waiting room, tilting their phones closer to their eyes so nobody can peak at the screen. 

(Hao still tries to cheat a little bit with his wondering eyes, but it doesn’t work, especially when Ricky actively calls out his master plan in front of everyone). 

When they’re well into the fifth round, Hao tries to smother his annoyance and resist rolling his eyes when he’s assigned the crewmate role once again. So far, Gyuvin has won one single round as the imposter, while Taerae and Ricky have been assigned as the imposter twice and have notably lost both of their games. 

Hao meanders through the ship, halfheartedly completing his tasks in electrical, when Hanbin walks into the room. For a split second, a burst of intuition shoots through him. He has the sudden urge to bolt away, but Hanbin looks innocent enough positioning himself in front of a task, and it’s adorable that he chose his little astronaut character to be colored white, his favorite color, and Hanbin would never hurt Hao in any universe—

He blinks. Hanbin just killed him. 

The corpse of his own astronaut character falls to the ground, and he watches helplessly in his new form of a ghost when Hanbin makes a quick getaway from his body through the vents. He follows Hanbin around for the entire duration of the game, watching him eliminate all of their friends one by one.

Hanbin ends up winning the entire round against all odds, even when there was a moment during the game where Matthew was in the same room during the assassination of Ricky, and Hao’s tongue hurts from biting it so much in an effort to not scream at Hanbin for betraying him in his moment of vulnerability and weakness. 

“You cunt,” Hao mutters after the grand revelation. Hanbin still seems to hear Hao’s words, even amongst the lively shouting vibrating through the room. “I trusted you.” 

Hanbin’s round eyes are gleaming, an arrogant smirk playing on his lips that Hao thinks is unfortunately really hot and it makes him want to punch one of Gyuvin’s walls. There’s a shrug from right next to him. “Don’t hate the player. Hate the game.”

“I can hate both,” Hao sneers back in response. 

(Don’t say anything. He loves both the player and the game). 

Later, Hao enacts his revenge against Hanbin. 

They always end up playing Uno, even when it results in at least two members of the friend group ending the night on non-speaking terms. Hao remembers how it happened to him once, between him and Taerae, and the silence was so insanely awkward when they walked back to go home together on the subway. The grudge lasted for a week straight. 

Right now, everybody has too many cards to compete against him and Hanbin. It’s just the two of them in the running, Hanbin with one card resting between the tips of their fingers, already cleared by yelling “Uno” before anybody could beat him to it, and Hao with two cards held close to his face. 

It’s his turn. They’re going clockwise, and Hanbin is seated to his left. He bites his lip as if he’s deliberating, even though he’s been planning this since he received the card. Holds eye contact with Hanbin, who cocks an eyebrow at him.

Places the card down on the pile. Shouts Uno. What follows is tumultuous exclamations from everybody (except Hanbin), and Hao knows that Gyuvin is definitely going to receive a noise complaint from his neighbors tomorrow. 

Hanbin’s jaw goes rigid as he stares down Hao like he’s praying on his downfall. He reluctantly takes four cards from the deck in silence, and it almost feels like they’re the only two people there, and he’s dizzy with how desperate he misses this competition and ambition that always clouded their platonic and romantic relationship.

“The color is now green,” Hao says, voice syrupy sweet, intent that somebody is going to change the color by the time it’s his turn and that he has a one third chance of it being the color of the card clutched tight to his chest, as long as he manages to reverse psychology everybody in the room. 

He wins the game by the next turn. It’s one of his proudest moments in life, he thinks.

Hao takes a brief hiatus from playing games to drink soju in the corner, watches Gyuvin and Ricky diligently build a home together on Minecraft using spruce wood planks. Hanbin leans next to him on the couch with his own cup of soju tight in his hand, their shoulders brushing from a matter of their forced proximity. 

It’s quiet for a bit between them, and Hao only listens to Gyuvin and Ricky bicker animatedly about how to construct their house, which makes Hao’s chest hurts from how content he is simply sitting here, with his skin blotching red and buzzing warm from the alcohol. He allows himself to feel sappy as he sits next to his ex-boyfriend, because it doesn’t happen often, feelings like these.  

“I forgive you, by the way,” Hanbin says, lifting the cup to his mouth. Hao traces the movement. 

“For what?” Hao questions, feigning innocence.

“For your dirty trick earlier.”

Hao narrows his eyes at Hanbin, even though his scorning look doesn’t quite match his face, where his cheekbones twinge in pain from smiling too much. “Oh, Hanbin. I don’t need your forgiveness,” he says, missing and missing and missing. If he closes his eyes for long enough, he can pretend.

This is precisely the game where game night goes wrong and transforms from a family friendly affair to a silent standoff between Hao and Hanbin.

Gyuvin studied abroad two semesters ago in the US, at one of the many UC universities in California. Hao doesn’t specifically remember which one. This resulted in him carrying over too many facets of traditional American culture, such as inserting words into his vocabulary such as “bruh,” “slay,” “let him cook,” “rizz,” and others among the like. It also resulted in him packing a variety of American games that he played overseas and forcing his friends to play them with him, which was a mutually beneficial agreement since they all wanted to practice their English more. Hao thinks that he might be on the road to becoming fluent at this rate, solely from their little game nights. 

One of the games he smuggled back from the US? A game called “For the Girls” with an audience aimed toward college girls pregaming or bachelorette parties or sorority get-togethers, which none of them fell into at all. Like, not even close. However, Gyuvin claimed that it was really, really fun and that he played it with his American roommates constantly, pleaded for them to give it a chance. Now, it’s one of the games that became a part of the regular rotation of their game night, even though the premise of the game is simple. 

There’s a range of different mini-games on each card, that range from playing categories around the circle to giving a card to somebody who fits the card to completing assigned dares. Technically, whoever receives the most cards wins by the end, but usually, they play long enough until they’re too exhausted. 

Hao doesn’t suspect that this game will be different than the other times they played. Gyuvin bestows a card to Hao that says “give this card to the worst cook” that he protests a moderate amount, Matthew has to Venmo his last hookup with the caption “Haven’t stopped thinking about you,” and Ricky can’t think of a hot celebrity fast enough when they’re playing categories. It's all innocent, girly fun, until it isn't.    

It’s Hao’s turn.

He draws the card. The dare glares straight at him: “text the last person that you’ve kissed.” When he draws it, he reads it out loud, voice faltering. 

The room stills. Nobody speaks or moves. Everybody holds a breath, waiting for Hao or Hanbin to do something, anything. Whether they should intervene or stay silent spectators. It’s so insanely awkward that Hao wishes he had the ability to teleport anywhere but here. 

Hao refuses to look at Hanbin for his reaction, eyes trained unwavering towards the other side of the circle. They've never really talked about stuff like this. Of moving on. Of kissing other people now that they're not in a relationship. He doesn't know if Hanbin has kissed anybody since they broke up, doesn't really want to know if he did. 

Wonders if he’s anxious. Wonders if he’s unbothered. Wonders if he’s stressed. If he knows whether the text is going to be sent to him.  

Everybody watches him pull out his phone, type a few words with his two thumbs hovering over the keyboard, and hit send. 

Hanbin’s message notification chimes loud from his own pocket. Hao contemplates if it’s in his own imagination that everybody exhales from relief or some other strange thing, the air in the room no longer as charged as before. 

“Well… Next turn?” Hao asks, voice light. Tries to choke out a laugh that sticks in his throat. This game would be funny if he wasn’t playing it with his ex-boyfriend of three years right next to him, Hao duly notes. 

Hanbin’s burning gaze still points at him. Hao avoids it. Too nervous to see, to be seen. 

He’s grateful when everybody in the room moves onto the next turn without complaining that Hao didn’t accomplish the dare with any theatrics. 

Hao doesn’t pay attention to any of the rounds after him. Can’t even pinpoint why he’s so disquieted. All he knows is that he wants to stop playing the game, and he wants to stop avoiding Hanbin’s eyes, even when he doesn’t want to look back at him.  

He waits an appropriate amount of time to escape the room, because it feels like the walls are suffocating him. It’s as if he’s distant from his body. Like everything is still unfolding in front of him but he’s watching it through a security camera. Like life is moving past him.

One, two, three minutes pass, which prompts him to stand up in the middle of Taerae’s turn. He risks a glance at Hanbin, whose head jerks upward at the sudden moment, whose looking at him so openly, with his wide, unreadable, beautiful eyes.  

Hao wants and needs to leave. 

“I’m a bit drunk,” Hao says, stretching his numb legs that ache of static, and the lie feels too thick in his throat, like cotton shoved in his dry mouth, “I’m going to go outside to get some fresh air.” He points to the door, and when there’s a chorus of affirmations from everyone, he quietly exits the room, already hearing them resume the game, which he doesn’t blame them for, not at all. 

Gyuvin lives in an outside apartment complex, so Hao trails away far enough from Gyuvin’s apartment. Stands there, leaning against the railing on the edge of the building. From the 5th floor, he feels close to the stars like this, all of them stitched in the midnight blue sky, and he gains some comfort like that, knowing that everybody lives under the same stars. 

A few minutes breeze by him. 

Hanbin doesn’t announce himself, not with words. He’s just there, and Hao can detect it before he even sees him. His body leans on the railing alongside Hao, but there’s distance between them. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even touch Hao. Instead, he waits for Hao, like he always does. He doesn’t even relent when more beats of silence pass, until Hao is certain that it’s been at least ten minutes of them not saying anything to each other, just watching the sky with space sitting in between them. 

It makes Hao throb in want, the need to be touched after not being touched for too long, starved of Hanbin’s hands. When was the last time that Hanbin touched him so intentionally and tenderly? 

He swallows, his dry throat bobbing. Tries to level his voice. “I’m embarrassed,” is all he says. He hopes that Hanbin understands the simple and vague admission. 

“Why?” Hanbin asks, and Hao doesn’t even need to look at him to see that he’s tilting his head. There’s an undertone there, not of judgment but of curiosity.

“By the card I got,” Hao elaborates. “That I don’t get any bitches.”

“Well… Do you want bitches?” his voice trails off. It doesn’t sound like Hanbin’s voice. It sounds out-of-body too, the way Hao felt when he was trapped in that room, distant and remote.  

