Archive of Our Own

Humans are so fragile —   

—  is the first thought that comes to mind as Zhang Hao’s head gets slammed against the side of the building.

He feels the rough brick wall scrape against his cheek, feels something warm trickle down his nose, and wonders briefly at how the average human walks around every day with the knowledge that their bodies can break at any given moment.

When he dodges the next swing and grabs the man’s arm, he makes sure to do so without bruising any bones.

The man, wrenching around in Hao’s grip, opens his jaw to let out a screech so blood-curdling, it could only come from a creature of hell.

Hao cuts it short by using his other hand to press his thumb to the man’s temple.

A white light emerges from the tip of his finger, passes through his skin, and spreads in ever-widening ripples, purifying him from within.

In seconds, it swallows up the sound and the demon inside making it.

Hao watches as the man’s pupils shrink, its inky blackness retreating to return his eyes to their normal size and color. When he feels his muscles start to slacken, Hao releases his hold on the man — lets him slide down and slump against the wall, dazed and groaning, before lightly stepping away.

It’s been said that for humans, the after-effects of demonic possession resemble that of a particularly bad concussion. They’ll be dazed for a few days, periodically nauseous, have problems with their memory, and so on. The weaker the demon, the weaker the symptoms.

But that only applies to demons of a certain threshold.

Meaning, if this demon’s strength had been anything close to the one that Hao had been sent down to catch, there would be no surviving the exorcism. Humans are already far too squishy — everything inside being held together in a delicate balance of organs and synapses. They’d be crushed instantly by the strain.  

Luckily, this one will be fine.

Hao wipes the blood on his mouth with his sleeve, leaving it stained a shimmering, bright gold.

He rolls his shoulders, stretches his wings, shakes out some of the stiffness it held from being folded away while he’d stalked this demon all afternoon.

Unfortunate how it ended up being the wrong one too. But at least they were able to narrow down their search. With half a legion being deployed to this city alone, it wouldn’t be long before their target was caught.

No need for him to work overtime, in that case.    

As soon as Hao thinks about going home, exhaustion creeps in on cue.  

He turns around and takes up the stance to fly back to heaven — his mind already back in the clouds, but his body, strangely, remains rooted to the ground. It takes him a while to notice that he isn’t in the air yet, that some part of his subconscious seems to be waiting for something, responding to some kind of hunch.  

That’s when Hao hears it.  

The sound of hurried footsteps echoing from the other side of the empty street, followed by a figure coming closer, blurred by the dark.

Then, just as they pass under a streetlamp, their features flash into view.

Right away, Hao sees that it’s another human. A university student, judging by his school jacket, but something about the expressiveness of his face, his eyes all wide and shining with open concern, makes him look younger somehow.

Something that might also have to do with the shape of his soul.

Hao has never seen a soul so pretty before — on earth or in heaven. 

The student slows down a few paces away and calls out, brows furrowed.

“Are you alright?”

Hao is still too busy staring to respond, but he opens his mouth reflexively, thinking, for a moment, that the concern was for him.

It’s only when the student steps past him and crouches down to the man on the ground that Hao remembers he can’t be seen. 

“The weather may be warmer now, but it still gets very cold at night, ahjussi. You can’t sleep here. Can I help you home?”

His voice is gentle, but firm, and Hao guesses that this may not be the first time he’s peeled drunk salary workers off the streets before, the man on the ground appearing to be just another person passed-out from one too many bottles of soju.

When the student moves to place a hand on his shoulder, the man lets out a pained groan and curls his body inwards, clutching his head tight.

His hand stops, but the determination on his face doesn’t waver.

“My name is Sung Hanbin,” he says, articulating his words carefully. “I’m a fourth-year student at the college nearby. If it’s alright, I’d like to walk you to the closest convenience store, where we can call someone to come pick you up.”

The furrow in Hanbin’s brow deepens slightly as he adds on second thought: “Or, if you’re not feeling well, we could go to the hospital instead.”

The man jerks forward to snatch Hanbin’s wrist, and Hao feels his fingers twitch in response, one beat away from throwing him off with a single swipe.

“No… no hospital,” the man says, words strained in effort.

After a brief pause, Hanbin nods in agreement.

