Work Text:
21/01/2021
The day had come–the exact day he had dreaded every time it arrived: his mother’s death anniversary. He and his little brother, Shen Quanrui, who liked to call himself Ricky, stood beside him in defeat.
Although they weren’t bonded by blood, they were bonded by trust and loyalty.
Ricky stared at his shoes as if he had been told to inspect every single speck of dust clinging to them . “Quanrui. We can stay here for as long as you want.”
“Gege,” he muttered under his breath, the word barely audible, the tears he had been holding in threatening to fall.
“I’m sorry, Didi. I really am.”
The tall stone laid upon them, the words that had been carefully chosen displayed clearly.
‘Devoted loving mother and wife. Zhang Mei 21/01/2019’
He took a step back, giving a moment of silence out of respect for her. After some time, Ricky had lifted his gaze, a solemn expression painted his face. He looked up to see his one and only older brother looking at him, a rueful smile made its way onto his face.
Hao let out his hand, the calluses on his hand from practicing his violin marking his skin with worn bruises. “Let’s go” he whispered, trying not to upset his brother. Ricky slowly took his hand and nodded his head along with Hao’s words.
They made their way down the hill, not forgetting to say goodbye first. For a brief moment, their hearts devoted themselves to leave the guilt in the past.
They approached the door of their apartment, completely worn out and exhausted From the events of today. Ricky glanced up, staring into his his brothers eyes, studying his expression.
Then almost without thinking, he squeezed the hand he was holding.
Zhang Hao stared at him, and let out a shaky breath. His own grief bubbling beneath the surface. “Thank you Rui. I really mean it.”
Ricky had the most gentle smile he could muster on his face. He settled his face into Hao’s shoulder, making himself comfortable there.
Hao let out a bitter laugh. His brother that was 4 years younger than him had been acting like the older brother. For a brief moment, the pain lifted just enough to leave them with something softer.
10/07/2022
Hao and Ricky moved slowly through the house, each room echoing with memories they couldn’t quite leave behind.
Clothes were folded and stacked into suitcases, but every shirt, every book, every small trinket seemed to carry a fragment of their mother, their childhood, their home. Ricky lingered by the living room window, tracing the outlines of the trees outside with his finger as if committing it to memory.
Hao found himself watching his brother, feeling the weight of leaving behind everything familiar pressing down on him.
“It’s strange,” Ricky said softly, voice trembling, “to think this will be… gone for good.” Hao nodded, swallowing hard, unsure if the lump in his throat was grief or anticipation—or some mixture of both.
He pushed all the overwhelming thoughts to the back of his head, instead, he found himself focusing on when they should leave to go to the airport for their unexpected migration to the heart of Korea, Seoul.
“Ricky! Say your last goodbyes! We have to leave now if we don’t want to be late.” Hao called, checking his phone to see how long it would take the taxi to arrive.
“Coming!” Ricky frantically grabbed all his belongings and rushed out the door-not before looking back at the place that he called home for most of his life.
The taxi waited outside, its engine humming quietly, almost a gentle reminder that the world outside their grief would not pause for them.
He slid into the front seat, the leather cold beneath his hands, and Ricky climbed in beside him, clutching the last small bag as if holding onto a piece of their past could somehow anchor them. The city streets blurred past, lights reflecting off the rain-slicked pavement, turning Seoul into a kaleidoscope of colors that neither of them fully registered.
Hao bounced his leg repeatedly, getting lost in the rhythm.
“Gege,”. Ricky called out, snapping Hao out of a trance. “We’re here.” Ricky hopped out first, his small frame hesitant as he stared at the building looming before them, its walls unfamiliar but filled with the promise of a new beginning.
Hao followed, dragging their bags behind him, the soles of his shoes echoing softly against the concrete steps. The door to their apartment clicked open, and the air inside smelled faintly of fresh paint and the city beyond.
The new space overwhelmed both of their senses without meaning to; it hurt.
