Archive of Our Own

Zhang Hao wakes up hating the world. 

Many things are wrong about today. For starters, like the dummy he is, he fell asleep with his contacts on. It’s awfully hard to peel his crusty eyes open—red and inflamed and sensitive, throbbing as if he stayed up all night reading those cheap romance novels he used to love as a teenager. 

Which he didn’t. If he had, maybe he wouldn’t be hating the world this much.

Then, the coffee—or well, lack of it. Zhang Hao stares in disbelief at his empty pantry. The universe is awfully cruel to him. He’s a joke. And yes, it was the cheap kind. Instant, the type that makes your tastebuds cry and suffer, but it was still coffee. And now he doesn’t have any.

There’s some oat milk in the fridge. That will do, Zhang Hao thinks grimly. Then he grimaces when he takes a sip straight from the carton. It tastes funny. Not ha-ha funny, though. A very not-funny kind of funny.

And well, fate doesn’t seem to be done with him today. Because right after he closes his fridge, his socked foot touches a puddle of water. He stares down at it in disbelief. This pair of socks was the only one half-clean, since he hasn’t had time to do laundry lately.

He peels the sock off with two fingers and flings it across the kitchen. It lands on a sad excuse of a plant sitting by his windowsill. At least it didn’t fall down the street below, Zhang Hao thinks again. If he looks at the plant hard enough, he’s pretty sure she’s asking for help. He’s pretty sure she hates her existence in this world—that she’s begging for mercy.

“Well, that makes two of us,” Zhang Hao says to his empty apartment.

It’s not even seven thirty a.m.

♡︎

Zhang Hao is a very meticulous person. Which means there’s a system to everything he does. Hating things is not the exception. 

The thing he hates the most is waking up early. It doesn’t matter if he went to bed at a decent hour, it doesn’t matter if sleeping twenty minutes less would make his commute to work less hellish, it doesn’t matter if there’s a life-or-death situation on the line. He just hates waking up early.

He only does it on weekdays. Because of, well, work. Which means he hates working. He doesn’t hate his job in itself, in fact, he likes it enough. It’s the concept of working that he loathes. Waking up early to slave away at an office, making small talk with his coworkers, having to bend to the whims of his very incapable bosses.

Now, hating work doesn’t just mean hating the task, it also means hating the people he works with. Well, some people only. 

Okay, actually, just one person. 

Sung Hanbin. He hates Sung Hanbin—his rival, his sworn enemy, his arch-nemesis.

Zhang Hao hates many things about Sung Hanbin. These are, in no particular order: His blinding smiles. Zhang Hao doesn’t really know how he does it. It’s incredibly inconvenient and annoying to have to move his face so early in the morning, and Hanbin does it flawlessly. Whatever.

Next, his careful words, the way he always treats everyone as if they’re made of glass. His excellent work ethic, his perfectly crafted, over-polite emails. His beautiful styled hair (seriously, at what time does this guy wake up?). His groundbreaking ideas. And last, but definitely not least, his unwavering conviction that everything is going to be all right. 

Zhang Hao could go on forever, but that’s enough for now.

Wait—scratch that. He also hates the fact that Sung Hanbin remembers everyone’s birthday and buys them their favorite cake. So yeah, just Sung Hanbin in general.

And Sung Hanbin hates him back. That’s what Zhang Hao thinks, at least. Actually, he knows it. 

Sung Hanbin might try to hide it, Zhang Hao knows he does, but this… rivalry, it’s mutual. That’s crystal clear. Sung Hanbin might smile at him like he does to everyone, bright teeth on full display, dimpled cheeks and crinkled eyes, but Zhang Hao knows better. There’s always a little something in his eyes. Mischievous, daring.

He might talk to him like he does to everyone, in that warm , sugary tone, but Zhang Hao knows better. He can hear the provocation underneath, the teasing, especially when he says without a fault every single day, “Nice job today, sunbanim!”

So really, all the things he hates are connected. Waking up early, work, Sung Hanbin. A pattern, a system.

He also happens to hate his birthday. And today—bloodshot eyes, coffeeless morning, wet socks, spoiled milk—just happens to be his birthday.

♡︎

His mood does not improve on the way to work. The train is packed, someone with a very stinky morning breath breathes directly onto his cheek, a child is wailing loudly, and his eyeballs still feel like they’ve been exfoliated with sand.

By the time he reaches the office, Zhang Hao has already decided that today can go fuck itself. Also, it’s officially the worst birthday of his life. 

And obviously, things only get worse.

The first sign that he stupidly ignores is that the office is empty, which wouldn’t be that weird, Zhang Hao is always the second one to arrive. After Sung Hanbin, that is. But this morning, he’s here late—later than usual, and not even Hanbin is on sight.

The second sign that he stupidly ignores is the smell. The office stinks. It doesn’t reek of barely concealed farts, not the way it does after lunch, and it doesn’t smell like… unwashed bodies, either. It almost smells like… durian? 

This can’t be. Zhang Hao takes a cautious whiff. Yep, it does smell like unwashed bodies—the way it does every single morning—but layered under that is something sweet (to him), slightly nutty, and maybe even like rotten onions. But not unpleasant (again, to him). 

It’s coming from the kitchen.

Now, this is not a sign. This is downright a mistake. But you can’t really blame a caffeine-deprived man for doing stupid things. That’s how life works. You’re born, you grow up, you do stupid things, you die. The end.

Everything plays out like this: Zhang Hao follows the smell—of course he does. He’s hungry, angry, and durian is like his own rendition of a forbidden fruit. With careful steps, he walks into the kitchen, which is eerily dark. He fumbles for the light switch, and when the light flicks on—

It’s hell. All his coworkers are there, huddled together by the fridge, clapping and smiling and singing off-key. Zhang Hao nearly dies on the spot.

“Happy birthday to you…” everyone warbles.

Zhang Hao just blinks. Stares.

There’s cake, that’s where the smell came from. Durian cake. Even though his coworkers are trying their best, their noses still wrinkle with distaste from time to time. Someone is even pinching their nose. Zhang Hao doesn’t blame them. Poor souls.

There are candles too, obviously. Someone has blown a single balloon and taped it to the fridge. There’s even a party hat right on the table.

And last but not least, worst of all—there’s Sung Hanbin. Holding the motherfucking durian cake with the brightest smile Zhang Hao has ever seen, not even a hint of distaste at the strong, pungent smell bathing the room.

Of course he is.

No. No, no, no. This cannot be happening.

But it is happening. Zhang Hao realizes with horror as none other than Sung Hanbin—Sung Hanbin and his stupidly nice pastel blue button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbows, showing his nice and strong (wait, nice and strong?) forearms—walks toward him, cake in hand. 

“Happy twenty-fifth birthday, Hao-sunbaenim!” Hanbin beams, standing right next to him, holding the disgustingly delicious looking durian cake in front of Zhang Hao’s face.

Zhang Hao stares at the flickering candles. They’re pink. Pink. How does Hanbin even know he likes pink? His sworn enemy, his arch nemesis, knows his favorite cake flavor and his favorite color. There must be an underlying plot here, some deeper scheme Zhang Hao hasn’t unraveled yet. But his brain is fried right now.

“Come on, sumbaenim,” Hanbin says cheerfully, holding out the cake. “Do you want us to sing it again?” he adds, mischievous, eyes sparkly. 

Too sparkly. So sparkly it grates against Zhang Hao’s already-fraying nerves. His jaw clenches. He really, really hates when Hanbin calls him sunbaenim, all sugary-sweet.

Everyone is watching. There’s nothing left for him to do but close his eyes and blow the candles.

“Don’t forget to make a wish,” Hanbin whispers, right next to his ear. 

Zhang Hao’s eye twitches. He just stares at the flickering flame and thinks: oh, how I wish to be anywhere but here. 

♡︎

He’s the birthday boy, which means there’s no way in hell he’s leaving this place without eating some cake. His coworkers don’t even pretend to eat, they just hover around the kitchen, sipping on that disgusting office coffee and laughing too loudly for how early it is.

Hanbin hands him the first and only slice. Zhang Hao would rather die than accept anything, literally anything from him, but he still takes it. And he eats it. Really, he can’t be blamed, as the cake smells divine, strong, sweet, pungent, buttery, just how he likes it. It’s not his fault his mouth waters and he has to take a bite. He doesn’t want to. He just has to do it. His body is in charge.

He tries to take a small bite, tries to look reluctant, but as soon as it melts on his tongue, something dangerously close to a moan threatens to leave his lips. He obviously swallows it down along the delicious cake. He cannot let Sung Hanbin know that he’s done something good.

Still, his mouth is a treacherous thing. “This is fresh durian, not frozen,” he mutters before he can stop himself.

Hanbin’s eyes light up. Zhang Hao does not like that. “Of course, sunbaenim. You said once that the frozen stuff was a direct offense to you and your ancestry, so I had to make sure the place made it with fresh durian, just the way you like it. It’s your special day, after all.”

Zhang Hao just stares at him, narrowing his eyes. When did I say that? Was it during that group lunch two months ago? Was he drunk? Was Hanbin taking notes under the table so he could use the information gathered against him later?

Also, “special day”? Is this guy laughing at my misfortune?

Hanbin just smiles even brighter. He’s sooo annoying. His perfect teeth are annoying, his cute dimples are annoying, his rosy cheeks are annoying. “You talk too much,” Zhang Hao grumbles, stabbing the frosting with a little too-much strength.

A wink. Hanbin winks at him, playfully. “Well, it seems that you liked it,” he teases, nodding at Zhang Hao’s nearly empty plate. “Hope this didn’t ruin your morning routine.”

Eh? Morning routine? What morning routine? Does glaring at his computer screen for a whole hour before finding the will to live count as routine? Zhang Hao just raises a brow. “What routine?”

Hanbin shrugs, eyes twinkling, like he walked straight into his trap. “Exactly.”

Exactly? The fuck?

By the time Zhang Hao finds the words to snap back at this little devil, he’s already gone. Back in his cubicle, sitting neatly, the spitting image of a good boy. Zhang Hao could go there and throw the plate at him. That would be a good idea, a good revenge, but he also wants another bite.

He does both. Glares at the back of Hanbin’s smug little head from the kitchen, and eats. It’s unfair how good the cake is.

♡︎

Zhang Hao sits at his desk. The smell of durian still lingers in the office. All the windows are open, and someone has been spraying air freshener every five minutes (making everything worse, mind you), but that’s not really where his mind is at.

He’s tried to concentrate, really, really tried. Zhang Hao always prides himself in his ability to compartmentalize, on how he’s at his job even when he doesn’t really want to be. Today is different. Because every time he scrolls through a spreadsheet, he sees pink candles. Every time he types a bullet point, he sees Hanbin proudly holding that stupid durian cake.

This is ridiculous. He’s pretty sure Hanbin did it on purpose so he would be distracted during today’s meeting. Yes, that must be it. Sabotage. But Zhang Hao won’t lose, much less lose against a pretty boy with nefarious intentions.

Wait. Pretty boy?

The durian must be rotting his brain. And anyway, he means it in a derogatory way. Obviously.  

Working in marketing is horribly boring. It’s not what Zhang Hao pictured himself doing, it’s not what Zhang Hao dreamed of doing, but it’s what he’s currently doing. It pays the bills, and that’s more than enough to qualify as remotely decent. And even if he doesn’t love it, he’s still good at it. The best. Alongside the one who shall not be named.

Which is why he makes sure to be the first one to arrive at the meeting room, sitting perfectly straight, presentation pulled up and ready to go, pink pastel highlighter uncapped in his left hand. It’s drying, and no one’s here yet, but he’s ready. And Hanbin? Nowhere in sight. 

Ha. I win this one.

Zhang Hao is so deep in thought he doesn’t realize when the room starts to fill with people. Not too many people, though. Just his team lead, the manager, and a few senior team members whose names he doesn’t care enough to remember. And him. Sung Hanbin.

Across the table, Sung Hanbin lounges in his chair with a paper coffee cup on hand, his shirt buttoned all the way to the top. His forearms are hidden this time—Zhang Hao does not know why his brain decides to fixate on that—but there’s a new problem. A pair of thin black frames perched on the bridge of his nose. 

Hanbin looks bad. Bad and ugly and Zhang Hao hates him and Hanbin hates him back. 

…At least that's what he tells himself when his chest does something weird—when his pulse starts quickening after Hanbin leans in to speak softly to one of the new interns, charmingly flashing his dimples, engaging but never inappropriate. 

And he doesn’t look good doing any of that. He’s annoying and he makes Zhang Hao impossibly angry. That’s why it feels like his heart is about to punch through his ribs, why warmth rises to his cheeks. No other particular reason.

Still, he pointedly looks away when Hanbin tries to catch his eyes. It’s not like Zhang Hao actually needs to look at him to know he’s here. He can feel him. 

There’s something about Hanbin, something about him that just oozes confidence without even trying. It’s infuriating–the way everyone’s eyes naturally gravitate towards him, and how Hanbin just basks in it.

The murmur of the room slowly dies down as the team leader clears her throat, catching everyone’s attention. She’s nice. Zhang Hao likes her enough, and that’s a lot coming from a certified hater like him. 

“Let’s start with the updates on the BaseOne project. Hao, you first?” she says, nodding toward him.

Zhang Hao nods back, stands and clicks his laptop awake. He’s been waiting for this all week, because yes, he might be many things—a little neurotic, a tiny bit of a hater, someone who whines and complains with ease, a guy who hates to work overtime—but above all, he’s prepared and precise. Always.

And obviously, he does amazing. He’s the best employee of this goddam company, for fuck's sake. His segment is clean, updated with the latest feedback from their client. His presentation is carefully curated, precise and perfect and straight to the point. 

As Zhang Hao speaks, a few of their senior team members nod in agreement, and some nod in surprise at a particularly good point he makes. Honestly, they shouldn’t be surprised. If Zhang Hao could, he’d scoff in irritation. He’s always been good at everything he does.

At the end of his presentation, his manager gives him a satisfied smile and a small pat on the back. “Great as always, Hao. Clear and precise, which is exactly what our client needs. Keep it up.”

Zhang Hao enjoys praise a lot. Hell, more than a lot actually, but he’s always a bit shy upon receiving it. So he just dips his head modestly, the tips of his ears burning red, and stares straight ahead. Straight at none other than Sung Hanbin—his arch nemesis—with a smug smile. 

This, he’s not shy about. Competition. 

But Hanbin isn’t staring back at him with defiance or jealousy. He isn’t sulking, he isn’t glaring. He’s looking back with something that suspiciously looks like… pride? 

No. No, no, no. It can’t be. It really, really can’t be. Zhang Hao must be imagining things. Or maybe Hanbin is a hell of a good actor. That must be it. 

Then it’s Hanbin’s turn. And he’s perfect, which is not a surprise. If there’s one thing Zhang Hao will concede to him, it is that the guy is incredibly smart and capable, and as much of a hard worker as he is. Their bosses love to capitalize on it, teaming them up on everything.

Which is obviously annoying. It seems like that’s his perpetual state of mind at work, though.

Hanbin is warm and funny, and even the older, stone-faced team members chuckle at some of his light-hearted jokes. Zhang Hao’s mouth does not twitch in amusement, and he definitely does not cover it with his hand to hide it. Absolutely not.

Their presentations are almost identical, both reaching the same conclusions, but his tone is sweeter, softer somehow. Warmer, more natural. Less numbers, more story, more connecting with the client. And damn it, it works. Zhang Hao feels his jaw tighten from how good he is—how charming, how natural at public speaking.

“Loved the tone, Hanbin,” the manager says, clearly pleased. “Between your engagement angle and Hao’s precision, we've got the perfect balance. As expected of our most reliable employees.”

Zhang Hao suppresses the need to roll his eyes. That would be unbecoming of the kind of professional he is. And also, he is one of their most reliable employees. No lie there.

Someone hums from the table, clicking a pen against a notepad. Zhang Hao doesn’t know who it is, because he’s not really paying attention to any of them. His eyes are on Hanbin. Hanbin, standing at the front of the room, with that relaxed, perfectly good-boy posture. Hanbin, with his stupid charming smile. Hanbin, with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. Ugh.

“So, I was thinking we should combine both styles before updating the client, right? Everyone agrees?” says some random guy. It’s probably one of the older ones, considering he sounds like he’s been smoking for the past thirty years.

“Absolutely!” Hanbin says easily, as the rest of the room murmurs in agreement.

Zhang Hao doesn’t outwardly react. In life, one must be good at many things, and he’s mastered the art of expressionless nodding.

It’s not surprising, really. This is the way things always go. Their styles are always… complementary. And it’s not even much of a competition, because neither of them is better than the other, neither gets more praise than the other—not at all. They’re equals in all aspects. And that’s probably the most annoying part. How they’re always expected to work together, how they’re seen as a set. 

“Great, you’re all dismissed, then,” the manager says before nodding to the younger members of the team, and people start filing out, already making lunch plans.

Something twists in Zhang Hao’s chest. He doesn’t know what it is, but it gets worse when Hanbin flashes him a look and a smile. Not smug, not triumphant—just genuine. He’s always so genuine.

Zhang Hao doesn’t leave right away. He lingers, organizing his things slowly, dragging it out. He doesn’t feel like walking into a room full of his coworkers. Some alone time would be nice, but Hanbin, of course, doesn’t leave either. 

He stands nearby with one hand in his pocket, resting his hip against the meeting table. “Sunbaenim did a good job with the timeline adjustments,” Hanbin says casually. “I wasn’t sure it could be done.”

Zhang Hao closes his laptop with a bit more force than necessary before staring back at him, one eyebrow raised. “Didn’t you do the exact same thing?”

“Yes, but yours was clearer. Better structure.” For a moment, Zhang Hao thinks this might be a civil conversation between them. That is, until Hanbin leans in dangerously close to his face, a wicked grin curling on his lips. “Wait… did sunbaenim just praise me? I must mark this day on my calendar. What a special occasion.”

Zhang Hao’s mouth twitches in annoyance. There goes his good boy act. Because that’s what it is, at least when it comes to their relationship. “It was an observation,” Zhang Hao remarks, not leaning back even though he could count every single one of Hanbin’s long eyelashes at this distance. That’s how close they are. “You’re obsessed with me. It’s weird. Should I just file a complaint with HR?”

Hanbin only smiles brighter, this time less teasing. “Ah, what can be done about it?” he sighs dramatically. “I can’t deny it. Sunbaenim is just so good at everything he does, this poor hoobae can’t help but admire him.”

Before Zhang Hao can throw his pastel pink highlighter right at his face, Hanbin winks—fucking winks—and strolls out of the room. Zhang Hao stays frozen in place, glaring at his back, at the broad stretch of his shoulders, at the way his pants hug his waist just right. Even his clothes are annoying.

Right at the door, Hanbin pauses, turning just slightly in a way that only shows his side profile. “Good job today, sunbaenim,” he says softly, gentler. “Don’t forget the leftover cake. Eat it tonight, yeah? It’s your favorite, after all.”

Zhang Hao nods against his own will.

♡︎

Going home with a box full of durian cake is a punishment Zhang Hao wouldn’t wish upon his worst enemy. If his mind were a little bit more twisted, he might believe Hanbin did this on purpose to make his day even more awful. That’s a fleeting thought, though—the guy might be infuriating, but not a bad person. Quite the opposite, which is also infuriating. If he were a bad person then hating him would be easier.

Back to the durian cake. He almost, almost, walks back home. The stares people give him as soon as he boards the subway are… not really nice. Still, he’s too tired. Too tired to care about old ladies wrinkling their noses in distaste and side-eyeing him, or all the people around him who change seats.

It’s dark back at his apartment when he arrives. Same old. It’s always been like this, for as long as Zhang Han can remember. His birthdays back home weren’t celebrated with huge fanfare, either, so it isn’t like this is new. 

He’s gotten used to loneliness too. It doesn’t bother him like it once did. No one to surprise him, no buzzing phone, no missed calls. All he has is just a box of durian cake—given to him by none other than Sung Hanbin—and a few texts from his family.

He toes off his shoes, drops his work bag by the door, and stands there for a moment, breathing. Durian, lavender, dust. Home sweet home. 

This is fine, he tells himself. He likes quiet, craves it. For him, being alone is a luxury, especially when your job requires being around people who talk a lot, and when you’re expected to talk back as much. When you don’t get a second of the day to rest, to breathe. 

Tonight though, solitude feels different. Everything feels different, weirdly enough. The silence is too loud, his walls a bit too bare, impersonal. This space that he should call home feels a bit too big for just one person.

The kitchen stays dark as Zhang Hao sets the cake on the counter and grabs a pair of wooden chopsticks, eating it straight from the cartoon box. His kitchen window stays open, the faint chilly night air filtering in making him shiver as he tries to tune off the faint noise of his neighbors TV seeping through the thin walls. That’s how quiet it is. 

The first bite is as awful as expected. The thing with durian is that it’s an acquired taste. You must train your tastebuds to like it, you can’t be swayed by first impressions, by things as shallow as smell. Once you get to know it, to truly know it, there’s no going back. No way to hate it. Only love.

The second bite is better, and by the fourth, it’s delicious. So delicious he finishes it in no time, scrapping the box clean, throwing the empty container in the trashcan. It’s about to overflow, but he doesn’t care about it now. It’s something for him to worry about in the future.

Once he finally, finally collapses into bed, and even though he’s showered thoroughly—the smell of his strawberry body wash and baby powder sitting on his skin—Zhang Hao still feels sticky with sugar. His mouth still tastes pungent, sweet. And even though his limbs ache with fatigue, and there’s a faint ache on the back of his skull, brain fried and tired, he still thinks of today.

Naturally it’s inevitable not to think about Hanbin.

Because somehow, even though it’s Zhang Hao’s birthday, Hanbin was at the center of it. From the cake to their banter, their competition at work, and then all the way to his home—Hanbin is here. 

He’s here in the trashcan with the box, he’s here in the saccharine sticking to his tongue, he’s here in Zhang Hao’s work bag, on his notepad, full of scribbles from today’s meeting. He’s here in Zhang Hao’s mind, even as he tries to shove the thoughts away. He shouldn’t be here, but he is.

And he’s so… confusing. Warm and kind one minute, teasing and insufferable the next. Zhang Hao can’t understand him at all. 

Burying his face in his fluffy pillow, Zhang Hao groans as loud as he can. It doesn’t really help—his chest still feels strangely tight. He flops onto his back, stares at the ceiling. “That guy is so infuriating. And annoying. Ugh,” he whispers to no one in particular. It’s just him, after all. “I wish I could read his mind.”

♡︎

Obviously, and because everyone hates him, Zhang Hao wakes up with a tummy ache. No wonder, since last night he ate his body weight in cake. 

It’s disgusting though, the way his burps taste strongly of durian and whipped cream. Two faced bastard, that beloved fruit of his. This is betrayal—attacking him first thing in the morning.

Groaning and rubbing his tummy, Zhang Hao flops back onto his pillow, eyes squeezed shut. On top of it all, his alarm hasn’t gone off yet, and if there's something Zhang Hao hates, loathes even more than work is waking up before his alarm. But his tummy hurts, and his mouth tastes vile. 

Clearly, this is all Hanbin’s fault. He has ruined his birthday, his morning, and durian forever. He bought a cake and insisted Zhang Hao take the leftovers home. If he hadn’t, then Zhang Hao wouldn’t have eaten them and he wouldn’t feel like shit now. It makes perfect sense.

Good job today, sunbaenim, the annoying brat had said yesterday. The words replay in his head against his own will in the low, sweet cadence of his voice. It makes his chest clench uncomfortably, which is surprising and awful. 

Zhang Hao pinches himself in the arm, because what the fuck? Thinking about his enemy first thing after waking up? Did Sung Hanbin poison him? Implant a chip in his brain through the cake?

Dragging the fluffy blanket over his head, Zhang Hao groans and whines. “I won’t think about him today,” he mumbles to himself. “I will avoid him. Actually, I won’t think about anything at all. My mind will be blank and peaceful. Blank and peaceful."

Blank and peaceful, blank and peaceful, Zhang Hao repeats to himself a few times. Yes. Today will be a good day. He won’t let a tummy ache and Sung Hanbin ruin it. But first things first, coffee.