Hao mulls this over. Does he want bitches? He could easily get some if he tried hard enough. Even though he’s out of commission from the breakup, his game isn’t all that terrible when it comes to flirting. He’s a delicate type of pretty. His personality could use some work, but it’s a small fix. 

It doesn’t feel right, though. 

“Not really, no,” he eventually decides.

A beat of silence. He gazes up at the night sky, the cicadas chirping in his ears. There’s an airplane flying through the air. Hao doesn’t know if it’s leaving or coming into the direction of the airport. He hopes it’s a safe flight. 

When Hanbin doesn’t fill the space with his words, Hao continues. 

“I mean… It’s more about the principle of texting my ex for a card that I got that was like, ‘hey, when’s the last time you felt the touch of a man, by the way you’re gonna die alone.’” 

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Hanbin says, so gentle that Hao considers flinging himself off the 5th floor of the apartment complex. 

Hanbin backtracks. “Not about the dying alone part, I mean! You’re definitely not going to die alone,” he says with a reassuring tone, and Hao wants to believe him but also scream at him that he doesn’t definitely know anything. “I mean that there’s nothing wrong with texting me for a card like that. I don’t mind it at all. I wasn’t bothered.”

Hao massages his temples, trying to quell that stupid buzzing rushing through his head. He doesn’t think Hanbin is understanding what he means, but truth be told, he doesn’t fully understand what he means either. He doesn’t understand why a moronic party game is bothering him so much. “I know. But shouldn’t I be in my single era and hook up with a ton of people? Shouldn’t I be going through a hoe phase or whatever Gyuvin calls it?”

Hanbin blinks. “Um. No? Unless you want to?” It doesn’t sound like Hanbin would want that, though. It honestly seems like one of the things that is furthest from what he wants.

Hao thinks back to all of the breakup articles that he encountered on the Internet immediately following the aftermath. How he would scan the breakup subreddit on Reddit like it was the daily newspaper, bright screen burning his eyes in the dark of his room where he slept alone, without Hanbin. He remembers how he couldn’t relate to anything, to all of those people’s experiences. Maybe it was a Reddit problem since most of the people on that website are detached from reality, but he was inclined to think that it wasn’t. That it meant something more along the lines that Hao and Hanbin are different.

Because they just are. They always have been.

“I feel like I’m missing something about being single,” Hao says after too long of a pause, angling his head towards the half-crescent moon hanging in the sky. He has to say it. To let Hanbin know. “Everybody seems like they’re having fun when they’re single. But I’m just not happy.”  

The quiet is so unbearable that Hao nearly screams for Hanbin to respond. He’s intent on swallowing back his words, when—

“Let’s get ice cream,” Hanbin blurts out, as if his mouth is moving before his brain can.

What? “What?”

“You seem upset,” Hanbin says. “Sweet things make you happy. Let’s just leave and tell them we’re getting ice cream. Then I can walk you home.”

He searches Hao’s face for any confirmation that he’s willing to partake in this expedition to get ice cream. Hanbin’s logic is so startingly simple that Hao wants to laugh over the absurdity of the idea, but damn, he really does love sweet things, and they do make him happy, and he wants ice cream. 

“Sounds good?” Hanbin asks. 

Hao nods. Once, then twice. “Okay.”

They return to Gyuvin’s apartment. Gyuvin and Ricky have resorted back to building their domestic Minecraft house. Taerae and Matthew are giggling over something plastered on the screen of Matthew’s phone. When Hanbin tells them that he and Hao are leaving to go home, he purposefully omits the information that they’re getting ice cream, a strategic move on his part. 

Right before the door slams shut, Hao hears Ricky’s voice: “They’re definitely leaving to fuck or something.” 

Followed by Gyuvin: “You can’t just say that, Ricky!”

Chapter Text

You might be expecting a dramatic reason for why Hao and Hanbin broke up back then. 

That’s not the case. 

You probably knew that just from reading this story.

Hanbin goes inside to get the ice cream, because he already knows what Hao likes. Naturally, that leaves Hao to wait outside the convenience store, where he sits on one of the benches that’s a few feet away from the store, the one right under the lamppost that pours all its light onto the dark street. He watches a squad of university students yelling drunkenly and marching down to the subway station in tiny skirts and tops, watches two of the girls swing their intertwined hands.

If Hao had his life in order, that could have been him, trekking over to invade the clubs in Hongdae or Itaewon or Gangnam with fellow university students. However, that’s not the case, and he’s at a convenience store getting ice cream with his ex-boyfriend after a party-game-gone-wrong. 

Minutes later, Hanbin walks over to the bench, when Hao is no longer watching the girls stumble around in their clubbing attire and is instead mindlessly examining his blue-painted nails. Offers the ice cream to Hao wordlessly, and he sort of wants to scream or cry or both when Hanbin remembers to get a cup that Hao can enclose it around the ice cream, just because he hates when his hands get cold, and Hanbin knows that all too well. 

Once again, Hao mentally notes it as an addition to the therapy homework list. He really should start carrying that piece of notebook paper around in his pocket so he has access to it at all times. It’s necessary, with the way Hanbin keeps doing things like this in spite of Hao’s heart.  

When Hanbin sits down next to Hao, there’s still that vast amount of space sitting between them, and Hao can’t pinpoint why there’s a hot flash of frustration buzzing through him. He bites his tongue hard so that frustration doesn’t come barreling out, because the last thing Hanbin deserves is his misdirected anger. Not after being so stupidly caring and gentle towards Hao at all times.  

The obnoxious flashy convenience store sign cuts through the dark. He watches how it shines in the silence. Hanbin isn’t saying anything, won’t say anything. Just licks his ice cream, tongue poking from his mouth.  

Hao’s cheeks still haven’t rid of the pink red shame blotching them at the fact that Hanbin and their entire friend group know that he hasn’t kissed anybody in the six useless months that he’s been single, when he should’ve theoretically been going through his “hoe phase.” In his defense, you can’t just kiss other people after kissing Hanbin. It’s not a logical progression by any means. 

And that just makes him wonder what Hanbin thinks. He’s tempted to pry apart his brain so he can see all the cogs and coils, how they turn and turn. Wants to know if Hanbin has kissed other people in these six months. Like the bitchy receptionist or something. Hao would throw himself into the Han River if that was ever true. His villain origin story, in other words. 

Before he can gain any sense, he opens his mouth, a wide, gaping thing. He needs to know if he’s the only one who hasn’t kissed anybody. For scientific purposes.  

“Would you have—”

“Do you remember—”

Both of their mouths snap shut. A beat of silence passes. 

“You go first,” Hanbin says airily, when it looks like neither of them are going to finish speaking. Because he always has to be chivalrous and make Hao go first and listen to what he says like a loyal puppy—and. No. It’s not going to work like that. Not this time. 

Hao blinks. “I don’t have shit to say to you.” 

“Um. You clearly do, you were speaking before me, by the way—”

“We were speaking at the same time!” Hao argues back. He tugs at the necklace wrapped loose around his neck, the one Hanbin gave him for his birthday during one of those three years they dated, the one he’s never ever taken off since the day it was given to him. Because, well. It’s habit. 

“So, you admit that you did have shit to say.”  

Hao lifts his ice cream cup to his face, takes a large bite of his chocolate chip ice cream that then proceeds to freeze his teeth, and pointedly ignores Hanbin’s pointed stare at his lack of decorum. 

“Maybe. But I clearly heard your voice first, overpowering mine.” 

There’s a heavy sigh from next to him, which means that Hanbin is done putting up with his shit.

But he relents anyways, honey voice tinted by something like nostalgia or fondness: “Whatever. What I was gonna say was, do you remember that time I had to sneak out to get ice cream for you because you were sulking so much that GOT7 didn’t win that MAMA award back in 2016?” 

He remembers it. Very well. How could he not? 

“Hey, you didn’t sneak out for me, you sneaked out with me,” Hao corrects him.

But the laughter prevails, bleeds through at the memory of them running along the Seoul streets during one of their infinite sleepovers when it was sometime past their curfew, Hanbin pulling hard at his hand to drag him towards the convenience store littered on that one street corner. Partners in crime, even when they got scolded by Hanbin’s aunt the next day when she found multiple ice cream wrappers cluttered in the trash and discovered their covert mission. 

“Well. It was mainly for you,” Hanbin retorts, and Hao hates how he thinks that’s romantic. 

He spares him a glance from the corner of his eyes, averts them from the convenience store sign that’s about to give him a stroke if it doesn’t stop flashing like that, focusing everything towards Hanbin. 

Hanbin, who’s in the middle of a full-fledged cat whisker smile that makes Hao want to poke at his cheek. Hanbin, whose face is flushed pretty pink under the lamppost. Hanbin, who looks back at Hao with warm wide eyes. Hanbin, who Hao knows is thinking of that same exact memory of sugar melting on tongues and reprimanding aunts and ice cream as the solution to all of the world’s problems (the world’s problems being GOT7 losing an end-of-the-year award). 

There’s a hollow feeling in Hao’s chest, and it burns when he remembers everything about the sleepovers they had before they dated: the careful planning for them over WeChat or KakaoTalk, where they always had two different conversations transpiring at the same time, the glow-in-the-dark neon stars plastered to Hanbin’s bedroom ceiling that they would watch with brushing shoulders, the staying up for hours and hours on end past midnight because of their tired talkative mouths, all until they would watch the sunlight sift through the blinds together. 

It burns even worse when he thinks about their sleepovers when they dated: Hanbin cooking a full course meal for him (i.e.: something that wasn’t the cheapest brand of ramen at the grocery store, which made a regular appearance on Hao’s meal rotation), wide arms encircling his frame and holding him just the right amount of tight when they watched the entire Netflix catalog, Zero Cola curling her black body between them under the covers when they drifted to dream land, lazy morning breath kisses the next day, because they wouldn’t let something as irrelevant as morning breath prevent them from kissing when they wanted to, because they’re a bit repulsive. 

