Archive of Our Own ^beta

I.

“Good morning.”

Zhang Hao doesn’t even startle at the sudden intrusion so early in the morning. This isn’t the first time Taerae has magically materialized inside his home — it wouldn’t even be the tenth — so he doesn’t flinch as he looks up from his breakfast (if a very specific matcha blend and six different vitamins count as “breakfast”) to see perfectly parted bangs and eyes that are too bright and alert for seven in the morning peering at him.

He mumbles something to the effect of mnnroning which seems to be satisfactory enough for Taerae to continue on with the purpose of his breaking and entering.

“I have a few updates for you before I head into the office.”

Zhang Hao still has a bedhead. His cheeks are still entirely puffed beyond recognition. His wire-rimmed glasses are pushed all the way up his nose, not even artfully dragged low so he can stare sexily above them in a practiced form of fanservice. He’s still in his ratty camp shirt from high school, the one that has fairly inappropriate text on it in what sixteen year olds at the time had thought was an especially lewd and funny pun. He sighs. “You couldn’t have waited until the car?”

“No, because I have an important call at 8:30, and then a full day of meetings,” Taerae refutes swiftly, taking out his phone to no doubt scroll through his extensive notes. And then he launches straight into it: “First, we’ve decided to rebook your flight next month because they changed the awards schedule and you’ll only be needed for the premiere night, so you’ll fly out on Sunday instead of Monday. Second, the company is finishing renovation on the studio all next week, so we’ll have to use your home one for the radio interview Wednesday. Do you want me to send someone over to help you prep?”

Zhang Hao shakes his head listlessly. Contrary to his laidback behavior now, he doesn’t like people in his home — trauma, he thinks, or his therapist likes to say, from a few incidents back during the heydays of the idol group. His lack of any other response seems to prompt Taerae back into the rote reading of his list.

“Third, your husband wants a divorce. They sent over some papers from their side this morning, so I’ll go over them and consult some company lawyers before letting you know if we need to take any legal action. And lastly, Kuanjui has finally got the outfit for your look tonight, and he’ll be over at four to get you ready. Any questions?”

Zhang Hao squints blearily at his manager-slash-assistant — and friend — but wholly in this moment his manager. “What was that?”

“Did you hear anything I just said?” Taerae complains, tapping on his phone. Most likely writing something horrible like ‘buy Zhang Hao a new alarm clock that will annoy the living daylights out of him but have him prepped and ready to go by seven a.m. every morning.’

“Yes,” Zhang Hao refutes. “The one— you— my husband.”

“Ah,” Taerae freezes, caught. He had most likely thought if he shoved it in with the rest of his tirade Zhang Hao’s sleep-fogged brain would miss it completely. “You remember Hanbin? He wants a divorce.”

Zhang Hao downs his matcha all in one go, but it’s not enough. The situation has very clearly devolved into something that requires a cold brew and at least two shots of caffeine. He gets up from his kitchen island, going over to his extravagant and definitely overpriced coffee machine considering he only ever uses it to make one basic drink.

“Zhang Hao?” Taerae sounds a bit more tentative.

He props his hip against the counter and waits for the coffee to start. “I heard you.”

“Okay,” Taerae drags the two syllables out slowly. “You’re all good then?”

Zhang Hao wants to give him a bitter, caustic laugh. But that’s where the friend boundary comes in — he knows it’s not Taerae’s fault that this piece of news has entirely ruined his day. He is, in fact, not good. Not when the husband he’s had for five years suddenly wants a split out of nowhere; the husband he’s only seen a handful of times in person, who he sees far more often plastered across posters or in a brief glimpse of a movie trailer or taken in press photos on some red carpet looking utterly dashing and handsome and lovely — but never for him. “Why would I care if he wants a divorce?”

Taerae hums uncertainly, the same hum he gives when another member of the staff is causing problems or there’s some delay or another with Zhang Hao’s wardrobe or car and hence his perfectly laid schedule. A hitch in the plan. Zhang Hao’s reaction is a hitch in the plan. At this moment, he can’t quite bring himself to care.

“I’ll get over myself,” Zhang Hao sighs. The coffee finally starts to pour. “Don’t worry about it.”

“We’ll make sure to keep it down low,” Taerae reassures. “I won’t allow any leaks to the press. At least until we figure out our side of the story.”

He appreciates Taerae, he really does. And he knows this is what he should be worrying about: his reputation, his job and the jobs of hundreds of other people who all rely on him. A divorce can get messy, awful, and invite the worst sort of speculation and rumors. If they don’t play this right, it could be a significant blow to his image and, thus, his opportunities etcetera etcetera trickle down effect or some such other thing. Zhang Hao gets it.

Especially because at the core is the most terrible secret that they’ve somehow managed to keep from the public: that it was all fake to begin with. That A-list actor, Emmy-nominated drama star Sung Hanbin and Billboard 100 record-holder Zhang Hao had once been desperate enough for the fame that they have now that they had been willing to risk everything.

Everything, Zhang Hao thinks bitterly. It had certainly felt that way. It still feels that way now, if he’s being honest with himself, if he lets himself linger on the memories too long. But luxury and fame and his job have been able to sand away the sharpest edges of his regret and rage. Or so he had thought. Until Taerae had brought up that Sung fucking Hanbin wanted a fucking divorce.

“That’s good,” he manages to choke out, hoping he doesn’t sound as livid as he is.

“And what about you?” Taerae pries, flitting across the line between manager and friend, as he usually does. “Are you okay with a divorce?”

Zhang Hao slowly pours his coffee into a limited edition tumbler decorated with TOKYO block-printed in bold lettering on the side, envisioning that the dark, swirling liquid is his anger slowly being drained away. Another tactic from his therapist — it doesn’t work.

“Yeah, I don’t care.” Lying has always served him best. Zhang Hao turns to leave his kitchen, confident that Taerae will find his own way out, just like how he’d gotten in. “It’s not like we’re actually married anyway.”

The thing is they are actually, technically, legally married.

There’s a marriage certificate and license, signed by the two of them that proclaims them husbands tucked away in the safe in the depths of Zhang Hao’s sprawling mansion. There had been two witnesses at the wedding as prescribed by the courthouse: Zhang Hao’s former group mate and Hanbin’s agent at the time. That was, apparently, all it took to be legally bound to another person for the rest of his life. Or at least five measly years, until one of them decides for some arbitrary reason that their civil union is no longer working out for him.

It’s the only thing that Zhang Hao is able to think about for the rest of the day. Even as he shuts himself in his recording studio, conveniently added to his home a year ago, and sings until his throat feels raw. He exits at half past two, slightly woozy, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, and in desperate need of hot tea with honey. He finds one of the pre-prepped healthy meals his chef made over the weekend in the fridge and sets it in the microwave before starting the kettle.

His phone pings from the marble countertop, catching his attention. It’s a trending alert — his trending alert. Zhang Hao frowns and swipes the notification. He hasn’t done very much this week. No public appearances, barely even any posts besides a shot of his lunch two days ago. He’s supposedly “preparing for his next album” these days according to the fans — even though they don’t know that it’s not going very well — and he has seen their meticulously tracked list of his schedules; the next one they know of isn’t until tonight.

Anxiety seizes him in the half second that it takes for his screen to load — what if the fans have found out about the divorce? What if Taerae wasn’t able to stop Hanbin’s side from leaking it to the press? What if they put some sort of spin on the story that would make sure Hanbin’s career got a boost while subsequently throwing his own career under the metaphorical bus? At least four different nasty rumors they could start about him drift through Zhang Hao’s mind as the blank page finally populates into view.

It’s a photo of him — clad in a shimmering pale blue ensemble that shows off his pronounced collarbones and hugs the smooth definition of his thighs. The shot is particularly good, even by his own standards. It’s lit in a way that spotlights him at the top of a curved staircase, fairy lights creating a dazzling backdrop for the photo and bouncing light off the shimmer of his eyeshadow and the gloss of his lips. It catches his sharp jaw and the push of his cheekbones, giving him an ethereal, elfin quality.

Zhang Hao’s heart doesn’t quiet its hastened rhythm even as he scrolls, seeing more and more angles of him in the enchanting cerulean outfit. It’s not until twenty minutes of scouring later, where he doesn’t see a hint of the divorce news but does see at least ten very colorfully worded posts asking for him to fuck them — or vice versa — that he locks his phone with a relieved sigh. His respite is short-lived when his kettle goes off, making him jump. Zhang Jao chuckles at himself ruefully as he goes to take it off the stove and steep his tea; his meal also sitting untouched in the microwave for ten minutes now.

His therapist had talked to him about this, too — his obsession with what people are saying about him. His image. It’s an occupational hazard, Zhang Hao would explain away each time. It’s a little hard not to care when how people perceive him is directly tied to his livelihood. In return he gets a gently worded reminder that he’s rich now, that he lives in a fancy house in a fancy neighborhood with all the fancy things his heart desires. And Zhang Hao knows how privileged he is to have all these things, which is why he has never forgotten how they were achieved.

Which brings him right back around to the same thing he’s been thinking about all day. Unbidden, he swipes to the photos on his phone, scrolling until he hits the album that he usually doesn’t open until he absolutely has to. It has a small lock icon next to it. It allows Zhang Hao one second to back out as it scans his features, as the small circle loads. He doesn’t.

His own smiling face greets him in the top photo, tiny on his screen, but Zhang Hao has seen it enough times to know exactly what it looks like. He taps on it anyway. In the photo, his cheeks are pushed all the way up, round and sticking out from his face. They’re slightly flushed, though the other set of cheeks pushed right against his put them to shame. Hanbin’s cheeks are a deep, blazing pink. They’re less round than Zhang Hao’s, but they feature three endearing lines, his signature dimple. The one Zhang Hao has seen fans fawn over online, that they say make him look so sweet and darling and adorable.

Both of their features are slightly younger. Hanbin’s face a bit rounder, Zhang Hao’s eyes a little smaller. And seeing them now, a sudden sadness washes over him, unwelcome and unhelpful. Panic and anger — the two feelings that have been warring in him all day — are much easier to manage. He can take it out on his vocal chords; he can curse Hanbin out in his mind for maximum satisfaction; he can channel it into productivity and inspiration. Hurt and loss, well, there’s a reason he doesn’t like to dwell on either. But instead of exiting the album as he should, Zhang Hao swipes left.

A shot of Hanbin sitting across from him at a table, various dishes spread out before them, a pair of chopsticks in his hand. Their first meal out together. Neither of them are dressed up. Hanbin’s t-shirt looks nearly threadbare, the collar stretched wide. It hadn’t been all that warm that day either, and Zhang Hao remembers reminding him to bring a jacket next time.

Swipe.

Hanbin walking ahead of him down a park path. It’d been a tiny thing, crammed between two dingy apartment buildings, small enough that it had only taken them six minutes to do a full loop.

Swipe.

The view out of the front of Hanbin’s car. There was a small, white bobblehead cat on the dashboard. What was its name again? Zhang Hao can’t quite remember — he doesn’t know if that means he’s really healing.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

All of the photos he hasn’t been able to bear deleting. All of the photos that he can’t delete. Because the world believes they’re living every single day in marital bliss; and they want to see it, too.

He reaches the photos at the end of the album before his tears can really get going. Zhang Hao sniffles slightly, clearing the block in his nose, willing the pressure behind his eyes to abate. These more recent photos are ones that Hanbin’s manager sends over — obviously it’s never the two of them together, just photos of Hanbin going about his daily life, taken from the perspective of a dutiful husband who joins him for mornings at the gym and plans romantic dinners in his fancy four-floor penthouse apartment and flies across the country with him in their private plane. The last batch of photos was sent over a few months ago.

Zhang Hao wonders what’s changed since then.

Ping! The incoming notification jolts him out of his somber wallowing, snapping him back to reality, to an empty plate, the slant of the setting sun through his windows, his empty house, and the message at the top of the screen telling him that Kuanjui is on the way. Right, the event tonight.

Zhang Hao winces internally at the thought of having to answer questions about Hanbin in a few hours. He wonders if he should tell Taerae that he’s skipping the red carpet, but then people will start to speculate and that’s probably even worse. He sighs, tapping into the text.

2:47 PM
Zhang Hao
> i need to look extra hot tonight

Chen Kuanjui
> I’m kind of offended
> I always make you look hot

Zhang Hao
> so hot i get another letter written in blood

Chen Kuanjui
> damn not that again
> What happened

Zhang Hao
> i’ll tell you when you get here

Chen Kuanjui
> There better not be a dead body
> or tell me now so I can ditch my team

Zhang Hao
> don’t worry there’s no body
> yet

“How dare he!”

Zhang Hao knew telling Kuanjui had been a good idea. He doesn’t want to get caught up in his own feelings of hurt and frustration. No, he wants to shit talk Hanbin and everything that he’s put him through with the only person on Earth he knows to be more cutting and caustic than himself.

“I don’t get it,” Zhang Hao mumbles as the makeup artist dabs at the corner of his lips with a brush, thankful that Kuanjui’s team is so discreet. Besides, they’ve been over enough times to know the marriage is either not real or horribly on the rocks, which, Zhang Hao thinks bitterly, is now both true. “Like I’m literally perfect, why would he want a divorce?”

“Ungrateful, that’s what he is,” Kuanjui snaps, shuffling eyeshadow palettes around on the vanity. “You two have a good thing going here, and he’s going to ruin it for what?”

A horrible, sickening realization washes over Zhang Hao. “You don’t think he met someone do you?”

“Met who?” Kuanjui asks almost absently, opening a palette before shutting it almost instantly with a dismissive snap.

“Someone,” Zhang Hao emphasizes. “Like someone he actually wants to be with.”

Kuanjui shoots him a look. “Be serious.”

His plummeting stomach at the mere thought of it tells Zhang Hao that he’s being more serious than he would like to be, that the possibility is not as ridiculous as Kuanjui wants to make it seem like. “He could have met another actor. Or even a producer, or a director. Some cute costume designer that he started flirting with while getting his fittings done, a casting director who became sweet on him, caught the eye of a dancer in one of his shows or—.”

He suddenly finds his chair being swiveled away from the mirror. Kuanjui leans over him with his two hands planted on the armrests and a frown on his face. “Stop. No more spiraling.”

Zhang Hao stares sullenly up at his best friend. It’s not that easy — even now his mind is concocting a number of awful, vomit-inducing scenarios of Hanbin going out to coffee with some beautiful, mysterious man, inviting him back to his high-rise penthouse apartment, having him help him with his audition lines, grinning when he beings him flowers after a successful show. Zhang Hao thinks he’s going to be sick. He says that part out loud.

“Listen, listen, listen,” Kuanjui placates hurriedly. “He might be an asshole, but I don’t think he’s a cheater. Like you two are still married.”

“Not really,” Zhang Jao mumbles.

“In any case, he knows how bad that would look, for both of you.”

“And that’s why he wants to divorce,” Zhang Hao mutters dejectedly. He throws his head back in a wail, most likely scaring the poor makeup artist — Cammie, he thinks her name is. “He’s found someone new, and I’m going to die alone and unloved with not even a pet to remember me by!”

Kuanjui sighs in defeat, losing Zhang Hao to his own catastrophising. He pats Zhang Hao’s shoulder. “I’ll remember you.”

“You’ll also find somebody and leave me all alone, too, just you wait.”

“No, I won’t,” Kuanjui says confidently. “There’s no one good enough for me out there.”

Zhang Hao chooses not to answer as Cammie starts reapplying his lip color once more, staring mulishly at his reflection in the mirror. He has to admit Kuanjui has outdone himself, so much so that Zhang Hao thinks he might have to start fearing for his life because this look with the messy bangs and smoky eye and kiss-bitten lips will definitely have his stalkers trying harder than ever before.

“Look,” Kuanjui starts again after allowing him to stew for ten minutes. “Here’s what you do. You go out there and you find somebody.”

“I don’t want to find somebody.”

“Yes, you do. Because think about how awful he’s going to feel once you’re glowing and in love and living your best life.”

“He won’t even care!” Zhang Hao despairs.

Kuanjui pinches the bridge of his nose as if this conversation is giving him a migraine. “I did not get you all sexy and beautiful for you to mope around all night.”

“I do look very sexy and beautiful,” Zhang Hao relents. Even his dour expression and bad mood does nothing to tamper the alluring quality of his styling, in fact it makes him more mysterious.

“Thank you,” Kuanjui preens. And then he narrows his eyes at Zhang Hao’s reflection. “So what are you not going to do?”

“Waste it.”

“Very good,” Kuanjui encourages. “And?”

“I’m going to look so hot Hanbin forgets all about the person he’s cheating on me with, and when he comes running back I will turn him down cruelly and mercilessly and throw him to the curb!”

“That’s the spirit!” Kuanjui claps gleefully. “You’re ready for the outfit now.”

‘The outfit’ turns out to be a single loosely buttoned black tuxedo jacket and matching dark slacks. The shoulders are structured, exaggerating the taper of Zhang Hao’s waist, and the open v-neck at the front is just wide enough that the interplay of hollow shadows offer a tantalizing view of his pale, milky chest.

“It had come with a sheer top, but I think this look is a little better,” Kuanjui explains, turning Zhang Hao by his hip to check the tailoring of his pants in the back. “It’s a little more fresh. Sheer is so three years ago.”

“Versus being naked?”

“You get it.”

Zhang Hao does not think he ‘gets it,’ but then Kuanjui is muttering something to one of his assistants who suddenly runs out of the room.

“What?”

“This needs a belt,” Kuanjui says with such confidence Zhang Hao doesn’t even question it.

Indeed, when the assistant runs back in with multiple belts from which Kuanjui selects a thin, dark burgundy leather one, Zhang Hao does get it. He doesn’t know how Kuanjui does it, but he tucks the jacket just right so it accentuates his waist even more, cinches in at all the right places, at the perfect height to show off his long legs. Zhang Hao turns left and right in front of the mirror, mouth falling open at just how lithe he looks, the slight flash of red tantalizing and slinky, completing a look that just screams grab me by the waist and throw me on the bed.

He isn’t going to waste this one bit.

The flash of cameras is always blinding.

He looks slightly off to the side of the popping bulbs, affecting an aloof and sulky stare, when in actuality he’s just trying to preserve his delicate retinas. Besides, Zhang Hao is too old to pull off the wide-eyed, stunned and naive look anymore.

“Zhang Hao! Zhang Hao!” The photographers call. “Smile here! Turn this way!”

He poses with his arms relaxed next to him, shoulders pushed back, hip slightly cocked to the side — he’s learned after many hours in front of the mirror that this pose enhances the length of his legs, exaggerates the curve of his hip. Zhang Hao shuffles along, like a product on a conveyor belt, to the next group of photographers and then the next. He lingers on the end, eager to postpone the interviews for as long as possible.

“You’re determined to break some hearts tonight, aren’t you?” Taerae comes up to him immediately as he exits the press photo area. Despite his praise, he has a slight frown on his face.

“Do I really have to do this?” Zhang Hao grumbles under his breath. “Can’t I just sneak in through the back?”

“This is their hundred-year anniversary event, and you are their ambassador — we promised them press.” Taerae shakes his head.

Zhang Hao bites back his groan. Usually he doesn’t mind interviews — he loves talking about himself. But there’s a lot on his mind tonight, making him ill-suited to quippy conversation and entertaining banter. Zhang Hao squares his shoulders as if getting ready for battle, and Taerae gives him a little push towards the two reporters, a man and a vaguely familiar woman.

“And now we have global brand ambassador and Grammy-nominated singer Zhang Hao with us,” the woman gushes, her heavily lined eyes large and her smile exaggerated. “It’s so good to see you again!”

He ignores the camera trained on them from three feet away, working hard to return both of their blinding smiles with a warm one of his own. “Likewise,” he demures.

“And you look as stunning as always,” the woman continues, giving him an appraising look up and down. “Tell me who you’re wearing tonight.”

Zhang Hao rattles off the designer list that Kuanjui had drilled into him earlier tonight — Calvin Klein, Khaite, and, of course, Chanel.

“Kuanjui always does a marvelous job,” she gushes. “You two are quite the pair.”

“He just gets my personal style and the … impact I want to achieve,” Zhang Hao agrees not with a tad bit of irony.

“And I’m sure he’s over the moon at getting to style someone as fashionable as you.”

If only she knew what he had been wearing that morning. Zhang Hao simply nods in agreement before she rattles on about the details of the event — one of the biggest design houses in the world is auctioning their prized vault pieces: antiques, accessories worn by late starlets and Hollywood legends, originals of their best-selling pieces that now have millions of duplicates around the world.

“And where is your husband this fine evening?” the man asks with a practiced grin.

It’s supposed to be a soft ball. A throwaway opening line to warm him up before they start discussing any of the real questions that they have for him. Because anyone who is actually married, who is actually hopelessly in love with their husband, who actually talks to their husband every day would have no problem whatsoever answering this question. Except he and Hanbin are none of those things, and Zhang Hao has no idea what his husband is doing right now.

He’s usually better prepared than this. Half a decade of lying has taught him much about straddling the line between truth and fiction — between giving just enough to fend off any further prying and to keep himself off the hook. Except his brain is all jumbled from the revelation of the divorce, and Zhang Hao starts to panic that any of his usual refrains won’t be enough to convince everyone that their fake but friendly agreement had ever been anything more. It takes him just a moment too long to answer, and he can’t quite meet either of their eyes when he replies, “Ah, he couldn’t make it tonight, but he did rather enjoy my outfit before I left the house.”

“So he’s here in LA?” the woman leans forward, a glimmer in her eyes.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Oh, um, I mean we called.”

The man moves on after that to highlighting some of the auctioned items and asks Zhang Hao about his most memorable experiences with the brand and his favorite pieces. It’s all practiced promotion, easy stuff really, if he wasn’t still reeling from their question — and his own reaction. His paranoia starts to act up as the camera trains in on his expression, second guessing his answers, making his laugh a little stilted, his back a bit stiff. Thankfully, the interview wraps quickly.

Zhang Hao holds Taerae’s arm in a vice grip as they head toward the grand ballroom on the other side of the palatial hotel lobby. “Have you heard back from Hanbin’s people yet?” he whispers under his breath.

Taerae casts a look around the high-ceilinged room when they enter. “I’ll tell you later — not here.”

Zhang Hao sighs with impatience, but figures that’s best with this place swarming with opportunists and reporters. There’s an elevated stage at the far end of the room in front of various round tables draped in damask crepe cloth. Servers with trays of champagne move around the room as people mingle.

“Don’t think about that anymore tonight,” Taerae insists, indicating the table Zhang Hao has been seated at — next to two raised tables on the side of the room where auctioneers will be taking phone calls from people viewing through an invite-only link. “No press in here, so just go and enjoy yourself.”

“You’re going to regret you said that when I go home with a two-million dollar bracelet tonight,” Zhang Hao half jokes.

Taerae rolls his eyes. “It’s your bank account.”

They part ways at Zhang Hao’s table, Taerae shuffling off into an auxiliary room for less famous people, namely everyone’s agents and managers and the reporters from outside. There are thick books arranged among the crystalline water glasses and opulent floral arrangements on the table detailing the items on auction for tonight, their opening prices and lot numbers. Zhang Hao browses idly, attention catching on a particularly beautiful pair of diamond eternity rings set in a vintage band. His eyes nearly bug out of his head at the starting price.

“Good choice,” A clear, deep voice murmurs from over his shoulder. “Though I’m a three-stone guy myself.”

Zhang Hao glances up curiously to see a winning smile set into a pleasing, handsome face. The man has a sharp nose and slightly tapered eyes, giving him a naturally mischievous look. Though perhaps it’s just the insouciant smirk that he wears.

“Park Hanbin,” the man introduces himself, reaching out a hand that Zhang Hao takes.

“Zhang Hao,” he replies, trying to hold back a burst of ridiculous laughter. It figures that Hanbin’s name would haunt him even here.

“This one,” Park Hanbin prompts, taking a seat and flipping open his own booklet to a page that shows off a massive marquese cut diamond with white-gold band. “I’d say this is probably the star of the show tonight.”

“Thanks,” Zhang Hao offers. “Though I don’t think any of these are in my budget.”

Hanbin laughs, friendly and loud. “Oh, me neither. But it’s fun to dream, right?”

Zhang Hao quirks up one side of his lips. “Right.”

“So if you’re not planning on bidding, what are you doing here tonight, Zhang Hao?”

“I’m an ambassador,” he shrugs. “My management thought I should come.”

“Ah, another unwilling victim.” Hanbin nods his head sagely.

“And what about you?”

“My parents,” Hanbin smiles self-deprecatingly. “They love sending me to these events in their place.”

A waiter steps into Zhang Hao’s line of sight and offers them both flutes of champagne, which he graciously accepts. He takes a long sip, feeling the bubbles tickle his nose, before inquiring out of politeness. “What do your parents do?”

“Mainly in real estate — some hotels. A failed business or two. The usual,” Hanbin chuckles.

“Right,” Zhang Hao nods. He knows the type.

Hanbin leans in closer, a twinkle in his eye that really completes the whole impish look he pulls off quite well. “I’m just pulling your leg, by the way. I know who you are.”

Zhang Hao gives him a wary look.

“Oh, I don’t mean— like, I’m not a crazy fan or anything,” Hanbin quickly explains.

He arches his brow, unimpressed.

Hanbin laughs nervously. “I enjoy your music. You’ve got a great voice, but I’m not one of those stalkers who came here just to follow you. I really did get placed at this table, I swear.”

It’s his turn to lean in with a small laugh, breaking his indomitable look. “I know. I’m just returning the favor.”

That seems to delight Hanbin who laughs against the rim of his champagne glass. The two of them strike up a conversation about music after that — Hanbin asking about a few of Zhang Hao’s most famous songs, namely, his breakout hit that landed him his first Grammy nomination. In turn, Zhang Hao asks what sort of music Hanbin likes, never too aboveboard to do some market research, and they find that they have fairly similar tastes.

“I’ve always wanted to do something a bit slower, experimental like that,” Zhang Hao muses. “But my label doesn’t think that will sell, particularly based on the demographic of my fans.”

“If I know anything about pop stars, it’s that their fans will support anything they release,” Hanbin points out.

Zhang Hao laughs. “You’re not wrong, but there’s also a certain marketability about having mass appeal. My songs get played on the radio; I get movie soundtrack deals, all of that.”

Hanbin’s eyes are serious as they look into Zhang Hao’s own. As if imploring him for an answer beyond their superficial, amicable chat. “But is that really what you want to be defined by in your prime?”

For some reason, the way Park Hanbin asks it actually makes Zhang Hao pause to think. Even though the answer comes to him immediately. “No, not really.”

“For what it’s worth, I’d love to hear that sort of music from you.”

And hearing someone say that, surprisingly, means more to Zhang Hao than he realized it would.

The auction is slow, boring even, mostly because after an hour the disgusting amounts of money being thrown around no longer hold any sort of shock factor. Even the competitive bidding for certain high-ticket items fail to keep Zhang Hao’s attention. He’s started picking at the small appetizers they’ve brought around — lobster tarts, bourbon-glazed walnut brittles, spoonfuls of caviar on herb crostinis. The only highlight of the night is Park Hanbin’s snarky commentary, which Zhang Hao gladly partakes in when an old man purchases a prohibitively expensive diamond-encrusted clutch.

“For his mistress, probably,” Zhang Hao whispers to which Hanbin barely manages to hold back his snort.

One more grueling hour later, after the two of them have started concocting a fantastical scenario in which a famous actor and model sitting across the room has a secret lovechild, the auction finally comes to a close with an eye-popping fifteen-million-dollar sale.

Zhang Hao loses Hanbin in the bustle of the room shortly after, presuming his new friend has gone off to greet his parents, so he also starts making his way out of the room, nodding and smiling at the few faces he recognizes, a music producer, another artist, an up-and-coming streaming show star. He breathes a sigh of relief when he spots Taerae waiting for him just outside the ballroom, tapping away on his phone.

“I’m so glad that’s over with,” he mutters.

Taerae hums, finishing his typing before looking up with a frown.

He doesn’t like that look. “What?”

“Your car is delayed. Some accident a few blocks over.”

“How long?”

“We’re in the city,” Taerae says, like that should explain everything. “We could be here for hours.”

“Hours?” Zhang Hao echoes, disbelieving. “What about your car?”

“I biked.”

“We could both bike,” Zhang Hao offers, desperate.

“I will not have you seen on a bike pedaling through downtown. Also it will probably rip your suit before you can get to the next intersection, and then Kuanjui will skin us both alive.”

Zhang Hao feels his heart sink. Just what he needed to cap off an already monumentally long day. “You should just go,” he grumbles, resigned to his fate. “I’ll wait here for the driver.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Taerae dismisses. “I’ll wait with you.”

The crowd around them had already swelled, spilling out of the ballroom and is now starting to disperse, with photographers lurking in the street out front to capture departures and esteemed guests being ushered away by staff to the lucky few cars that had managed to arrive earlier.

“I don’t want you to be stuck here until past midnight, Taerae.”

His friend gives him a skeptical look. “And what about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Zhang Hao dismisses. There’s still plenty of people around — he doubts he’s the only one whose car has been affected by the accident. Though judging by how much people were spending in there, he wouldn’t be surprised if someone calls in a helicopter to get them airlifted home. Maybe he could sweet talk them into giving him a ride.

“Is your phone charged?” Taerae checks.

Zhang Hao nods. “I’ve barely touched it all night.”

Taerae still looks reluctant as he glances out towards the street. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Zhang Hao laughs. He gives Taerae a small push on his shoulder. “You’ve done your job for tonight. Go home.”

“Okay, fine, only because I have a call in a few hours with your China reps. But call or text me if anything happens, and I’ll be right back. Your security is in the car, so you should stay in the building until they get here,” Taerae points towards the ballroom they had just left.

“I got it,” Zhang Hao says, fond exasperation bleeding into his tone. He gives Taerae one more slight push and waves as he departs through the gleaming lobby, slipping past the slew of cameras crowding the glass doors.

Zhang Hao is about to turn to see if there’s a hotel bar or lounge that he can park himself at, when out of the corner of his eye he sees Park Hanbin walking briskly towards an elevator bank at the far side of the lobby. Before he can think too hard about it, he follows him.

“Hanbin!” he calls as he draws closer.

The other man’s dark head swivels around with a frown, before his expression opens up into a smile when he spots Zhang Hao rushing behind him. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Are you leaving?”

He nods, the artfully curled bangs hanging over his forehead bobbing. “My car is in the garage downstairs.”

Zhang Hao bites his lip, unsure, but also — still — desperate. “Would you be able to give me a ride? My ride is stuck down the street, some accident.”

Hanbin’s eyes widen a bit, but then he takes in Zhang Hao’s pleading look and darts his eyes over his shoulder at a few of the guests complaining to the hotel desk staff. “Yeah, sure,” he finally nods. “You can text me your address when we’re in the car.”

“Are you asking for my number?” Zhang Hao jokes without a thought as the elevator before them dings and they step in.

Hanbin barks out a laugh. “I wouldn’t dream of it; I know you’re married.”

The sudden mention is like a knife straight through his chest. Zhang Hao genuinely thinks his heart stops for a moment. Funnily enough, despite their similar name, he had been able to forget about Hanbin, at least just for two hours — an unbelievable reprieve that has now been broken in the most awful way. He’s still reeling when they step out of the elevator and out under fluorescent lights of the parking garage. There are a few staff and other guests milling around by the elevator bay, but nothing like the crowd upstairs. And no photographers.

Hanbin hands the valet a small red tab to fetch his car. While they wait, a few other groups exit the elevator, a few event staff, and guests dressed in evening wear and expensive tuxedos. There’s an older woman arguing with her husband over the amount spent tonight, and Zhang Hao and Hanbin share raised, amused eyebrows as they eavesdrop.

Soon enough, a sleek silver car pulls up to the curb. “This is me,” Hanbin says. He opens the door to the passenger seat for Zhang Hao to slip in before he tips the valet and gets in on the driver's side.

The ride is filled with more chatter of music as Hanbin plays him some of his favorites, and Zhang Hao is once again delighted by how their tastes overlap. He shares a few of his inspirations as well, along with some new releases by artists they both like, the two of them laughing and singing along to catchy lyrics. Despite the traffic, they soon make good progress out of the city, and Zhang Hao sends his driver a note to head home after getting out of the jam.

Frankly, it’s not a good idea to have anyone know his exact home address, but it’s a bit inevitable at this point. He’ll just have to make sure his security knows. And hope Taerae doesn’t kill him himself for getting into essentially a stranger’s car. At least he doesn’t have to worry about Hanbin murdering him for money. When they pull up in front of his gates, Zhang Hao insists on walking up his driveway though, not comfortable at all with a strange car driving right up to his door.

“Thank you for dropping me off,” he says again, smoothly sliding out of the car. He makes sure to check his pockets before ducking down again and grinning at Hanbin. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem at all.”

Hanbin gives him a small wave, and Zhang Hao shoots him another smile before shutting the door and watching the car pull away. He makes sure it gets all the way down the street before turning around and making his way up to his large, empty home.

Zhang Hao is fairly sure Taerae has a death wish.

It’s the only reason why he would be blowing up his phone at not even six in the morning. He groans and rolls over, smushing his face into the pillow as his phone starts ringing again. He had spent the last night tossing and turning, unable to sleep until nearly two in the morning. At least he’d resisted looking through his photo album again — or the old texts between him and Hanbin which sit at the bottom of his messages list, their last exchange probably more than six months ago.

The only thing that could make Zhang Hao forgive Taerae is if he told him right off the bat that Hanbin had somehow changed his mind about the divorce, which is, incidentally, not what he says when Zhang Hao finally grumbles and swipes to answer his call.

“How did you get home last night?” Taerae’s voice is sharp, accusing as soon as the line clicks through.

Zhang Hao furrows his brow, still a little groggy. “What?” It’s so early the sun isn’t even out yet. A dark gray void stares back at him from the gap in his blackout curtains.

“Tell me: How. did. you. get. home?”

“Uh.” It takes a moment for Zhang Hao to remember Park Hanbin. Ah. “I forgot to text you. I’m sorry. How did you even find out?” He should have known that he wouldn’t be able to pull a fast one on Taerae. His manager-slash-assistant is scarily well connected, and Zhang Hao fears, a little psychotic when he wants to be.

There’s a heavy pause on the other end of the line. Zhang Hao blinks blearily, realizing he had only gotten three hours of sleep. “Hello?” he mumbles into the line when Taerae still doesn’t answer.

“I found out—” Taerae’s voice is practically vibrating with anger. “—how you got home last night, because it is currently splashed over every tabloid site in the city and across every social media platform you can imagine!”

Zhang Hao shoots up in bed. “What?”

“I know you’re upset over the divorce, but you cannot just go hopping into cars with young, hot men at a moment’s notice. Who even is he anyway? My research tells me he’s some billionaire resort chain heir. How did you even meet him? I leave you alone for one night and—”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Zhang Hao feels like he’s been plunged headfirst into ice water. He sits, reeling into the darkness of his room. “What are you even talking about? I got a ride home with someone I met last night, but that’s it— what is going on?”

“What is going on is that there is a photo of you getting into a random man’s car all over the gossip rags and every available platform you can think of!”

Zhang Hao freezes. There’s no way. There’s no way. He’s been so careful — he’s always been so careful. And one night where he gets a little desperate, where he doesn’t even do anything and this happens? He can’t help but feel like it’s criminally unfair, even as a small voice in his head derides him for his naivety.

“That’s not what happened at all! That’s not even close to the truth. He gave me a ride and dropped me off. That— that was it!” Zhang Hao hears the growing horror in his own voice, the shaking syllable at the end. His breaths are coming in shorter and shorter pants, panic overtaking the numbness. And he knows he needs to get a handle on his nerves before he tips into a full blown panic attack. He digs his nails into the palm of his free hand, focusing on the pain while Taerae speaks.

“I believe you. But someone caught the two of you getting in his car together last night. The shot is blurry, so I don’t think it was an official photographer or you know I’d be calling everyone I know to figure out who did it to sue them for all they’re worth. It looks to be a phone photo, maybe one of the other guests or a staff at the event — don’t worry, I’ll find out. But I’m not going to lie, it looks … pretty incriminating.”

“I want to see it.”

“I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” Taerae hedges. “Maybe just stay home today — and stay off social media.”

“I want to see it. Text it to me,” Zhang Hao insists. When Taerae still doesn’t respond, he pushes. “It’s better for me to see it now rather than later when I inevitably let the anxiety win and go searching for it online.”

“Fine,” Taerae sighs heavily. “But be prepared. And I don’t want you to panic — I’m going to fix this, okay?”

A moment later Zhang Hao hears his text notification, and turns on the speaker so he can use his phone. His hands are shaking as he taps on Taerae’s message. His stomach drops when he sees it.

Park Hanbin has a hand on the silver car door, bending low with an easy smile on his face. His angled features and sharp eyes give him a smug and mischievous look that reeks of an opportune rendezvous, a secret tryst. From this angle it looks like he’s glancing down at him as he slides in the car. The only saving grace is he isn’t looking back at Park Hanbin at all, in fact only half of his face is visible, the other half covered by the silver chrome of the car. But it’s bad enough. He’s too recognizable. And Kuanjui did such a good job with his outfit that the smooth skin of his chest peeking out from the ‘V’ of his suit jacket lends the entire photograph a seductive, suggestive quality.

Fuck.

He doesn’t need Taerae to tell him any more. He already knows what’s going to be splashed across the magazines and the top headline on all the tabloid sites: Zhang Hao caught in an affair! Zhang Hao is a cheater! Zhang Hao ruins a five year marriage to darling actor Sung Hanbin! And even worse is the commentary, the fucking posts online that are already no doubt calling him some of the most filthy, derisive things known to man. “It’s over,” he whispers in horror. “My life is fucking over.”

“It is not over,” Taerae asserts, sounding far more sure than Zhang Hao feels like he has any right to be. “I’m sure we’ll be able to clear this up.”

“It’ll be too late!” Zhang Hao wails. “People will have already seen — you said it’s everywhere. They won’t care if it’s not real, they won’t care if we somehow can prove what happened last night. In everyone’s eyes I’m already a cheater — a scum, a whore!”

“Don’t say such things about yourself, it’s not good for your mental health.”

“In case you didn’t know, my mental health is down the drain!”

“Just give me one day, okay?” Taerae insists. “One day, twenty-four hours to figure something out. Don’t do anything crazy, please.” It’s the first time during this conversation that Zhang Hao has heard Taerae actually sound scared. Not livid, not worried, not even considering. Taerae sighs, heavy hearted on the other end of the line. “I know it looks and feels bad right now. And I’m sorry I didn’t break it to you gentler. I … should have known better. But this isn’t something we can’t deal with. We’ve already dealt with worse, remember?”

He nods slowly.

“Hao?” Gently, softly.

He realizes Taerae can’t see him. “Yeah,” he croaks.

“Okay, yeah. We’ll get through this just fine; you will be fine. Just please stay home today. I’ll cancel whatever is on your schedule. If you want Kuanjui to still come over to pick up the clothes, that’s your call. But please, please for the love of God stay off of your socials. If you feel the urge, call your therapist.”

“Okay,” Zhang Hao replies, monotone.

It’s certainly not convincing, but after a couple more reassurances, Taerae hangs up, probably off to spend his whole day fixing this colossal, flaming mess.

Zhang Hao feels sick as he’s left staring down at the photo pulled up on his phone screen. It really does look like he and Park Hanbin are together — even he can admit it. He wonders if Taerae will reach out to him; he wonders if he should reach out to him. And say what? Hey, can you just release a statement saying we didn’t fuck last night, thanks! It would only make everything worse. Like he told Taerae, everyone has already made up their minds. Any effort to refute it will seem like a coverup, a desperate attempt to salvage whatever is left of his public image.

His stomach roils — and he only just manages to make it to the bathroom, slam the toilet lid up before he throws up water and bile into the bowl.

By the time he gets up, his knees ache from kneeling on the ground for so long. He runs cold tap water across his mouth and brushes his teeth, looking at the way his hair stands on end in the mirror, how the circles beneath his eyes are dark and bruised, the corners of his eyes puffy. The purple and red are the only colors left on his face, the rest of it pale and ashen, like all life has been drained out of him. Zhang Hao sighs, rinsing out his mouth and then makes his way back into his room.

He wants to get back in bed. He wants to crawl under the covers and succumb to the misery — maybe have a good cry, all the way until he sobs himself into a dispirited and weak slumber. It would be so easy — there’s nothing left for him out there anyway. But it’s that impetus, the temptation to give up that makes him resist. Call it a survival instinct — or stubbornness.

So Zhang Hao open his blinds, pale yellow and orange tendrils of light streaking across the sky with a picturesque sunrise that seems to taunt the disastrous morning he’s had; and then he marches himself to his kitchen and goes through the motions of making his morning matcha along with toast and eggs. He even sits down and makes himself swallow every unappetizing, dry mouthful. And then he calls Kuanjui.

“Good morning. Do you know what time it is?”

Kuanjui’s grumbling tone almost gets him to crack a smile. Almost. He feels something lodge in his throat, the words won’t come. And then they come all at once: “Everyone thinks I cheated on Hanbin.”

“What?”

Zhang Hao spends the next thirty minutes retelling the events of the night before as well as Taerae’s nightmarish call this morning, feeling that tight, squeezing feeling returning to his stomach. His heart picks up speed, and his hands grow clammy as he talks. “I don’t know how I’m going to fix this. I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he finally laments, head in his hands.

“I’m coming over right now,” Kuanjui says immediately after he’s done talking. “I am bringing face masks and snacks and more wine than you’ve ever seen in your life, and we are going to shut the entire world out today like Taerae said.”

“But that’s not going to do anything,” Zhang Hao bemoans.

“Yes it will. It’s going to stop you from moping around and overthinking and spiraling.”

“Fine,” he relents. “I’m going to need something stronger than wine though.”

It had all started as a ruse.

Zhang Hao had come to America, desperate for a fresh start, looking for a rare second miraculous break in his career that he wasn’t sure was ever going to come. And then Hanbin had appeared — a friend of a friend, one of his group’s old managers in Korea knew someone who knew someone who had the ear of Hanbin’s agent at the time. Through this convoluted pipeline of acquaintances was how he had even gotten a hold of him to begin with.

It had been fate. The two of them desperate enough to try something like this; the two of them equally crazy and determined and stubborn and daring enough to commit to it. To actually go through with it. Zhang Hao had remembered thinking back then that Hanbin was amazing — in hindsight, he wonders if Hanbin had been thinking the same thing about him. Who else would get married to a virtual stranger after knowing each other for a month? Who else wanted something so badly, something as much as him, to do something so insane?