The pantry is empty. 

Right, he forgot he didn’t have any.

The universe is not kind. The universe kicks a man when he’s down, no empathy, no compassion whatsoever. But Zhang Hao has decided he’s better than this. He’s strong, he’s cute, he’s handsome, he’s smart, and the universe will not beat him. Today will be a good day, even if it’s already started bad.

He leaves early. He’s usually the first one in the office—well, sometimes the second (actually, most of the time)—but today he leaves earlier than usual. And it’s a blessing. The subway isn’t cramped, and his favorite café is almost empty. 

Ah, small wins.

The barista behind the counter greets him with a bright smile. “Good morning!” A young kid, freshman in college, probably. His nametag reads Park Gunwook. He’s too awake and full of life. Poor kid. He doesn’t know the horrors awaiting him. “What can I get you?”

Dragging himself toward the register, Zhang Hao replies, “Good morning. An iced americano, please.” He’d usually ask for something milky and sugary, but that would probably make him shit his pants at work. His tummy is already very angry at him—better to play it safe.

Park Gunwook the barista hums in agreement, tapping his order into the register. “Name?”

“Zhang Hao,” he says automatically. Most of the time he just says Hao, but he’s still half-asleep at the moment. Whatever.

The card reader is handed to him, and Zhang Hao taps his phone to pay. He looks up, and the moment his eyes meet with the kid's, he hears him say in an almost panicked voice, “God damn, I think I’m about to misspell his name. Shit, he’s going to think I’m a racist scum. I should probably get back to my Chinese lessons so this doesn’t happen again. Still, I’ll try my hardest. Park Gunwook, fighting!” 

Zhang Hao nearly drops dead. He doesn’t even realize his phone slips from his hand. Because—because, what he heard—what Park Gunwook said… he didn’t open his mouth at all. Zhang Hao would know, he was staring at him. The kid was smiling, bright and gummy. 

But Zhang Hao heard him. He literally heard him. On his mother, he swears. 

What the actual fuck is going on.

He’s imagining things. He surely is imagining things. He must be imagining things. This is not real. This is not happening. 

“Ummm, sorry?” he tries, but his voice comes out all shaky and panicky. “Did you just say something?”

Park Gunwook just blinks in confusion. “No? Are you okay, sir?”

Zhang Hao stares at him. Opens his mouth. Shuts it again. All while still hearing Gunwook's voice… in his mind? The kid is going at it non-stop. 

“Oh my god. What should I do? He looks horribly pale. Is he going to faint? Is he going to have a heart attack? Okay, be calm, Park Gunwook. You know what to do. Remember when you took that first-aid course in high school? You’ll be fine, you—”

It stops when Zhang Hao looks away from the barista. He doesn’t hear him anymore. 

“I’ll go… prepare your coffee?” Park Gunwook says aloud, but it sounds hesitant. He’s probably as freaked out as Zhang Hao is, but he can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed. This is crazy and definitely not real.

Zhang Hao bends down to grab his phone in a haste, and then takes one, two, three steps back, all while his eyes are glued to the floor. Not at Gunwook. He doesn’t want to go through whatever it is that just happened ever again. 

Ultimately, he turns around and escapes. No coffee on sight.

Zhang Hao walks fast. He doesn’t run, he has some dignity left, but he walks fast enough to draw stares. Also, he’s trying to rationalize what just happened. He’s a man of logic. There’s no way in hell he just read someone’s thoughts, because that simply doesn’t happen in real life.

So, yeah. He’s normal. Totally normal. He doesn’t almost stumble off the curb, and his hands definitely aren’t shaking. He’s not clutching his work bag to his chest like a bulletproof vest, and he’s not about to puke all the durian cake he ate last night. 

He just… probably needs coffee. Yes. Coffee withdrawal hallucinations. That’s plausible, right? He hasn’t had coffee in two days. Maybe he should turn back to the café to get his drink, but then he remembers. Remembers Park Gunwook’s panicked voice in his head—talking about first-aid and CPR and heart attacks—and just keeps walking straight ahead. No coffee for him.

Zhang Hao’s sweaty and panting by the time he rounds the corner and sees the glass exterior of his office building. Also, he’s managed to convince himself that he’s either dying or experiencing some sort of durian-induced psychosis. A very fun morning overall.

Still, there’s a nagging and annoying part of his mind that he can’t ignore, that just won’t shut up. It tells him that whatever happened back at the café was definitely real, that he’s not imagining things or going crazy. That he did get a peek into Park Gunwook’s thoughts, but only under certain conditions. Because the second he looked away—it stopped. And since then, nothing. Not on the street, not inside the office lobby, where he’s been standing like a statue for several minutes.

Mr. Lee, the security guard, is at his usual post. And he’s staring at Zhang Hao like he’s grown a second head, which, given the strange events of this morning, he might have. But he’s also the perfect test subject. It won’t be weird if Zhang Hao approaches him, if he makes eye contact. And since he’s a man of logic and science, his theory needs to be tested.

So he walks up slowly, hands still shaking from adrenaline. When he gets close enough, he lifts his head, meets Mr. Lee’s eyes, and it happens again. He hears everything, every single thought. 

“This coffee tastes like shit. The people in this goddamn building make millions and they can’t be bothered to buy decent beans. Stingy bastards. And what’s with this kid? Why is he staring at me like I stole his lunch? I’m gonna—”

Zhang Hao trips from the shock, tearing his gaze away from Mr. Lee, and just like that, the voice cuts off. The guard bolts upright, but Zhang Hao’s already back on his feet, forcing himself to look everywhere but at him. He doesn’t want to hear him again. He just wants to lock himself in the bathroom stall and and curl up in fetal position. This cannot be happening.

“You okay there, kid?” The old man asks. Zhang Hao just nods in agreement, mutters a quick good morning to Mr. Lee, and walks quickly to the stairs, taking them two at a time. The elevator is too dangerous, too many people, and he doesn’t want to be near anyone for the time being.

Because it’s real. This is real. He can hear people’s thoughts. What the actual fuck.

And… will he be able to hear Sung Hanbin’s thoughts too?

Zhang Hao’s not sure he wants to find out.

Since he doesn’t want to find out, he does what any normal and totally mature twenty five year old would do. He hides. Zhang Hao waits on a bathroom stall until it’s exactly eight, so he doesn’t have to see Hanbin more than it’s strictly necessary. First thing in the morning, it’s always just the two of them—Hanbin relentlessly staring, Zhang Hao frowning in annoyance. He absolutely doesn’t want that to happen today. Obviously he has to hide.

It’s impossible to stay here forever, though, so when Zhang Hao deems that it’s late enough to leave, he keeps his eyes glued to his shoes. Honestly, he doesn’t want to trip again, and also, he doesn’t want to risk looking at one of his coworkers just to hear whatever they’re thinking about. He doesn’t want to know any more than what is strictly necessary about them. Actually, he doesn’t want to know anything about them.

His success lasts only until mid-morning. Because, well, he’s a human, and humans need water. The only source is the kitchen. Zhang Hao peeks over his cubicle wall. Hanbin is nowhere to be seen—probably in a meeting, then. Great, perfect. 

Mission: hydrate while avoiding Sung Hanbin at all costs. A life or death situation. High stakes. 

With this in mind Zhang Hao makes himself as small as possible, steps quiet and light as he tip-toes to the kitchen. Pressing his back to the wall, he peers as inconspicuously as he can through the narrow gap in the doorway, just to find it empty. The coast is clear, then. 

No Hanbin, yes water. Mission success. 

He’s still shaky from this morning’s discovery and absolutely not ready to deal with Hanbin’s smug face, thank you very much. He also doesn’t want to risk hearing Hanbin’s thoughts and confirming what he already knows—how much he hates, despises, loathes Zhang Hao. The thought alone makes something unpleasant twist in his tummy, and it’s not the durian-cake induced kind of ache.

But of course—of fucking course—life can’t be that easy. Just as he takes a sip, none other than Sung Hanbin enters the kitchen, and he seems to be looking for him, because as soon as his eyes land on Zhang Hao’s frame, he mutters a soft, “Ah, there you are.”

Zhang Hao, naturally, chokes. It’s the only way he could have reacted, honestly. The very last person he wanted to see has just materialized out of thin air in front of him. The cough is so bad tears spring to his eyes, his face getting all red and splotchy. 

A hand rubs his back gently, and calming words are muttered next to his ear. Zhang Hao can’t hear a thing. His wheezing is way too loud. Lord, this is so embarrassing.

Even when the coughing subsides, Hanbin doesn’t move his hand. “Be careful, sunbaenim. We can’t afford to lose you,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like that’s something you just say out of nowhere to your mortal enemy.

And then—what Zhang Hao has been dreading—happens. No matter how hard he tries, he’s surprised by Hanbin’s words. His body reacts on its own, looking up, and their eyes meet.

Zhang Hao doesn’t think they’ve ever been this close before. Their noses are a mere breath apart, and he can smell Hanbin, citrucy, fresh. His lashes are long, and there’s a tiny mole on his cheek that he had never seen before.

And then, panic settles in. Because Zhang Hao doesn’t want to hear his thoughts. Not now, not him, not like this. Not when he’s so close, not when there’s nowhere to run. 

Still, he doesn’t look away. Even though he can, he doesn’t.

And Hanbin’s thoughts—he’s not thinking anything particularly bad about Zhang Hao. He’s not calling him his arch-nemesis, his lifelong rival, or his mortal enemy like Zhang Hao often does. He’s not teasing him, mocking him. 

Quite the opposite. The voice in his head is soft, gentle, and if Zhang Hao dared to say, fond.

“My Hao-hyung is always so clumsy. I need to keep my eyes on him all the time to make sure nothing happens to him. So cute…”

Stop. Wait. World, stop spinning. Zhang Hao, breathe.

Because—what? What the actual fuck? Is Zhang Hao still asleep? Did he wake up in a different dimension? 

My Hao-hyung? Clumsy? Cute? I need to keep my eyes on him all the time?

And even though Zhang Hao wants to break eye contact, wants to stop listening to Hanbin’s thoughts, he can’t. He’s frozen in place, still feeling the warm hand Hanbin keeps on his elbow, still hearing the low cadence of his voice in his mind, flooding his head.

“Okay, he looks tired. Did he sleep well? Maybe he stayed up too late celebrating his birthday. Also, should I have picked watermelon instead of durian? What if he hated the cake?”

Zhang Hao almost, almost laughs at how absurd this situation is. He couldn’t sleep last night because of Hanbin, and here he is, worrying about him. Figures. This is just all too confusing. 

And Hanbin’s face mirrors Zhang Hao’s confusion as well, his lips downturned, his brows furrowed. His confusion, though, is born from Zhang Hao’s silence, his relentless stare.

“Ummmm… why is he looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face? Did I shave wrong again? Lord… was it something I said? But—ah. He’s so cute when he’s grumpy. I really want to make him grumpy all the time,” Hanbin’s thoughts trail off, just to pick back up again. “No, wait. Focus, Hanbin. Be cool. Be normal. Stop being a loser.”

“Sunbaenim, is something wrong?” Hanbin asks aloud, yet Zhang Hao still doesn’t move. Still counts every eyelash fanning Hanbin’s cheeks, still feels the heat radiating off him. “Is my face so handsome that sunbaenim can’t stop looking?” Hanbin teases with a cheeky smile. 

That breaks him. Zhang Hao stumbles back so fast that his hip smacks the counter, that the glass of water in his hand spills across his shirt. He knows his eyes are wild, can feel his pulse hammering in his throat, loud and strong. 

He drops his gaze to the floor and—silence. He doesn’t hear Hanbin anymore. But this is almost worse, tense and uncomfortable, no doubt prompted by his strange attitude. Any other day, he would be furiously snapping back, red with anger and not… timidness.

Because, what the fuck was that? Sung Hanbin doesn’t actually hate him?? Sung Hanbin thinks he’s cute??? Sung Hanbin gets nervous when he talks to him????!

Impossible. Considering his options, Zhang Hao concludes that he cannot read minds. The durian-induced psychosis is probably the most rational explanation to what’s happening today.

Hanbin’s shoes step into view. He’s taking slow, careful steps towards Zhang Hao, almost scared to, well, scare him, like one would to a frightened animal. “Uh… sunbaenim? Are you okay?” he asks, and even though Zhang Hao refuses to look at him, the concern in his voice is palpable. “You look a little… red.” 

The urge to scream is overwhelming. He wants to scream at Hanbin, he wants to scream at the world, into the void. He wants to curl in bed and sleep for a week straight until everything weird that’s been happening in his life stops.

And the weirdest thing is Hanbin—Hanbin’s hand, reaching for the wet sleeve of his dress shirt, carefully. Zhang Hao never paid attention to Hanbin’s hands before. There was no need, really. Why would he need to stare at the hands of his arch-nemesis? 

But they’re nice hands, fingers not too long but not too short either, skin smooth and hydrated, better than his. He has the bad habit of biting his cuticles raw. Maybe he should start taking care of them. He can’t have Sung Hanbin being better than him at anything, even if that something is as irrelevant as hand-care. 

It would be nice to touch them, Zhang Hao thinks. Just once. They look so smooth, and gentle, and he knows they’d be warm too, and—

Enough. Back to reality. 

Hanbin’s hand is closer and closer to his own, and that is what prompts his escapade. His very clumsy escapade, Zhang Hao must add, since all he does is mutter a quick, “Yes I’m okay bye,” and flee the scene, tripping over his own feet in his rush to escape.

It reminds him of something. My Hao-hyung is always so clumsy.

Fuck.

♡︎

Obviously, Zhang Hao hides. Not his proudest moment, but shame can wait. Also, it’s not the first time he’s locked himself in a bathroom stall, knees tucked his chest as to not be seen.

He needs to be alone, and he needs to think. Or maybe he should not think at all, but that’s kind of hard for a person like him. So, he replays everything he just heard, word for word. 

Hanbin thinks he’s cute when he’s grumpy. Hanbin wants to look after him. Hanbin thinks of Zhang Hao as—as his.

And the worst part? Zhang Hao doesn’t feel as disgusted as he should feel. Because he should feel disgusted. Sung Hanbin is his mortal enemy—has been his mortal enemy for the past year, where they’ve had this weird kind of relationship, this kind of push-and-pull of sorts, bickering and teasing and challenges. 

But the flutter in his chest? That isn’t disgust. And on top of that, this whole mind-reading situation is just nuts. Insane. Now, he can’t look anyone in the eye. Maybe he should take a sick leave. Maybe he should go back to China and lock himself forever in his childhood room. Maybe he should find a deserted island and move there.

What the hell.

Naturally, he must go back to his cubicle after his boss literally calls to ask where he’s gone. Zhang Hao makes up a half-lie about his tummy being upset. Which isn’t much of a lie—his tummy does hurt, just not enough to justify staying in the bathroom for a whole forty-five minutes. 

But his boss doesn’t need to know that. Let her think he has explosive diarrhea. At this point, Zhang Hao couldn’t care less.

From his desk, he’s always been able to see Hanbin. Their cubicles face each other, after all. It’s like the universe is always conspiring, always pulling them together, closer.

Zhang Hao watches him laugh at something his coworker says. It’s… impressive, really, how his whole face lights up with unfiltered joy, how his eyes crinkle at the corners, how those dimples that make him look like a cat appear. How warm and… inviting he looks. 

Maybe… maybe Zhang Hao wants to be on the receiving end of that smile too. 

Still, that thought doesn’t feel new. He’s always been confused by how much Hanbin gets under his skin, by why he’s the only one with that power, by why he’s always chasing Hanbin’s attention, his approval, without ever knowing why.

Waaaait. What?

Hanbin catches him looking—well, staring actually. Zhang Hao doesn’t think he has blinked at all in over a minute. And he smiles at him, bright and easy and kind, like he knows it’s something Zhang Hao needs at the moment.

Zhang Hao has a dire, complicated dilemma. He can read minds now (seriously, what the hell), and the person he thought was his worst enemy… is actually really nice. And he thinks nice things about him. 

And maybe… he kind of likes that?

♡︎

Many people often wonder how someone as low-profile as Zhang Hao and someone as bright and shiny as Sung Hanbin became sworn rivals. To Zhang Hao, there was no single defining moment—more like scattered scenes stitched across the year they’ve known each other.

Still, when did this even start? When did Zhang Hao start thinking of Hanbin as his enemy, even if the word doesn’t hold its full meaning?

And just like that, the memories come rushing back.

A year ago, Zhang Hao was the one and only golden boy of the office. Fresh out of college, but already a star on the rise. Reliable, efficient and thorough, even if he’s inexperienced compared to his more senior coworkers. Is this reputation something he likes? Not particularly. He doesn’t dislike it either, if he’s being honest. 

But even though he works hard, there are still some rules he follows religiously. The most important one is not working overtime. Which is why he’s always running around in the office, not letting a single minute of his workday go to waste.

Naturally, he has a reputation. An unmatched one, even.

That is, until Sung Hanbin shows up exactly six months after Zhang Hao. A fresh face, just graduated and with a killer resume. From the moment he’s introduced, his shiny and excited eyes fix in on Zhang Hao. And Zhang Hao… can’t look away either. Maybe it’s because they’re the youngest in the office, or maybe it’s something else. To this day, Zhang Hao doesn’t know.

In five minutes, Hanbin has everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. Everyone—except Zhang Hao. He’s never been easily swayed by pretty, charming boys. But Hanbin is none of the wiser, or maybe he is, and he just doesn’t care. Zhang Hao suspects the latter.

Not even a minute after everyone’s been dismissed, Hanbin finds his way to Zhang Hao’s cubicle, personally introducing himself with a deep bow, a blinding grin and all the chaotic energy of a newborn kitty. “I’m Sung Hanbin. Please take care of me, sunbaenim!”

The middle-aged lady in the cubicle next to his coos, literally coos at Sung Hanbin’s cuteness. Back then, Zhang Hao hadn’t bothered to learn many names yet, but Sung Hanbin’s burned itself into his brain instantly.

He just offers a polite nod and a small, restrained small to the boy. He doesn’t want to look too eager to make friends with him, because he isn’t, but he doesn’t want to come off as a complete and absolute asshole either. “Welcome.”

The boy practically vibrates at being acknowledged. “I’ve heard so many good things about sunbaenim,” Hanbin says with a smile that’s cheeky and bashful at the same time. Zhang Hao just raises his eyebrows in surprise, caught off guard. “I hope I can be just like him one day. His reputation precedes him.”

And so it begins.

Hanbin is good. Way too good. As good as Zhang Hao was—and still is, by the way—when he first arrived. Within a day, people were laughing loudly at his jokes in the kitchen. Within a week, some of his ideas were tossed around in meetings. Within a month, coworkers started approaching him for help.

Zhang Hao is not jealous. It would be stupid to be jealous of something as stupid and inconsequential as work, for fuck's sake, but there’s still an itch right under his skin, a certain strange feeling that blooms in his chest whenever Hanbin talks to him, whenever Hanbin looks at him. 

Back then, he called it annoyance. Annoyance and healthy professional competition. After all, growth requires someone who pushes you, who pushes your boundaries. That doesn’t mean Hanbin is any less irritating, though.

The game really begins during their first shared campaign, which, if Zhang Hao remembers correctly, (he does) wasn’t meant to be shared. The email states clearly: we want to see two perspectives. So, Zhang Hao prepares as he always does: a polished presentation, double, tripled checked data, and a clear pathway they should follow for success. A work of art, if he says so himself. A masterpiece.

Sung Hanbin doesn’t. He shows up with sticky notes and a marker. Everything he says, he notes it down on a small whiteboard he brings with him. Zhang Hao nearly has a stroke, because, what the fuck? This guy is supposed to be the new golden boy? 

But Hanbin is brilliant in his simplicity. That much Zhang Hao can admit. His ideas are innovative, his speech is engaging.

When their manager looks up at the end, she says, “Let’s merge both your proposals,” and Zhang Hao just blinks. 

This… this has never happened before. He’s not a team player, never been one. Fuck, back in college doing group projects was literally excruciating for him. He’s a lone wolf through and through. 

And now this lone wolf has to team up with a newborn kitty because, apparently, they go well together. They’re perfect together.  Which is frankly insulting.

Zhang Hao must admit that he doesn’t go into it with the best disposition. He’s annoyed, thoroughly so, but that seems to be his perpetual state of mind at work and around Hanbin. 

It’s chaos. It’s awful. It’s everything he imagined it being, but he’s not the only one to blame. Hanbin is stubborn as a mule, and so is Zhang Hao. Also, making Hanbin’s life a little more difficult is fun, so their visions clash constantly. They fight, they argue, they throw petty insults at each other, they rewrite everything twice, sometimes three times. 

And somehow, it works.

Their boss is so impressed with the proposal that from then on, every big project starts including both their names. Not officially a team, but close enough. More often than not, the entire office gets front-row seats to their dumb disagreements. Hanbin’s teasing tone as he calls Zhang Hao sunbaenim from across the room, Zhang Hao’s increasingly desperate attempts to ignore him.

He’s overheard people talking about them. Rivals—that’s the word that comes up more often, and also what Zhang Hao considers Hanbin to be. A nuisance, a thorn in his side, someone who threw his world, his stability, completely off balance.

But as infuriating as Sung Hanbin is, Zhang Hao can admit that he makes him better.

Now, Zhang Hao knows that Hanbin being exasperating isn’t enough to justify calling him his mortal enemy, his arch-nemesis. He doesn’t even earn these titles because of work disputes. Not at all. The title is earned through their daily interactions. 

It seems like Sung Hanbin has made it his personal mission to make Zhang Hao’s life as difficult as possible. Nothing too grand, but little things that pile up until Zhang Hao’s had enough.

First, the thermostat. Everyone in the office knows that Zhang Hao runs awfully cold, they’ve seen him more than once working while wrapped in a fluffy blanket like a burrito. On the other hand, Hanbin seems to run hot. Zhang Hao has seen him more than once working in just a shirt while the office is cold enough to freeze his balls off. 

For weeks, they battle in silence. Zhang Hao gets to the office earlier than anyone, so he cranks the dial to a temperature that feels warm enough. Well, warm enough to him. And then, none other than Sung Hanbin—flushed cheeks and sweaty temples—turns it back down without a second thought.

Zhang Hao wants to kill him. If there’s one thing he hates more than working, it's being cold. His fingers go so numb he can’t even type, and his brain refuses to work under these conditions. Eventually, it becomes a routine. A petty, daily routine. 

That is, until they both arrive at the same time to one morning find a sign taped to the thermostat: Hao and Hanbin, please solve your marriage problems elsewhere~

It gets thrown in the trash at the speed of light—by Zhang Hao, obviously. Hanbin finds it hilarious and laughs the entire morning.

Then, there’s the mug incident. Zhang Hao’s favorite mug has a cute Shiba Inu print on it, but he can’t find it anywhere that morning. Everyone knows it’s his, even if it technically isn’t. 

Everyone except Sung Hanbin, it seems. Because there he is, leaning lazily against the wall of his cubicle, sipping from Zhang Hao’s mug without a shred of shame.

Zhang Hao decides, then and there, that this is war. “You’re using my cup,” he states, looming over the boy, who greets him with a wide, warm smile. Zhang Hao doesn’t smile back. He just crosses his arms and waits.

“Good morning, sunbaenim,” Hanbin sings-songs, far too chirpy and awake for eight-thirty in the morning. Also, he looks unfairly good in all-black, which only adds to Zhang Hao’s irritation. “I didn’t know cups had owners. I don’t see sunbaenim’s name on it, though,” he notes, inspecting the cup theatrically, just to put on a show. And then, he smirks—shit-eating, smug. Zhang Hao wants to slap it off his face. “This hoobae apologizes. It won’t happen again.”

Zhang Hao just rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Do what you want,” he says, walking back to his cubicle as nonchalantly as possible. No way he’s letting Sung Hanbin know how much he cares about a stolen mug.

At lunch, Zhang Hao finds the cup on his desk with a sticky note. Thank you, sunbaenim ♡,  it reads. He throws the paper into his drawer, slamming it shut harder than necessary. 

