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Hanbin is grateful for Hao’s gift. When he goes home that night, snow crunching under his feet and a cold breeze swifting and swirling on the back of his ears, he feels warm. Never in his entire life has anyone been so considerate towards him with a gift, not even his own parents, and certainly not his farther relatives.
When he was younger, it was mostly educational gifts: toys with letters and numbers in multiple languages, or trivia game booklets, or, god forbid, another artist set with markers and pastels to try and make him into what his parents were. Don’t get him wrong—he was never bad at art; he just didn’t enjoy it, really, as much as he should for someone whose future was expected to consist of it. He just liked playing outside, for the most part, so gift-giving became a difficult maneuver. From teaching games as a child turned into practical things he needs as an adult, like a new set of pajamas because his old set became tattered, or pots and pans that aren't all scratched up, or a new Roomba vacuum.
He’s never had something filled with so much sentimentality because the gift essentially acted as a thank-you, which he’d never had before. Gifts given to him in the past were done earnestly and with effort and money, and sometimes, from aunts and uncles, without much thought at all: candies he didn’t like, merch for fandoms he wasn’t in, jokes on things he's sensitive about. He’d never felt so seen through a gift before.
Sure, he cried a little at receiving it—hardly, just… watery eyes, and Hao could probably smell the almost disproportionate reaction to his gift, but it didn’t matter to him at that moment. At least, not then. Now, as he opens the door to his house, he feels a bit embarrassed.
He had eaten a few pieces of the pineapple candy throughout the day, and they were good, tangy, and sweet, but sweeter in a different way. Realistically, it was because the candy had incorporated some real pineapple or juice concentrate, which was made in China, rather than the high-fructose corn syrup in the pineapple candies at the store around the corner. Realizing there’s a tangible difference in taste and that he can’t exactly get more whenever he pleases, he slows down on consuming them, saving the rest for a different day.
The bracelet, which smells like Hao and has the cutest little mango charm on it, ends up under his pillow. It’s not that he nests—hell, if he did, who knows if he would ever let anyone into his room again. He simply likes to have Hao’s scent close in stupid, impractical ways that don't mimic comfort or safety at all. The sharp end of his belt that he wore while out to lunch with Hao isn't exactly safe, as it poked into his skin overnight, nor is it comfortable to have a wooden bracelet under his pillow, but he couldn’t let it go, and this way, the scent will stay on longer and more strongly. It’s silly, but having a bit of Hao’s freaking him out.
So, he procrastinates. First, with the slow, typical routine of getting unready for work. Unbuttoning each button of his shirt, pulling down his slacks, rinsing the gel out of his hair, and brushing his teeth. He takes a suppressant to tame the way his entire body is itching, which kicks in smoothly. He even flosses.
He cooks himself an early dinner (late lunch?) and curls up on the couch for a short nap after he finishes his meal. He draws the curtains in, blocks out the bright light of snow and the afternoon sky, and makes his home more intimate and cozy as he wraps himself up in blankets and sips on a can of pre-made coffee. He works on his lesson plans despite being a teacher long enough that it’s really unneeded. He types mindlessly and does a crossword puzzle online.
Despite the suppressant, his mind and body remain restless, now a bit sore, and his head feels hot, like there’s been a rush of blood to it, and his skin is so sensitive and reactive to every texture and fiber on everything he touches. He can feel the weight of the air, even.
Okay, fine. He relents, getting over himself, he grabs the letter from his room, feeling the yellow wax seal against his thumb, smooth with little ridges on it, and thick. He takes a sniff because he can’t help himself at this point and slowly, painstakingly slowly, opens it, unfolding the paper and noting the neat penmanship of Hao's writing.
To Hanbin ♡,
Honestly, I’m using a translator for some of the things I want to say, so sorry if they come out wrong. On top of that, I’m not really the best at being all sentimental like this, but I felt that you deserved something like this in return for all you have done for me.