He remembers feeling so lucky. He remembers feeling so hopeful. And those days had been hopeful, if not slightly precarious and risky and nerve-wracking. Whenever Zhang Hao lets himself think back to that brief, tumultuous period in his life, he wonders if maybe that adrenaline, the excitement of it all had clouded his judgment about Hanbin. If they had met normally, if they had never entered this wild, preposterous agreement with each other, maybe it would have felt less meant to be.

It had all come crashing down anyways — so it doesn’t really matter now. If crashing down was considered the two of them parting ways, going on to have life-changingly successful careers. Zhang Hao doesn’t want to be ungrateful; he often told himself that it could have all ended much, much worse. Except that line of thinking doesn’t even work anymore, because the much worse that he had envisioned? This is it.

“Check for me; I can’t look,” Zhang Hao mumbles, throwing his phone into Kuanjui’s lap with a bit too much force.

His friend grimaces, cheeks pink from the Clase Azul he had brought and which they had down in a fashion that expensive, high-end tequila like that should never be drunk. Squeezed limes and empty glasses sit scattered on the low glass table in front of them as the large screen television across the room plays some dramatic, soapy show both of them had promptly ignored as soon as they turned it on. “We shouldn’t look,” Kuanjui tries.

“Come on!” Zhang Hao whines. “I need to know what people are saying.”

“I think that’s a bad idea,” Kuanjui says, far too reasonable despite the seven shots he’s had today. And it’s not even two in the afternoon yet.

“It’s either you or me,” Zhang Hao says, throwing down his ultimatum. The same one he had offered Taerae this morning. And he should be gratified to know that he has people in his life who care about him enough that this will work on, but he, too, is a little bit on the far side of tipsy already, and the alcohol is starting to fuel his paranoia rather than tame it. Maybe he should have opted for the slow buzz of wine instead.

“Okay, okay,” Kuanjui grumbles. He hands Zhang Hao’s phone to him so he can unlock it before he snatches it back and starts tapping away. His quick frown does nothing to calm the unsettled feeling that has been burrowing under his skin all day.

“What?”

“It’s … uh, not as bad as I thought?” Kuanjui offers.

Zhang Hao hiccups. “What does that mean?”

“Well, there are at least a few people defending you.”

“Only a few?”

“Mostly your American fans. But uh, your other fans are noticeably upset.”

“Please elaborate.” Zhang Hao smushes his head into the cushion of his L-shaped couch. It’s sprawling and gigantic and can easily sit ten people — not that he’s ever had that many people over at once. It had been a purchase mainly made to fill this cavernous, gigantic living room. Because only after Zhang Hao had bought this house did he realize how big it was, how empty.

“My Korean isn’t what it once was, but they’re calling Park Hanbin a homewrecker and saying some pretty nasty things about you cheating on, uh, your Hanbin with another guy named Hanbin.”

Zhang Hao winces — at both the cheating allegations and also at— “He’s not my Hanbin.”

“Well they don’t think so either anymore,” Kuanjui quips. At Zhang Hao’s quickly crumpling face, Kuanjui realizes too late his mistake. “Sorry, sorry, that was a joke! A joke!”

“It’s not a joke if it’s true!” Zhang Hao cries.

“I know you’re upset, but maybe this is a good thing!”

“How can this possibly be good?” Except his words come out a little closer to howcnthispubbegood after smashing his face into the couch cushion again.

“He wants a divorce right? If you tell everyone that you two are in the middle of a divorce anyway — it’ll make this seem less bad! Not,” Kuanjui stresses. “That you actually cheated. And I know that feels unfair, but like you said, everyone already thinks you did. So maybe this is the next best thing.”

Zhang Hao pulls his head out of the smooth leather so fast that he gets a little woozy from it. His heart is once more hammering in his chest, but for the first time, because this … this could actually be good, this could work. “Holy shit, you’re right.”

“Right!” Kuanjui exclaims, leaning over and grasping Zhang Hao’s hands. “Look at it this way. If you two come out with a statement saying you’ve been, uh, separated for a while, living apart, whatever, and that you’re in the middle of divorce proceedings anyway, well, you’re not really a cheater are you?”

“I’m telling Taerae right now; we are geniuses, you are so smart!” Zhang Hao scrabbles for his phone, unlocking it and sending Taerae a nonsensical text probably along the lines of divorce!!!! we’re divorcing!! HAHAHAHA if we annoucnei it be okay.

“This calls for more drinks,” Kuanjui announces grandly, scooting over to the cluttered table, but somehow finding the tequila bottle and sparkling water and pouring a questionable amount of both into their two empty glasses.

Actually, Zhang Hao can’t remember if his glass was empty, but it doesn’t matter anyway. Kuanjui squeezes a quarter of a lime in them both for good measure before handing one over to Zhang Hao. The two of them knock glasses, spilling a bit on the expensive leather, but he doesn’t really care. The sharp taste of the alcohol has all but faded for him, so he downs it quickly in three gulps. He’s hoping to blackout by four PM and he’s probably already behind schedule.

Kuanjui seems right on board with helping him though, even when they run out of the tequila that he brought and they start rooting around in Zhang Hao’s wine cellar. He’s gotten a few expensive bottles as gifts over the years, for his first platinum single, for his first platinum album, for attending the Grammys, for simply breathing air and showing up at some charity event, whatever. They haul all of them out to the living room, until they all start to taste like water, until Zhang Hao’s vision swims and his sides hurt from Kuanjui’s scandalous tales and hilarious recountings. Until he starts crying, from the pain, from the laughter.

He doesn’t remember much after that.

Zhang Hao is having the third consecutive worst morning of his life. This one, he thinks, will actually kill him.

His head is pounding so hard that it feels like the force of it will pop his eyeballs from their sockets; it’s so bad that he can barely lift his head from the stiff embroidered pillow, but he has to because his neck is at such an awful angle from having fallen asleep on the couch the night before that he thinks it’s stopping the blood from flowing to his brain.

Weak sunlight filters in from the skylight above, illuminating the large staircase to his right and the glass paneling of the mezzanine above as Zhang Hao sits up, swaying slightly and squinting into the middle distance. He would think he’s still drunk by the way his vision swims a little before settling on the thick brocade of his curtains, but the fact that it feels like someone is trying to drive a chisel into his brain tells him that it’s most likely just the worst hangover of his life. The television is still on, but it’s been switched over to a sports channel, tennis. When had they started watching that?

“Morning, sunshine,” comes a much too delighted, far too loud call from his kitchen.

Zhang Hao has to turn his head extremely slowly to not feel like it’ll explode, but eventually he sees Kuanjui leaned up against his marble and chrome kitchen counter, still littered with empty bottles and what looks to be the ravaged containers of the meals his chef prepared for him for the week. When had they gotten into those?

“I hate you so much,” Zhang Hao mumbles. He doubts Kuanjui can hear his hoarse rasp all the way from over there, so he shoots him his most lethal glare in the hopes that he’ll understand how much he wants to strangle him right now. It’s not fair that Kuanjui never gets hungover — no matter how shit-faced he is the night before. Good genes, Kuanjui always says. Zhang Hao thinks it’s more likely that he sacrificed his first, second, and third-born to a witch during his college years.

“Breakfast?” Kuanjui prompts.

“Not made by you.”

“Touchy, touchy this morning, hm? I was just going to order in.”

“There’s probably breakfast in the fridge,” Zhang Hao mumbles, rubbing at his temple. If they didn’t get at it last night. His chef always makes him something easy, overnight oats, yogurt parfait, egg bites with bacon and cheese, despite Zhang Hao insisting that he doesn’t need breakfast besides his matcha — he thinks it’s his way of telling Zhang Hao that he needs to eat better.

“Ooh, these look good,” Kuanjui exclaims, pulling out a clear case of muffins.

Zhang Hao had no idea he had those in there. “Please, no loud and sudden noises,” he groans.

“Banana and walnuts,” Kuanjui declares, not having wasted a second before helping himself to one. “I think there’s a coconut and pumpkin seed one. Maybe a zucchini one, too?”

“Feel free to take them all.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll throw up if I try to eat anything right now.”

Kuanjui bustles around the kitchen for a bit, every click of the nearly silent, sleek cabinets and shuffle of his feet against the pristine, mosaic-tiled floors causing Zhang Hao to wince. Eventually he shuts his eyes and lies back down on the sofa, hoping if he pretends he’s dead he’ll stop feeling so awful. A clink on the glass table next to him has Zhang Hao reluctantly peeling open an eyelid.

“At least have some water,” Kuanjui offers.

“Thanks,” Zhang Hao grumbles, eyeing the cup warily. His mouth is very dry, so much so that he thinks if he tries to swallow right now it’ll turn straight into a dry heave. But still, he sits up and takes a tentative sip.

“Not going to regurgitate all over your very expensive rug?”

“Shut up,” Zhang Hao says, taking another sip, hearing Kuanjui’s chuckling drifting away back to the kitchen once more. He furrows his brow as his head thumps painfully once more.

By the time Zhang Hao feels a little more alive, Kuanjui has already made it through three muffins and having found him lying on the couch trying not to throw up boring, gone off to somewhere else in Zhang Hao’s mansion, most likely his dressing room to browse through his clothes for the umpteenth time. Zhang Hao makes his uneasy way over to the kitchen to refill his water, and then sets about searching the living room for his phone. As he hunts around, he’s fairly sure his lingering queasiness isn’t due to his hangover — the memory of the mess he’s made, the divorce hanging over him has his stomach tightening and his throat closing up. He needs to see if Taerae has an update; he had promised him that he’d fix this in twenty-four hours.

After turning over every couch cushion and even getting on his hands and knees on the carpet to check under the table, Zhang Hao finally finds his phone all the way under the TV, probably set there by Kuanjui sometime through the night so Zhang Hao wouldn’t be tempted to check it. His heart gives an aborted, nervous thump before he taps the screen, terrified to see the state of his notifications.

He briefly remembers Kuanjui turning his phone to Do Not Disturb, and muting all of his social media apps, so there’s none of that nonsense. But what he sees on his screen might just be worse.

4:24 A.M.
Voicemail
Sung Hanbin

4:16 A.M.
Missed call
Sung Hanbin

Of course Hanbin has his number. Of course. He’s had it for years. Not that he uses often — or ever. Not that Zhang Hao had ever thought to reach out to him, or that he would call him directly. They might have texted occasionally during the first year or so of this … arrangement. But their direct contact has been few and far between in the last couple years, preferring to hand off the task to their assistant and agents and management, especially because the two of the are inordinately busy, traveling all the time, their schedules never line up — all the various reasons Zhang Hao has told himself to talk himself out of ever picking up the phone and just calling Hanbin.

But seeing his name so neatly typed out on his phone screen is not something Zhang Hao was prepared for. He rubs at his eyes, even as his heart leaps into his throat, to make sure he’s seeing things right. That his wishful thinking, or perhaps worst nightmare, was not making him hallucinate. His thumb trembles as he continues to swipe down the list.

10:56 P.M.
Kim Taerae
Are you still awake? Can you call me — I’ve reached out to …

6:57 P.M.
Park Hanbin (auction)
hope you’re doing okay xx

6:57 P.M.
Park Hanbin (auction)
i don’t want to bother you

6:56 P.M.
Park Hanbin (auction)
it’s probably not good that i’m contacting you in the middle …

6:56 P.M.
Park Hanbin (auction)
i just saw all the news going around and wanted to …

6:56 P.M.
Park Hanbin (auction)
hey i know you’re probably dealing with a lot right now and …

It’s all a little too much. The shock of seeing Hanbin’s name, his call, his voicemail that he doesn’t really pay attention to anything else. Zhang Hao drops his phone with a thunk on his hard wood floor when he feels bile rushing up his throat. He barely makes it to the hallway bathroom before he throws up for the second morning in a row.

That’s where Kuanjui finds him, slumped against the pretty pale pink tiles.

He wrinkles his nose, leaning over to flush the toilet. He opens one of the cabinets next to the sink with the gorgeous, fresh gardenias on it that gets changed by Zhang Hao’s housekeeper once every three days to pull out a fluffy white hand towel. He runs it under some warm water before coming over and kneeling next to Zhang Hao, wiping it over his mouth and cheeks.

“Feel better now?”

Zhang Hao nods weakly. Strangely enough, he does. “Hanbin called me,” is the first thing he says once Kuanjui lifts the towel from his face.

His friend pauses before laying the towel over the marbled edge of the sink. Kuanjui’s face is unreadable. And then he crosses his arms. “Are you going to call him back?”

“He left a voicemail.”

“What did he say?”

“I haven’t listened to it yet.”

“Are you going to?”

Of course he is, is his first thought. Every fiber of his being is trained toward the phone still lying on his living room floor right now. The only thing stopping him from leaping up and running to play Hanbin’s voicemail is the distinct possibility that he might throw up again if he moves that quickly and the same reason he’s kept himself from calling, texting, contacting him all these years: fear. Of rejection, of disappointment, of being hurt again. “I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s not really a surprise; I mean this all affects him too right. He’s probably dealing with his own shit show over in New York.”

“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s not the one everyone is calling a liar and a cheat.” Zhang Hao’s stomach seizes at the sudden realization: “You don’t think he actually thinks I cheated do you?”

“I think you need to listen to that voicemail,” Kuanjui says. “This calls for my emergency hangover cure.” He saunters out of the bathroom, leaving Zhang Hao all alone to truly re-evaluate his life’s choices.

A truly sickening concoction is waiting for him on the kitchen island when he finally makes it out of the bathroom. “I think this is going to make me throw up again.”

“Pinch your nose and down it in one go,” Kuanjui sing-songs.

Zhang Hao follows the instructions as stated and gags a little, but manages to keep the awful drink down. Miraculously, after sitting at the island for about ten minutes he does feel better.

“Here,” Kuanjui slips his phone onto the marble tabletop next to him. “Do you want me to listen with you?”

He appreciates that his friend is giving him the option, even though they both know Zhang Hao is going to tell him about it practically word-for-word after anyway. And usually, he would just play it. But this is Hanbin. Who has, whether he likes to admit it or not, always been his weak spot, always been the one thing in his life he has kept closer to his chest than most, even from his best friend. There are things no one knows about their history other than the two of them — and Zhang Hao wants to keep it that way. He shakes his head. “Do you mind?”

“Of course not,” Kuanjui says breezily. “I’ll be in your closet helping myself. Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks,” Zhang Hao snorts, watching Kuanjui head across the wide expanse of the living room. He waits until he hits the staircase before glancing down at the phone in his hand. He taps the screen again to see that he’s gotten a new message sometime this morning.

9:14 A.M.
Kim Taerae
Reply to this before I send a wellness check to your house. I’ve been …

Heart in his throat, he swipes up on the screen to clear them all and then taps into the voicemail tab on his call log. Zhang Hao’s entire body is strung tight like a bowstring as stares at the small square with Hanbin’s name, terrified, anticipating, a little bit excited, if he’s being honest. A part of him hates that it had to come to this for one of them to reach out — and yet another part of him can’t help but feel happy that it did, only so he can hear Hanbin’s voice again. Not through an interview or a movie that he’s acting in, but talking to him. These words are only meant for him. Maybe that’s why he asked Kuanjui to leave.

He taps on the voicemail before he can chicken out.

“Zhang Hao.”

Immediately, he can tell Hanbin is drunk. Something about the way his tongue curls and drags on the last syllable of his name, something about the near croon in the way he says it. He grips his phone harder. He hasn’t heard Hanbin say his name in so long.

“I’m— I … I don’t even know what—”

A deep breath.

“This morning I went out for a run. I’ve been trying to do that more — it’s good for my lungs if I want to be able to last through a whole show, right? So I got up really early and I was running and running and running.” Hanbin’s words are a bit slurred here, blurring into each other and speeding up. “There’s a small park around the back of my apartment. It’s gated and everything has a nice pond with a lot of ducks even though they kind of scare me. And I was just running when I … when I got the call about you. I ended up falling flat on my face.”

A harsh laugh followed by some sort of clanking noise. Zhang Hao hangs onto his every word.

“I couldn’t even catch myself, just face first on the path. I got such a bad scrape on my cheek. Our first dress rehearsal is in two days, and it’s not going to heal by then, everyone is going to ask about it, and I’m going to have to tell them it’s because my husband cheated on me.”

Silence. Zhang Hao has no idea what Hanbin is feeling on the other end of the line, recorded nearly ten hours ago now. If he’s sad or fuming or bitter or even relieved that this can all now come to an end. But what he feels listening to it is a growing sense of resentment.

Perhaps it’s not really resentment at all, perhaps it’s just frustration that Hanbin would believe the paparazzi and tabloids so easily, maybe it’s hurt that even if Hanbin angry over any of this, he has no right to be because he had been the one to toss him aside to begin with. But most of all, regardless of whether it is resentment or frustration or hurt — Zhang Hao feels incredibly alone right now.

Another deep breath from the line, shocking him. He’d almost forgotten it was still playing.

“I— I get it. We haven’t really been together all these years … if ever. And I’m not upset. I think I was just surprised, and I guess I am a little upset.” Biting laughter. “But I understand. I just wish … I just wish things could have been different.”

Zhang Hao doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath, listening to the drunken lilt of Hanbin’s words. That a small bud of hope has sprouted, even in the place it stings the most. Because he wishes things could have been different, too. He doesn’t let himself imagine it anymore, because despite the momentary bliss of dreaming, it hurts too much. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t stopped wishing, hoping.

“You could have told me. You could have— I don’t know. Sorry I’m not making any sense; I don’t even know what I want. I don't know why I called. We haven’t spoken in years. This is … this was a mistake. Sorry … I’m sorry.”

And then the line cuts off. And whatever spark had come alive in his heart flickers out immediately.

What was that? What was that?

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken out loud — yelled it actually, until Kuanjui’s head pops over the mezzanine above. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Zhang Hao’s head droops listlessly into his arms. What was the point of telling him that story about him running? To make him feel bad? He already felt that way without his help anyway. And the end — Zhang Hao can’t even think of it without being inundated by a wave of disappointment. What was the different that Hanbin had been talking about? Was it what had led to all this in the first place — the living apart, the barely talking? Or was it simply he had wished Zhang Hao had gone about cheating on him in a different way — that he hadn’t been caught?

What a joke.

He hears Kuanjui’s feet padding across the kitchen tile right when his phone on the kitchen island rings. He doesn’t even dare to look.

“It’s Taerae,” Kuanjui says, coming up and sympathetically rubbing his back.

“I should get it,” Zhang Hao groans, head still buried in his hands.

“You don’t have to.”

Zhang Hao sighs, picking his head up and feeling slightly woozy as the blood rushes back to his head. His stomach gives a weak churn, but he no longer has anything left in him to throw up. He picks up his phone just before it rings again. “Hello?”

“God, there you are.” Taerae sounds harried on the other end of the line. Knowing him — and Zhang Hao has for six years now — he didn’t sleep a wink last night. Yet another thing to feel guilty over.

“I’m assuming you just woke up?” Taerae asks.

“Uh, you could say that.”

“You know what, I don’t even want to know as long as you’re safe and at home. I’ve been trying to do some damage control since yesterday, and I think I’ve figured out some things that we can do.”

“Okay,” Zhang Hao says. He tries to sound enthusiastic, or at least grateful, but it’s already been one hell of a morning.

“I don’t know if you want to get into all the details of who leaked the photo?”

“Not really.” A part of Zhang Hao wants to end their life. But he also knows doing so won’t undo any of this. And yet … “Maybe later.”

“Okay, I’ll skip that for now. Just know we’re looking into potential legal action against them, though annoyingly this country loves to protect its press.”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not. Anyway, I’ll let you know if anything develops on that front. But in terms of your, uh, diminishing reputation. I reached out to Hanbin’s people yesterday when all this blew up to let them know our side of the story and to see if they were open to certain mitigation efforts.”

Our side of the story. Like there was any other side — like what Zhang Hao had told Taerae hadn’t been the unequivocal truth. That at least annoys him into speaking up a bit more. “Can you please just tell me what we’re going to do? I’m sorry, I don't feel great right now, and I can’t really keep up with all your … jargon.”

Taerae sighs on the other end, and Zhang Hao hears some sort of shuffling. He looks over to the clock on his microwave — 9:48 A.M. He must already be in the office. Finally, Taerae returns to the line, his voice a bit softer, a lot less formal. “Okay, so basically they were assholes and said this wasn’t their problem.”

“How is it not their problem?” Zhang Hao sits up straighter in outrage. Who knew anger was such a great cure for a hangover. “This involves him too.”

“It’s because he’s getting none of the blowback. He actually is coming off quite well in all this — people are already trending a sympathy hashtag and flooding his socials with consoling messages. So his team sees no reason to intervene, especially because, like you said, this only speeds up the divorce that they plan to file anyway.”

Zhang Hao makes an annoyed, pained noise. “So it’s hopeless.”

“Let me finish: they were entirely unhelpful yesterday which is why I started pursuing some other angles. But miraculously, I got another call from Hanbin’s manager this morning — they’re suddenly willing to help.”

“They are?” It feels too good to be true. But also — “What are they going to do?”

“The divorce,” Taerae says.

And Zhang Hao wants to vomit all over again.

“What we’ve currently agreed to, pending your approval, is to jointly announce that the two of you have quietly been in the middle of divorce proceedings for quite some time. It absolves you of any allegations, but still leaves Hanbin looking relatively sympathetic. And if we’re lucky, some of that sympathy will rub off on you as well.”

“Now how are we going to do that?”

“Hear me out,” Taerae starts. “While we were talking, his manager and I decided that it might be in your best interest for you two to at least seem on friendly terms during the divorce proceedings. The last thing we want is baseless rumors to get out about why the two of you are divorcing in the first place. It’s all too easy for people to rile up the cheating scandal again, which would essentially negate the whole purpose of this.”

Unfortunately, Taerae is making a lot of sense. But what does that even mean: friendly terms? A documentary? Staged paparazzi shots? An interview on a late night talk show together to do damage control? “Go on.”

Taerae takes a deep breath. “I suggested that you go and live with him in New York, just until everything with the divorce is finalized. It’ll scream ‘This divorce is completely amicable’, and that you two are parting ways as friends who wish for nothing but the best for each other.”

Zhang Hao balks at the thought — even as his heart speeds up, not out of worry or anxiety, but excitement, the little traitor. “Why would we need to live together? Haven’t we been convincing everyone that we’re a happy couple for years without having to do that?”

“Yes, but no one has been watching either of your moves under a microscope for the past five years. They’ve believed what they wanted to because there’s never been any reason to believe otherwise. Now, this photo is a pretty big reason.”

“Why can’t he come here?” He’s scrambling, trying to find a way out of this. His brain is sparking so much adrenaline at just the thought of this. Fight or flight. He desperately wants to choose flight.

“I don’t know how caught up you are with his current jobs, but his manager informed me that he’s due to start Hadestown in a few weeks time. It’s a daily show, so he can’t be anywhere else but New York right now. And well … your location is quite flexible. We can get you a studio in New York easily.”

Oh, he’s really hating how much sense Taerae is making right now. Curse his agent for being so overprepared and literally perfect. “And how long will this take? How long do I have to live there?”

“Unfortunately, each state has a mandatory cooling off and separation period before the divorce can be finalized. In California, it’s six months.”

Zhang Hao gasps.

“But if he files in New York, which is what we’re planning on doing, that waiting period is only thirty to forty-five days.”

And yet … he’s not relieved or happy about that either. Instead, Zhang Hao feels his chest tighten at the thought. It’s all happening so fast. It’s only been five years, and yet somehow being married to Hanbin has become an integral part of him. He can’t quite remember what it’s like not to be tied to another person, even if only by the dried ink on some paper and a handful of memories. Despite the fraught nature of their relationship, Zhang Hao realizes he likes being tied to Hanbin in this way. Likes that he has a claim on him, even halfway across the country. Not that it makes a huge difference in his day-to-day life, besides the occasional mention of Hanbin by his fans or interviewers, but still, it’s alarming to think that all of this will just … disappear. That Hanbin will truly, permanently be out of his life forever in just a month.

“This can all be taken care of before the summer is over,” Taerae assures. When Zhang Hao stays quiet, he prompts. “Hao? Did I lose you?”

“N— no,” Zhang Hao lets out a shaky breath. “I heard you.”

There’s a slight pause on the other end, and then a hum. That hum, the hitch in the plan hum. “I know you had some reservations about the divorce … it’s okay if you didn’t— don’t want to talk about it. And I’m sorry it’s come to this. But even if it feels like our hands are tied, this is your life, your marriage. If you don’t want to go through with it, I can still tell them no. We can figure this out on our own.”

How badly Zhang Hao just wants to hit pause on his life right now. To tell Taerae to wait, to give him twenty-four hours just to clear his mind of this headache, just to sit down and maybe give his therapist a call and think about this properly. But he knows the clock is ticking — every hour they delay more and more people make up their minds about him. He’s lucky none of his sponsorships or jobs have pulled out yet, but they could, maybe this afternoon, maybe tomorrow morning, if they wait even longer.

He should be relieved, he tries to convince himself. Taerae’s reassurance that this can all be done and dusted and dealt with in a month's time, ‘by the end of summer’ should be good news. Zhang Hao doesn’t want this to damage his image any more than it already has, and this plan is actually good, it could work if they really give it their all.

Finally, after exhausting all other panicked options, because his brain can’t handle the whiplash of coming to terms with seeing Hanbin exit his life completely in a months time to having to live with Hanbin for the next month in order to achieve it, Zhang Hao starts begging, “Taerae — I don’t think I can do it. I don’t think I can live with him for a month. I— I can go through with the divorce. It’s fine if it’s what we need to do to make all this go away and for everything to return to normal, but I can’t go to New York. I have responsibilities and a job here and I haven’t seen him in years. Taerae, please.”

“Zhang Hao,” Taerae says seriously, kindly. “I’m not going to make you do anything you’re not comfortable with. I’m not even here to tell you what you should do. I’m just giving you the options, but it’s all up to you. I’ll stick with you regardless, you know that.”

A hand on his shoulder has Zhang Hao nearly leaping out of his skin. He’d forgotten that Kuanjui was here. That he’d most likely been listening to his one-sided conversation and slowly piecing things together. His friend gives him a compassionate look. It helps a little, but it also prevents Zhang Hao from truly being able to think. Taerae in his ear and Kuanjui crowding next to him, and he knows they both mean well, but it’s just too much right now, everything from the options Taerae’s presenting to the one that his heart is telling him to take to the one his brain is screaming is right is just too much.

“Can I call you back?”

“Sure,” Taerae agrees instantly. “I’ll be here whenever you’ve decided, whatever you decide.”

“Thank you,” Zhang Hao breathes, relaxing for what feels like the first time this morning. It’s not a solution, but a much needed reprieve. “For everything — for working so hard on this and managing to wrangle his manager into doing something decent.”

“As frustrating as he’s been, he’s just looking out for Hanbin, the same as I am for you.”

Somehow Zhang Hao doubts that — not that Hanbin’s agents don’t have his best interest in mind, their jobs depend on it after all, but that this has also somehow become beneficial for Hanbin in any way. It’s a miracle they’ve agreed to it at all, he knows. “I appreciate it— you. A lot. You know that right?”

Taerae laughs, sounding much younger than he has for the entirety of their conversation this morning. “You have an odd way of showing it sometimes, but I do.”

When Zhang Hao clicks off the line, his brief moment of respite lasts all of three seconds before he turns to Kuanjui with wide, glassy eyes and a pattering heart, mangled and bruised and doing its best to keep the tatters of his hope alive. And unfortunately, that tiny sliver of foolish, dumb hope has already made the decision for him.

“I think … I’m going to New York.”

Before he leaves LA, he gets dinner with Ricky.

It’s at an upscale place further from the city, meant for the richer clientele who have homes in the area. It’s the kind that has no name or sign on the outside, because it boasts being “discreet.” The kind that is usually booked out a week or two in advance, but Ricky knows someone who knows someone who knows the head chef, and so he was able to pull a few strings and get them a private booth in the back on such short notice.

Zhang Hao finds Ricky tucked into the booth, scrolling through his phone, when he finally arrives after doing what he’s been doing for the past three days: packing. It’s still surreal to him that he’s managed to pretty much pack up his entire life over the course of three days. That might be an exaggeration — he’s only going to be gone for a month, he’ll be back here soon enough, but he’s spent the past few days stuffing clothes in trunks and deciding if it’s worth it to pack his entire keyboard and recording set up. So it certainly feels like it. Like his entire life here in California amounts to nothing more than four trunks-worth of items. How insignificant of a home he’s made for himself.

“It’s good to see you,” Ricky greets, the two of them giving each other one of those side hugs as Ricky leans out of the booth before Zhang Hao sits down across from him.

“Was that a photo of me on your phone?” he asks with a raised brow. He’s known Ricky for over ten years now — there’s nothing he doesn’t dare bring up.

“Just an article.” Ricky shoots him a sheepish look.

“You are indulging in horrible gossip mongering about me, Ricky?” He sticks his lower lip out in a pout. “How dare you!”

Ricky snorts at that, shaking his head as his white teeth flashing in the dim lighting. A waiter comes and asks for their drink orders — Tom Collins for Ricky, just water for Zhang Hao. That gets him a raised brow in turn.

“I drank too much a few days ago,” Zhang Hao winces. “Drowning my sorrows and all that. You know the drill.”

Unfortunately, Ricky does. “I don’t blame you. All of this brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

Zhang Hao pulls a face. “Honestly, putting it into perspective like that, it was way worse. At least now I have people in my corner.” Namely Taerae and his staff. “Back then we had nothing.”

The two of them had been in the same group back in Korea, before everything had all come crashing down just months before their third anniversary. Not much unlike what happened earlier this week actually, but in much worse fashion. He had, for one, been a lot younger — seven years from twenty-two to thirty does make quite a bit of difference. And for another, he had been broke back then, having had all his paychecks filtered through the company with their exorbitant fees and cuts.

After they had disbanded, he barely had anything to his name. At least now he still has his career (barely), his house, his savings accounts. It’s the only thing keeping him above water at the moment. If his emotional and private and professional life is in shambles, at least his materialistic possessions are still intact!

Ricky shrugs. “That’s true — I’d like to think we’ve made it out pretty good regardless.”

“Speak for yourself,” Zhang Hao grumbles. “I’m about to move to New York to pick up the crumbling pieces of my life.”

“That’s an exaggeration. This will blow over. You’re all going to fix it, and then you’ll be back here by August, September at the latest,” Ricky reassures.

The waiter comes by to drop off their drinks and ask if they're ready to order. Zhang Hao motions towards Ricky to let him take the lead. He always knows what’s best to get at places like this, and Zhang Hao will eat almost anything. Ricky orders them a seafood tasting menu of golden kaluga caviar, sashimi, and halibut with yuzu that, indeed, he devours with great abandon when it arrives. The caviar pot is half empty by the time conversation resumes.

“So you’re really going through with the divorce?”

Zhang Hao frowns at him from over the piece of fresh sashimi. “I don’t really have much of a choice.”

Ricky shrugs. “I guess not. It just seems kind of a shame. Your literal, actual husband is going to be the one who got away.”

“I’ve accepted that we’re never going to be anything more,” Zhang Hao sets the sashimi down on his small plate. Curse Ricky for making him lose his appetite! “Maybe this was just how it was going to end all along.”

“I don’t know … you guys could have fixed things.”

“Dont,” Zhang Hao says emphatically, a little more sharply than he means to. “I can’t think that way anymore. I don’t want to go to New York with any sort of expectation, because it’ll just be so much worse when we eventually split. We’re going through with the divorce, because it’s what is going to fix this. And most importantly it’s what he wants.”

Throughout all of this, the maneuvering and scheming and planning and stressing, Zhang Hao hasn’t forgotten that it was Hanbin who served him with divorce papers first — not literal papers, but at least a notice that he intended to file them, which, if everything is going according to plan, he will be doing today. Regardless of whether or not he wants to go through with it, regardless of the fact that he now needs it to go through with it for his own sake as well — if this is what Hanbin wants, then … he doesn’t really have much of a choice, does he?

Ricky purses his lip. “Yeah, you’re right. You two had a good run though. Five years — honestly if I heard about a ruse like this, I wouldn’t think it could last for this long.”

“Thank you so very much for your enduring confidence,” he remarks sarcastically.

Ricky laughs. “You know what I mean. Don’t pretend like you had any faith in this either when you two started fake dating.”

Zhang Hao snorts, allowing himself to remember, briefly, the flurry and paranoia of that time. Not too unlike right now. It’s all a bit poetic that this all began and will end in the same fashion. Kind of like coming full circle, even if taking this final curve threatens to send him careening into disaster. “I guess we were just pushing our luck this whole time.”

“Hey, you can still pull it off,” Ricky encourages. “You’ll go there for a month, get that divorce, come back and still be rich and famous — your life will be exactly the same as it was before.”

But he doesn’t want it to be. And that’s the problem. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Ricky that he thinks he’ll be far from okay after this summer is over. But instead of saying any of that, Zhang Hao just nods and picks up his slice of sashimi.

It had all come crashing down quite quickly once word got out about the drug use. Mostly marijuana — maybe some meth. Actually, definitely some meth but that was never properly discovered by the authorities. Zhang Hao would know, he had been part of the group of people who had tried to keep it all covered up when the news had broken that one of his group members had been spotted leaving a club late at night drunk and high.

Zhang Hao gets it. The pressure was immense; the suffocating feeling of being overworked within an inch of their life. Not being able to do anything without two other people chaperoning them and approving their every move had seemed like the worst thing in the world, especially to a group of boys in their late teens and early twenties when the world was just supposed to be opening up for them, when they were supposed to be reaping at least some of the reward of their massive successes and lucrative hits. He had been so young back then, barely older than twenty. In that sort of environment, it’s not hard to wonder why he did it.

Though it doesn’t change the fact that once the news broke, once their company disciplined him, once the public decided that the whole group should be condemned — that had been it. Their disbandment had been a quiet thing, no tour or even concert to go out on. The album that had been in production was effectively halted; Zhang Hao would go on to see that one of their songs had been given to another group two years down the line. It had been a hit.

He felt no bitterness — okay, he felt some bitterness. But also … he really does get it. And if all of that hadn’t happened, he wouldn’t have left Korea. He wouldn’t have come to America. He wouldn’t have been desperate enough to capitalize on a viral video between him and one Sung Hanbin — a ruse that ultimately landed them everything they ever wanted.

And so why does he still feel like the same boy? Constricted and unhappy. Has nothing really changed since then? Had he wasted the entirety of his twenties on a pipe dream that ultimately didn’t bring him any fulfillment? Is he cursed to stagnate like this, pretending for the rest of his life?

Because if Zhang Hao had everything he ever wanted, he would not be hoisting his designer satchel through an incredibly packed and busy LAX. He wouldn’t be frozen in front of one of those quick-service airport book-slash-snacks-slash-electronic stores staring at a blaring headline of a tabloid that reads: NASTY SPLIT? Viral sweethearts Zhang Hao and Hanbin Sung announce divorce amid torrid cheating rumors. He wouldn’t be staring at a months-old paparazzi shot of him leaving an outlet mall that had obviously been taken with an extreme zoom lens next to a photo of a sweaty, but still impeccable, Hanbin smiling on a red carpet.

“Do not look at that,” Taerae snaps. “Come on.”

They hide out in the very fancy, exclusive airline lounge. At least there they have some privacy. A few people still stare — Zhang Hao thinks someone snaps a photo, but a member of his security detail quickly approaches them to take care of it. He sinks into one of the plush, velvet armchairs in a sectioned off part of the room, grateful for the break from prying eyes.

They’d posted the announcement yesterday about their divorce. “They” being Taerae, a company publicist, a company lawyer, a social media manager, and who knows how many people on Hanbin’s end. The statements had been shared on both of their official social media — something Zhang Hao has still been expressly told to stay off of.

“The good news is — it’s working,” Taerae reports as he drops into the opposite armchair across the low table. Someone, presumably airport lounge staff, comes in to lay a spread of simple crackers, cheese, meats, small sandwiches, scones, and bowls of pre-cut fruit on the table. It’s a shame Zhang Hao is too nervous to eat.

In just over six hours, he’ll see Hanbin in person for the first time in two years. Not only that, he’ll be moving in with him. From minimal interaction to sharing a home. And then divorce. The optics of this situation would make him laugh if he didn’t feel like the whiplash is going to ruin him.

“People aren’t calling me a filthy liar and horrible cheater and a fucking slut anymore?” he asks innocently.

Taerae frowns at him from over his phone, but doesn’t chastise him for his language — this time. “I am not looking at those sorts of things.”

“I thought it was your job to look at them.”

“No. My job is to bribe every magazine and online news source we know to spin this our way.”

“What about that tabloid we saw out there?”

“That is not a reputable publication, so I will not be wasting my time on it,” Taerae says primly, tapping away at something on his phone. “Most of the proper news organizations are covering it fairly well. They’re still using words like allegedly and insiders say, which is not ideal, but what can we do? They’re stubborn.”

“So when can I log into my accounts again?”

“Not for a week, I’d say.” Taerae sets his phone down in his lap and gazes at the spread before them though he doesn’t look like he very much wants to partake in any of it either.

Zhang Hao notices that his friend is looking a bit pale — he can’t imagine how many hours of sleep he’s missed this past week. Probably more than him. He makes a mental note to force Taerae to take a nap on the flight.

“Besides, you’ll want to take the first few days to get acclimated anyway. Properly move in, get reacquainted with Hanbin, maybe set down some ground rules together.”

Zhang Hao scrunches his nose. What Taerae said makes sense, but it all makes it sound so … domestic.

“We also have a few locations in mind for a recording studio that we’re finalizing. The label has a New York office, obviously, but they’re doing a bunch of renovations this summer, annoyingly enough, so they may not have extra studio time available if you plan to go in every day?” Taerae pauses to give him a questioning look.

Honestly, working on his music has been the furthest thing from Zhang Hao’s mind for the past week, but perhaps throwing himself into it once he’s in New York will be a good idea to take his mind off of … other matters. “I do.”

“I’ll make arrangements,” Taerae assures. He then gets a phone call, and excuses himself to take it.

Not long after they’re escorted to the tarmac and allowed to board. It’s a small plane, a private flight — a red eye. They’ll land in New York bright and early at around six. And a car will pick them up and take them to Hanbin’s apartment. He knows that Taerae has found suitable accommodations nearby, even though he doesn’t know the details of it yet. He feels like a bad friend for not asking, but any and all plans having to do with New York has Zhang Hao feeling quite nauseous, has his heart rate doubling and his stomach clenching uncomfortably. The less he knows the better — the less he thinks about it the better.

Once they’re at cruising altitude, he adjusts his seat so it’s laid all the way flat, pulling his two extra blankets tight around him and curling up on his side. From the other side of the plane he sees the faint glow of Taerae’s phone.

“You should get some rest,” he says.

He’s promptly ignored by Taerae.

Neither of them sleep the entire flight to New York.

II.

The sleepless night is catching up to him. That is certainly the only reason he feels slightly light-headed, slightly blurry-eyed as he stands in the very grand, very immaculate lobby of Hanbin’s very expensive luxury apartment building. His swooping stomach has nothing to do with the nerves of seeing his husband imminently. No, it’s completely due to the fact that he hasn’t slept in nearly twenty-four hours. That’s all.

The car had dropped him off not even two minutes ago, Taerae waving at him from the other side of the rolled-down window, departing for his own accommodations to get some much needed rest. Zhang Hao has been on his own not even five minutes, and yet he already feels completely stranded, completely alone — wholly unprepared.

The concierge looks up from her computer with a polite, bland smile. “Yes, I have you logged here, Mr. Zhang. We’ll have all your luggage brought up in just a moment. The apartment owner, Mr. Sung, has registered you with a keycard to the building, you will need to use it to operate the elevators and access the communal gym, indoor and outdoor pools, and other amenities like the dog park or yoga studios.”

Zhang Hao nods absently at her spiel as a bellhop — as if this is some sort of luxury hotel, which, he wouldn’t be surprised if many of the residents here treated it like one and don’t take permanent residence in the city — appears from somewhere behind the counter to load his four trunks onto a cart. The crystal teardrop chandeliers shine in the reflection off of its golden handles.

“Thank you,” he murmurs when the lady passes over a smooth, silver keycard. It looks like one of his many credit cards, except it’s slightly weighted, heavier. He wonders if that’s simply for effect.

“Mr. Sung has the penthouse in our South wing,” she gestures across the immaculate marbled floor to the bay of elevators on their right. “The keycard will give you access right to the top floor. If you have any questions, please feel free to call down here at any time.” She slides a thick matte business card across the desk. It has the apartment building’s logo embossed at the top. “There will be someone manning this desk twenty-four hours,” she finishes.

Zhang Hao gives her another polite nod, taking both cards from the desk and tucking it into the pockets of his loose jeans. He hikes up his satchel on his shoulder and marches like a prisoner to his jail cell towards the three reflective elevators. This apartment building really is something — Zhang Hao can’t help but admire the fresh floral arrangements of roses, orchids and lily of the valley tucked between each of the elevators. Everything either sparkles or shines here, and he can see his reflection on at least three different surfaces. He thinks that’s an original Fragonard hanging in the lobby.

The elevator on the far right dings open, and Zhang Hao walks in to tap his keycard against the reader — automatically the top floor lights up. The interior of the elevator is roomy, with mirrors on all three sides and intricately carved handrails in Baroque-style detailing. It’s all terribly new money, flashy, ostentatious, grand; but then again that’s what they are. He can’t blame Hanbin for making use of his success. He’s the one who is currently leaving a multi-million dollar mansion in LA empty for the month.

Zhang Hao’s heart pounds as he watches the number on the elevator gradually tick up to the twenty-second floor. The doors slide smoothly open, no sound whatsoever, and yet he still flinches when they do — like he expects Hanbin to jump in and yell boo! But there’s nothing there. Well, there’s actually quite a lot there: gorgeous white wainscoting walls, a Grecian marble entryway table with a large white vase with lush pink roses and gardenias still attached to their leaves, and through the arched doorway across the entry hall is a curved staircase with dark mahogany railing. The apartment instantly hits him as bright, airy and completely sweet. Zhang Hao steps out of the elevator in a daze.