It really hurt.
They both slowly came to the realisation that this was their new home—and it hurt. They never wanted to leave…
But they both knew this was the best decision—to start fresh.
The city hummed outside their windows—cars passing, distant voices, a siren far away that rose and fell like a tired sigh. Hao lies on his back, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, every crack and shadow feeling intrusive. Beside him, Ricky shifted restlessly, the sheets rustling softly.
“Gege,” Ricky whispered into the dark.
Hao turned his head. “Yeah?”
“Do you think… Mama would like it here?”
The question landed heavier than he expected. He closed his eyes, picturing their mother: her quiet strength, her tired smile, the way she used to hum while doing the dishes.
“I think,” Hao said slowly, “she’d be relieved we’re still together.”
Ricky didn’t respond, but his breathing evened out after that. Hao stayed awake a while longer, letting the city exist around him, wondering if this place would ever stop feeling borrowed.
20/03/23
Zhang Hao strides into the café with long steps. He makes himself comfortable on one of the cozy seats at the left end of the shop, resting his face on his palm and looking out of the window.
The beautiful fluorescent lights dangle above the open sign. Outside the cozy café, ivy climbed the brick walls while sunlight pooled on the cobblestone street, turning every passerby into part of the scenery.
The place vividly reminded him of his home in Fujian. Outside the café, tables lined the sidewalk beneath twinkling lights, where laughter mingled with the scent of fresh coffee.
He let out a deep sigh, but his breath got caught in his throat. He stared at the figure looming outside the entrance to the building. He was beautiful–breathtakingly beautiful.
There’s a brief pause, an instinctive double take, because the man standing there looks unreal in a way that’s hard to explain. His expression is calm and almost statuesque, giving nothing away. There’s no clear emotion to read, just a stillness that sharpens every feature and makes him impossible to ignore.
The blonde hair catches the light immediately, pale and striking against his skin. Up close, the details hit all at once—the balance of his features, the clean lines of his face, the way everything seems effortlessly in places.
He walks through the door—and God, he looks even better up close.
He freezes in his seat, heart stuttering as his eyes trace every movement without permission. There’s an ache in his stillness, a pull he doesn’t understand, as if looking away would mean missing something important.
He tries to predict what the man will do next, but his thoughts blur, caught on the way he moves, the way he exists.
When the man finally orders, his expression remains calm, distant, and devastating all at once.
As the man turns to walk out the door, they make brief eye contact. At that moment, it felt like they were spiritually intertwined. Zhang Hao’s heart got stuck in his chest. Sweat pools at the top of his forehead.
He pauses. He stares and stares at the stunning figure in front of him. He barely manages a smile before the enigma walks out.
Hao quickly rushes to stand upright. He frantically grabs his belongings and flies out the door, the embarrassment catching up to him. He looked like a mess; his hair sticking out in all directions, his prominent eye bags made him look sickly, his dry lips cracking, his tteokbokki stained shirt was incredibly hard to ignore.
The man had seen Hao at his worst. Hao internally facepalmed himself for ruining the chance he had to get close to the guy without it even being possible.
Hao avoids the café for weeks.
When he finally returns, it’s raining. The windows are fogged, the air warm with coffee and damp coats. He orders the same drink as before, heart steady this time—or so he tells himself.
Then the door opens.
Blonde hair. Familiar stillness.
Hao’s fingers curl around his cup. This time, the man notices him first.
Their eyes meet—not fleeting, not accidental. Something lingers there, curious and soft, like a question neither of them dares to ask. The man gives a small nod before ordering.
When he leaves, he pauses by Hao’s table.
“Your shirt,” he says, voice calm, warm. “It’s clean today.”
Hao laughs before he can stop himself, heat rising to his cheeks. “Yeah. I learned my lesson.”
“I’m Hanbin,” the man says.
“Zhang Hao,” he replies, heart knocking against his ribs.