The burning doesn’t stop, so Hao says it. “I miss that. A lot,” he admits, so quiet in the dark, mouth moving on its own as the vulnerability itches on his skin. He angles his head towards the night sky, but he can’t see any stars there, not with all of Seoul’s light pollution. Maybe he can pretend he’s in Hanbin’s bedroom again, looking at the ones on the ceiling. 

“Miss what?” Hanbin asks, and without looking at him, Hao knows he’s confused. He turns his head to confirm this, but he’s met with a strip of mint chocolate chip ice cream hanging on the right edge of Hanbin’s lips. Mint chocolate chip ice cream disgusts Hao, but he would still brush it away if Hanbin would let him, only to fulfill Hao’s selfish motive of the pads of his fingers touching Hanbin’s mouth. 

A strangled laugh escapes his throat, hand clutching extra tight around the ice cream cup. Such a useless hand. “Our sleepovers.” Does Hanbin miss them too? Hao misses them so terribly much. They were even featured on his therapy homework list. 

There’s a beat of silence. And then a lazy shrug. “We can still do them,” Hanbin says. 

He pauses. Evaluates that. They could still do them, theoretically. It wouldn’t be that big of a jump in their relationship that already lacks an insane amount of boundaries. But he doesn’t want that. 

“No, we can’t,” Hao decides.  

Hao wonders if his skills in reading Hanbin have gone faulty and need to be brushed up on or if there’s something like hurt lingering in his voice when Hanbin asks, “Well, why not?”

“Because we’re not dating anymore.” Because it’s on the list. Because I put it on the list.

“We were friends longer than boyfriends,” Hanbin says, which is true. But the strict line between their platonic and romantic relationship was never really present, and both melted together until they became indistinguishable. It’s the reason behind why it took them so long to kiss and go on a proper date and say I love you in the romantic sense and have sex (that one is false, because they have nobody but themselves to blame for their awkward attempts at a first time that always ended in failure until it didn’t). 

When there’s no response, Hanbin pushes yet again: “We could still do it.”

They could still do it. Nothing is really stopping them. Hao is always at Hanbin’s stupidly expensive apartment, anyways. It’d be easy. To just stay there for the night. But there’s something twisting in his stomach enough to make it churn, something that makes him want to keep disagreeing and disagreeing. 

Hao shakes his head. “It’s not the same.” 

“Why not?” Hanbin’s eyebrows knit together; Hao wants to smooth out the wrinkle by reaching out, but he doesn’t. 

Eyes screwed shut, he swallows. “Having a sleepover with you when we were in a relationship versus not. They mean really different things to me, even when you’re the same person.” 

He’s wondering how Hanbin is going to respond to that simple admittance, the silent admission of something that neither of them dares to say out loud, when—

“You’ve survived many sleepovers with me as a friend,” Hanbin says, skeptical, with an extremely offended scoff. “It’s really not all that bad.”

Well. 

“Jesus Christ, the point is literally soaring above your head. Like, flying right over it,” Hao snaps, face and neck flushed hot even when the ice cream is cold in his mouth. “And you’re also really, really dumb. Dumber than I thought, if that was even possible.”

“You’re the dumb one,” Hanbin bites back. It’s a lame and halfhearted insult; they both know that. Hanbin usually does much better at insults, but maybe right now isn’t the proper time to show off that particular expertise. “Then what’s your point? If I’m too dumb to figure it out?”

Sweat pools around his palms. “That I wouldn’t want to have a sleepover with you now. Not when I know what it’s like to have a sleepover with you when we dated.” 

“And why not, Hao?” Hanbin asks as he twists his body, wide shoulders angling towards Hao, pressing impossibly closer. Hao feels so insanely small under Hanbin as he moves into his space, too close that it might make the part of Hao’s brain that deals with impulse control and his ex-boyfriend overheat and malfunction and explode. “Why wouldn’t you want to?”

Hao doesn’t want to answer the question. Not yet. He needs confirmation. Empirical evidence that Hanbin hasn’t kissed anybody since him. Because Hao is a STEM student first and foremost, and Hanbin won’t ever understand, because he’s in the liberal arts and can’t properly conceive of the scientific method. But he needs to know, before he says something so stupid that it alters the already strange trajectory of their relationship-friendship-whatever-secret-third-thing-it-is. 

Hao swallows around the lump lodged in his throat. “Let me say what I wanted to say earlier before you rudely interrupted me,” he opens with. 

Hanbin blinks languidly and moves a few centimeters away from him. That space between them once again. “Didn’t you say that you didn’t have shit to say to me?”

Hao blinks. He has selective memory. Hanbin should know that. “Okay. Well, now I do have shit to say to you. So you better listen.” 

He fidgets with the ice cream cup, creasing it with his hands so it starts to deform until it doesn’t look like a cup anymore, the anxiety about to feast on his insides when the words leave his mouth. “Would you have texted me?” Hao asks, voice so weak that it leaves as a whisper, hoping he has perfected the ratio of sounding indifferent rather than insecure. “If you got the card that I got?” 

“Why are you asking me that?”

“Just. Scientific purposes,” Hao says, even though it’s already a flawed research design, and he’s already an unethical person. “But, it would honestly make me feel better if in an alternate universe where you were the one who got the card and I didn’t, that you would have texted me.”

Hao’s eyes fall shut, because he’s tired of staring at the stroke-inducing flashing sign. Waiting patiently for it, the affirmative that Hanbin has kissed somebody since Hao, because Hanbin is probably every single positive adjective in the dictionary and more, so much so that it’s impossible for him to not get bitches. He’s not like Hao, who still has two-sided petty beef with the bitchy receptionist that definitely wants to fuck Hanbin. He’s not like Hao, who’s a pathetic loser who can’t and won’t get over his ex-boyfriend. 

But that doesn’t happen. 

“Yeah,” Hanbin says easily, like Hao is not currently having a meltdown inches away from him over his answer. “I would’ve texted you.”

Oh. 

Hao nods. Once, then twice. The breath stuck in his throat forms into an exhale, releases. This information. It doesn’t affect him. Not one bit. Or he’s kidding himself. That’s always possible.  “Okay… Okay. Cool. Splendid,” he rambles, and because he can’t ever shut up, he continues, “Wonderful. Nice to know. Alright.”

Hanbin doesn’t respond to that. Instead, he shoots up from the bench, and for a brief moment there’s panic seizing Hao, that Hanbin is going to whip his body around and stare at him right between the eyes and curl his lips into a mocking smirk and gleefully sing out something along the lines of You just got pranked!

But that doesn’t happen, because Hao really needs to stop doing whatever the fuck Jiwoong was talking about that one therapy session (was it called catastrophizing?).

Instead, Hanbin is hovering over Hao and extending his hand, where there’s silver rings decorating his fingers.

“If you keep bouncing your leg like that for one more second… This always happens when you have sugar,” Hanbin chides, even though it was his idea to acquire ice cream at the convenience store in the first place, thus rendering Hao to be like this. 

Hao blinks. He didn’t even realize that he was doing that. Regardless, Hanbin’s hand is warm when he takes it to lift him from the bench. When they walk away from the convenience store, they pass another crew of clubbing university students under the influence of alcohol, and Hao thinks about how he’s glad that he doesn’t have his life in order sometimes.

Hao doesn’t want to go back home yet, and he has a lot of sugar to walk off, so they end up walking alongside the Han River in a comfortable-uncomfortable silence that’s only slightly paradoxical. It’s cold and he’s shivering against his will and Hanbin inevitably notices this like he always does and lends him his plain white hoodie residing underneath his outer layer, even when Hao lets out several squawks in protest that don’t seem to influence Hanbin’s decision. 

They endure a few minutes of quiet walking, and Hao not-so-discreetly lets himself trace over the way the moonlight hits Hanbin’s skin, lunar lashes and eyes and mouth. And because Hao is stupid, he thinks to himself, fuck it. Because the part of his brain reserved for impulse control and Hanbin is slowly deteriorating by the minute. Because they’re six months overdue for a conversation about this, and for once, he doesn’t want to dance around even longer and let the tiny flame of hope inside his chest fizzle away into nothing, over and over again.

His throat feels sticky, but he forces the words from his mouth. “Jiwoong calls it my midlife crisis, except I’m 22 and it’s about a relationship, so it’s actually my relationship crisis,” Hao starts. 

“What?” Hanbin’s head snaps violently to the right so he has a better view of Hao. His eyes are narrowed into little slits, and Hao can see his tongue behind his teeth when his mouth falls open. It’s always insanely obvious when he’s confused. He wears the same exact face every time. Wears his heart on his sleeve.  

“Our breakup.” 

“Relationship crisis? Is that a thing?” Hanbin asks, eyebrows scrunched up in skepticism, which is fair. He’s walking slower, now. They curve around the river, let the path take them wherever. 

A considerate hum. “Well. It is now, because I’m always inventing new ways to be mentally ill.” 

“Oh. So… You had a relationship crisis,” Hanbin says hesitantly, voice trailing off towards the end of the statement. 

“I did.” Hao nods and purses his lips. “I had a relationship crisis, but you gave up easily. Why did you give up so easily? When I said I was thinking of us breaking up?” 

It was a quiet day. The day they broke up. The breakup idea hadn’t always been planted inside Hao’s mind; it came in tiny weak spurts, would only remain a passing thought until it didn’t and started to become more and more frequent. Stuff like what if we broke up and who would I even be without Hanbin and why am I taking him for granted sometimes. Stuff that he didn’t have an answer to, but he desperately wanted an answer. 

And it all rolled from his tongue one day, when it started to feel like it was the point where it was wrong to keep it confined in his chest. But what he didn’t account for was Hanbin agreeing with his idea. To go along with such an absurd thing. He was always the one who had more sense between the two of them. So they broke up, somehow. If you blinked, you could have missed it. 

Hanbin was too gentle when it happened, even when Hao was the one wielding the hammer, smashing his heart into pieces, over and over again. He didn’t ask for much regarding post-breakup arrangements, because he’s too selfless for his own good. His only request was for both of them to not be in contact for three weeks, because he said that he didn’t want to see or speak to Hao, even though the actual no contact period was closer to around four weeks.

Hao would know; he painstakingly counted every second of it.    