When I moved to Seoul, I wasn’t expecting such a warm welcome. I thought that, at best, I would maybe make friends with a person who would only interact with me when we just so happened to pass by. I would have been thankful for even that, honestly. Instead, I met you, who goes out of your way to see me when you don’t have to and check in on me and give me all these nice gifts like food and coffee and clothes and the such. At first, I thought that maybe it could have been a prank that the universe was pulling on me, giving me the chance to meet somebody so kind and warm.
I’m glad, though, that it wasn’t a prank, and that everything you have done for me is done with nothing but genuinity. It may not seem like it, but it really does mean so much to me. I’m happy that I can go into the new year with you in my life!
Happy Holidays,
Hao 𖠰❆
Hanbin reads the letter once, twice over. Hao’s handwriting is becoming blurrier with each read, but he figures it may be the ink smudging, and most definitely not the fact that he’s crying, little rivulets coming down his warm cheeks. Despite how he’s wiping them away with his palms, there’s only more to come seconds later. It’s a losing battle, so Hanbin sets the letter aside before he can get water on it…. from a glass, or something of the like.
With a shuddering breath, he leans back onto the couch cushions and lets his hair fan out a little. In his secluded home, he has the privacy to let his emotions run free, yet he hesitates, still, and lets the pain of holding tears back sit in his throat and chest, twisting painfully. The gift alone—the thoughtfulness alone, the fact that Hao had gotten him a gift at all, had made his entire being swell with such exponential accuracy that it was hard to contain, and now, with the letter beside him and the winter light dancing behind his curtains, the tenderness within him only gets worse. He feels so… valued, prized, as if Hao sees him in some sort of light he can’t recognize—the way insects see a million more colours than humans can manage, or how an artist can feel the art as they look at it—a deep understanding of him that he hadn't considered before. He knew Hao was grateful, if not for him saying it at every kind gesture, but also in his scent, the way it’d become warm and spread out, sweetened at the edges, or the way his eyes light up at every new gift, as if he’d never seen anything like it before and the world is still bright and new to him. He knew that Hao liked being around Hanbin; he just hadn’t realized that the feeling wasn’t as superficial as he’d thought, that it was also deep and pulling like a sinkhole widening between his feet. Sure, it wasn’t as visceral, all-consuming, or sickening as it was on his end, but it was… sweet, in its simplicity, that Hao could simply enjoy his presence and be happy when he’s around, that Hanbin could have someone think of him that way, so genuine in his affections. Unlike Matthew, whom he’s pretty sure is holding back an eyeroll every time he starts to talk.
The emotionality within him tampers off, and he’s eventually able to see clearly again with no pesky tears in his way, and he’s able to get himself some water. That warmth within him is quickly replaced with something a lot more sweltering and intense. It makes him pause and lean against the counter, and with a striking insightfulness, he notes that it’s his imprint, which had a mind of its own, and apparently a bit of lag, considering it's just now deciding to act up over the letter. It, luckily, recognizes that Hao’s gratitude is a good thing, and rewards him with a sudden wave of relief within him, like the feeling of coming up for air after going underwater too long, gasping and blinking the water out of his eyes, trying to forget how close he’d gotten to not surfacing…
As the night fades and the morning comes and days continue to pass, it’s hard to pretend like this isn’t affecting him, like it didn’t viscerally complete him in a way he didn’t know he needed. He continues his routines, but there’s a new effervescence in his motions, something besides the ache and spark that is his imprint, outside of the cooing of Hao’s adorableness and awe of his beauty—a grounded appreciation, something more tangible that he can feel every time their hands brush, because it’s no longer unbelievable that Hao can be just as grateful to meet him; it’s reciprocated, one small tunnel feeding back into the gaping hole that is his imprint.
He decides that tonight is a special occasion enough, with all his emotional revelations and those of the like, and decides to pop another piece of candy in his mouth, letting it melt against his tongue before he lulls himself to sleep.