Their shared printer doesn’t escape Hanbin's antics either. For reasons unknown to humanity—known only to Sung Hanbin himself—the boy starts leaving little printed notes for Zhang Hao, sticking them to the side of the printer. It’s annoying. 

One day is, You got this, sunbaenim! The next day is, Good luck on today’s meeting! And then Sunbaenim is so smart and creative. Thank you for inspiring me ♡ . 

That one is yucky. It seriously makes Zhang Hao feel all nauseous and just—weird. He loses count after that, because every day is something new. 

The most memorable one, though, is when Hanbin leaves the following message: I hope you smile a lot today, sunbaenim~

Zhang Hao scoffs. There’s nothing to smile about. He’s at work, he’s sleepy, and he’s hungry. So, with all the rage of a man that has been personally offended at eight in the morning, he scribbles beneath it, There’s nothing to smile about >:( 

A few hours later, when he goes to print some documents, the paper it’s still there. But now, written in light blue glitter pen, is another line: 

Smile anyway ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ You look pretty. 

Zhang Hao is in disbelief. Still, that note doesn’t go in the trash. He slips it in his drawer for unknown reasons—reasons he refuses to analyze—and spends the rest of the day frowning in Hanbin’s direction. The other boy just smirks.

And then there’s the pen theft. Zhang Hao is very particular about the kind of pens he likes to use, the kind that makes his handwriting flow better, smoother—perfectly legible. Unlike others he shall not name. He also likes them pink and glittery, even if it seems less professional than the standard black. His bosses have never complained, and if they did, Zhang Hao wouldn’t stop, either.

But one by one, his pens start disappearing. And he knows who the culprit is. He’s not very subtle, and Zhang Hao has caught him in the act, too. Sung Hanbin doesn’t even try to hide his illicit acts. 

The first time, Zhang Hao’s at his desk, too focused reading some documents to notice the pest hovering over his shoulder. That is, until he warm breath ghosts over his ear. Zhang Hao, naturally, screams, and he knows who it is even before he spins around. Hanbin’s perfume is unmistakable.

Zhang Hao turns with his fist raised. If he’s accused of workplace violence, so be it. It will be worth it.

His hand collides with Hanbin’s chest. And, whoa, it’s very, very sturdy. He doesn’t think he’s ever touched a chest this sturdy before. In fact, he’s pretty sure his hand ends up hurting more than Hanbin’s chest.

“Woah, easy there, pissy kitty” Hanbin says, catching Zhang Hao’s wrist before he can swing again. Pissy kitty?? Zhang Hao would say he’s more of a puppy than a kitty, but that’s not the point. “Kepp your claws down, sunbaenim.”

Now, he’s never been touched by Sung Hanbin before, so it’s only natural that he realizes some things about him. First—he’s warm. That much he knew already. It’s on the way he always walks practically naked around the office, cheeks aflame when the thermostat is turned up to the max. Second, his grip is strong, but careful at the same time. And third, his palm is… soft.

He’s distracted for just a second, though. When he comes back to himself, Zhang Hao frowns, yanking his hand away from Hanbin’s hold. Maybe shaking a little. Is that weird? 

“What do you want?” he snaps.

“I was just looking at this.” Before Zhang Hao can move, Hanbin leans down, his titties directly in front of his face. Zhang Hao goes a little cross-eyed, and he definitely does not blush—not at all. Hanbin rolls one of Zhang Hao’s glittery pink pens between his fingers as he straightens up. “This is pretty, something that sunbaenim would definitely use. I’m borrowing it,” he says, and before Zhang Hao can even do as much as opening his mouth to protest, Hanbin is gone. Vanished.

Zhang Hao doesn’t chase him. After all, he has more pens and he doesn’t want to see Sung Hanbin ever, ever again. Too bad they work together, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try.

Still, the little shit won’t leave him alone. Zhang Hao goes to the bathroom, just to find the pen he was scribbling with gone. Zhang Hao is stepping out of the kitchen, just to find Hanbin scurrying away from his cubicle. 

He’s had enough. One morning, completely and absolutely fed up with his very dear coworker, Zhang Hao slaps a huge sticky note on his monitor. 

Steal one more pen and I will kill you. You have been warned.

No name, obviously, because no one else but Sung Hanbin is stupid enough to mess with him. 

After lunch, he comes back to find a box of ten new pink glitter pens, along with the stolen ones. There’s a note too. This seems their only way of communication. 

Sunbaenim is so scary (╥﹏╥) This hoobae wants to live for many years, so I’m bringing a present hoping that sunbaenim can forgive me ♡(˃͈ ˂͈ ).

Another note that goes to his drawer. Zhang Hao uses every pen diligently. After all, Sung Hanbin just saved him a few thousand won.

And that isn’t all. They (embarrassingly) keep crashing in front of everyone, including their bosses, and even during meetings. They fight over fonts, they fight over colors, they fight over visuals, they fight over structure. Zhang Hao starts mockingly calling Hanbin rookie, but the younger boy seems delighted by it, and doubles down on calling Zhang Hao sunbaenim in that sickly-sweet tone that drives him insane.

Still, they work well together. Too well. Their team lead walks by as they argue, and they don’t even notice she’s there, they don’t even notice how she peeks at their progress with a pleased smile. They don’t even hear her muttering to another coworker, “They bicker like a married couple, but damn they deliver.” They’re too engrossed in each other.

Not everything between them is bad. When Zhang Hao has to stay overnight finishing a data visualization segment, Hanbin stays too, even though he doesn’t have to. He makes up a flimsy excuse to their boss about catching up on projects, but Zhang Hao knows that’s a lie. Hanbin always finishes things on time.

So when Hanbin arrives at the office, a quarter past nine, carrying spicy tteokbokki and kimbap and sets them carefully on Zhang Hao’s desk, he can’t help but look at his so-called arch nemesis and ask, strangely soft, “Why are you here?”

Hanbin just smiles at him, small but warm. “The brain only works with a full belly, sunbaenim, you know that,” he says, dragging a chair from god knows where and plopping down right next to him. “Now, scoot over. Eat and let me help. Two heads are better than one.”

Zhang Hao’s about to complain, about to say I don’t need your help. I’m not hungry, but his stomach growls embarrassingly loud. The office is empty, and Hanbin is close. He hears it, loud and clear, so he has no choice but to let the boy help him, and to stuff his mouth with much-needed food.

And then, it’s Hanbin’s turn. Zhang Hao doesn’t know why he does it, why he acts this way, but it feels almost instinctual, the need to take care of him. He forgets something at the office, something important enough to turn on his heels just as he’s about to reach the station and walk back.

He finds Hanbin there. He’s fallen asleep at his desk, slumped over, cheek squished into his arm. Zhang Hao—with quiet steps—nears him. There’s ink on his chin, a few strands of hair plastered to his forehead, the faintest trace of stubble on his jaw. He looks weirdly cute, and very young. Hanbin’s usually so self-assured, radiating confidence, that Zhang Hao sometimes forgets that he’s younger than him.

With a sigh, Zhang Hao gets a blanket from the break room—a soft, thick one, one he brought from home—drapes it over Hanbin’s shoulders. And then, he stares some more. Hanbin barely even moves, just his chest rising and falling, over and over.

For a moment, Zhang Hao thinks about waking him, urging him to go home, but Hanbin seems deeply asleep. 

Before he leaves, his hand brushes some hair away from Hanbin’s forehead, and then he mumbles a gentle, “Idiot,” so quiet, almost as if he doesn’t want Hanbin, and the universe to hear. 

♡︎

The Zhang Hao from the present sits frozen in his cubicle. 

He doesn’t know for how long he’s been spacing out, but his eyes sting, his waist aches, and his bladder is about to explode. Coworkers are starting to pack their things to leave—it’s late, then. 

Hanbin is gone too, but there’s a small cup of steaming jasmine tea on Zhang Hao’s desk, a sticky note attached with a scribbled smiley face. Hanbin did that, Zhang Hao knows. No one else in the office would do something like that for him.

My Hao-hyung. 

Hanbin’s words keep going around in circles in his head. Zhang Hao can’t stop thinking about them, thinking about him as he stares at his reflection in the dark screen of his monitor. 

He tries his hardest not to dwell on it, but he's Zhang Hao, the overthinker. Asking him not to think about something is as painful as pulling teeth out. Still, he tries to rationalize this. It could be that Hanbin treats everyone this way. Maybe it was a fluke, a spur-of-the-moment thing. But it doesn’t feel like that.

And the funny thing is that, instead of being freaked out by the fact that he can now read minds, Zhang Hao is more unsettled by Hanbin’s thoughts. Go figure.

The only thing left to do is drink the tea and drag himself home, dead on his feet. 

The weekend passes by in a blur, with Zhang Hao scouring almost manically all over the internet for information about this… thing that's happening to him, but he finds nothing. Nothing. Not even good-old reliable Reddit has an answer for his dilemma, and that’s when he knows he’s truly fucked.

Since he doesn’t want to risk hearing anyone’s thoughts, he spends the days locked in his apartment. His skin doesn’t touch sunlight once, and he doesn’t see a single soul—which isn’t that bad, all things considered.

But dreaded Monday comes faster than he’d like. It’s also an opportunity, though. An opportunity to see if his strange abilities have faded with rest, with time, or an opportunity to check if Hanbin’s thoughts remain the same. 

On the subway, he bumps shoulders with a short woman. He’s almost scared he’ll be able to hear her voice in his head, but nothing happens, thankfully. Not triggered by touch, then. 

He makes eye contact with a guy at the other end of the car, and nothing happens either. For a moment, Zhang Hao dares to think Friday wasn’t real. Maybe stress finally broke him, maybe he dreamt the whole thing.

But luck has never been on his side. As soon as he reaches the office lobby and meets Mr. Lee’s eyes, he can hear his thoughts again. Zhang Hao stops in his tracks—the old man rambles about his wife, just inconsequential things Zhang Hao couldn’t care less about.

Thankfully, the elevator is empty, giving Zhang Hao some time to think and reagroup. Okay. He can still hear thoughts. It has some limitations, though. It only happens when he’s up close, and only with direct eye contact. 

That brings him some tranquility. It’s as easy as not looking people in the eye, right? And it’s not like his coworkers seek him out for small talk, so not triggering his… powers should be a piece of cake.

Again, luck is not on his side. Sung Hanbin is already there, sipping on a cup of freshly brewed coffee. And obviously—because his life is a cosmic joke—Hanbin comes to him straight away, bouncing on his feet like an overexcited kitty. 

Zhang Hao determinedly stares at his shoes. They’re shiny, just like Hanbin himself.

And then, chaos. “Good morning!” Hanbin greets him, chirpy and way too excited. “I hope sunbaenim didn’t miss me that much during the weekend.”

That’s it. That’s what does it. Zhang Hao is an easy man, and Hanbin knows it—easily bothered, easily riled. And now he’s so, so irritated, that he forgets the most important rule of the day. A fatal mistake, one would call it. 

He looks up, locks eyes with Hanbin’s warm, round and chocolate ones… and hears everything. Every little thing going through his mind. And if Zhang Hao’s an overthinker, then Hanbin is a kilometer per second thinker. He just doesn’t shut up.

“Hao-hyung is so cute when he’s annoyed,” he thinks with a little hehe. “Like an angry, fluffy puppy! Angry puppy! Angry puppy!” Hanbin chants in his mind. Zhang Hao thinks he prefers that over being called a pissy kitty. “I really like it when he looks at me with disdain, it’s so hot. Teasing him is the best!”

Entertaining to who?! Zhang Hao wants to scream, watching Hanbin’s cheeks redden. 

Wait… why is Hanbin blushing? Zhang Hao’s afraid he’s about to find out.

“Also, he looks soooo good today. He’s so, so, so, so, so pretty. I really like it when he wears fitted slacks. His waist looks so delicious. I wish he would let me touch it just once. Pleaseeee…. Pretty please!! I’ll be good, so, so good for hi—Damn. Sung Hanbin, focus! You can’t be getting a boner at seven thirty. You’ve been there before and it’s not fun. Be normal.”

Zhang Hao’s brain short-circuits.

Hanbin is smiling like nothing’s wrong, but Zhang Hao sees now—he sees what he’d ignored before. The way Hanbin’s eyes dart all over his face, not settling anywhere, like he doesn’t really know where to look. The rapid blinking, the nervous bite of his lower lip, the nervous scratch at the back of his neck. How his blush deepens and deepens the longer Zhang Hao stays silent. 

He’s nervous. Sung Hanbin is nervous. The same guy who’s able to breeze through a presentation in front of every single important person in this forsaken company without so much as flinching, the same person who shamelessly started teasing Zhang Hao since the first day they met. 

Sung Hanbin is nervous. 

Zhang Hao can hardly believe it. But his thoughts confirm it. Hanbin is fond of him. Whatever that means. Also… his thoughts are a little dirty. He wants to touch him, and he’s thinking about… a boner. Wait.

Is Hanbin—Does Hanbin… does Hanbin want him? Carnally? 

Zhang Hao chokes on his own spit. The idea is so shocking and horrifying (not so horrifying, really, just… shocking) that he can’t help but cough, cough, and cough. At least he can’t hear Hanbin’s thoughts anymore, but he can feel him now, feel his hands grabbing his shoulders.

“Hyung—” he blurts, but catches himself mid-sentence. “I mean, sunbaenim, are you okay?”

Hyung. Hanbin called him hyung, just like he does in his thoughts. 

Zhang Hao recovers quickly, the need to escape taking over him. He can feel his body slowly but gradually warming up, his heart pounding in his ears. “Why would I even miss you!” he shouts, but it comes out breathless, shrill and thin. “You’re annoying!!!” And then he bolts for the bathroom. 

What is he even running from? Hanbin? His thoughts? Hanbin’s… boner? Or maybe the fact that he actually liked being called hyung?

All of the above. Next question.

Zhang Hao hides in the bathroom, obviously. It's the only place he feels safe from Sung Hanbin and his thoughts—which were confusing, to say the least. 

He just… doesn’t know what to think.

The fluorescent lights glare down on him, harsh against his eyes. Zhang Hao grips the sink for dear life as he stares back at his reflection. He looks like shit. There’s a panicked, almost crazed edge to his gaze, and he’s as pale as a sheet of paper, which is concerning. 

Sung Hanbin has finally broken him. Almost a year of relentless teasing, and all it took was Hanbn… thirsting after him. 

Maybe those were just intrusive thoughts, Zhang Hao tells himself. That’s possible. After all, it’s not like he's never thought Hanbin’s pretty too. It’s not like he’s never thought that his arms are strong and veiny, that his hands are warm and soft, that he looks sooo good in those tight dress shirts he loves to use. 

But does that mean he actually believes any of it? Obviously not. Intrusive thoughts.

Yeah, that makes sense. What does not make sense is the way his reflection reddens the longer he thinks about Hanbin’s… assets. Why the hell is he reacting like this?

“This is just stress,” Zhang Hao whispers to himself, even though it sounds like the biggest, fastest lie in the world. Worse would be to acknowledge the tight, unfamiliar feeling inside his chest. That would be unacceptable. But… “He thinks I'm pretty?” The words slip out in a quiet, almost shy murmur, his eyes darting away to the floor. 

He thinks I’m pretty. He likes my waist. He likes it when I’m angry. He thinks of me as an angry puppy. He thinks I’m cute. 

What else does he think?

As always, curiosity kills the cat. Right now, it’s about to kill the puppy—Zhang Hao. Because a devious idea forms in his mind. He needs to make sure this isn’t a fluke, right? He has to make sure Hanbin’s thoughts are consistent if he wants to do… something. He doesn’t know what yet, but something.

Just for today, Zhang Hao decides, I will listen to his thoughts. Just today.

When he finally leaves the bathroom, Hanbin is already searching for him. Not that strange, considering his dramatic escape. From a distance, Zhang Hao can’t hear his thoughts, but he can see the worried furrow in between Hanbin’s brows.

The next obstacle, then, is getting close to him. Which, surprisingly, isn’t hard. Zhang Hao’s starting to realize just how… close they actually are, how much of their time is spent orbiting each other, how close they always seem to end up. 

Hanbin approaches him carrying a steaming cup of jasmine tea. “Drink this, sunbaenim,” he says without preamble, pressing the warm cup into Zhang Hao’s cold, shivering hands. “Sunbaenmin looks so cold and pale. This will warm him up.” 

Even before hearing anything, Zhang Hao is floored by the sincerity behind Hanbin’s smile. Has it… has it always been like this? Has he always been like this?

And then—there it is. “Hyung looks a bit sick, and he left so fast before. Is he feeling okay? Did I push him too far? God… but he looks so good when he’s all flustered and angry. Cute, so cute. Does he take vitamins? Maybe I should bring him some tomorrow so he doesn’t get sick…”

Zhang Hao is screaming. Internally, that is. Hanbin cares about him. He really, really cares. That almost makes him want to puke. 

But instead, all he can do is nod, clutch the warm cup of tea close to his chest, and mutter a soft, “Thank you, Hanbin,” before retreating back to the safety of his own cubicle. 

After that, Zhang Hao can’t stop. One taste of the forbidden fruit and he’s hooked. He thinks Hanbin must find it strange, the way Zhang Hao keeps seeking him out— his eyes, but Hanbin doesn’t act like it. Not at all.

When Zhang Hao peeks over his monitor, Hanbin’s already gazing back. “Hyung is so smart and hardworking,” Hanbin thinks. “He hasn’t rested since arriving this morning. If he’s been working so diligently, then I can’t slack off. Sung Hanbin, get back to work and stop staring at him like a lovesick fool. Get it together!”

Zhang Hao keeps staring, even when Hanbin scrunches his eyes in embarrassment and flashes him a sheepish smile before diving back to work. 

Later, when Hanbin heads toward the kitchen, Zhang Hao’s eyes follow him unconsciously. At the doorway, he looks back. “What is going on? Did I do something wrong? Why is he staring at me so much!!!!!! I’m about to start freaking out for real,” and then, he simply waves at him like nothing, disappearing inside the kitchen. 

Zhang Hao wonders how he’s so good at pretending that he isn’t going crazy, because—by his thoughts—he is. He might need to take one lesson or two from Hanbin.

Zhang Hao is on his way to the copier when he walks by Hanbin’s desk. He doesn’t know why he feels the need to stop right behind him, but he does. It must feel scary for him, Zhang Hao thinks, like a menacing, looming presence—since he spins slowly on his chair, startled, and their eyes meet.

“Okay… ummm… ermmm… I really don’t know what is going on. I don’t think hyung has ever looked at me this much. But wow… his shoulders look so broad from this angle. I’d love to pull him down into my lap—NO. Sung Hanbin, why are you like this? You’re gonna get all red and you can’t hide that!”

Lap? 

And sure enough, Hanbin does get red. It’s a lovely sight, really, one that Zhang Hao never had the pleasure of witnessing from this close before. How the blush starts at his ears, creeping all the way down his neck, his chest, and finally blooming over his cheeks.

Hanbin clears his throat. Right, Zhang Hao has been staring at him for who knows how many minutes. “Is there something sumbaenim needs?” Hanbin asks, voice unusually thin and awkward,

“No,” Zhang Hao replies flatly, walking away. Just like that. If he glares at the floor like it personally insulted him—well, Hanbin doesn't need to know that. He also doesn’t need to know that he muffles a scream into his palm by the printer. That would be weird.

During lunch, Zhang Hao sits at his usual corner. The noodles he slurps are kind of cold and overcooked, but at least he’s away from the endless chatter of his coworkers when Hanbin walks in. The way their eyes meet across the room is inevitable, even if Zhang Hao tries to resist it at first. 

“Hyung is all alone, but I don’t think he’d be happy if I sat next to him,” Hanbin thinks with a dejected sigh. Zhang Hao feels bad. It’s not like he’d hate it—not really. 

He has half a mind to call Hanbin over when his warm voice reverberates in his own head again. “I’m gonna give him a tangerine. Damn, I should have packed two. What if he likes them a lot? I’d give him all my tangerines. I’d feed them to him by hand if he let me, actually.”

Hanbin approaches him slowly, like one would to a skittish animal, and sets a single, round tangerine next to Zhang Hao’s lunch bag. “For you,” he says, before fleeing. Zhang Hao stares at the round fruit with distrust, like it might grow arms and legs and a mouth just to eat him, ears growing hotter as the seconds go by.

It ends up being the other way around. Zhang Hao forgets his mediocre noodles and eats the tangerine. He does feel bad since it was Hanbin’s only one, but it fades quickly as the sweet and citrusy taste explodes in his mouth. Yummy. 

You can’t waste food, right?

It all goes to shit during the afternoon meeting. They aren’t supposed to even be here at all, but apparently a client called saying bla bla bla, emergency bla bla bla. Zhang Hao doesn’t remember his manager’s explanation. Whatever problem they have is not his to fix—he’s here as a mere formality, actually.

Hanbin is here too, naturally. Where there’s one, the other always follows. And honestly, he’s waaay more interesting than whatever this meeting is about. How he diligently writes down things on his notepad, or the way he spins his signature blue glittery pen with his fingers, and even the furrow of his eyebrows when he hears something he doesn’t like is mesmerizing. 

Zhang Hao should be paying attention too. Maybe. But he’s allowed to slip once in a while. He deserves as much.

And then, their knees bump under the table, because Hanbin is sitting with his thighs spread indecently wide. They don't usually sit next to each other, but today Zhang Hao did impulsively, to Hanbin’s astonishment.  

He knows he’s staring, but there’s something so magnetic about the space between them, about how close their legs are. If Zhang Hao shifted a little to the left, their thighs would be pressed flush together. 

Hanbin’s thigh looks strong beneath his slacks, like he works out, maybe, and Zhang Hao feels a little tempted to test his theory. It wouldn’t take much, really. Just one move of his hand, and—

Hanbin surprises him. His hand lands on Zhang Hao’s knee. 

Zhang Hao jerks his gaze upward. “Why are hyung’s eyes so round and dark and shiny?” Hanbin silently wonders. 

A nagging voice in Zhang Hao’s head screams you’re horny! but he chooses to ignore it.

“If we were alone right now,” Hanbin continues, much to Zhang Hao’s dismay (or delight?), “I’d kiss him stupid—his lips look so soft and plushy—and then bend him over the table. Ah, Sung Hanbin, you naughty bastard. But it’s okay, right? This is just a fantasy anyway,” Hanbin says to himself.

Zhang Hao’s blood runs cold. This is not okay at all. Not okay for Zhang Hao’s mental well-being, but he keeps hearing, nonetheless. 

Hanbin doesn’t stop. “I’d pull his pants down right here, I’d fuck him so good the entire office would hear his moans. I’d—“

Zhang Hao drops his pen. Loudly. 

Every head turns, but he can’t move. He sits frozen, mummified, unable to do anything but stare at Hanbin’s angelic good-boy expression. Because how does—how—why? How does someone who looks as… innocent as Hanbin, with such wide, warm eyes, someone who blushes so easily, have such filthy thoughts about him of all people?

And the worst part is… Zhang Hao doesn’t hate it. In fact, he might be even excited by all this? There’s a very strange thrill running down his body, down his spine, traveling all the way south, settling dangerously low. His slacks suddenly feel too tight.

No. No. Absolutely not. He’s at work. In a meeting. With pie charts. There’s nothing sexy about pie charts. Well, there’s actually something pie-related that he could find sexy, but—

This is an emergency.

Hanbin, of course, plays the gentleman (unlike in his head). He bends down to pick up Zhang Hao’s pen, and then whispers next to his ear, “Are you okay, sunbaenim?”

Zhang Hao—red in the ears and a little breathless—nods. “Yeah. I had a… cramp. In my hand.” The lie sounds pathetic even to him, but he’s never claimed to be a good liar.  

And Hanbin… 

How long has he been thinking of me like this? Zhang Hao wonders, pulse racing. How long has he—has he wanted to bend me over the table?

Dear lord.

Not long after that, Zhang Hao excuses himself to the bathroom. Cold water splashed to his face, deep breaths. It’s enough to ground him, but not enough to make him go back to the meeting. Instead, he sits back at his desk, and thinks.