There is, indeed, no one else here though. Zhang Hao catches sight of himself in the large mirror set atop the side table, and call him vain, but he drifts toward it naturally. Even with no sleep and an overnight flight, he’s still rather proud of the pointed jut of his chin, the angular curve of his jaw. No puffiness in sight. Though his ears always stick out a bit more than he’d like. He ruffles his bangs slightly, pleased that the perm he got done a couple months ago has settled in naturally. But under the bright spotlights in the hall, his skin does look a little pale. He nibbles on his lips to redden them up a little and pats his cheeks for good measure.

“Zhang Hao?” A voice echoes down the stairs.

He stiffens. It’s Hanbin. “Hanbin?” He’s thankful his voice doesn’t shake, though it’s so quiet he’s not sure if Hanbin can even hear him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I thought you were arriving later.” Hanbin’s light, pretty voice precedes him. And then he’s there, dark-haired, and bright-eyed, and long-limbed, rushing down the slight curve of the stairs and then — standing right in front of him, smiling, beaming. “It’s good to see you. I hope the flight was okay?”

Zhang Hao isn’t sure what he expected. He tried not to think too hard about this reunion. And sure, he knows what Hanbin looks like. He’s seen him on the cover of magazines, and in video interviews, and on the red carpet plenty of times throughout the years. He knows what his face looks like, that his eyes are so round and dark, that his nose is pointed perfectly in a way that makes him ache with jealousy, that his round cheeks dimple to reveal surprisingly charming lines. So what Hanbin looks like is of no surprise to him. And yet — the whole is far greater than the sum of its parts.

Hanbin has a certain aura to him, a star quality. He always has. He’s magnetic and charismatic, even when he seems bashful and humble. It’s what makes people naturally drawn to him; he feels safe and warm, yet there’s something so utterly disarming about him. His natural charm exudes out of him without much effort at all. It’s an altogether rare and coveted skill that isn’t felt in full effect until people see him in person. And Zhang Hao had forgotten about that. It’s been more than two years since they’ve seen each other face to face. He’s forgotten how alluring and stunning and just dazzling Hanbin is. Even when he’s clad in a simple white shirt and baggy gray sweats.

“Did I wake you?” Zhang Hao smirks, flicking his gaze over him. Stupid, stupid, stupid! This isn’t the greeting that he wanted to give. No hi, no hello, not even long time no see. This is why Hanbin wants to divorce him. He’s entirely vapid and hard to get along with.

But Hanbin seems to take it all in stride. “Oh no,” he smiles, dipping his head slightly. “I’ve been awake for a bit, but usually just hang out in my pajamas until I have to go somewhere.”

He’s the same way. But of course his mouth refuses to say the words. Zhang Hao simply nods and shuffles a bit, awkward, unsure.

“Let me take your bag,” Hanbin reaches over, all gentlemanly.

“That’s okay — I have important stuff in here.” Stupid! “But did my luggage arrive yet?” He remembers the bellhop having scurried off with his trunks before he’d left the lobby. He assumed he had taken some sort of back elevator, but now that Zhang Hao has arrived at the apartment, it’s clear that there’s only one entrance, and one elevator, here. And he does not see his luggage anywhere.

“No,” Hanbin says, frowning slightly. “I can call down in a bit to see where it is. But first, you must be tired. Can I get you something to drink? I can also show you around the apartment — but if you’re tired from your trip, I can take you to your room to rest for now.”

His room. Of course they would be staying in separate rooms. He’s partly relieved, partly disappointed. And his own irritation over that brief tinge of sadness has him shoring up all of his feelings in a steel vault. He’ll have time to deal with that later. For now, he wants to get a better sense of where he’s going to be staying for the next month — and he’s incredibly curious to see Hanbin’s home. “A tour,” he nods, tacking on at the end when he remembers. “Please.”

“Sure,” Hanbin returns his nod, that kind, generous smile still on his face. “Well, we’re currently in the entryway. Only thing you need to know is that the far right elevator in the lobby is the only one that comes up here, so sometimes it takes a bit of waiting — one of the only downsides. There’s a metal grate there,” he indicates to a gap in the wall next to the elevator where Zhang Hao can see the beginnings of an ornate, brass gate. “It slides out so technically I can bar the elevator. Though I usually don’t bother — no one can get up here without a keycard anyway. There’s a spare one in the drawer of the table over there, in case you ever need it, by the way.”

Hanbin waves towards the mirror, where Zhang Hao can see their reflection. They’re roughly the same height, both of their heads dark, but that’s really where the physical overlap ends. Hanbin has always been more dewy, engaging, cherubic, where he’s a bit more striking, imperious, grand.

“Through here is the sitting room.” Hanbin walks over to the closed French doors that Zhang Hao hadn’t even noticed. They’re a light brown and the square panes of glass are covered with white gossamer curtains. Hanbin opens them both by their brass handles easily, and immediately, morning natural light floods through. The sitting room walls are a milky caramel color with wainscotting much like the entryway. There are high bookshelves set against the far wall, and between them is a large mirror that matches its twin in the entryway. Various cream and beige couches and armchairs create a circle in the middle of the room, centered around a low marble table. Two wide windows take up nearly the entire right wall, and through them Zhang Hao notices dainty little flower planters with the pink roses.

It’s beautiful and fresh. Zhang Hao loves the slight touches of pink around the room — his favorite color. And even though everything here is pristine and lavish, it still feels inviting. The books on the shelves are arranged haphazardly, not artfully; there’s a slight dent in the couch closest to the fireplace which tells Zhang Hao that may be Hanbin’s preferred spot to sit and read. Small signs of life, not to mention the warmness of the decor, make this space feel like a home. Zhang Hao can’t help but once again think back to his own home — the most notable decoration there is all of the wide open spaces, how large it is, how he hasn’t yet been able to fit it with the style and decor and feel that he wants no matter how large a sum his bank account holds.

“This room is mostly for entertaining guests, though the sunlight is especially good in the mornings, so you can also take breakfast in here if you’d like,” Hanbin explains before heading through an open archway to the left. “This room opens right out to the small foyer with the stairs, same as the entryway. And across the way is the main living room.”

The living room is just as fresh and buoyant as the sitting room. It’s much larger, maybe two times as big with three floor-to-ceiling windows set against the far wall. The ceiling has tasteful crowning that accentuates the two medium-sized chandeliers. The furniture in here is all done in a lively, detailed Baroque and Rococo style — Zhang Hao notices that the color of the furniture is yet again either bronze or creamy brown with beige and pink silk and velvet for the upholstery. It’s clear that Hanbin made his furniture choices with great care.

“A fun fact, this building is actually quite old,” Hanbin starts as he walks over to the windows. “This South tower is actually part of the original building, so all of this has been remodeled and refurbished over the years. The North tower of this complex is completely new, made to mirror this building. It was owned by an industrialist in the late 1800s who originally lived in it as a house with a separate carriage house, but then later moved out and had the entire place built up into an apartment in the mid 1900s.”

“The history lesson is all well and good Hanbin, but I’m kind of tired—” Zhang Hao starts, before Hanbin cuts him off.

“I always talk too much, sorry,” he giggles. “But what I was leading up to is that when the rest of the city started getting built the building, and also when they erected the second tower, they were going to demolish the original carriage house. However, instead of doing so, they actually took apart the whole thing and rebuilt it brick by brick on the roof of this building,” Hanbin nudges aside the gauze curtains hanging over the window and clicks open the door, indicating for Zhang Hao to take a look.

When he steps out onto the balcony, he’s fairly sure his jaw drops. Below them, just one floor down is a small brick courtyard area that leads to, exactly as Hanbin said, a carriage house. The large barn doors have been replaced with huge glass ones, and much of the front of it has also been installed with glass panels. There is only a bit of brick framing both sides before it stretches up into the roof that also holds a slanted skylight. The effect is quite amazing: a small bubble of tranquility set against the blazing morning sky. Zhang Hao takes another step forward, gripping the railing of the balcony, eyes wide and starry, no doubt. This is the most incredible thing he’s ever seen.

“Thank you,” Hanbin laughs, pleased.

Only then does Zhang Hao realize he spoke out loud. But he can’t even feel self-conscious about it. He’s no doubt not the first person to tell Hanbin this. And it is: utterly incredible. Zhang Hao spots at least two different daybeds in the carriage house for maximum comfort, a bar set off to the side, and what looks to be a magnificent flat-screen TV through the skylight. He knows just where he’ll be spending every single day of the next month.

Hanbin takes him on a quick tour of the “basement” level downstairs, which includes the kitchen, laundry room, pantry, and small gym — on the same level as the courtyard and the carriage house. Each of the rooms are decorated with the same pale wood floors, light oak paneling, and beautiful nacre detailing. The kitchen boasts a gigantic La Cornue stove. When asked if he cooks, Hanbin only says, “Just simple meals for myself most days. I also entertain down here and out in the carriage house quite frequently — and for that I’ll usually hire private chefs.” Sure, makes sense.

All throughout the tour, Zhang Hao can’t help but get the sense that something is off. Not about the home — which is beautiful and perfect and Zhang Hao has half a mind to hire an architect and interior designer and ask them to replicate it exactly for him back in LA — but about Hanbin. He’s being too nice, too accommodating, too lovely. That’s always been a standout feature of his. Despite their regrettably short acquaintance five years ago, it had taken Zhang Hao all of five seconds to deduce how lovely he is.

But this is … strange. He should have clocked it as soon as Hanbin came down the stairs and greeted him with a “It’s good to see you.” Because the last time they’d spent any significant amount of time together had been on the tail end of his rejection. And in the years since, on the rare occasions they’ve been in the same city, been required to physically be together for press, their interactions have been polite, but distinctly distant.

This is not normal. At least not for them. Bitterly, Zhang Hao wonders if Hanbin is putting in this last bit of effort only because he knows he’s going to be free of him in thirty-seven days anyway. Maybe it’s even out of pettiness on his part, rubbing in all the things that Zhang Hao is going to be missing out on by the time mid-August rolls around. His steps feel heavy as he follows Hanbin up the cream-carpeted stairs.

“There are two floors up here — my bedroom takes up the entire top floor. There’s another sitting room here on the second floor. It’s a little more comfortable,” Hanbin introduces, as if the rest of his home is somehow uncomfortable.

Though this one does show a bit more sign of life compared to the room downstairs. The little lived-in hints of a half-drunken mug of actual coffee on the oak table, pillows piled onto the delicate armchair presumably moved from the matching couch, a phone charger plugged into the wall underneath the television.

“There are two guest bedrooms on this floor as well — I’ve given you the West-facing room to make the best use of the sunlight in the evenings.”

He should thank him. Not just for the room but for letting him set foot in this wonderland of a home. Zhang Hao should be kneeling at his feet and kissing them for letting him live in this meticulously curated, clearly well-loved apartment with him. It’s … a dream. It would be a dream if he was here for any other reason besides a desperate attempt to save his career, if the only thing that had gotten him here wasn’t divorce.

But in the last thirty minutes, as Hanbin has shown him around his home, Zhang Hao realizes he hadn’t thought about the outside world at all. He hadn’t given a thought to what people might be saying about him on social media, if the posts that Taerae and Hanbin’s people made about their mutual, amicable divorce is really going well or not, hadn’t thought about if this was actually working.

Which is good. Which is bad, which is very bad actually. He has to concentrate. That’s the reason he’s here. And he can’t lose sight of it at any time. So Zhang Hao doesn’t thank him. Instead, he gives Hanbin another tight-lipped, quick nod. Not rude, but very clearly aloof. If he can keep this up for just one month — all of this will be over.

And everything will go back to normal.

Hanbin leaves him in a guest room decorated in pink and a watery, pale green that reminds Zhang Hao of budding trees and ripe flowers. It’s spacious, luxurious even, and Zhang Hao has no complaints as he gets settled in — noticeably still without his luggage. After twenty minutes have passed, he finds Hanbin out in the sitting room on this floor, who immediately offers to go down to check on it for him. Zhang Hao protests, saying they could call or wait a little longer, but Hanbin is already halfway down the stairs.

It feels weird to be left all alone in this strange apartment. But it’s also glorious to get to pore over all the small details of this space without feeling self-conscious. He peruses the spines on Hanbin’s bookshelves, noting that he’s very into self help, cookbooks, and biographies; checks the contents of his fridge to see a healthy stock of fresh vegetables, no dairy whatsoever, and a tub of kimchi; finally, he does what he’s been itching to do since he saw it up on that balcony, he hurries across the courtyard and into the carriage house.

The ceiling is so high, and the skylight lets in the noon sun wonderfully. Zhang Hao feels his muscles completely relaxing as he lays back against a fluffy beige daybed. The air in here is cool from the central AC and he revels in it, paired with the natural light it’s absolutely heavenly. This is his favorite spot in the whole apartment by far. Zhang Hao melts into the cushion, attention darting across the decorations in here as well. He remembers thinking that the painting hung up on the wall, of a beautiful, scenic riverside view, looks vaguely famous before his eyes flutter closed. And then the next thing he registers is a hand on his shoulder shaking him awake.

“Huh?” he startles. He shoots up immediately, alarmed and wildly embarrassed that the sleepless night had caught up to him like this. How long had he been out? It must have been hours because even though the sun is still up, it’s in an entirely different place than it had been earlier. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, sorry. Did you … did they bring the trunks?”

“Ah, about that,” Hanbin grimaces, sitting down on the couch next to him, but not too close. “Sorry to wake you — but it’s kind of urgent.”

Immediately, he’s filled with concern. Did something else happen? Another revelation that would ruin him? Perhaps it’s gotten out that the whole divorce was a sham because the entire marriage had been a sham to begin with. Who needs a career anyway? Who cares if his dream has always been to be a singer? He lived it for nearly a decade — maybe that’s all that he’s fated to get in this life. “What happened?” he asks, nerves thrumming just under the surface of his skin.

“So, um, there’s no easy way to say this, but they think your luggage got stolen.”

A beat. “What?”

Looking incredibly chagrined, Hanbin explains. “The lady downstairs swore this has never happened before, but apparently the guy they hired as a bellhop is gone.”

“What?” Zhang Hao repeats in disbelief, a little louder this time, a little more sharply. “How?”

“They’ve spent the past hour or so trying to track him down with no luck,” Hanbin says, wincing. “And your trunks are just … gone. Nowhere to be found on the property. They think he either thought you were rich and just took them, or maybe, uh, maybe he recognized you.”

“There’s no way,” Zhang Hao groans. “I can’t have another scandal! Do you know what people are going to say when someone starts selling my shit online? Zhang Hao loses big in divorce, sells personal property to make ends meet. It’s over!”

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Hanbin placates, hands automatically reaching for him, but they just stop short of making contact, hovering. “That won’t happen, I promise. They have his full name and number and employment information. It was honestly really stupid of him to try to take them, because they’ll be able to report him easily. What I came to find you for was they need you to provide the police with descriptions of the trunks and what’s in them. Can you do that?”

Zhang Hao recognizes that Hanbin is speaking to him in low, slow tones as he would a child with a tantrum. But the worst part is: it’s actually working. Of course, he’s still incredibly worried and incensed and annoyed that this is even happening — as if he needs one more thing to worry about — but Hanbin’s calm, gentle tone is like a balm on his brain. And he believes it. The police will likely catch him, and they’ll get his trunks back. Maybe even by tonight if they’re lucky.

“And I wouldn’t—” Hanbin pauses as if unsure. “I wouldn’t let them write those things about you. We’d clear it up — say you were moving your stuff out of here for the divorce or something.”

Every reminder of the divorce feels like a slap in the face — it feels like every time he manages to set it from the forefront of his mind, something brings it up again and it’s like a stake in the chest. Focus, he reminds himself harshly. It doesn’t matter how nice Hanbin is. He should remember why he’s here. “You don’t have to put yourself out for me,” Zhang Hao mumbles.

Hanbin looks like he’s about to argue, gets so far as to open his mouth, but then seems to change his mind halfway. Good. It’s good if they don’t get into it all. They’ve already said all that needed to be said anyway. It’s all water under the bridge now — especially because they’re so close to the end.

After an awkward moment, Hanbin finally says, “The police have been called and they’re on the way. If we go down now, we should just catch them when they arrive.”

Once again, Zhang Hao nods, stiffly formally. “Sure, lead the way.”

The whole ordeal doesn’t take them more than thirty minutes. The police take their statements, mostly the lady at the desk and Zhang Hao’s. He gives them a detailed description of what the trunks look like and roughly what they should find in each. He then leaves his number with them under assurances that they’ll call him once they’re found or if they have any further questions. When asked how long it may take, the officers hem and haw, unwilling to promise anything in typical police fashion. Zhang Hao figures he should be grateful enough that they’re taking this so seriously — lost property doesn’t seem like it would be high on the list of NYPD’s priorities.

It’s not until they arrive back upstairs that Zhang Hao realizes the true practical problems of his predicament. Hanbin is leaving in about an hour to head to the theater for rehearsals. Which was all fine and good. Food and all that he can figure out himself, Hanbin has told him to help himself to anything in the fridge, but he’s more than likely to order in than cook anything for himself anyway. His one big problem now is: he has no clothes.

He can call Taerae and have him go out and buy him an extra set of clothes — he knows his size. But then he thinks back on how haggard he had looked on the plane, the dark circles under his eyes. Zhang Hao knows that if he calls him now, Taerae will spend half the night worrying, trying to micromanage lost luggage. Besides, if anyone has had a more sleepless week than Zhang Hao, it would be him. No, he won’t call him. The police are already on it, and if everything works out, his trunks will be returned, with everything in them, before Taerae even knows they’re gone.

However, that leaves him with the conundrum of either 1) Going out himself to buy an extra set of clothes that he doesn’t really need 2) Sleeping in his plane clothes that he’s had on for a full day now or 3) Sucking it up and asking Hanbin.

Fuck.

Zhang Hao has been holed up in his guest room ever since they returned to the apartment. He hasn’t seen or heard Hanbin — though this place is so big he could be making a ruckus in the gym and he’s fairly sure he wouldn’t know it. He slowly creeps out of his room and peers over the banister just on the off chance he might catch a glimpse of Hanbin in the lower floors, but no luck. His eyes trail up the stairs that lead to the top floor of the apartment. Obviously, Hanbin hadn’t given him a tour of his personal bedroom. There’s no need to — Zhang Hao fully plans to live this entire month without ever setting foot upstairs. But for now … “Hanbin?” he calls up the stairwell.

“Yes?” The reply comes not two seconds later, and then Hanbin’s head pops around the curve of the staircase. When he spots Zhang Hao lingering at the bottom, he hurries down. “Did they call already?”

“No, not that.” Zhang Hao takes a step back as Hanbin approaches. “I was just wondering … I want to wash up and maybe head to bed early. But as you know, um, all my clothes are in my stolen trunks.”

“Oh, do you want me to get someone to buy you something?” Hanbin offers.

That would certainly do the trick. The yes is on the tip of Zhang Hao’s tongue. Here is an easy solution to all his problems that he hadn’t even thought of! He would be a fool not to say yes. And yet after so many nods today, Zhang Hao finds himself shaking his head. “There’s no need to trouble anyone — or well, I guess, maybe just you,” Zhang Hao gives him a sheepish smile. “If you have any spare clothes I could borrow? Hopefully they’ll find my trunks tomorrow, and I won’t need them for long.”

He doesn’t have any plans for tomorrow. Going into the studio can be put off for one more day. And Taerae had made sure his calendar was pretty much empty for the rest of the month — “Just try to lay low,” he had told him. The only thing he had coming up was in four weeks time, an awards luncheon that he had agreed to speak at. But that would be nearly a month removed from the cheating scandal, less than a week off from their divorce being finalized. It should be fine. So anyway, he could definitely hole up in the apartment like a ghastly ghoul dressed in ratty shirts and loose sweats come to haunt Hanbin’s happy life for the next couple days. No problem.

“Oh yeah, of course. Why don’t you go and shower and I’ll leave some clothes on your bed for you?” Hanbin offers, very kindly actually, continuing his pattern of odd behavior.

“That would be great.” And this time Zhang Hao does return his smile, just a brief upturn of his lips. “Thank you.”

No problem. Hah! No problem?

Zhang Hao had been a fool to think that this would be no problem whatsoever. As soon as he pulls on Hanbin’s thin shirt (blue) and sweatpants (too big), he knows he’s in trouble. Because, first of all, they smell like Hanbin. He’d been valiantly trying to ignore it all day, especially when Hanbin had woken him up on the sofa in the carriage house, but he has a very distinct, faint sweet vanilla scent. And Zhang Hao knows it’s not his cologne — because he could smell that too. Deeper hints of sandalwood and something almost tangy that mixes with his natural scent quite wonderfully—

Anyway that is not the point! The point is Zhang Hao loves the way he looks in Hanbin’s clothes, he loves the way he feels in them far too much. He’s positively blushing in the bathroom and it’s not even from the steam! He has half a mind to rip them off right now, because he is not going down this road no matter what. Except for the glaring problem that had landed him in this situation in the first place: he has nothing else to wear. Zhang Hao tarries in the bathroom for so long, Hanbin has already left for work by the time he comes out. Which is for the best, he rationalizes — no need to have a breakdown over a set of pajamas in front of his soon-to-be ex-husband.

It’s all moot anyway, because as soon as he steps foot into his room, Zhang Hao suddenly feels bone-tired, and he decides to forgo dinner despite the rumbling of his stomach. He’d taken his afternoon nap right through lunchtime, and even though it’s barely five in the evening now, all he wants to do is curl up in the crisply-pressed silk and cotton rosebud-hued sheet set unconscious for the next twelve hours. And he has full intention to do just that, turning down the lights except for a light sconce — light sconce! — on the other side of the room; slipping his feet under the covers — so warm! — to pull them over his shoulders; and resting his head on the fluffy pillow that smells faintly of jasmine. That is until his phone starts ringing.

Zhang Hao groans thunderously, feeling ridiculously on the verge of tears. Assuming it’s Taerae calling in to check up on him, he automatically picks up, putting the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” an entirely surprising and not-Taerae voice on the other end says. Zhang Hao quickly checks his screen. It’s Park Hanbin.

“Oh, hi …” he says carefully, regretting having picked up so quickly now.

“Sorry to call out of nowhere — you stopped answering my texts so …”

“Ah, sorry!” Zhang Hao realizes he’s barely checked his phone all day, as soon as he got on the plane last night, actually. “I’m in New York now. I was traveling all day and there was some mix-up with my luggage, so I’ve been dealing with that and just a bit preoccupied.”

“Right, I forgot you were flying today. How is everything over there?”

Unexpectedly, Park Hanbin has become something of a … friend throughout this whole ordeal. Zhang Hao had finally replied to his texts the following night after he’d had Kuanjui over, and they’ve kept up a steady conversation since. Nothing too deep or personal, Zhang Hao certainly hasn’t shared the details of all his troubles with him. But just light jokes and chatter. Usually, Zhang Hao would be too busy to keep up something casual like this, but it’s a bit refreshing, just like how Hanbin had been during the auction. He’s funny and knows when not to pry, and throughout the chaos of the past week, Zhang Hao has appreciated just having someone easy to talk to.

He spends the next fifteen minutes complaining to Hanbin over how the bellhop had stolen his trunks, getting plenty of guffaws and annoying jokes for his troubles. But despite his chattering, he doesn’t even dare mention the other Hanbin — his Hanbin.

After a natural lull in the conversation where Park Hanbin complains about his parents making him attend yet another event, he casually segues into: “Actually, I’m calling because I’m going to be in New York in a couple weeks, towards the end of July. If you’re free, do you want to grab coffee or maybe dinner or something?”

Zhang Hao pauses. He’s usually exceptionally good at reading people — he prides himself on being able to tell within ten seconds flat what it is they want from him: money, fame, influence, his body, advice, whatever. And right now, he’s fairly sure Park Hanbin is asking him out on a … date.

A date?!

It baffles him because throughout all of their interactions, at the auction, even over text as recently as two days ago, Zhang Hao had never gotten that vibe from him whatsoever. That’s why he’s felt so comfortable keeping up their correspondence. This certainly ruins it for him.

“Ah, I don’t know if that would be a good idea,” he hedges. For many reasons. But he gives Hanbin the most logical one. “Until all of this blows over, I’ve been told to keep a pretty low profile. I was honestly just planning on spending the next month between home and the studio.”

“We could do dinner at my place, if that’s better for you,” Hanbin offers, unexpectedly pushy.

“You have a place?”

“Well, my parents do. My mom flies into the city to shop frequently and thought it would be more comfortable to buy a place than stay at hotels all the time.”

“Of course,” Zhang Hao agrees, like he knows anything about traveling across the country just to do some shopping.

“I’m not much of a cook, but I do make a pretty good lamb chop — perfectly medium rare.”

“I’ll ask my assistant about my schedule,” Zhang Hao hedges again. He hates burning bridges, but he’s also not interested whatsoever.

Surprisingly, Park Hanbin gives him a high-peeling laugh. “I’ve heard that enough times to know I’m being rejected. It’s all good. Just let me know if you change your mind, okay? I’ll be there on the twenty-ninth.”

The corners of his lips tilt up. That really is Park Hanbin’s appeal — he doesn’t take things too seriously, he’s easy to get along with. Zhang Hao nods into his pillow, shuffling around so he’s curled over on his side. “Yeah, okay, I’ll let you know.”

“Talk to you later!”

“Bye,” Zhang Hao says, clicking off the line.

He falls asleep with his phone still in his hand, nose tucked into the collar of his borrowed shirt.

Zhang Hao does indeed sleep for more than twelve hours. The sunlight is slanting through the windows when he wakes, and he can even hear birds chirping outside, in the horrible, dull city even birds have flocked to this mock paradise Hanbin has created. Zhang Hao stretches fully, feeling completely rested for the first time in a long time and looks over to check his phone. His eyes widen when he realizes it’s nearly noon. And, predictably, he already has texts from Taerae.

7:24 A.M.
Kim Taerae
> I figured you’d want to rest today so I didn’t make any studio bookings
> Unless you want to get out of the house
> How was everything yesterday? I don’t know whether not hearing from you was a good or bad thing

Zhang Hao sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his messy hair. He types up a reply to Taerae letting him know that everything is fine so far — conveniently leaves out the fiasco with his trunks and the police — and that yes, he would like to skip the studio today, thank you.

He gets a reply back almost immediately.

9:11 A.M.
Kim Taerae
> Fine??????
> What happened?

Zhang Hao hates how predictable he is at times. And also how well Taerae is able to read him. The more he insists the more suspicious it will be. He gnaws on his lip as he types out his reply.

9:12 A.M.
Zhang Hao
> nothing happened!!!
> hanbin is just being super nice it’s weird
> but like it’s not bad i guess

Kim Taerae
> That doesn’t sound like a problem, don’t overthink
> but tell me if he doesn’t treat you well

Zhang Hao rolls his eyes. Not only does he think Taerae is too overprotective — he also has no doubt that Taerae has the wonderfully colorful vocabulary and tact needed to tell someone to go fuck themselves in formal tones. He’s seen it happen before. But surprisingly, he doesn’t think he’ll ever need it when it comes to Hanbin. Even when they’d disagreed, even when they were no longer close, Hanbin hadn’t ever not treated him well. In the general sense. He’d rather not think about how his biggest hurt had come from him anyway.

He sends Taerae an animated saluting emoji and then slides out of bed. He’d really love to spend the entire day lounging and laying about, but the lack of meals yesterday has really caught up to him and he’s veritably starving now. He needs to get some food in him immediately or he’s liable to get extremely cranky. As Zhang Hao shuffles out of his room and descends the stairs to the basement level, he tries to think back on what Hanbin had in the fridge and whether he’ll manage to pull together something edible from it. When he rounds down the curve of the last staircase though, he’s surprised to see someone else already in the kitchen.

“Oh! Good morning,” Hanbin turns briefly to smile at him with one hand around a skillet handle and another with two eggs in palm. “Are you hungry?”

The smell of sizzling sausage, scrambled eggs and tangy basil enters his nose, and Zhang Hao’s stomach lets out the most booming rumble he’s ever heard in his life.

Hanbin giggles. “I guess that answers the question. I usually just have breakfast down here, if you want to take a seat at the island. This will be done soon.”

Once again mute, he nods and waddles to kitchen island, taking a seat with a perfect view of Hanbin’s broad back as he fries up the rest of the eggs. As he sits there, he gets that discomforting feeling from the day before again. And he struggles with them for a bit. It’s not irritation, it’s not even sadness. He’s not sure what it is, but he figures it’s best to just lay it out clearly. Zhang Hao has never been a fan of misunderstandings — they’re always so annoying, so trite. He’d stand up in his massive living room yelling at the TV screen for them to just talk! In real life though … he knows it’s not always that simple.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he mumbles, eyes not quite able to rise off the marble countertop in front of him. “Make me food and all that. You should just live your life normally, and pretend I’m not here. I think that’ll make the next month a bit easier.”

“It’s no trouble. I was making myself breakfast anyway,” Hanbin says breezily, scooping the eggs onto a plate. It’s steaming and still a little yolky and looks so delicious Zhang Hao feels his mouth start to water despite what he’s just said.

But no! He has to stand his ground, despite Hanbin turning out to be a Michelin star chef or something. “That’s not what I mean. I just think that—”

“I know what you mean,” Hanbin says, cutting him off. For the first time since Zhang Hao has set foot in this apartment, Hanbin doesn’t sound overly genial and upbeat. Not rude, just less forced and lively. At least they’re finally getting somewhere. “We can talk about it,” Hanbin says, glancing back at him quickly. “Just let me get this finished.”

Zhang Hao allows him that — it’s the least he can do since he’s basically cooking five meal’s worth of food right now. He traces idle patterns into the marble and looks around the kitchen at all the small details he hadn’t had time to take in yesterday: there’s another vase of roses on the window sill, these without their leaves and a little wilted, it makes him think this is the graveyard of rejected roses from other parts of the house; he doesn’t spot a dishwasher anywhere which leads him to think that Hanbin maybe hand washes his dishes, though he does open an invisible cabinet to reveal a trashcan to dump the eggshells in so maybe it’s just also hidden; and there’s a box of croissants on the corner of the counter from a fancy French bakery that was trendy on social media a couple of months ago. That makes him smile. “Are those actually any good?”

“Hm?” Hanbin hums. “What are?”

“The croissants.”

Hanbin blows out a laugh. “Oh, those. My assistant bought them for me actually. He mentioned something about them being famous now and how I just had to try them.”

“And your verdict?” Zhang Hao prompts.

“Not as good as the ones in France,” Hanbin turns with a cheeky grin and twinkle in his eye.

He laughs. “I didn’t know you had such expensive tastes.”

“Not at all, the croissants in France were just from some random small bakery. But still way better than these,” Hanbin waves over to the box. “I would offer you one, but you’d be sorely disappointed.”

“Well, now I’ve got to try,” Zhang Hao challenges. He slips off the stool and goes to pick out a croissant. Taking a bite of the flaky but cool pastry, he considers it for a moment before confirming: “It’s a bit too buttery — and yet somehow dry. And the gap between the layers is too big; it feels like I’m eating air.”

“Damn, hope you’ll go easy on my cooking, Gordon Ramsay,” Hanbin jokes, having set their heaping plates on the island by the time Zhang Hao returns to his seat.

He chuckles, looking down at the veritable spread of scrambled eggs, roasted tomatoes still on the vine and a delectable-looking sausage and potato hash. He tucks his disappointing croissant into a corner of the feast. “It looks incredible, really. Thanks.” Zhang Hao looks up with a smile.

Hanbin seems to freeze for just a moment, before he also sits down on a stool and picks up his fork. The two of them eat in amicable, if not slightly stilted, silence for a few minutes, and Zhang Hao has to hold back his noises of surprise and elation at just how good everything is. The scrambled eggs are just slightly under seasoned — the way he likes them — so they pair perfectly with a scoop of the hash. He even spoons a bit of it onto the croissant, suddenly solving all the problems he had with it.

“Good?” Hanbin is looking at him, barely able to contain his smirk.

“Mmhmm,” Zhang Hao mumbles around a mouthful of food. In his defense, it’s been nearly twenty-four hours since he’s eaten anything. That’s definitely the only reason he thinks Hanbin’s cooking is the best thing he’s ever eaten. He tries to ignore the surreptitious grin that creeps higher on Hanbin’s face.

After a bit more chewing and clanking of their utensils, Hanbin turns to him with a serious expression. “We can talk now if you want. About setting down some ground rules,” he offers.

Once again, his brightness has been slightly toned down — settling somewhere between the effusive congeniality of when he greeted him yesterday and the stony demeanor they’d been using with each other up until that point.

“I had actually been meaning to speak with you about them yesterday,” Hanbin starts. “Because I agree, it’ll be easier for us both. But then everything happened with your luggage, and it didn’t seem like a good time.”

“Well, it seems like you’ve thought this all out,” Zhang Hao smirks. “So …” He waves his hand out in front of it in a have at it then gesture.

Hanbin nods. “Right, first about the food. Obviously you’re welcome to anything in the fridge if you’d like to cook. I have groceries delivered every Saturday. It’s a prepaid service, so no need for you to chip in. I would be getting it regardless. And while I’m home, so mainly for breakfast and lunch, I really don’t mind cooking for the both of us. I’d be cooking for myself anyway, so it doesn’t make much of a difference.”

Zhang Hao nods, if a little reluctantly. Sure, that’s logical. It’s a convenience thing — less dishes, whatever. If Hanbin wants to cook, then it’s not like he’ll go out of his way to stop him.

“In terms of pretending you’re not here, I won’t do that.”

To Zhang Hao’s surprise, he sounds incredibly firm. He might even sound a bit angry.

“We’re living with each other now, even if it’s temporary. I want us to at least … not be difficult around each other.”

Zhang Hao frowns. Sure, he’s the one being difficult now, for simply not falling over himself to be nice to Hanbin, to not be fawning and over-the-top like him. Okay. “I won’t get in your way, don’t worry.”

“Not that,” Hanbin says, slightly exasperated. “I just mean it would be nice if we could get along.”

“Get along?” Zhang Hao echoes, slightly in disbelief, slightly miffed now. How bold of Hanbin to treat him like a child and ask him to act properly — he can read between the lines, he knows that’s what he means by get along, that Zhang Hao is being childish if he keeps up this barrier between them, that he’s being immature by holding onto a grudge for something that happened years ago. But still, this is … too much for Hanbin to ask him. Why can’t he just leave him alone? How dare he expect him to smile and be demure and pretend like everything is okay when he had been the one to break his heart all those years ago? Of course, it’s easy for him. It’s clear Hanbin has gotten over it. With his stunning career and gorgeous house and all the parties that he throws for his friends in the carriage house! But Zhang Hao still has the right to be hurt over it. “Don’t talk to me like I’m the one being unreasonable here,” he snaps.

“I’m not—” Hanbin stops himself abruptly. “I’m not trying to argue.”

“Neither am I!”

“Can you please lower your voice?”

Zhang Hao grinds his teeth together, annoyed that Hanbin has rightly called him out. He leans back on his stool, arms crossed, appetite completely forgotten.

“I just don’t want to walk on eggshells in my own home for the next month. Can’t we just be friends?”

Zhang Hao has to work hard to unclench his jaw before being able to speak. “I get that my being here is an inconvenience for you. I wouldn’t dream of making you walk on eggshells around me. Like I said, please just feel free to continue on with your amazing life. I would prefer that actually; I don’t want to have to put on a fake smile and force myself to make you happy. Thank you for offering to cook, but I can handle my own meals.”

With that, Zhang Hao stands up and marches out of the kitchen. It only takes him one flight of stairs before he gets that sick, sticky feeling in his chest: regret. He hadn’t meant to be so harsh — his pride smarts at the admittance of remorse, even to himself — but the anger over what Hanbin was implying, at his gall in saying all this, in asking if they could be friends was not something he could control. By the time Zhang Hao gets to the door of his guest room, he wants to cry. He valiantly holds back his tears. He will not cry! Not over this! He’s already shed enough tears over Sung Hanbin to last a lifetime.

It’s a bad idea, he knows. Now is not the time to decide to scroll through his social media for the first time in a week. But with a lack of things to do, none of his possessions with him, and being unwilling — too scared — to leave the room, Zhang Hao finds himself curled up on one of the couches fiddling with his phone and finally giving in; he logs into his accounts. He winces when he sees his notification count — Zhang Hao doesn’t even want to tap into that right now. Instead, he searches for his name and then Hanbin’s — when that pulls up results of Park Hanbin as well, he amends and types in ‘Sung Hanbin.’

🤠 @interntbny • 1d
Okay so are we all just going to pretend like we haven’t heard or seen anything about Zhang Hao since he landed in New York like do we think he’s dead

echo♡ @hanbinhaoing • 5d
FUCKKKKKKKK i literally don’t believe in love anymore what do you mean zhang hao cheated on sung hanbin there’s no way i’ll k!ll myself in front of them and make them get back together

hanbin summoning @s3asonssix • 23h
finally they’re divorcing hanbin was always too good for hao anyway like it made no sense an emmy winner and very successful broadway star was married to some guy who only got nominated for a grammy because there was no one else eligible that year and whose only claim to fame is

> hanbin summoning @s3asonssix • 23h
Replying to hanbin summoning
dumb little trending songs when we all know his label buys his fans and popularity and their own albums like they’ve done before with so many of their artists hao was just dragging him down thank god he’s free

satan @02_whitedaisy • 7/2/24
Does anyone else remember that old photo of zhang hao looking up at hanbin and smiling from back when they first started dating like he was SO in love what the hell happened…

Pop Latest News @NewsPop • 7/5/24
Actor Sung Hanbin and singer Zhang Hao announce their divorce after 5 years of marriage
Click to read the story:
newspop.com/sung-hanbin-zhanghao-announce-divorce-after-cheating-rumors-117382

> hao central @awildhaolovr • 7/5/24
Replying to Pop Latest News
love isn’t real what the fuck

> Syning @synlimmyyy • 7/5/24
Replying to Pop Latest News
YEAH AFTER HAO CHEATED LMAO

> schlorp @binhaoooos • 7/5/24
Replying to Pop Latest News
this has to be some sort of publicity stunt right hao drop new music right now

Lexibell @Haoooob_ • 4d
i can’t say i didn’t see this coming :/ how long have they even walked a red carpet together. i know they say they don’t do those things and they’re usually busy but still. i actually went to relationship counseling a couple times and based on what we’ve been seeing of the two of them these past few years well… lets just say they’ve been exhibiting so many signs of an failing relationship

Stream Telltale @thecrucibleoflife • 3d
It’s pretty obvious that Zhang Hao has been unhappy for a while. Like looking back at these old photos of him from a couple months ago you can just tell the guilt is eating him up. I hope he apologizes and says something about this.

AMMY @mix_haob • 17h
GUYS GUYS GUYS hao was spotted outside hanbin’s apartment in new york?????? i thought they were divorcing???

glue🎀 @kxssingbin • 4d
hao is going to regret this for the rest of his life

Well, that’s not great.

Zhang Hao sets his phone down on the coffee table like it’s a bomb about to explode. His stomach twists uncomfortably, first from the guilt of having lashed out and said those things at Hanbin and now from looking at the brief few posts online. As he scrolls, he glimpses a few tirades against his character and how he has no loyalty or integrity and obviously doesn’t respect himself; there’s a full thread from someone breaking down all the “milestones” in his and Hanbin’s relationship, including the fake birthday post he’d made for him late last year that only makes him feel even worse. Zhang Hao thinks he feels a migraine coming on.

He stays holed up in his room until about three in the afternoon, when he hears footsteps coming down the stairs and then continuing down to the first floor. Hanbin. He must be leaving for rehearsals again. It only serves to make Zhang Hao feel even worse when it shouldn’t. Hanbin is doing exactly what he so rudely told him to do — ignore him. But he can’t say he didn’t feel like crying again when lunchtime had come and gone without so much as a knock on his door. But what had he expected? Hanbin to come and coddle him and soothe him and beg him to come out of his room? Of course not. He’d been right all along: Hanbin has a perfect life here, and it’s better for them both if he doesn’t get in the way.

After an hour passes and his stomach starts to rumble again, Zhang Hao finally braves the world outside of his room. Everything is the same as it was this morning — as if none of the turmoil that he’s feeling even really matters. But of course, Hanbin’s house is as perfect as ever. It doesn’t care about him or his feelings at all. Zhang Hao tip-toes down to the kitchen and finds his half-eaten plate of breakfast covered with a glass cloche in the fridge. At least Hanbin hadn’t thrown it away — not that he thinks he’s one to waste food, but after the way he had acted this morning, he wouldn’t even blame him if he’d tossed it out of spite.

Zhang Hao warms it up quickly and stares balefully at the kitchen island while the microwave drones on. He can’t make himself sit back on the same stool as when he’d yelled at Hanbin this morning, discomfort and shame gnawing at his insides, so he takes his plate out to the courtyard and into the carriage house to eat. And when it becomes too miserable to sit there and chew in silence, he runs back to his room to get his headphones. Might as well listen to some of his old melodies, a few beats sent to him by producers and see if he can get some work done. Regardless of what people online said, he isn’t a deadbeat. He’s actually incredibly successful! And he is supposed to be working on a new album.

A lot of his older stuff is close to his own style, airy and low. His debut album especially had been praised for being different at the time, and consistently un-trendy. A departure from the high-pitched, fast-paced tempo that his label has been pushing on him for the past few years. He thinks back to that post online that had called them stupid trending songs. They weren’t wrong. But also, that’s what has sold so far, that’s what’s gotten him here. Zhang Hao lets out a harsh chuckle at that. Yeah, it’s gotten him here eating warmed over breakfast at four in the afternoon in the home of the person who broke his heart — alone. The worst part is, the only person he can really blame for this is himself.

And well, Hanbin.

Five years later and incredible bitterness still wells in him whenever he thinks about it. Him reaching out and Hanbin so coldly rebuffing him. He’s thought back on that interaction so many times, wondering what it is that he did wrong, what it was about him that had made Hanbin not want him, to not even try to make this something real. Hanbin is so sweet and lovely and nice, and it’s the biggest hurt of his life that he’s that way with everyone but him. And then comes the guilt, the self-doubt. Because it’s not Hanbin’s fault if he doesn’t want him. Zhang Hao can’t make him love him.

Their relationship had started out with a connection from a friend of a friend. She’d told Zhang Hao that Hanbin was in LA, too, trying to make it big. He distinctly remembers her saying maybe you two can support each other; it doesn’t hurt to know one more person in a city like LA. Back then, there were few people that he knew and even fewer that he could genuinely trust, so he’d gone out on a limb and reached out.