“No hospital.”   

He maneuvers the man’s arm so that it’s slung around his shoulder and lifts him to his feet, supporting all of the man’s weight with ease. They begin to walk in a slow, four-legged shuffle to the direction of the convenience store, accompanied by the steady stream of Hanbin’s friendly chatter.

It’s how Hao learns that Sung Hanbin is a dance major. That he had been walking back after a late-night rehearsal just before this. That he’s from Cheonan, but his mother runs a café in Pyeongtaek, so he sometimes goes down for the weekend to help out at her store. That he’s been learning to make coffee recently and expects to get his barista license soon, which is exciting, and — Do you live in the area, ahjussi? If you drop by our café, I’ll be sure to treat you to a drink.

Hao doesn’t realize he’s been following them until he finds himself in front of the CU and hears the faint hum of the fluorescent lights inside.

Hanbin sets down the man on the wooden table next to the entrance and disappears into the store, emerging minutes later with a bottle of water and a can of Zero Coke. He sets down the water in front of the man and snaps open the tab on the can of coke for himself.

He talks to the man again, still in that warm, steady voice — the kind that makes the listener feel like they’re being held.

Hao sees the man start to relax. He fumbles for his jacket, digs through its pockets, and passes his phone to Hanbin, who accepts it with both hands. He taps the screen a few times, lifts it to his ear, waits, and brightens when he hears a voice on the other end. After a short talk, Hanbin sets the phone back down and smiles reassuringly, tells the man that his daughter is on the way.

When a car pulls over and an exasperated young woman gets out of the driver’s side, Hanbin jumps up and helps her maneuver the man into the passenger seat. They bow, exchange goodbyes. The car drives off with a crunch of gravel, and Hanbin cleans up the area they were sitting in before swinging his backpack over his shoulder and walking back home.

This time Hao manages to stop himself before he follows.

He watches Hanbin go until he can’t see him anymore, and then Hao continues to stare at the empty space for some unknown length of time, standing there in a stunned daze, until a familiar voice cuts through his head, ringing sharply across their communications channel.

Did you find him?

“Mm...” Hao responds, distracted, thinking about how lucky it was that Hanbin went ahead and introduced himself first — and in such detail too — saving him the hard part of having to find him later.

And he is going to go find him, Hao realizes with a start. He’s going to go and see Sung Hanbin again. As soon as he’s completed his mission here — that will be the first thing he does.

What does that mean? Did you find the target or what?  

It’s only then that Hao registers what Ricky’s question had been. He pulls himself back to the present and answers the other angel properly.

“No, the one I was tracking ended up being a different demon,” Hao says, slowly walking back to the table where Sung Hanbin had been. He taps his fingers where Hanbin had placed his drink.

“Category 5, I think. I’ll write up the report later.”

Hao traces the ring of condensation left on the wooden surface and lets out a small, contemplative hum.

“Ricky… Have you ever tried a Coke Zero before?”

… Huh?

“… I think I want to switch departments.”

??????

Ricky takes a long, violent sip of his strawberry smoothie before setting it down with a thud.

“You can’t leave. We’re in the middle of a mission.”

“It’ll be after we’re done,” Hao replies, wiping with a napkin where some of the pink drink had spilled. “Obviously. I wouldn’t make you find a new partner now.”

“You can’t make me find a new one then, either.”

Hao lets out a small laugh at the sulk in Ricky’s voice, who glares at him openly now, stirring his smoothie with his straw.

Hao lifts his own can of Coke to his lip and listens as the brown liquid sloshes inside, fizzing pleasantly with carbonation. He decides he likes it. This drink. From the sounds it makes to the way it tastes — sweet and sharp and like swallowing a mouthful of stars.

All of the sudden, he feels giddy. It bubbles up inside him, this urge to share his discovery with Hanbin — to turn to this human he’s only just seen to express something along the lines of, I tried this new thing because of you, and I enjoyed it very much.

He wonders what Hanbin’s reaction to that would be.

Zhang Hao takes another sip and folds that impulse to examine more closely in private.

He returns to the matter at hand.

“It’s about time you start training your own juniors, anyways,” Hao says, throwing Ricky a pointed glance. “You’re more than qualified for it.”