First, he needs to sort through all the information he’s gathered in the past twenty-four hours. One, he has somehow acquired the power to read minds. Old news already, he’s over it. Two, Sung Hanbin—his mortal enemy, his arch nemesis, the bane of his existence—actually likes him. He doesn’t hate him at all. Three, Hanbin teases him because he likes seeing him riled up. And four, Hanbin wants to bend him over the table. He also likes his waist, thinks he’s cute and pretty, and wants to feed him tangerines from the palm of his hand, among other things.

Now, how does Zhang Hao feel about all this? Undetermined. Blushing and squirming in his chair, yes, but that’s irrelevant. He needs more data to make up his mind. Specifically, he needs to know if all of Hanbin’s thoughts are purely lust, or if there’s something deeper there. It is imperative that he acquires this knowledge, actually. That will determine his course of action.

How will he acquire this data? Well, easy. A little experiment never hurt anyone.

Zhang Hao opens his notepad, uncaps one of his newer pink glittery pens, and starts writing:

Experiment name: I have no idea.

Goal: Determine if Sung Hanbin likes me.

Method: Visual stimulation and observation.

Variables: tight shirts that show off my waist, pouting, whining, unnecessary bending (maybe?).

Final note: this experiment will be conducted in the name of science. No flirting will be involved. 

Zhang Hao feels awfully ridiculous as he finishes writing, but also a little giddy. For the first time in his life, he has a reason to actually want to go to work. That should be enough to set off alarm bells in his head, but it isn’t. He’s blissfully unaware.

Leaning back in his chair, Zhang Hao looks over at Hanbin’s cubicle, and smirks. 

Let’s test your limits, Sung Hanbin. Just like you’ve been doing with me all this time. A taste of your own medicine. 

♡︎

Zhang Hao can admit that he’s a little bit evil. Sometimes. Just sometimes. Today just happens to be one of those days—one of those days where he wakes up feeling like a little shit, like he wants to make someone’s day a living hell. Well, that sounds a bit dramatic, but Hanbin’s incessant dirty thoughts make him the perfect target. This is his first trial.

Which is why Zhang Hao wakes up earlier than usual to find the perfect outfit. Normally, he just grabs a button down and slacks, but today requires strategy. It's hard to find something that isn’t oversized, but when Zhang Hao finally, finally has something good enough, he smirks in front of the mirror. 

Perfection. He chooses to go for black belted trousers and a slim-cut black dress shirt. Not that daring, but the fabric hugs his curves just right. And Hanbin likes his waist, after all, so Zhang Hao thinks this will do.

In the name of science, right? That’s what he tells his reflection in the mirror, at least. 

For once, Zhang Hao arrives first at the office—even before Hanbin, who always beats him to it. Strange. Even stranger is when Hanbin finally gets there. He looks like he didn’t slept a wink, his bright eyes dull, stubble shadowing his jaw. It's kind of hot though… but Zhang Hao will never admit it to himself. Still, it’s hard not to wonder what it would feel like to run his hands through Hanbin’s face, feel the faint prickly sensation on his palms. 

Umm, that’s weird. Thank god his thoughts are his only.

Back to Hanbin. He looks disheveled, wrinkled shirt, bangs falling into his face. It makes him look younger, less polished. And hot. 

Zhang Hao is tempted to hear his thoughts, maybe they’ll give him a glimpse of what is going on with the office’s golden boy, but Hanbin walks past his cubicle without even glancing at him. Strange too. But fine. There will be plenty of opportunities to test his experiment throughout the day.

Except… Hanbin avoids him. Actually avoids him.

Zhang Hao used to pray for times like these, used to pray for a day where his peaceful time wouldn’t be interrupted by endless teasing, by annoying smirks. But now that he has it, it feels wrong. He feels wrong. Hollow, maybe, an uncomfortable weight settling on his stomach.

Why is Hanbin avoiding him? Yes, his behavior yesterday was odd, but not that strange. Nothing to warrant this level of disrespect.

And Zhang Hao doesn’t like being ignored. Well, he likes to be ignored when he wants to be left alone, but now he doesn’t want that now. He has an experiment to conduct, for fuck’s sake. For this reason alone he keeps watching Hanbin all morning, waiting for the perfect moment to ambush him. Not because he’s worried about his strange behavior or anything like that.

The perfect time comes during mid-morning, when Hanbin slips into the kitchen, avoiding Zhang Hao’s searching gaze again. Zhang Hao doesn’t waste time, quietly rising from his desk and following Hanbin. At the doorway, he peeks inside—and there he is. Sung Hanbin, in all his disheveled form, stirring a cup of jasmine tea.

He’s distracted, which is why he doesn’t notice Zhang Hao until he’s right next to him, and when he does, his eyes widen, a little ah! slipping. His cheeks redden immediately as his gaze drops right where Zhang Hao expected it—his waist.

“Good morning, Hanbin-ssi,” Zhang Hao says smoothly, already unusual for him. That snaps Hanbin out of his waist trance, and he jerks his eyes back to his tea, stirring the teaspoon over and over. “You’ve been working hard today, haven’t you? I hadn’t had the pleasure of seeing you until now.”

He’s nervous— that much Zhang Hao notices immediately. First, Hanbin won’t meet his eyes, which is both annoying and not really helpful to his cause. There are also the little things that give him away. Like the sudden gulp of scalding tea (surely burning his throat in the process), and the way his fingers twitch against the counter.

“Ah, sunbaenim, yes. I’ve been very busy,” he says, voice thin and strained. “Really, really busy. All morning.”

Zhang Hao just hums, unimpressed. If Hanbin won't look at him, then fine—he must do something a little more drastic. The idea strikes him right away.

Pawing blindly at the highest drawer of their kitchen cabinet, Zhang Hao stands on his tippy-toes just to reach the top shelf. Obviously, he’s not looking for anything in particular, this is just for show. The more he stretches his hand, the more his shirt shifts loose from the waistband of his pants, until a silver of skin bares as he arches his back.

And there it is. Hanbin’s sharp inhale beside him. Success.

Of course, fate decides to punish him. He loses his balance. Predictable. He’s dumb, and he’s more focused on Hanbin’s reaction than where his feet are. Punishment—for reading minds, for riling up Hanbin. 

He’s about to face-plant in front of the coffee machine, and Hanbin will laugh, the universe will laugh, and—

Zhang Hao doesn't fall, because—because he’s currently in Hanbin's arms. And they’re so close, so, so close, close enough that Zhang Hao can see him, really see him. Moles that he’s never noticed before, his long eyelashes, the minty smell of his breath. 

“Are you okay, sunbaenim?” Hanbin asks, breathless, thumb stroking almost unconsciously the bare skin it touches.

And Zhang Hao—he feels something foreign fluttering low in his stomach. Want? Arousal? Hard to tell. Hard to tell anything when Hanbin’s so close, with his voice reverberating in his mind.

“Oh my god. I’m touching him, I’m touching him, I’m touching him,” Hanbin chants over and over and over, as if trying to convince himself. “Sung Hanbin, don’t panic, and don’t blush. Do not blush. Do not be a loser, do not give away yourself so easily. Hyung can’t know.”

Can’t know what? Zhang Hao’s pulse leaps, but Hanbin, to his dismay, doesn’t answer. Instead, more thoughts flood in.

“I hope he’s not uncomfortable. Am I making him uncomfortable? I don’t know, but he’s not pulling away. And I don’t want to, either. He’s so pretty up close, his eyes are so big and round, his lips so kissable. His waist is so soft, and he looks so so so so so so good with that shirt. Waist. Waist. WAIST. Also butt. This is a threat.”

Ah. So it’s safe to say Hanbin likes this, liked his outfit, then. Zhang Hao tries to file the information away for later—something to write down on his experiment notes—but it’s hard to think when every nerve in his body is screaming in agony. 

Part of him wants to squirm away, but he also wants to stay right where he is. Maybe lean in into Hanbin’s warmth, maybe let him squeeze his tender skin a little more tightly, a little more directly, with less layers in between—

Wait. 

“Yes, I’m okay,” Zhang Hao blurts, jerking a step back. Hanbin’s arms fall uselessly to his sides, fists clenching. “Thank you, Hanbin-ssi.”

And with that, he grabs the cup of jasmine tea, and flees to his cubicle in a hurry. Only once he sits down at his desk does he realize he just stole Hanbin’s drink. Well, what’s done is done.

But he also smirks. That was… successful, right? 

First step of his experiment: completed. 

♡︎

Zhang Hao will probably need fifteen business days to recover from the kitchen incident, which is why he doesn’t leave his desk for the rest of the day. He even eats lunch there, a poor excuse for a sandwich, just so he doesn’t have to see Hanbin again.

Sadly, he doesn’t have the luxury of waiting fifteen business days until his heart gets its shit together, but he does have one day. A small mercy from the universe, because he doesn’t feel ready to face the second step of his experiment so soon. 

Hanbin leaves the office with their manager first thing in the morning, something about visiting clients—Zhang Hao couldn’t care less—and he doesn’t come back until Zhang Hao’s already packing his things to leave.

So, tomorrow it is.

Except tomorrow comes too quickly and Zhang Hao isn’t ready (again). He’s even less ready when he finds himself locked in a meeting room with Hanbin, the two of them alone (alone!), behind a fucking closed door, sitting directly across from each other. 

His manager said something about Hanbin debriefing yesterday’s outing conclusions, client notes, and bla, bla, bla. He wasn’t really paying attention. His brain was just a constant loop of room alone with Hanbin, room alone with Hanbin, room alone with Hanbin. Plan, plan, plan, plan.

Hanbin’s voice is relaxing and captivating. Zhang Hao kind of understands why everyone is smitten with him, why he always commands everyone’s attention when he has to speak in front of a crowd. Hard not to, when he’s warm and enthusiastic, going over new data for their ongoing project, client’s feedback, key performance indicators, brand equity, and so many other things that he’s just not interested at the moment.

That’s strange. His job has always come first, but whatever. No one will really notice if he slacks off just one day. He can catch up tomorrow, right? Also, Hanbin’s hands are very distracting. Zhang Hao never realized how expressive he is, how his hands speak a language of their own. 

His fingers point to different graphics, explaining things Zhang Hao should be able to understand but doesn’t—not right now—not when Hanbin’s so close and his fingers are short but thick, not when his lips slightly pout every time he speaks, not when he can smell his citrusy perfume, not when—

“Sunbaenim?” Hanbin asks, cutting through Zhang Hao’s… reverie? Was he daydreaming about Sung Hanbin, of all people? Ha, that’s laughable. Ridiculous. Zhang Hao needs to get his priorities straight, needs to remember that this man right here is his arch nemesis, nothing more, nothing less.

Zhang Hao hums, signaling that he’s paying attention. Well, pretending, actually. “Is sunbaenim okay?” Hanbin asks, brows furrowed in concern. That’s where Zhang Hao’s looking to avoid hearing his thoughts. 

But this is… perfect. 

The perfect opportunity to put into motion the second step of his plan: pouting and whining. Yes, Zhang Hao’s well aware that this might seem out of character considering how he behaves at work, but at his core, Zhang Hao’s just a very whiny and pouty person. Also, some guys are into that. Hanbin seems like the type.

Besides, he even prepared beforehand for this. This morning, Zhang Hao applied just the right amount of pink-lip tint and gloss to his lips to make them look fuller and plumper than usual. It was a good idea, as Hanbin has been stealing glances, trying to appear nonchalant about it, but Zhang Hao knows better. 

So, time to act.

With a sigh, he slumps over the table, resting his chin over his folded arms, looking up at Hanbin through his eyelashes and blinking slowly. “Yeah, Hanbin-ssi,” he says softly, airy and dejected. “It’s just that—” he pauses, then lets out a high, breathy whine. 

Hanbin freezes. Literally freezes. His hands stop mid-air, and he seemingly stops breathing too, as Zhang Hao can’t see his chest rising and falling anymore. “It’s so hard…” Zhang Hao mutters, letting his lower lip push into a practiced pout as his eyes find Hanbin’s and—bingo.

“Wha–what is hard, sunbaenim?” Hanbin stammers aloud, cheeks flaming. Zhang Hao doesn’t answer, instead, he just blinks up slowly, syrupily at the squirming boy in front of him.

And in his head, he hears chaos. “What’s hard? I’m haaaaard, hehe. Why is he pouting like that at me? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him pout before. And earlier… he whimpered. Yes he did. Oh lord. Oh lord. Emergency. Code red. His lips are so juicy… what would it be like to ki—NO. Sung Hanbin, you need to stop.”

Zhang Hao almost gasps. Hanbin’s got a boner… just from this? From him pouting? Is that even a thing? Are all men like that or is this just a Hanbin thing?

He needs to test him further—which is why Zhang Hao lets out another soft whimper, this time locking eyes to drink in the response. He sees the way they widen, the way his mouth opens in surprise, the way his cheeks redden more, and more, and more. 

“Everything is so hard, Hanbin-ssi,” Zhang Hao murmurs, propping his chin on his palms, lips glistening. “I’m a little bit distracted today, I think.”

“Me tooo… I’m distracted too. Hao-hyung… can you whimper in my mouth? What the fuck. Well, Sung Hanbin, you’re down bad, it’s better if you admit it right away. But how can I not be? Hao-hyung is so smart, handsome, cute, and pretty, and he always has such good ideas, and he’s my role model. And I also want him to whimper into my mouth. God, can he stop looking at me like that? His eyes are so round. I wonder what he’d look like on his knee—NO. Sung Hanbin. Stop. Okay. If he licks his lips, I’m gone.”

Obviously, Zhang Hao does just that. His tongue peeks out, pink and warm, just to wet his lower lip, tasting the strawberry gloss. And then, just to test Hanbin a little bit further—since he seems to have a thing for his lips—he traps the supple flesh between his teeth.

“I’m out. I need to leave,” Hanbin thinks, springing to his feet so abruptly his chair screeches against the floor.

“Excuse me, sunbaenim. I’ll be back in a bit,” Hanbin says out loud, nearly sprinting for the door. 

Zhang Hao waits for him fifteen minutes before he grows bored and goes back to sit at his desk. When Hanbin comes back, his cheeks are unusually rosy, his hair slightly damp with sweat. 

Weird. He’ll leave him alone for the remainder of the day. There’s enough data for now, Zhang Hao concludes.

♡︎

New day, new me, Zhang Hao thinks as he wakes up with renewed energy. That is so out of character it borders on concerning, but as his beautiful mother always says, do not look a gift horse in the mouth.

He doesn’t even need caffeine to get going, and there’s a bounce in his step as he heads for the office. Not even the ugly dude who pressed his stinky armpit into his face on the subway could bring down his spirits. 

It might be strange to think something like this, but Hanbin would never do such a thing. First, his armpit would never be stinky, Zhang Hao’s certain of that. He’s been close, very close to him, and there’s nothing more he’d wish for than to spray some of Hanbin’s perfume on his clothes so he could smell him all day. That’s how good it is. Seriously, if Zhang Hao’s going to concede something to him, it's that he always smells good.

Again, weird thought, but Zhang Hao doesn’t really question it. The brain at seven in the morning is something that must not be analyzed, but accepted.

And then, the weirdest thing happens. Something stirs traitorously in his pants, and Zhang Hao nearly moans. Which would have been awfully mortifying to do here, right in the middle of the street. He’s not the down bad one here. He’s not supposed to be the down bad one—that’s Hanbin’s role. So why is his body betraying him like this? Over Hanbin’s fucking perfume too… 

Hanbin’s already at his desk when Zhang Hao arrives, and there’s a cup of steaming green tea waiting for him. Once, that would have annoyed him, because, who does he think he is? It’s not like Zhang Hao ever needed anything from anyone.

Now, strangely, something warm and uncomfortable flutters in his chest. It could be annoyance, but Zhang Hao’s not so sure about it anymore. He’s not sure why he chooses to smile at Hanbin either, but he does. It’s small, barely there, but he hopes it conveys his… gratitude, perhaps.

“Good morning, Hanbin-ssi,” Zhang Hao says with a small wave of his hand. 

Hanbin looks thunderstruck. Zhang Hao kind of understands. He’s never willingly greeted him before. It’s always been pulled out of him with metaphorical pliers. But not today. 

They’re close enough for Zhang Hao to hear the rush of Hanbin’s thoughts. “He smiled at me. He smiled at me. Sung Hanbin, you must be the luckiest man on earth to deserve such a beautiful sight.” 

The smile Hanbin gives back is a bit bashful, but still bright. Zhang Hao keeps listening to the endless flow of his thoughts. “Woah… this is the first time he’s ever smiled at me. I wish… I really hope it won’t be the last.” 

Zhang Hao feels a pang of guilt hit his chest at how dejected and wistful Hanbin sounds. He knows he’s stingy with his smiles, but he never realized the extent of it until now. “Now, Sung Hanbin,” Hanbin continues. “Be normal and say good morning back to hyung. You can’t stare at him the whole morning like a lovesick puppy. Weirdo.”

“Good morning, Hao-sunbaenim,” Hanbin says at last, and Zhang Hao thinks his name sounds so sweet coming out of those lips. It’s the first time Hanbin’s called him that. Before it was just sunbaenim this, sunbaenim that, but never Hao.

Zhang Hao panics. Today he’s felt many, many things he hasn’t felt before. “Ha—have a good day,” he stammers, then promptly ducks behind his monitor to hide his face.

Hanbin’s chuckle carries warmly across the office. “Sunbaenim too.”

♡︎

Zhang Hao should have known his day would go to shit sooner rather than later. Peace doesn't last forever, even though he feels on cloud nine the whole morning. There’s no experiment planned today—hell, he needs at least a full day to mentally prepare himself if he so much wants to walk next to Sung Hanbin.

The universe has other plans. Maybe this is punishment for reading Hanbin’s mind. There must be some ethical law he’s breaking.

He only needs the copier. Simple, ordinary, like any normal employee would. The copier he shares with Hanbin, the same one that’s given him more than one headache in all the time he’s spent working here. 

Hanbin still leaves him silly printed messages on the tray, but they no longer annoy Zhang Hao the way they once did. He still rolls his eyes at them, yes, but nowadays it feels more like fondness than anger. Also, when did that happen?

Naturally, there’s one waiting for him. “Sunbaenim looks so pretty when he smiles. This hoobae hopes he can make him smile many times more! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)”

It’s unexpectedly sweet—so sweet, in fact, that Zhang Hao’s hand betrays him. The paper slips from his grasp, and the nasty little thing seems to have feet of its own, as it vanishes beneath the copier, where he can’t see it anymore. Weirdly, he wants to keep it.

“Shit,” Zhang Hao mutters under his breath as he drops to the floor, crawling on his hands and knees, patting blindly beneath the bulky machine until his fingers brush the rough edge of paper. 

It’s hard to grab, his arms quite don’t reach, and Zhang Hao’s never claimed to be the most flexible person ever. He really has to bend, butt sticking in the air, back arched, straining until his shoulders ache. Damn, he can’t believe he’s doing all this for a stupid note written by Sung Hanbin, someone he’d sworn was his mortal enemy not even two weeks ago.

Zhang Hao can admit—a little shamefully—that this is a full workout. He whines as the paper slips away once, twice, and when he finally, finally manages to catch it, he’s a bit breathless, his lower back even sore from all the arching.

And that’s when he sees Sung Hanbin. Standing right there, frozen in the doorway. Eyes wide, cheeks aflame, staring at him. Zhang Hao can do nothing but slump against the copier in defeat as he stares up at Hanbin with horror.

Did he… he must have seen everything, right? All bent, on all fours, whining and panting, ass in the air. Lord. This is probably the most humiliating moment of his life. Hanbin must think he’s such a big loser, that he needs to hit the gym, that he was doing all that just for a dumb piece of paper, that—

Wait. He can actually know what Hanbin’s thinking about. He doesn’t have to wonder.

“Hyung. Butt. Copier. Legs. Waist. Hyung. Butt. Copier. Legs. Waist. Oh my god. Sung Hanbin, stop having such dirty thoughts. Say something! Say something! Something normal, please… Don’t out yourself as a pervert…”

Oh.

Hanbin clears his throat, panicked. “Sunbaenim has really nice legs,” he blurts out, eyes widening further at his own words. “I—I mean. I mean, sunbaenim… seems like he works out? Like his thighs are so nice and strong?” His voice keeps tumbling out, smaller and smaller, as if shrinking into himself.

Zhang Hao wants to laugh. Work out? Him? He would laugh if he wasn’t sitting frozen on the floor. 

This is probably the first time that he’s actually heard Hanbin’s thoughts voiced out loud, unfiltered, instead of sneakily getting into his head. The first time Hanbin’s actually slipped up.

“Sorry sunbaenim. I—I don’t know what I’m saying,” Hanbin trails off with an awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, staring at their feet. “Sorry.” 

That won’t do. Zhang Hao can’t have that. If Hanbin—if he has no intentions of telling him… Zhang Hao still has to know. And there’s only one way to get that. 

Something compels him to stand up. Zhang Hao doesn’t know what, but he’s suddenly on his feet, crossing the distance between them, lifting his hand to cradle Hanbin’s soft cheek, forcing his gaze forward. 

The contact is… electric. He can feel Hanbin’s skin burning beneath his hand, and his thoughts pour into Zhang Hao’s mind. “What—what is going on? Why is hyung touching me? Why is hyung acting this way? Why—why is he looking at me like that?” Hanbin asks to himself, mouth half open. “Before, he used to look at me with disdain. I liked that, I know it, but I kinda like this more. There’s something different about him. Maybe he…”

Zhang Hao can’t hear him anymore, the thoughts closing off abruptly as Hanbin clenches his eyes shut. It’s just then that he realizes what he’s done, how impulsive and reckless of him was to touch Hanbin like this. He jerks back his hand, hiding it behind his back, feeling the familiar shame prickling up his neck. 

What… What does he do now? How does he fix this mess? 

Hanbin’s thoughts have the answer. “Can he be mean to me again?” he thinks, eyes almost pleading. “Be mean please, be mean. I like that… and I don’t think I can take him looking at me like that anymore. I really, really might kiss him silly and bend him over the copier if he keeps this up. Please, hyung, be mean to me.”

So Zhang Hao is—mean, that is. Even if it pains him a little, even if it makes his chest feel all weird and heavy, even if his words don’t carry the same venom they used to. “Stop wasting paper, Hanbin-ssi,” Zhang Hao says, narrowing his eyes as menacingly as he can, while waving the sheet in front of Hanbin’s face. “Or I’ll have to report you. Their golden boy wasting company resources. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s more like it, hyung. I can work with this.”

Uh-oh. That’s not good. Zhang Hao instinctively takes a step back before Hanbin can even say a word, because he knows this won’t end well for him. Hanbin is always better at this back-and-forth, he’s better at this bickering thing they have going on, he’s—

“Ah, so that’s why sunbaenim was bending over all sexily? So he could report me to our manager?” Hanbin teases, brow arched, smirk dangerously smug, the way Zhang Hao remembers him best. He doesn’t know how he ends like this—with his back against the copier, Sung Hanbin a menacing presence looming over him. 

“Sunbaenim has to be careful. We wouldn’t want anyone to see him in such… compromising positions. He should be grateful that it was me—this humble hoobae—and not someone more dirty minded.”

Zhang Hao doesn’t know what to say, his brain shorts-circuits. His mouth opens, closes, opens again, but nothing comes out. Sung Hanbin has broken him for good, and the bastard knows it.

A hand—Hanbin’s hand—gently brushes hair away from Zhang Hao’s eyes, before he says, “I’ll see sunbaenim later. I hope he doesn’t forget to put my silly little note in his drawer where he keeps the others.”

Long after Hanbin walks away, Zhang Hao stays by the copier, silly little note still clutched in his hand. The culprit of this whole mess. But isn’t this what he asked for? 

A taste of his own medicine. He’s been provoking Hanbin for days now—he was bound to get caught in the fire.

At least he has some new data to input into his diary. 

♡︎

Zhang Hao can admit with some shame that most, if not all the problems in his life are self-inflicted. No friends at work? That’s because he’s always been withdrawn, a little bit of a bastard with no interest in socializing. No boyfriend? That’s because he simply ignores everyone who shows the slightest interest in him. His so-called rivalry with Sung Hanbin? That began because he was nasty first.