“Because I would do anything for you, Hao,” Hanbin says, voice watery. He’s not looking at Hao. Looking towards the river. Towards the stars that they can’t see stitched into the sky. Towards the city lights bright on the other side. “Whatever you want, no questions asked. You wanted us to break up, so we did.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t do everything I want,” Hao counters. “I know that I’m right 99.9% of the time, but I can be wrong sometimes, even when I’m really intelligent and cool and sexy—”

“Okay, I get it,” Hanbin cuts him off, and Hao can see the edges of his lips quirk upward for a half second, but then they droop back downward into a perplexed frown, and Hao wishes he could take his fingers and manually swipe them back up to where they always belong. “I guess I knew things hadn’t been right between us leading up to it, but…” 

This time, it’s his turn to cut Hanbin off. He locates a ledge overlooking the river bank and wordlessly drops to the ground, letting his legs dangle over the edge. He’s grateful that Hanbin doesn’t question it, just settles down next to him. Between them, there isn’t as much space as before. Their hands hover clasped over their laps. When Hao grips his hand a bit too tight, the expanse of skin tinges white.

“Just. Listen to me for a few minutes,” Hao says. 

Hanbin doesn’t even need to be told to listen. He always does when it comes to Hao. 

A deep inhale. “The idea that you were always going to be there scared me a lot.” Then an exhale. He’s never said this out loud to anybody. “It’s a bit scary to know somebody for that long, right?”

There’s a pause, which means Hanbin is thinking. Which means that Hao has time to think too. About the time that the kid vaguely resembling a cat in the grade below him randomly approached him with full ruddy cheeks and a sunshine smile, asked if he wanted to join the dance club. About the time that Hao responded in his broken Korean that he can’t dance. About the time that the kid vaguely resembling a cat asserted that it didn’t matter. About the time that the kid vaguely resembling a cat offered him a private lesson in dance, and then a private lesson in Korean, and then they became a part of what they are now.  

When he looks at Hanbin, his appearance is different from that kid. Years flew by. His jaw grew more sculpted, his face shed baby fat, his air started to emit more confidence as he grew into himself. But Hao still sees the Hanbin from the first year of high school, the Hanbin from the second year of high school, the Hanbin from the third year of high school, the Hanbin of the fourth year of high school, the Hanbin from the first year of university, the Hanbin from the second year of university, the Hanbin from now, the one that’s currently beside him.

“I guess it is scary,” Hanbin concludes quietly. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t have to be,” Hao says, because he doesn’t feel scared. Not anymore, even when he used to be. He looks at Hanbin and sees all of the years between them staring back at him, the beginning of his life, and he feels anything but scared. “But at the time, I felt like no matter what I did, you would just be there, and I wouldn’t expect anything less. And I didn’t think that was right for you. Or for me, in a way.” 

Lidded, inquisitive eyes stare at him from the side. “Why?”

“Sometimes it felt like you were something that would always be humming in the background of my life. Something that I would get too used to, because you’d been there too long.” Hao lifts his head, fingers finding the end of the strings of Hanbin’s hoodie that hug his small frame. It smells like him. “I don’t want you to ever be background music to me. I want to always be listening to you and know that I’m listening to you. So I think that’s when the relationship crisis happened.” 

Hanbin doesn’t respond, but Hao doesn’t dare look at him. He just patiently waits alongside the calm water of the Han and stares at his nail beds, heart heavy but light. 

But then there’s no response to his endless incomprehensible monologue, and the desperate urge to explain himself burns in his gut, vulnerable in the long delay.

“Um. Does this even make sense?” Hao asks, mouth in overdrive. “I’m sorry. I know there’s something deeply wrong with me, but that’s what Jiwoong is for. And I’ve been journaling, lately. Self-care or whatever. Yay.” 

He pins his wrists beneath his thighs so he’s essentially crushing them against the concrete, forcing himself to look to his left to gauge how Hanbin is feeling. When he does that, he’s making eye contact with him, who wears an expression somewhere along the lines of soft and hurt and tender, if all of those things can coexist at once.

“It does make sense,” Hanbin says, and Hao knows he’s being honest. “Even when you don’t make sense, you always make sense to me.”

His heart sputters at that. There’s more sweat pooling on his palms, so he wipes the perspiration against his black jeans, wincing when he does so. Swallows deep. “I know that I hurt you badly. But I can promise to never hurt you again.” He considers this promise more. Quickly revises it. “Besides calling you a cunt, maybe. That’s one thing I can’t give up.” 

“Of course. Naturally,” Hanbin agrees. They’re both so insanely weird. “We do have a lot to work through together, though.”

His head weighs too much when he rocks it up and down. “Yeah. We do.”

“Why are you saying all of this now, Hao?” Hanbin asks, face open and curious. 

“Just… Because you deserve to hear it,” he says, suddenly interested in examining his lap. “Even if there’s times when I’m growing complacent, I can recognize it for what it is now, and I know there’s ways out of that feeling. I’d like to say I’m better. Hopefully, you think so too, and we can be friends, and I’ll never hurt you again, and if I do, I promise to give you full custody over Zero Cola.” 

It’s a serious vow, a cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die promise, and Hao hopes that Hanbin understands the severity of it all, his deep commitment towards never hurting Hanbin again.  

A pin drops. And then—

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

Hao blinks, stomach dropping. “What?” The words left Hanbin’s mouth so easily, faced no resistance. 

“I hate being your friend.”

Because he’s a broken machine, he repeats dumbly: “What?”

Hanbin releases a frustrated sigh. Massages his temples as if he’s calming a raging headache. But then he composes himself, speaks directly to the river. 

“I don’t understand why I hate being your friend, when I used to do it all the time, and I did such a good job at it back then, too.” A dry laugh unfurls deep from his throat. “But I really hate it. So much.”

His harsh biting words don’t match his face. There’s a glint hiding behind his eyes that only Hao can detect, a loose smirk ghosted over his pink lips that starts at his bottom lip and spreads to his top lip. 

And somehow, after all this time, in this moment: that’s when Hao gets it through his thick skull that he’s not alone in his complicated feelings. That Hanbin loved him all this time, even when they were supposed to be going through their mandatory “hoe phase,” as Gyuvin calls it. That he doesn’t want to be Hao’s friend in the same way that Hao doesn’t want to be his friend. 

“Well, the feeling is mutual,” Hao says, because even if they’re shit at actually communicating their delicate feelings, if there’s one thing they both know how to do, it’s to always commit to the bit. “I also hate being your friend, actually.”

“We’re on the same page, then. That’s a good place to be,” Hanbin hums. Squares his shoulders towards Hao so they’re facing each other rather than the river, leaning slow into his space. He’s careful enough to leave a miniscule amount of room between them. In case Hao wants to inch forward and close the gap, in case Hao wants to move away from him. “So, you don’t want to be my friend. What do you want, then?”

“I want…” Too many things. Hao is selfish and wants too many things from Hanbin. “I don’t want you to be a separated father to Zero Cola anymore. I want you to Venmo me with the caption ‘sex with my boyfriend’ instead of ‘sex with my ex.’ And I want you to keep stealing my Netflix password.” 

“That’s all very romantic. But I’d like it if you said the actual words,” Hanbin says, eyes daring him.

That shouldn’t be too hard, to say the words. They’re always on his tongue, and they threaten to barrel down it every single time that he’s breathing in the general vicinity of Hanbin. It’s something that Hanbin should be told all the time, the words he’ll always deserve. 

Hao’s heart bursts at the seams, and this time, he allows it to do just that. Leans in closer, until their mouths are close enough to touch, if only one of them would move a mere centimeter forward. 

“I still love you. So much. I can’t ever stop,” he admits, hot breath fanning the face parallel to him. “Believe me, I’ve tried. It didn’t work,” he adds, just to let Hanbin know that there was an attempt, even if it ended in failure.  

“Well… That’s good news,” Hanbin says. Leaning half a centimeter forward, leaving half a centimeter left. “Because I don’t want to be a deadbeat father to Zero Cola, and I want to Venmo you with the caption ‘sex with my boyfriend,’ and I want to steal your Netflix password, if you’d let me.”

Hao protests with a gawk: “You can’t force me to be the only one to say the words—”

“I love you, Hao,” Hanbin says, quiet and slow and drawn out like the river so every word sinks into Hao, voice gentle and soft and warm, always an effective method for shutting him up. It’s different, hearing those three words in this way. “I also tried to stop, for the record.” 

It takes all of his willpower to not close the distance so he can press against Hanbin’s mouth, the pathetic half a centimeter heavy between them. But he doesn’t want to make too sudden of a movement, and it feels like his mouth is still twitching from how anxious he is, so he instead opts for carefully raising his hand to rest the pad of his thumb against Hanbin’s left cheek, finding purchase there in the smooth expanse of skin. This will suffice for now.

“Wow… Okay. Wow. This is… I have too much content for my next therapy session. What the fuck. You’re my boyfriend. Again,” he rambles excitedly, and because he can’t stop, because he’s allowed to now, he continues to brush his fingers against Hanbin’s warm cheek, witnesses the pink blush blooming underneath. It’s been too long. Sue him. “So, are we together, or what? Can I update my Facebook relationship status back to married so my parents can be updated on the big news?”

Hanbin leans backward, away from him. Hao’s hand falls between them, limp. “Nah.” 

What? “What?”

“Did you think I was that easy, Hao?” His eyes are dancing.

He sputters at the accusation. Stiffens his spine. “No… No, I didn’t… I don’t think you’re easy, what the fuck is wrong with you, but—”

“You’re back to square one,” Hanbin says, effectively making him restart their relationship from first base. “You have to go through all the steps to be my boyfriend again. Take me on a first date again. Kiss me for the first time again. All of that stuff. Do it all over.”

Hao mock-sighs, but really, there’s an amalgamation of innocent nervousness and pent-up excitement brewing in his stomach at the idea that they have the chance to relive every first together. That he has to work for it. 

“Why am I the one being forced to do all the work?” 

Automatically, Hanbin fires back with, “Because I’ve already suffered enough at your hands.” 