Their first viral video had been entirely by accident. Something fun, and light. The two of them both liked to dance — during one of their first hang outs Hanbin had suggested that they rent a studio and just mess about for a bit, relax and have fun and maybe Zhang Hao could teach him a choreography from his boy group days. It had been months since he’d properly danced by then, and he’d missed it, so of course he’d agreed. They’d filmed the short pair choreo on a whim. It had been barely twenty seconds.

It had been an overnight success. Within a day their video had gotten over four million likes; Hanbin’s account had reached nearly five-hundred thousand followers. People had dug up Zhang Hao’s history — with his group, with what happened to make them disband — along with Hanbin’s significantly shorter bio, which included the small town he’d grown up in Korea, plus photos of him from high school. And it had all just clicked. They could use this. They could capitalize on this sudden attention and fame and outpouring of interest and affection like the greedy, manipulative bastards they are — like the desperate, hopeless artists they were.

So many of the comments on the video had been along the lines of omg they look so cute together and bro Zhang Hao has fully come out after leaving TO and i would catch feelings so fast if someone looked at me like that and their chemistry is actually insane and on and on and on. It had been an insane idea. But Hanbin had agreed — the first nail in the coffin of Zhang Hao’s love life.

It was incredibly easy for him to carry on their fake relationship, too easy. Because, and Zhang Hao wouldn’t admit this to anyone let alone himself at the time, he was actually falling for him. And that, too, had been easy, because Hanbin was perfect. Not in the sense that he had no flaws, but that even the flaws that he had felt like they complemented his own. They got along perfectly, not in the sense that they agreed on everything, but that they approached the basic ideals of life in the same way, that the fundamental part of them, their values, their habits, their personalities, was especially compatible even if the singular details weren’t an exact match. That in itself made them the ideal match.

They had had this incredible, lovely, extremely public whirlwind of a romance. They got picked up to do interviews on the morning news over how viral they were going; they were filmed on the streets whenever they went out — in fact, after some time that had become the point. But it still wasn’t enough. They were buzzy for a few months, but the public’s interest wanes and waxes, it’s fickle and prone to distraction. And neither of them had truly amounted to much despite their five minutes of fame.

So, crazily, stupidly, they got married.

And Zhang Hao finally got signed to a label. And Hanbin finally got cast in a streaming show that didn’t get canceled after the first season. The rest after that was, well, happily ever after. That’s what they tried to make it seem like at least. The truth of it was that it had always been fake. And once they had started getting all of these job offers — real offers that they could use to make something of themselves besides the internet’s favorite couple of the month — Hanbin hadn’t been interested in pursuing anything real. He had said things like it’ll just get in the way and if it ends badly and I don’t want to ruin things for you and it’s better if we don’t get too involved. He’d been perfectly rational and level-headed — just like he had in the kitchen this morning. And Zhang Hao had heard him loud and clear: his husband — in name only — thought their relationship too much of a liability and a risk to do for real.

Which was fine. It is fine.

It’s fine.

Zhang Hao finishes his leftover eggs in silence. And then he throws himself into his music.

They develop a routine of sorts over the next few days: Hanbin is gone by the time Zhang Hao wakes up the next day. It’s nearly eleven by the time he emerges from his room, tentatively and, against his better judgment, a little hopeful. All of his frustration has faded by now, and the remorse had truly begun to eat away at him, so much that he had tossed and turned until two in the morning before being able to fall asleep.

But Hanbin is nowhere to be found around the house. He doesn’t come back either, not during lunchtime, not before he usually leaves for rehearsals, not until nearly midnight. And Zhang Hao only knows that because he’s still awake and texting Kuanjui in his bed, and the night is so still and silent, the sounds from the street below too faded, that he hears the tinny ding of the elevator. He turns off his lights and folds himself into the comforter before Hanbin can even come upstairs.

The same thing happens the next day. The only difference is that Zhang Hao gets up earlier, nine this time, hoping to maybe catch Hanbin before he leaves. But again, there’s no sign of him anywhere, even though he had returned home so late the night before. The only difference this morning is that Zhang Hao finds a neatly folded stack of clothes on top of a side table next to the stairs. Two outfits: a plain shirt and the same sweats that he’s still wearing, and a slightly smaller shirt with a designer logo etched on the sleeve with a pair of jeans — and a belt. He isn’t sure if he should feel grateful or slighted. Maybe Hanbin is just telling him to stop moping about and get the hell out of his house. Deflated and slightly dejected at having missed him today, too, Zhang Hao takes a shower, decides to change into the jeans, and calls Taerae to get the address of the studio.

The same thing happens the next day, and then the next. Zhang Hao wakes up on Thursday not having seen Hanbin at all this week. That night, after he showers and changes into yet another set of pajamas Hanbin had left for him that morning, he leaves all the lights on upstairs and parks himself in the sitting room of the second floor, right across from the stairwell. And he waits.

It’s ten minutes past midnight when the elevator finally dings, announcing Hanbin’s return. Zhang Hao hears him shuffling in, the shoe closet opening and closing, the soft pad of feet on the wooden floors, the soft thump of maybe a jacket over the back of a chair. Hanbin doesn’t come up right away, Zhang Hao hears him pad down the stairs into the kitchen. But he doesn’t take long. Not ten minutes later, his footsteps return, this time rounding the landing on the first floor and then up the second floor stairs. Zhang Hao’s heart leaps when Hanbin’s head pops over the banister. Hanbin frowns when he notices that the lights are still on, a departure from their usual routine, and when he turns and spots Zhang Hao sitting legs crossed on the faint pink settee in the sitting room, he actually jumps a little.

“What are you still doing up?” Hanbin asks uncertainly, eyes wide. He’s wearing a mock-denim collared shirt with the top two buttons undone and matching jeans in the same shade. And even in the torrid lighting of a full chandelier and three wall sconces fired to the max he manages to retain an auroral glow as he steps closer.

That only makes Zhang Hao scowl harder. “Where have you been?” he demands. That’s not really what he had intended to say, what he had planned to say. He knows he has no right to sound like a jealous lover, because he is neither of those things: Hanbin’s lover or jealous. And yet even to his own ears he sounds far too close to that.

“At work,” Hanbin answers slowly. “Is there a reason you need to know?” His question is pointed and purposeful — a reminder that Zhang Hao has no right to ask.

“No, but I haven’t seen you all week.”

Hanbin sighs, shifting and matching Zhang Hao’s pose with his arms crossed. Zhang Hao stands too when he gets a little closer, not wanting to have to look up at him.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Hanbin finally asks when he comes to a stop on the plush carpet.

“No, it’s not.”

“You said you didn’t want to inconvenience me, that I should just continue on with my life like you aren’t here.”

“Well, yes, but—”

But Hanbin isn’t done. “And that you don’t want to have to force yourself to be nice to me. And you’d prefer not to see me,” he finishes bluntly.

“I did not say that!” Zhang Hao fumes, maybe a little louder than he should. He quickly catches himself, repeating sullenly, quietly. “I didn’t say that.”

“You said something pretty close, so don’t worry I got it.”

“But I didn’t mean—” that I don’t want to see you at all, Zhang Hao shakes his head not wanting to open that can of worms: how much he’s actually, stupidly missed him these past three days. Instead he pivots to: “I was just curious where you were is all.”

Hanbin gives him an inscrutable look. And then drops his arms, one hand coming up to massage at his temples before he drops that too. “I’ve been going out for runs and doing some auditions during the day in addition to my evening rehearsals, so I’ve been busy. Are you happy now?”

“Auditions?” Zhang Hao asks, a reflex out of his curiosity. “What are you auditioning for?”

Hanbin doesn’t answer him, just raises one of his thick, perfectly shaped brows.

Zhang Hao huffs out a breath. “Okay fine, I get it. You don’t owe me an explanation.”

There’s a slight pause, as if Hanbin is contemplating whether to leave it at that or not. And despite not really wanting to argue either, despite his feelings being a little closer to the surface than he’d like — Zhang Hao hopes not. This is the most they’ve spoken all week; he feels like a man starved just looking at Hanbin. Even if they fight, he wants to be with him just a little bit longer.

This close, he notices that Hanbin’s hair is slightly damp and there’s a higher flush to his cheeks. Zhang Hao realizes he must change and shower at the theater, and feels a twinge of guilt, one of many this week, at the thought that Hanbin might not be coming home to wash up in the comfort of his home because of him.

“I don’t get what you want from me,” Hanbin finally says. It’s not challenging or even critical, just confused and maybe a little helpless. “You make it clear that you have no interest in interacting with me while you’re here, and yet you stay up late to corner me after work.”

“I’m not cornering you,” Zhang Hao mutters, sullen over being so accurately accused.

“Whatever this is then,” Hanbin gestures around them.

“I just haven’t seen you in days, when you’re supposed to live here.”

“And why do you care?” Hanbin asks, exasperated — exploding in a way only someone as kind and thoughtful and considerate as Hanbin can. Loudly, but with an edge of sadness, as if pushed beyond his limits against his will. “I’ve given you your space. I thought that would be good enough.”

“Why don’t you stop assuming what I want?” Zhang Hao grows frustrated in turn. Pressure tightens the corner of his eyes and he blinks it away. He’s so angry, so annoyed — mostly at himself. For saying those things, for always saying things in the heat of the moment that he doesn’t mean. For his pride that pushes and pushes and pushes, refusing to let him back down.

“Because I’m not assuming! That’s what you told me. And I’m trying — I really am. I’m trying so, so hard to not make this more difficult, and to not make you upset, but this is hard for me too!”

“Well, I’m sorry!” Zhang Hao yells. “That I just had to come here and intrude on your life. I’m sorry that you’re stuck with me for another month before our divorce is final and you can get rid of me for good!”

“That’s not what this is!” Hanbin rages back, but in a way that’s pleading, in a way that makes Zhang Hao incredibly confused and frustrated and hurt at the same time.

And it’s that hurt that makes him lash out. “Stop lying! You literally served me with divorce papers on a random Tuesday afternoon—”

“They weren’t divorce papers.”

Zhang Hao scoffs. “They might as well have been — fine, a letter, a letter with your intentions to seek a divorce. Does that make you feel better? Does that make you feel more righteous? So you get to be the one to say you did everything right in this relationship?”

“I’m not saying that to— to win, or to make you feel bad. I’m not trying to prove I’m better. It’s not like that!”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Zhang Hao says stiffly. “Divorce papers or not, you are still getting exactly what you wanted. ”

“This isn’t what I want!” A snarl, a scream, a sob just barely contained.

Zhang Hao can see the heavy rise and fall of Hanbin’s chest behind his neatly buttoned shirt, the tight clench of his fists. Sometime during their argument, they had started inching towards each other, closer and closer with every insult spat and grievance yelled. And now they’re so close that he can see every even, separated clump of Hanbin’s long and curling eyelashes; the slight bruising under his eyes from sleepless nights; the wounded and distressed look in his gaze. He doesn’t want to make the same mistake again. He doesn’t want to compound his own guilt and regret, already bubbling just beneath the surface, ready to overtake him once the anger fades. This isn’t what he wants either. When he waited for Hanbin here tonight — he hadn’t been looking for a fight.

“Then what do you want?” Soft and entreating. What Hanbin doesn’t know: he would do anything to give it to him.

His question hangs in the air between them — the scant, small distance between them. Hanbin’s hands uncurl; his mouth opens though his eyes dart over Zhang Hao’s features like he’s still looking for his answer across his glassy eyes and rosebud mouth. In the moments between his pounding heartbeats, Zhang Hao admits to himself what he wants Hanbin to say — that he wants him. It’s a flash of weakness, of the unvarnished truth that he can’t let himself indulge in. There’s no way that Hanbin would change his mind after all these years of distance and all this time apart.

Right?

“I want …” Hanbin breathes.

Zhang Hao watches the light flutter of his lips when he speaks, mesmerized. He’s always thought Hanbin had very lovely lips, he has such a cute dip to his philtrum, curving his upper lip in a way that makes him seem coy and innocent at the same time. He’s only ever kissed Hanbin once before. He sways forward unconsciously, waiting for Hanbin to finish.

Hanbin takes a shuddering breath, as if he can’t quite put his thoughts into words. But Zhang Hao needs him to. He needs to hear what he wants. Even if it’ll hurt him again. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Hanbin’s hands come up, hovering by his side. But then his attention is drawn back to his face when it dips precariously closer. Hanbin’s cheeks that had been slightly pink have grown a little more flushed, perhaps from the heightened emotions from their fight. A tension hovers in the air like static electricity, pinging between the dwindling distance between their bodies, threatening to spark if they get too close.

A slow exhale. And then, “… I want to make you happy.”

And his answer cuts right through him. Not because he’s finally seeing an honest and real Hanbin, not because this actually feels like progress after such a long stagnation, but because it’s the exact same answer he would have given. All he wants is for the both of them to be happy. Isn’t that what all this is about? The divorce that Hanbin wants, the revival of his precarious career. It’s a win-win.

“Me too,” Zhang Hao says, excited, eager. Their faces are so close together now. Consciously, he knows he should move away, but this conversation already feels so tenuous. He’s scared that if he does, it’ll only make room for that barrier between them to construct itself again, dissolving their vulnerability like mist under the summer sun. Instead, he leans in. “Not me—” he says quietly. “I mean, I want you to be happy, too.”

Hanbin’s eyes widen, looking momentarily stunned. “You do?”

Zhang Hao nods slowly, his eyes not leaving Hanbin’s for a second. Something wondrous was happening there, a curious wonder dawning across his expression even as the black of his pupils darkened his gaze. Hanbin’s hovering hand finally lands on his elbow, casual, warm and light. And it’s impossible not to lean forward, impossible not to be drawn to the entirely luminous magnetism that is Sung Hanbin, everything about him, every part of him. He’s so entirely bright, his lips curving up in a tentative smile, what looks to be hope blossoming across his features. He gets so, so close. And Zhang Hao doesn’t even mean to. But then his lips touch his, his eyelids flutter shut, and he can’t see anything anymore.

But he feels: the tightening of Hanbin’s fingers around his elbow, the soft rasp of Hanbin’s shirt under his palms, the slide of Hanbin’s smile giving way to his parted lips and his nose nudging gently against his. The kiss is tentative, unsure, like two people stumbling into a darkened room, a little clumsy yet rife with anticipation. Zhang Hao’s heart skips a beat when Hanbin’s hand comes up to cradle cheek, long fingers lightly tracing his jaw, coaxing and so full of unfulfilled promise.

The kiss feels like a homecoming. Even in a dark room, Zhang Hao knows exactly where he’s going. His hands smooth up the expanse of Hanbin’s chest, tracing every dip and feeling the pound of his heart. It’s impossible for him to not fall into this kiss, to not pitch forward, to not clutch at Hanbin’s shoulders. And as if he can read his mind, Hanbin’s hand on his elbow and his cheek are all too eager to lure him in. Zhang Hao loops his arms around his neck, and Hanbin’s arm wraps against his waist. Closer, closer. And he’s floating, somewhere between the realm of comfortable familiarity and insatiable curiosity.

He gets light-headed from kissing Hanbin, from the pressure of his warm lips against his, from the tentative probing licks and sweet, sharp inhales in between them. And then his world starts tilting. It takes Zhang Hao a moment to process it, but his knees hit the side of the sofa and then he’s being deposited to sit — sprawl — across the settee. It momentarily disconnects their kiss with a delectable, wet sound. But Zhang Hao remedies that quickly, scrabbling to pull Hanbin down by the back of his neck.

He comes down hungry and eager, running his tongue against the seam of Zhang Hao’s lips to gain access again. Hanbin is all over him, sucking deep into his mouth. He kisses him like he means it — fiercely, almost punishingly, the remnants of their fight still on his tongue. Zhang Hao’s leg kicks out against the back of the settee, prompting Hanbin to slowly guide it to lock around his hips instead.

They kiss effusively, excessively, breathing hard through their noses and allowing their hands to wander. Zhang Hao’s fingers find the clasp of the buttons along the front of Hanbin’s shirt, working them open clumsily. In a corner of his brain, in a single thought that doesn’t immediately carve itself around the shape of Hanbin and the heat of him on top of him, Zhang Hao wonders if he’s dreaming. But the crest of that thought immediately breaks around the feel of Hanbin’s hand along his thigh, squeezing and kneading and traveling closer and closer to his ass.

Zhang Hao’s not drunk — he knows he hasn’t had anything to drink. But he feels drunk, lightheaded and with that bubbly, fizzing feeling in his chest that makes his heart beat double time, that makes him feel excited and enthusiastic and a little too warm. Actually, he’s burning. Like his skin is on fire, like the molten swirl of sensation and tension curling lower and lower in his stomach is going to burn him up alive. And Hanbin hasn’t even properly touched him yet.

Hanbin shifts, lifting up, and the slick sound of their lips parting might have made Zhang Hao blush if he wasn’t already fully flushed pink from his hairline all the way to his collar. He lies back in a daze, eyes latching greedily onto the gratuitous peek of Hanbin’s chest and the darkened shadow of his nipple even as Hanbin finishes undoing the buttons on his shirt with quick, deft hands. The grin on his face is wicked, triumphant when he reaches up to push the shirt off his shoulders. His fingers dig into the sumptuous dips and pristine stretch of his skin, feeling the muscle underneath his fingers and marveling at how they shift and dip as Hanbin leans down to pepper kisses along his cheek and jaw.

Zhang Hao turns his head to the side, eyes rolling up to the chandelier when Hanbin’s lips hit the sweet spot at the juncture between his shoulder and neck. He’s not quite able to muffle his airy moan and instantly, Hanbin’s tongue laves right over that spot. Zhang Hao legs return around Hanbin’s hips, even as his own shift in search of friction. His fingers dig into the space between Hanbin’s shoulder blades, urging him to press closer, to lean down just a little bit more. He needs him so badly, right there.

He moans again when Hanbin finally hikes his legs up, pressing them back even more, stretching the muscle right on the back of his thigh so he can press deliciously, excruciatingly, between his legs. And this suddenly becomes real. Not a dazed dream or hazy reverie; it’s not wishful thinking that Hanbin is sucking lightly along his throat that the weight of him has Zhang Hao grinding up, shooting a spark of pleasure right through him. This is real. In a way they’ve never been before, in a way Zhang Hao knows they can’t be. But maybe they could be this. Maybe this could be everything. It certainly feels that way when Hanbin kisses his way down the column of his throat, when he pushes his hips against him, the slide rough because of their pants but still utterly divine.

Zhang Hao rocks up into Hanbin shamelessly. He hears him murmuring indecipherable words as he works his way all across his neck, interspersed with sharp gasps and indistinct groans.

“I can’t be close to you like this without losing my mind.” Hanbin’s hand tugs — roughly — on his leg, bearing his own hips down in a filthy, impatient grind.

Zhang Hao’s answering moan is high and breathy, his mind spinning over what Hanbin said, what he means. Does he want to stop? Zhang Hao absolutely won’t let him do that. He guides Hanbin’s head back up, capturing his lips in a punishing kiss, and Hanbin lets him take whatever he damn well pleases, letting Zhang Hao pet all over his chest, feel the impossibly hard beat of his heart, tease the puckered tips of his rosy nipples — which earns hi a full-body shudder. Zhang Hao takes and takes and takes, again and again, laying claim in a way that he has no right to. Hanbin allowing him in a way that will most definitely fuck both of them up in the coming weeks.

Zhang Hao uses his thumb and forefinger to pinch at the skin around his nipples, and gets rewarded with a particularly hard thrust. God, that feels so good. “Is that why you’ve stayed away?”

“No,” Hanbin grunts, and his hand tightens even more on Zhang Hao’s thigh, sending yet another spiral of heat through him. “I stayed away because I was angry.”

“Over what I said?”

“No, mostly at myself.”

Zhang Hao doesn’t understand. But the way Hanbin undulates his hips is making it so difficult to think. He tosses his head back, biting off a groan of frustration. It’s not enough.

“Yeah?” Hanbin pants above him. And Zhang Hao doesn’t even feel embarrassed for having said that out loud, because Hanbin’s eyes are so bright above him, his mouth slashed in a smug grin that he just wants to eat right up. Another roll of his hips, harder, on purpose. “What more do you want?”

It’s already so much — too much. Any more and Zhang Hao knows the whiplash will be unbearable. Having had Hanbin like this, even in his anger, even in this half-life of furious lust will make losing him all the more painful. But he’s greedy and self-destructive and, most importantly, so impossibly turned on he can barely see straight. Hanbin is all he can see and taste and smell and touch — he’s all around him.

Zhang Hao is dizzy with all the things he could ask of him. And he can’t stand it, the overwhelming pressure of his heart breaking. He lets out a high-pitched whine, shaking his head back and forth against the firm seat of the settee. He shakes his head even as his leg tightens around Hanbin’s hips, even as his hands reach up for Hanbin’s cheeks, wanting him to come back down here and kiss him until his brain melts, until the voice inside telling him this is a bad idea is silenced by the sound of him screaming Hanbin’s name. “I don’t want to think,” he admits.

“And how do you want me to do that?” It’s a little mean. But Hanbin asks it not as a taunt, but as a plea. As if he needs Zhang Hao’s permission to let go. “You have to tell me.”

The glow of his skin is so beautiful under the chandelier. The light gives him a halo around his hair, glints against the shine of his teeth. Zhang Hao blinks up at him slowly, in a lust-filled haze. He drags his nails down the slate of Hanbin’s stomach, watching his thighs tense between his own. He adjusts his legs so they sit a little higher on Hanbin’s hips, his own squirming against the settee. “Hanbin,” he complains. “Please.”

“Please what?” He insists, like the devil. He leans down to kiss him, like an angel.

He gives his answer right against the plush of Hanbin’s lips. “I want you to make me come so hard that I can’t think at all.”

Hanbin rears back, eyes wide and mouth slack. And Zhang hao’s stomach drops. Was that too much? He’s never said something so … indecent to Hanbin before, he’s never had the opportunity to. Maybe he doesn’t like that. Maybe now he’ll laugh at Zhang Hao and tell him it’ll never happen. He’ll leave him here, exposed and wanting and all alone again. Hanbin is completely still. Except — the hand still clutching Zhang Hao’s thigh is shaking.

“Uh, Hanbin …”

“Yes!” Hanbin blurts out, slightly panicked, a little hysterical. His eyes travel all over Zhang Hao, pinging from his eyes to his kiss-bitten mouth down to the rise and fall of his chest through Hanbin’s thin shirt. “Yes, but …”

Zhang Hao’s heart drops.

“Maybe in your room?”

Oh.

He immediately nods, impatient, and Hanbin gets up, lowering a hand to help him up from his prone position across the settee. Zhang Hao takes it, but not before noticing the significant bulge at the front of Hanbin’s jeans — which, Zhang Hao knows, he just had pressed right up against him, but he hadn’t expected it to be quite so immense. He tightens his hold on Hanbin’s hand as he pulls him up and then leads him, hands still interlocked, the short distance to his guest room. It takes less than ten seconds, and yet that is still long enough for the nerves to start settling in.

This is rather uncharted territory for the two of them. Even when they had been friends, had carried out this improbable, terrifying risk together, even when they were getting married — they’d never done this before. One kiss, that’s all Zhang Hao has ever gotten from Hanbin. And over the years, in his lowest moments, he’d regretted not taking advantage of the situation a bit more. That he had missed his chance of ever being with the one person he loved.

And now, unexpectedly, miraculously, is that chance. It’s not at all what he had envisioned, but it’s monumental all the same. The fact that it could be his only chance to ever have Hanbin — not completely, never completely, but just a little bit more of him, whatever he is willing to give — has never been more clear to Zhang Hao than when he settles back onto the smooth, cool bedspread. Hanbin slips so naturally, easily between his spread legs, like he belongs there. He pauses with his hands splayed out on either side of his head, hovering just above him.

Zhang Hao frowns. Please, please, please don’t take this from him, too. “What?” he whispers, because the closeness of their bodies and the muted yellow glow from the hallway stretching across the dim wood floors warrant it.

“I … don’t have any condoms,” Hanbin confesses, lips twisting.

“I have some,” Zhang Hao offers immediately. And then the realization hits him. “... In my trunks, for fuck’s sake.”

The corner of Hanbin’s lip curls up despite the unfortunate situation they’ve found themselves in. “Why were you bringing condoms?”

Zhang Hao shuffles a bit on the bed. “They’re in my toiletries bag — I always have some in there just in case,” Zhang Hao says, slightly flustered. And then for good measure: “As is the responsible thing to do.”

“Just in case?” Hanbin can’t quite hide his smirk anymore.

“Shut up,” Zhang Hao mutters, turning his head so he won’t have to look at the devastating portrait Hanbin paints above him.

A sigh. “I’m sorry about this,” Hanbin dips down to peck his cheek lightly.

But he isn’t ready to let this go yet. This hasn’t been enough — not nearly enough. “No,” he protests. His fingers hook through Hanbin’s belt loops to keep him right there. “Even without a condom … we can do other things, right?”

Hanbin bites his lip, not quite able to hide how pleased he is by that. “Don’t worry — I can still make you scream my name.”

“That is so cheesy—” The rest of Zhang Hao’s complaint is cut off when Hanbin swoops down, silencing him with a kiss. And unlike before, there is no working up to it. Hanbin dives right in, with eager licks and harsh nips, like he’s simply taking what he wants without any care. He kisses him like he’s doing exactly as he asked — leaving him breathless, leaving him without a single faint thought in his mind besides. Hanbin runs his tongue against his lower lip, plump and malleable, before biting down. That truly quiets all of his racing thoughts, even as he ekes out a whine.

And then rough hands are there, tugging at the hem of his shirt. Zhang Hao lets him pull it over his head. He gets one muttered God, you’re so beautiful right against his collarbone before Hanbin bites down on it. He arches up and into the sting, hips already jerking from the pleasure-pain.

“Hanbin …” Zhang Hao moans into the open air of the room. He feels another nip of teeth, pulling lightly on his skin. He turns his head to the side, eyes squeezed shut when Hanbin sucks on that spot that he likes. “Hanbin,” he tries again.

“What?” Hanbin pants.

Zhang Hao works his hand down and between their shifting hips to cup Hanbin through his jeans. He stutters out a gasp, and Zhang Hao can feel the cool brush of air against the wet spot on his neck. Hanbin groans, rutting against his palm a few times as if he can’t help himself. Impatient, Zhang Hao reaches down with his other hand and starts pushing against the button of his jeans. “Off,” he demands.

“Let me,” Hanbin whispers, gently taking hold of Zhang Hao’s wrists and lifting them so they lay comfortably on the mattress next to his head. Hanbin gives them a slight squeeze, before pulling away. He lifts off slightly, rough and hurried as undoes his pants and pushes them down his hips. They eventually get discarded, thrown haphazardly towards the end of the bed. Zhang Hao isn’t even sure when they hit the floor, because his complete attention is on the bulge in Hanbin’s boxers and the damp, round spot near his waistband.

“Oh—” Zhang Hao tries to work a swallow past his suddenly dry throat. “You’re huge.” A shiver wracks through him when Hanbin reaches down to adjust himself; Zhang Hao can see the rough outline of his cock, already fully hard — which is doing nothing at all to abate his ego.

Hanbin gives him an indulgent look before reaching over and tugging on his sweats.

“You first,” Zhang Hao says immediately. “All of it — off.”

A frown. “That’s not fair.”

Zhang Hao narrows his eyes, his hands still in the exact spot on the bed that Hanbin had left them. “But I want to see,” he pouts.

Hanbin blows out a stuttered breath, his pupils blown completely wide. He lowers his hands to comply, getting rid of his boxers in the same fashion as his jeans. When he turns back, Zhang Hao lets out a strangled noise. He knows Hanbin is big. He’s known that ever since the first tantalizing grind against him. And even when he’d palmed him earlier, he thought he’d gotten a fairly good sense of his size. And yet, Zhang Hao is wholly unprepared. Hanbin’s cock curves ever so prettily towards his navel, dripping precum — and obscenely wide. And he can’t keep his hands on the bed anymore.

He earns a sharp hiss of breath pulled between teeth as soon as he wraps his hand around Hanbin, rolling his wrist slowly to work him up. He leans forward into his space, with Hanbin propped back on his palms. And Zhang Hao takes a moment just to admire the lithe lines of him, the faint swells of his chest, the dark shadow of the three tattoos on his collarbones — the way he twitches and spurts even more precum as Zhang Hao starts to move his hand in earnest, though not too tight, not even that fast.

Zhang Hao flicks his gaze up just as he rolls his thumb below the head of Hanbin’s cock, watching as his eyes grow hazy, as a full-body shudder overtakes him. He stills the circle of his fingers and is pleased when Hanbin bucks his hips to drag his cock through them.

“Tighter,” Hanbin urges. “Please.”

“Hm, I don’t think so,” Zhang Hao giggles, watching the way Hanbin speeds up, his desperation and desire palpable. He loves this, watching Hanbin pleasure himself. Because how can he not be greedy like this? Now that he’s gotten Hanbin naked, now that he’s his, at least in this way, how can Zhang Hao not want his complete and utter devotion? “Is that good?” he teases playfully, as Hanbin continues to rut up into his hand.

Hanbin only replies with a low hum. When he lifts a hand from the bed to reach for himself, Zhang Hao slaps it away. Instead he uses it to tug Hanbin forward, to guide his hand to his waist, to lie back on the bed with Hanbin once again over him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to lie down on a bed again without seeing Hanbin’s ruddy cheeks and parted mouth ever again. Zhang Hao teases his fingers over the head of Hanbin’s cock. His forehead drops against Zhang Hao’s shoulder, palming at his waist. He feels another shudder wrack through him.

“Are you going to come like this?” Zhang Hao teases. He tightens his fist just slightly and is rewarded with a loud, torn moan.

“You’re evil,” Hanbin mutters against his neck.

Zhang Hao ignores his very accurate assessment. “My turn.”

And he gets no complaints from Hanbin on this front as he nudges him back slightly so he can lift his hips and pull down his pants, briefs included. Hanbin eventually takes over and guides them slowly down his legs, letting his fingers trail paths down Zhang Hao’s thighs, behind his knees — which makes him shiver — and all the way to his ankles after which they get tossed carelessly off the bed as well.

And then they’re both naked. And Hanbin is on him again, kissing him thoroughly, frantically — like he owns him. He gets a hand around Hanbin again, just as he feels warm fingers close over him. Zhang Hao whines right against Hanbin’s lips, the slide of their mouths messy, but he doesn’t even care. Hanbin touching him is everything he’s ever wanted. He nudges his hips up, needy, not even realizing he’s keening until it stops when Hanbin finally slots his mouth back against his own.

They work each other up in their palms, their hips bumping with every thrust, Zhang Hao trying his best to give as good as he gets except the way Hanbin rolls his wrist is magic, and he’s so dizzy with need, out of his mind with lust that he feels his own pulls stuttering. But Hanbin seems to be just as desperate as him. His thrusts are so forceful that he slips out of Zhang Hao’s hold, throwing his head back with sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead.

He’s so incredibly beautiful. It’s a distant ping in the back of Zhang Hao’s mind, not truly able to take root because Hanbin’s still got his hand around him, and that single thought takes all of his concentration to process. But it’s an unshakable truth, one that Zhang Hao knows not with a coherent string of words through his brain, but with the way his chest expands as he gazes up at Hanbin, how his heart feels like it’s pushing right up against his ribcage. Tingles run down his spine and that molten heat in his belly curls tighter and tighter, the press of their bodies and the heat of their hands still so, so good. When the head of Hanbin’s cock brushes his own, sticky and hot, Zhang Hao lets out a choked gasp. It tapers off into a sob once Hanbin takes both of them in hand, working both of them together, pumping his hips to increase the pressure.

“Hanbin, Hanbin,” Zhang Hao wails, his hands coming up to scrabble at his wide shoulders, at his broad back, because if he doesn’t cling to something, he thinks he’s going to shatter into a million pieces. “Hanbin. I’m going to come if you don’t stop. I’m—”

“You’re going to come just like this?” Hanbin whispers devilishly, right next to his ear. And then he bites down on the shell of Zhang Hao’s ear, as soon as that bit of pain registers in his brain: he falls apart.

Zhang Hao knows that sounds are coming out of his mouth, but he has no idea what they are until he’s still twitching and crying through his release and he hears Hanbin, Hanbin, Hanbin echoing all around the room. Even as he slowly winds down from his orgasm, Zhang Hao remains tucked into a hazy, lust-filled cloud, so totally blissed out that it takes him a while to notice that he’s still moving, his body still rocking. Or more accurately, he’s being shoved into the mattress by the force of Hanbin’s thrusts. And then comes the twinge that makes him curl his legs up, that makes him wince.

“Hanbin!” He shouts. His hands, which had fallen back onto the bed next to him as Hanbin continued to work himself against him, came alive to smack, open-palmed, at Hanbin’s shoulder.

But he pays no heed to Zhang Hao’s protests, unless he counts his small whimpers and the mewls that he presses against his jaw. Hanbin drags himself against him again and again, rough and slamming. The sounds of them sliding together with the help of his cum obscene and slick.

“Hanbin, ahhhh—” Zhang Hao groans out, throwing his head back against the sheets, feeling his stomach tense. The overstimulation is so intense the pain borders on near pleasure. “It’s too much, uhn— Hanbin!”

“Just a little more,” Hanbin promises with a pathetic whine, his mouth trailing sloppily over Zhang Hao’s cheek.

And even with his hips twitching from the lingering fragments of his orgasm, even with his legs tense and shaking from the continual pressure against his cock, Zhang Hao turns his head and lets Hanbin lick into his mouth.

“It’s so— it feels so good,” Hanbin whimpers. “Just a little more.”

Zhang Hao lets out a broken sob — because it feels so good for him too. He tosses his head from side to side, dislodging Hanbin’s lips that simply relocate to the smooth slopes of his shoulders, the protruding tendon on his neck. He claws and clings onto Hanbin’s back as he convulses under him, letting him chase his pleasure, letting him use him. And then finally — finally he comes. Shaking, Zhang Hao rolls his head to watch Hanbin’s cock spurt ropes of cum across both of their stomachs and chests. It’s so much.

Hanbin shudders above him for a moment, the hand planted on the bed next to his head shaking. Before he completely collapses though, he rolls off to the side so he doesn’t crush Zhang Hao. The two of them lie spent and satiated with their shoulders still brushing.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t come in my ass.” Apparently Zhang Hao’s brain has been fucked into complete mush, because his usual filter is nowhere to be found. “If I’m already filled with your cock, that much would definitely leak out.”

A weak laugh. “I just came, please don’t get me hard again.”

It’s Zhang Hao’s turn to chuckle, but he shows some mercy and stops talking. It’s also probably for the best, before his lack of a filter gets him to say something he truly regrets, like how much he still wants Hanbin to fuck him, regardless, like how utterly erotic and euphoric this was even though all they did was give each other hand jobs like they were still horny college students. Like how much this means to him, and how scared he is that things are just going to go back to the way they were after. So he stays silent, and lets the sweat — and cum — on his body cool until it feels tacky and a little gross.

Zhang Hao makes a face, turning his head only to find Hanbin already staring at him, his gaze half-lidded and his face relaxed. He smiles when their eyes meet.

“I need to get cleaned up,” Zhang Hao says.

“Me too,” Hanbin mumbles.

“I don’t think I can move a single bone in my body right now.”

“Do you expect me to carry you?”

“Well, that would be the gentlemanly thing to do after you used me so shamelessly,” Zhang Hao sniffs.

Hanbin does at least look a little sheepish at that, his eyes blinking open. “I got carried away, I’m sorry.”

“And how are you going to make amends?” Zhang Hao demands, with doleful puppy eyes.

Hanbin heaves out a sigh, his chest rising and falling monumentally like this is the hardest decision of his life. He sits up, and Zhang Hao greedily takes in the thin red lines that trail in haphazard patterns across his back.

When Hanbin actually moves over as if to tuck his arms underneath him, Zhang Hao gasps, “I was just kidding!”

“But don’t I have to make it up to you?” Hanbin teases.

“How about a bath?” Zhang Hao asks hopefully. The bathroom on this floor only has a shower. “Only,” as if it doesn’t have three different shower heads, a rainfall mode, and seven different water pressures. But still, he doesn’t think he can stand long enough to properly wash all of this off.

“Sure,” Hanbin grins. “There’s one upstairs.”

“Up stairs?!” Zhang Hao wails dramatically, prompting peels of laughter from Hanbin.

Eventually, he allows Hanbin to peel him from his sheets. When he glances down at them, he makes a note to ask where he keeps his spares so he can change them out before bed tonight. And then the two of them make their way upstairs — Zhang Hao temporarily back in his sweats, and Hanbin with his jeans pulled low. It’s nearly criminal the way they make Zhang Hao flush as he follows him up the stairs. He’s just seen Hanbin naked and yet that isn’t half as sexy as a Hanbin with the button on his jeans undone and nearly slipping off his hips — go figure.

Despite his insistence that they can just share without anything happening like two fully mature adults who are in control of their impulses, Hanbin lets him use the bath first. And all of his complaints disappear as soon as he sinks into the scalding water. He lets out a blissful sigh and closes his eyes as the faint peach scent from the bath oil envelopes him.

He hears Hanbin shuffling around and opens one eye to see that he’s discarded his jeans again, pooling them by the bathroom door and is wiping a wet towel lazily across his silky stomach. It’s an incredible feat that Zhang Hao manages to hold back his whimper. He watches as Hanbin tosses the towel on top of his jeans and then shuffles to the other side of the massive bathroom to put on a light blue silk robe. He closes his eyes again, disappointed the show is over.

The silence in the room is comfortable and relaxed — the first time it’s been that way with the two of them occupying it since Zhang Hao stepped foot in this apartment. As he leans against the headrest on the lip of the tub, feeling the minute shifts of the water as it laps against his shoulders, he can’t help but conjure up the thought that this is what his life would be like if they had married for real all those years ago.

The two of them unwinding in the evenings, not needing to fill the silence with chatter, not because they don’t have anything left to say to each other like some couples, but because they know they have all the time in the world together to share it. He’d take off his makeup slowly and slip into the bath. Hanbin would stand at the sink and shave. They would talk about their days and things that they wished they could have told each other in each moment they were apart. Zhang Hao lets out a low sigh full of desire and longing.

“Is the water okay?” Hanbin’s voice drifts through the steam, just as vaporous and soft.

“Mmmmm,” Zhang Hao drones out, not having the words to properly speak. He hears a light flutter of laughter in reply.

They should talk about it. This. What happened.

But Zhang Hao doesn’t have it in him for another fight right now. He thinks he’ll actually shatter like porcelain thrown against a brick wall if he has to weather through Hanbin saying they should try to be friends so soon after just having his cum all over his stomach. Just this once, Zhang Hao lets his cowardice win out. To protect himself. To let himself float in this fantasy for just a few more minutes. He’ll wake up again tomorrow morning and things will go back to normal. Hanbin will be out all day — and the two of them will have to try to pick up the pieces of their argument and somehow make the next three weeks of their lives work.

He nearly drifts off to sleep to the sound of the sink faucet running and the small, staccato splashes of water. And only after he nods off one too many times does he manage to stumble out of the tub and let Hanbin push yet another set of his clothes into his hands before guiding him to the bed. Zhang Hao’s last thought before falling fast asleep is that Hanbin’s bathroom has two sinks.

III.

Zhang Hao wakes up Friday morning to a phone call from the police.

His eyes are still a little watery from sleep, and he has no idea what time it is, but as soon as he hears the snappy woman’s voice on the other end of the line saying “This is Lieutenant Anderson calling” he bolts straight up in bed.

“Yes, this is he,” he answers when she confirms his name and his police report number. “Have you found them?”

“We have all four trunks here, sir.” She sounds innumerably pleased about it, as if she’d single-handedly rescued a cat from a burning tree and stopped a bank robbery across the road at the same time. “You can come down to the station to sign for them any time this week.”

Zhang Hao falters. He hasn’t yet told Taerae about his stolen clothes. He’s just been showing up in Hanbin’s clothes to his studio sessions this week. But there’s no way he can get four heavy trunks across downtown Manhattan on his own — and anything he calls his driver for, he knows Taerae will immediately be informed of after the whole Park Hanbin fiasco that had landed them in this mess in the first place. “Uh, is that necessary? Can’t you just have it sent to my apartment?”

“No can do, sir. We are not running a delivery service here. They are currently under police custody, and we can only hand them over to someone with photo ID proof.” She sounds incredibly annoying and stubborn, and he is suddenly cursing his luck that he’s gotten the one cop in the whole city who isn’t willing to cut corners.

Zhang Hao jumps when someone taps on his shoulder. He turns around, eyes widening into saucers when he sees Hanbin sitting up in bed — shirtless! — and scratching the back of his head. He’d forgotten he was there. Hanbin holds his hand out, curling his fingers in a give it here motion. Zhang Hao furrows his brow and shakes his head. No! He tries to mouth at Hanbin that this is the police, but Hanbin simply leans over and slips the phone out of his hand.

“Hey—!”

“Hello,” Hanbin says into the receiver. “Yes, this is his husband.”

Zhang Hao nearly falls out of the bed hearing that. He stares at Hanbin in bewilderment, ears and cheeks reddening quickly.

“Yes, sorry, he has to get ready for work, but I’m able to help. I was also there when the other officers came by.” Hanbin rattles off his full name, ID number, and phone number.

And then the most baffling, unbelievable thing happens: he starts striking up conversation with the terribly mean and stick-in-the-mud police lady! Zhang Hao sits there dumbstruck as Hanbin giggles pleasantly and lets her tell him about her cats and then inquires about the rugby team she had started in high school. Finally, he rattles off the address of his apartment, thanks her for her time, tells her to take care and then hangs up and hands Zhang Hao his phone back.

“She’ll try to see if she can get them sent over this afternoon, but if not they’ll be here tomorrow morning at the latest.”

Zhang Hao gapes at him. “How did you do that?”

Hanbin gives him a playful smile as he slips out of bed. “Maybe you should just be more charming.”

Zhang Hao is left speechless, mainly from Hanbin’s impressive display but also from the vision of his ass in gray sweats as he saunters into the bathroom and shuts the door. In the bright early morning light, Zhang Hao gets a good look at Hanbin’s room. There are the same Victorian and Rococo detailings here as in the rest of the house, but there’s a bit less pink and beige and a bit more green and blue.

He glances over the photo frames and decorations on the fireplace mantle — from here he can make out a few photos of Hanbin with his friends, his arm slung around them and big grins on their faces. There looks to be a big group shot as well, maybe a full crew photo from one of his previous projects. The frames are interspersed with various souvenirs: an ornate antique clock, a small wooden elephant statue, a very badly hand-drawn illustration of a rabbit in a flower field. Zhang Hao wonders who did it, who they are to Hanbin to have such a prominent spot in what is obviously his sanctuary.