And now his latest problem is unsurprisingly Sung Hanbin. Who else? This is also of his own doing. At the end of the day, wasn’t he the one who continuously kept riling Hanbin up? Hanbin was bound to push back eventually. He always does.

What Zhang Hao doesn’t expect is for Hanbin’s pushbacks to become so… flirtatious. For their banter to turn into something so scalding, so hot, something electric enough to make Zhang Hao’s hairs stand in anticipation.

It starts slowly—almost harmelessly—but as the days go by, it builds into something hard to ignore. Impossible to ignore. Something boiling strongly, bound to topple over.

The first thing Zhang Hao hears upon entering the office Monday morning is, “Did sunbaenim miss me over the weekend?” 

Zhang Hao’s unimpressed. Or well, tries to be. More than anything, tries to appear unimpressed, if he’s being completely honest. It’s not like he hasn’t heard that line before—Hanbin used to greet him all the time just like that. 

But his reaction this time is… different. Instead of scoffing in disbelief, instead of barking an annoyed answer at Hanbin, he… blushes. He fucking blushes. Out of every possible reaction, he blushes. Damn. 

The lights are harsh enough that Hanbin can totally see it. There’s no hiding it. Zhang Hao still tries to save face, though. There’s no way he’s going down without a fight. 

So, he crosses his arms, raises a brow and pouts his lips in displeasure. “Yes, I missed Hanbinnie soooo much,” he deadpans, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “You’re so annoying sometimes.”

Hanbin stops short, eyes wide. He’d been moving closer step by step, but now they’re only centimeters apart—close enough that Zhang Hao can hear him. All of him, all of his thoughts.

“Ha-Hanbinnie?? Did he just call me Hanbinnie? Is he still blushing? My Hao-hyung… so cute,”  Hanbin trails off in his mind, and Zhang Hao can see the way his eyes melt, warm chocolate on a winter morning, and a small, barely there smile twitching his lips. “I want him to make him blush again. I want him to call me annoying our whole, entire life.”

What?! For the rest of his life? He must be exaggerating, right? 

“Mmm,” Hanbin hums, closing the last of the distance between them before Zhang Hao realizes what’s going on. His fingers, once again, find Zhang Hao’s hair, this time tucking some strands behind his ear. And then, to Zhang Hao’s fucking surprise, he lick his thumb and rubs at the corner of Zhang Hao’s mouth.

It’s almost instinctual, automatic, the way his lips part, breath catching, eyes snapping to Hanbin’s face just to know what he’s thinking about. 

“His lips… I want to—I want to do many things to him. The way he gets pliant like this, the way his lips are so plump and kissable, he would look so good with my co—Enough. No morning boners, Sung Hanbin.”

“Sunbaenim had some toothpaste there,” Hanbin explains with a small smile, warm palm still lingering against Zhang Hao’s cheek, thumb still rubbing at the skin. “There he goes. All clean and beautiful as always.” 

And just like that, he turns around and leaves, as if nothing happened. 

Zhang Hao stands rooted to the spot for a few minutes, his own fingers brushing unconsciously at his own lips. 

He’s fuming the rest of the day. Sung Hanbin cannot—will not—get the upper hand like that.

The perfect opportunity for payback comes later that afternoon. 

The thing about working side by side with Hanbin is that he can’t really avoid him forever. Before, that used to annoy him to no end. Now, though, it brings a whole new light to his life. He has the perfect excuse to get close to him and well—get… payback. Or whatever.

Hanbin’s so focused on his work that he doesn’t notice Zhang Hao sneaking up behind him. That’s on purpose, of course. He wants to catch him off guard. Leaning close over his shoulder until his mouth is practically brushing Hanbin’s ear, Zhang Hao murmurs, “Hanbin-ssi.” Hanbin jumps in surprise, soft gasp leaving his mouth. 

Success. Hehe… 

“Can you please help me with this?” Zhang Hao asks with the most pitiful tone he can muster. He has never, ever, ever asked for help at work, but it’s never too late to hit a new low, he supposes. “I think we reviewed some data for this project last week, but I don’t remember that well.” And now, the final blow: he pouts his lips, rounds his eyes as he adds a breathy, whiny, “Please.”

Their faces are so, so close, that Zhang Hao can see the small razor burn on Hanbin’s chin, his cracked lips, all the blood vessels on his cheeks expanding, making them bloom red. Their shoulders brush, as Hanbin opens and closes his mouth, searching and not finding his words.

Then Zhang Hao hears him. “He’s so close I can feel his breath. If I tilt my head just a little bit, we could kiss. I would kiss him here, I don’t care if everyone’s watching. Hell, I’d want them to watch so they know he’s mine—”

Welp. That backfired fast. Zhang Hao straightens, breaking eye contact as quickly as possible. There’s a very strange but familiar warmth pooling low in his stomach. He suddenly understands Hanbin’s aversion about work boners now, as he feels his own length slowly thickening up, the stretch of his pants more and more uncomfortable as the seconds go by.

Deep breaths, Zhang Hao. Deep breaths. Still… he liked that. 

He’s mine.

The mission must be aborted now. He needs to sit down and will his boner away. And the strong width of Hanbin’s back, the clean warmth of his scent, the way his sleeves hug the curve of his veiny forearms, his—nope, nope, abort abort abort.

“Sunbaenim needs my help?” Hanbin finally asks, turning in his chair, almost in a daze. His eyes are glazed, his lips shiny with spit, his thighs splayed in the chair, almost invitingly. “I will gladly help him with anything he needs,” he says slowly, almost like a dare. 

The way he stares up from below, blinking slowly with his long lashes, with his shiny eyes, almost makes Zhang Hao fold. Almost.

Someone coughs. Right, they’re not alone. The old lady from the cubicle next to Hanbin’s is looking at them knowingly and disapprovingly. 

Abort mission. Abort mission. 

“Nevermind,” Zhang Hao blurts out as he walks quickly to his desk. 

He goes home to a very long, very private meeting with his left hand. And no—he’s not thinking about Sung Hanbin. Not at all.

♡︎

The next morning, Zhang Hao waits for the elevator. He hears hurried steps approaching him, and then the familiar citrus scent reaches him. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s Hanbin.

“Sunbaenim, good morning,” Hanbin greets him, too cheerful for seven thirty. Zhang Hao should ask him for tips on how not to be grumpy after waking up at dawn. Or better, he should ask for tips on how to act normal after humiliating yourself in front of someone, as Hanbin seems to be the master of that.

Zhang Hao, unfortunately, does not have that skill set. He physically can’t not blush while looking at Hanbin. He can’t look at him without hearing that soft, possessive echo in his head, muttering he’s mine. Also, he can’t stop thinking about what he did last night, his room dark and his right hand twisting under the covers.

Sweet Jesus. He’s fucked.

“Morning,” he manages. Nothing feels good about today. 

The elevator takes forever, tension thrumming heavy between them. Zhang Hao wonders if he’s the only one who feels it. Hanbin, as usual, keeps chatting about anything and everything under the sun while Zhang Hao struggles to even breathe.

Finally, the doors of the elevator doors open. Zhang Hao almost lets out a sigh of relief. What he doesn’t know is that the real torture is only about to begin.

They’re alone, of course. No one is insane enough to arrive at the office this early. Hanbin leans casually against the mirrored wall, arms folded across his chest, while Zhang Hao tries to occupy as little space as possible beside him. Thirty floors is a long journey. May Zhang Hao keep his dignity intact until then.

It’s Hanbin the one who breaks the silence—obviously. “Sunbaenim is wearing a tie today?” he asks, gaze flickering to their reflections. “It looks really good, but…” As he trails off, Zhang Hao looks up—looks at him. 

The other boy is suddenly right in front of him. He looks so handsome, even though it should be illegal by how early it is. His lips are rosy, dusted with a mauve tint, and his lashes frame his eyes in a way that make him look pretty, almost kitty-like. 

And Zhang Hao knows he must look dumb as hell, mouth parted, eyes wide, and skittish as Hanbin looms over him, as his hands reach for him, straightening his collar like it’s something they do every day and not something that’s about to give him a heart attack. 

Fingers brush the column of his throat—that sensitive spot that always makes him want to whimper, and Zhang Hao has to clamp his mouth shut. Hanbin’s hands linger, one pretending to fix his tie, the other resting firmly against his chest. “Mmmm,” Hanbin hums as he adds the finishing touches, brushing some stray hairs away from Zhang Hao’s forehead. “That’s better. We don’t want sunbaenim looking all disheveled, do we?”

Zhang Hao is so flustered—his heart doing that annoying, unfamiliar thing—that he blurts out the first thing that comes to mind. “You smell nice,” he says, throat dry and fingers twitching at his sides. 

And then he cringes at the fucking absurdity of the situation. At life in general. Why would he say that?

But instead of laughing, Hanbin’s cocky smile falters. His expression is replaced by something timid, almost shy, his cheeks blushing pink. “Sunbaenim thinks so?” he asks, voice awed. He sounds so hopeful, Zhang Hao doesn’t even think about backtracking, about pretending he was joking.

“Yes,” he says simply.

Hanbin steps closer, so close there’s barely any space between them now. His fingers toy with the hem of Zhang Hao’s sleeve, tugging at it. “Hao-sunbaenim can smell me closer, if he wants,” Hanbin offers much to Zhang Hao’s shock.

But his words aren’t the most shocking thing about this whole situation—not at all. The most shocking thing is that Hanbin tips his head to the side, baring his neck to Zhang Hao. 

What the fuck.

He can see Hanbin swallow, once, twice, three times, the stutter of his breath rising and falling. And damn, he’s doing it. Zhang Hao is doing it. He doesn’t want to, but his body is already leaning closer and closer to Hanbin’s warmth, to Hanbin’s scent, and—

The elevator door dings. 

They break apart so fast Zhang Hao bangs his head against the wall. His dignity is gone, and his skull is probably cracked. Hanbin looks apologetic the entire day.

Only later does Zhang Hao realize the strangest part—he didn’t read Hanbin’s mind once.

It keeps happening. For days and days that stretch endlessly, their banter continues. Zhang Hao loves lying to himself. He keeps saying that everything is just as it was before, that nothing has changed, but he’s not dumb. He can lie to himself all he wants. Does that mean he believes his own lies? Well, no.

Because this is clearly not just banter anymore. There’s something different, something that wasn’t there before. Little things Zhang Hao brushes off as accidents, but he knows they’re anything but. Hanbin’s hands on his waist as they squeeze past each other in the kitchen. How can it be accidental when he puts both hands on his waist, deliberate, firm?

Zhang Hao’s fingers brushing Hanbin’s when they both reach for a paper, for a pen. That’s not accidental and he knows it. He’s someone who avoids touch, for fuck's sake. A thigh bump under the conference table that makes him forget what the meeting even was about. His hand squeezing Hanbin’s leg before he realizes what he’s done. Hanbin fussing with his hair, his collar, his clothes, Hanbin leaning in too close when speaking—close enough to be indecent.

It’s all… too much. Too dangerous, too unpredictable. Zhang Hao doesn’t know how, or when this will end, and uncertainty makes him nervous. He always likes knowing everything, planning everything. 

All of that has been brewing in Zhang Hao’s head for days. Long, eternal days. He can’t figure Sung Hanbin out, and he can’t figure himself out, either.

It’s been looping in his mind all morning. He’s spent more time staring blankly at his monitor than actually working, so withdrawn, so into his head, that he doesn’t even notice it’s lunchtime until one of his older coworkers taps his shoulder, and asks worriedly, “Did you not bring lunch, Hao? I think I have something I can give you…” she offers, rummaging through her bag.

That is… touching, Zhang Hao thinks. Everyone is always so nice to him, and he’s always so quiet, so grumpy, and—lord. His eyes are stinging, his emotions are all over the place.

“It’s okay, sunbaenim.” Zhang Hao says softly, placing a hand on her elbow to stop her. “I did bring lunch. I was just a little bit distracted.”

She hums in contemplation. “You think too much, son. It’s okay to just be sometimes.” Now, Zhang Hao really feels like crying. Then she adds, “Do you want me to call Hanbin? Talking to a friend would be nice, don’t you think?”

Friend. 

Are they… friends? Is that why Zhang Hao feels so warm around Hanbin? Is that why his heart beats too fast, why his palms get clammy?

Friends sounds… nice.

“It’s okay, sunbaenim. He must be busy,” Zhang Hao answers, bowing his head in thanks as he gathers his lunch bag. “Thank you.” With a small smile, she walks away, and Zhang Hao heads to the kitchen.

He his usual spot by the window as his coworkers start leaving, biting into his sandwich in a mechanical way, chewing and swallowing as the room quietens bit by bit. It’s mindless—he doesn’t taste much of it, to be honest.

Just as he’s about to take the last bite, Hanbin appears. He hesitates at the door which is so unlike him. Zhang Hao can’t help but tilt his head at him, questioningly. “So cutie,” Hanbin thinks. “My puppy.”

He’s heard so many things that Hanbin calling him cute or a puppy doesn’t even phase him anymore. Zhang Hao just moves on.

Hanbin has other plans, though. He doesn’t mean to leave, not at all. With careful steps, he walks across the kitchen, takes the empty seat next to Zhang Hao. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls out a small tangerine from the pocket of his jacket and starts peeling it. The sweet smell fills the air, fills Zhang Hao’s lungs to the brim with a strange feeling. 

Maybe he’s allergic to tangerines now.

When he’s done, he splits it, offering half to Zhang Hao. He wants to accept it—he wants to so badly—but he hesitates. 

Zhang Hao remembers then, remembers Hanbin’s words from a few weeks back, when he gave him that first tangerine during lunch time. Hyung is all alone, but I don’t think he’d be happy if I sat next to him. 

Back then, it had been true. But now? Now Zhang Hao’s heart feels strangely warm, full, like all its icy exterior has been melted little by little until there’s none of that frost left.

So he accepts it, their fingers brushing in the process. Hanbin’s are a little sticky, but it’s okay. It feels okay. More than okay. Zhang Hao wouldn’t mind if they brushed again, wouldn’t mind if they lingered, either. That thought should feel surprising—but it somehow doesn’t. 

This is the first time someone has done something like this for him, and it makes him unexpectedly shy, moved by Hanbin’s affection. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Affection, tenderness. It radiates from Hanbin in everything he does—in his words, in his eyes, in his small gestures. He doesn’t need to say it. Zhang Hao feels it. 

He hesitates before eating, but when he looks up, Hanbin is already watching him. “I wish hyung would let me do things like these all the time,” Hanbin thinks. It’s not a grand revelation, really. Zhang Hao knows it without needing to read his mind.

Hanbin doesn't say anything, though, just nods at him, small, encouraging. That’s all Zhang Hao needs. He leans back, shoulders loosening for the first time today as the tangerine bursts on his tongue, sweet and tender. It’s weird. For once, he doesn’t feel lonely. He wouldn’t mind if Hanbin sat next to him tomorrow, or the day after that.

♡︎

Awareness is Zhang Hao’s least favorite companion. It heightens everything, sharpens senses he’d rather dull, makes him notice things he would prefer to ignore. Like how much time Hanbin spends looking at him. 

By mid-afternoon, Zhang Hao has caught him staring at least five times, chin propped in his palm, eyes softening, lips curved in a gentle smile. And he doesn't look away when he’s caught. Sung Hanbin—shameless as ever—just waves back, or winks. It would be infuriating if it weren’t… attractive.

That’s something else that awareness brings: clarity. Zhang Hao realizes that most of the annoyance he used to feel toward Hanbin before was simply poorly concealed attraction. Now that he knows he doesn’t hate him, he can’t stop looking either. 

He can’t stop looking at Hanbin as he sits on the edge of one of his coworker’s desk, pale blue shirt stretching across his chest as he bends over at the monitor. He can’t stop looking as Hanbin walks past, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. He can’t stop looking as his eyebrows furrow in concentration, as something akin to irritation takes over his features, cutting across his handsome features. 

Zhang Hao’s more sneaky, though. Or so he hopes.

He’s also aware of how much, of how often they touch. Of how it shifted from being something forbidden, to something almost casual, expected. Hanbin walks behind Zhang Hao? His hand grazes his waist gently. Fleeting, but intentional. When Zhang Hao turns, Hanbin’s already walking away, leaving only the phantom sensation of his touch. 

Later, when Zhang Hao drops his pen, Hanbin’s already crouching down to pick it up. His hands brace on Zhang Hao’s thighs for balance, even though they both know he doesn’t need to. And when he looks up from below—all shiny and round brown eyes—it’s hard to breathe. Without thinking, Zhang Hao covers the hands with his own, squeezing. 

The roles are reversed when Hanbin finally stands—it’s Zhang Hao the one who looks up at him now, swallowing loudly. He… he wants to touch him too. He wants to be as bold as Hanbin, as generous. But something still holds him back, something invisible that won’t allow him to free himself from his own rules, his own beliefs.

Hanbin presses the pen over his palm, fingers warm and soft and lingering as he caresses over his knuckles, reluctant to let go. They lock eyes for too long—way too long, and miraculously, Zhang Hao doesn’t hear anything. Maybe he’s too distracted by his own heart pounding too loudly in his ears, or maybe Hanbin simply isn’t thinking at all. He doesn’t know. 

But then—it’s there. Short, sudden, undeniable. “I want to kiss him,” Hanbin thinks, before it all goes silent again. 

Zhang Hao wants too.

Hanbin’s fingers are still curled around his hand. Zhang Hao doesn’t pull away, even though he knows he should. 

There’s something simmering between them, something that makes Zhang Hao shiver—terrifying, but also exciting. He doesn’t know what it is, hell, he doesn’t even know if he wants to find out, but Zhang Hao’s always been curious, which is probably his biggest fault. If there’s something he doesn’t know, he must find out. 

And that’s how he falls into a trap of his own doing. 

Ten minutes before work ends, Hanbin appears at his desk out of nowhere. He leans casually against it, strong arms crossed over his chest. There’s something different about his eyes today—guarded, but still warm and inviting. 

Zhang Hao deliberately looks away. Even if there are many things he wants to know, Hanbin’s thoughts are not one of them. Not right now. He’s had a little too many bites of the forbidden fruit.

“Is sunbaenim staying for a little longer today?” Hanbin asks, looking around Zhang Hao’s desk. Their coworkers are already ready to clock out, while his things are still scattered around. 

Zhang Hao hadn’t planned on it. He’s behind, sure, after spending all morning zoning out, but he had no intention of staying late. Still, his mouth works faster than his brain as he blurts out a shaky, “Yes.” And then, adds quickly, almost like an afterthought, “Are you?” 

The question hangs heavy with dread—because, what is he hoping for? For Hanbin to stay too? For them to be all alone together? And then what? Maybe he wasn’t even planning to stay, maybe he’s even ready to go home, all packed. Maybe Zhang Hao’s just being a wishful fool, maybe—

“Yes, sunbaenim,” Hanbin answers, and Zhang Hao feels something like delight bubble up in his chest. Wait, delight? “I’m a little bit behind on tomorrow’s presentation. Are you too?”

Sung Hanbin behind on a presentation? That’s crazy. Almost as crazy as Zhang Hao being behind as well. Yet somehow, they’re on the same boat. “I’ve been a bit… distracted,” he hums.

The devilish grin Hanbin gives him reminds Zhang Hao of old times. Still smug and annoying, and he still wants to wipe it off his face. But now he wonders if there might be… a different method to do so. 

“Then I won’t keep distracting sunbaenim any longer,” the little shit says with a knowing smile. 

Zhang Hao hopes he isn’t that obvious. He can’t be sure, though.

Hanbin turns to leave first, hands lazily tucked in his pockets, stride languid and confident. He watches him go, then slowly slumps into his chair, pulse fluttering.

The office is almost empty now. It won’t be long before it’s just the two of them.

They’re all alone. That isn’t new—they’ve been alone before. But that was, well, before. Before Zhang Hao got the ability to read minds, before he learned what Hanbin really thought of him, before his own feelings towards Hanbin bloomed. Now everything feels different.

There’s a tense silence between them, something that is unfamiliar. Hanbin is never silent, and if provoked, Zhang Hao isn’t either. But the air between them feels heavy and thick, making it hard to breathe. His heart beats so loud it’s almost deafening, hands shaking, clammy.

Anticipation, Zhang Hao realizes. And he’s not the only one feeling it.

Hanbin has been distracted the entire day. Now that it’s just the two of them, it’s plainly obvious. He can’t focus on his monitor, head darting towards Zhang Hao, stealing sneaky glances. There’s a blush high on his cheeks that refuses to fade, and his fingers keep playing with a pen.

Zhang Hao notices because he’s just as distracted. He’s fidgety, playing with the hem of his gray sweater, adjusting his tie over and over, too warm under the collar, ears red, stealing glances at Hanbin, shyly too. It’s too much. Zhang Hao can’t stand it anymore.

That’s why he bolts to his feet and walks to the copier at the far end of the office, secluded and out of sight. He needs distance to catch his breath, a little distance to calm himself down before he does something irredeemably stupid.

Obviously, something bad happens. This is his life, at the end of the day. Just misfortune after misfortune. 

The copier he’s pretending to use—older than his mother—stops working. Paper gets stuck in it, because of course it does. The machine groans loudly, then grinds to a halt. 

Zhang Hao groans too, resting his forehead against the cold plastic. “Ah, shit,” he mutters to himself, hitting his head once, twice. Gently, though, he doesn’t want an ugly bruise. And then, Hanbin’s here. Zhang Hao doesn’t hear him, instead, he feels him, straightening up in alarm. 

This is bad. This is very, very bad. The very same guy he’s escaping from is now right behind him, in this dimly lit room where they’re all alone, warm breath colliding against his neck.

“Is sunbaenim all right?” Hanbin asks, almost breathless, as if he ran the whole way here. Zhang Hao wouldn’t put it behind him, really. “Oh this is easy to fix,” he says once he realizes the problem. A hand settles firmly on his waist, the only warning before Hanbin leans past him, pressing a random button Zhang Hao swears he’s never seen before. “You just have to press this button.”

The copier whirs, sputters, then dies again, and Hanbin still doesn’t move his hand. If anything, he just grips tighter. His chest presses against Zhang Hao’s back, shoulder to shoulder, his breath fanning across Zhang Hao’s cheek.

He should do something. Take a step forward, get some space between them, but instead, lord help him, he steps back. Into him. Into Hanbin. And that’s when he feels it—feels him. Hard and insistent in his slacks, Hanbin’s cock presses against his hip. 

They both freeze.

Hanbin’s fingers dig almost bruisingly into his waist, and now more than ever Zhang Hao should push him away. But he doesn't. Because this feels good, feels right. Hanbin is aroused because of him. Hanbin wants him, and Zhang Hao wants him back. 

It should feel like a revelation, yet it’s anything but.

Maybe that’s why Zhang Hao does what he does next, his right hand finding Hanbin’s, covering it with his own, interlacing their fingers. 

The left one is naughtier, though, searching blindingly. First, it brushes Hanbin’s stomach, tentatively, feeling the thigh clench beneath his palm. Then, it travels a little lower, all the way down to the waistband of Hanbin’s slacks. He lingers there, waiting. Waiting for Hanbin to do something, to stop him—but he doesn’t. He just breathes harder, ragged against Zhang Hao’s ear. 

With his free hand, he grips Zhang Hao’s and pushes him lower. That’s all the permission he needs. 

There’s no warning before he cups Hanbin through the fabric—all of him, full and heavy, warm, pulsating. He can feel him dropping his forehead to Zhang Hao’s shoulder, can hear him whining a low, “Ah, hyung.”

Hyung. Just like in his thoughts.

If Zhang Hao had known this was all it would take for him to stop calling him sunbaenim in that high, mocking voice, he would have done it sooner. Because hell, this feels like heaven for him too—even if he’s not the one being touched. This still makes his breath hitch, makes him throb in his pants from pure, unfiltered want. 

Zhang Hao palms him through the layers, squeezes him once, gently, just to get a little taste, and Hanbin jerks violently, gasping, breath catching on Zhang Hao’s neck. 