He pushes himself off the ground until he’s standing, offers his hand to Hao. Hao takes it. Stands up. Doesn’t let it go. They should be heading home soon. Maybe have a sleepover, simply because it’s a matter of convenience. Hao’s apartment is too far from where they are. Hanbin’s apartment isn’t.

“Okay. I can’t argue with that,” he agrees, because it’s a point he absolutely cannot contend. “But technically, we started dating before we first kissed. So I think we should be officially back together. Which means I can change my Facebook relationship status.”

They did indeed take two lengthy months to kiss, even after they made their relationship official. And the kiss in itself wasn’t even particularly great. It actually kinda sucked from a technical and practical standpoint, because it was both of their first kisses, and they didn’t know how to operate on each other with their mouths—which culminated in Hao accidentally headbutting Hanbin that resulted in an ugly dent on his forehead and Hanbin chowing down on Hao’s bottom lip that resulted in drawn blood. 

And somehow, their first kiss wasn’t even half as bad as their attempts at having sex for the first time. 

Don’t ask.

Hanbin must understand Hao’s point, because he’s simultaneously nodding and wincing, presumably also thinking about their disaster of a first kiss, hand unconsciously rubbing at the spot where the forehead dent was only three years earlier. “...Fine, you’re right,” he relents, but the smile that he’s been trying to smother forms despite it all.

They walk together in the direction of Hanbin’s lavish apartment, away from the Han River that brought them together, and it all becomes official when Hanbin says: “The clock restarts now, boyfriend.”

“Happy three second anniversary, happy four second anniversary, happy five second anniversary—“

“Can we break up again?” Hanbin asks, interrupting his happy anniversary wishes. Tightly squeezing their hands together, then releasing the pressure. 

“Ooh. Breakup joke,” Hao muses, unappreciative. “Real original, boyfriend.”

Even though they’re both chain-locked to each other via hand holding, Hanbin trails suspiciously behind him, as far as he can without letting go of their intertwined fingers and pressed palms. When Hao tries to spin around, it’s too late, the heel of his sneaker popping out from his feet, because being Hanbin’s boyfriend means that the odds of getting flat tired are low but never zero.

They have a sleepover that night. It’s a perfect repeat of every sleepover that they had before they dated, even when Hanbin doesn’t have glow in the dark stars that stick to the ceiling anymore. They can pretend, at least. 

Only three days into their relationship, they have their first fight. 

Both of them haven’t broken the news to their friends that they are officially back together, even though Hao is 99.99876% sure that Matthew is suspicious of something, and maybe it’s to do with something about Hao temporarily living at their apartment due to the high volume of sleepovers him and Hanbin been having. 

And. Well. It’s to be expected when you’re back in the honeymoon phase 2.0. 

The reason for the fight is essentially this: Hao had this magnificent roleplaying idea that Hanbin refuses to take part in, even though his attendance is mandatory for the roleplay to be successful.

“You hate fun,” Hao accuses, shoveling homemade kimchi into his mouth that Hanbin’s mother made for both of them as a “happy-getting-back-together” present after Hanbin shot her a message over KakaoTalk about the big news. Apparently gifts for that occasion are a thing now. He moans in appreciation after he swallows the kimchi. “Wow. Tell your mother it’s fantastic and that I say thank you.”

“And you’re crazy,” Hanbin bites back from the sink, spraying dishwasher liquid onto a dirty plate, the ends of his sweatshirt sopping wet from doing the dishes. “Will do. She’ll appreciate it.”

“You told me that I needed to start from scratch with our relationship. I’m doing that.”

Hanbin doesn’t even offer him the dignity of having a face-to-face conversation. He stays turned towards the sink, being the domestic housewife that he is, even though he was the one that made them dinner tonight. Hao offered to clean earlier, because Hanbin cooked, and it’s the natural order of things, but Hanbin still insisted on Hao not moving an inch. Claimed that Hao already had enough work on his hands with redoing their entire relationship. 

“When I said that, I did not mean that you had to roleplay and reform our friend group.” Hao can’t see him, but he can just tell that Hanbin’s brows are creased together. “Because. We. All. Already. Know. Each. Other.”

“But that’s the point of roleplay!” Hao exclaims, muffled around the kimchi in his mouth. “When you asked me to start from square one, you were basically telling me to roleplay our firsts again, even when we’ve already had them.”

“You’re twisting my words, because that is very far from what I said,” Hanbin says. He finishes the last of the dishes, washes his hands the CDC’s recommended time of 20 seconds, and then spins on his heel to face Hao, the kitchen island a massive body between them. “They’re going to think we’re insane if we do this.”

“They already think that,” Hao refutes, because they do already think that. “Please. It’d be funny.”

Hao’s brilliant idea is to roleplay their friend group’s origin story, and then tell everybody that they’re back together. It makes perfect sense, because they’re the reasons behind their friend group existing in the first place. Hao knew Ricky who knew Gyuvin. Hanbin knew Matthew and Taerae separately, one from dance and the other through class. Hao and Hanbin were dating, so naturally, they combined forces to maximize their joint slay, forming their current friend group.  

“I didn’t expect you to take this so seriously,” Hanbin says, leaning his elbows on the kitchen island so he’s closer to Hao’s level, looking right at him. 

His smile drips sugary sweet. “Well, you should’ve expected more.”

Because Hao is a very convincing person (or maybe it’s because Hanbin would do anything for Hao), Hanbin ends up becoming converted into moving forward with the roleplay operation, even when he grumbles about how it’s a stupid idea. The next day, Hao flings his fingers across his phone’s keyboard, texting the group chat so they can commence the first stage.

TUESDAY - 12:43 PM

Hao: attention attention everyone. business meeting

Ricky: is somebody speaking?

Hao: attention attention everyone but ricky

Hao: i demand that we hang out at the student union at 5:00 pm on the dot today

Ricky: thanks so much for the advanced notice

Hao: you’re welcome!

Taerae: WHY

Hao: why r u talking in all caps

Hao: and because i said so

Matthew: Is it because you and hanbin are back together again

Hao: um no wtf what why would you say that

Matthew: Because you’ve been having sleepovers at our place for the past four nights

Hao: they’re actually platonic ex-boyfriend sleepovers. we even leave 10 centimeters between us on the bed for jesus

Gyuvin: NOOOOO WAY MATTHEW DROP THE EXPOSE THREAD

Matthew: Drafting rn

Ricky: i knew they were fucking

Hao: hanbin defend our honor

Hanbin: What honor?

Hao: HANBIN

Hao: matthew you are an opp. i’d like you to know. 

Matthew: Thanks!

Hao: that was not a compliment!!!!!

Hao: anyways you guys should all still come

Gyuvin: you guys should all still whattttt??????

Ricky: cum

Hao: i hate you two

Hanbin: Yeah you guys should all come

Gyuvin: okay!!!

Ricky: sure

Taerae: IM DOWN

Matthew: Sounds good

Hanbin: Cool! See you guys then

Hao: i’m going to become the joker

Well. Hao considers aborting the mission when the first stage becomes an utter failure. But he doesn’t. Not yet. 

He arrives early to the student union; at this time of day, it’s not overflowing with students, the sun starting to sink. Hanbin walks up to the table he secured towards the back a few minutes later, holding two iced americanos against his body, which will undoubtedly keep them up past their bedtimes, but they haven’t been getting much sleep during their sleepovers anyways. Not for nefarious, sexual reasons. They haven’t even reached first base in their relationship yet. It’s all been super innocent.  

In lieu of a greeting, Hanbin asks, “So, are you still planning to roleplay, even when they called you out?” He sits down next to Hao and offers the iced americano, who takes it, immediately latching his lips around the straw. 

Hao nods eagerly. “Yes. I never give up,” he says. “You better not give up, either.”

His boyfriend doesn’t respond. Simply looks past Hao, waving his hand in the air towards somebody. The somebody in question turns out to be Matthew and Taerae, who walk over in tandem. Ricky and Gyuvin don’t arrive until it’s 5:02 pm, and they make their way over to the table, strawberry milkshakes clutched in their hands. Hao wonders when he last saw the two of them actually drinking water, but he can’t talk any shit, because he also doesn’t remember the last time he himself drank the good old H20. 

There’s small talk all around, because the last time they gathered was on Friday, the night of the cursed game night that somehow kickstarted the whole getting-back-together process. Apparently the only thing they missed in each other’s lives and needed to be updated on (aside from Haobin becoming boyfriends yet again, but that’ll be for later) was Gyuvin revisiting home over the weekend to see Eumppappa (he had many cute pictures to display to the table) and Matthew’s ex-hookup responding back to his Venmo from the game last Friday, when Matthew was dared to Venmo his ex-hookup with the caption “Thinking about you.” Apparently, the ex-hookup responded by sending the money back to Matthew, with the caption “I’m blocking you.” 

When the small talk begins to slow down, every eye at the table flits towards Hao, waiting expectant.

Hao blinks a few times. “What?” 

“You called for a business meeting?” Taerae asks, lips pursed.

“Oh, right.” He nods. It’s time to roleplay. Although this isn’t his usual personality, the one that everybody is used to by now, he plasters a fake, charismatic smile on his face, opens his mouth wide to show his perfect white teeth. The same way that he did the day they all met each other. 

“Ricky and Gyuvin, this is my boyfriend, Hanbin,” he introduces, gesturing towards his boyfriend, Hanbin. “And these are his two friends, Taerae and Matthew.” He outreaches his hand to point towards the two of them, who sit on the opposite side of the table, brushing shoulders. 

Hanbin looks like he’s in physical pain. Like he’s being held at gunpoint by Hao to partake in this roleplay. Despite this, he opens his mouth, robotically reciting the rehearsed words. Hao is going to have a few words with him later about breaking character. But not now. “Nice to meet you guys. I’ve heard too much about you.” 

The whole table sits in a suffocating awkward silence. Then Ricky breaks it, like always.

“What the fuck?” 

Hao pointedly ignores him, because you will never catch him breaking character. “We think it would be fun to hang out sometimes with all of us, since most of us aren’t from Seoul,” he suggests, the smile growing a centimeter wider on his face. “Maybe make a group chat or something.” 

Ricky turns towards Gyuvin. “Has he lost his mind officially this time?” he asks seriously, talking about Hao as if they’re not sitting at the same table.