Hanging above that all is a flatscreen TV, and next to that is another bookshelf filled with more photos and what looks to be more personal effects from Hanbin’s travels. There are photos of his family and a healthy stash of gifts he’s received from fans over the years. He’s still sitting there taking everything in when Hanbin comes out of the bathroom fully showered with nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. He jumps a little when he spots Zhang Hao as if he had also forgotten he was there — or had already expected him to be gone.

“Ah, sorry,” Zhang Hao says, scooting to the edge of the bed. “I should go.”

“It’s okay! You must be tired — you can rest a bit more,” Hanbin offers. As if finally realizing his towel is dangerously close to revealing his massive dick, Hanbin squeaks and grips the tucked fold.

Zhang Hao lets out a small snort, feet swinging off the edge of the bed. “Do you think I just lay around in bed all day?” he sniffs, hopping down and turning away so he won’t get distracted by the angelic vision of a post-shower Hanbin anymore.

“Of course not,” Hanbin placates sweetly as if he means the opposite. “I’m sure you’re incredibly busy.”

Annoying man! Zhang Hao whirls around with a scowl just in time to see Hanbin disappearing into his closet. He does his best to make the bed, and the blankets are easy enough to spread out and smooth out evenly. He’s just fluffing the pillows when Hanbin comes back out, dressed smartly but casually in a white shirt, sports jacket and a pair of gray slacks.

“What did that pillow ever do to you?” Hanbin asks with a twitch of his lips.

Zhang Hao huffs. “I am making the bed!”

“I wish you wouldn’t abuse my pillows while doing so.”

He makes an annoyed sound, watching as it makes Hanbin giggle, his cheeks scrunching up to show off his faint dimples. Zhang Hao places the pillows in a semi-neat arrangement as best as he can and steps back to admire his handiwork. It’s a bit shoddy and there’s still a wrinkle on the sheet, but this is the best he can do!

“It looks good,” Hanbin says from behind him.

“Don’t patronize me,” he mutters.

“No, I appreciate you making it,” Hanbin says, this time seemingly sincere.

“Hmph!” Zhang Hao crosses his arms, even as he can’t help the corners of his mouth from twitching up. “Speaking of, where do you keep your sheets? I, uh, should change the ones downstairs.”

“Ah, there’s some in the laundry room downstairs, you can toss the old sheets in there, too. But don’t worry about it, I have a housekeeper come on Saturday mornings.”

“It’s Friday,” Zhang Hao deadpans. “Where will I sleep?” He’s also not sure if he’s comfortable with Hanbin’s housekeeper knowing exactly what they had gotten up to downstairs. It’s not that he’s ashamed or even prudish, but this all feels too intimate, too private. He doesn’t want anyone else to know anything about him and Hanbin — perhaps an unconscious whiplash over having everyone know everything about them for years.

“You can have the other guest room, or …” Hanbin trails off, looking unsure. “You’re welcome to stay here again.”

His heart gives a hard thump in his chest. “Okay,” he agrees, his mouth moving before his brain can remind him that this is an incredibly bad idea. But then Hanbin smiles at him — not one of those mandatory ones when he was trying to be friendly when Zhang Hao first arrived, not one that he flashes in front of cameras the same way he’s practiced in the mirror — in a way that shows off his pink gums, that scrunch up his cheeks, that makes his eyes glow. And Zhang Hao doesn’t have the heart to take it back.

“Here,” Hanbin hands him some folded clothes Zhang Hao hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “Last ones.”

Last ones. Zhang Hao almost hopes the police station loses his trunks. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

“You’re welcome to use the bathroom and change in here if you want,” Hanbin offers. And then he is heading out of the door, as if he’s too scared to hear Zhang Hao’s answer — or his rebuke. Zhang Hao doesn’t move until he hears the soft thumps of Hanbin’s feet reach all the way to the first floor.

Hanbin starts cooking for him again.

They never actually talk about it — Hanbin doesn’t offer it to him, and Zhang Hao doesn’t verbally acknowledge it besides an occasional thank you and this is good and maybe more salt, but it starts the morning after their … intimate encounter. Just simple eggs on toast turns into a lunch of baked salmon on a bed of spinach. The next week Hanbin is actually home around dinnertime for once, and he makes a delicious lobster pasta that has Zhang Hao nearly moaning at the kitchen island.

Zhang Hao mostly spends his days in and out of the studio that Taerae found for him in the city, recording and then re-recording the things that he’s managed to finish writing. Whenever he’s at home, he’s in the carriage house with his headphones and laptop and small setup for recording melodies that he uses to fine-tune things that he doesn’t like and go back and forth with the label producers. It’s on one of these evenings that Hanbin finds him. He looks to be back from a dress rehearsal, the setting sun casting his styled hair in a honey-hued glow.

“You’re back early,” Zhang Hao remarks.

“The tech crew needs to finish some things with the stage,” Hanbin explains. And then he prompts. “Dinner?”

Zhang Hao glances down at his scribbled notes and the melody half finished on his program. “Fifteen minutes?”

Hanbin nods and disappears again. And when Zhang Hao walks into the kitchen thirty minutes later, he’s already freshly showered, hair still wet and dressed in a matching black hoodie and sweats combo, pulling something out of the oven.

“What are you making?” Zhang Hao asks. He smells a rich mix of herbs coming out of the open oven.

“Roasted potatoes and some vegetables. I have pulled pork in the pressure cooker.”

“Where did you learn how to cook?” Zhang Hao asks, sitting down on the island — where they’ve taken all their meals besides one breakfast where they had it out in the courtyard because the weather was so nice.

“I had a chef teach me lessons a few years back. My assistant had actually hired him to cook for me full-time, but it felt like a waste of money, and a missed opportunity, if I didn’t learn something from it. So I started joining him in the kitchen, asking for tips. And well,” Hanbin shrugs guiltily. “I guess he taught me too well, because eventually I didn’t need him anymore. I still try to hire him for events though.”

There he goes again. Annoyance prickles the back of Zhang Hao’s neck at the reminder of Hanbin’s illustrious social life. “And when am I going to see one of these infamous house parties of yours, hm?”

“Infamous?” Hanbin teases, prying open the pressure cooker and plating some pork that has Zhang Hao nearly drooling. “Everyone has nothing but good things to say when I host.”

“I’m sure.”

“I meant to ask you actually — are you free next weekend?”

Zhang Hao tries to think if he’s made any promises to Taerae for next week. But Taerae has been surprisingly hands off recently. He’d thought that after the whole cheating scandal and how he’d been harping on Zhang Hao to stay off social media that he would be watched like a naughty child while he was here. But his friend-slash-assistant-slash-manager has been quite relaxed about everything, letting Zhang Hao call the car whenever he needs it (though he only ever goes to and from the studio) and leaving him alone if he doesn’t reach out to him first. He’s sure Taerae is just busy. Who knows how much paperwork he’s currently saving him from with the divorce and dealing with the lawyers. Zhang Hao’s chest tightens at that thought. “Yes, I’m free.”

Hanbin gives him a look out of the side of his eye, but doesn’t say anything else before turning back to grab the tray of potatoes and vegetables. “The soft opening of the musical is on Thursday, and then the official opening for the general public is on Saturday. I was thinking of having some people over after the matinee show on Sunday to celebrate — if that’s okay?”

It’s not that he’s opposed to the idea, far be it that he can tell Hanbin what he can and can’t do, especially when it comes to inviting people into his own home. But over the past week and a half, Hanbin’s home has also, strangely, unexpectedly turned into Zhang Hao’s home. He’s grown comfortable in this temporary routine, wandering from room to room and finally feeling like he belongs here. It feels odd that it’ll suddenly be occupied by strangers — to him, not to Hanbin. But what else is there for him to say but— “Of course that’s okay. It’s your house.”

As is common now when they eat, there’s always a stretch of silence at the beginning of their meals as the two of them shove food in their mouths. The smashed potatoes are seasoned to perfection, and Zhang Hao thinks he inhales five before even taking a breath.

“The potatoes aren’t going to run off your plate,” Hanbin teases, noticing as well.

“Shut up,” Zhang Hao mumbles. He grins as he shoves another in his mouth.

Somewhere between Zhang Hao’s ninth and tenth potato, Hanbin gets up from his stool and disappears from the kitchen. Honestly, Zhang Hao is too engrossed in diving into the pulled pork to really care where he goes, but he perks up when he returns holding a bottle of wine and two glasses.

“A drink?”

Zhang Hao gives him an enthusiastic nod. He should probably be more cautious considering what happened during his last imbibing session — he promises himself just one glass. He looks over at the bottle while Hanbin is pouring. “Fancy.”

“It was a gift after last season’s closing night.” Hanbin comes back and hands Zhang Hao a glass.

He takes a sip and presses his lips together to savor the lingering tartness. “They have good taste,” he finally comments.

“You like red wine?” Hanbin asks, like he’s simply making conversation.

“I like heavier wines,” Zhang Hao puckers his lips and then takes another sip. “Nice and plush.”

Hanbin laughs, returning to his seat. “You really are Gordon Ramsay.”

“I simply have a good palate!”

That only makes Hanbin laugh even harder.

They’re all done with their meal with Hanbin loading up the dishwasher — despite Zhang Hao’s insistence on helping, Hanbin had only said “If you treat my dishes like you treat my pillows, I won’t have any left” — before he pops the question: “Will you come to the show on Thursday?”

It catches Zhang Hao off guard, his thumb pausing mid-tap while telling Kuanjui that he’s found them a new Cabernet to try.

“Of course you don’t have to, if you’re busy,” Hanbin adds in a rush when Zhang Hao doesn’t immediately answer. “I just get a couple tickets for each show. You can even bring someone, if you want.”

Zhang Hao bites back the retort of who would I even bring? Taerae comes to mind, and maybe Kuanjui would even fly out and make a weekend of it — honestly, Zhang Hao would love that. He’s shared a bit of what happened between him and Hanbin, what’s been happening between them (which is civil and even peaceful cohabitation and not crazy fucking that Kuanjui implies with every other text and that, if Zhang Hao is being completely honest, he desperately wishes was true) over their messages and occasional calls, but it’s not the same as getting to rant about it in person.

However, his mental gymnastics takes a bit too long, because Hanbin visibly deflates against the kitchen counter.

“It’s okay, if you don’t want to.”

And it’s Hanbin’s very obvious heartbreak, which makes his own heart do something funny that has him blurting out, “I’d love to go. I was just thinking if there was anyone I’d like to invite.”

Hanbin can’t quite tamp down the huge smile on his face, which is painfully endearing. It’s obvious that this show means a lot to him. He’d been in this production last season, too. Zhang Hao remembers there being lots of articles and buzz online about how amazing Hanbin was on stage. But this will be the first time he’s going to be the principal. Briefly, Zhang Hao wonders if he’s going to make the permanent change from screen to stage. But of course that’s none of his business.

“Great,” Hanbin beams. “I’ll send you the tickets. Doors open at seven, but the show doesn’t start until eight.”

Zhang Hao nods. “I’ll probably cut it as close as I can,” he says, thinking out loud. “So I don’t get spotted.”

“Ah, that’s a good idea,” Hanbin pauses as if that also just occurred to him. “There’s usually a lot of press there during the soft opening.”

“Can’t have me showing up to my husband’s show in the middle of our torrid divorce,” Zhang Hao comments wryly, mostly as a reminder for himself. He can’t forget. That despite the past week or so of playing house with Hanbin — enjoying home-cooked meals together, and talking idly in front of the television, and waiting up for him to get home (though Zhang Hao would never admit to anyone that he does) — this is not real, nor is it permanent. It’s actually incredibly temporary. Like two and a half more weeks temporary. And then he’ll be booted out of this house and Hanbin’s life.

Hanbin’s lips twist into something resembling a smile, maybe it’s actually a grimace. “Right,” he nods shortly. “I’m going to shower.”

“Okay,” Zhang Hao nods, watching as Hanbin crosses the kitchen to head upstairs. He feels like there’s something awkward, awful lingering in the air. And he wants to dispel it. “Wait, Hanbin—”

“Yes?” He pauses at the foot of the stairs and turns.

“Did you want to, uh, finish that show tonight?” They’d been watching a baking show on and off since the weekend. Not that Zhang Hao had really been paying attention, he couldn’t list the names of two contestants let alone what happened in the last episode. But it’s been great to play in the background while he and Hanbin chatter away.

But to his disappointment, Hanbin shakes his head, giving him a small smile like that will soften the blow a little bit. “Not tonight, I’m a little tired.”

Zhang Hao shrugs, hoping to seem nonchalant and not completely crushed. “Okay. Goodnight then.”

“Goodnight.”

Zhang Hao pours himself another glass of wine and then follows after him, off to his guest bed — alone.

With each passing day their court date looms ever closer. Taerae might be taking on most of the paperwork, occasionally slipping him a sheet in the car and telling him to read it thoroughly before signing (Zhang Hao never does). But he and Hanbin do have to actually, physically show up at a New York courthouse to finalize their divorce. It’s a detail that Zhang Hao has diligently been putting off acknowledging, because the thought makes him so physically ill. But it’s hard not to think about it when he has absolutely nothing else to do.

Hanbin has been gone all Saturday. Technically, Zhang Hao could keep himself busy with work as well, but it’s the weekend. And he knows he’ll get an inquiring, if not pointed, text from Taerae as soon as he calls the car that he should be taking his days off to rest and relax — even if he won’t necessarily do the same. So Zhang Hao lounges in the carriage house, scrawling down some lyrics, trying to read through a biography he had picked up off Hanbin’s shelf on a whim, and then finally succumbing to flipping through the TV channels and all of Hanbin’s subscribed streaming services for two hours.

When he gets a call from Kuanjui, Zhang Hao is so relieved he answers immediately. He already know what he’s calling about, what he always calls about these days: to give him a thorough report on what his fans are saying or to inquire if Hanbin has fucked him yet.

“Hello?” Zhang Hao mumbles, his cheek currently pressed into a crushed-velvet pillow.

“Are you sleeping?” Kuanjui demands. There’s a light clicking in the background on his end, which tells Zhang Hao that his friend is spending his Saturday in a warehouse picking out clothes.

“No, just watching TV.”

“And where, pray tell, is your gorgeous, sexy husband?”

Zhang Hao sighs, not knowing what to tackle first in that question, so he doesn’t even try. “He has a job.”

“His only job should be to pleasure y—”

“Do not finish that sentence, I beg you,” Zhang Hao cuts him off, earning him a brisk tsk from Kuanjui.

“Come on,” Kuanjui whines. “It’s not like I’m getting any either — I have to live vicariously through you.”

“You’re going to have to find someone else to live out your freaky sex escapism, because it’s not going to be me.”

“Aw, don’t sound so disappointed about it,” Kuanjui teases.

“I’m not disappointed!” Zhang Hao snaps too quickly.

Kuanjui cackles. “Sure, you aren’t. And you’re definitely not insanely horny all the time and hoping that he’ll jump you whenever you two are less than five feet apart.”

“Shut up,” Zhang Hao complains. And then he smashes his face into the pillow.

Kuanjui laughs at him — sadistically. “Have you tried, I don’t know, seducing him a bit?”

“I’m not even going there,” Zhang Hao says instantly. “Despite what you think of me, I have some pride. I will not be seducing my soon-to-be ex-husband.”

“But that’s the perfect time to seduce somebody,” Kuanjui argues.

“Oh, is it? And you’re speaking from experience?”

“Not mine,” Kuanjui scoffs. “As if. But, I did have this client once, she said the best sex she’s ever had was with her ex-husband. After he became her ex-husband.”

“I don’t even want to know how the subject of sex comes up during your job.”

“I’m just a very friendly and trustworthy guy,” Kuanjui scoffs. “And obviously gay.”

“I guess that helps.”

“Anyway, she said they never had much of a sex life, decided to split because things weren’t working out, yadda yadda. Then the two of them bump into each other at some fancy board function, get a little tipsy, decide they do like the look of each other and end up having explosive, amazing, out-of-this-world sex. Not my words.”

Zhang Hao makes a face. “Thanks for those details.”

“Please, I didn’t even tell you about how she told me that he would use his tongue to—”

“I really do not want to know!”

Kuanjui cackles. “You’re such a prude!”

“I am not a prude for not wanting to know about some random woman’s private sex life!”

“Well, it’s not that private, my whole staff heard.”

“Send them my condolences.”

“Not even one teeny-tiny seduction effort?” Kuanjui wheedles. “You don’t even have to try that hard. Put on some micro shorts and prance around the house for two minutes, I’m sure he’ll be all over you by then.”

Zhang Hao pinches the bridge of his nose to stem off the headache he feels coming on every time they have this conversation. “You were literally cursing him out two weeks ago, why are you so eager to get him laid now?”

“Because that will get you laid. And you’ve suffered enough through all of this. You should get something good out of it for once.”

That inexplicably makes Zhang Hao kind of choke up — he’s always been a little bit of a sap, same with Kuanjui. “You know, despite your very misguided efforts, that’s actually kind of sweet.”

“I’m only thinking of you,” Kuanjui sing-songs. He follows up with a more temperate tone. “Just consider it. I mean it, you deserve to get what you want out of this before you guys break it off. And if that is one sexy romp in the bed with your dream man — you should make it happen before it’s too late.”

Kuanjui’s words hit a little too close to home, a little close to his own thoughts that night. Zhang Hao chews on his lip, glancing up at the skylight and the orange and pink streaking across pale wispy clouds. Hanbin has been coming home early these past few days, despite rehearsals being as busy as ever a week out from opening night. If he’s really going to do this, he only has about maybe an hour left. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Kuanjui squeals. “Really?”

“I can’t promise any sort of results,” Zhang Hao grumbles. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

Another excited squeal. “And that is good enough for me! Because if I’m right — and I usually am — one come hither look and that man will be near exploding in his pants!”

Zhang Hao kicks his legs, half in embarrassment, half in, God help him, excitement. Now that he’s actually let himself be talked into this, butterflies take form in his stomach, fluttering all the way up to thump against his ribs. “You’re overestimating my abilities,” he feels like he needs to say, in order to squash his own enthusiasm. “But I’ll update you tomorrow.”

“You better! Go and get your man!”

“Bye,” Zhang Hao says. And then on a whim. “Love you.”

“Love you, too!”

The line clicks dead, leaving Zhang Hao to face the consequences of his own choices.

He doesn’t have many options, realistically speaking. Sure, he can be very creative when he wants to be, but his plan needs to be able to be carried out in — he glances at the time on his phone — around fifty minutes, which doesn’t leave him with much. First order of business, Zhang Hao races upstairs to his guest bathroom, and heads into the shower armed with a razor and a bottle of lube. It’s a little silly to get dolled up, to do all this prep not knowing if Hanbin even wants him. But he might really only get this one chance. And call him a sentimental or a romantic, but he wants it to be perfect if it is. He wants to be perfect for Hanbin.

Twenty minutes later, he’s standing with a towel around his hips, hair toweled dry, and staring down at the three open trunks in the second guest bedroom, which has become his de facto closet since he got his items back. Zhang Hao pulls out a pink velvet tracksuit that Taerae has always said makes his ass look great, but it also doesn’t feel … enough. He roots around a bit more, pulling out a tight pair of leather pants that he’d forgotten he even owned, but just the thought of trying to peel that off his legs later makes him cringe and toss it back. In the end, he — ironically — goes with Kuanjui’s suggestion. The terry cloth loungewear set made up of very short shorts and a loose button-down. It’s not his typical sleepwear set, but very comfortable for summer nights, which is, of course, why he had packed it. And for no other reason whatsoever. Like the lube.

All freshly changed and with ten minutes to spare, Zhang Hao flounces up the stairs to Hanbin’s room with his heart in his throat. He hasn’t been in here since that morning a week ago. There’s been no reason to — Hanbin is always up earlier than him, and the two of them usually head to bed around the same time if they’re both home. Otherwise, Zhang Hao is already tucked in, waiting to hear the pad of Hanbin’s feet on the stairs and across the wooden floors before shutting off his bedside light and going to sleep.

Nothing has changed up here since then. But he isn’t really here to dawdle anyway. Zhang Hao beelines it to Hanbin’s bedside table. Or more specifically the drawer where he plans to stash the condoms he’d taken from his toiletry bag and his lube. He hesitates with his hand around the handle — it feels like an invasion of privacy. But he isn’t going to look through anything. He’ll just drop the items in and be done with it. And yet that also makes him feel a bit self-conscious, like he expects something. It’s setting him up for a spectacular, embarrassing, awful fall if Hanbin actually does not want to fuck him and tells him to get out, leaving him to either fish these back out or, worse, leave them there for Hanbin to find.

Before he can think any more and shoring up his courage, he tugs on the handle, hearing the smooth, barely there whir as the drawer opens up. It’s mostly empty. Which isn’t really what he expected. There’s a small leather-bound notebook in there and nothing else. How strange. Zhang Hao had expected it to have the usual knick-knacks: lotion, eyedrops, rings, watches, bandaids, random receipts, whatever. There’s a distinct lack of this sort of clutter anywhere else around the apartment; he figured Hanbin had just tucked them away out of sight. There’s no way someone is so perfect that they don’t have a junk drawer. And yet, Zhang Hao sees the proof right here in front of him. He quickly leaves his things and shuts it again.

And now he has the rest of the time to slowly let his nerves and second-guessing eat away at his soul.

Zhang Hao perches gingerly on the edge of the bed at first, unsure and edgy. But this won’t do at all. He has to get it together! He’s trying to seduce him for fuck’s sake! This won’t do at all, Zhang Hao decides. So he turns and crawls directly into the middle of Hanbin’s large, fluffy bed. He kneels there, glancing down at the comforter and then the stacks of pillows leaned neatly against the headboard. He bites his lips. None of this screams fuck me as soon as you walk in the door.

Zhang Hao glances down at his outfit. His shorts are already riding up, inching towards the top of his thighs, he knows if he bends over the smooth, perfect curves of his ass will peek out of the bottom, exactly as intended. He wonders if he should undo a few of his shirt buttons, but that’s probably overkill. He tries a veritable slew of various sexy poses, down on his stomach with his feet up, leaning on his side with his head in his hands. All of them feel too forced and cheesy and none of them are right!

In the end, he finds himself rolling around the bed, mussing up the sheets and groaning in annoyance into the open room. And the cherry on top of this situation is that he isn’t frustrated just because of his anxiety and uncertainty, no, it’s also punctuated by an entire week of being extremely pent up. Zhang Hao pulls one of Hanbin’s pillows down, with the full intention of screaming into it. And then he catches that lovely, faintly vanilla and cream scent that he’s missed so much, that he had been completely wrapped in for a few blissful days last week. He pulls it into his arms, curling around it in defeat.

As he lies there, his brain oscillates between thinking this is a monumentally stupid idea and that he should quickly take himself back downstairs before Hanbin gets home and being very, very horny and willing to do anything to even get close to a kiss from Hanbin again.

“Ughhhhhhh,” he yells out, smashing his face into the pillow anyway and hugging it even tighter. He works his legs around it and rolls back over onto his back. He’s going to do this. He’s going to do it, and not overthink it, and it will work. “Hanbin will want me,” he says to the pretty petal shapes on the ceiling.

That’s also, unfortunately, exactly what his body wants to hear, because it’s already started lighting up just being surrounded by Hanbin’s scent. He tightens his leg just a bit, enjoying the wantonness of having his legs open like this, the faint pressure against him. Tentatively, Zhang Hao rolls his hips against the pillow, guilt and desire warring in him. And it feels good — so he does it again. And again.

The faint moan that trickles out of him is decidedly frustrated, but in a different way than before. He secures the pillow with his hands, gripping tight, and rolls his hips again. Oh. Oh, that’s much better. He unconsciously rolls back onto his side to give himself a bit more leverage against the bed, working his hips in small circles against the plush of Hanbin’s pillow. Zhang Hao curls over, pressing his nose back into it as well, taking a deep breath and letting out a slight whimper on his exhale. Hanbin, Hanbin, Hanbin. He really does smell so good.

He should stop. He should stop because Hanbin will be back any second now. And he is not under any circumstances going to let him find him humping his pillow like some cliche, low-rate porno. He will not! Zhang Hao rips his face away from the smooth cotton with a gasp, but his hips continue their traitorous rhythm. He’s just been thinking about Hanbin for so, so long, and he’s so needy, and he’s nearly half-hard now, and he doesn’t want to stop. His stomach clenches on a particularly gratifying twist of his hips, and Zhang Hao feels the rhythm of his breathing grow choppy. Just a little longer, just a little bit more. He’ll hear the ding of the elevator anyway.

And he can’t deny that part of the reason why this feels so good is because it feels so deliciously forbidden, ruining something of Hanbin’s, taking it for himself like this. Somewhere in the back of his mind is the fantastical conviction that he’s allowed to do this, because Hanbin is his, at least for two more weeks. Two more weeks where he’s in his house and in his bed — or he’s the only one who can be.

Zhang Hao knows it’s a dangerous line his mind is toeing, but as he lets out increasingly shorter pants and his heart thumps harder in his chest, he can’t quite bring himself to care. But even this isn’t enough anymore. He needs more. Zhang Hao sits up with a quick huff, the pillow still between his legs as he mercilessly bunches it up with his hands to make it a little more firm, to angle it just right. The first grind down has him stuttering out a slow groan. Oh god. It’s good. It’s so good.

Zhang Hao uses his thighs to create a rhythm, until he’s fully hard now and yet every wiggle isn’t as fulfilling as the one before. He’s constantly chasing a high he can’t reach, the memory of his night with Hanbin spurring him on. Zhang Hao feels his stomach tense and his back arch. It’s still not enough. He holds his breath, teeth sinking into his plush lower lip as heat flashes through him, rising to the surface of his cheeks, swirling through his chest. More, more, more. He still needs Hanbin.

The sudden sound of something heavy dropping to the floor has Zhang Hao whipping his head up. He gasps when he sees Hanbin standing in the doorway of his bedroom with a look of utter shock. His eyes are wide and his lips gently parted. His hand hovers in front of him, empty, and his phone lies on the floor by his feet. It’s clear now that Zhang Hao had not heard the elevator ding, and now Hanbin has walked in on him … defiling his pillow.

He didn’t think it was possible, but he feels his entire face flushing an even deeper shade of pink. It’s not like he can even deny it, Hanbin has completely caught him in the act of humping his pillow. “I’m sorry,” Zhang Hao says in a rush, at the same time that Hanbin blurts out: “Am I dreaming right now?”

Zhang Hao shouldn’t have worried about being corny or cheesy at all, with Hanbin providing lines like that. And he can’t help the incredulous, absolutely inappropriate laughter that bubbles out of him, even as Hanbin stumbles a few steps into the room, his phone on the hardwood floor completely forgotten.

“Do you dream about this often?” Zhang Hao grins, holding back a snort. He’s still a bit embarrassed, his heart is still beating wildly. But also, the pressure against his cock is still good, especially with Hanbin now present, as if his body knows it’s so much closer to getting exactly what it wants.

“I didn’t think you liked my pillows very much,” Hanbin says instead of answering. Though the way his feet take him across the floor, unbidden, answers it for him.

“Oh, I love them.”

“I can’t say I’m a fan of them myself anymore,” Hanbin comments, taking a few more steps forward. He looks slightly dazed— no, dazzled. Absolutely starry-eyed. Worshipful, even, as he draws closer and his eyes rake up and down Zhang Hao’s form, finally landing on his eyes.

“How come?” Zhang Hao shifts a little. The devil on his shoulder is telling him not to stop. Or maybe it’s just his libido.

“Well, for one, I’m incredibly jealous,” Hanbin murmurs, coming to a stop by the bed. From this distance, he can see how dark Hanbin’s eyes have gotten.

Taking a risk, Zhang Hao gives one smooth rock of his hips. Hanbin’s eyes drop immediately, and he’s close enough to hear his sharp inhale.

Zhang Hao had gotten so carried away earlier he hadn’t even realized how much his shorts had bunched up, practically at the crease of his thigh now. He watches as if in slow motion as Hanbin reaches out a hand, trailing a finger over the plump swell of his tense thigh. He swallows hard as it trails down to his knee, almost leisurely. It feels like torture. He wants Hanbin to properly touch him. And then he hears Kuanjui’s smug voice in his mind: Well, perhaps you should put a little bit more effort into seducing then.

As soon as Hanbin’s finger hits the top of his knee, Zhang Hao moves his hip again. This time in a purposeful, sultry grind. The puff of breath that escapes his lips doesn’t have to be faked at all. He also doesn’t miss the way Hanbin leans in, like he’s mesmerized. But his finger lifts off of his skin, and Zhang Hao frowns. It’s not working.

“By all means, don’t let me stop you,” Hanbin sighs. It might have come off as dismissive, maybe even taunting. But Zhang Hao accurately reads it as hunger, especially when Hanbin rasps out, in a much less composed tone, “Please.”

With that encouragement, Zhang Hao starts working his hips again. Not quite with such great abandon as he had before while in private but enough that he feels the zip of pleasure up his spine again, the slow curl of heat as he clenches his stomach. And through it all, Hanbin stares at him with rapt attention. He doesn’t even think Hanbin blinks. What he does do though, is slowly work off his dark shirt and reach for the clasp of his belt. The only sound in the room is the clink of his buckle, and Zhang Hao’s increasingly labored breathing.

He loves putting on a show for him. He loves watching the way Hanbin’s eyes darken, his irises soaked through with want. He loves how Hanbin’s hand fumbles against the loop of his pants, resorting to roughly yanking his belt out. He loves that he can already see a bulge in the front of his jeans and it hasn’t even been ten minutes since he’s walked in the room. Zhang Hao arches his back, eyeing the rise of Hanbin’s chest when he does. He wriggles his hips in a way that he knows will show off his ass. And just like a dog with a bone, Hanbin’s attention immediately darts down to where Zhang Hao can feel that his shorts have fully ridden up now.

Hanbin’s mouth drops open, slack and wanting and Zhang Hao doesn’t think he even realizes. He quickly strips off his jeans, leaving him yet again in a pair of loose boxers, tight only around the distinct shape of his cock. Already half hard, Zhang Hao reckons. He preens, all too aware of the ache between his own legs.

“Enjoying yourself?” Hanbin asks, his knee coming up on the bed.

“Very much. And you?”

“Not quite there yet,” Hanbin murmurs, a slight curve hitching one side of his lips up. He reaches over again, this time placing his entire warm hand over Zhang Hao’s thigh. He squeezes his legs together.

But it seems a little unfair. All the effort he’s put in to get them here, for Hanbin to have done very little work. So he smacks lightly at the back of his hand, swatting it off his leg. “Maybe you should take care of it yourself,” Zhang Hao goads.

Immediately, Hanbin lets out a sound of protest, a half whine. “You’re not going to let me …?” Hanbin’s question trails off into a look of quiet hurt. Quite pathetic. But not yet pathetic enough.

“Needy are we?” Zhang Hao teases.

Hanbin lets out an annoyed huff, even as he climbs fully on the bed. He places both palms down on the bedspread, leaning in. “Says the one I found humping my pillow.”

Zhang Hao frowns. It’s his turn to pout at him. “Can you blame me? I’ve been wanting for you to fuck me so bad, and you wouldn’t even touch me all week.”

Hanbin’s voice is hoarse, like his throat has just run dry when he speaks, “I— I didn’t know you were waiting for me.”

“I was,” Zhang Hao whines, leaning forward as well. “I was so needy and desperate and wanting, and you didn’t do anything about it. So I had to come and take care of it instead.” A thrill runs through him when Hanbin’s hands clench on the comforter.

“I’m sorry,” Hanbin whispers, their lips just inches apart now. “Let me make it up to you?”

Zhang Hao’s hips have slowed into slow circles now, just subtle presses against the pillow, his desire left on simmer. He doesn’t want to come before he lets Hanbin have him — but he’s also going to make him work for it. “What if I said you’re too late?” He raises his brow. “This pillow is doing a fairly good job of it.”

Hanbin’s face darkens. Is that jealousy? Zhang Hao hopes so. The thought sends another thrill through him.

“I can do better than a pillow.”

“Hm, are you sure?”

“It can’t fill you the way I can,” Hanbin taunts. “Isn’t that what you want?”

Yes. Yes it is. “It doesn’t matter if I come either way,” Zhang Hao says, contrary to his own raving, depraved thoughts.

“I think it matters,” Hanbin says.

To Zhang Hao’s great delight, he sits up, reaching for the waistband of his boxers. It leaves the lovely, malleable expanse of Hanbin’s torso completely open for his appreciation.

His eyes are immediately drawn to the three symbols dotting Hanbin’s collarbone. And then flits to the brief flashes of script along Hanbin’s bicep, dark and slanted across his milky skin. Oh, he’s definitely going to take his time exploring those tonight. A dizzying, electrifying amount of excitement runs through him — it fills his chest with a glowing elation, knowing he’s going to get what he wants, knowing that this has all somehow worked.

“I think,” Hanbin drawls. And Zhang Hao’s attention snaps back to his lowered lashes and knowing smirk. “I think you won’t be satisfied until you’re completely full, until you’re stretched to your limit and struggling to make it fit. And even then, you’d still be whining and begging for more.”

Zhang Hao clenches his thighs, hard. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Hanbin who smoothly pulls off his boxers, the heavy sway of his cock drawing Zhang Hao’s eyes lower. He nearly whimpers out of want.

“Am I right?” Hanbin whispers, scooting closer until he grips the pillow still between Zhang Hao’s legs.

And the way Hanbin asks, a little ravenous, a little eager only emboldens Zhang Hao more. “Maybe,” he hedges. But his thoughts are already syrupy and slow, tongue heavy in his mouth as anticipation fills the air between them.

“Or maybe you like it gentle and sweet. Having me fill you up so, so slowly, having me fuck you the same way with full, deep strokes that stretch you out patiently until you’re sobbing from how much you need to come.”

Zhang Hao shifts on the pillow, licking his lips. They both sound good. They both sound perfect. He wants Hanbin to do both, either, whichever one he wants. He just wants him to get over here and finally touch him. “You sure sound confident,” he manages to croak out.

“I’ll be so good at giving you whatever you want,” Hanbin promises, sultry, sinful.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” But he’s already breathless, clutching at the pillow.

In one swift movement, Hanbin closes the gap between them on the bed. And then he’s there, and with one firm grasp on Zhang Hao’s thigh, he lifts him off the pillow, Zhang Hao completely putty in his hands. He pushes him back on the mattress, and Zhang Hao doesn’t even know where the pillow goes before Hanbin is on him. He kisses him — God, does he kiss him, so perfectly, intent and determined with just a slight edge of frustration, as if he doesn’t appreciate Zhang Hao’s challenge, as if he’s wholly prepared to exceed it.

Hanbin kisses him, open mouthed and wet, and Zhang Hao quickly loses himself to them, already worked up and so needy for more. His fingers tangle into the dark tresses of Hanbin’s hair, tugging him closer. Hanbin’s hand slips under the hem of his shirt, and in the next second he pulls his lips away on a gasp to rip it up and over his head. Hanbin didn’t even bother with the buttons. Getting dressed earlier, Zhang Hao had imagined a slow, sensual undressing, but he doesn’t have any complaints now when he finally gets Hanbin skin to skin. Which reminds him— Zhang Hao wraps his legs around Hanbin’s hips, rolling them over in one quick motion.

He much prefers having Hanbin between his legs than the pillow. Zhang Hao exhales in triumph as he straddles the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. Immediately, he dives right into the three darkened symbols below Hanbn’s collarbones. He’s too worked up to be teasing or gentle, diving in with straight teeth and hard sucks. A moan tears itself out of Hanbin’s throat, spurring him on.

“I can’t wait to get in you,” Hanbin grunts, hand carding through Zhang Hao’s hair, pushing back his bangs. His other hand reaches down to squeeze at Zhang Hao’s waist, thumb tucking into the elastic of his shorts. “You’ll be so tight, I just know it.”

Zhang Hao offers no help as Hanbin starts to take off his shorts, completely engrossed with licking and sucking across the sun, star, and moon inked into his universe. Hanbin lets him get his fill, only lightly tapping his ass with his palm to get Zhang Hao to lift his knees so he can finish pulling his shorts off. He detaches with a reluctant, and obscene, sound, enjoying the way red spots have already started to bloom, scattered across Hanbin’s chest.

“I want you, Hanbin,” he murmurs, canting his hips so they grind against each other. “Now.”

In an instant, Zhang Hao is thrown on his back, Hanbin already sliding his boxers off.

“Your side drawer,” he urges. “I put condoms and …”

He doesn’t need to finish as Hanbin yanks it open with more force than necessary, dropping both the short roll of condoms and his lube on the mattress next to him. Zhang Hao is innumerably relieved and unbelievably ecstatic that he actually gets to use them.

“You came prepared.” Hanbin raises a brow, crawling back over Zhang Hao, coaxing his legs apart.

“I need you in me this time.” It’s supposed to be demanding, imperious. It sounds faintly pleading, wholly desperate. He reaches over for the condoms and slaps them, three in total still connected by their perforated edges, on Hanbin’s chest. “You think you can use them all up tonight?”

Hanbin looks down at him with large, sincere, deviant eyes, his hand coming up to take the packets. “I’ll do whatever you want — if you don’t pass out after the first round.”

“Ooh, confident,” Zhang Hao croons. “I like that.”

A short bark of laughter from Hanbin, his eyes briefly squeeze shut, as if he’s in disbelief. When he opens them again, they’re liquid pools of desire, a reflection of Zhang Hao’s own. “I hope you remember that when you’re begging me to stop later.”

Hanbin dips down to kiss Zhang Hao’s temple as he unwraps the condom and slips it on, even the slight crinkle of the foil sets Zhang Hao’s heart thumping. Hanbin’s lips place a reverent, almost loving kiss against Zhang Hao’s forehead as he uncaps the lube and warms it up. “Are you ready?”

“I prepped before …”

“Are you sure you can take it?” Hanbin murmurs, dipping down to give him a punishing kiss.

“Yes, yes,” Zhang Hao pants when he feels Hanbin’s finger teasing around his rim. He sucks in a sharp gasp when it finally slips it, pulling air through his teeth at the feeling of being filled.

“Okay?” It’s not teasing, just care.

Zhang Hao nods, turning his head to place a delicate kiss on the corner of Hanbin’s lips, whispering right up against them. “I hope you remember that if I beg you to stop later — don’t.”

“Stop, stop—!” Zhang Hao cries, sobbing into the sheets as Hanbin continues to pound into him from behind. The rhythmic sound of flesh slapping against skin echoes obscenely, deafeningly throughout the room. It’s all Zhang Hao can focus on besides the harsh grunts and groans of Hanbin above him and his own uncontrollable whimpers. “Hanbin … please, please, please!” Zhang Hao chokes on a silent scream as Hanbin twists his hips and hits him right in his sweet spot. “It’s too much, ah—”

“I can’t,” Hanbin sobs, sounding every bit as wrecked, just as ruined as him.

He’d been boastful, even teasing during their second round, but come into the third, it’s been a delicious, wonderful thing to see Hanbin slowly falling apart. Or, well, not that slowly. Hanbin shudders, another groan escaping him. “It’s so good, it’s so good,” he moans. “How do you feel so good? It’s not fair. I can’t get enough of you— you’re going to make me come again … fuck.” Hanbin’s voice cracks on a whine, and then dissolves into indiscernible whimpers and punched-out grunts, his hips never letting up their brutal pace, bouncing Zhang Hao straight into the mattress.

He knows Hanbin has to be overstimulated, too. He doesn’t even know if Hanbin can come a third time. He’d needed a bit of time to recover between their first and second rounds, but he’d rushed into this third one, babbling and blushing and so delightfully near frantic. He feels Hanbin’s shudder all the way from the chest plastered to his back to the hands holding his waist down on the bed. He’s so delightfully sensitive, so easy to turn into a frantic mess. Though he supposes the same could be said of him, too.

Zhang Hao cries out when one of Hanbin’s grips his hip, lifting him up onto his knees so he can push in deeper.

“Hanbin, I— it’s too much, it’s too much,” Zhang Hao blubbers. His thighs positively ache, so weak and trembling he slumps back onto the bed as soon as Hanbin lifts his hand.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. Let me, let me,” Hanbin entreats, mumbling and pulling out. They both let out soft whines.

For all his begging, being completely empty and left so completely unfulfilled is even worse. Thankfully, Hanbin flips him quickly, flopping Zhang Hao’s dead weight onto his back. And then he’s over him again, pressing the head of his cock into Zhang Hao’s abused, red rim and it hurts but— in, in, in, in Zhang Hao begs, with the same sort of cadence and high-riding keen as he’d asked Hanbin to stop before.

Hanbin thrusts in him, burying himself to the hilt. And even then it’s not enough. He rocks, hips jerking as if he wants to go even deeper, like they’re nowhere near close enough for him yet, before he slowly pulls out and slams back in. Hanbin finds his rhythm again, bruisingly fast, achingly perfect.

Zhang Hao reaches down for his own cock, fisting it with a bitten-off moan and pumping it in time with Hanbin’s furious thrusts.

Hanbin growls above him, barely able to hold himself up with his shaking arms, sweat threading through his hair and carving past his temples, dripping onto Zhang Hao’s chest but he couldn’t care less right now. Hanbin’s eyes are molten and determined despite his quick gasps, staring down at him with a wild look. “Is this better than that— damn pillow?”

A hiccup of laughter works its way up Zhang Hao’s chest, but it comes out as a sob instead. “Yes, yes, I wanted this so bad. It’s all I could think about. You were all I could think about all week. Getting you in me, over me …” Zhang Hao trails off, his hand tightening around himself. He clenches down hard, eliciting another whimpered cry from Hanbin.

His thrusts momentarily falter and slow, so he’s pressed all the way in, the tops of his thighs pushed right against Zhang Hao’s plush ass, grinding in jerky circles. And he looks so completely bullied with his red-rimmed eyes and slack mouth, even though it’s him holding down Zhang Hao’s waist in a bruising hold.

“Does it hurt?” Zhang Hao coos, reaching up with his free hand to cradle Hanbin’s jaw. His other hand pushes the sweaty strands of his bangs away from his forehead. Hanbin is so beautiful; he looks like a god. His lips are so red and raw, and Zhang Hao has no doubt his are in much the same state. Even so, he pulls him down so he can kiss him, thorough and ardent. It stings for a second before Hanbin licks over them.