He’s big—bigger than anyone Zhang Hao had the displeasure of seeing before—and that alone makes his mouth water. Makes him whine high and needy, desperate. He wants him. He wants him. He wants him.

“Fuck,” Hanbin groans, low and wrecked. The always perfectly composed Sung Hanbin, always prim and proper, the golden boy, reduced to this, putty in his hands. “Hyung…”

Zhang Hao doesn’t stop. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. His body burns, the ache between his legs growing as Hanbin presses insistently against his hand, chasing his touch. Zhang Hao strokes him through the slacks, deliberate, unhurried, enjoying the way Hanbin’s cock swells against his palm.

Hanbin’s grip on his waist tightens, loosens, then tightens again, harder this time. He’s panting now, hot and wet against Zhang Hao’s skin, hips stuttering forward. “Don’t stop,” Hanbin pleads pitifully, voice trembling. “Please, hyung. Don’t stop…”

Turning his head, Zhang Hao sees him, catches a glimpse of him—his flushed face, pink down to his neck, his lashes fluttering, his lips parted in a silent moan. It’s—god, it’s too much. The sight makes Zhang Hao dizzy with power, with want. He doesn’t know what to do with the control he suddenly holds, but it’s clear that he wants to keep pleasuring Hanbin until he’s come undone under his hand, figuratively, and literally.

He keeps moving his fingers along his length in slow, firm circles, sometimes rougher, sometimes softer, grinding his palm against Hanbin’s cockhead. When his fingers cup the soft flesh of his balls, Hanbin lets out a choked sound—half sob, half moan—and buries his face against Zhang Hao’s shoulder, whispering into his skin.

“Is this what you wanted, Hanbinnie?” Zhang Hao murmurs. His voice sounds foreign—thick and rough at the edges—pleasure and pride bleeding through. “Have you been dreaming about this for a long time?”

Hanbin groans at Zhang Hao’s words, barely managing a nod. He does like it when Zhang Hao’s a little mean, it seems, as his cock twitches over and over in Zhang Hao’s hold. “You—you have no idea,” he stammers.

Oh, but Zhang Hao does. He’s known for a while now. “I do,” he breathes, softer, almost tender. A half-truth.

He jerks against him, hips twitching as Zhang Hao mercilessly presses harder, palm rubbing over him. It’s filthy, the way he’s rutting shamelessly into his hand, still fully dressed, lewd sounds leaving his mouth, pants soaked with pre-cum. 

And then it happens. A sharp gasp, his whole body going taut, fingers clamping bruisingly into Zhang Hao’s waist. And he feels it too—Zhang Hao feels it, the way Hanbin trembles, the way he comes undone with nothing more than his hands and his voice, the way he cries, muffled against his neck, the way he spills hot and wet into his pants.

Zhang Hao shudders with a strange, heady rush of triumph, because… he did that. He made Hanbin come. He made him pant and groan. He wiped off the smug smile off his face, ruined his perfect composure. 

The victory is short lived, though. As soon as Hanbin catches his breath, the hand on his waist slips down, hooks into the waistband of his trousers, and—“Oh,” Zhang Hao breathes out, stiffening in pleasure as Hanbin’s fingers sneak under his underwear, warm against bare skin.

“Hyung did so well,” Hanbin whispers, voice low and dark, his breath ghosting the shell of Zhang Ha’s ear. “Hyung always does so well. Hanbinnie will take care of him too.”

And he can’t find a single reason to argue—not when Hanbin’s hand wraps around him, skin to skin. All he can do is moan, high and breathless, his legs trembling as pleasure shoots through him. It’s been too long, way too long since someone has touched him like this, and Hanbin’s touch feels better than anything he remembers.

He has to brace himself against the copier, knuckles white, as Hanbin strokes him slowly, torturously, deliberately. “Hyung is so hard,” Hanbin breathes against his neck, dropping a feather-light kiss to the back of his skull. Zhang Hao bites down hard on his lip, swallowing a moan at the unexpected tenderness. “Did touching me get him like this?”

Zhang Hao chokes on a yes, but he still has some dignity left. “You—you never shut up, do you?”

“Nope,” Hanbin replies easily,  smug smile pressed against the short hairs of Zhang Hao’s nape. “I know hyung likes hearing me, even when he pretends otherwise.” 

He keeps his rhythm cruelly slow, dragging each stroke out, thumb circling the head until Zhang Hao whines, jerking his hips back right into Hanbin’s hardening length. He almost can’t believe it, until Hanbin thrusts forward almost unconsciously, grinding against his clothed ass, a groan falling from his lips. “That’s it, hyung. Just like that.”

Then he pushes him forward, bending him at the waist, pressing him against the edge of the copier, one arm securely wrapped around his waist, the other working between his legs, slick and confident while his hips rut desperately into his meaty flesh. 

Zhang Hao feels like he’s losing his mind. The warm hand around his cock, the hot and heavy weight pressing into him from behind, the obscene reality that he’s bent over the copier—just like in Hanbin’s fantasies—it’s overwhelming. Everything is too much. His breath stutters, his moans spill louder, raw, helpless.

But that’s not what makes him come. What makes him come is Hanbin’s mouth, kissing along the back of his neck, the edge of his sweaty jaw, the sheel of his ear before he whispers, “Come for me, hyung.” 

And Zhang Hao does. He shudders with a sharp cry, hips jerking, spilling hotly into Hanbin’s hand. Behind him, Hanbin's thusts turn erratic, a broken moan pressed against his skin as Zhang Hao feels him pulsating against the clothed skin of his ass.

The silence after is deafening. Zhang Hao stays bent, chest heaving, sticky and spent, with Hanbin still pressed to his back. “Hanbin?” he asks, and it comes out small and unsure, so unlike him.

“Hyung,” Hanbin answers immediately. He sighs—heavy and tired—as the arm around Zhang Hao’s waist pushes him to stand straight. Zhang Hao grimaces a little bit, back sore, and without thinking, he slumps into Hanbin’s chest. 

And Hanbin—Hanbin lets him. 

He doesn’t say anything, just supports his weight as Zhang Hao reflects on what just happened. Or well, tries to. It’s a little bit hard with Hanbin’s hand still on his now soft cock.

“Hanbinnie,” Zhang Hao blurts before he can stop himself. “You should… we should clean up before it gets more gross.”

Wow. That’s probably the most embarrassing thing he’s ever said at the office. Wait. They are at the office. Did Zhang Hao… did he just do dirty things in a public place?! Where anyone can see them? Oh lord. The worst is that he doesn’t feel any shame over it. 

Hanbin laughs, open and bright, nuzzling the back of Zhang Hao’s neck with his nose. The sound makes something lift from Zhang Hao’s chest—fear, maybe. “I’m going to turn hyung around,” he warns, guiding him gently. His beautiful light blue shirt is ruined, the side all sticky with dying come. 

Zhang Hao feels the need to scold him for ruining good clothes when he could have cleaned his hand in the bathroom, but that’s before he sees him. Sees him—his face, his eyes. Flushed all over, beautifully so, but it’s different from what Zhang Hao’s used to. There’s a glow to him that only good, fulfilling sex can bring, a different type of gleam in his eyes. And they look almost… fond. His smile is dopey, toothy. Beautiful. Otherworldly so. 

“Does hyung regret this?” Hanbin asks, but he doesn’t wait for Zhang Hao’s answer. “Because I don’t. I don’t regret this.” His voice is firm, his words leave no room for doubt. It’s reassuring in a way—knowing that he’s wanted back—but it’s also scary. 

Things have changed so much in such a short amount of time, but even then, Zhang Hao still knows his own truth. “Me neither,” he admits, shy but real. 

Hanbin’s grin blooms wide, bright enough to swallow him whole. “Good. Let’s go home, yeah?” he says, brushing some hair away from Zhang Hao’s forehead, and fixing his clothes before taking his wrist and tugging him toward the bathroom. 

And then, Zhang Hao notices belatedly—Hanbin’s mind is quiet, for the first time in weeks.

Hanbin walks him to the station. It’s silent, in the way only having sex with your rival turned coworker turned friend can be. That is to say, very, very awkward. At least that’s how it feels to Zhang Hao, no matter how many forced laughs he lets out, no matter how often his eyes dart to Hanbin’s still flushed face, getting caught every time.

He’s a gentleman—Hanbin. He keeps his distance, keeps banter to a minimum, and nearly jumps right onto a moving car when their hands casually brush. It’s funny considering that very same hand had been between his legs half an hour ago, smeared with cum. And he keeps walking in a funny way, shifting his trousers from time to time. 

Poor thing. Zhang Hao almost feels guilty. Almost.

But the worst part? Zhang Hao doesn’t know what Hanbin’s thinking. He knows it’s bad to depend on something that shouldn’t even exist to begin with, but he’s gotten used to it. A weird sort of comfort settles over himself when he thinks a little bit too hard about how he’s the only one who truly knows Hanbin, his deepest secrets, his darkest thoughts. And now it’s gone. Hanbin has been silent for hours. 

With a stiff wave they part, and Zhang Hao’s alone to stew with his own thoughts the whole time it takes him to get home. Endless, relentless thoughts. 

It doesn’t really hit him—what he’s done with Hanbin—until he gets home, until he gets a good look at himself in the mirror. What looks back feels foreign, a new version of him, a version of him that didn’t exist this morning.

Zhang Hao almost can’t believe it, which is why he takes an even closer look. His eyes are shiny, shinier than they’ve ever been before. Bright and almost… lively. There’s a slight flush to his skin that seems just so out of place against the usual paleness that he carries. And his lips. His lips are curved in a small smile, which Zhang Hao can’t wipe off no matter how hard he tries.

Fuck. Fuck. This is fucked up. He’s messed up really badly.

There’s only someone he can blame for this whole debacle, and it isn’t Sung Hanbin. It’s himself and his damn fucking hand.

Zhang Hao stares at it in shock, in disbelief. He stares at his palm, turning it over, staring at his knuckles, his fingers. It looks like it always does, long fingers, neatly clipped nails, oiled cuticles, moisturized skin. Normal, ordinary. 

But there’s a menacing aura around it. He… he can’t believe his own hand would do that—would betray him like that. Maybe his hand is wired directly to his cock  instead of his brain. Maybe his cock is his brain. That would be horrifying. 

Maybe he’s going crazy. That is more likely.

And no matter how hard he tries to rationalize, when he lies down in bed that night and closes his eyes, Zhang Hao can’t help but picture Hanbin. No dirty thoughts, though. Instead of picturing him breathless, panting, and tensing in pleasure—he just sees his smile. His soft eyes curving, the small dimples on the apples of his cheeks, his sweet thoughts, the tangerine he gave him the other day.

And he dreams of him too, just smiling, holding his hand. That’s what makes waking up so hard.

♡︎

Zhang Hao doesn’t mean to—he really, really doesn’t mean to, but he ends up avoiding Hanbin. Inevitable, he knows as much. He knows himself, but it doesn’t make him feel any better.

He avoids him like it’s part of his job. Hanbin’s nearing his desk? Zhang Hao drops something so he can hide under it. Hanbin enters the kitchen during lunch? He swallows the remains of his sandwich in one single bite and bolts. They have a meeting together? Zhang Hao makes sure to sit as far away as possible. 

It’s awful. It makes his stomach twist with unease, makes his thoughts spiral into insanity. And it’s not like he wants to hurt Hanbin—but he knows he’s doing it. Hanbin’s heartbroken expression is painfully obvious. It’s obvious in the way his fingers fidget as he hovers near Zhang Hao’s desk, debating whether to approach him or not. It’s obvious as his hands shake when he passes him a document. 

Still, he doesn’t press. He’s quiet, keeps to himself as much as possible. But he’s not cold—not at all. He keeps doing things that Zhang Hao knows he doesn’t deserve. A warm cup of herbal tea on his desk, a single tangerine waiting for him next to his lunch bag.

Somehow, it makes everything worse. It makes the guilt eating away at him grow arms and legs, makes his hands cold and clammy with anxiety. It makes his heart ache, it makes him chew and chew onto his cuticles. It gives him sleepless nights and days where his mind is far, far away, in a place where he’s a little more valiant, a little less of a coward.

Because the thing is, he’s afraid. He’s afraid that Hanbin isn't angry, he’s afraid that he’s still being nice. He’s afraid of Hanbin’s thoughts, which he hasn’t heard since that night. It’s awfully silent, almost eerie. 

But Hanbin… Hanbin’s still Hanbin. He wears his heart too openly to hide everything. Zhang Hao can see it now—in the wistfulness behind his smile, in the heartbreak of his expression when their eyes meet in the kitchen. It’s too much. It’s so bad he can’t do anything but run as fast as his legs will allow him, hide in the bathroom, palms pressed hard to his eyes to stop the tears from running. 

It’s silent. They don’t talk, and he doesn’t hear. He’s forced to guess, to see, to search. There’s nothing to comfort him, nothing to accompany him. And maybe that was his first mistake. Not asking. 

But then, he hears him. Just a single sentence, a single thought, but it’s enough. Enough to break his heart, enough to make him nauseous. Enough to regret what he’s become, what he’s done. 

They’re in a meeting when Zhang Hao catches his eye. Hanbin’s stare is faraway, almost like he’s in another place entirely, but intense, burning nonetheless. His hand trails over his chest, and he stops over his heart patting once, twice. 

And that’s when Zhang Hao hears him. “Why does it hurt so much?” Hanbin thinks.

If he could, he’d drop onto his knees right at this moment, ask Hanbin for forgiveness. Because this isn’t about lust anymore. It’s not about an experiment, it’s not about a rival. Hell, this isn’t even about his cursed ability anymore. It never was—Zhang Hao knows as much.

Habin’s thoughts have always had a deeper meaning, something beyond just sexual attraction. He wants, yes, but the type of want that makes your heart sort and your cheeks blush. He wants, but the kind that makes you want to spend entire afternoons basking in the setting sun, hands interlaced.

And maybe—if Zhang Hao dares to hope—it’s love too. Which is way more scary than any thought, than any handjob, could ever be. 

He misses Hanbin—deeply, achingly. God he misses him. He misses his bright smile, his smug teasing, his blushing cheeks, his kind demeanor. His warm heart. He misses what they could have had, what he actually wants to have. He still feels his fingers pressing against his waist, brushing his hair away. But fear is paralyzing, and so is loneliness.

Because Zhang Hao doesn’t hear him anymore after that. He’s alone now, alone in the truest sense. Not just without Hanbin, but without his voice, without his thoughts, without his warmth. All that’s left is silence, ache. 

If he can’t hear Hanbin, he has to ask. He just hopes that it won’t be too late by the time he finds the courage to try. 

♡︎

Zhang Hao gets dragged to a local bar for drinks night. Their latest project was a success, and their team leader thinks the best way to celebrate anything—literally anything—is to get blackout drunk. He doesn’t share the sentiment. There’s nothing worse than being squished into a booth, sticky table under his fingers, while he gets forced to just… socialize.

It’s not that he doesn’t like drinking—hell, he’s been craving a small glass of whiskey for about a month now—but he doesn’t like what comes with it. How boisterous his coworkers get, how their inhibitions lower, how they start prying into his life, practically dissecting him under a microscope for fun.

He considers skipping. He always does, if he’s being honest. And he never can. Peer pressure always wins. It’s not easy to maintain his golden boy image, and he doesn’t want to lose to Sung Hanbin. 

Speaking of the angel. Zhang Hao doesn’t want to see him—too messy, too dangerous with a mix of alcohol involved—but when he arrives at the bar, a little later than his coworkers, his eyebrows furrow in confusion. 

Hanbin isn’t here. That’s strange. He always loves these little celebrations. He’s someone who thrives with people. In a crowd, he always shines brighter than anyone and everyone. 

It’s uncomfortable, the feeling that sets in the pit of Zhang Hao’s stomach as he settles on a chair as far away from the commotion as possible, staring warily at everyone just to make sure his eyes didn’t deceive him—but no. Hanbin simply isn’t here.

One of the younger coworkers leans over the table with a grin and a flushed face. Zhang Hao knows nothing good ever comes from that combination. “Is sunbaenim looking for his boyfriend?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows. 

And even though Zhang Hao feels a little nauseous with the knowledge that some people might see them as boyfriends, he doesn’t bother answering. He just gives this dude a flat, blank stare. What a dick.

The kid lasts about three seconds before shrinking back, uncomfortable. Zhang Hao doesn’t blame him. He knows this particular stare of his is a little bit intimidating. “Uhhh… yeah. Forget I said anything.”

One win for Zhang Hao. Now he really needs a beer.

He’s two beers in when the empty chair beside him scrapes against the floor. He doesn’t even bother looking up at first—just sees milky, smooth hands gripping the backrest.

When he does, Hanbin’s there. Real, flushed from the cold, and breathless from having run all the way here, probably. Zhang Hao just stares up at him, blinking slowly, almost disbelieving. 

“Good night, sunbaenim,” Hanbin says with a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. Sunbaenim. The word tastes unbearably sour in Zhang Hao’s mouth, but he supposes he deserves the demotion after being a dick. “Can I sit here?”

Not trusting his voice, Zhang Hao nods once, watching as Hanbin shrugs off his brown leather jacket, leaving him in nothing but a thin white shirt. And—oh lord. He doesn’t want to sound like a little pervert, but the lighting hits him in all the right places, the fabric clinging enough to show the outline of his pecs, his nipples hard against the cotton

Wow. Zhang Hao swallows hard. The pulse in his neck hammers, and his lips dry so fast his tongue has to dart off to wet them. His breath quickens as he imagines what it would be like to have Hanbin squirming under his mouth, nipples flushed and sensitive against his tongue, soft and warm skin beneath his palms, 

Zhang Hao tears his eyes away before he’s caught, fingers curling tightly around the cold surface of a glass bottle.

They sit. They don’t talk. Hanbin doesn’t talk to anyone, and that's the strangest part. He just quietly sips on his drink.

The next hour goes painstakingly slow. Zhang Hao can’t leave that early, and even if he’s a little frisky most of the time, he’s still a junior in the company. So he has to endure. 

He endures being pressed close to Hanbin in the cramped space. He endures the smell of his collongne—sharp and familiar—wood with a hint of citrus. Their arms brushing, and Hanbin’s face reddening little by little,  prey to the alcohol running through his veins. 

First, his cheeks. Then, his ears, then down his throat and chest. 

Does his blush stop there, or does it stray even lower?

At first Zhang Hao tells himself it’s nothing. That he doesn’t care about the way their thighs press under the table, Hanbin’s bony knee digging into his own before Zhang Hao pulls away as if he’s been struck by lightning. That he doesn’t keep track of how many times Hanbin’s elbow grazes his ribs every time he takes a sip, tickling that sensitive spot so close to his waist. That he doesn't notice the restless drumming of his fingers against his pants—almost as if he doesn’t know what to do with them—before wiping them absently against the fabric. 

He doesn’t keep track of how many times Hanbin stares at him, the soft sighs leaving his lips, or his warm, and gentle laugh. But he does. He wants to look back. He wants to do many things. Reach over, lace their fingers, kiss him silly against the nearest wall, press their bodies close together. 

By the time Zhang Hao remembers to breathe, his pulse is loud enough that he can’t hear anything else.

“Okay everyone, let’s play a game!” someone shouts. This is so annoying. The older they get, the more they want to go back to their teenage years. It’s a curse Zhang Hao’s surrounded by a bunch of forty year olds. “Spin the bottle, but no kissing involved. That’s against the company's rules. Just dares!”

Zhang Hao doesn’t pay attention at all. He doesn’t really care to watch his coworkers dance on chairs, to hear them bitch about their CEO, to see them pounding shots. 

That is, until the bottle lands on none other than Sung Hanbin himself. Hanbin—who’s been quiet for the most part, just nursing his third beer of the night. Not that Zhang Hao’s been keeping count. 

And of course, the same brat from earlier opens his dirty mouth. Seriously, these people were born to make him suffer, there’s no other explanation. A wicked grin takes over his features as he faces Hanbin. 

Zhang Hao is not fucking impressed by him, and he makes sure to give him his most hateful stare. The guy pointedly ignores him. Coward.

“Hanbin-ssi! Our shining star,” he says, sickly sweet. Zhang Hao knows he’s scowling, and he doesn’t bother hiding it. Who does he think he is to address Hanbin like that? “I dare you to whisper something filthy into our Hao-ssi’s ear.”

Well, that’s not what Zhang Hao expected. And also, what the fuck? Doesn’t this go against company’s rules? No fraternizing and all that? 

Hanbin surprises him, though. Always agreeable Hanbin, now scowling just as fiercely as Zhang Hao, eyes hard and mouth tight, looking almost… angry? Zhang Hao’s never seen him like this.

“No,” is what Hanbin says flatly, leaving no room for rebuttal. “Why would I do something like that? Don’t you think it’s disrespectful? You’re out of line, man.” 

And wow… he’s so hot. Hot and considerate. 

The guy visibly flinches, face paling. No one’s ever seen lovely and warm Sung Hanbin this mad. He tries to play it off with a laugh, but it falls flat. “I wasn’t being serious, man. Just—” He stutters as Hanbin raises one of his strong and polished eyebrows. “Just say whatever you want to him. A secret or something. I don’t know.”

Hanbin lets out an almost sarcastic laugh, lips stretched on a cocky smirk. “That’s more like it,” he says, full of confidence, and—ugh. He’s so hot it’s almost unfair. Zhang Hao feels like bolting and avoiding him for another week. 

But then Hanbin turns to him, and everything softens. They’re close, so close Zhang Hao can see every minuscule change in his face. The hard set of his eyes is no longer there, replaced by a crinkle at the corners. His lips aren’t downturned in a frown anymore, but the opposite, a small smile taking its place. His cheeks are bunched up ever so slightly, his nose twitching.

And then, his hands are cupping Zhang Hao’s left ear, and he’s just there, breath warm and thickly. “I’m sorry, hyung,” he murmurs, a secret just for them 

Hyung, not sunbaenim. But also, what he’s apologizing for, Zhang Hao doesn’t know. Shouldn't it be the other way around? 

Shouldn’t he be apologizing? For telling Hanbin he didn’t regret what they did, only to end up avoiding him afterward? Shouldn't he be apologizing for reading Hanbin’s mind, for stealing the deepest secrets he keeps close to his heart? The guilt tastes bitter, enough to make Zhang Hao nauseous.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable the other night,” Hanbin continues, unaware of Zhang Hao’s spiral. “It won’t happen again, so please stop ignoring me.” There’s a raw pea in his voice, landing heavy on Zhang Hao’s chest. 

Please stop ignoring me. 

The words make a home under his ribs, next to his heart. Obviously, he’s not the only one who’s been having a hard time. Hanbin has too. And Zhang Hao feels so guilty. He’s been bad—a bad person, and he doesn’t want to be like that anymore. He doesn’t want to hurt Hanbin anymore, he doesn’t want him thinking that any of this is his fault. 

If it’s anyone’s, it’s Zhang Hao’s. He started this, he fed this, he pushed it further. 

He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. He never does, but especially right now it feels like words wouldn’t be enough. His hand trembles beneath the table, fingers twitching with doubt. Still, he reaches for Hanbin’s thigh, squeezing once. No one notices; their attention has shifted to someone pretending to strip. For a moment, it’s just the two of them. 

Hanbin’s hand finds his, thumb caressing over his knuckles before he smiles, sweet and unbearably tender. Zhang Hao realizes then that the silence on Hanbin’s mind still remains, even though everything around them is unbearably loud. 

He wonders what he’d be thinking right now. Does he feel the tension growing between them? Does he feel like he might explode at any moment too?

Would he be thinking about something sweet? Something filthy? Something that’d make Zhang Hao’s heart break? Something that’d make his knees tremble? He’d give anything to know. Right now, the silence is maddening. He wants to pry it open—to steal just one thought, one last time.

When Hanbin’s knee presses into his again, harder this time, with more intent, Zhang Hao’s breath falters. But he doesn’t move away. He can feel the thread that joins them pulled taut, about to snap. His stomach squirms with something he can’t name—fear, longing, anticipation. Maybe all three. 