“No clue.” Gyuvin’s eyes bulge out, flip rapidly from Hao hyung to Hanbin hyung to Hao hyung, like he’s trying to decipher what the hell is going on. 

“I think he has,” Taerae pipes in to offer his perspective. “But Hanbin has too, shockingly.”

“I would’ve never expected that from him,” Gyuvin adds. “Hao, definitely.”

And then Matthew finally joins in the very confused uproar to offer some insider detail. “Don’t worry, they’re just being weird and roleplaying the time that they brought the friend group together.”

“Why would we do that?” Hao asks, still in his sickly sweet persona. “Don’t break character,” he whispers under his breath to Hanbin as a reminder, who swats him away. 

Matthew ignores Hao’s question and general existence, angles his shoulders towards the rest of the table as he leans forward, like he’s telling them a huge secret. “I heard them yesterday when I was in my room, scheming about roleplaying our first meeting. The walls are very thin.”

“You were at the apartment?” Hao’s jaw drops, and then it clicks shut. “I thought you told me he wasn’t home.” He directs the latter half of his statement towards Hanbin, who, indeed, did tell Hao that Matthew wasn’t home. Filthy liar. 

Hanbin hums with consideration, not seeming very bothered by anything that’s happening at all. “I thought so, too.”

Ricky regards Matthew with sympathy, lips jutting out into a condoling pout. “Did you have to hear them fuck? I’m so sorry for your loss, Matthew.”

“Don’t worry Rik, I was spared this time,” Matthew reassures him, placing his hand on top of Ricky’s. “But I did have to bear witness to their really weird flirting.”

“Still, how tragic,” Ricky remarks.

Gyuvin hasn’t rid of that crazed look glazing over his eyes, the large pupils jumping between Hao hyung to Hanbin hyung to Hao hyung to Hanbin hyung. 

His mouth opens. Then shuts. Then opens back up again, dumbly. “Wait. Matthew wasn’t joking about the expose thread. Are you guys really back together?" he asks, with so much hope bleeding in his voice. "Don’t play with me. I’m sensitive.”

Hanbin is the first to break character, because he’s too soft for Gyuvin, who genuinely looks like he’ll implode if they tell him that they aren’t back together. He ruffles the younger’s silky brown hair, smooth and not aggressive, petting him like he’s a puppy. 

His face is gentle, soft when he regards Gyuvin, which shouldn’t have that much of an effect on Hao, but he knew Gyuvin first, and observing them get closer and closer as every year passed makes him feel an indescribable way, and his stupid brain unhelpfully supplies the theoretical idea that Hanbin would be really good with their children, when they have them.

Which. Gyuvin isn’t a child. But he’s close enough. 

“We’re back together,” Hanbin confirms, hand still running through each strand on Gyuvin’s head. 

Rickly blinks. “You couldn’t have just. Texted us or something? Like normal people? And we would’ve reacted with like. The iOS message reactions?”

“If we did that, you all would’ve probably used the thumbs down message reaction,” Hao points out, the first to find the flaw in Ricky’s alternative method for breaking the big news. “And not believe us.”

Ricky has the decency to look sheepish, scratching the back of his neck with his too-long fingernails that are painted a pretty pink. His mouth forms a thin smile. “Yeah. You got me there.”

They don’t tell them everything that happened and what lead them to get back together; that’s only for them to know (and somehow their parents, because they both had to spend seven hours total over Facetime the day after they got back together relaying every painstaking detail that lead to them rekindling their romantic relationship, like some type of weird press conference). They instead tell everyone the SparkNotes version, answering a question here and there. The commotion finally settles, and some type of natural order restores with Hao and Hanbin back together, everything in its right place.

When their business meeting has disbanded, and everybody is about to leave to go home with lighter hearts than before, Ricky trails over to Hao, pulling at the sleeve of his long black shirt.  

“I’m glad you two are back together,” Ricky whispers, so quiet that only Hao can hear it. His arms snake around Hao’s shoulder, rubbing at the shoulder blades. “You look really happy.”

His heart squeezes. His arms snake around Ricky’s waist. National pride and all of that stuff. “I’m getting goosebumps because you’re being nice to me.”

Ricky pulls away. “Okay, then. I hate that you two are back together,” he says easily, a scowl stitched on his face that does not look threatening. Instead, it looks really cute. But Hao would never be caught dead saying that to him. “You look upset.”

“That’s much better.” Hao nods. But then his arms are finding Ricky again, holding him tight to his chest. Right in his ear, hoping it can convey everything that he doesn’t have the strength to say out loud: “Thank you, Ricky.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ricky waves his hand around dismissively at Hao’s words, but really, there’s a pleased  grin playing on his lips. He’s more transparent than he leads on. “Thank you for ending all of our suffering. Especially Gyuvin’s.”

Hao pulls away. Talks to Ricky some more about random things.

From the corner of his eyes, he spots Hanbin silently watching him, arm crossed over his body. 

Hao thinks that it might be the same way that Hao looks at Hanbin when he sees Hanbin and Gyuvin interact. That intense gaze full of everything. 

Hao has an issue. His own boyfriend keeps swerving him when he attempts to kiss him.

It’s been close to around three weeks since they’ve gotten back together. The daily sleepovers aren’t feasible anymore, so they’ve since stopped having them. It happened around the first week of their relationship: half because both of them are university students who are forced to endure a packed school schedule, half because Matthew barged in one day and threatened Hao, saying that he had to start pulling his weight in the household and paying rent if he kept finding home in Hanbin’s bed. Thus, Matthew effectively ended their codependency, which might have been a blessing in disguise. 

Even though they still have sleepovers on the weekends, they have to be more intentional with finding time to spend together. Which isn’t difficult by any means. They’ve practiced that art long ago in their previous relationship. 

The issue starts then, right after the sleepovers. After Matthew banned him from spending the night at their apartment, he started to reach the point where he thought he’d go insane if he didn’t get to kiss Hanbin in the next three business days. The warmth would pool in his stomach and have nowhere to go, his mouth would continuously twitch as if he was being possessed and the only person to exorcise him could be Hanbin, and his heart would pound on the door of his chest every time that they merely locked eyes with each other. 

And then, what he creatively calls “The Swerving,” started to occur. 

Here are three incidents of “The Swerving,” recorded to the best of Hao’s knowledge:

1. One day, they were playing with Zero Cola together in Hao’s apartment (who Hao was not neglecting to take care of, by the way, the sleepovers did not affect his parental regiment. That’s none of your business). It started when Hanbin randomly threw one of Zero Cola’s plush mouse toys right at Hao’s face, who then proceeded to challenge him to a play-wrestling match. Their laughter infected the apartment, and they kept swatting at each other’s bodies: not enough to hurt, just enough to win the fight. Hao doesn’t remember who stopped laughing, but suddenly, before he knew it, he was chest to chest with Hanbin, hovering over him. Hanbin’s mouth started to part. One centimeter, two centimeters, until Hao could see his pink tongue resting inside his mouth, the same mouth that felt like it was talking to him, daring to be kissed. So he inched downward. Face to face, hot breaths mingling. Half a centimeter left until their lips touched. Hao closed his eyes. But then his lips weren’t met with another pair of lips. His eyes flew open, and he was met with Hanbin’s left cheek, lips brushing over one of his moles. Hanbin laughed for approximately fourteen minutes. Hao didn’t find the ordeal all that funny, personally.
2. Hao decided to revise his kissing approach. Maybe the slow pained anticipation was working against him. This time, he planned to swoop towards his destination and catch Hanbin in a sneak attack. Hanbin was doing the dishes yet again after a night where he cooked what felt like a four-course meal to Hao. His eyebrows were knit together in concentration, staring bullets at the dirty frying pan that still had a stubborn piece of food stuck to it despite Hanbin scrubbing it hard multiple times with the sponge. It was all the right signs that Hanbin didn’t have his guard up, that Hao wouldn’t be swerved yet again. So he came from behind him, front side pressed to back side, hooking his chin onto Hanbin’s shoulder so he could scope out the best access for kissing him via sneak attack. Hanbin hit him with his hip, complained that Hao was distracting him from his housewife duties. So Hao went for it, quickly. It shouldn’t have been met with opposition. Defined by the laws of physics, it wasn’t possible for Hanbin to dodge that fast of a kiss. But somehow, he did, and Hao was left kissing the air. The worst of it all was when Hanbin turned to him, the right side of his stupid lips lifted upwards into a half-smirk. Your breath smells bad, he said, offhanded. Then he spun back on his heel to finish dishwashing duty.  
3. Slow didn’t work. Fast definitely didn’t work, and honestly left Hao feeling more humiliated than the slow approach. He thought about trying to take elements of the first time they kissed and apply it to this situation, but… as already covered, that was something that should never be repeated. His last resort? To simply ask. So he did just that, as they ate together at the street food vendors across from Hanbin’s apartment. When they were done with their meal, walking off their bloated stomachs through the Seoul streets, Hao decided that he wasn’t going to be a free thinker and was instead going to be like any other couple in Seoul who excessively engaged in PDA. He stopped in his tracks, chin lifting up to lock eyes with the target. Can I kiss you? he asked under the lamppost that was beginning to sputter in the dark. Hanbin hummed. Considered the proposal in the beat of silence. Hao waited and waited and waited. No, he eventually decided, but then he paradoxically reached for Hao’s hand and held it tight between his two palms, bringing him closer. For some reason, that was by far the worst incident of “The Swerving.” The suave rejection. 

So. Hao is discouraged. He doesn’t think he’ll ever kiss Hanbin at his rate. He even asked Jiwoong for advice during one of their sessions, who only said that he could not give advice about something of that nature and that it went beyond the scope of his expertise.

(“Please, Jiwoong? From one gay person to another. Let’s pretend that there’s no professional boundaries between us right now.”

“This is not a matter of being gay or not. You two are just… a very odd couple, to be quite honest with you.”)

There’s no explanation for it all. Hanbin is evil. When Hao said that he liked edging, he didn’t mean it in this way.