“Juniors…” Ricky says, tugging at a lock of his red hair and looking faintly troubled.

The mental image of Ricky being trailed by a group of wide-eyed, freshly-winged cherubs pops into Hao’s mind, and he bites back a laugh.

“It’ll be a promotion,” Hao says cheerily, patting the back of Ricky’s hand. “Didn’t you say you always wanted to be an archangel?”    

Ricky shakes him off and pushes his drink aside.

“It’s not about that,” he mumbles, looking away. “Everyone knows you’re the ace of this department. You belong here.”

Hao lifts his elbows from where they were propped on the table and straightens in his seat, eyes creasing softly at the unexpected compliment.

“I don’t know…” he starts to say, then holds up a hand at Ricky’s incredulous expression.

“I’m not talking about my skills,” he clarifies. “I know where I stand with my rank, and I’m proud of where I’ve come and what I’ve achieved. I don’t think any of my efforts have been in vain. It’s just that…”

Hao glances up at the sky, rests his eyes briefly on the streak of clouds drifting past in their slow crawl.

“I keep on having this feeling that I’m supposed to be somewhere else. That this can’t be all there is — taking orders from above and fighting against its adversaries.”

Hao has never articulated any of this before, but he’s surprised by how easily the words come to him now, almost like they’ve been there in the background all this time, waiting for the right moment to step forward and make its presence known.   

He locks eyes with Ricky.

"I’m meant to be something more than another sword of heaven, I just know.”

Ricky stares back at Hao just as intensely, caught between looking confused and concerned.

“And the answer is to become a guardian angel for a human you just met?”

“My senses say that I’ll find the answer next to him,” Hao replies simply, like it settles something, and he lifts his hand to take another sip from his can of stars.

“And my senses have never been wrong before.”

All things considered, the process of switching occupations is relatively straightforward.

Zhang Hao submits the right paperwork to the right authorities, and he’s transferred within the next working day.

While some of the higher-ups had tried to talk him out of the decision, offering him incentives to stay and warning him on how his powers would atrophy being away from the front lines, in the end, they knew that there was nothing they could do once Zhang Hao had made up his mind — which he had. And he never once wavered from it.

Though there had been some aspects of his new job that took some getting used to.

Like the amount of time he now spends in his human form.

Of course, he doesn’t always keep his wings hidden. And in most cases, Hao’s observing Hanbin from a vantage point high enough to have no need for blending in with humans on the ground.

But occasionally, he’d find himself wanting to take a more hands-on approach. For practical reasons. Because being in the same room as Hanbin affords a kind of quick proximity that allows him to respond to his needs more effectively.

If that means he gets to see Hanbin’s whisker smile up close and in real time, well that’s just a perk that comes with the profession — a natural outcome of paying attention to the condition of his human in his natural environment. Like a good guardian angel.

Which is why he’s sitting in the booth opposite Hanbin and his friend in this hot pot restaurant in the middle of Seoul, watching and listening with unwavering focus while servers and their rattling carts of sliced meat and vegetables pass in the aisle between them.

“Anyways, Gyubin-ah, I don’t think it’s normal. I’ve never had this kind of good luck before,” Hanbin says, fishing a piece of meat out of the bubbling, red broth and dipping it into his sauce bowl. “Especially not all at once.”

Gyuvin, with his mouth full, makes a short, inquisitive sound before swallowing his food to speak. “Wasn’t it just the two times you thought you left your textbooks at home but found them in your bag?”

“And how I never seem to get caught at a red light anymore while driving to school. And how the expensive sweater that’s been in my cart forever now suddenly had a half-price sale. You know how that brand doesn’t usually do that.”

Hanbin lowers his chopsticks and purses his lips, frowning slightly down at his plate.

“And yesterday too, I was crossing the street when I had a close call with a careless biker. I thought I was going to get hit for sure, but I felt… something, just in that split second before, something like a warm breeze, and when I opened my eyes again, the bike was already far away, and I was fine.”   

He looks up to see Gyuvin gawking openly at him.

“Hyung… are you alright?”

Hanbin laughs, easing the serious expression on his face. “I just told you, I’m fine. It’s just strange, that’s all. I wonder what’s going on.”

