Chapter Text
Zhang Hao has always liked performing at weddings. Most of the reasons are simple: the pay is good, he normally gets a decent meal out of it, and people are generally polite. But truthfully, the main reason is that he likes to see people in love. He likes the ceremony and the decorations and the clothes. He likes watching the groom see the bride for the first time, and even if he knows he’ll never have this, he likes imagining that he could.
Today’s a typical job. He’s to play while guests find their seats, and then again during the couple’s first dance. He lets his gaze drift across the crowd as the guests take in, playing all the while.
It’s a typical job, up until the moment when he locks eyes with Sung Hanbin for the first time in nearly a year.
Hanbin’s eyes widen and he stops in his tracks. Zhang Hao’s pulse skyrockets, but he keeps playing just the same. It wouldn’t do to upset the bride, even if he wants to drop everything and run. Hanbin frowns, so subtle that no one but Zhang Hao would have ever caught it, and then he heads towards the rows of chairs.
Zhang Hao swallows everything he’s feeling and keeps playing. This is a job, after all, and they broke up almost a year ago. The lump in his throat and the knot in his stomach don’t mean anything.
The rest of his work passes in a blur. Normally his favorite part is when he gets to perform during the first dance, but today all he wants is to finish up and go home. He’s been carefully avoiding Hanbin’s gaze this whole evening, and he’s half convinced himself that he can feel the weight of his eyes on his neck.
When he’s finally finished with the performance, he can’t leave fast enough. This venue is more grandiose than some of the others he’s performed at, and so he has an actual room to keep his things in and organize. Now more than ever, he’s thankful for the added privacy it provides. His hands shake as he carefully puts his violin in its case, his movements clumsy as he latches it. Sung Hanbin, here and looking far too tempting. From across the room, it had been all too easy to forget about the heartache he’d caused and remember only how desperately Zhang Hao had missed him.
He rushes out of the room with the intent to find the wedding planner, pick up his check, and get out of here as soon as possible. Instead, he finds himself colliding with Sung Hanbin, his hand raised as though he were about to knock on the door.
Hanbin reaches out a hand to steady him, his hand at Zhang Hao’s hip far too familiar. Zhang Hao flinches away from his touch and ignores the way that Hanbin’s face falls. He’s the one that caused all of this; Zhang Hao is the one who has a right to feel upset here.
“Hyung,” Hanbin says. “Are you alright?”
Zhang Hao tightens his grip on his violin case, positioning it slightly in front of himself as though he could hide behind it. “Hanbin-ssi,” he says, ignoring the way that Hanbin’s expression tightens at the honorific. “I’m fine.”
“I just want to talk,” Hanbin says. He sounds different than Zhang Hao remembers. His heart twists; is a year so long that he’s already forgotten the exact timbre of Sung Hanbin’s voice? Will he forget the gentle curve of his smile and the warm sound of his laugh next? Such a thought is unacceptable, but this too shouldn’t be allowed: Hanbin, standing in front of him, wearing a suit that Zhang Hao doesn’t recognize and asking to talk like it’s something easy.
Zhang Hao shakes his head and grips his violin case a little tighter. “There’s nothing we need to talk about.” The words are tinged with a bitterness he didn’t expect, but he finds himself unwilling to take it back.
Hanbin’s face doesn’t fall, not quite, but his mouth snaps shut and his brows pinch. Once, Zhang Hao would’ve reached out to soothe the wrinkle between his brows with his thumb. Instead, he tugs at the sleeve of his jacket and says nothing.
“I missed you,” Hanbin says. His shoulders slump. “Please, hyung.”
Zhang Hao missed him as well, of course. He’s been missing him since before they even broke up. He chews on the inside of his cheek, knowing that he’s pouting and not being able to stop himself.
Hanbin reaches out as though to take his hand and then thinks better of it. Zhang Hao is as relieved as he is devastated. “I’ll leave if you want,” he says. “But I really do just want to talk.”
Zhang Hao knows that he’s going to say yes even as he’s trying to think of reasons to say no. Hanbin’s already found him, and try as he might, it’s not as though Zhang Hao’s been able to forget him.
He sighs. This is a bad idea. “Okay.”
-
Talking involves heading back into the main room. Hanbin awkwardly fetches him a glass of water. It’s not too cold, and Zhang Hao should be flattered that Hanbin remembers not to put ice in his water, but really he’s just annoyed by the consideration. Despite the time that’s passed, they still know each other far too well.
Zhang Hao takes a sip of water. “You wanted to talk,” he says.