And just like that, something begins.
24/04/23
Zhang Hao doesn’t tell anyone about the second encounter.
He doesn’t talk about the way the man’s voice sounded when he said his name, or how easily it settled into his chest. He doesn’t mention the nod, the brief smile, the fact that it felt deliberate—as if it had been waiting for him specifically.
Instead, he finds himself returning to the café.
Not every day. That would feel like too much. But often enough that the staff start recognising him, that his usual seat by the window remains empty until he arrives. He tells himself it’s the coffee, the familiarity of the place, the way it reminds him of home.
But sometimes, the door opens—and his breath stills.
Sometimes, it’s Hanbin.
They don’t always speak. Some days it’s only a glance, shared briefly before looking away. Other days, a quiet greeting, a nod exchanged like a secret neither of them wants to name. Hao learns the rhythm of his presence: the time he usually comes in, the drink he orders, the way he lingers near the counter before leaving.
It’s strange—how someone can exist so close to you without truly touching your life, and yet change it all the same.
Hao starts bringing his violin case with him.
He never opens it there, but the weight of it against his shoulder feels grounding. A reminder of who he is, of what he carries with him into this unfamiliar city. Once, Hanbin’s eyes linger on the case a second longer than necessary.
“You play?” he asks.
Hao nods. “I try.”
Hanbin smiles at that—not wide, not bright, but sincere. “I’d like to hear it someday.”
The words follow Hao home that night.
He lies awake long after Ricky has fallen asleep, staring at the ceiling he’s grown used to, replaying the moment over and over. There’s no rush in his chest, no panic. Just a slow, unfamiliar warmth.
For the first time since coming to Korea, Hao doesn’t feel like he’s just surviving.
He feels like he’s waiting—for something good.
13/05/23
It isn’t called a date.
Hanbin suggests it casually, almost in passing, as they stand outside the café.
“There’s a place nearby,” Hanbin says. “Street food. It’s good.”
Hao nods before he can overthink it.
They walk side by side, not quite close enough to touch. The street is narrow, lit by warm bulbs strung overhead, the sound of oil sizzling and voices overlapping around them.
He listens more than he speaks, taking in the rhythm of Hanbin’s steps, the way he pauses to let others pass.
They order from a small stall—something simple. Hao watches as Hanbin adds extra seasoning without hesitation, movements confident and familiar. When they sit on the low plastic stools, he laughs softly, surprised by how normal it all feels.
The food is warm, comforting.
“This reminds me of home,” Hao says quietly.
Hanbin hums in acknowledgement. “Me too. Different places, same feeling.”
They eat in silence for a while. Not the kind that demands filling.
Hao notices small things instead—the way Hanbin holds his chopsticks, the way his shoulders relax as the night stretches on. He feels lighter, like he isn’t bracing himself for something to go wrong.
At some point, Hanbin glances at him. “You don’t look tired today.”
Hao smiles faintly. “I’m not.”
When they part ways, it’s unceremonious. No lingering glances. No promises made.
Just a simple, “Get home safe.”
Hao walks back alone, hands tucked into his coat, heart steady in his chest. He realises then that this is what he’s been missing—not excitement, not intensity.
Just someone who makes the world feel quieter.
26/08/23
Zhang Hao notices it in the smallest ways.
The way he starts checking the time more often in the afternoons. The way the café feels dull on days Hanbin doesn’t come. The way his phone feels heavier in his pocket, even when it doesn’t vibrate.
He tells himself it’s nothing.
They’ve only shared a few meals, quiet walks, conversations that drift and settle without urgency. Nothing that demands a name. Nothing that promises anything more.
And yet— Hao finds himself listening for Hanbin’s footsteps outside the café. He catches himself smiling at things he would have once overlooked. He feels lighter, like the world has softened around the edges.
One evening, as they walk side by side beneath dim streetlights, Hanbin laughs—quiet and unguarded. The sound stops Hao mid-step.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
The realization settles in slowly, not with panic but with certainty.