Silently, Hao makes a mental note to practice more restraint.

He hadn’t meant to make it so obvious that Hanbin was being favored, but after hearing it all listed out like that, it didn’t seem like he was being subtle about it either. Maybe the clothing sale had been overkill. But then again, he couldn’t not make it happen… not when Hanbin would look so nice in that pink sweater… 

But still. Lesson learned.

With a flick of his wrist, the lottery ticket next to Hanbin’s feet vanishes without a trace.

“Maybe it’s just all the good karma you got from being a good person coming back to you,” Gyuvin suggests. “Knowing you, hyung, that’s enough for several lifetimes.”

Hanbin hums mildly, not sounding convinced.

“Or,” Gyuvin says, leaning in with a grin. “It could be a friendly spirit.”

“A spirit?”

Gyuvin nods. “Yeah, you know how ghosts stick to the people they don’t like and make bad stuff happen to them? Maybe a nice ghost or spirit or something is sticking on to you and making good stuff happen instead.”

“Why me though?”

“Because you’re a good person,” Gyuvin declares, stabbing his chopsticks in the air. “And like attracts like. It’s one of the laws of the universe.”

Hao graciously ignores how he had just been accused of being a ghost and instead focuses on the last part of what Gyuvin said.

Like attracts like.

Even after a week of following him around, Hao’s still not sure what it was that made him so certain with the need to be in Sung Hanbin’s orbit. Just that it feels inevitable, gravitational, this ever-present pull towards him.

Maybe that was what made him stay and wait — on that very first night — for Hanbin to appear. 

While he’s doesn’t know if a thing like fate exists, if some inexplicable force of the universe had been behind that encounter, he’s willing to believe it.

Hao watches Hanbin react to Gyuvin’s comment, the dimples in his cheeks deepening as he tilts his head and makes a playful sound and motion with his hand that Gyuvin copies and harmonizes on cue.

The two of them move on to talk about other things, from the classes Gyuvin is taking to the dance studios Hanbin is visiting, and conversation flows easy and familiar between them. 

When the bowls have emptied and the spoons have been put down, Gyuvin taps his phone screen and makes a small noise of surprise.

“We should get going,” he says, zipping up his bag. “It’s almost time to pick up my son from school.”

“He’s not really a father,” Hanbin says, smiling apologetically at the startled staff who’d come to clear their table. 

“I am too,” Gyuvin squawks, indignant, as Hanbin tugs him out of the booth, bows to the staff, and herds him out of the restaurant.

“Wait, I demand to have this addressed. I practically raised Yujin since he was a little bbodolie. Ask anyone — ask Park Gunwook!”

The bright peal of Hanbin’s laughter rings through the room before disappearing behind the door.

Hao feels its presence linger long after the sound of it fades, warming the space like a stray beam of sunlight, golden and grounding and generous to every living being lucky enough to pass through.

The next time he sees Hanbin, he’s sitting on a park bench a few blocks away from the hot pot restaurant.

There’s a book in his hand, but mostly he’s watching the people pass by, tracing lightly in his line of sight the locals walking their dogs, the parents chasing their kids, the couples taking pictures under the cherry blossom trees.  

Once again, Zhang Hao finds himself wanting to see the world through Hanbin’s eyes.

He wants to see every aspect of life filtered through his observations — every shape, sound, and color. He wants to ask him questions. He wants to hear his thoughts. There are so many things about the human world that Hao still doesn’t understand. He knows that if he were to point at one thing and tilt his head, Hanbin would take care to explain it in a way that makes sense, polishing it well before placing it in the palm of his hand.

Restraint, Hao reminds himself, swinging his legs idly on the roof of a school down the street. There are proper boundaries to keep between a guardian angel and their human. Rules. Procedures. It’s barely been a week since he completed his training; all of this should be fresh on his mind.

He stretches his wings and tries not to think about appearing to Hanbin in person.    

Something that becomes incredibly difficult to do once he realizes that Hanbin is speaking to him. To Hao, directly.

“…Hello? Spirit… -nim?” 

Hanbin’s voice lowers into a whisper as his eyes dart around his surroundings, seemingly self-conscious as to how it looks like he’s talking to himself, sitting there alone on his bench.