He plans to give up. Accept his fate. Sometimes Hanbin looks at him in that insanely charged way, lips falling open just the slightest, teeth tugging on the bottom lip, and it makes Hao want to press his head into the closest inanimate object and scream into it. But Hao vows to not fall for Hanbin’s temptation, because he will not be a victim to another incident of “The Swerving.” It keeps him up late at night, dreams of wanting and wanting and wanting. 

So, he stops trying. Until he doesn’t. 

They’re at Hao’s apartment during some day lodged between Monday and Friday, around mid-afternoon. If they have a choice between two apartments, they usually decide to spend it at Habin’s apartment, mainly because it has a more central location and it’s objectively a nicer place to be. But on occasion, they make a grand expedition to Hao’s apartment when they want to feel adventurous.

The two of them aren’t doing anything crazy by any means. Hao isn’t even thinking of kissing Hanbin. He’s scrolling through TikTok like he always does, brandishing the screen to Hanbin whenever he witnesses a TikTok that he thinks he might enjoy. Such as a video of a Shiba Inu being given a bath, a sexy edit of NCT 127, and somebody recording a dance party at some gay bar in the United States. His “For You” page is quite simple but curated to his tastes. 

As he mindlessly scrolls, Hanbin absentmindedly massages his scalp from next to him, twirls the red hair strands with his fingers, and if he continues with this, he might put Hao to sleep.   

When he can’t find any video that captures his attention (because he’s secretly an iPad kid at heart), he clicks his phone off so his lockscreen of Zero Cola is staring back at him. Averts his eyes towards Hanbin, who’s still brushing his hands through Hao’s full head of hair. 

He’s already gazing right at Hao, not even looking embarrassed for being caught. Which is fine. He doesn’t have to be embarrassed. They’re boyfriends now, and boyfriends don’t conceal their attraction towards each other. 

Hanbin isn’t even doing anything special. He’s not staring at him in any particular way, not charged or daring. He’s not parting his lips, he’s not biting his lips seductively. In fact, his lips actually look really chapped from this angle, so Hao shouldn’t want to kiss him. 

Maybe it’s because he’s had to endure “The Swerving” for this painfully long period of time. Maybe it’s because he’s reverting to his basic survival instinct when he’s in the same room as Hanbin. 

Whatever it is, he can’t stop himself from begging, chest aching in want, in need. He drops his phone onto the cheap Facebook Marketplace couch, moves his face a few inches forward. Thinking that maybe if he combines the slow approach with the asking for permission approach, he might be successful, and his boyfriend might allow him to slot his mouth with his. 

“Hanbin. Let me kiss you, please.”

Hanbin laughs. It sounds a bit evil, in his opinion. His hand is still running through his hair, with the same delicate press and painstaking slowness. “Only if you tell me how bad you want it.”

“Hanbin,” he whines.

It doesn’t faze Hanbin. How breathless he is. “Tell me how bad you want it.”

Hao glares at him, but it quickly melts away, because he’s focused on other things right now. 

“I don’t want it. I need it.” If he was in the right state of mind, he would feel pathetic at how his voice gradually transforms into something akin to a whine. But, again. He’s focused on other things right now. Like how Hanbin’s pink mouth waits for him.

“Kiss me, then,” Hanbin says, inviting. 

Hao smiles back at him, sugary sweet. “Don’t swerve me, then,” he says, and he realizes that he has two perfectly working hands, so he takes one of them and presses his thumb and pointer finger against Hanbin’s cheeks so he’s holding his face. Hao wouldn’t say it’s a tender hold. He’d say it’s a warning. 

Hanbin drops his hand from Hao’s head, finds Hao’s hot neck. He places the other hand on Hao’s full cheek, caressing it. 

Moves a centimeter forward. One centimeter left. 

“I was playing hard to get.”

“Well, it worked,” Hao says, licking his lips. It’s so goddamn hot in this room. He’s dizzy and he might pass out. The fire in his belly might engulf him. 

Moves a centimeter forward. Half a centimeter left. 

“Will you swerve me this time?” Hao asks. 

“Not if I think you deserve it.”

“Do I? Deserve it?”

Hanbin’s eyes flit down to his lips, back up to his eyes. The thumb from the hand on Hao’s cheek dances over Hao’s lips, and the force behind the press isn’t strong. It’s incredibly weak. Hao might black out from how the room is suffocating him, the walls about to collapse. Is his heater on the highest setting? 

Hanbin moves forward. One quarter of a centimeter, one fifth of a centimeter, one sixth of a centimeter, one seventh of a centimeter, one eighth of a centimeter—

“You deserve everything.”

True to his words, Hanbin gives him everything. Gives him that closing of one eighth of a centimeter until there’s nothing, gives him more, and then they’re kissing. 

Hanbin’s lips are still dry. Hao doesn’t care if they are, because they’re kissing. 

It’s still insanely hot, leaves him wondering if he’s going to get heat stroke in October. Hao doesn’t care if it’s his heater cranked high or if it’s the Hanbin effect, because they’re kissing.

Hanbin still goes straight for the bottom lip, just like he used to. Which makes them a good match, because Hao still goes straight for the top lip, just like he used to. If Hao had any doubts about them getting back together at this point, then they’d be effectively quelled.

It’s unfair that Hanbin is somehow all things at once: slow but fast and gentle but rough and calculated but messy and quiet but loud. Sucks on his bottom lip until Hao is unconsciously parting the way, asks for permission by inching his tongue the tiniest bit inside until Hao opens wider. Licks into his mouth and touches his tongue. Makes these small sighs and groans when Hao does something that he likes, and Hao swallows them whole, gives them back to Hanbin.

Hao wonders if a human can ever forget a mouth that it kissed. Certainly not Hanbin’s. He could never forget that. 

Hao doesn’t know how long it happens. His brain is too fuzzy, carries too many things. Hanbin empties it for him. His brain. Lets Hao grow pliant in his grip, his grip that flies from his thin waist to his sculpted shoulder blades to his sharp jawline, like there’s too many places that he wants to touch and he can’t figure out which place he should dedicate his time towards touching. And that’s okay. Hao wants Hanbin to touch him everywhere. Wherever he wants.

When they pull away, faces blotched, Hanbin makes a tiny noise of protest in the back of his throat that drives Hao only a little bit insane. Or he’s lying to himself. It makes him insane, even more than usual, if that's possible. Presses their foreheads together, and Hao can feel that Hanbin felt the heat too. Hao thinks that Hanbin always deserves to be kissed, always deserves to have a mouth pressed to his, if he wants it.  

Hao stares up at the ceiling of his apartment, and he sees stars, just like the glow in the dark ones, but much, much better. His breath feels like it’s something happening far away from him, the heavy and quick inhale and exhale making him spin. 

“You were so mean for this,” Hao says, voice wobbly and still in recovery mode. He curls his body to press against Hanbin’s firm chest, and Hanbin hooks his chin over Hao’s head, arms enveloping him. He doesn’t know where they start and begin. Or if they’re just one. “I thought ‘The Swerving’ would never end.”

There’s a lazy grin that gradually finds its way to Hanbin’s mouth, until it grows bigger and bigger. Or, Hao doesn’t know that. Not really. He can’t see Hanbin. But he can sense it, imagine it. It’s really hot, when he acts like this. “You had a name for it?” 

It’s not hot anymore. It’s warm. Hao nods against his chest, flush heavy on his face and neck.

Which only spurs Hanbin to lift the chin that rests over Hao’s head, all for the end-goal of kissing him again and again and again, right on his forehead. 

“Fuck, you’re really cute,” Hanbin sighs, like he’s saying it more for his own sake than for the purpose of Hao hearing it, and then he’s holding him tighter, like he’s going to leave again, even though Hao would never dream of it. “I’m sorry for being mean. I’ll make it up to you.”

Hao believes him. Hanbin never lies.  

Thus, “The Swerving” ends its reign of terror on Hao’s life.

Just like before: they had been going on many first dates that they never called first date, until they had their official first date. Their second first date is similar. They’d been going on mini-adventures like always going to the same street food vendors across Hanbin’s apartment or going to a karaoke bar as just the two of them or going for countless walks on the Seoul streets that know them too well or going to the movie theaters when there’s a decent enough film coming out. But they never called it a date. 

Until Hao breaks into Hanbin’s apartment in typical Hao fashion, right after getting into a glaring contest with the bitchy receptionist (she definitely knows they’re back together, and she is not happy about it). Hao completes his knock pattern that he does every time to announce that he is the force behind the door, to which Matthew answers. Hanbin stares at him from the couch, swaddled in a white hoodie, black glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Looking insanely domestic. Insanely kissable. That’s something he can do now. 

It takes everything in Hao not to attack Hanbin on the couch, but—

“Did you forget about our date?” Hao asks. They never planned a date. 

Hanbin blinks. “What da—”

“So you did forget,” Hao chides, walking over to the couch and having to resist every particle screaming in his body to join him on the couch and wrap his arms around his warm body and steal a few kisses to the disgust of Matthew and drift off into sleep and then do it all over again when they wake up. He pulls Hanbin off the coach and prepares to drag him out the door of the apartment. 

Matthew stares blankly at them from the kitchen. Probably questioning their sanity.

When they make it out of Hanbin’s apartment, Hao walks with a purpose through the crowds on the street. He hauls Hanbin’s body from behind, who follows him and looks increasingly confused by the minute. He’s not dressed for being in public. Hao still thinks he looks pretty damn good, though.

When they make it to their destination, Hao stops in his tracks, stares up at the sign. Then back to Hanbin, who looks disoriented. 

“An arcade?” Hanbin asks with an open mouth, the neon lights dancing on his face. 

Hao smiles, a loose thing. “I wanted the plushie. And you like a challenge.”

“I do.” Hanbin smiles back; it unfurls like a spool. 

Together, they spend 18,000 won trying to get the plushie, a tiny white dog with a light blush painting its cheeks, high arched brows, and a squiggly-lined smile. After an hour, they finally acquire it. 

They get ice cream in celebration, everything like clockwork. Hanbin still remembers to get the extra cup for Hao. Not many things change.  

Hao sleeps with the tiny white dog every night from that day on. Zero Cola might be slightly jealous.