“No. Jus’ need a moment,” Hanbin mumbles.

Zhang Hao places a tender kiss against the corner of his mouth. He happily watches the flutter of Hanbin’s eyelashes and how they fan over his heated cheeks. After some time, Hanbin pulls out again slightly, before pushing back in, his rhythm building once more, but this time so messy, so sloppy as he chases his pleasure.

“It feels like you’re going deeper every time.”

Hanbin responds by pulling out again, a little more this time and sliding back in with a hard thrust. It shoots sparks of near numbness down Zhang Hao’s legs.

“Ah— not that hard, please,” he whines.

“I can’t help it,” Hanbin stammers. “You’re just— fuck, so perfect. It hurts, but it feels too good.”

“I know, baby. I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t stop—!”

They lose their ability to speak after that. Soon enough Zhang Hao is blubbering and keening and tossing his head back and forth again. He rolls his fingers over the head of his cock and — he feels it, the spark of heat right behind his navel, the clench of his stomach and thighs around Hanbin’s hips. He lets go of himself right before he comes, because it’s too much, it’s too much, it’s too much.

“Ahhh — Hanbin I can’t anymore, please. I can’t, I can’t, you’re so …!” The litany continues to spill out of him over and over, uncontrollably, incoherently.

And he thinks Hanbin is saying, crying, choking on words, too, but he can’t quite make them out. And then Hanbin’s hand wraps around him, right where he’s sensitive, right where he hurts, wants, needs, taking up the same rhythm as his own before, rubbing right over the sensitive spot under the head of his cock. And just like before it’s too much. Zhang Hao feels like he’s burning up alive; he feels like he’s going to pass out at any moment, in rapturous bliss, in tormented misery.

His entire body reaches a crest — and comes free falling down. He’s screaming, he thinks, his cock twitching and spurting a negligible amount of cum that only makes Hanbin move faster, rougher.

And the last thing Zhang Hao remembers before the darkness completely overtakes him is muttering “it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re okay” as Hanbin fills him up.

The entire bed reeks of sweat and sex when Zhang Hao wakes up. He scrunches his nose immediately, and then he starts hitting with weakened, limp smacks at the warm body next to him. The one that is currently attached to his side with one leg thrown over his own and arms of steel wrapped around his waist.

“Hanbin,” Zhang Hao mumbles, trying to wake him. “I feel gross. Get up.”

The dark head next to Zhang Hao’s shoulder suddenly jerks up. Hanbin has a streak of dried drool on his left cheek and eyes so puffy he can barely blink them open. He’s still the most beautiful man Zhang Hao has ever seen.

Oh fuck, he’s in trouble.

“Huh?” Hanbin mumbles blearily, blinking a few times at him.

“Get up, I need to go to the bathroom.” Zhang Hao swats at Hanbin’s side again, bare palm against naked skin.

Hanbin groans a bit, but finally unlatches from him and rolls away. “What time is it?” he complains.

Zhang Hao props himself up and looks around the room. He has no idea where his phone is — he thinks he left it in the guest room downstairs, and Hanbin’s is still on the floor by the door. He squints at the antique clock on the mantle. “A little past ten.”

“Go back to sleep,” Hanbin mumbles, lying prone on the mattress once more.

“No. You are probably lying in my dried cum.”

“Mm, I don’t care.”

“Hanbin!” he exclaims, a bit scandalized.

Hanbin blinks open one eye, a cheeky grin bringing out his dimples.

Zhang Hao huffs, “We should get cleaned up.” He glances down at himself and winces — he doesn’t even want to know the state of his ass right now. At least Hanbin had used condoms.

It’s not even just the cleanliness of the sheets, but the state of them. The comforter is half on the floor, only a small corner of it folded over Zhang Hao’s midsection. There are pillows scattered across the floor. Part of the bed sheet had peeled off the mattress and was now bunched uncomfortably in the middle of the bed where they’re lying.

When he glances back at Hanbin, it’s to see him already staring back. Shamelessly, he curls up sideways on the soiled bedding. “Go and take a bath first. I’ll sort the sheets.”

For once, Zhang Hao doesn’t insist. He immediately high tails it to the bathroom, eager to get cleaned up. While he soaks in the bath — this time using a sage and eucalyptus oil — and draws a very silky loofa along his arms, he hears the sounds of Hanbin gathering the sheets, leaving the room, and then returning a short while later to make the bed with a lot of banging and loud patting.

“Okay out there?” Zhang Hao calls out.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” Hanbin calls back, with a great bit of chuckling.

Zhang Hao lips curl up at the ends too, and he sinks a little further into the bath, allowing the steam to envelop him.

Twenty minutes later, he nudges the door to the bathroom open with his foot, a long towel draped over his shoulders. There really isn’t any need for modesty anymore, not after what they did last night, but in the light of day, his own anxieties and worries and self-consciousness is returning full force. Whenever he thinks about how Hanbin found him last night, his ears bloom a startling pink. “Hanbin?” he calls out. There’s no answer. Zhang Hao opens the door a little further and peeks out. No one is in the room.

He shuffles from foot to foot in the doorway, unsure. Zhang Hao glances towards the double doors he assumes leads to Hanbin’s closet. He could take this opportunity to run downstairs and grab his own clothes to change into, but the call of Hanbin’s soft cotton shirts with the sweet lingering scent along the necklines is irresistable. It’s simply more practical, he reasons. He doesn’t want to streak through Hanbin’s home in just a towel no matter what they did last night! Decision made, Zhang Hao quickly darts from the door of the bathroom across the wood and carpet doors, slipping into Hanbin’s closet.

It’s massive. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, maybe two rows of closet space with a full mirror. But there are two half-circle armchairs in the back, one draped over with what looks to be yesterday’s clothes. The width is easily enough for him to lay down horizontally, to fit a Queen-sized mattress in here! There’s so much space Hanbin doesn’t even have enough clothes to fill it! There are vertical shoe racks that reach from floor to ceiling and drawers that Zhang Hao presumes holds his jewelry and ties. There are rows and rows of button-up shirts, a lot of denim scattered throughout, and even a section where folded sets of loungewear sit. But the closet space towards the back is obviously empty. With one section completely unused and one with only a few garment bags that he doesn’t dare touch.

Zhang Hao opens a few drawers before finding a stash of plain t-shirts. He pulls out a black shirt with a much wider neckline than he had anticipated and snatches a pair of gray sweats from the pile — maybe the same one as the first pair he’d worn here actually. When he slips back into the room, he jumps when Hanbin walks out of the bathroom.

“Oh! I was wondering where you went,” Hanbin smiles at him. He has only a pair of shorts slung low over his hips and judging based on his mussed up hair it’s clear he hasn’t showered yet.

“Sorry,” Zhang Hao says sheepishly, tugging at the bottom of Hanbin’s loose shirt. “I didn’t want to run downstairs naked.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Hanbin laughs. “Because my assistant is here.”

“Oh,” Zhang Hao squeaks. He gives Hanbin a more discerning look over. There are pink and purple splotches along his collarbone and bare chest; his hair looks like a raccoon has just mauled it; and Zhang Hao can see glaringly red scratches along Hanbin’s waist trailing from his back. “Did he, uh, see you like this?”

Hanbin’s ears immediately turn fire-truck red. “Ah, well, I wasn’t expecting him this morning. But it’s okay! He’s very discreet. And we’re quite close, so … it’s fine.”

Zhang Hao frowns at the quite close. But doesn’t deign that line with a response. No need to act like a jealous lover even if the lover part might be true now. That thought at least settles the envy a little bit.

“Actually, I think your manager is coming, too. Matthew said they wanted to, uh, talk to us about some … things.”

Some things probably being divorce things, a decidedly awkward and uncomfortable subject given Zhang Hao is decked out head-to-toe in Hanbin’s clothes and not a single inch of Hanbin was spared from his bites and scratches. Great.

“Great,” Zhang Hao chokes out. “I’ll see when he’s coming. You, uh, should take a shower.”

Hanbin gives a decisive nod, still pink-eared, turning tail and closing the bathroom door with a soft click.

Zhang Hao heads downstairs, wary, but it seems Hanbin’s assistant, Matthew, is keeping himself to the first floor. He heads into the guest room and finds his phone on his bedside table. As soon as he taps on the screen he sees there are a few texts from Taerae from the night before — and this morning.

Yesterday, 7:11 P.M.
Kim Taerae
> I have some updates, can I come over to Hanbin’s around noon tomorrow? Or I can meet you at the studio if that’s easier

8:24 A.M.
Kim Taerae
> I know I told you to be off your phone but I meant social, not when I’m texting you

10:44 A.M.
Kim Taerae
> I’m coming over anyway I’ve also told Hanbin’s rep and he’ll be there too

11:17 A.M.
Kim Taerae
> Are you alive I’m otw

The last message was sent around twenty minutes ago. Zhang Hao quickly shoots a reply along the lines of sorry I was busy and locked my phone in a drawer see you soon!

And then he begins to panic.

How is he going to get through an entire conversation about their divorce right after having the best sex of his life with the very man he’s supposed to be separating from!!

He could barely look Hanbin in the eyes this morning. And every time Zhang Hao thinks about that looming date in two weeks, he feels like throwing up. Especially now … knowing what he’ll miss on has only exacerbated the feeling of injustice and despair and frustration and helplessness at being drawn into all this against his will. Why did Hanbin have to ask for a divorce! Why did he have to get in that car with Park Hanbin that night! Why why why!

Ten minutes. He allows himself ten minutes to wallow in self pity before he pulls himself together. Taking deep breaths like his therapist advised, he focuses on one item in the room — a vase of fresh roses Hanbin’s housekeeper had brought in yesterday morning — and counts up to ten while inhaling and then exhales for another ten. He does this five times before he feels like he’s not going to break down crying as soon as he steps foot outside this room. And then he goes downstairs.

Zhang Hao finds Matthew in the lounge area off the entry way on the first floor. He’s sitting with one of his feet propped on his knee in one of the armchairs, idly flipping through a book. Zhang Hao has the advantage of spotting him as soon as he rounds down the stairs and takes a second to examine the assistant who is quite close to Hanbin: short, cropped brown hair, a mole on his right cheek, and tortoiseshell frames perched on the end of his nose. He also has very, very broad shoulders and arms that strain against his light blue dress shirt. Matthew looks up from his book with a dazzling smile when Zhang Hao steps into the room.

“Hello! I’m Matthew, Hanbin’s assistant and manager,” he stands, tucking the book neatly under his arm, during his introduction and extends his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Zhang Hao shakes his hand with a small smile. Matthew is … incredibly handsome, and also incredibly warm instantly. He can see why he and Hanbin are close. It makes that sick feeling from before momentarily return. “Hello, uh, I’m Zhang Hao. Though you probably already know.”

Matthew laughs, taking Zhang Hao’s awkwardness in stride. “Of course! Part of my job and all that. It’s a shame I wasn’t here before, or we could have met sooner.”

“Before?” Zhang Hao echoes.

“When you two got married.”

“Ah. How long have you worked with Hanbin?”

“Over three years now, ever since he moved to New York,” Matthew says, tucking his hands into his slack pockets. “Sorry to bother you two on the weekend. The week was … really busy. But we figured it was best that we spoke to you two as soon as possible.”

He frowns. “Is there a problem?”

“Not exactly,” Matthew shrugs, motioning for Zhang Hao to take a seat on the long couch. He does, and Matthew also settles back down on the armchair, placing his book neatly on the table. “Why don’t we wait for Taerae and Hanbin to get here? It’ll be easier to talk with everyone.”

Zhang Hao nods. “Sure, Hanbin is just … getting ready.”

Matthew laughs again, loud and boisterous, as if the two of them are already good friends despite only making it past first introductions five minutes ago. “I sure hope so! He was a mess when I caught him earlier.”

“Right,” Zhang Hao says, shy and not really wanting to get into the topic of why Hanbin had looked that way. “Oh, do you want anything to drink?”

“All good,” Matthew gets up quickly. “I’ll go get myself something. Can I bring you anything?”

Zhang Hao shakes his head, chastised by the reminder that even though he may currently be living here, Matthew is much more familiar with this home than he is.

Matthew exits the room quickly, and Zhang Hao hears him heading downstairs. It gives him far too much time for his mind to whirl over what it is that both Matthew and Taerae need to talk to them about. A part of him hopes there’s been some awful mix-up in the divorce process, that they won’t be able to go through with it in two weeks after all. Any sort of extension will feel like a lifeline at this point, especially because Zhang Hao doesn’t even know where he stands with Hanbin after what happened last night. All he knows is that he doesn’t want a repeat of what happened five years ago: the two of them parting ways with so many unanswered questions, unfinished business, and unknown possibilities. If this really is the end for them, Zhang Hao wants everything before he goes.

Two voices and slight laughter catch his attention right before Matthew and a decidedly more put-together Hanbin walk in through the arched doorway. Despite what Zhang Hao had said before, Hanbin sets down a cup of matcha on the coffee table in front of him.

“Thanks,” Zhang Hao murmurs, as Hanbin sits down on the long sofa next to him with his own cup of coffee.

“Stage dooring has become such a problem just this season,” Matthew comments, as if picking up a previous thread of a conversation he and Hanbin had been having. “Are you sure you want to do it?”

“I feel like it’s expected of me,” Hanbin says. “I should, right?”

And it takes a moment for Zhang Hao to realize he’s talking to him. He startles, feeling a little out of his depth. “What is …”

“Ah,” Hanbin understands immediately. “Some fans like to wait at the theater stage door for the actors to come out. They’ll usually take photos, ask for autographs, and chat for a bit. Things like that. Some actors love it and will sign everything, but others will go straight to their car and won’t even look at anyone.”

Matthew laughs. “I don’t blame them. The fans have been getting out of hand. I heard they asked to touch someone’s hair recently.”

“Okay, don’t let them do that,” Zhang Hao says pointedly to Hanbin, who shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t!”

“You so would!” Matthew interjects. He then turns to Zhang Hao with a wry smile. “This guy is nicer than he needs to be — can never say no.”

“On second thought, you should stay far, far away from the stage door,” Zhang Hao mutters.

Hanbin giggles. “Either way, I feel obligated.”

“If anyone tries to touch your hair, I’ll come rescue you,” Matthew offers.

At that moment, Hanbin’s phone rings. It’s the front desk calling about a guest — Taerae — and he gets up to go receive him by the elevator.

“How are you liking this apartment so far?” Matthew asks, making conversation while they wait.

“It’s amazing.” Zhang Hao can’t even lie. He’s still just as stunned by the meticulously curated furniture and detailed stylings as he was the first day he arrived. “The colors are so nice, and the carriage house,” Zhang Hao sighs. “I could spend all day in there.”

“Have you slept in there yet?”

Zhang Hao pauses for a moment at the double entendre. Does Matthew mean sleep or …

As if suddenly realizing, Matthew rushes to explain. “Just that it’s very pretty at night as well, with the moon visible through the skylight! Hahaha, yeah. Not, uh, not that you can see stars in the city, which is a shame, but still, great view for a full moon.”

Zhang Hao isn’t sure if he wants to dig further into how Matthew knows that, not sure if he wants to keep going with this conversation at all actually. Thankfully, Hanbin chooses that moment to enter with Taerae.

“Sorry,” Taerae says when he sees all of them situated. “Who knew traffic would even be bad on the weekends?”

Zhang Hao immediately perks up at the sight of him. It’s not that he dislikes Hanbin or Matthew — though that could be argued for Hanbin on a bad day — but having someone he knows is solely in his corner when it comes to all of this is relieving. Taerae takes up Hanbin’s spot next to Zhang Hao on the sofa, making Hanbin sit in the other armchair next to Matthew. Like this, with the table separating them, it really does feel like a formal meeting between two divorcees.

“Thanks for letting us intrude on a Sunday,” Taerae says to Hanbin. “Hopefully this won’t take too long.” He turns to Matthew. “Did you already brief them?”

“Not yet, I thought it would be best if you were here, to make sure we cover all our bases.”

Taerae nods shortly, a distinct air of stiffness between the two of them. “Well, I can get us started then; feel free to interrupt if you think I’m missing anything.”

Matthew gives his own short nod in turn.

“All of the final proceedings are being vetted by both of your lawyers now,” Taerae begins. “It’s rather fortunate that you two signed a prenup before marrying, and that you have kept your liquid — and other — assets separate all these years, so those should be sorted accordingly. Unless, either of you think there is anything of value that needs to be split or assessed?” Taerae pauses to take a look at both of them.

They both shake their heads unison, mute.

“Great. As for alimony, we will petition the judge that it should be dismissed for you both. Since the issue of children is not on the table—”

Zhang Hao nearly chokes on his sip of matcha, but instead holds his breath until the pressure in the back of his throat fades.

“—that should also easily be taken care of. We just need to prove that you are both financially well off enough to not need additional support even if this whole divorce negatively impacts … either of you, monetarily speaking.”

He’s talking about him. Zhang Hao barely holds back a wince. If despite their gargantuan efforts, all of this still goes poorly for him, he could be seeing far fewer contracts, far fewer sales on his next album release, which would likely impact his label’s interest in keeping him on as an artist. The knot in his stomach works itself tighter.

“Are we sure about that?” It’s not Matthew who interrupts but Hanbin.

Taerae pauses, mouth open as if he’d been prepared to go onto the next point. He looks over at Hanbin curiously. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we shouldn’t dismiss the possibility of an alimony so quickly. What if one of us needs it?”

Zhang Hao bristles at that. Because he knows: he’s also talking about him. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

Everyone’s eyes shift to him.

“I won’t be needing it,” Zhang Hao says, a bit forcefully.

“What if I need it?” Hanbin’s face is open when he asks, no hint of jeering or provocation. What game is he playing at?

“I think you’ll be fine.”

“I haven’t forgotten that I owe my success to you,” Hanbin argues.

Zhang Hao scoffs. “As if. You’re successful because you’re a good actor. It’s not because of me.”

“Yes, it is,” Hanbin insists, much to Zhang Hao’s great frustration. “I wouldn’t have gotten here if we hadn’t—”

“Well, the same can be said of me then, so I think we’re even,” Zhang Hao snaps. He doesn’t even realize he’s raised his voice until Taerae lays a hand on his arm. Not wanting to cause even more of a scene, he slumps back against the couch cushion. Petulant, he mutters, “If Hanbin wants to keep it open, we can. But I won’t be asking for any money.”

“Let’s not be too hasty here,” Taerae starts, looking worriedly over at him. “If we’re keeping it as an option for him, it’s in your best interest to also—”

“No, I don’t want it.”

Taerae sighs, but makes a small scribble on his notepad. “We can come back to that one.”

Matthew nods, also tapping something in on his phone.

“That’s all for the divorce proceedings at the moment,” Taerae finishes, looking up from his writing. “The only other thing is that we are expecting there to be a lot of press at the courthouse that day. Obviously none will be allowed in, but be prepared for the arrival. It would be best if you two showed up together, and put on a friendly, united front, to sell that this is mutual and that you are both parting on good terms.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Hanbin assures. “I can have my car drop us off together.”

Taerae looks over at Zhang Hao who nods in agreement, albeit reluctantly. He slumps a little further back on the couch, trying to swallow down his disproportionate disappointment and hurt. He should be grateful that Hanbin is being so accommodating. Yeah, because he’s looking forward to finally being rid of you, a small voice in the back of his head says.

“Was that everything?” Hanbin asks.

“Ah, not quite,” Matthew speaks up. “Actually, the reason that we wanted to come here today wasn’t that … you see, people have started speculating—”

“Not people,” Taerae spits. “Disgusting gossip blogs and those rumor mongers who run blind item sites.”

“Yes, thank you, Taerae,” Matthew placates. “They always have something to say, but unfortunately, what they’re saying right now has caused a bit of chatter online.”

Zhang Hao hasn’t looked on his social media since all the way back to last week. Kuanjui has been keeping him apprised of some items, but Zhang Hao also wouldn’t be surprised if he’s trying to couch him from the worst of it. He gets the same sick, spiraling feeling thinking about it as he does about their divorce, so he’s been living in relative bliss as long as he sets both from his mind. He grits his teeth in preparation for the worst. “What have they been saying?”

“There are two main blind items that are causing problems: One says that they saw you and Park Hanbin flirting heavily at the auction event you two were snapped at,” Matthew ticks them off on his fingers. “And the second is that you and Hanbin have been faking your marriage this whole time.”

“So the truth,” Zhang Hao deadpans. And then he backtracks. “I mean about the marriage, not the flirting.”

Taerae sighs. “Well, yes.”

“And people are believing it?” Hanbin has a deep furrow between his brows; his eyes flat as he glances around the group. He’s never seen Hanbin look quite so … furious before. Zhang Hao hadn’t known he had such a distaste for blind items.

“Unfortunately,” Matthew grimaces. “Not completely, but it’s been a couple weeks since Zhang Hao was spotted arriving. That had quelled some of the rumors for a bit, but neither of you have been seen out lately, and well, if we don’t give the people something to talk about, they’re bound to come up with their own theories.”

“I’m guessing there’s a plan,” Zhang Hao says.

“You two need to be seen out together,” Taerae confirms. “Today, if possible — go out for a show, shopping, grab dinner, take a day at the zoo, we don’t care. You just have to go, have a good time — or look like you’re having a good time — and make sure the paparazzi get some good shots of you. We’ll arrange for them to be there.”

“Why do I feel like bait right now?” Zhang Hao mutters under his breath.

“You are both bait,” Taerae pronounces. “Whose careers are in the deep end and you have to … catch some paparazzi to get out of it. Okay, this analogy isn’t working anymore, but you get the point.”

“I’m not sure about this,” Hanbin hesitates. Zhang Hao can’t say that doesn’t hurt a little.

“Are you busy?” Matthew asks. “I don’t think there’s anything on your schedule. Aren’t rehearsals off today?”

“Yeah, they’re having the understudies do the run through today,” Hanbin says slowly.

“Great!” Taerae claps his hands together. “That settles it then. I know you have nothing going on, Zhang Hao, don’t even try to get out of it.”

He shoots Taerae an annoyed scowl. “I wasn’t going to.”

“But what about the auction blind item?” All eyes turn back to Hanbin, who once again has a deep scowl on his face.

“What about it?” Matthew asks.

“Are we going to do anything?”

Taerae shrugs, standing up. “Not much we can do. We already decided not to reach out to Park Hanbin or his family — no need to get too many people involved. Though, Zhang Hao, you’re still in touch with him?”

Zhang Hao startles at the sudden mention. He nods, noticing the way Hanbin’s glare darkens. “Occasionally,” he admits. “Not recently though.”

“We’ll contact him if it becomes an even bigger issue,” Taerae says. “But for the time being, hopefully seeing the two of you out will dissuade any further speculation.”

“People want to believe you’re in love,” Matthew says, encouragingly. “They’ve been rooting for you both for years. I don’t think it’ll take much to convince them again.”

“Even if we’re divorcing soon,” Zhang Hao grouses.

“Even so,” Taerae asserts. “People hate to think they’ve been lied to. They’d rather believe that things just didn’t work out, but that you two were truly together.”

Zhang Hao feels a sudden lump in his throat that makes it a little difficult to reply. “Okay,” he scratches out.

Everyone looks to Hanbin, who finally nods after an extended beat.

“We’ll think of something to do,” Hanbin agrees.

The sound of children screaming in the background does not feature whatsoever in any of Zhang Hao’s ideal date locations.

And yet, here they are.

Zhang Hao shades his eyes with his hand as he peers up just as a trolley full of roller-coaster riders take a sharp curve overhead. His hand sweeps through his messy, dark bangs, trying to keep the sweat at bay as the summer sun beats down hot and bright. A group of girls walk past them on the sidewalk, giggling and chatting, and Hanbin gently guides them off to one side so they’re less in the way.

“It’s crowded today,” Zhang Hao comments.

“They wanted us to be seen, didn’t they?” Hanbin asks with a raise of his brow. His previous dark mood from earlier seems to have completely lifted once Taerae and Matthew had gone. Hanbin had been the one to suggest they come to Coney Island after Zhang Hao admits he’s rarely been to amusement parks — though he loves rides. Hanbin had even offered to drive, and Zhang Hao had gotten a front row view of discovering that he apparently had a kink for men who drive one handed. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Hanbin.

“We are definitely being seen, alright,” Zhang Hao drawls. They’ve already amassed a rather substantial crowd of photographers across the street, not all of whom he thinks were tipped off by their assistants. He sees one guy darting in front of a car to get a front shot of them and flinches. If they get hit on account of them, they can’t be sued right?

“What do you want to do first?” Hanbin asks, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

He keeps his hand hovering near Zhang Hao’s lower back. Which is completely necessary because of the thick crowd of people here, Zhang Hao convinces himself. And if he slows his steps just a little so he feels the graze of Hanbin’s palm against his loose white-linen shirt, well, it’s just because the people walking in front of them have stopped to get some ice cream.

“Let’s do the rides first,” Zhang Hao beams up at him. “And then all the food.”

Hanbin giggles, his sweet dimples popping out on his already slightly pinkened cheeks. “Sounds good.”

The first ride goes smoothly — or as smoothly as a small, cramped car jettisoned into the air can be. Zhang Hao loves the thrill, but he also loves Hanbin’s terrified face and the aching grip he has on his hand. A young girl asks Hanbin for his autograph when they get off the ride, and he does so gracefully, smiling brightly at her all the while and making small talk, which consists of asking how old she is (seven) and what her favorite color is (green). Her mother thanks him profusely after and ferries her ecstatic daughter off immediately after.

A few people in line for their next ride lean over their ropes and take photos of them, but Zhang Hao tries to ignore it. The second ride goes just as well considering it’s over a hundred fifty years old, and Hanbin makes such a funny face on the ride that Zhang Hao chokes through half of it cackling and howling.

“That was terrifying! Why are you laughing?” Hanbin complains as they step off.

“I could literally only see your two front teeth the entire ride.” Zhang Hao thinks he’s going to be near tears. “Come on, let’s see if they got a photo.”

They did get a photo, and Zhang Hao gleefully pays the overpriced sum in order to get a copy of Hanbin pulling the most tortured and appalled face known to man.

“If you ever show anybody that I’m going to show up at your LA home and kill you,” Hanbin threatens.

Zhang Hao leans over and bats his eyes. “Promise?”

Hanbin pinches him in the side, making him giggle and jump away. Only to find his way tucked next to his side as soon as they begin walking again.

They amass a fairly large group of fans as they traverse around the park. Zhang Hao has no doubt that word has gotten out that the two of them are currently here. He spots a few young girls with large cameras tailing them around, and once the park attendance reaches what feels like a peak in capacity, they call it a day.

“Didn’t you want food?”

“It’s too many people,” Zhang Hao shakes his head.

Hanbin slips his hand into his so they don’t lose each other in the crowd. “Just one ice cream, come on.”

And because that’s what his heart really wants, despite the risk, Zhang Hao doesn’t complain as he lets Hanbin walk him to a food stall and buy him a cone.

The area around the tables becomes completely covered in photographers and their fans by the time Zhang Hao finishes his cone with a pink plastic spoon — he’s tempted to feed some to Hanbin, though he feels like that would probably be overkill. Most of the fans are college-aged students, all jostling for their attention and asking for photos and autographs. Hanbin signs one pamphlet, and that seems to open the floodgates. Someone from the back pushes forward eagerly, reaching over other people’s heads to wave a piece of paper for him to sign. He steps back, only to bump his hip into the side of a plastic table.

“Please, back up,” he says, raising his voice a little to be heard over the clamoring, even as he takes the paper and scribbles down his signature.

Hanbin is now standing as well, nodding and waving as a few people snap photos of him. The two of them are completely crowded against the table and chairs. Most of the fans wait their turn, though a few are a bit more insistent about pushing. Hanbin sticks his arm out when a girl tries to shove her way over to Zhang Hao’s side.

“Hey! Give us a little more room,” Hanbin also calls over the crowd, which has somehow doubled in size, though those at the back seem only to be hanging around, nosy over what the commotion is over.

The speed and suddenness that everyone converged on them leaves their security detail, two burly men who have been tailing them from an inconspicuous distance, at a disadvantage. Zhang Hao has no idea where they are in the hubbub, having lost them a while ago as soon as he’d gotten his ice cream.

He leans down to take a selfie with a girl on her phone. Their faces get a little close; she’s incredibly sweaty and her arm shakes a bit as tries to snap the photo. But he smiles professionally and poses and waits patiently for her to get the right angle. Zhang Hao doesn’t expect her to turn her head and attempt to kiss his cheek. He flinches back before she can make contact, but he’s so appalled, so startled that he freezes for a second. A hand clamps down on her shoulder immediately.

“You shouldn’t try to kiss someone if they didn’t give you permission,” Hanbin says, his voice so sharp even Zhang Hao nearly winces.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

Hanbin has a terrifying smile on his face as he tightens the hand on her shoulder. “Don’t even try to lie. Let’s have some common decency, hm?”

Zhang Hao feels like he should speak up — but that’s always the hard thing with fans. Who’s to know she won’t turn around and post about this online, warping the story to make him look bad? Say he didn’t want to take a photo with her; say he even rudely rebuffed her and pushed her down on the floor? Who would even be able to corroborate?

“I saw you quite clearly,” Hanbin snaps. “If you can’t treat your idols like people, then you truly have no self respect for the things you claim to treasure.”

“Excuse me!” She looks aghast. She looks like she’s going to make a scene.

Already, Zhang Hao sees someone pulling out a phone somewhere in the crowd. God, they’re filming. He should say something. He should say it’s fine — he should downplay this as much as possible. He should just grin and bear it as he always does. But the thing is: it’s not okay. And he can’t do that to Hanbin — not when he’s defending him so profusely.

“Security!” Hanbin suddenly calls — and out of seemingly nowhere, two burly men finally push through the crowd, with a bit more force and vigor than before, uncaring about whether they trample over people or shove them roughly like Zhang Hao and Hanbin have to worry about. Swiftly, they’re separated from the crowd.

And just as quickly, Hanbin schools his features again into something bright and genial — professional. Waving over at the group of people and grumbling fans further away who may not have witnessed the commotion up from. “So sorry, we’ve got to go now!”

Zhang Hao recovers enough to turn and wave while they’re rushed away, a bit disoriented and allowing Hanbin’s arm firmly around his back this time to guide him. It takes him a bit to realize they’re setting down a side street, away from the beach. But that’s where Hanbin parked. “Where are we going?”

But either Hanbin doesn’t hear, or he’s so annoyed that he’s ignoring him. Zhang Hao folds in on himself a bit. After they get further away — trailed by no one else besides a couple of photographers who managed to keep up with their turns and rapid space, Zhang Hao tries again, turning to Hanbin. “I’m sorry. I should have just turned her down—”

“You don’t need to apologize.” He has that same tense look as he did in the sitting room this morning. His eyebrows slash low and his jaw is clenched. A bit guiltily, Zhang Hao thinks he looks incredibly sexy like this. “It wasn’t your fault that they couldn’t behave themselves.”

The two of them walk in silence down the sidewalk, Hanbin motioning to turn them away from the main boardwalk and busy areas of the amusement park. Eventually, their security drops back, not before a stiff “thank you” from Zhang Hao. To his surprise, Hanbin reaches for his hand as they turn down another street, this one more residential than the rest: just a row of townhouses with some cars parked on the street. They’re only still a few blocks away from the water, but the atmosphere is already much calmer. The only person around besides their small cluster is a woman on her stoop watering her flowers.

Hanbin still has a small frown on his face, but he’s started absentmindedly drawing his thumb over the back of Zhang Hao’s hand — maybe to reassure him, or calm himself down. “Where are we going?” Zhang Hao asks again.

Hanbin smiles slightly when he glances over at him this time. “Since you didn’t get a chance to properly eat — I know somewhere quieter we can go.”

“I’m not really dressed for anything fancy.” He then looks over at Hanbin’s tank top and his casual shorts. “I don’t think you are either,” he chuckles.

Hanbin swings their arms between them, suddenly coy and carefree. His mood is nebulous to Zhang Hao, but he’s just relieved to see his smile again.

“Don’t worry,” Hanbin says. “It’s not one of those places.”

It’s obvious that Hanbin wants it to be a surprise, so Zhang Hao doesn’t pry any further, allowing himself to relax incrementally as they stroll through the mostly empty neighborhood. It’s shocking how this little pocket of serenity can exist next to the chaos of the park.

It feels improbable, insane even, that twenty-four hours ago he’d been pacing his bedroom wondering what the best way to seduce Hanbin was. Zhang Hao lets out a small giggle at that.

“What’s so funny?” Hanbin asks with a slight quirk of his mouth.

“Nothing,” Zhang Hao shakes his head. He can keep his own secrets, too.

Less than five minutes later, they stop in front of a small, quaint shopfront. It’s set on a corner deep in the neighborhood. They’ve come across various stores along the way: a plant shop here, an antiques store there. Like all of them, this one is understated and simple. There are cute flower pots out front on the railing above the stairs, and a neat blue gingham display in the beryl trim bay window. Zhang Hao reads the freshly-painted white sign hanging above the door. “Lobster rolls?”

“The best in New York,” Hanbin proudly declares, leading them up to the door.

“I’m holding you to that,” Zhang Hao teases as they walk in. “You know how picky I am.”

It’s a small establishment, with only three tables, all of them empty at the moment considering it’s still early in the evening. Hanbin orders for them both up front from an older woman who could very possibly be Laura of Laura’s Lobsters. While Zhang Hao listens to Hanbin charm her, he pulls out his phone, seeing a few notifications on his lock screen.

4:36 P.M.
Kim Taerae
Are you okay?? Matthew said Hanbin brought security but I don’t think …

2:15 P.M.
Park Hanbin (auction)
I’ll actually be flying over a little earlier if you’re still …

He swipes away from them both when Hanbin sits down across from him.

“Everything okay?”

“I think Taerae saw what happened,” Zhang Hao grimaces.

Hanbin seems slightly dejected, he shuffles around the cutlery for a bit before speaking up. “I’m sorry for getting so upset earlier. I just … hate it when fans don’t have any respect.”

“No, it’s okay. I should actually be thanking you. I just … totally froze.”

“Has that happened to you before?” Hanbin asks, unfolding his napkin and tucking one corner of it into his collar. He looks cute like that, younger.

“Sometimes. Usually, Taerae or my security steps in though, like today. Or I’m able to just bear through it.”

Hanbin’s frown deepens. “Bear through it?”

“I’m not very good at handling it. So I just …” Zhang Hao shrugs. “It’s usually just wandering hands, maybe a squeeze. It’s hard to tell if it’s on purpose or, you know, they’re just excited.”

Hanbin leans forward, expression completely livid. “That’s sexual harassment. You shouldn’t just have to— bear with it!”

Zhang Hao winces. “I know, but …” He shrugs again.

As if suddenly realizing his own intensity, Hanbin leans back in his chair, though his expression is still stormy. He mutters something under his breath, and Zhang Hao thinks he hears cut off their hands, but he can’t be sure.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Hanbin sighs, shaking his head, as if to clear it of whatever dark thoughts he’s having. “It’s not your fault. Of course not. I just hate that you have to put up with supposed fans like that. It makes me so upset actually,” Hanbin blows out a humorless, self-conscious laugh. “But I don’t want to make you uncomfortable talking about it.”

“No,” Zhang Hao assures him. “I’m— thanks.” He gives him a smile that’s not all the way there, but genuine nonetheless. “You’re a good man, Hanbin.”

That earns him a weak smile in return. “Not better than anyone else,” he denies. But he’s wrong about that. Zhang Hao thinks he’s far better.

“Two lobster rolls and a clam chowder,” the woman who Zhang Hao has dubbed Laura calls out from the front.

“I’ll get it,” Hanbin says immediately, hopping up to fetch their food.

He returns with two buttery rolls with thick slabs of lobster claws sandwiched between them and a huge bowl of chowder sitting in a bread bowl. The bread perfectly toasted, the chowder enticingly hot even during the summer. Zhang Hao barely waits for Hanbin to finish setting everything down before taking a bite of his lobster roll, wiggling his shoulders at the rich, sumptuous taste.

Hanbin chuckles, watching him eat for a moment before picking up his own roll. Once again, silence envelopes their tables as they eat. It’s not until Zhang Hao comes up for air, already nearly done with his roll, does he ask, “How did you find this place?”

“A friend grew up in this area and introduced it to me,” Hanbin explains. “You like it?”

“Delicious,” Zhang Hao affirms, not even looking up as he spoons a bit of chowder and blows to cool it down.

“I haven’t been back here in a long time,” Hanbin says. “Just too out of the way. But I’m glad I could show you.”

“Me, too,” Zhang Hao smiles, wider this time.

The sky outside has faded into a bruised purple, bits of light blue still speckled among the clouds to create fanciful patterns and dewdrops of light. Their table, tucked into a bay window, offers them a beautiful view of the fluffy spread above the roofs — and of the two security guys standing outside and the smattering of photographers with their lenses pointed right at them through the window. Zhang Hao smirks. “You’d think they’d have gotten enough photos by now.”

Hanbin chuckles. “I’m sure they’re all trying to figure out what we’re doing.” He affects a slightly higher pitched, breathy voice. “A date? Aren’t they supposed to be divorcing? What is going on?”

Zhang Hao cackles at Hanbin’s impression of their avid fans, but then quickly sobers up. “They aren’t going to take kindly to you verbally reprimanding a fan.”

Hanbin shrugs. “I don’t care — she needed to hear it. They all need to hear it. They can’t treat people that way and get away with it, just because they think they know us.”

Zhang Hao squints at Hanbin, not quite succeeding in hiding his admiration. He teases anyway: “Maybe you will be needing that alimony after all.”

IV.

The soreness catches up to him that night. While bending to grab a set of pajamas, something pulls taut in his lower back, reverberating the pain all the way down to his hips. Zhang Hao hisses, quickly standing up again, but the ache lingers. Yet another reminder that he’s getting old — he celebrated his thirtieth birthday last year, a crisis that had been unmitigable then, but is simply just another fact of life now. Zhang Hao uses his hand to massage at the part of his back that still twinges, twisting at his waist in an attempt to alleviate it to no avail.

“Hanbin?” Zhang Hao calls, finally grabbing his clothes and walking out of the guest bedroom. He looks up the stairs, unsure if Hanbin is already taking his own shower. He takes a few steps up. “Hanbin?”

“Yeah?” His head pops around the doorway at the top “What is it?”

“Can I use your bath?” Zhang Hao asks, wincing with his hand massaging at his waist. He wishes he was playing it up for Hanbin’s benefit, but it really does hurt.

Hanbin’s curious expression clears into pure ego. “Is your back bothering you?”

“Yeah,” Zhang Hao grumbles, walking the rest of the way up the stairs. “Some guy with a huge cock blew it out last night.”

Hanbin throws his head back and laughs as Zhang Hao walks past him. He doesn’t even spare him a glance before waltzing into the bathroom and shutting the door.

“Asshole,” Zhang Hao mutters. Only annoyed that Hanbin doesn’t seem to be having any ill effects from their very vigorous activities last night. Just wait one more year until you’re thirty, Sung Hanbin!

He selects a coconut scented oil from the small shelf this time, and adds a few drops into the running bath, still massaging his back all the while. The twinge only abates when he finally sinks into the hot water. Zhang Hao leans his head back against the side of the tub, fully letting himself relax. And yet, it’s in quiet moments like these that his mind starts to spin, twirling over what Matthew and Taerae said this morning about their divorce, showing up to the courthouse; through the way Hanbin had looked under the blazing afternoon sun, slightly pink and far brighter than some burning star in the sky with his pretty tattoos and darling grin; into the one truth Zhang Hao has never let himself admit: he really, really doesn’t want this to be the end.

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until the tears slip past his closed eyes and trickle down his cheeks. He lifts his hand out of the water to wipe them away, sniffling. Even before he came here and saw Hanbin’s beautiful home, and ate his delicious cooking, and got to talk to him normally again and hear his laugh and his thoughts and remember all the reasons why he had fallen in love with him in the first place, Zhang Hao had never wanted this. But he’d gone along with it, at first, because it’s what Hanbin wanted, because Hanbin hadn’t asked for anything from him in years and even if it’s the one thing Zhang Hao doesn’t want to give him, he still does anyway; and then later, because he needs this now, too. Even if he would give anything not to.

But he’s keenly aware that the deadline for this looms ever closer with each passing second. Zhang Hao fears it’s too late. Papers have been signed, a judge has been assigned, everything is moving so fast, while their relationship just keeps getting more and more muddled. But maybe it’s only muddled for him, maybe he’s the only one with reservations here. In fact, he probably is. Hanbin has always been so clear-headed and focused on what he wants — back then, when he’d told Zhang Hao he didn’t want to pursue a real relationship after they married, and even now, asking for a divorce so he can continue his perfect life unencumbered by Zhang Hao’s dead weight.

He sobs, burying his face in his wet hands, the water from the bath mixing with the salty tang of his tears. His shoulders shake as he cries and cries and cries, surrounded by gentle steam and the fresh smell of coconut. He cries until they turn in small hiccups, until his nose and cheeks feel so stuffy and swollen. Zhang Hao quickly washes them over, sniffling and rubbing at his nose. He knows there’s no use in crying. It’s not going to change anything at all. But he also doesn’t know if he can live the next two weeks with this feeling of helpless dread slowly sinking into him, cutting him open and leaving gruesome wounds. He’ll bleed out by the end of the week if he keeps this up.

Zhang Hao takes a shaky breath. He has two weeks. Can he convince Hanbin in two weeks what he couldn’t in five years? He has the advantage of actually being here with him, at least. He has the advantage that Hanbin seems to really, really, really enjoy fucking him, at least. He wonders, too, if he’s the only one who has put more sentimentality and meaning to the sex than he should. If Hanbin saw it as a one time thing, tying up loose ends perhaps, before they finally leave each other for good. Despair makes his chest feel hollow.

But he has to try ... right? If this past week has told him anything, it’s that his feelings for Hanbin, which he’d tried to beat way, way, way down into submission for years and which he’d been able to pile over with bitterness and hurt and his stupid, stupid pride are still there despite his best efforts. He’d do anything to just be with Hanbin, just like this. And isn’t that answer enough to try?

Zhang Hao takes his time to finish washing, lathering up his hair and rinsing it out. When he gets out of the tub, he puts on the pajamas that he had brought, missing the sweet scent of Hanbin’s. He’s drying his wet hair with the towel, expecting the bedroom to be empty when he steps out, but he’s surprised to see Hanbin sitting on the end of the bed, also freshly showered and changed.