He raises his book to cover his mouth.  

“Uh, if you’re there… if you’re listening, I’d like to thank you for the past few days.”

Hao leans forward and silently commits every detail to memory — Hanbin’s muffled voice, the faint blush on his cheeks, the way his lashes flutter as he blinks quickly, nervously in succession.

“I don’t know how long you plan on staying…”

Forever, Hao thinks.

“But… mm… I just want to say that for however long that is — I’ll be in your care.” Hanbin lets out a small laugh at the end, extending his hand discreetly and doing an invisible shake with the air.

Four stories above him, Zhang Hao extends his own hand and returns the shake.

“Ah!” Hanbin’s eyes widens, as if remembering something. “And if there’s anything I can do on my end for you, please let me know. I saw in a lot of dramas that spirits sometimes have tasks for the humans they follow.  You don’t really seem like the resentful type, but in case there’s any unfinished business…”

Hao sighs and laments the fact that thanks to a certain Kim Gyuvin, he’ll be stuck as a ghost forever in Hanbin’s eyes.

“Or if you’re not a spirit…”

Hao perks up.

“If you’re a god of some kind, I’d like to send a prayer of thanks, or maybe even an offering.”

Hanbin’s blush deepens, and he fidgets in his seat, nervous again.

“I haven’t done anything like that before, but if you could send a sign of what kind of deity you are, what your preferences might be, I’ll be happy to do the appropriate rites.”

The offer, innocently and straightforwardly given, stuns Hao all the same.

It reverberates like the sound of a gong blowing clean through his core, scattering everything but the single implication of Hanbin being willing to worship him.

Hao knows when he’s touched on a dangerous thought — risky territory, even for him.

He retreats.

Hao does everything but think about how Hanbin would take so beautifully to being a devotee. In fact, he banishes every mental image of him at the altar (his head bowed… kneeling), and flies straight into the clouds before he’s tempted further into sacrilege — his own ears burning hot all the way up to heaven.

In his hurry, Zhang Hao doesn’t see how the force of his wings had sent a gust of cool, spring wind rushing through the city.

It shakes through the cherry blossom trees, tugs at its branches, sends a storm of petals dancing past the park, past Hanbin’s outstretched hand —

An explosion of pink soaring high into the clear, blue sky.  

Zhang Hao keeps his distance for a day — less than a day — before he decides that distance is impractical and impossible.

Every advice to take care of his human from afar gets pushed aside at the sight of Hanbin’s eyes lighting up when he sees two cans of Zero Coke pop out of the vending machine instead of one.

He whips his head around, scanning the busy corridor of his college building as if Zhang Hao would suddenly materialize in front of him.

He would, if Hanbin asks. He’s given up on denying that now.

But he doesn’t.

Hao manages so much restraint in the following months, he really should be given an award: Best Guardian Angel, he thinks, under the criteria of ‘appropriate workplace relationships’ and ‘caution towards supernatural power dynamics’.  

Notwithstanding how if he thought he could get away with it, Hao wouldn’t hesitate to wring heaven dry of every last miracle. He’d sweep the storehouses empty; he’d rain down blessings endlessly for Hanbin and Hanbin alone.

It’s a testament to his control that he doesn’t. That he manages to hold out as long as he does before all of his resolve crumbles after the second night of seeing Hanbin cry alone in his room, pressed down by his private stresses and heartaches.  

So Hao thinks: distance be damned.

He takes one look at the tear tracks drying on Hanbin’s cheeks, at the stutter of his chest rising and falling in restless, troubled sleep, and swings open the door to his dreams.

And walks into a laundry room.

The room itself is dark, shadowed everywhere save for a small window letting in a pale patch of moonlight. The smell of dust and detergent fills the air, and a washing machine rumbles off in the corner, an empty dryer sitting next to it.

There, tucked between the dryer and the wall, lies Sung Hanbin, knees pulled close to his chest, looking up at Hao’s entrance with a face that shifts from shocked to something more unreadable.

Hao stops a few steps away and crouches down so that their eyes meet.

He waits without speaking as Hanbin stares, opens his mouth, hesitates for a moment before asking, quietly:

“Who are you?”

