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Summary
With all pretenses gone their conversation turns a bit awkward. Stale. Nervously Hao drums his fingers on the counter to a rhythm — then, horrified, realizes it’s to the beat of ”Last Christmas” on the radio and stops — and waits for Hanbin to say something else or to leave, but his eyes are peering curiously at Hao’s head.
Hao shrinks back with his gaze. “Is there…something else?”
Hanbin looks at him for a bit longer, then says, “I like your ears.”
Hao blinks at him. “My — what?”
He frowns and grabs at one of his lobes, wondering if this is some weird joke, when Hanbin points a finger at the top of his own head. When Hao reaches blindly above him he expects air, but his fingers meet soft, rounded felt.
Oh. Oh no. He forgot about the antlers.
Or: Zhang Hao and the horrors of working a minimum wage job, falling on ice, and falling in love.