“Oh!” Zhang Hao freezes. “Sorry, did I take too long in there?”

“It’s fine. You needed it more than me,” Hanbin smirks. But his easy grin quickly fades when he sees the puffiness of Zhang Hao’s eyes and the slight tinge of pink at the tip of his nose. Hanbin stands up immediately. “What’s wrong?”

Without even realizing, Zhang Hao draws closer to him, close enough for Hanbin to place his hands on his elbow and pull him the rest of the way in, so they’re only standing a foot apart, so Zhang Hao can see the individual, flared strands of Hanbin’s long eyelashes.

“It’s nothing, just … emotional,” Zhang Hao gives a short, self-deprecating laugh.

“Is this over what happened today?” Hanbin’s grip tightens. “With the fan?”

“Maybe,” Zhang Hao mumbles, leaning into Hanbin’s palm when it comes up to cup his cheek. And that’s not completely a lie — he still hasn’t exactly processed it. He wants to brush it off as not a big deal, but … he feels like that would be a disservice to Hanbin and his strong feelings about it. Yet one more thing to tuck away and unpack in his next therapy session. “It’s just been a lot lately.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Hanbin soothes.

Zhang Hao laughs. “Why are you sorry?”

“It’s been a lot because of me, isn’t it?”

“It’s not just you,” Zhang Hao denies. “I think I also have a lot of things to work through myself. And just … this whole situation. I don’t know, it all just kind of hit me in the bath.” He laughs weekly again, even though there really isn’t anything funny about the situation.

“Do you want a massage?”

“Huh?”

Hanbin reaches down to squeeze his waist, lightly. “If your back still hurts — I can massage it. I’m quite good.”

“Did you have a masseuse too that you took lessons from?” Zhang Hao teases.

“Nothing like that,” Hanbin giggles. “Just picked up tips and tricks while dancing, especially now that I have to perform every day.”

“Okay,” Zhang Hao agrees easily. Now that he’s out of the warm water, his back is starting to hurt again. He crawls onto the bed and spreads out on his front in a starfish shape. He feels the dip of the mattress behind him as Hanbin climbs on, too.

He feels Hanbin’s faint touch on his lower back before it reaches down to finger at his shirt hem. “May I?” Hanbin asks.

Zhang Hao nods against the downy comforter, feeling Hanbin gently pull up his shirt to expose the expanse of his back. He hears the coarse sound of Hanbin rubbing his hands together to warm them up, and then fingers, still slightly cool, gingerly press against his side and then moves up his back, drawing closer to his spine.

“This okay?”

“Mmm,” Zhang Hao hums.

Hanbin trails lingering, featherlight touches against his back at first, ghosting his fingers almost reverently down the dips and bumps of Zhang Hao’s spine, pushing the soft, tender part of his palm up and down his sides. It’s soothing and so, so delicate. Zhang Hao feels his eyelids drooping, his mouth falling slack as he sinks even further into the mattress. By the time Hanbin starts kneading his lower back in earnest, somehow coaxing Zhang Hao to let him take off his shirt completely before moving onto his shoulder blades and traps, Zhang Hao is in a state of utter bliss. Syrupy contentment effuses through him, and his brain melts, dripping like honey. He has no idea how long Hanbin massages him for before he falls asleep.

And when he wakes an indiscernible amount of time later, the room is bathed in deep shadows. The overhead lights are off with only a lit sconce on the far side of the room by the bookshelf still on. Hanbin is sitting next to him in bed, scribbling away at the leather notebook he had spotted in his bedside drawer that one time. Zhang Hao yawns, shuffling a bit and drawing Hanbin’s attention.

“What time is it?” he mumbles.

Hanbin checks the time on his phone on the bedside table. “Almost eleven.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

“Yeah.” Hanbin gives him a tender smile, eyes closing like half moons, before turning to tuck his notebook into the drawer again. “I should sleep, too.”

Zhang Hao doesn’t know what possesses him. Maybe it’s the achingly domestic view of Hanbin sitting in bed, winding down for the day; maybe it’s the hope that blooms in him after realizing Hanbin had tucked him in instead of waking him up after the massage and sending him off to his own bed. But when Hanbin gets under the covers, Zhang Hao reaches up to cradle his cheek and pulls him the rest of the way down for a kiss.

Hanbin comes easily, willingly, letting Zhang Hao press their lips together, saccharine and devout. At least until impatience overtakes him, and he licks over them to make Zhang Hao open. Heavenly.

It’s been less than a day since they’ve kissed, and yet Zhang Hao has missed this: the way Hanbin sneaks his fingers around the back of his head to hold him there to kiss and plunder; the way Hanbin hums in content as he lowers his body so the two of them can press closer together; the way Hanbin kisses him deep and urgent, like he can’t wait to have him whiny and needy and right up against him begging for more again.

And that’s just what Zhang Hao does, he pants into Hanbin’s mouth, letting the kiss get away from him, giving control to Hanbin who nibbles and sucks on his lower lip and then twines his tongue with his own, stealing the very breath out of his lungs. Zhang Hao gasps when Hanbin rolls him over onto his back, pushing him down, insistent and longingly, with his body. He whines when Hanbin trails his lips and teeth in a playful, indulgent path right to part of his neck that makes him shudder.

“Hanbin,” he murmurs, drowsy and already lust-drunk. “Hanbin … want you, I want you.”

“Shhh,” Hanbin soothes, coming up to dip his lips between Zhang Hao’s again, just a quick taste. “Doesn’t your back hurt?”

Immediately, Zhang Hao starts pouting at the possibility that he may be denied what he wants. “No, it doesn’t,” he mumbles.

Hanbin chuckles against his cheek, breath warm and minty from his toothpaste. “I know it does.”

“Noo,” Zhang Hao draws out, whining. “Just be gentle.” He rolls his head to the side so Hanbin can resume his ministrations against his neck, which he does with great abandon.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs there.

“Mmm,” Zhang Hao nods. And then, “Kiss me.”

Hanbin comes back up dutifully, pressing chaste, sweet kisses all around his lips and chin. Zhang Hao giggles, sighing into it once more when their mouths line up perfectly. It’s always so perfect with Hanbin. Even that first time, so rife with frustration and annoyance and hurt. He’d loved it even then.

“I want you,” he whispers once more when Hanbin lifts away just enough that he can see his glittering, enamored eyes above him.

“Okay,” Hanbin agrees. “You can have me.”

This time, Hanbin gives it to him gentle and sweet, stretching him out thoroughly, filling him up so, so carefully, giving him time to adjust while peppering kisses all along his forehead and nose with lovely, patient murmurs of just a little more, baby and hold me, yeah, right here and relax, you feel ah— so good. It’s tender and dear and just as overwhelming as their first time. It takes Zhang Hao apart once more, but in a wholly different way. When he finally comes, it’s with tears streaming down his face and Hanbin’s name on his lips.

For the next three days, they have sinfully filthy, intoxicatingly wild sex — all over the apartment. On the kitchen counter, in the bathtub, on the day bed in the carriage house, up against the wall of the stairwell once when they couldn’t even make it to Hanbin’s room before tearing into each other. Sometimes it’s a mad rush to his orgasm, lust-drunk and needy; sometimes it’s a slow exploration that takes hours, that lets Zhang Hao trace Hanbin’s tattoos over and over until he’s satisfied. It gets so bad that the ding of the elevator is starting to have some sort of Pavlovian effect on him. Whenever Hanbin comes home, an excited zip travels down his spine, and Zhang Hao finds himself wandering down from his bedroom or in from the courtyard, only to leap into his arms as soon as he steps out past the sliding doors.

He knows Hanbin must be exhausted. It’s opening week. He leaves the apartment in the morning for rehearsals, has a driver pick him up and bring him home for lunch, before he departs again in the mid-afternoon only to return home well after midnight. And yet, he never treats Zhang Hao, or his needs, like an inconvenience; he never seems less into it just because he’s tired. In fact, Zhang Hao, who might wish to abstain on Hanbin’s behalf, is oftentimes wheedled and flirted and fondled straight into submission, much to his chagrin.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” Zhang Hao murmurs, his fingers idly tracing across the script on Hanbin’s bicep. They’re cuddled in bed after showering — no sex tonight, because Zhang Hao complained so loudly and consistently about his back being about to break earlier during dinner.

“A little,” Hanbin admits. “Though I think I’m more excited, looking forward to when we can get just in the groove of things after the big opening.”

“Mm,” Zhang Hao hums. He nods absently, cheek nuzzling against the heat of Hanbin’s shoulder. “How many shows a week?”

“Eight. We get Mondays and sometimes Tuesdays off. Matinee shows on Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday.”

“That sounds like a lot.”

“It is,” Hanbin inclines his head. “But hopefully rewarding, too. It’s nice being with a live crowd. It’s different every night, depending on who’s there.”

“Do you prefer that to acting in front of a camera?”

“Yeah. I also get to sing and dance, which is a bonus. Though I can already feel my vocal chords shriveling up,” he chuckles.

“I can help you with that,” Zhang Hao perks up. “I have lots of practice after my tour.”

“I wish I could have gone to that.”

“I’ll have more — hopefully. You can come to my next one.”

Neither of them mention the divorce, though it always lingers right there, on the edge of their words, in the slight shifts of their eyes, in the tightening of their holds.

“I think if the right project comes along, I wouldn’t mind going back to TV or film. If I’m lucky enough to find something like that again.”

“You will,” Zhang Hao says with full confidence.

“Have you ever seen my movies?” Hanbin asks, curiosity and something else creeping into his voice. Petulance? Hope?

Zhang Hao falters. Hanbin doesn’t need to know that his movie two years ago is one of his most streamed. “Some of them,” he offers. “They’re popular, so they’re kind of hard to miss.”

“What did you think?”

His face flames. He hopes Hanbin can’t feel it since his skin already seems to run the temperature of the sun. “You were okay.”

“I’m looking forward to hearing your thoughts after the show tomorrow,” Hanbin chuckles. And then the hand, which had been idly kneading Zhang Hao’s waist, pauses for a moment. “Are you sure it’s okay that I invited a few people over this weekend?”

“Of course,” Zhang Hao responds automatically. He forces himself to relax, and eventually, Hanbin resumes his light squeezing against his side.

“I’m excited for you to meet them.”

“Mn.” Zhang Hao can’t exactly say he shares that sentiment. He’s rather liked how solitary his experience in New York is so far. He likes that the only person he’s spent any significant amount of time with is Hanbin. He suddenly feels unprepared to be surrounded by strangers, to put his mask back on. And there’s always the lingering doubt in the back of his mind that these are Hanbin’s friends, some of his closest. What if they don’t like him? What has Hanbin said about him to them over the years?

“What is it?” Hanbin asks, sensing his mood.

“Nothing.”

“You don’t want them to come over.”

“No,” Zhang Hao insists. “You should get to celebrate with your friends.” He squirms a little. “It’ll just be weird seeing you with other people.”

At this, Hanbin laughs, a bit too delightedly. “I’ve been going to work every day, you know?”

“But I don’t have to see you with them,” Zhang Hao mumbles. He relaxes a little more when Hanbin’s hand curves over his hip, travels to his lower back to massage tender fingers into the muscles there. “Ah, that’s good,” he breathes.

“Sorry, baby, I’ve been pretty hard on you this week.”

“You think?” Zhang Hao asks wryly, remembering the way Hanbin had shoved him down on the bathroom counter last night, taking him from behind with furious, sloppy thrusts because he couldn’t help it.

“I can never control myself when it comes to you,” Hanbin admits.

Zhang Hao preens a little at that. “I’m irresistible. It really is a curse.”

Hanbin snorts but he doesn’t refute it. “I’ll be more gentle from now on,” Hanbin promises.

“Ah,” Zhang Hao is quick to protest. “I didn’t say that.”

The hand at his hip travels down to squeeze his ass, making him jump a little. “Admit it, you’re just as insatiable as I am.”

“I’m not the one getting hard just thinking about it,” Zhang Hao says pointedly, using his knee to nudge at the bulge that had been steadily growing against his thigh.

Hanbin groans, his hips shifting a little. “Sorry, sorry. Ignore it. It’s just a natural reaction when you’re so close. It’s like my body has been trained as soon as I get you in my arms.”

Zhang Hao is so delighted by that he can hardly contain his grin.

“I promise we don’t have to do anything tonight.”

“Don’t be so hasty,” Zhang Hao demures. He leans up to kiss against Hanbin’s jaw. The slight bristles there prick against his upper lip.

“You’re too sore, we shouldn’t,” Hanbin argues, though Zhang Hao doesn’t miss the way he leans into his kisses..

“I am, but …” And in an uncanny rendition of their first night together, Zhang Hao finishes, “We can do other things, right?”

Hanbin’s fingers dig into his ass, palming him. “Yeah, we can.” He sounds a little breathless. “What did you have in mind?”

Hanbin’s eyes like liquid rapture, staring up at him with an intensity that Zhang Hao thinks, wants, hopes warrants a deeper attachment than just sex. “My back might have given out, but my mouth is working just fine, don’t you think?”

“Ah,” Hanbin half sighs, half groans. “That offer is very tempting, but I won’t be able to reciprocate. My throat …”

“You don’t have to,” Zhang Hao purrs; he pats at Hanbin’s chest, loving the way it nearly spills out of his tank top when he puts a bit of pressure on them.

“That’s not fair,” Hanbin argues.

Zhang Hao giggles. “This is sex, Hanbin. It doesn’t have to be equal.”

“Yes it does,” he insists. “Especially because it’s sex.”

Zhang Hao sticks his lower lip out, pouting and shifting a little higher so he can look Hanbin in the eye. “Is that all this is to you? Some sort of transaction?” It was meant to be teasing, just a little petulant and light. But it comes out a little more heartbroken than he’d meant it to. A little too sincere.

But Hanbin catches him off guard, giving it back to him just as good, being just as wide-eyed and honest: “Of course not. I just always want to make you feel good. I always want to give you more.”

Zhang Hao’s breath catches in his throat. He quickly ducks back down, tucking his head under Hanbin’s chin again so he won’t see the sheen of tears that’s suddenly sprung into his eyes. “Okay,” he mumbles. “Maybe I’ll feel better by tomorrow.”

“There’s no rush,” Hanbin murmurs, wide palm lazily gliding up and down Zhang Hao’s back. On an exhale, his fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, swirling small, nonsensical patterns on his skin. “This is nice, too.”

Zhang Hao hums, finally in agreement. “It is.”

They fall into companionable silence for another stretch, and Zhang Hao focuses on syncing his breath with the rise and fall of Hanbin’s chest. He loves how connected he feels to him in this moment — it’s all he’s really wanted for years, for them to be close, comfortable like this. He doesn’t want anything special from Hanbin; in all his daydreams, whenever he’s let himself have them, they’re never doing anything grand or big. They’re just simply together.

They’ve never been this way before, even during that brief period where they’d been playing up their relationship for the cameras. Certainly Zhang Hao had been interested, but they’d rushed into the whole thing quite quickly, and then the fakeness of it was suddenly at the forefront of their minds; they’d been so focused on how they were going to pretend to fall in love (even if it he had been falling for real) that they never really got to move past their initial connection and attraction. Zhang Hao used to lie awake at night, wondering if he’d never come up with the whole stupid, desperate idea, if he’d be much poorer for it, but also if he and Hanbin could have been much richer in something more meaningful instead.

“What are you thinking about?” Hanbin murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, like he’d nearly dropped off to sleep.

Zhang Hao lets his fingers wander up Hanbin’s arm, past the crook of his elbow, watching the way goosebumps break out in the wake of his touch. He smooths over dark ink on creamy silk skin. “Don’t regret what you do,” he reads out loud. “When did you get this?”

“Around four years ago.”

“Why?” Zhang Hao doesn’t know if that’s an intrusive question to ask. Some tattoos are purely ornamental, beautiful without necessarily being meaningful. But something tells him this one is different. He waits to see if Hanbin will share.

“As a reminder,” Hanbin whispers.

“And did it work? Do you have any regrets?” Zhang Hao isn’t sure what he’s hoping for. No, that’s a lie. He knows what he wants him to say. He wants Hanbin to say that he regrets turning him down five years ago, that he’s also stayed up for a countless number of nights crying and full of doubt, that he would go back and do that moment differently if he could. That he never would have let him go.

“No.”

Zhang Hao’s heart sinks. He squeezes his eyes shut against the pain, grateful that Hanbin can’t see his expression. And yet still, an arm wraps securely around his waist, tugging him ever closer, ever tighter.

“You okay?”

Zhang Hao inhales Hanbin’s vanilla scent, quiet and shaky. “Yeah. We should sleep; you have a busy day tomorrow.”

There’s a slight pause before Hanbin answers. “Okay, I’ll turn off the lights,” he offers.

And Zhang Hao is shuffled off, set aside as Hanbin gets out of bed to turn down the chandelier and light sconces. Zhang Hao presses his cheek firmly against the pillow, half-lidded eyes following Hanbin around the room, heart longing for this view forever. When Hanbin returns to bed, he easily scoops Zhang Hao back into his arms.

“Goodnight,” Zhang Hao mumbles.

Hanbin dips down to press a lingering kiss to his forehead. “Goodnight, baby.”

If Zhang Hao had thought Hanbin was magnetic and charismatic in the entryway of his apartment dressed in casual clothes, then he’s completely otherworldly, a cherub descended straight from the heavens in a beam of a golden spotlight when he’s on stage. He leaps across the shifting sets, boundless and sinuous, capturing everyone’s attention with bursts of motion so electric, so dizzying, that Zhang Hao can feel himself leaning forward in his seat, drawn closer to Hanbin despite the railing and open air of the theater separating them. His heart beats a hurried rhythm as Hanbin’s voice, layered with schadenfreude, with woe, with poignant and despicable love, envelopes him right where he sits.

It’s encouraged to clap in the theater. To applaud the end of a musical number, to reward the singers and the dancers and the actors for the performances that swell and whirl throughout the room. And yet, Zhang Hao doesn’t imagine the divine, reverent hush that follows the end of Hanbin’s final note or his flourished dance; there is one beat, as if the audience is waking from a collective, fantastical dream, so in awe of what they had just witnessed that they need to gather the fragmented pieces of their souls they’d just given, lauded, thrown at Hanbin on stage, before they burst into applause.

Hanbin is frightening. He’s positively terrifying. Zhang Hao has never been so utterly in love before in his entire life.

He feels slightly lightheaded when the house lights come up, illuminating him and the rest of the guests seated on the small, extended balcony off to stage right. Below, he can see the press is already animated, a few reporters shooting out of their seats, no doubt headed backstage to get quotes and interviews and color to add to their stories, a few — critics, perhaps — don’t even look up from the small notepads they’re scribbling on. A man immediately gets up and starts talking on the phone.

Other members of the audience, which Hanbin had told him mostly consists of theater members and its most affluent patrons and donors, take their time, their chatter drifting up to reach his ears.

The family next to him gets out of their seat, and Zhang Hao does the same, standing with a bouquet of fresh calla lilies and baby’s breath. Not for the first time, he wonders if it’s too much. He’d order the arrangement after looking up the meaning of Hanbin’s musical — thinking it might be a fun nod to it, fitting for the opening, for his first performance as a principal actor, for Zhang Hao’s first attendance: life, death, faithfulness, new beginnings. Everything he hopes for but doesn’t dare say out loud.

When Zhang Hao exits the balcony box, an usher is standing by the door, a teenage girl by the looks of it, and she rushes over to greet him. Zhang Hao flinches for a second, thinking her some sort of rabid fan, before he registers what she’s saying.

“Good evening, I hope you enjoyed the performance. May I escort you backstage?”

Perhaps she’s just simply enthusiastic about her job. Zhang Hao nods. “Yes, I’m, uh, with Hanbin. Hanbin Sung.”

“Of course,” she answers, nodding so enthusiastically he worries for her neck. “Please, follow me.”

Zhang Hao follows her down the carpeted hallway. They descend the stairs slowly, to where the main crowd of theater goers have ended up. They mill around the lobby area, and Zhang Hao spots glasses of wine being passed around by theater staff and a bar on the far side of the room. A woman with opera gloves sips on her wine while she discusses, quite animatedly, the final scenes of the musical with a man dressed in an austere suit. It’s a decidedly more fancy affair than Zhang Hao had assumed Broadway would be — but then again, today’s show is an exclusive preview.

“Would you like anything from the bar, sir?” The girl squeaks up at him when she sees him looking.

“Oh, no thank you. I’d just like to see Hanbin.”

“Of course!” she exclaims again with far too much exuberance. Thankfully, she leads him back into the theater and then through a side to the chaos backstage without saying anything else.

Backstage is a flurry of activity. Everyone is darting this way and that, producers with headsets, tech crews in their black clothes, wardrobe staff whisking away various garment bags, PAs yelling over the crowd, and a few reporters huddled close to the walls speaking into their phones or jotting even more things down on their notepads. Zhang Hao shuffles past a rack of clothes and a few cases of stage makeup before the girl raps on a closed door. When there’s no reply, she cracks it open to peek in.

“He isn’t here right now, but you can wait inside!” she grins, opening the door all the way for him.

“Okay, thank you.” Zhang Hao steps into the room, brightly lit with a vanity, a rack of clothing and a small sofa and side table pushed into the corner.

“Um,” he hears from behind him. He turns to see her lingering in the doorway. “I just wanted to say … you’re seriously amazing!” she suddenly gushes. “I listened to your album for a month non-stop. You’re so talented and your voice is just incredible; I hope you know that!”

Zhang Hao smiles, grateful, if not a little taken aback. “Thank you.”

“We’re not really allowed to …” she takes a look around the busy hallway around her as if to double check no one is paying then any attention — they’re not. “But would you mind if we took a selfie?”

“Ah,” Zhang Hao pauses. It should be fine, right? Just a quick one.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to! I know this is your private time and you just came to watch Hanbin, which is so sweet by the way. I heard … um, that you two were splitting. And people always just assume that means you guys had some big fight or something horrible happened or something, but it’s really nice of you to still come and support him. I’m not, like, a crazy fan or anything, but I was following along when the two of you started dating, and I think it was very brave that you both came out and were so open with your relationship—”

“I’d be happy to take a photo,” Zhang Hao beams — anything to get her to stop rambling.

She immediately turns bright red, whipping her phone out of her pocket like she had it ready and rushes forward. Zhang Hao tries not to flinch when she gets close. He puts his hand up into a peace sign, bending down a little as she silently spams the camera button. After about probably twelve photos, he straightens, receiving another round of praise (“I can’t wait for your new album. I’m really looking forward to it!”) before she bustles out of the room. The door shuts quietly behind her, muffling the commotion on the other side.

Zhang Hao slumps against the high chair in front of the mirror. Hanbin’s dressing room isn’t anything extravagant or special — in fact there seem to be very few personal touches in there. He whirls around when the door opens again. Hanbin walks in, sweaty and half-dressed and glorious. He pauses for a moment when he spots Zhang Hao standing in the middle of his dressing room, and then his face splits into a sparkling grin.

Under the glare of the sun, Zhang Hao feels almost shy. “Hi,” he murmurs, returning Hanbin’s smile with a small one of his own.

“You got me flowers,” Hanbin remarks, closing the distance between them in quick strides.

“Ah, yeah,” Zhang Hao feels his ears redden. He thrusts the bouquet out in front of him, nearly into Hanbin’s face. “Congratulations.”

Hanbin laughs, as if he’s bubbling over with giddiness, as if he’s the one who’s nervous here, and takes the bouquet gracefully. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

“I’ve never been to one of your shows before …” Zhang Hao trails off. How does he explain that it feels appropriate? That it’s something a real husband would do. That unbeknownst to him, he’s always wanted to get Hanbin flowers.

“What did you think?” Hanbin looks up from sniffing the lilies with coy eyes and gleaming teeth.

Zhang Hao crosses his arms and sniffs, feeling the warmth from his ears suffuse into his cheeks. “You were pretty good.”

“Pretty good?” Hanbin repeats, teasing. He gives a dramatic sigh. “I guess it’s to be expected, it being my first show and all. I haven’t gotten the emotions down quite right, particularly in the opening scenes. And I did let my nerves get the better of me during that jazz number with the footwork. Truly such a shame; I’ll do better next time.”

“Lying doesn’t suit you.”

“I just lied for two and a half hours on stage.”

“That’s different.”

“That’s my job,” Hanbin giggles.

“Which I’m sure you already know you’re very good at, so you don’t need me to tell you so.”

Hanbin draws even closer, his eyes impossibly sparkly. “I don’t need it, but it would certainly be nice to hear,” Hanbin entreats.

And he is so— adorable, likable, lovely, bewitching. His existence is utterly profound, and Zhang Hao cannot quite believe he’s real. He blows out a breath. “You were incredible. I couldn’t look away for a second.”

Hanbin lights up even more. “Thank you.”

His hair is wet and sticking to his forehead, his neck and shoulders are positively glossy from sweat, his makeup is starting to pill on his chin most likely from a hasty touchup during intermission, and he still has a bit of tape from his microphone under his ear. But also, his cheeks are rosy and all aglow, the bit of glitter under his eyes set them off like fireworks, and his tattoo flashes tantalizingly right at his neckline with each rise and fall of his heavy chest. He’s perfect.

“Well, I came just to drop off the flowers. I’ll see you back at home.” Zhang Hao needs to extricate him from the presence of this angel immediately otherwise he’s liable to make a fool of himself — like prostrate before him on the floor, or beg him not to break up with him.

“It won’t take me long to get changed. We could go back together?” Hanbin asks, hopefully.

Zhang Hao finds himself nodding before he knows it, even though a car ride home with Hanbin like this, ravishing and high off of a successful performance will probably only end up with even more pain done to his lower back — not that he doesn’t think it’s incredibly worth it.

“Zhang Hao?”

He jolts when he realizes he’s been standing in the middle of Hanbin’s dressing room, all dreamy and smitten and daydreaming about steaming up Hanbin’s car windows. When he refocuses on him, Hanbin has an unrepentant, pompous smirk on his face.

“You need to leave if you want me to get changed. Or did you want to watch?”

Zhang Hao scowls, slightly flustered. “Don’t be so —!”

“Handsome? Sexy?” Hanbin provides, his words spilling into teasing laughter, his mouth inching wider and wider to show off his sweet dimples. “Irresistible?”

“Arrogant!” Zhang Hao snaps, turning on his heel and hurrying out of the room, slamming it shut with a bit more force than necessary, leaning back against it to catch his suddenly very short breath.

The activity backstage has lowered into a mild buzz now. Most of the producers and tech crews are gone. He spots a few dancers, already changed into sweats and hoodies whispering by the stage door.

“Did you see him?”

“Did you see his dimples?”

“I heard casting directors are interested in him for The Great Comet.”

“He would be perfect for that, oh my God.”

They titter and hurry away when they spot Zhang Hao glancing their way. He quickly makes his way back to the door he came in from, heading out of the main theater. As soon as he reaches the lobby, he’s immediately hit by a wave of noise — all the excitement backstage had seemingly moved out here, with various reporters, photographers, and general gentry mingling across the scarlet carpet floor.

Zhang Hao is impressed by the grandness of this theater — he’s been to a few before, some smaller, more cramped and with visible signs of age. This one though had at least kept its gilded gold and pearlescent nacre, maintaining an air of faux snobbery if nothing else. He descends the short staircase, hoping he isn’t approached. But of course, he jinxed it.

It’s a reporter that comes up to him first. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and she’s dressed in a casual navy blue suit.

“Zhang Hao,” she greets as if they’re old friends. They’re not. Though he does recognize her — from Billboard. She’d interviewed him once for a feature on multilingual singers chart toppers. “What a surprise to see you here.”

“And you,” Zhang Hao slides his ready-made smile on his face quite easily. He’s in a good mood after all. “Covering the show?”

“Just here for pleasure, actually.”

It’s hard to believe. She looks just as severe and strict as she had while on the clock. “And what did you think?”

“Excellent.” A crack of a smile across her glazed veneer. “And you? Is this your first time seeing Hadestown?”

Zhang Hao nods, cautious. This is just idle chatter — but despite her insistence that she’s not here for work, Zhang Hao has no intention of giving her any sort of scoop. “It’s the soft opening.”

“With Hanbin, yes, but the musical has been around for a few years now. The original cast was also sublime, but I must say your husband does bring a certain … life to the role.” She pauses, a corner of her mouth lifting. “Apologies — a slip of the tongue. Though I guess you two are still husbands for the foreseeable future? At least until the divorce is finalized.”

Ah, he knew it. He grits his teeth, smiling through it. “Yes, divorces take quite a bit of time, in case you weren’t aware.”

“I’m quite surprised you’re here at this show then. Have you two been set on splitting for some time?”

Zhang Hao ignores her question. His gaze flitting over her dark head — he needs a drink if Hanbin is going to take any longer. “I’m quite surprised you didn’t hear that I was in town. Maybe you should double check your sources.”

For the first time in their conversation, a genuine smile carves across her face. “I don’t dabble in petty gossip, Mr. Zhang. Only serious reporting.”

“Of course,” he demures, spotting a gap in the crowd. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go grab a drink.”

She nods easily, shifting to let him pass. Pompous, conceited, annoying. Zhang Hao makes a mental note to tell Taerae to skip them for his next red carpet.

Near the bar, next to some over-the-top statuary, is a roped off section with a small stage in the corner, meant to entertain a small party, or reserved for occasional singing and instrumental acts. The tufted leather chairs are arranged in small circles, and as Zhang Hao approaches the bar, a figure rises from one of them. He doesn’t pay them any mind until he hears his own name being called.

“Zhang Hao!” Park Hanbin greets with an easy smile and friendly wave.

Zhang Hao comes to a sudden stop, turning in shock. “What are you doing here?” When he realizes how rude it sounds, he tries to temper it with: “I thought you said you were coming on the twenty-ninth?”

“Ah, I see you didn’t see my last message,” Park Hanbin chuckles, hand coming up to rub at his perfectly square jaw. “And here I was wondering if you were purposefully ignoring me.”

“Of course not,” Zhang Hao answers automatically. His last text. He wracks his brain for when the two of them had last spoken. It had to have been more than a week ago, he’d been a bit … preoccupied as of late. Ah, it comes to him: he’d seen the notification when they’d been out at Coney Island, and then they’d come home and he’d forgotten all about it, because, well, he’d been fucked into oblivion by Hanbin, but he can’t exactly say that out loud. “Sorry this week has been a little crazy.” Zhang Hao laughs nervously. “I meant to reply.”

“It’s all good,” Park Hanbin waves off casually. It’s hard for Zhang Hao to believe that anyone is truly this laid-back, but also knowing the sort of lifestyle Park Hanbin lives, maybe it’s just a byproduct of always getting what he wants; why would there be any sense of stress or worry if everything has always come to him easily?

“But what are you doing here?” Zhang Hao asks again. At Hanbin’s show — his Hanbin’s show. And it’s only at this moment, once he gets over his initial surprise and fully processes where they are, it dawns on Zhang Hao how incriminating this looks. The two of them shouldn’t be seen together in public. Not right now, actually preferably never again.

But for all of Zhang Hao’s internal panic, Park Hanbin seems as cavalier as ever. He lays a hand on his chest and shoots Zhang Hao a wounded look, “I’m actually here as a victim once more.”

“Your parents?” He guesses. He tries to subtly look around the room, hoping no one has noticed them here in this corner yet.

“They got invited as a longtime donor of this specific theater, coincidentally enough,” Hanbin shrugs. “They figured it would be best if I made an appearance since I was coming here anyway.”

Zhang Hao silently curses Mrs. Park for not feeling like taking their private plane and shopping in New York this one weekend. He tries to figure out a graceful way to extricate himself from this conversation without making it obvious that he’s avoiding him. It’s not Park Hanbin’s fault that he was accidentally at the center of the biggest scandal to ever blow Zhang Hao’s life apart. But also him being here is only going to make it worse. And Zhang Hao fears what could be worse than being forced to go through with a divorce he doesn’t truly want. What he finally settles on is, “I should get a drink.”

As he’d hoped, Park Hanbin nods, lifting his own glass and saying, “Sure, I’ll wait here.”

Zhang Hao makes a beeline for the bar, flagging the bartender down and ordering a Fitzgerald. He’s going to need something a bit stronger than wine. Where is Hanbin? As he waits for the bartender to make his drink, Zhang Hao furtively casts his gaze about the room. No one has approached Park Hanbin; no one seems to be looking at him waiting here by the side of the bar.

The coast seems to be clear — for now. Zhang Hao wonders if he can take his drink and slip backstage again. But the door to the theater is clear across the lobby now. He’ll have to somehow skirt Park Hanbin very rudely, and then avoid the attention of everybody else in the room as he makes his way past them. Unlikely.

Thankfully, a few of the actors come out from a side door and many of the journalists and photographers immediately swarm them. Zhang Hao recognizes the flaxen blond head of Hanbin’s co-lead, along with the actor who had played Hades and perhaps one of the Fates. He can hear the praises all the way from here.

“You were absolutely amazing out there!” One of the guests titters.

“Just stunning. This is going to be such a great season.”

One of the reporters calls out with a question: “How long did you train for those battements?”

“Look over here please! Let’s get a photo!”

Grateful that the attention has been drawn to the other side of the room, Zhang Hao accepts his drink from the bartender. He’s still considering his next move, when Park Hanbin sidles up next to him. “What did you think of the musical?”

“Wonderful,” Zhang Hao says, trying not to let his irritation show. “What about you?”

“Theater has never really been my thing. Some of the songs were good though.”

Zhang Hao frowns, turning to face him a bit fully. It’s not his show, but … it was certainly better than just good. “Didn’t you think it was quite poignant? When he turns, it’s so heartbreaking.”

“It’s all love and death,” Hanbin waves off. “Not the first time art has tried to capture either.”

“I thought you liked music,” Zhang Hao accuses.

“I like your music,” Hanbin grins. “And some others. It’s nothing personal, I’m just not a big musical guy. I prefer movies; I find them easier to get into.”

“I’m not taking it personally,” Zhang Hao grumbles, even though he definitely sounds like he is. “How come you’re hanging around then?”

Hanbin lets out a lighthearted chuckle. “This is going to make me sound like the stalker fan I promised you I wasn’t, but I figured you’d be here.”

Zhang Hao tenses. He hadn’t told anyone that he was coming. Well, only Taerae, who had cautioned him to be careful, but otherwise wouldn’t prevent a thirty-year-old man from doing what he wanted with his free time.

“You’re in New York; Hanbin’s musical is opening. It just makes sense,” Park Hanbin shrugs. “I wasn’t sure if you really were ignoring my texts, so I figured I’d wait around and see if I could catch you.”

For the first time since he’s made his acquaintance, Zhang Hao feels distinctly uncomfortable. He isn’t sure if it’s just all in his head, if it’s because of what happened with the paparazzi shot and the cheating allegations. That photo, of which Park Hanbin features quite prominently, had been splashed across all his notifications and online mentions and news sites for weeks. Naturally, it makes this all a little awkward. But also … Zhang Hao was fairly sure Park Hanbin had been asking him out last time they’d spoken. Yet another reason to feel uneasy.

But the thing is, Hanbin is as easy-going as ever. There’s none of the lurid stares, casual touches, prolonged eye contact from him that Zhang Hao is used to from people who make their interest known. Even now, he doesn’t get the distinct sense that Park Hanbin is even flirting with him. Just chatting, just nonchalance. He wonders if he’s going crazy. “Well, you caught me,” Zhang Hao says, fumbling a little, unsure over what to say.

Park Hanbin laughs. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I actually should get going,” Zhang Hao says quickly. And then, without a smooth way to extricate himself, he just comes out with the truth. “I don’t think I should be seen with you after, um, what happened.”

Park Hanbin raises his eyebrows. He really does have such a roguish lilt to his face. “Are people still going on about that?”

“Yes,” Zhang Hao grits out, knowing it’s not Park Hanbin’s fault but feeling his annoyance rise to the surface. “And with all the press here, I don’t think …”

“I get it,” Hanbin nods quickly. “It might stir up more trouble for you.”

Ah, he shouldn’t have underestimated Park Hanbin. He’s always been easy to get along with. Zhang Hao breathes out a sigh of relief, feeling his shoulders relax — too soon.

“We could go somewhere a bit more private? Dinner at my place is still on the table.”

Hold on. “That’s not—”

“He won’t be going anywhere with you — certainly not your place.” A scoffing, condescending voice snaps from behind him.

Zhang Hao whirls around, heart in his throat. And he sees Hanbin — his Hanbin — standing behind him with a fiery gaze, his mouth twisted into a sneer. And he’s glaring at Park Hanbin — like he wants to hit him.

Fuck. Fuck, this is bad! This is astronomically terrible. If he hadn’t been able to conjure up a ‘worse’ scenario earlier, well, this was certainly it.

“How dare you come to my show to hit on my husband?” He’s not loud. Which almost makes it worse. Hanbin’s anger is a palpable, vibrating thing, pinning both him and Park Hanbin to their spot. Probably for the first time in his life, Park Hanbin looks troubled.

“I wasn’t—”

“I heard you,” Hanbin snarls. “Don’t even try to deny it.”

“You two are getting divorced.”

It’s quite clearly the wrong thing to say.

“Hanbin—” Zhang Hao says, hoping to stem this before it gets any worse.

But Hanbin leans forward, right in Park Hanbin’s face, looking like he’d murder him if he could. “We aren’t divorced yet. You couldn’t even wait for the ink to dry?”

Zhang Hao tries to contain his flinch. But Hanbin notices anyway, his eyes snapping to him, still roiling and raging, but at least they’re off Park Hanbin and that’s something.

“Hanbin, let’s go,” Zhang Hao says, desperate, near pleading.

And when Hanbin twists his mouth into something derisive and nasty, a look Zhang Hao has never seen from him before, his heart plummets.

“Are you talking to him or me?”

“Hanbin, not here,” he says. This time really pleading. Already, the crowd of reporters are swiveling their heads, and Zhang Hao clearly sees someone hold up their phone to take a photo. He shoots his eyes pointedly to the crowd behind him, and he knows Hanbin is aware of them, too. “It’s not what you think. Please, let’s just go, and we can talk about it later.”

He visibly watches Hanbin rein in his anger, in the flicker of his jaw, in the grit of his teeth. In the way he shifts his eyes away from both him and Park Hanbin, effecting a cold, flat gaze. “Fine.” And then he turns around without preamble, heading to the elevator — and leaving Zhang Hao to rush after him.

When they hit the main stretch of the lobby though, Hanbin slows just enough to sneak an arm around his waist, his hand just barely brushing against the small of his back. His face is still carefully blank; his nods towards the reporters polite but distinctly curt — he’s not taking any questions today. Zhang Hao keeps his head down as they push through the people, some of whom he hears calling his name. No doubt, the fact that he’s been here, that Park Hanbin was here, that Hanbin is obviously pissed off will be all over the internet in less than five minutes. He sends a silent apology to Taerae.

Finally, the elevator dings open and a few theater ushers prevent the crowd from joining them in the cramped space. Hanbin moves away from him as soon as the doors shut, the air frigid and heavy between them. His car is parked right near the bay of elevators in a reserved spot. The click of the doors unlocking is the only sound between them. Zhang Hao eases himself onto the leather seat, stomach in knots and chest heavy.

Hanbin doesn’t even start the car. Just closes the door softly before turning to him. “I know I said you could bring someone but …” He lets out a cold, humorless laugh. “I didn’t mean him.”

“I didn’t bring him!” Zhang Hao immediately defends. “He came on his own. I didn’t even know he was going to be here.”

“Yeah, right,” Hanbin scoffs.

Zhang Hao finds his disbelief insulting. “What does that mean? You think I would do that? Besides the fact that I barely know him, it would be monumentally stupid of me.”

“I just think it’s funny that the guy you’re cheating on me with just so happens to show up at the opening of my musical.”

His words land like lead in Zhang Hao’s chest. He feels his heart stop for a moment and his entire body runs cold, out of hurt, out of shock. It bleeds into his voice. “You think I was actually cheating?”

“Not until tonight. I didn’t want to believe …” Hanbin finally turns to look at him, his mouth still curled disdainfully, but his eyes— they reveal his anguish. “You explained it all away so well — just the wrong place at the wrong time. I can’t believe I fell for it.”

“There was nothing to fall for. It was the truth,” Zhang Hao insists. He feels like he’s suffocating, like Hanbin is slipping right out of his grasp. The more he tries to hold onto him, the further away he gets.

“You didn’t ask for him to be here?”

“Hanbin, I would never—” Zhang Hao feels his words stick in his throat. He tries again, “I was telling the truth, I promise. Nothing happened with him back then, or tonight. I really had no idea he was coming. I left your dressing room, and he was just out in the lobby. And I couldn’t get away fast enough—”

“You’ve never spoken to him again after the auction?” Hanbin snarls, anger momentarily overtaking his despair. Zhang Hao can see it, all so clearly in the interplay of emotions across his face. Like a mirror of his own. Irritation, hurt, sorrow, misery, rage.

“I—” Now isn’t the time to falter. But he wants to tell Hanbin the truth. “We texted a few times but—”

“And you want me to believe nothing happened.”

“I don’t want you to believe anything but the truth!” Zhang Hao exclaims. His face feels hot, and his chest is so tight he can barely breathe. He wants to wipe off the sneering, scornful look on Hanbin’s face that doesn't suit him at all. That isn’t his Hanbin at all. “I got in the car that night, and he took me home. That’s it! I walked up my driveway.”

“But you’ve kept in touch,” Hanbin says. “I remember what Taerae said.”

“We’ve messaged a few times since, and he … asked me out to dinner, but I told him no!”

“But have you?”

“What?”

“Gone out on dates? While we were married?”

Something painful tunnels into his chest at Hanbin’s use of past tense. They still are married. “Of course not. I can’t believe you’d even ask— we’re married, for God’s sake, Hanbin!” And then a horrible realization hits him. One that flashes through him like liquid fire. “Have you?”

“Of course not,” Hanbin echoes, instantly. “I never wanted to date anyone. It wasn’t … it’s never been like that for me.”

It all strikes him then.

There’s no other person. There’s no one else that Hanbin wants to be with. All of his own delusions about Hanbin meeting a cute costume designer or falling in love with a costar had been just that — delusions. Which makes this hurt all the more. Even without anyone else, he just simply doesn’t want him. And something in him breaks irreparably at that.

“Then— why?” It comes out as a wail, pours out of him on a choked-up cry full of five years worth of hurt and pain and confusion. And he’s unable to hold back his sob anymore, the frustration he feels at Hanbin’s accusations, the unfairness of it all when he hasn’t done anything wrong. All of the emotions crammed into his chest that he’s tried so hard to tamp down floods out in the form of crystalline tears down his cheeks and short, gasping breaths that stutter out of his mouth. He cries and cries and cries, and demands: “Why don’t you want me?”