Once it feels acceptable enough, Zhang Hao quietly slips from his chair, ready to leave. He’s not drunk—just pleasantly tipsy—but his balance is awful even on a sober day, so his attempt to escape unnoticed fails as the legs of the chair scrape loudly against the floor. A few heads turn, but Hanbin turns the fastest. In the next breath, he’s standing, one strong hand gripping Zhang Hao’s waist to steady him, the other bracing his arms. 

Zhang Hao unconsciously places his own hands over Hanbin’s chest, right where he’d been daydreaming earlier. And he was right—Hanbin’s chest is warm and solid. His thin shirt leaves little to the imagination. Zhang Hao can feel the strong muscle tensing, the faint raise of his perky nipples.

“You okay there?” Hanbin asks, frowning in concern as his hand rubs soothing circles beneath Zhang Hao’s ribs. He’s ticklish, and his senses have been sharpened by alcohol, so Hanbin’s touch feels extra good, and he almost moans as his fingers press roughly against the soft curve of his waist.

Which is why he steps back quickly, breaking the contact before he can embarrass himself further, their arms falling limps to their sides. Hanbin fidgets, almost as if he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Zhang Hao doesn’t either. He doesn't know what to do, where to look. His eyes end up on their shoes, lowering his lashes shyly as he tries to breathe deeply through his nose.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, rubbing his arms, suddenly cold. “I just wanna go home.”

A jacket settles over his shoulders before he can protest—Hanbin’s, he realizes by the smell. Zhang Hao didn’t bring one, but of course Hanbin noticed. The thought makes something funny squirm in his belly as he pulls the fabric closer. It would be so easy to bury his nose in the thick collar and breathe Hanbin in, but Zhang Hao resists the urge. He still has some dignity to maintain.

Hanbin offers to walk him home, and Zhang Hao’s tipsy enough—from Hanbin, from his smell, from the alcohol still left on his system—that he nods in agreement. Tonight, instead of pulling away, Zhang Hao chooses to lean in.

The first minutes of their walk are silent, just the sound of their feet accompanying them, the soft hum of traffic, the warm streetlights. Hanbin’s hands are securely kept in his pockets, and he leaves a careful gap between their shoulders. 

Before, he wouldn’t have. If this was a week ago, two weeks ago, Hanbin would have brushed the tips of their fingers together, playing it off as a joke, as an accident, smiling like it meant nothing. They’d be chatting amicably (unlikely), just to fill the air, or maybe they’d be quarreling. There’s never been a middle ground with them. But now, just silence lingers.

Zhang Hao matches his pace, follows Hanbin’s lead. Every so often, their shadows mix under the streetlights. The jacket still hugs his body tightly, warmly, comforting, but the weight in his chest is the opposite. This isn’t right. It shouldn’t feel like there’s a wall between them, one Zhang Hao built with his own two hands.

They turn into an alley. It’s narrow, dim, and Zhang Hao knows it does the work, cutting their walk to the station almost in half. He’s walked this way many times before, sometimes in the mornings, as he hastily makes his way to the office, sometimes in the afternoons, dead on his feet.

But halfway through, Hanbin stops. Zhang Hao almost doesn’t realize, nearly collides with his back. The light above flickers, leaving Hanbin’s body caught between gold and shadows. Zhang Hao’s pulse stutters in nervousness, in anticipation. He knows—a foreboding feeling taking over his chest—that whatever is about to happen, whatever Hanbin’s about to say, they won’t walk away from here the same. 

“Hyung,” Hanbin whispers, voice almost lost by how quiet it is. But Zhang Hao’s close, and he’s paying attention. He wants to hear him, even if he isn’t ready. “Hyung… do you hate me?”

Hanbin doesn’t look at him as he asks. Still, he doesn’t need to see him to know how he feels. His shoulders hunch, his hands hide in his pockets, and his chin tilts up towards the starry sky, breath fogging in the chill air. A confession, maybe.

Zhang Hao’s frozen in place. His arms hang useless at his sides, aching to reach out, wanting to touch. He doesn’t swallow, saliva pooling in his mouth, he doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move.

“What?” he blurts out, because it’s the first thing that comes to mind. Hanbin’s words were loud and clear. He heard him perfectly. “Why—why would I hate you?” he stutters, voice thin and breathless. 

Hanbin lets out a humorless laugh, head hanging low, almost in defeat. “Before, we used to fight all the time. But I never thought that you hated me. That’s why I always pushed back. I liked… annoying you, in a way. And I think you enjoyed it too.” 

It’s true. As much as he pretended to hate Hanbin, as much as he pretended they were enemies and rivals for the longest time, it never quite felt like that. Bickering with Hanbin was something he used to look forward to every day—albeit unconsciously. He longed for his attention, for his eyes to be on him. He longed for Hanbin to notice him.

“It doesn’t feel like that now,” Hanbin says as he turns toward him, a strip of golden light cutting right over his eyes. He’s searching for something in Zhang Hao’s, looking for something in his expression. “Now you avoid me. It feels like you’d rather be anywhere but near me.” 

He steps closer and closer to Zhang Hao, the gap between them shrinking. It’s almost instinctual, how he takes one step back, and then another, and then another, until his back collides with cold concrete, the chill seeping through the thick fabric of Hanbin’s jacket.  

Zhang Hao shivers, but not from the cold. He shivers because Hanbin’s close enough to touch, close enough to breathe in. The faint smell of alcohol mixes with the familiar citrus fragrance, and something else that has always been just him.  

“So, tell me hyung. Do you hate me?” 

The denial burst from Zhang Hao’s chest almost violently. “No—” His voice cracks—Hanbin’s looming figure over him is making his breath shorten, making his heart beat faster, louder, making his legs tremble, his palms sweat.

There’s almost no space between them as Hanbin takes another step forward. “Then why are you avoiding me?” he asks, and it sounds frustrated. Not born from anger, Zhang Hao can tell as much. It’s hurt. He’s hurt. 

Zhang Hao can’t answer. He opens and closes his mouth, but nothing comes out. The truth stays lodged in his throat, stubborn, unmoving. He can’t look at Hanbin’s eyes anymore—at the way they shine, even in the darkness, at how he seems so broken, pleading.

“I don’t want you to hate me, hyung,” Zhang Hao hears him whisper, small. 

Then comes the touch. A gasp leaves his mouth as Hanbin’s thumb brushes the underside of his jaw, as the rest of his fingers hover over the tender skin of his neck, as they caress softly, as they linger. 

Zhang Hao doesn’t move, and that almost feels like permission. Permission for Hanbin’s hand to travel down, wrap around Zhang Hao’s throat loosely, pressing over the point where his heart beats the wildest. 

“I don’t hate you, Hanbin-ah.” The endearment slips unguarded, and Hanbin’s hand tightens at the sound. The words that follow are let out in a rush, as Zhang Hao says, “I could never hate you,” shyly, shakingly, the closest to a confession. 

Hanbin leans in, forehead against Zhang Hao’s temple, nose brushing his too warm cheek, hand still curved possessively around his throat. He means to push him away—he really does—but his hands have a different idea. They settle over Hanbin’s sturdy chest, right over his heart, where it beats strongly, quickly, hammering in his ribcage, just as his own. 

“Then don’t run from me,” Hanbin murmurs, the plump of his lips brushing against Zhang Hao’s skin as he speaks, feeling almost too close to a kiss. A hand slides down slowly from his shoulder to his waist, where Hanbin grips firmly.

Zhang Hao doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at him, just at their feet, at Hanbin’s hand kneading the tender skin of his tummy. He does want to run—but that’s how he also knows that he wants to stay. He wants him. 

But Zhang Hao doesn’t dare to meet his eyes, not yet, at least. Because he will know, and he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to hear what he already knows. Even if he hasn’t been able to hear Hanbin’s thoughts in days, even if he’s been avoiding him. He still knows. He knows what he'll find in the depths of Hanbin’s mind, what he’s been hiding. What Zhang Hao’s been hiding, too. 

Hanbin’s hand grips his chin, tugging up, but Zhang Hao is stubborn. “Why won’t you look at me?” Hanbin presses, voice rough against his jaw. “Look at me, Zhang Hao.”

And Zhang Hao does. He doesn’t hesitate this time—Hanbin’s tone, his words work like magic. He looks up, meets his beautiful brown eyes, and hears nothing. It’s a relief as much as it is a disappointment. 

But if he can’t hear, then he has to ask, because he must know. He must be sure, if he ever wants to lay his heart bare in return. “Hanbin, do you like me?”

The answer slams into him, loud and clear, echoing tenderly through his head, colliding with the walls enclosing his heart, spreading warmth over his chest. “I think I might be in love with you,” Hanbin thinks, soft and sweet. But he doesn’t say it aloud.

Zhang Hao’s hand finds Hanbin’s collar, curling in the fabric tightly around his fist. “Hanbin,” he says—he pleads, voice trembling. “Hanbin.” What he asks for, what he needs from him, Zhang Hao’s not sure. 

Me too, Hanbin. I think I might be in love with you.

The city is silent. All Zhang Hao can hear is their labored breaths, his heart pounding in his ears. He thinks Hanbin can hear it too.  The leaves rustle softly, and a dog barks far, far away. But, in this narrow alley, it’s only them. Hanbin’s hand on his waist, on his throat, his lips grazing his cheek. 

Something is about to happen. 

Hanbin’s hand slides lower, maddeningly slow. His fingers brush over Zhang Hao’s soft belly, they settle on his hip where he squeezes firmly. Then, it drifts lower, caressing his inner thigh softly, almost feather-like. Zhang Hao flinches, not because he wants to escape, but because Hanbin stares intensely, dark, fiery, unblinking, pinning him right against the cold brick wall.

A kiss brushes the curve of his cheek, stealing a sharp inhale from his lungs, and then, teeth ghosts over his ear, scraping against his lobe. “Tell me to stop,” Hanbin murmurs, begs. 

But Zhang Hao doesn’t, so Hanbin continues.

His fingers drag taunting patterns over his slacks, creeping higher and higher until his whole palm is cupping his growing cock. The touch is barely there, just a graze, but Zhang Hao feels it all over his body, from his feet to the crown of his head. A hiss slips before he can catch it, and has to clutch Hanbin’s shoulders to not fall. 

It’s too much. Far too much.

And even as Hanbin keeps touching him slowly, working him until he’s fully hard and panting, Zhang Hao doesn’t tell him to stop. Instead, he pushes his hips harder into Hanbin’s palm, urging him on, grinding without shame, biting the clothed skin of his shoulder to hide his moans.

The hand on his cock stops, then leaves, only to cradle his cheek tenderly, running the pad of his thumb across soft skin. They look at each other, even though the light keeps flickering, bathing Hanbin in shadows from time to time. Still, Zhang Hao might not see, but he feels. He feels their breaths mingling, the solid press of Hanbin’s cock against his thigh. 

A fleeting kiss brushes the corner of his mouth, and without meaning to, Zhang Hao instinctively leans in, but Hanbin pulls back. It takes him a moment to realize why, but when he does, all Zhang Hao can do is breath out a stunned, “Hanbin-ah.” 

Because Hanbin is lowering himself, dropping to his knees before him, looking up at him with dark, hungry eyes, hands firm on his hips. Long lashes fan up at him, pink tongue darting out to lick his dry, cracked lips. “Tell me to stop,” Hanbin says again.

And Zhang Hao swears he means to do so, this is a bad idea, after all. Reckless. They’ve had some alcohol, they’re in the street, and he’s been avoiding Hanbin for days. Hanbin literally shut him off his mind, off his thoughts, and yet… he can’t. He wants this too much.

Hanbin doesn’t move his hands, just holds Zhang Hao's gaze, letting the words hang in between them. “Say it, and I’ll do it,” he whispers, softer now, almost pleading, just like the first time. “I’ll do anything you want, Zhang Hao.”

Zhang Hao knows Hanbin’s telling the truth. It’s scary—how willing Hanbin is to do anything, everything. How pliant he is when Zhang Hao grabs his chin, tilting it up, searching for an excuse to not do this, to not peel another carefully constructed layer of him off, leaving him bare for Hanbin to see. 

“You—you’re drunk, Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao stammers, the words weak even to his own ears. It’s an eternal conflict for him, wanting something but not letting himself have it. For a moment he imagines it. He himself imagines saying no, pulling Hanbin back to his feet, but the thought tastes sour, like loss. All he manages is a stuttered, breathless, “Not—not like this.”

“We’re not drunk, Hao-hyung,” Hanbin says instantly. And he’s right. They were never drunk to begin with, and whatever alcohol lingered is long gone from Zhang Hao’s system. His hands tighten around Zhang Hao’s bones, mouth hovering over his wet crotch. “And I want it,” he murmurs low and desperate, just for him. “Please let me have it.”

Zhang Hao swallows hard, throat bobbing, mouth dry. He knows he should say no—but his fingers curl tight into Hanbin’s shoulders, unconsciously urging him closer. 

He knows he should say no—but his breathing turns ragged as Hanbin’s hand slides from his hip to his thigh, gliding up until he cups him through his slacks. He knows he should say no—but a lewd moan breaks his lips as Hanbin’s thumb brushes lazily over his hardening length. 

Zhang Hao knows he should say no, but he doesn’t want to. And he doesn’t.

His knees tremble, about to give out. It feels almost too much for a first touch, but still not enough. Hanbin’s hands keep him pinned to the wall, cold concrete against heated skin, and then he leans in, hand replaced by mouth, cupid's bow stretched into a lovely smile.

The first warm exhale against the outline of his cock makes him shiver, makes him close his eyes, head thumping back. God, he’s thought about this far too many times, more times that he’d dare to admit, though he never dared to imagine it would feel like this. 

He can’t bring himself to look down, afraid of what he’ll see, of what he might never forget. But he does. And he sees. He sees Hanbin puckering his lips, pressing soft kisses across his length. He sees Hanbin with his tongue out, lapping at him through the fabric.

It’s heaven when Hanbin mouths him, wet and hot as the fabric drags against his tender skin. And it keeps going on forever, Hanbin going at a slow, maddening pace. But Zhang Hao can’t stop him. Not when he’s so close—when they’re so close.

Finally, with a kiss to his tip, Hanbin pulls back, watching, searching, tilting his head just enough for their gazes to meet. Zhang Hao can read the question easily in his eyes, even if he can’t hear him, can’t hear his thoughts anymore. “Are you sure?” Hanbin asks.

Zhang Hao doesn’t answer with words. He just threads his fingers into Hanbin’s hair, finding roots damp with sweat despite the cold breeze as Hanbin lays his cheek against his thigh, nuzzling at the clothed skin, teeth grazing over fabric, all but purring as Zhang Hao scratches his scalp softly.

That’s enough for him—for Hanbin. He’s learned to read him too, even if he can’t actually know his thoughts. Not like Zhang Hao does.

Thick fingers find his waistband, tugging his shirt loose to stroke the warm and sensitive skin beneath, pinching his belly before undoing the button. Zhang Hao’s breath catches as he watches with raptured attention Hanbin lowering the zipper bit by bit, pulling his pants down just under the curve of his ass. 

It’s cold, it feels cold, icy against the damp fabric of his boxers, but not for long. Hanbin looks up again, so pretty, so beautiful, so eager, just searching for any sign to stop. Zhang Hao gives none.

His cock springs free, hard and flushed, leaking against his stomach. The chill air makes him ache harder, makes him crave for Hanbin’s warmth—the warmth he knows he'll find in his mouth. Zhang Hao doesn’t think he’s ever been this turned on in his life, this close to coming from so little. It only worsens when Hanbin wraps his hand around him, weighing him, staring in awe. 

Zhang Hao whines when Hanbin spreads the pre-cum gathering in his slit, when he slaps the swollen head against his plush lips, mouth closing over it without hesitation. Hanbin’s mouth is warm, soft, slippery, and the wet first suck drags a moan straight from his lungs. His head falls back, hard against concrete, sting melting into pleasure. His fingers stay tangled into Hanbin’s hair, holding on, trying not to come too soon.

Hanbin doesn’t rush—in fact, Zhang Hao thinks he makes it his mission to make this as slow as possible, to drag it on forever. He traces the underside of his cock with his tongue, memorizing every ridge and vein, lips sealing tight before pulling back to let the night air sting the damp skin, only for his ravenous mouth to engulf him again. 

It’s torture. It’s bliss. Not just the sensation, but the realization that he’ll never be able to pretend this didn’t happen, never pretend that Hanbin doesn’t want him, that he aches for him just as much as Zhang Hao does. 

A hard suck to his tip makes him whine, loud, shameless, unafraid of any passerby. Fuck everyone. 

When he dares to look down, he finds Hanbin’s pink lips stretched wide around his cock, eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao moans, broken and raw and somehow tender.

Hanbin hums right before he finally takes him deeper. The wet and plushy heat of his throat closes around him, and Zhang Hao tries his hardest to keep standing, to not let his knees buckle, while Hanbin bobs his head faster, sinking lower and lower, almost taking him to the hilt.

And then—then Zhang Hao hears him. It’s back. He can hear it. He can hear him. 

“He’s beautiful,” Hanbin thinks. “I want to do this forever. I want to make him feel good. I want to hear his moans forever, I want him to come in my mouth.” 

Zhang Hao’s hips jerk despite himself, and Hanbin chokes, coughing as tears slip down his red cheeks, gasping for air as he frees his cock from the warm paradise of his mouth, spit glistening down his chin. 

“Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao breathes, awed by the sight of Hanbin on his knees, love and want written on every line of his body. 

“Take anything you need from me,” Hanbin whispers, voice low and wrecked, before swallowing him down again, wet and eager. 

This time he doesn’t hold back, he doesn’t drag things out. There’s no restrain as he just sucks desperately, messily, spit dripping as Zhang Hao tugs at his hair, makes him go faster, deeper. 

He doesn’t look away—doesn’t close his eyes in pleasure even though his body begs him to. His gaze stays locked on Hanbin’s teary eyes, on his red, splotchy cheeks, and Hanbin does the same. That’s how Zhang Hao hears him. 

“Make me yours,” Hanbin pleads in his mind, tongue pressing insistently against the underside of Zhang Hao’s cock with every pull. “I’m yours. Please be mine too.” 

Zhang Hao’s beyond shame now, high pitched moans spilling freely from the confines of his throat as the spike of pressure curls low and fast in his stomach. “Be mine. That’s what my heart desires.”

The words unravel him. Zhang Hao doesn’t get to warn Hanbin—his words are enough to pull him over the edge. He comes into Hanbin’s mouth, and Hanbin swallows greedily, never breaking eye contact, holding him until his body stops shuddering, until he sags against the wall, boneless and spent.

When he finally pulls back, lips flushed and swollen, licking until the last drop of cum from the corner of his mouth, Hanbin smiles, big and bright. Probably the biggest and brightest smile he’s ever seen. The fuck. Zhang Hao doesn’t know what to say, but something in his chest answers anyway, tugging on his own lips into a smaller, shy smile as pets the top of Hanbin’s hair, drawing in the cool night air until his lungs stop burning. 

Hanbin pulls his boxers back up, buttons his pants, tucks in his shirt, brushes his hair into place. The gesture is so careful, so tender, Zhang Hao aches to kiss him. And he does—just not on the lips. He’s not that daring yet. His cheek is the next best thing. Soft, supple, warm. Hanbin gasps when Zhang Hao presses a loud smooch there, blushes harder than ever. “Hyung…” he murmurs under his breath as his fingers ghost over the spot.

Zhang Hao longs to return the favor, to make Hanbin feel as good. His fingers trail to Hanbin’s belt, intent on undoing it, on dropping to his knees just to feel the heavy weight of his cock in his mouth, on hearing his name ripped from Hanbin’s throat—

But Hanbin catches his wrist before Zhang Hao can do anything, laughing sheepishly. “You don’t need to worry about me, hyung.”

It’s then that Zhang Hao notices—the wet patch staining the front of Hanbin’s pants, his trembling thighs. “Yo—you?” he stammers, disbelieving. Because Hanbin just came untouched, just from having him in his mouth.

The thought steals Zhang Hao's breath, makes his spent body twitch with want all over again. He stares up at Hanbin, wide-eyed, chest tender and aching. "Couldn't help it,” Hanbin admits softly, voice open and honest.

Zhang Hao doesn’t know what to say. But isn’t that the story of his life? So this time, he lets his heart take the reins. A laugh blooms forms his belly, leaves his mouth sharp and loud. It’s not mocking, though, not like it could have been before. This time is giddy, gleeful. Happy.

“I’m in love with him,” Hanbin thinks, and Zhang Hao hears it loud and clear. It’s not shocking—not anymore.

Me too.

♡︎

Something strange happens. For the first time in his life, Zhang Hao actually wants to go to work. He doesn’t even frown in the morning when his alarm goes off, when he peels his thick blankets just to find his apartment freezing cold.

It feels surreal—looking at himself in the mirror and seeing a smiley boy staring back at him. He doesn’t need a gallon of coffee to drag himself awake, and he packs his lunch prettily instead of shoving everything into his bag, slipping in two perfectly round tangerines from the lot he bought days ago. 

Stranger still, how he chooses his outfit carefully instead of throwing on the first thing he finds in his closet, how he applies a thin layer of pink lipgloss, how he carefully styles his hair, a curled strand artfully falling right over his forehead.

Weirder yet, the way he doesn’t scowl when a buff dude jostles him on the subway, when a teenager with armpits so stinky they could cause a health hazard lifts his arm right beside him. 

It’s weird too the way he hums to a happy song playing from a store as he skips on his way to the office, how he greets Mr. Lee with a small smile and a wave as he sees him. 

For his own sanity, he chooses to ignore Mr. Lee’s thoughts. “Did he finally find a girlfriend?” the old man asks himself. “Or wait, is it a boyfriend? Hanbin? I’ve seen the lovesick eyes that boy gives at him, it’s honestly a miracle—”

Zhang Hao looks away, pulse kicking, hands clammy. Boyfriend. He's never had a boyfriend. Just flings, no one important enough to name. But now…

Hanbin broke him. Zhang Hao can admit as much, can admit that he’s not himself anymore, that his carefully crafted facade is broken in shambles. Who would have thought all it took was a very eager, persuasive boy, a hot and wet mouth, and some beautiful shiny eyes?

At the end of the day, he’s always been weak to the charms of Sung Hanbin. Even if he tried to fight him for a very, very long time, even if he tried his hardest to play the angry, pesky puppy, Hanbin has always been the only one who could make him feel, wether that be desire, annoyment, resentment, happiness, giddiness. The only one. This was inevitable. 

It’s also inevitable not to think about last night, and the week before that. Hanbin bending him over the copier, Hanbin dropping to his knees in the hard asphalt, mouthing  him over the thin fabric of his slacks, rosy lips stretched wide over his hard cock—

Enough. Morning boners are a nightmare.

Still, Zhang Hao can’t help but wonder—how will Hanbin look at him today? Will he give him a cheeky smile, will he let his hand linger a little bit longer on his waist when they pass by each other? Will he blush, memories of last night fresh in his mind? Will they sneak around, hidden from everyone, just for Zhang Hao to lean in and kiss his fluffy cheek? Will they share hushed words, little secrets in the empty office, right before everyone arrives?

The possibilities are endless, and Zhang Hao does have a very wild imagination. But he already has a plan in mind, “I’ll pretend to be cool and collected. I am cool and collected, actually,” he murmurs to himself in the empty elevator. “I’ll peel a tangerine for him at lunch. Yeah, I think he’d like that very much. I think he also likes it a lot when I pout. I’ll definitely—”

Zhang Hao stops dead in his tracks. Hanbin’s not here. His desk is empty.

That’s strange. Even when Zhang Hao tried his hardest to beat him to the office—just to be annoying, just to beat him in the silly war happening in his mind—he never really succeeded. Hanbin was always first. Always. But today, he’s the first one to arrive.

He tries to rationalize it. Hanbin could be late. That is something that happens to even the best of the best, right? Maybe… his alarm didn’t go off. That could be it too. Maybe he was too busy thinking about Zhang Hao last night that he couldn’t sleep, or maybe he was too distracted this morning. Yeah, that must be it. 

But an hour passes, and Hanbin doesn’t come.

The thing is, Zhang Hao is a pessimist by nature. He was born this way. If something bad can happen, it will. Glass half-empty and all that. And he’s also an overthinker at heart, which is a very bad and dangerous combination. Naturally, he can’t help but think of the worst case scenario. 