“The Swerving” thankfully never bleeds into any other aspect of their relationship. The aspect in question being sex. But it’s also because Hao isn’t really trying, not like he was trying with their second first kiss. It’s mainly because they haven’t found the right time, the right circumstances. 

The two reasons that they haven’t ventured into sex territory are as follows: 

1. After Matthew exposed them in front of their entire friend group during the whole roleplay-gate incident, Hanbin has strictly forbid them from doing anything that’s not PG-13 in his apartment. He knows how loud Hao can get in those situations. Historically speaking.
2. Hao has also strictly forbid them from having sex at his apartment, because even if he doesn’t have roommates, they do have a child to consider: the child in question being Zero Cola. He would never want to scar her from witnessing them have sex, even if she might not have the cognitive abilities to know that they’re having sex. It just feels wrong on every moral plane. They are not having sex in front of their cat. No matter how much he wants to have sex with Hanbin. 

Which means they've both been in their celibate era. 

Even though Hao has been the one tasked to redo all of their firsts, he can tell that Hanbin has grown more and more frustrated that they can’t find that release. It’s in the way that he tries to instigate things further, and then Hao has to gently remind him that Zero Cola is probably listening from the other room. Or when they’re in Hanbin’s apartment, and Hanbin claims that he can just cover Hao’s mouth the entire time, so Matthew doesn’t need to know a single thing. 

Which brings them to where they are now: on a Thursday night, taking a long walk after having dinner and drinking too much soju than anticipated. Hanbin is holding his hand, thumb smoothing circles on his skin, and Hao’s head endures a rush of stupid buzzing that makes him feel dizzy and warm and content, and he doesn’t know if that’s because of the alcohol or Hanbin. Maybe a combination of both. Things can coexist.

Hanbin regards him from the corner of his eye. The thumb rubs another small circle on his hand. The grip on his hand holds tighter. They’re not particularly talking about anything. Contrary to popular belief, they’re not always bullying each other. Sometimes, they know how to sit in silence. 

Until Hanbin breaks it: “Wanna go to Jeju this weekend?” 

“What about Zero Cola?” His voice feels light, floaty. The soju burns in his stomach, swoops downward. 

Hanbin shrugs. “Matthew can cat-sit her.” 

“I don’t trust him,” Hao says, which is nothing personal. He doesn’t trust anybody to take care of Zero Cola. Only Hanbin.  

“You can give him the same monologue you give everyone,” Hanbin says. “Let’s go to Jeju. Unwind a bit.” There’s an undertone there. Hao blinks, tries to gauge what the exact undertone is, because he always knows when Hanbin has an hidden motive. And then he figures it out.

“You just wanna have sex,” Hao says, lips jutting into a pout. “You just care about me for my body.”

Hanbin laughs; Hao wants to swallow it whole, let the sound vibrate into every corner of his mouth. But they’re in public. And Hao has enough decorum to not engage in PDA like all the other Seoul couples do. Like the ones approximately five feet away from them, to the right, shoving their tongues into each other. Hao looks away from them, even though he’s sort of fascinated by the way they eat each other’s faces. 

A hum. “I do,” Hanbin agrees, swinging their hands higher, higher, higher. 

Hao agrees to go to Jeju with Hanbin. He was never not going to agree.  

If Hanbin only cares about him for his body, then he only cares about Hanbin for his body, too.

Friday - 9:07 AM

Gyuvin: 8 PM. my place. tonight. be there or be square. lots of alcohol. good vibes. maybe even tan lines.

Hao: im square

Gyuvin: W HA T

Hanbin: Im square as well

Ricky: are you two fucking yet again

Hanbin: Actually yes we are

Ricky: oh

Matthew: At our apartment?

Matthew: Please no

Hanbin: Not there in Jeju

Taerae: WHAT

Ricky: you guys are fr going to jeju just to fuck

Hanbin: Maybe

Hao: im leaving

Ricky: they always come and go!

Gyuvin: they always WHATTTTTTT?

Hao: get bent

Ricky: get fucked

Ricky: oh wait…

They do go to Jeju just to fuck, to nobody’s surprise. 

But Hao didn’t realize how much Hanbin had planned this supposedly impromptu trip. He finds out the extent of this planning when they check into their hotel and his boyfriend claims to the receptionist that he has a booking under the name “Sung Hanbin.” He finds out again when Hanbin takes him to a special cafe that rescues cats and ducks and also has a tangerine farm outside. The one that Hao distinctly remembers that you need a reservation for in order to even enter the cafe. He would know. Historically speaking.

(“You planned all of this?” Hao asks, a tilted head. “You’re stealing my thunder.”

Hanbin fixes him with a gradual upward turning of lips. “I did. Take it as revenge for taking me by surprise during our second first date.”)

They do go to Jeju just to fuck, but it’s different than the other times. 

It starts with hesitant touches, light brushes, unspoken questions of “Do you like this still?” engraved into skin. Starts with that paradoxical balance of feeling vulnerable and awkward and shy but also feeling secure and familiar and and expectant. Relearning bodies. 

It ends with firm touches, confident hands, words that aren’t unspoken but rather spoken, because Hanbin always wants to know what Hao is feeling, thinking. If he likes it. What he wants. And Hao likes telling him. Also wants to redirect the same questions to Hanbin. Ends with coming undone and seeing stars on the ceiling once again and lazily drawing shapes on skin. Learned bodies. 

The room is hot and heavy. “That was much better than our attempts at a first time,” Hanbin remarks, when they finally regain the ability to formulate thought.  

They’re too lazy to clean right now. They might be too lazy forever. Hanbin draws a triangle on Hao’s nape, averts his stare from the ceiling with the imaginary stars towards Hao, who’s flopped on his stomach, craning his neck to the voice. 

A beat of silence. Because even if Hanbin has regained the ability to formulate thought, that doesn’t mean Hao has regained that ability. Yet. “Yeah, whose fault was that?”

“Yours, when you gave me a bloody nose during sex and shat all over my di—”

Hao’s fuzzy brain is too light to even care about that embarrassing experience. It’s been emptied out by Hanbin. He lazily lifts his hand to flick at Hanbin’s forehead, but it’s a pathetic attempt, the flick far too light and forgiving. “Don’t forget that you also couldn’t fit it in me when we were trying.”

“Is that an insult?” Hanbin asks. “I don’t think that’s an insult.”

“It is! You didn’t properly prep me!” Hao squawks, lifting his tired sex-addled body to hover above Hanbin, still on his back. Except he’s not really hovering, because his arms are out of commission. Chests pressed flush together. Sticky skin to sticky skin. It should be gross, but it's not. Not to Hao, not to Hanbin. “That’s on you. Not me.” 

They argue like that for a while. Then they go for round two. Naturally. See even more stars. Maybe even constellations. 

Some short notes on Hao and Hanbin’s relationship. Or, what is their relationship. With footnotes involved.

They’ve known each other for eight years. They dated for three of those eight years.

They broke up this April, when the cherry blossoms were starting to bloom, a few weeks after their three-year anniversary. They got back together this October, when the leaves were starting to transform into bouquets of orange-red-yellow.

They told their parents that they got back together almost immediately: Hanbin through a short KakaoTalk message which resulted in a three hour Facetime call with both of his parents, Hao through changing his Facebook relationship status which resulted in an even longer Facetime call with both of his parents. Hanbin’s parents love Hao more than they love Hanbin, and Hao’s parents love Hanbin more than they love Hao, but that was something that they already knew even during their first relationship.¹

The couple rings that they first bought two years into their relationship were absent from their fingers during their breakup, but now, they sit snug on each of their fingers, both looped around their respective ring fingers. ²

They had their second first kiss on Hao’s dirt-cheap Facebook Marketplace futon. They had their second first official date at an arcade in the middle of Seoul, where they spent 18,000 won to get a tiny little white dog that has since become their second child, right behind Zero Cola. They had sex for the second first time on a 4-star Jeju hotel bed in room 682.

They have plans to go to Hanbin’s hometown soon, during a long weekend. It’s a more difficult thing with Hao’s parents, but they’re hoping to save up enough money so they can book plane tickets to visit China during the coming Lunar New Year.

They haven’t graduated yet, but they will soon. Hao is in his last year, but he’s considering a master’s degree in geology or studying for the test that will eventually allow him to teach music.³ Hanbin is in his second to last year, but he has time to figure out what’s next for him.

They regularly fight about what they’ll name their daughters.⁴ Three daughters to be exact, because that’s what Hanbin wants and has been dreaming of for years, which means that Hao wants it too.⁵ They also regularly fight about where they’ll go after graduation, whether they’d stay in Seoul or migrate somewhere else. That one is a more serious fight, has a lot more gravity than the fights about their potential daughters and given names, but they always find their way to each other in the end.

They sometimes talk about where they’d want to get married. They don’t want to get married in South Korea. They both want a destination wedding. Hao is an active supporter of a wedding in Finland, but Hanbin thinks that Paris would be better. So they fight about that too. But really, either place would suffice, as long as they’re married by the time they leave.⁶

They never break up again. One time was enough for both of them, enough for a thousand lifetimes, enough for the alternate universe versions of them.

Hao has some relationship crises throughout his life. Hanbin also starts to have his fair share, albeit in a different way.

They always find their way out of them. Because they’re them.

1. Hao calls Hanbin’s parents “mother” and “father,” like he’s related to them. Hanbin also calls Hao’s parents “mother” and “father,” like he’s related to them. return to text

2. When they were broken up, Hao kept his couple ring in a jewelry box tucked safely in a drawer. Hanbin kept his in the original box the rings came in, which is on top of his bathroom counter tucked into a corner. return to text

3. Hao feels like he needs to get a master’s degree in geology because it would be more practical, but Hanbin has been trying his hardest to dissuade him from that path so he can follow his passion in music. return to text

4. Most of this fight revolves around Hao wanting to name one of their daughters, an actual human being, Zero Cola. Hanbin would do anything for Hao, but he is vehemently against this idea. return to text

5. Hanbin has a running list in his Notes app of potential girl names that regularly gets updated. It’s endearing, Hao thinks. return to text

6. When the time for the wedding comes, Paris wins. They have their honeymoon in Finland. It’s a compromise. return to text