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“Hanbin, you’re staring,” Jiwoong chuckles, and Hao follows his line of sight to the waiter serving the table next to theirs.
Tall. Dark eyes. Handsome.
“Well, duh. Maybe I’ll ask what he’s doing after his shift.” Hanbin’s words are quiet to prevent anyone from overhearing, but their table erupts into laughter anyway.
Hao knows that Hanbin is joking. Their members tease him relentlessly about his lack of experience, so it’s become somewhat of a routine to say things of the sort.
“I’m just proving to them that I’m not a total prude,” he’d said to Hao once.
It’s fine. Hao understands.
But that doesn’t stop the hot pool of jealousy from forming in his stomach at Hanbin’s words. He sits back in his seat and tries not to think about it.
The hotel restaurant is decent. The food is good. The drinks are better.
Hao stops counting once the buzz in his veins shifts from a low thrum to the slow, syrupy drag that brings easy smiles and loud laughter. It feels good to give in. Hanbin sits to his left, and Hao can’t help stealing glances every so often. That’s normal.
But as the night deepens, their group plucks off one by one until only Hanbin and Hao are left at the table.
“We should go upstairs,” Hanbin says. The invitation goes unspoken, but Hao knows it’s there.
They take their time walking back to Hanbin’s room, and Hanbin holds tightly onto Hao’s elbow to keep him from stumbling in his drunken state. Hao leans into the touch. Now that they’re alone, that familiar feeling nags at him—pokes at the back of his mind, replaying Hanbin’s words from earlier.
Maybe I’ll ask what he’s doing after his shift.
Hao knows that he’s fallen too quiet and that Hanbin can tell. He can always tell.
As soon as the door shuts behind them, Hao puts a few feet of distance between them and sinks onto the edge of the bed. He waits for the first punch.
“What’s wrong?” Hanbin asks.
There it is.
He fidgets with his hands in his lap. Hanbin waits for him to answer—he’s always too patient, giving Hao exactly as much space as he needs. It’s infuriating.
“Is this about what I said at dinner?” he asks eventually, when it becomes clear that Hao isn’t going to answer. His head is swimming, and he worries what atrocities his loose tongue might spew once he opens his mouth.
He does it anyway.
“I don’t want you to like anyone else,” Hao says quietly.
Hanbin gives him a look—an opening to stop talking and save himself the embarrassment. Hao knows he’ll regret it in the morning. He doesn’t care.
“You’re supposed to like me,” he breathes. The words are said around a half-whine, and he’s all too aware of how pathetic he sounds. Hanbin isn’t supposed to do anything. No matter how much Hao grovels and pleads, he can’t change how Hanbin feels. Can’t erase the firm line that’s been drawn between them.
“Hao,” Hanbin sighs. His voice is more sad than anything. “We talked about this.”
“I know,” he whispers. They have, countless times. The lump in Hao’s throat doubles in size. If he’d been any less drunk, he wouldn’t be saying any of this. But he’ll try anything to make himself feel better, and right now, that means laying his heart at his feet, exposing it to the storm standing in front of him.
“I can’t make it go away. The way I feel, I mean,” Hao adds, like it’ll make any difference.
Hanbin sits down beside him on the bed.
“It will. Just give yourself more time,” he breathes reluctantly, like Hao has reached into his chest and pulled the words out by force.
“I don’t want it to go away.”
This is his downfall. Sometimes, when he lies awake at night, thinking about everything he can’t have, Hao prays to god to send him someone else. Anyone else, to take away the all-consuming pull he feels. But if he’s honest, he knows that it’ll only ever be Hanbin.
“I love you. More than anyone. That hasn’t changed,” Hanbin pleads.
“I know.”
That’s the problem. Hanbin does love him, but it’s not enough.
“I hate that I’m hurting you. I can’t stand it,” he whispers.
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault,” Hao replies.
They love this game. Hanbin gives him everything except for what he really needs. Hao tries to wash away Hanbin’s guilt. He can’t tell who hurts worse.
Hanbin is crying now. When Hao glances at his face, his eyes are wide with so much guilt that Hao is forced to look away. He longs to take Hanbin’s hand—to comfort him—but he doesn’t. They sit side by side and listen to Hanbin’s soft sniffles.
“I’m sorry,” Hanbin blubbers. “What can I—I want to help—I mean…” The words don’t come easily. He sucks in an unsteady breath. Hao wishes, more than anything, that he could see into his mind. To know for good what holds him back.
“No, I’m sorry,” Hao says. “It’s late. I should go to bed.”
When he stands, unsteady on his feet, Hanbin peers up at him through wet lashes. His cheeks are still flushed from the alcohol. He’s as beautiful as ever, and it’s so incredibly unfair.
“I’ll see you in the morning.” Hao swallows the thickness in his throat. He sends another prayer up to whoever is listening.
For love, or for freedom from it.
Hanbin reaches out to brush his fingers against Hao’s, and the touch burns him. It’s the worst pain he’s ever felt. He can’t get enough of it.
“I love you. I promise, I really do,” Hanbin says again, like the meaning will ever change.
“I love you, too,” Hao whispers, just as the door shuts behind him. “I promise.”