“Don’t cry. Hao, don’t—” Hanbin is the one begging now. “I told you before, that’s not what this is about.”

Zhang Hao can barely see through his tears, his shoulders shaking, his chest heaving. He can barely think past the torrent of despair swirling in him, finally too much for his body to handle. He doesn’t know how long he cries for, five seconds, five minutes, before gentle hands brush against his cheeks. Hanbin’s. They brush over his cheeks, wiping away his tears, grounding him into something that’s not his own heartache.

“Hao, Hao,” Hanbin entreats. He’s whispering his name, over and over, like a siren’s call, like a prayer.

When Zhang Hao finally manages to pull more than a short gasp into his lungs, he focuses his eyes on Hanbin in front of him, brows furrowed, but this time in worry, sadness rather than anger.

“It’s not that I don’t want you.”

Zhang Hao laughs, bitterly, incredulously, except it comes out wet and thick, like every other gasping breath of his. “Then just tell me why.”

The silence in the car is heavy. Filled with nothing but Zhang Hao’s sniffles, even as Hanbin runs his thumb over his cheeks rhythmically. And Zhang Hao tilts his head towards his palm, towards the small sign that Hanbin isn’t lying, that he doesn’t not want him. But that’s what this is, isn’t it? Their relationship has, even now, always been built on double negatives, murky lines, and liminal fragments when all he’s ever wanted was to be with him.

But he’s always been stopped, not by some outside force, not even by his own common sense; Zhang Hao thinks he would have hopped on a plane to New York years ago, banged on Hanbin’s door and begged him to take him back, or just take him, period, if what was stopping him was anything besides Hanbin himself. Because Hanbin’s desires are the only thing that he would ever heed above his own. Which is why it’s so ironic, so unbelievable that Hanbin is even denying it.

“Please,” his voice cracks on his plea. “Just tell me, because—”

“I just couldn’t live like this anymore,” Hanbin confesses, sounding torn up about it. “I constantly felt like I was living a— a half life. Like nothing was real, not the money I made or the apartment I lived in or any of the work that I was doing.”

“Because of me?” Zhang Hao chokes out.

Hanbin nods slowly.

And it’s so easily crushed, what little bit of hope Hanbin’s gentle fingers had given him. Hanbin already looks … resigned, that anger and pain in his gaze not quite gone but quickly subdued. Like he’s used to it, like he does this all the time. Press and push and wrestle with his own feelings so they don’t rise to the surface. Like him. Except Zhang Hao’s dam has come wide open, and he fears he’s the only one who is left vulnerable here. But it’s too late.

“I’m sorry I caused you so much pain. I’m sorry being married to me was like that. At least in a week you’ll finally be free.” And despite the hollow feeling in his chest, like his heart had been plucked right out of him and thrown halfway across the world and that he’ll never get it back, he means it. Because he’s only ever wanted Hanbin to be happy. That’s what all this has been, and always will be, about.

“Somehow that makes me feel worse,” Hanbin sighs, his finger gathering the last of Zhang Hao’s tears. “But at least you were happy, right?”

What?

No.

“I wasn’t,” Zhang Hao says. The thumb that had been rhythmically drawing across his cheek, pauses.

“You weren’t?” Hanbin sounds genuinely confused. “Was it the work? Not … not getting a Grammy?”

Zhang Hao’s laugh is heavy. “It’s not about the damn Grammy.”

“Then what was it?”

“I guess it was the same thing as you,” Zhang Hao sighs. “I didn’t feel like I was really living. Or, that’s not true. Everything felt real, too real at times. It made me feel … incredibly lonely.”

“I guess, at least now you can also find someone else,” Hanbin says slowly, as if Zhang Hao’s deepest, darkest revelation somehow puzzles him. “Thank you for holding back on my account. I didn’t know it had been so hard for you.”

“Are you being serious, Sung Hanbin?” Zhang Hao bursts out. It’s so sudden and loud that it scares Hanbin into dropping his hands. And usually, Zhang Hao would mourn the loss of them, but now— now he doesn’t even know what to think. “There’s no way I’ll ever find anyone else.”

“Why not?” Hanbin asks, hands hovering between them. He looks nearly … hopeful. “Why can’t you find someone else?”

And well he’s already come this far, hasn’t he? All of this will be over in a week, won’t it? Wasn’t he so ever determined to do everything that he could to save this?

“Because I love you,” Zhang Hao whispers, terrified, more honest than he’s ever been in his life. “Because I’ve only ever wanted to be with you.”

And it’s horrible, the way he can’t stop crying. Zhang Hao doesn’t even know when he started again, only that his chest feels like it’s going to explode. He buries his face in his hands, too scared to look at Hanbin. But then Hanbin’s hands are there: curving so sweetly, tenderly, over his shoulder and then his neck and then at his wrists until Zhang Hao has no choice but to lift his splotchy, tear-stained face.

He doesn’t expect the kiss at all.

It’s just a quick one. A slight peck — it’s not even very accurate. He feels the hot pressure of Hanbin’s mouth against his upper lip, his philtrum, right beneath his disgustingly runny nose, just for a second.

Zhang Hao blinks in utter shock, as Hanbin’s hands cradle around his wet cheeks, as Hanbin leans up and out of his seat into his space. “Do you mean it?” Hanbin asks, breathless, his eyes pinpricks of starlight. They flash and shine, twinkle in the corners like he’s holding back tears of his own. “Do you really love me?”

“Yes,” Zhang Hao mumbles, all gross and teary.

But he’s fairly sure Hanbin doesn’t care, because he kisses him again.

The rest of the car ride goes like this: Zhang Hao mostly sniffles, and uses the packet of tissues Hanbin pulled from his glove compartment to dabble at his cheeks — with one hand because the other is captured firmly in Hanbin's lap.

“You haven’t said it yet,” Zhang Hao points out, sounding petulant and incredibly aggrieved, especially with his clogged nose. Good.

Hanbin lets out a little gasp, his hand tightening around Zhang Hao’s. “I love you.” Hanbin looks over at him with a mushy gaze, the flashing glow of the streetlights zipping past them. “Sorry I forgot to say it.”

Right, because he’d been too busy trying to gnaw off Zhang Hao’s lips while he fended him off with cries that he was still snotty. “That’s okay,” he grumbles, rubbing his raw nose with the back of his hand. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” Hanbin croons. “I love you. I love you so much.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Zhang Hao mumbles, hard to please.

He gets a giggle, and Hanbin squeezes his hand again.

“But,” Zhang Hao suddenly remembers — and this is a sticking point for him. “Is this new?”

Hanbin’s head turns to him so fast that Zhang Hao momentarily fears for their life. Thankfully, his hand on the wheel stays steady. “What makes you say that?”

“Because—” Zhang Hao leans forward in his seat, jostling their joined hands, but he ignores it because this is … this is important! “When I asked if you would be interested in being together for real five years ago, you said no. So I’m just curious what’s changed. Is it just because we’ve been …” He’s not a prude. He’s not. He just has thin skin, and is, well, unexpectedly naive. “Intimate?”

“You … asked me to be together?” Hanbin’s brows have come together again.

“Yes.” Zhang Hao frowns back at him. “After we got … married. I asked if you expected us to be together. And you said—”

“I didn’t want to mess up your career. And that it would be better if you weren’t tied down,” Hanbin finishes hollowly. He lets go of his hand, and Zhang Hao’s heart seizes for a moment, wondering if it was a stupid idea to remind him of this, if it’s somehow changed his mind now, if despite his claims of love, it still isn’t enough to make him want to be with him. But then Hanbin smacks his hand against the steering wheel, once, twice — hard.

“Hanbin!” Zhang Hao yells, nearly leaping over the center console in an attempt to grab his hand. He wraps his fingers around his wrist. “Stop that! What are you—”

“I can’t believe—” Hanbin looks over at him, eyes wide, a bit frantic. “I didn’t know that’s what you meant. I swear, I didn’t. I thought— I don’t even remember. You were asking out of obligation. You were just trying to figure out the logistics of being fucking married. I didn’t know you wanted to be … with me.”

Zhang Hao freezes.

“When we were together, you spoke so much about wanting to make music, and how difficult it was for you when your group broke up, and that’s why you moved to LA. That was your dream,” Hanbin sounds imploring, incredulous. “And I didn’t want to get in the way of that. I figured, it would just be another complication for you. You were finally— you had just gotten signed then to your label. Everything was working out for you, and the last thing I wanted was to ruin that, to make you feel obligated. Because what if it didn’t work out? What if we broke up? Would we still have to stay married? I didn’t want you to risk losing any of it.”

Zhang Hao doesn’t know if he’s monumentally angry or in utter heartbreak. Probably both. “And you didn’t think to just ask me?” he screeches. “You couldn’t just ask me what I wanted instead of assuming?”

“I didn’t think you were interested in that way,” Hanbin defends, albeit feebly. “I had no idea … if I had thought you were into me … you were so amazing. You had been in a wildly successful group! You’d already done so many incredible things with your life! And I was a nobody. Why would you ever be interested in me?”

“I was very interested! Sung Hanbin, I was so interested! I have been interested for years. I have been staying away because I thought that’s what you wanted!”

The tears return again, rolling down his cheeks, but Zhang Hao’s no longer sad, just incredibly robbed, just completely cheated. Out of five years with Hanbin. Out of the life that he could have had. By the love of his life. And underneath his dismay is a years-long hurt that’s been festering from the rejection. And so he cries, and lets it all out. Babbling and yelling nonsense like All this time I thought you didn’t want me! and I would have … we could have been together … and How could you do this to me, Sung Hanbin, I’ll never forgive you!

And Hanbin holds his hand throughout.

Zhang Hao’s nose is still blocked by the time he’s bathed and tucked under the covers. He’s diligently blowing into a tissue when Hanbin crawls into bed after his own shower.

“I’m never going to be able to breathe again,” Zhang Hao complains.

“You did cry a lot.”

“And whose fault is that?” he snaps.

Soft arms wrap around his waist and tug him across the bed, halfway into Hanbin’s lap. Hanbin swoops down to kiss Zhang Hao cheek, but when he pulls away though, his expression is serious. “I never want to make you cry like that again.”

“I’m sure you will,” Zhang Hao tries to make light of it. “I’m a very emotional person.”

Hanbin’s arms tighten around him. “I’m serious. I don’t want to hurt you like that again. For five years …”

“It was my fault, too,” Zhang Hao admits. “If I had gotten over myself and just reached out once. Cared a little less about my pride and wallowing in my self pity; if I’d just bothered to ask again, maybe we could have been together sooner.”

“You were hurt,” Hanbin empathizes.

“You were, too.”

“By my own doing,” Hanbin laughs harshly. “By my own lack of confidence and yet somehow I still thought I knew best. The fucking irony.”

“We both had a lot of growing up to do,” Zhang Hao murmurs. He’s always been a bit of a romantic, the type to believe in fate and kismet and the perfect aligning of the stars. And maybe all of that was for gullible fools, for those who couldn’t look their own misery and unhappiness in the eye and deal with it, who had to make it more palatable by thinking maybe this is how it’s meant to be, maybe it will finally work out. But for him — it did, didn’t it?

Until Hanbin reminds him, “We’re getting divorced in a week.”

Zhang Hao stiffens, but Hanbin doesn’t let him pull away, securing him in his lap with steel arms.

“We’ll fix it,” Hanbin reassures quickly.

“Hanbin.” He hadn’t even gotten an hour to settle into his contentment. Zhang Hao was just getting used to the idea that they could have had each other for five years and now — this. The reminder that they’ve done this to themselves. “We have a judge and a court date. Papers are signed.”

“It’s our marriage.” And Hanbin sounds so firm, so sure. Zhang Hao wants so badly to believe him. “We can do whatever we want. We don’t have to go through with it. We can call it off tomorrow.” Hanbin pauses. “You do want to call it off tomorrow, right?”

“Yes,” Zhang Hao says immediately. He’s not leaving any room for misunderstandings this time. And he finally gets to say it out loud, what he’s held in his heart this whole time. “I don’t want to get divorced.”

“Okay,” Hanbin leans down again to nuzzle against his temple. “I’ll call Matthew tomorrow; the lawyers if I have to.”

“Me, too,” Zhang Hao promises. “Taerae, I mean.” And then he chuckles, turning his head so Hanbin’s lips trail down his cheek, closer to where he wants them. “He’s going to kill me. All the trouble I’ve put him through for the past month — I wouldn’t even blame him.”

“If Matthew gets his hands on me, I fear you won’t have a breathing husband anymore,” Hanbin laughs.

Husband. He loves that. He loves thinking about Hanbin, his husband. “I can’t believe it was so easy,” Zhang Hao breathes.

“Speak for yourself, this past month has been the hardest of my life.”

Zhang Hao peers up at him with a suggestively quirked brow.

“Not like that,” Hanbin cackles. “I mean, yes, like that, too. But you know what I mean.”

Zhang Hao snuggles his cheek against the soft fabric of Hanbin’s shirt, reveling in the milky scent that envelopes him. “I do.”

“I was so nervous for you to come,” Hanbin admits. “Matthew thought I was out of my mind for agreeing to all of this, but I couldn’t let it go. I had this crazy idea in my head that once I got you here, I could somehow … woo you with my house. With my new fancy job and reputation. That I could prove to you that I wouldn’t be a liability, that you wouldn’t ever have to pick between your dream or me.”

Zhang Hao’s heart pangs. He hasn’t been the only one hurting all this time. “I love your house,” he sighs. “It’s so beautiful. I fell in love with it the second I arrived.”

“I would hope so,” Hanbin laughs, though nervously this time. “I designed it or, well, I picked out a lot of the things, because I thought you’d like them. Because your favorite color is—”

“—pink.” Zhang Hao’s heart stops. “But you moved here three years ago.”

“So?”

“We weren’t even talking back then.”

“I guess I’m just a huge loser. And a hopeless optimist.”

“Hanbin,” Zhang Hao complains, feeling prickles in the corner of eyes. “Do not make me cry again!”

“No, no, no more crying,” he cajoles, rocking Zhang Hao from side to side.

But it’s too late, he already feels the telltale sharpness in his nose, and the first tear runs down his cheek. “You’re absolutely terrible,” Zhang Hao sniffles.

“I’ll make you a big breakfast tomorrow to make up for it,” Hanbin promises.

Zhang Hao pauses. “With biscuits?”

“I’ll make them from scratch.”

“I’ll be eating in two weeks.”

Hanbin chuckles. “How about waffles?”

Zhang Hao purses his lips, eyes already drying as a small smile lifts his lips. “Fine.”

Zhang Hao had thought Hanbin would become a little less … stunning on stage once he had gotten used to it. Maybe by the second time he attended a show. Certainly the third. By the fourth it was just getting ridiculous. And yet, Zhang Hao’s breath still catches every time Hanbin performs chainé turns, every time Hanbin sings about his expanding heart and his love. Every time he catches his eyes, just a brief look, before he sings The only thing I know is that I love you. Zhang Hao wants to stand and scream, he wants to bury his head in his hands and squeal and kick his feet and simply float off the theater balcony and straight into Hanbin’s arms.

Of course he does no such thing. Instead he waits until the show is over and then ravishes him in his dressing room like a normal husband would.

Husband. Now that he’s allowed to say it unrepentantly, without pain or longing, Zhang Hao finds he loves using it all the time. He loves thinking about it all the time. Husband, husband, husband. Has a more beautiful word ever existed? He doubts it.

He thinks Hanbin rather enjoys it too, based on the number of times he’s introduced him this evening: this is my husband, Zhang Hao and have you met my husband before? and my husband has only been here for a few weeks, so I haven't had the chance to take him here yet. They flit about, completely attached to each other, between the courtyard and carriage house, chatting with various dancers and producers from the musical among Hanbin’s various other friends. He doesn’t think Hanbin’s hand has left his back for a whole hour.

Zhang Hao feels Taerae’s sharp, glaring eyes trained on him from inside the glass of the carriage house as he talks and laughs with two of Hanbin’s dance instructors in the courtyard next to a gorgeous bloom of peonies. He’s apologized to Taerae profusely at least twelve times in the past week; he’s even gotten him an incredibly expensive chocolate and wine tasting basket. To no avail.

“My husband has been helping me a lot with vocal maintenance,” Hanbin says proudly, looking for all the world like Zhang Hao has solved world hunger. He gesticulates as he talks to the couple before them — a professional ballerina currently in the midst of a hectic Rite of Spring season and her partner. “I’ve never had to worry too much about taking care of my voice before. But Wednesdays when we have double shows are already hard to manage.”

All of Hanbin’s friends are elegant. A renowned physiotherapist, the manager for a major theater company, a few dancers and instructors at SAB, an up-and-coming contemporary artist who just had an opening at the Gagosian Gallery, a wine distributor, an emergency room doctor and his actor husband. They are all elegant and accomplished — and kind. Just like Hanbin. Surrounded by twenty-something of Hanbin’s closest friends on a balmy summer evening, Zhang Hao has never been more struck by the sense that people of the same ilk really do flock together.

Zhang Hao is listening raptly to a former Youth Olympics swimmer recounting his heydays in the pool before he’d gotten a persistent shoulder injury when Hanbin sidles up next to them, smoothing a hand down Zhang Hao’s back to get his attention. When Zhang Hao turns, he gets a sappy, sickly sweet kiss of a greeting.

“Oh, hello,” he blinks rapidly, startled by the fleeting kiss.

But Hanbin just grins back at him innocently. “The meringues are done cooling in the kitchen if you could help me bring them out?” He looks over at the swimmer. “Sorry to steal him.”

Gyuvin shakes his head, putting his hands up with a sly smirk. “Of course not, he’s your husband.”

Zhang Hao rolls his eyes because he can tell when they’re being teased mercilessly. But still, he allows Hanbin to take him by the hand and lead him back into the house. He comes to a stop when he rounds the corner from the stairs and sees the meringues already arranged into a beautiful glass apothecary jar on the far counter. “Hanbin, aren’t they—”

His words are cut off when he’s roughly pushed against the kitchen island and he’s only able to register the slight bite of the counter edge against his hip before Hanbin’s mouth slants over his own. Zhang Hao surges into the kiss, which turns manic and frenzied fast. Hanbin shoves him against the island, greedy hands grasping at his waist, palming over the back of his head to keep him there so he can twine his tongue with his own and swallow his stuttering gasps and faint whines like he’s been starved of him.

As soon as Zhang Hao curls his fingers into the short strands of hair by Hanbin’s nape, he earns himself a whimper in return. Always so weak to him — he’s learned it really takes nothing at all to work Hanbin up. He cries and screams and begs just as much as him when they fuck, mumbling and frantically babbling you’re going to make me come over and over as he bruises Zhang Hao’s hips and whine into his neck. And Hanbin also shares his love of this: being pathetically in love with him, being so desperate and overwhelmed because of him.

“You couldn’t wait a couple hours?” Zhang Hao pants, ripping his mouth away with a slick sound and turning his head so Hanbin can immediately latch onto his neck. “You needed me so much you had to lure me in here under false pretenses?”

“So cruel,” Hanbin mumbles, teasing the thin skin along his Adam’s apple with his teeth and making Zhang Hao shudder. Hanbin lifts his head and places another quick peck against his plush lips. “Pouting on purpose while you talk — I couldn’t help it.”

Zhang Hao huffs out a light laugh. “I wasn’t pouting on purpose.”

“Yes, you were. And you’d lick …” Hanbin leans in to place another quick kiss right against Zhang Hao’s plump lower lip. “Right here to tempt me.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Hm,” Hanbin hums, trailing his nose over Zhang Hao’s smooth cheek and nudging at his jaw playfully. “I think my husband’s a liar.”

Husband! Zhang Hao’s brain pings with a shot of serotonin. “And I think my husband has no self control.”

“But you love that.” A gentle suck against his jaw.

Zhang Hao sighs, melting even more. “Maybe,” he mumbles, even as he lets Hanbin nudge his head the other way, rolling over all too easily to allow him to nibble at the other side of his neck.

“So well behaved,” Hanbin praises. “You’re all full of complaints until I get my hands on you, hm?”

“I simply think … that you’re shameless enough to do this in front of the guests if I don’t let you have your way,” Zhang Hao insists.

“My way?” Hanbin asks skeptically, right before Zhang Hao tugs on his shirt to pull him in for another wet kiss.

Zhang Hao doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of kissing Hanbin. After spending so long dreaming about it, it’s still somehow better than he could have ever imagined. The gentle rasp of his rough tongue against his own; Hanbin’s hands shifting and squeezing as if he can’t decide which part of him to hold; the way he kisses him — and Zhang Hao kisses him back — like they are both so eager to make up for lost time, as if they are both trying to imprint the feel of their hands and the hitch of their breathes and the sound of their moans into the psyche of each other as clearly as the dark ink on Hanbin’s arm.

Somehow, through gentle murmurs and just a little bit of simpering, Hanbin coaxes him up on the counter and gets his legs around his waist, grinding himself against Zhang Hao’s stomach — always so eager, so uncontrollable when he gets him exactly like he wants. And Zhang Hao lets him, even though he knows there’s only one way this rendezvous can end. They’re just around the corner from the courtyard. The kitchen doesn’t even have a door. Anyone could come in looking for them and spot them in this most compromising position. Zhang Hao almost hopes they do. He rolls his hips upward, pushing back against Hanbin’s cock, and by the way he shudders in his hold, Zhang Hao knows any more and his sweet, sweet Hanbin won’t be able to take it, won’t be able to stop until he’s coaxed Zhang Hao’s pants off and beguiled and worshiped his way into him. And he also knows: he’d let him.

Zhang Hao pulls away from the kiss with a heavy breath, mind going momentarily numb when Hanbin lets out a soft little mewl in protest.

“Just a little more,” he begs, needy and wanton. “Not yet, not yet.”

And what else can he do but lean forward and give Hanbin just another taste? Zhang Hao allows one more nip against his lips, before extracting himself from Hanbin’s arm, giving him a little push for distance. Dazed, Hanbin takes a step back.

“The meringues will get cold,” Zhang Hao jokes, which earns him a quick burst of laughter and those lines on Hanbin’s cheeks that make him look entirely too lovely and kissable. Zhang Hao holds back — barely.

He hops down from the high counter as Hanbin starts busying himself around the kitchen, putting together a platter of cheese, blackberries, and pickled olives drizzled in honey. They talk about idle things like Hanbin’s ongoing parking feud with another actor at the theater, their continual bickering over what temperature to keep their thermostat at, and Zhang Hao’s upcoming event.

“Do you want to come with me?” he offers, popping a blackberry in his mouth.

“How scandalous,” Hanbin says, eyes sparkling and playful. “Showing up with your soon-to-be ex-husband at a fancy industry event?”

Zhang Hao grins. “People love talking about us. And for once I don’t have to worry about it ruining my life.”

“I’d never let that happen,” Hanbin says, more seriously than their conversation warrants.

Zhang Hao blows him a kiss, and Hanbin just shakes his head, sighing.

“It shouldn’t be too late for me to add a plus one — I’ll talk to Taerae.”

“I thought you said Taerae was going to quit,” Hanbin jokes.

“He’s just being a drama queen,” Zhang Hao rolls his eyes, snickering when Hanbin shoots him a pointed look.

Hanbin nods towards the finished platter, rinsing his hands at the sink. “Will you take that, please? I’ll be right out with the meringues.”

“Okay,” he agrees easily. Zhang Hao lets Hanbin plant a quick kiss on his cheek, before he waddles out to the carriage house with his husband’s carefully curated plate of cheese. After he sets it on the low table, he scans the room for Taerae, wanting to tell him right away. Well, well, when he spots him he’s standing in the corner whispering with someone else. Zhang Hao waits for Matthew to leave, called away by the doctor, before he makes his way over to his friend.

“Are you two getting along better now that you don’t have to barter for our marriage?” Zhang Hao asks.

Taerae gives him an unamused look. “No, we’ve simply been forced to spend the last seventy-two hours together undoing everything we’ve done in the past three weeks because you two decided to finally get your shit together.”

Zhang Hao gives him his best doleful pout. “I already apologized for that! I’m sorry that Hanbin and I are actually in love with each other, and we’re inconveniencing you with our marital bliss!”

Taerae rolls his eyes, though he does finally crack a smile. “I’m happy for you or whatever.”

“Actually, speaking of,” Zhang Hao perks up. “Is it too late to add Hanbin as my plus one to that Vogue luncheon?”

“You mean the one in two days?” Taerae deadpans.

He winces. “So I’m guessing yes?”

Taerae gives him an insufferable sigh and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. You two have been drumming up a lot of press recently,” he shoots him a pointed stare. “So they might even appreciate it.”

“I did not know he was going to be there that day!” Zhang Hao argues, knowing exactly what Taerae is referring to. Not surprisingly, the scene they’d made at the preview of Hadestown had blown up online — adding to the rampant speculation about his cheating, their divorce, Hanbin’s status as a poor, heartbroken and devoted husband. He’s been getting trending alerts every day; he’s been far too busy to open any of them.

Taerae’s fingers fly over his phone screen, tapping out an email. “I’ve reached out to their PR person — I’ll let you know. But it should be fine. I’ll send your flight details to Matthew so he can get Hanbin on the same one.”

“Thank you,” Zhang Hao smiles, feeling a sudden wave of emotion. “For everything — this past month. For putting up with me through all this time.”

Taerae shoots him a droll look, though there’s a softness around his eyes that wasn’t there before. “This is my job.”

“You’ve let me cry so much.”

“And now that will be Hanbin’s job to deal with!” Taerae crows a bit maniacally. “Truly though, I’m happy for you two.”

Zhang Hao beams at him.

“By the way your lower lip is completely bitten through — you should probably take care of that before you go talk to anyone else here.”

Zhang Hao prods at his lip with his tongue and winces — it does sting a little. Hanbin definitely didn’t hold back.

For once though, he has something to counter with: “By the way, Taerae, your shirt neckline has dropped a little. I can see your hickeys.” Zhang Hao playfully taps his own chin as if he’s in deep thought. “Now who have you been spending all your time with lately?”

For the first time in his life, he watches as Taerae sputters and turns beet red.

Six months later

Love is the same in any form.

As a heteronym, its spelling stays consistent regardless of how it’s used. It can be a state of being, a feeling that bubbles behind the sternum and suffuses through the bloodstream, but it is also an act, intimate, breathtaking, heartrending. His entire life, Zhang Hao has always thought of it as the former. To be in love, to feel it thrumming through his veins, burbling into a laugh in the back of his throat, pulsing at his fingertips. To be so in love that it’s excruciating, to be so in love that he thinks he’ll die.

In the past six months though, he’s learned that perhaps love is more verb than noun. It’s finding out that Hanbin had left so much space in his closet for him; having Hanbin prepare meals to his specific tastes; waking up each morning to crinkled eyes and wrinkled cheeks and a warm indent on the pillow next to him. Love is all the things that Hanbin has ever done for him, whether he had known it was love at the time or not.

“Our in-house florist at the theater sells roses,” Hanbin tells him one evening. It’s late; a little past midnight and yet they’re sitting at the kitchen island with Italian takeout because they were starving and had nothing in the fridge.

Zhang Hao stabs at his lasagna. “That’s nice of them.”

Hanbin giggles. “You never get me roses for my shows.”

Ah. Zhang Hao smiles. He meticulously selects every bouquet that he brings for his husband, one each time he goes — which is a couple times a week. He picks out the ones he thinks Hanbin will love. And he’s always exceptionally proud when they get displayed in a prime spot on his dressing room vanity before they eventually wilt and he gets him new ones. He’s getting good at putting what he’s learned into practice.

“Who drew this?” Zhang Hao points to the illustrated rabbit set up on the mantle in Hanbin’s bedroom one evening. He’s already clad in his pajamas, a white terry-cloth set that he’ll have to retire soon because the weather is getting too cold.

Hanbin glances up from his script, glasses perched on his nose as he squints. He’s sitting in an armchair, foot propped up on his knee, positively lounging. “Ah, Yujin.”

“And who is Yujin to you?” Zhang Hao crosses his arms. He hopes Hanbin knows he is treading on thin ice right now.

“My director’s son who liked to hang out on set,” Hanbin says solemnly. There’s a twinkle in his eye.

“Very good,” Zhang Hao nods, as if Hanbin has passed some sort of test. He looks over at the drawing, quite cute now that he looks at it again really. “It can stay.”

“I’m so glad you approve,” Hanbin chortles.

Ten seconds later, Zhang Hao pushes his script away to climb right on his lap.

“I think I’m finally done.”

Hanbin glances away from the television, where they’re watching some dating reality show and having very differing opinions on who the best matches are. “Really?”

Zhang Hao nods. It’s taken a bit longer than he expected. He’s completely blown past all of the deadlines given to him by his label. Taerae has been hounding him daily along with a slew of producers and he’d even gotten an email from an exec last week. But something in him has finally dug its heels in — he hasn’t changed his sound completely. It’s not entirely experimental, but he’s also okay with that.

He just wanted something that felt more like him. And for the longest time, he thought it would be something closer to his first album — the one he’d felt had been the most authentically him. But throughout this process, Zhang Hao has realized that he’s changed a lot over the past five years, even more so in these recent months. And that he’d been chasing a version of himself that no longer exists.

So needless to say it had caused quite a production delay when Zhang Hao had woken up one morning four months ago and announced that he was scrapping everything. He still feels rather guilty about shortening Taerae’s lifespan like that.

“So will I finally get to hear it?”

Zhang Hao laughs. “Don’t sound so put out.”

“You’ve been spending so much time in the studio, and I have no idea what’s taking my husband away, of course I’m put out!”

He wonders what Hanbin will think about the one that’s about him. They’re all about him, actually. “How about I play it for you right now?”

“Over here! Hanbin, Zhang Hao, a smile here, please!”

“Stunning! Let’s get you two from this side!”

“Look this way! Right here, Hao!”

The clamor of photographers and the flash of numerous camera bulbs is just as blinding as ever. Zhang Hao would think after years of this, he’d get used to it. Though it’s quite fortunate that this time, he has a very lovely, lithe arm to cling onto as he and Hanbin inch down the carpet. These big award shows are always so much — so much prep, so much effort, so many people.

But a limited series Hanbin guest starred in earlier last year is nominated tonight. And Zhang Hao doesn’t have many excuses to come back to LA anymore, so here they are, decked out head to toe in Loewe, Chanel, and he thinks Hanbin’s tie might be Cucinelli. Kuanjui had made a whole fuss while getting them ready, screaming across their hotel suite because his assistants had only brought nubuck leather belts to go with patent leather shoes. A rookie mistake. Sure. Zhang Hao personally thinks anyone looking at Hanbin’s shoes instead of his face needs a lobotomy, but that’s just his personal opinion.

Bodies dart to and fro, reporters stationed in front of various cameras are yammering loudly into their microphones. Everyone is taking photos on their phone, a few filming selfie-style videos. And a few actors are signing posters and booklets by the fenced fan area. It’s all a mass of movement and confusion, and Zhang Hao simply lets Hanbin lead him through it all. He leans into his ear, grumbling, “Can we skip all the interviews and head right in?”

“That’s going to be the last straw for Matthew to finally throttle me,” Hanbin replies sagely, patting at Zhang Hao’s hand gently. “Do you wish to be a widower at thirty, my love?”

“Just one.”

“Two.”

“I think you like these interviews,” Zhang Hao accuses.

Hanbin simply smirks. “I like showing you off.”

Matthew shows up next to them at that moment, looking harried and haggard and like he hasn’t gotten a good night's sleep in a week. Zhang Hao frowns slightly, making a mental note to ask Hanbin just what is going on with him. Before he can say anything though, Matthew ushers them over to where a beautiful blonde anchor is setting up their appearance with a wide, practiced smile.

“And now, I have Studio of Dreams’s Sung Hanbin and his husband Zhang Hao here with us on the red carpet,” she trills, which is their queue to step yup to the small bit of tape that marks their spot in front of the camera.

Zhang Hao flashes his most charming smile as the reporter prattles on to Hanbin about how his nuanced and evocative performance had brought her to tears not once, but three times while watching the series. Hanbin demures in all the right moments, laughs sweetly at the compliments, and even banters with her for a bit over whether he’ll be invited back for season two.

“And Zhang Hao!” she exclaims, arms spreading wide before her, gesticulating wildly at him even though he’s been standing here next to Hanbin the whole time. “Congratulations on your album. It’s been at the top of the charts for weeks, so I’m sure you’re pleased.”

“I was particularly nervous releasing this one,” Zhang Hao says, affecting a sincere and admirably humble look. “The process took a bit longer than usual, so I’m really thankful the fans were so patient with me. And it’s really meant a lot that it’s being so well received.”

“I can tell you that I’ve been listening to Right Through Me on repeat.”

“Ah, so that’s where the double platinum came from,” Zhang Hao quips, making her laugh a little louder than warranted.

“Now before I let you two go, social media would tear me apart for not asking — I’m sure you saw all the crazy rumors flying around last summer about you both. Do you have anything to say about that?”

“It was certainly a wild summer,” Hanbin grins. The two of them exchange a quick look. In his eyes, Zhang Hao sees a riot of mirth, but also the same relief, the same complete joy that has him tightening his hold on Hanbin’s hand just a little. “Both of us had a good laugh over it actually.”

“Really?”

“I’ve been in love with him for six years now,” Hanbin says confidently, boldly, with so much feeling Zhang Hao thinks he’ll start crying right here under the glaring lights. “And that’s never changed for a single second.”

Zhang Hao’s hands smooth across the cool, fitted sheet they’d thrown over the daybed. The moon overhead is full and round, pouring through the skylight and spilling over the muscled rise of Hanbin’s bare shoulders. It streaks his hair silver, tracing each detailed strand of his pushed back bangs.

“Daydreaming?” Hanbin murmurs against Zhang Hao’s stomach where he’d been kissing him languidly, tongue swirling, lips lingering, unhurried and serene, like he could lie here naked sprawled over Zhang Hao for hours. The moon is reflected, luminescent and glowing, in his eyes as he looks up at him through his long, dark lashes.

“No, I was just admiring the moon,” Zhang Hao murmurs.

Hanbin places a kiss right above his navel. Both of their bodies look carved from marble underneath the pale, tranquil light. Hanbin gives him a considering hum, slowly working his mouth down to Zhang Hao’s hip, digging his teeth into the bone there. So close to where he aches for him. “If you’re getting distracted, I must not be doing a good job.”

“You’re doing great,” Zhang Hao breathes. “Maybe just … a little lower?”

“Here, baby?” Hanbin teases, kissing into the crease where Zhang Hao’s thigh meets his hip.

“Even more,” Zhang Hao sighs, his legs parting to make room for Hanbin’s shoulders.

But much to his disappointment, Hanbin chooses to skim his lips down the upper swells of his thigh.

“Not there,” Zhang Hao groans, squirming a little.

Hanbin ignores his complaint, sucking and nipping at the flesh on the inside of his thigh, using his tongue and teeth. But this view is gorgeous too: Hanbin raised up on his knees, legs slightly parted, his heavy cock curved and thick hovering right between Zhang Hao’s legs. His skin is faintly flushed, maintaining a rosy hue despite being lit with cool tones. Zhang Hao’s eyes roam from his sloped, round shoulders down the near pearlescent sheen of his arms and then to the shadowed red of his nipples. Far more beautiful than the moon.

Zhang Hao’s hips writhe against the sofa bed, wanting. His cock twitches against the slate of his abdomen, wet, wanting. “Hanbin,” he mumbles. The slow teasing had been nice before, but now, it’s not enough.

Hanbin lifts off the side of his thigh with a slick suctioning sound. “I know, baby,” he murmurs, hand reaching down to take Zhang Hao in hold, making him suck in a sharp breath. Hanbin’s thumb trails a light circle around the head of his cock.

“I love your cock so much,” Hanbin murmurs, as if in wonder. And it causes a flush to travel down Zhang Hao’s chest. “So cute and pretty — like you.”

“I don’t know if I appreciate being compared to a dick,” Zhang Hao mutters. His unaffected demeanor breaks when Hanbin tightens his hold, giving him one, two pumps. And then he opens his mouth, dribbling a bit of his saliva to help with the glide — God.

“Don’t worry, it’s a compliment,” Hanbin chuckles. “It’s so cute the way it bounces whenever I fuck you. How it just starts leaking whenever you’re turned on.”

“Hanbin,” Zhang Hao whines. He feels like his cheeks are on fire, and he squirms again, now for an entirely different reason.

“I’ve had you so many times, and yet you’re still embarrassed by pillow talk?” Hanbin sounds delighted by this revelation.

“I think you need to look up the meaning of pillow talk,” Zhang Hao refutes.

But Hanbin is too busy sliding down on the bed to reply. And then his mouth is otherwise occupied to do much of anything else.

Zhang Hao’s eyes roll up to the skylight as soon as Hanbin gets his tongue on him, lapping at the slit on the head of his cock, pushing him deep to the back of his throat. Zhang Hao’s hand fists into the sheets on either side of him as Hanbin works his head up and down in a slow, almost leisurely rhythm. It keeps him in a half state of arousal, suspended in honey-gold amber. Just enough so he spills even more precum to pool around Hanbin’s lips, to trail down his chin, but not nearly enough to stop Zhang Hao from twitching up into the wet heat of his mouth.

His orgasm takes him by surprise. As soon as Hanbin gets his hands around his hips, as soon as he buries him so far back in his throat that his nose presses against the coarse hair along the base of Zhang Hao’s cock, as soon as he moans, so slutty and shameless, around him — he’s gone. It’s a spiraling, swirling thing, making Zhang Hao scrunch his eyes closed, the impression of Hanbin’s luminescence imprinted on the back of his lids, like a holy vision.

Hanbin lifts off of him moments later, not without a few kitten licks to lap up his cum — which in and of itself sends another pleasurable shiver down Zhang Hao’s spine.

“Sorry,” Zhang Hao pants, swiping his sweaty bangs away. “I couldn’t warn you.”

“I didn’t know you were so pent up,” Hanbin rasps, teasing. “My poor husband. Have I been neglecting you?”

“That’s because you were gone for so long! I missed you,” he pouts. Months ago this would have been too much for Zhang Hao to even admit. But being loved by Hanbin has turned him into the unrepentant sap he was always meant to be. And despite his quick orgasm — it’s still not enough. He lifts his hips. “So I think you should make it up to me.”

“It was only two days,” Hanbin chuckles, kissing his way back up to Zhang Hao’s chest, as if he can’t bear to not have his mouth on him at all times, despite what he’s saying. “Have you gotten so needy you can’t go two days without my cock?”

“Don’t be lewd,” Zhang Hao chastises. “I also like your mouth.”

A puff of breath, a brief puff of air over his nipple right before Hanbin bites down and making him arch his back on an electric moan. Unfair. He’s being unfairly bullied!

“And where do you want my mouth next?” Hanbin whispers, having inched up to his collarbones by now. He kisses along the exact place that the sun, star, and moon are overlaid on his own skin, enthusiastically biting like he wants to leave matching marks on Zhang Hao.

“Lower,” Zhang Hao hedges. His feet draw up the sides of Hanbin’s firm thighs, until he can hitch both of his legs around his waist.

“I was just there, baby.”

“Lower than that,” Zhang Hao urges, a hint of a whine inching into his voice.

“Here?” Hanbin prompts, one of his slim fingers teasing down Zhang Hao’s perineum.

“Yes!” He does whine this time. “Right there, right there … Hanbin, in me.”

His cries end in a moan when Hanbin pushes in, slowly, carefully. He’d prepped himself earlier, but not very well, and Hanbin only pumps one finger in and out before pulling away again. Zhang Hao garbles on a protesting whimper.

“You’re too tight,” Hanbin says.

He knows. “I think you can fix that,” he sighs. “With your mouth.”

Hanbin’s smile is wicked and glittering under the moon. “Get on my face, my love.”

In one quick motion, Hanbin flips them around. Zhang Hao lets out a brief cry of surprise, adjusting slightly on his knees as Hanbin sprawls on his back beneath him, looking angelic and blushy and so very delectable. He allows Hanbin to maneuver him where he wants, nudging at his thighs to shift them over his shoulders, squeezing his waist to urge him lower, to sit back on his face.

“Is this okay?” Zhang Hao asks tentatively, not daring to press down too much. But Hanbin’s fingers dig into the tops of his thighs, unforgiving.

“Yes, yes,” He pants. “I don’t need to breathe.”

Zhang Hao lets out a small giggle at how ridiculous that is, but at Hanbin’s insistence, he lowers completely, feeling utterly exposed and a little hesitant. That is until Hanbin’s wet tongue circles his rim, prods at his hole and slips in. After that, Zhang Hao loses all ability for coherent thought. He’s a crying, twitching mess as Hanbin eats him out with loud slurps and obscene smacks. He grinds his hips down with abandon, trying to get him deeper, deeper.

And that — his pleasure, his inhibition — completely breaks Hanbin. He whimpers and whines and moans and gasps beneath him. He sounds like he’s the one getting it. And Zhang Hao watches as Hanbin hips uselessly buck into the air, his cock completely hard now and dribbling precum that looks nearly pearlescent under the moonlight. The sight so obscene, so intimate and beautiful and wild. White noise buzzes through his brain, his entire vision blacking out for a moment when he comes. He screams and screams and screams.

Zhang Hao loves this. He loves feeling so close to Hanbin. He wants him right here, between his legs. He wants him pressed right up against his heart as they fall asleep. He wants him tangled all throughout every moment of his life in all of the threads that wind through the intangible amalgam of fate. Any way he can get him. He blinks his eyes open just in time to watch Hanbin’s cock jerk, once, twice, spilling thick, warm ropes of cum across his stomach and chest.

Very carefully, Zhang Hao lifts his leg, wincing at how it’s fallen asleep. He groans as he flops over on his back feeling the blood flow back through them. He turns over on his side, hand carding through Hanbin’s hair. “Are you still alive?”

“Absolutely not,” Hanbin sighs. But moments later, he sits up, reaching for the throw next to them to wipe up his spend. That is going directly into the wash after this — along with literally every other item on this sofa.

Zhang Hao smiles at the thought, giddy and so, so happy. It’s just laundry, and yet … he gets to do it with him. When Hanbin turns back to him, Zhang Hao lifts his arms to welcome him home, folding him into them like they’ve done this a million times, like, in the blink of an eye, they’ll do it a million more.