Hanbin ducks his head. “Ah. Yes. I did.”
The silence stretches awkwardly between them. Hao isn’t sure if he should speak or if he should just let them both stew. He clears his throat and glances over his shoulder, trying to come up with an excuse to leave.
“How have you been?” Hanbin asks.
“Fine.”
“You’re still in the orchestra?”
“Ah, yes.” He should ask Hanbin something about himself. He doesn’t want to. “We have a concert next week. I’m looking forward to it.”
Hanbin nods. “Good. That’s good.”
“Are you still dancing?” Zhang Hao asks.
“Yeah.” Hanbin rubs the back of his neck, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
Zhang Hao takes a sip of his water. Once, there were never any awkward pauses between them. Any silence was comfortable, so long as they were together. Now, the silence is stagnant, the gulf between them so wide that Zhang Hao doesn’t know how Hanbin ever thought it could be crossed.
Hanbin is the one to break the silence. It’s funny, seeing as he’s the one who left in the first place. “I thought about you a lot while I was gone. Even after we stopped talking, I thought of you all the time.”
A terrible thrill runs through Zhang Hao. He, too, thinks about Hanbin even when he shouldn’t, even after all these months. Just as quickly as he’s touched by Hanbin’s words, he remembers what it felt like to have his heart ripped out of his chest. “You shouldn’t. We’re not like that anymore.”
Hanbin’s shoulders slump. “I know.”
Zhang Hao isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say to that. He wants to push Hanbin away just as desperately as he wants to fold himself into his arms and never leave. It’s painful, to still care for someone even if you know you shouldn’t. They shouldn’t talk about these things, but Zhang Hao has missed him every day for a year.
The pause between them stretches until it feels tangible, like Hao could reach out and touch it and see the shape of his misery.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Hanbin asks.
Zhang Hao’s mouth suddenly tastes bitter. “What?”
Hanbin doesn’t back down. If anything, he looks more bold. “Are you seeing anyone?”
Every reason he could have for asking is a bad one. Zhang Hao wants to say yes, to throw it in his face and watch Hanbin’s expression crumple, but in truth he’s been on two terrible dates since the breakup and has spent the vast majority of his time forcing Ricky to pay attention to him.
“No.”
Hanbin nods. “I’m not seeing anyone either.”
Is that a flicker of warmth in his eyes? A flash of anger rises up within him, and Zhang Hao frowns, his pout deepening. “Even if I’m not seeing anyone, that doesn’t mean I want to talk about this with you.”
Hanbin’s answering smile is weary beyond his years. “I understand.”
Despite everything, Zhang Hao thinks that he must. Hanbin looks as downtrodden as he does, and even if it’s clear that he still harbors some affection for him, that doesn’t change the fact that they’re broken up. They’re not meant to be anything to each other, not anymore.
Perhaps he’s being too harsh. Hanbin could just be trying to mend a broken bridge as best as he can, and Zhang Hao is shooting him down at every turn.
“Dance with me, then,” Hanbin says. As always, his voice cuts through everything else; he’s the only thing Zhang Hao can hear. “Since you don’t want to talk anymore.”
Zhang Hao should say no. He should push Hanbin away and laugh at him for even suggesting it. He’s going to say no. He has to.
“Alright,” he says softly.
They don’t speak as they step onto the dance floor, or as Hanbin pulls him into his arms. It’s achingly familiar and far too comfortable. If he closes his eyes, it’s almost like the past year hasn’t happened at all, and they’re dancing in Hanbin’s kitchen or swaying under the stars. Hanbin’s hand at his waist is warm, and Zhang Hao can’t stop himself from leaning desperately into the touch. He missed this more than he can say. Despite the year of distance between them and the fraught months before their breakup, he’s always loved the feel of Hanbin’s hands on him. Nothing will ever change that.
He used to dream about this sort of thing. A dance at a wedding is almost too close to the real thing, and it makes his heart ache. Even though it’s out of his reach, he yearns for something that he can never have.
Zhang Hao presses closer to Hanbin and rests his head on his shoulder, letting Hanbin cradle him. For a moment, he is perfectly, completely safe, and there is nowhere else in the world that he would rather be.
Then the song ends, and reality comes crashing back in around him.
Zhang Hao starts to pull away just as Hanbin’s arms tighten. That safe and warm feeling is still there, just out of reach, but he knows better. Zhang Hao gently pulls himself away. “I’ll see you around Hanbin-ah,” he says. He leaves quickly, before he has to see the look on Hanbin’s face.