His voice is more confused than accusatory, but it still presses hard somewhere deep between Hao’s ribs, makes him bruised with a hurt that doesn’t quite make sense but exists, regardless.  

Hao realizes, in that moment, that this won’t work. That this arrangement isn’t enough.

He wants to be real for Hanbin.

He wants the kind of solidity that would let Hanbin rest his weight on him without needing to ask.  

He wants to be present for times like this, where Hanbin’s strength falters, and even knowing how Hanbin is capable of picking himself back up— has done so many times before — Hao wants to hold out his hand as Hanbin makes the choice to take it. 

Overwhelmed by this want, and looking for ways to articulate it, Hao doesn’t notice Hanbin’s arm extending out until he feels something brush against the curve of his wing.

He flinches, and the touch immediately disappears.

“Sorry,” Hanbin says, holding his wrist, eyes wide with panic. “That was rude of me, I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”

Hao shakes his head, folding his legs to sit in a more comfortable position. “I won’t,” he says, and he pats the floor to prove it. “I won’t go anywhere.”

“I’m here,” he adds, and there’s nothing more he wants in the world than for Hanbin to believe him.  

With that, a quiet settles into the space between them, one punctuated by the thump of clothes being tossed in the washer and the soft sound of Hanbin’s breathing, smoothing itself out, returning to its regular rhythm.

“It’s strange,” Hanbin starts to say, chewing lightly on his lower lip. “I don’t think I’ve seen you anywhere before, but at the same time, there’s something so familiar…”

He trails off but doesn’t look away from Hao, brows furrowed in concentration, still deep in search.

Hao lets him look, content to keep staring at Hanbin forever, but he watches in slow degrees as something like understanding dawns on his face.

“You’re behind all the good things that’s been happening to me,” Hanbin says, tinged ever so slightly with awe.

It makes Hao shy.

He averts his eyes, lets out a noncommittal noise, and attempts to deflect.

“That’s not me. That’s all your good karma coming back to you,” he says offhandedly, referencing something Gyuvin had said before.

Hanbin smiles.

“I didn’t know angels could lie,” he teases, nudging Hao lightly with his foot. “You’re not very good at acting, are you?”

Well. “And your face looks like soft clay when you cry,” Hao replies, poking him back.

The surprise on Hanbin’s face shines for a split second before it breaks into laughter.

Something unfurls in Hao’s chest. Spreads roots. Grows.    

Hanbin holds out his hand, and Hao takes it, without hesitation.

His skin runs warm.

Somehow, this too feels familiar.

Hanbin sighs, and the sound tugs devastatingly at Hao’s heart.

“I don’t want this to be a dream,” Hanbin admits, voice barely above a murmur, the weight of sleep closing in around him and falling heavy on his eyes.

He squeezes Hao’s hand.

“I want you to be real.”

Hao tucks Hanbin into bed, folding the covers just beneath his chin and smoothing out his bangs, careful to keep his touch light.

When he’s sure that all is well and nothing remains in the way of Hanbin’s rest, he steps out the window, into the night air, and unfurls his wings.

He knows what he has to do now.

He’s never been more sure of anything.

“Right,” Ricky says, folding his arms across his chest. “I knew it.”

They’re back at the convenience store again.

Almost a year has passed since the day Hao first saw Hanbin, and once again, he finds himself standing at a crossroads.

Once again, with Ricky sending him off.   

“I’ve made so many violations, I’m surprised they haven’t kicked me out already.” Hao shrugs. “Better for me to turn in my wings voluntarily when it’s really only a matter of time.”

“There’s no going back once you do it,” Ricky warns. “Once you’re human, you stay human until the end.”

“I know,” Hao says, simple and final. “I wouldn’t have it otherwise.”

He sees the pinched crease of the other angel’s brow and feels himself soften at the concern written there.

He remembers how Ricky had looked on their first mission together. The one that had made Hao convinced, beyond doubt, that this was an angel who wanted only the best for humanity — pure of heart and well-intentioned, if only a bit unpracticed in expressing it.

“I’ve heard reports,” Ricky says, his frown digging deeper. “Of angels who have a hard time adjusting to their new mortality. In most cases, they suffer alone, on the streets—”

“Mine won’t be most cases.”