He is falling.
Not all at once. Not recklessly.
But in the way that sneaks up on you when you aren’t looking—when you finally stop bracing for impact.
That night, Hao lies awake, staring at the ceiling, a hand resting over his chest. His heart feels steady, warm.
Terrifying.
1/09/23
Hao starts pulling back.
Not abruptly. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But Hanbin does.
Messages go unanswered a little longer. Invitations are met with quiet hesitation. Hao chooses distance without admitting it—to himself most of all.
Grief has a way of resurfacing when happiness lingers too long.
He remembers standing beside a grave, the cold weight of loss pressing into his chest. He remembers the silence that followed. How love once meant permanence—until it didn’t.
Loving someone means giving them the power to leave.
And Hao has already been left behind once.
He sits alone in his room, violin resting untouched beside him. Outside, the city hums, indifferent and endless. He wonders if this is how it starts—how people drift apart before anything can truly begin.
Hanbin doesn’t push. That somehow makes it worse.
Because patience feels like understanding. And understanding feels dangerous.
Hao presses his forehead against the cool window, breathing slowly.
He doesn’t know how to want something without fearing its absence.
He doesn’t know how to love without preparing for loneliness.
So he waits—caught between what he feels and what he’s afraid to lose.
8/09/23
Hanbin doesn’t confront him right away.
He waits until the café is nearly empty, until the evening light fades into something softer, less exposing. Hao sits by the window as usual, but his shoulders are tense, his hands folded too tightly in his lap.
“You’ve been drifting,” Hanbin says quietly.
Hao’s breath stutters.
He doesn’t look up. “I’m just… tired.”
Hanbin doesn’t argue. He never does. Instead, he steps closer, lowering himself into the seat across from him. Close enough now that Hao can feel his presence without looking.
“If you want space,” Hanbin continues, voice calm, “I’ll give it to you. But I need to know if that’s what this is.”
The words settle heavily between them.
Hao tries to speak. Nothing comes out.
His chest tightens first. Then his vision blurs.
“I’m scared,” he whispers, the confession slipping out before he can stop it. His hands tremble, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat. “Every time things start to feel… good, I think about how easily it can disappear.”
Hanbin’s expression softens immediately.
Hao laughs weakly, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to do this without losing someone again.”
The tears come quietly at first. Then all at once.
Hanbin doesn’t hesitate.
He moves around the table and kneels in front of Hao, hands warm and sure as they cup Hao’s shaking ones.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Look at me.”
Hao does, eyes red and wet, breath uneven.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Hanbin says. “Not because you’re perfect. Not because this is easy. But because I choose to stay.”
That’s when Hao breaks.
He leans forward, forehead pressing into Hanbin’s shoulder, a soft sob tearing free from his chest. Hanbin wraps his arms around him immediately, holding him close, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles into his back.
“It’s okay,” Hanbin whispers. “You don’t have to be brave with me.”
Hao cries until it hurts less.
When he finally pulls back, embarrassed and exhausted, Hanbin wipes the tears from his cheeks with his thumb, gentle as if Hao might shatter.
“You feel a lot,” Hanbin says softly. “That’s not something you need to apologize for.”
Hao lets out a shaky breath. “I like you,” he admits. “A lot.”
Hanbin smiles—small, warm, unwavering. “I know.”
He leans in slowly, giving Hao time to pull away.
Hao doesn’t.
Their lips meet softly, hesitant at first, then warmer—unhurried, reassuring. It isn’t desperate or consuming. It’s careful. Like a promise whispered instead of spoken.
When they pull apart, Hao rests his forehead against Hanbin’s, eyes closed, breathing steady for the first time in weeks.
Outside, the city glows quietly beneath the night sky.
And for once,
Zhang Hao doesn’t feel alone—because beneath the same sky, he knows he is loved.