Hao’s words carry a conviction to them that settles it somewhere between promise and prophecy.

“And I won’t be alone.”

He holds Ricky’s gaze, who goes on to look at him, conflicted, for several, long moments before shifting his eyes away.

Just as Hao thinks that that’s the end of it, Ricky surprises him one last time by reaching out to catch the edge of his sleeve and saying, in a voice quiet and still awkward around the edges:

“… I’ll watch out for you two.”

Hao blinks once before understanding cracks open and fondness bursts out, shining through his eyes, blurring his vision.

“Not too much, you know. Not to the extent of what you were doing down there. But, like, occasionally —”

Ricky clears his throat.

“If something good happens to you, just know that it was me.”   

On the night he falls, Zhang Hao learns that his assumption had been right.

Humans are so, incredibly fragile — or maybe it’s just this body in particular.

He’s never experienced a cold like this before, the kind that seems to freeze through his bones.

He wasn’t prepared for how losing his wings would make him feel so mortal. It comes as a strange, hyper-awareness towards all things physical.

In the absence of the celestial — now that the barrier between him and the world has thinned to nothing — he feels so much.   

Hao laughs, marveling again at how his breath forms clouds of white air in front of him.

He stretches out a hand against the light of the streetlamp, wiggling his fingers that have gone red and numb at the tips from the cold.

His teeth chatter. His ears ache.

All of it feels strange and new and tangibly, amazingly human.

Hao lowers his hand, looks up, and there, like a promise, stands Sung Hanbin on the other end of the street, looking at him with recognition shining wide on his face.

Hao’s heart stops in his chest.

He doesn’t even have time to be alarmed by that before the sight of Hanbin running over kicks it back into gear, his pulse beating too loud and too close to his skin in a way that really can’t be normal.

Before he fell, Hao had prepared what he was going to say once he met Hanbin in person — rehearsed it, even, just to make sure he gets that first impression right. But he can’t seem to remember any of it now.

It doesn’t matter.

The first thing Hanbin does is wrap a scarf around Hao’s neck.

The second thing he does is hug him — arms wrapped tight and strong and banishing all the cold from his bones immediately, leaving him warmed all over.

“Sorry,” Hanbin says, breaking away breathless and a bit pink around the ears. “I know that was sudden. But you’re my angel, right?”

Hao briefly short-circuits at ‘my angel’ — nodding automatically, enthusiastically, before he notices his mistake and corrects himself.

“I was,” he says hesitantly. “I’m not one anymore.”

Hao’s admission is followed by a brief, weightless moment where he thinks he might be falling. Where it feels like he’s walked off a ledge not knowing where it leads, unsure of how he’ll land. Where rejection suddenly seems like a very real, very hard possibility.

But it lasts only for a moment.

One glance at Hanbin, and his worries dissolve on the spot.

Hao knows that he is held.

“Ah, so is this your first day on earth?” Hanbin hums and adjusts the scarf on Hao’s neck, wrapping it more securely. “No wonder you’re dressed so light. Is this all the clothes you have? Wait — more importantly, have you eaten yet? What foods have you tried? Is there anything you can’t eat? Or —”

Hanbin stops himself abruptly, stepping back with a small, helpless laugh.

“Sorry, I don’t want to overwhelm you. But there’s so much I want to ask… I don’t know where to start.”

That makes the two of them, then.

It’s a relief to hear that they have that in common. That they’re more or less on the same page, at the same starting line, in a similar mode of wonder and curiosity.

And now that they’re both here, they can take their time, working through every question until it feels like they’ve shared everything — at which point they’ll find that there will always be more to discover.

Hao holds out his hand, and Hanbin takes it, without hesitation.

“I guess this one comes first,” Hanbin says with a tone of practicality. “Do you have a place to stay?”

Hao shakes his head.

“Would you like to stay with me?” Hanbin asks, his tone turning shy.  

Forever, Hao thinks.

“Yes,” he says instead. “I’ll be in your care.”

Hand in hand, mirroring each other’s smiles, Hao and Hanbin walk the same direction home.

Somewhere high above their heads, the first snow of the season begins to fall.

Slow and feather-soft, kind as a blessing, it dusts both their shoulders the faintest trace of white.