Is Hanbin regretting last night, that’s why he didn’t show up to work? Is he avoiding him? 

Oh, how the tables have turned. Zhang Hao’s getting a taste of his own medicine. Again.

Worse of it all… is he—does he regret it? Does he regret it so much that he can’t look Zhang Hao in the eye and say it to him? Does he… pity him? Did he realize the depth of Zhang Hao’s feelings and now he doesn’t want to potentially break his heart?

Or worse… did something bad happen to him? 

Zhang Hao spends at least thirty minutes pacing the office, brewing coffee twice, checking his phone incessantly, chewing on his cuticles until they’re red and raw and bleeding. He even considers emailing Hanbin, but that won’t actually do. It’s not enough. He needs to see him.

And Zhang Hao might be a coward most of the time, he might run from his feelings and the things that he wants, but he’s also stubborn as hell. When something gets in his head, it stays. Right now, he has to see Hanbin. But first, he needs to find out what the hell happened to him. 

The only one with this particular information is his boss. 

Okay, fuck. That’s going to be terribly embarrassing and so out of character of him, but he has to soldier on. 

Do it you little shit, Zhang Hao scolds himself, hand trembling as he raises it to knock. Hanbin literally sucked your dick on the street and this is what frightens you? What a joke.

Being a little mean to himself works wonders. That’s how he gets his hand to move, to actually knock on his boss’ thick, wooden door.

He hasn’t been in her office many times. It’s pretty big, all tall glass windows and a breathtaking view of Seoul. His boss is right on her desk, reviewing some documents as a surprised expression takes over her features when she realizes it’s him. “Hao? What can I help you with?”

He had this whole speech planned out in his head: greet her first, small talk, update her on his recent project, and finally ask about Hanbin’s whereabouts. Obviously, that doesn’t happen. The first thing that comes out of his mouth as soon as he has the chance is, “Where is Hanbin?”

His boss just slowly raises her eyebrows, pen frozen mid-air. Zhang Hao feels the heat crawling up his spine, blooming all over his cheeks. Shit. Not how this was supposed to go. He—he has to backtrack, somehow. 

“I—uh…,” he tries again, tries to think of something, anything to fill the awkward silence that has settled between them. An excuse, maybe. He could say they’re working on a project and he needs Hanbin’s help. That could work, right? But instead, his mouth betrays him again. “Where—where is Hanbin?” 

His boss just leans back on her chair, arms crossed over her chest as she stares at him in interest, studying him like she’s watching a very fun drama unfold. Zhang Hao avoids her eyes. He doesn’t want to know what she’s thinking, thank you very much. 

“He called in sick,” she says at last.

Zhang Hao blinks. “He called in sick?”

She nods, removing her glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Weird, right? He’s never been sick before, not that I remember. Anyway, he’s not coming for the rest of the week.”

The rest of the week? The rest of the fucking week? 

Fuck. Shit. Lord. Zhang Hao fucked up. He royally fucked up. This is all his fault and now Hanbin hates him and Zhang Hao will have to quit his job because he doesn’t want to make Hanbin’s life any harder and—

“I need to go.”

His boss' jaw drops. “Wh—what?” she sputters, standing up from her chair, reaching for him across the desk as if she could stop him. “Wait, Hao. Where are you going?” she asks, but Zhang Hao doesn’t answer. He’s already out the door, sprinting through the office, rustling papers, drawing the attention of everyone. For the first time in his life, he actually doesn’t care.

“Hao?!” his boss calls again, voice echoing across the floor. 

That stops him—just for a second. Okay. He needs to calm down. Be normal and give her an explanation. He can’t just storm out of here without a word. He’s calm and collected, a rational man. He can do this.

So he turns back, walks towards her—not slowly or tentatively, as he would have before—but with a confidence that he doesn’t actually feel. “I’ll be right back. Just… give me an hour and I’ll be back,” he pleads, voice wobbling despite his best efforts. “I need to do something urgent. Please, sajangnim.”

She sighs, pats him on the shoulder comfortingly. “You may go, kid. Good luck with your… urgent matters.” Zhang Hao finally risks a glance at her, at her eyes. She’s smiling tenderly, like a mother would to her very dumb kid. And he hears her thoughts, loud and clear. 

Young love… I might let this one slide and not report them to HR. They’re just so cute… Hao fighting! You can do it.

He can do it. He will do it. 

So, he bolts again, much to the astonishment of—well, everyone. No one’s ever seen him run before.

There’s one small problem, though. Zhang Hao doesn’t know where Hanbin lives. 

He has frantically run at least two blocks when he comes to this realization, sweat dripping down his neck, hands shaking as he digs out his phone to… maybe call him?

Except—right. He doesn’t even have Hanbin’s number. Shit. 

His only option is to go back to the office and… ask. Dear lord. Who? He doesn’t know yet. It feels like a humiliating walk of shame as he slips into the lobby of the building again, Mr. Lee laughing behind his palm. 

Zhang Hao ducks behind a wall, trying not to be seen as he peeks at his coworkers, trying to think of someone, anyone who can help him. 

And then he sees him, hard not to, considering he’s the tallest and youngest you in the room. The intern. Kim Gyuvin. 

He has seen him and Hanbin talk often, has seen them leaving work together, sharing meals and muffled laughter. It’s worth a shot, right? If anyone knows, it’s him. And if Zhang Hao’s going to embarrass himself, it better be in front of someone who won’t be here for much longer. With luck, Kim Gyuvin will forget about any of this tomorrow. 

Thanks to the heavens above, Gyuvin heads to the kitchen, where Zhang Hao follows quietly, making sure he’s not seen by anyone. Hiding next to the fridge, Zhang Hao tries to get the boy’s attention as he starts brewing some coffee. 

“Pssstt,” Zhang Hao calls from his hiding spot. Gyuvin turns, frowning, scanning the room. “Hey, Gyuvin-ssi,” he tries again, this time waving his hands so Gyuvin can spot him.

And he does. Gyuvin’s eyes widen comically when he finally spots him. “Hao-sunbaenim?” he all but screams. This boy has always been very loud. That’s why he gets along so well with Hanbin, Zhang Hao thinks.

“Shhhhh, lower your voice,” Zhang Hao snaps, frowning.

Gyuvin shrinks back, a little frightened. Good. Zhang Hao still maintains his ice queen reputation, then. That might work in his favor. “Sorry, sunbaenim,” Gyuvin whispers, staring everywhere but at Zhang Hao’s face. “What… what can I do for you?”

Okay, here comes the hard part. Zhang Hao takes a deep breath before just diving into it. He’s already here, so he might as well go out with a bang. “This is going to sound extremely weird, I know. But do you happen to know where Hanbin lives?”

Gyuvin blinks in confusion. “Hanbin-hyung?” His eyes grow so round and big Zhang Hao’s a bit scared they might pop out of its sockets. “Wait, sunbaenim doesn’t know where hyung lives? How can that be? I thought you guys were boyfri—”

“Ah! Don’t say anything else,” Zhang Hao cuts him off sharply before the forbidden word escapes. Just how many people think there’s something going on between them? Well… technically there is something going on between them, but it’s not what everyone thinks. Or is it? “Just—ugh. Are you going to help me or not? Do I need to ask someone else?” 

Ha. As if he has anyone else to ask. But Gyuvin doesn’t need to know that.

The guy is into theatrics, it seems, as he straightens up to his full height and salutes at Zhang Hao, puffing out his chest. Young kids are crazy these days. “In the name of love, this lowly servant will help sunbaenim!” Gyuvin declares before sprinting out of the kitchen. 

Zhang Hao is left there, baffled, until Gyuvin returns with a scrap of paper, an address scribbled messily on it. He takes it from the younger boy with trembling fingers, almost in disbelief at how easy it was. But it’s there. He has it. Hanbin’s address. And he doesn’t live that far, just a ten minute run, Zhang Hao calculates. 

“Good luck,” Gyuvin says with a solemn look and slap to Zhang Hao’s arm. It hurts. “I’ll escort sunbaenim outside. Just hide behind me so you won’t be seen.”

“I’m indebted to you for life, Kim Gyuvin,” Zhang Hao replies gravely, bowing to him at a ninety-degree angle, much to Gyuvin’s amazement.

 And then, they’re out. Zhang Hao thinks he’s not seen by anyone.

Operation Ice Queen Extraction: completed. Hopefully.

The ten-minute run to Hanbin’s apartment stretches to twenty. Zhang Hao has to stop every two blocks to catch his breath, wipe sweat from his forehead, fan his too-hot cheeks. As soon as this whole… thing is settled between them, he’s joining the gym. He can’t be this pathetically out of shape. It’s actually embarrassing. 

It’s quite easy to find Hanbin’s apartment building. Zhang Hao sighs with relief at not having to run any longer—that is, until he sees the sign taped beside the elevator. 

NOTICE! Elevator out of service. Please take the stairs. Thanks :)

The fuck. Hanbin lives on the tenth floor, according to Gyuvin. This might actually kill him. 

Zhang Hao’s almost dead when he staggers to Hanbin’s floor, shirt unbuttoned, hair damp and sticky, tie dangling. He must look like a mess too, all flushed and panting, but adrenaline is still pushing him forward, and it’s the last spark of it that drives him to bang on Hanbin’s door loud enough to wake the dead. 

He has to see him. He needs to see him. He needs to know if Hanbin hates him, if he’s actually sick. What if he has a fever? What if he has no one to look after him? What if he hasn’t eaten? What if he’s lying half dead on his bed?

“Hanbin-ah!” Zhang Hao calls with urgency, pounding again. An old lady cracks the door open next to Hanbin’s, giving him a look sharp enough to kill. Zhang Hao just bows his head in apology, knocks quieter. His voice isn’t quieter, though. “Sung Hanbin. Open the door right now!”

The door swings open mid-kick, leaving Zhang Hao’s hand frozen between them. 

Hanbin looks…. perfectly fine. A little red around the eyes and nose, but other than that he doesn’t look like he’s one foot inside the casket. That’s a relief. He isn’t dying like Zhang Hao feared he might. 

And yet he looks different. Casual. Boyish, in a way. Zhang Hao’s never quite seen him outside work, outside his fitted slacks and his crisp dress shirts. What stares back at him in disbelief is Hanbin, clad on thin gray sweatpants, frame drowned by an oversized black hoodie. Just a boy. A twenty-four year old boy. It’s strangely striking.

“Hyung?” Hanbin asks, a little nasal, eyes wide. Zhang Hao stares. His fingers twitch with the need to hold him, to touch him, to trace the faint stubble shadowing Hanbin’s jaw, to reassure himself he’s real. His heart kicks harder, breath catches. “Hao-hyung?” 

Hanbin doesn’t sound angry. If anything, he’s just startled. Maybe he really is sick. Or maybe he’s not angry at all, just avoiding him.  

“I—I heard you were sick,” Zhang Hao stammers, suddenly unsure, and a little bit awkward now that the adrenaline is gone. 

He peeks into Hanbin’s eyes—timidly, shyly—and finds him already looking back. They’re shiny, almost abnormally so, heavy-lidded, sluggish blinks. Zhang Hao can’t hear his thoughts, and Hanbin isn’t giving anything away, which makes this whole thing even more difficult. 

Something twists in his stomach at being shut out—anxiety, fear—but… didn’t he come here with a purpose?

Zhang Hao has always pretended to be in control of everything. Of his emotions, of his present, of his future, of the way he presents himself. But he knows that’s always been a facade, a front he puts up to not be hurt. The truth is, he’s never been in control of anything, nothing at all. And somehow, Hanbin has always seen through it. 

It’s a shame that it took Zhang Hao this long to realize—that it took him getting fucking mind-reading powers to notice it, to notice him. But he also knows that’s the reason why Hanbin’s sole existence always bothered him so much, why he unnerved him, why he always ruffled his feathers. It’s hard to be seen when you’ve spent years hiding. 

So, for the first time in his life, Zhang Hao wants to stop hiding. Maybe he should just take what he wants. And if it doesn’t work, well, at least he tried. 

He feels everything: his damp dress shirt clinging to his back, his damp hair. He feels the burn in his legs after running and climbing, the rise and fall of his chest. He feels the harsh overhead lights blinding him, Hanbin’s doormat under his dress shoes. He feels Hanbin’s gaze, attentive, loving, unnerving.

So Zhang Hao does what any slightly crazy and emotionally repressed man with dying mind-reading abilities would do. He lounges forward, hands cradling the prickly skin of Hanbin’s jaw, fingers scratching his sideburns, and leans in to kiss him.

He doesn’t make it. Hanbin stops him mid-way with a hand planted firmly on his chest. 

His voice is panicked. “No—no, don’t do that!” he exclaims, cheeks so red it almost looks like he has a fever instead of just being embarrassed.

Zhang Hao’s heart falls to the floor. Truth to be told, he wasn’t expecting rejection. He was hopeful this would work, even if he was being impulsive. After everything—the thoughts he’s read, the intimacy they’ve shared—he thought…

The heartbreak is short-lived, as it quickly becomes irritation, indignation. “Why not?” he demands, petulant, still cupping Hanbin’s face, squishing his cheeks until his lips pucker. “Don’t you like me anymore? Did you ever even like me? Should I leave? Should I quit my job so you don’t have to see me at the office ever again? Do you regret everything that’s happened between us so far?” 

He quickly goes from indignant to mortified once he realizes what he just blurted out. Zhang Hao’s hands fall limply to his side, his gaze drops to his feet. He’s ready to bolt. Honestly, it wouldn’t take him that long to run back to the office. 

“I don’t even know why I’m here. I should leave. Forget everything I said—”

Hanbin doesn’t let him get too far. His hand closes firmly around Zhang Hao’s wrist and he tugs him forward until he stumbles into his chest, strong arms wrapping around his shoulders. Zhang Hao just freezes, breathing in the warm, familiar scent lingering on Hanbin’s hoodie. 

“Hyung, I caught a cold last night,” Hanbin murmurs against his ear. Oh. That explains the red nose, the fever-flushed cheeks. Zhang Hao can feel heat radiating through the thick fabric, the faint shiver running through his body. “I don’t want you to get sick.” His palm pats the back of Zhang Hao’s head, soothing, tender. 

Even sick, Hanbin still has it in him to be a little shit. It’s part of his personality to be mischievous, eyes glimmering with it as he cradles Zhang Hao’s face in his hands. “Also, that’s the longest I’ve ever heard hyung talk. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

Zhang Hao slaps his sturdy chest in instinct. It’s also instinctual too, to throw himself back into Hanbin’s arms, hugging him tight, nosing at his collarbones. “You stupid fucking idiot,” he mutters into the fabric of Hanbin’s hoodie, muffled but clear enough to make Hanbin giggle sweetly against his forehead. “Oh my god, I hate you so much. Don’t ever do that to me again. You scared the shit out of me.” 

There’s relief in Zhang Hao’s voice, and, embarrassingly enough, some tears. That’s why he hides in Hanbin’s chest, because if he doesn’t Hanbin will see the wetness gathering in his eyes. The past twenty minutes of his life have been crazy, after all. Going from thinking he’s been rejected by the boy he—he likes, to him not actually being rejected is just… crazy.  

And he doesn’t want Hanbin to see him cry; he refuses to look weak. But it’s useless. Zhang Hao knows that Hanbin sees beyond, feels beyond. He doesn’t need to read his mind to know what’s going on. 

“Are you crying?” Hanbin asks, incredulous as he tries to peek at his face. Obviously, he doesn’t allow it. His arms just clutch tighter around Hanbin’s waist, face burying deeper and deeper into his sturdy chest, “Oh my god, please don’t cry,” Hanbin all but pleads, breathless and a little bit broken.

Then Hanbin sniffles—loudly. Something fat and wet lands on his forehead, and he startles. It can’t be… “Are you crying?” Now it’s Zhang Hao trying to see, but Hanbin keeps him pinned right where he is. “Why are you even crying? You want to be me so badly…”

He feels Hanbin’s smile blooming against his hair, right before he says, “Hyung’s always been my role model, after all.”

That’s it. Zhang Hao’s final wall melts away. He’s not an Ice Queen anymore, no more frost coating his heart. There’s just warmth, giddiness, affection. 

This time, when he pulls away, Hanbin lets him. His eyes are glassy and shiny, a mixture of tears and sickness. Red lingers on his button nose, on his cheeks, making him look stupidly cute. 

Something funny happens in Zhang Hao’s chest—uncomfortable, and painful, but right at the same time.

“Hanbinnie. I’m going to kiss you,” he announces. Hanbin opens his mouth to protest, but Zhang Hao presses a finger over his lips, shushing him. Wow. He’s being bold today. A pat on the back for him. “I don’t give a fuck if I get sick. I’m going to kiss you, and you’re going to kiss me back.”

All Hanbin can do is nod. 

It’s amazing, the way Zhang Hao’s so close he can see the way his pupils dilate, can feel the way his body slightly trembles, the way his breath stutters. “Yes hyung.”

“Okay,” Zhang Hao breathes, mostly to himself. He steps closer, as close to Hanbin as their bodies can press, and kicks the door shut behind them. 

The sound is loud, echoing through the tense silence between them as their eyes lock. Zhang Hao doesn’t blink—he doesn’t want to miss anything, wants to see everything. He wants to see the way Hanbin’s throat bobbles up and down as he swallows hard, the way he blinks rapidly. He wants to see him fidgeting with the hem of his sweatshirt, wants to see his rosy tongue darting out to wet his dry lips.

And he hears, too. It’s nothing too damning, not something he hasn’t heard before, but with everything that’s happened between them, the words fall heavily in Zhang Hao’s heart—not the way they used to, though. This heaviness is welcomed, wanted. He lets them settle sweetly into his chest, let’s them drive his next actions.

“Hao,” Hanbin thinks, voice soft and reverent inside. “Zhang Hao. My Zhang Hao. I’d do anything for you. I’d let you do anything to me. I lo—”

Zhang Hao doesn’t need to hear more. He knows. 

It’s him who closes the distance, guiding Hanbin’s hands to his waist as he holds his jaw, kissing him. It’s chaste at first, just a shy press of lips, exchanging warmth. 

And Zhang Hao doesn’t close his eyes this time, either. He sees Hanbin’s lashes caressing the apples of his too-warm cheeks, the twitch of his nose, feels the sigh melt against his mouth, the fingers on his waist tight enough to leave marks.

It’s him who coaxes Hanbin’s lips open slowly, surely. Gently at first, and then not so gently anymore. His tongue slips in, exploring, tasting. The faint flavor of cough syrup still lingers faintly on Hanbin’s palatal, fresh toothpaste on his breath. 

They kiss and kiss and kiss until saliva drips down Zhang Hao’s chin, until his lungs ache and burn, until the skin around his lips is red and raw from the rasp of Hanbin’s stubble. 

Somehow, they end up like this—with Hanbin pressed against his front door, Zhang Hao’s tongue intertwined with his, Hanbin’s hands cupping his ass, while his own slip under Hanbin’s hoodie, feeling feverish skin. Both of them are hard, aching. It’s pretty obvious where this is going, and Zhang Hao would be stupid to be opposed to it, but there’s something he needs to say first. 

Hanbin deserves to know the whole truth.

So, he pulls back. Hanbin’s lips are swollen, a little bit of blood blooming bright from a small cut, a thin string of saliva still connecting them. “Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao whispers. Hanbin isn’t having any of it. He wants to steal another kiss, but Zhang Hao’s hand presses to his chest, pushing him back. “Hanbin-ah, wait. I have something to confess.” That gets Hanbin’s attention. 

Zhang Hao’s not about to profess a grand declaration of love. He’s not ready for that, not yet. But if they’re going to move forward, then he has to be honest.

Confessing is nerve-wracking. Hanbin’s going to think he’s gone batshit crazy, but well… here goes nothing. “You’re going to think I’m crazy for what I’m about to say, but—just. Hear me out…” Zhang Hao’s voice falters, nervousness slipping though. Hanbin’s hands slide from his hips to his lower back, rubbing soothing circles, urging him on. “I can read minds,” he blurts out, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’ve been reading yours for weeks, Hanbin-ah. I knew… I’ve known how you feel about me for quite some time. I’m sorry for betraying your trust like that, but, ugh—”

Zhang Hao swallows hard. The only thing that keeps him going is that Hanbin hasn't let go, that he’s still listening. “For the longest time you infuriated me so much, and I wasn’t any better. The first time I read your mind I just wanted to… I wanted to confirm that you hated me.”

“But I didn’t,” Hanbin whispers, soft and loving.

Zhang Hao’s eyes snap open. He’s not expecting it—not expecting Hanbin’s gaze to be so warm, crinkled at the corners with a barely-suppressed smile. “Yeah, you didn’t.” Zhang Hao smiles back, and he can’t help it, can’t help the way the apples of his cheeks rise up and up and up in the brightest smile he’s given Hanbin yet. “Imagine my surprise when I heard you calling me a cute puppy.”

Hanbin chokes on his own spit. Zhang Hao stifles a laugh under his hand, too endeared by this seemingly too-forward boy, the same one who hides a lot of shyness just underneath the surface. “I liked… I liked hearing what you think about me. You made me feel wanted, seen. But that’s not why I like you,” Zhang Hao admits once Hanbin’s cough subsides, once he looks at him from under his eyelashes, once their hands are loosely intertwined. “I’ve liked you for a long time, Hanbin. I’m just a little bit…stubborn.”

The way Hanbin giggles is sweet, soft. “That would be an understatement, don’t you think?” he asks cheekily, the way Zhang Hao’s grown so fond of.

To Hanbin’s delight, he lets himself be free, and he pouts, lips plush and tempting. Hanbin’s eyes immediately drop to them, inching closer, until he suddenly freezes. His eyes widen with horror. “Wait. That means you’ve read all of my dirty thoughts? Me… you… and the copier? Oh my god.” 

He hides his burning face in his palms, groaning. Zhang Hao can’t help but let out a heartily laugh, born from deep down his belly. It even surprises him—it’s been so long since he’s laughed this freely, this happily. “I’m telling you I can read minds and that’s what you’re worrying about?!” 

“Every single word from hyung is the absolute truth to me,” Hanbin insists, with as much seriousness as his crinkled eyes allow. “Can you hear what I’m thinking right now?”

Zhang Hao tries. Before, when he was actually seeking to hear, to know, it came so easily. Now, he has to focus a bit more, but Hanbin’s voice is still there, so unmistakably him. 

“Hi hyung… you’re so pretty I could die right now. But not just pretty, also kind, and lovely, and smart, and almost like a durian. Underneath that spiky and unapproachable exterior, there’s sweetness and softness. I would like to peel your layers off too and try you, if you’d let me hehehee…”

As Hanbin says this, his hands slide under Zhang Hao’s shirt, tracing the curve of his spine, leaving fire in its wake. Zhang Hao doesn’t wait a single second. It’s an impulse, really, the way his hands undo the buttons of his dress shirt clumsily, baring himself for Hanbin to see. 

And Hanbin stares. Just stares—brain quiet, hands hovering midair. Not moving, not breathing, growing pinker by the second. For a moment, Zhang Hao’s a bit scared he just broke him. 

The back of his hand finds Hanbin’s forehead, and it feels hot, burning. “Hanbinnie… a—are you okay?” he whispers, suddenly shy under the weight of Hanbin’s stare. 

Hanbin swallows, finally looking up. “No. I’m just—it’s just…” His voice cracks, raw and low, sniffling a few times, blinking slowly, sluggishly. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve imagined this a thousand times, and nothing comes close to how beautiful you are.”

His sincerity feels like a punch to the chest. There’s no teasing, no cockiness, just honesty, truth. Hanbin’s mind is quiet, and so is the room around them, their labored breaths the only symphony accompanying the crescendo of their heartbeats. 

“You—you’re just feverish. Hallucinating,” Zhang Hao tries to laugh it off, tries to break the silence threatening to engulf them. But Hanbin stays quiet, doesn’t look away. His hands still hover, his damp eyes still follow the rise and fall of Zhang Hao’s chest, nothing more, nothing less. 

Zhang Hao’s had enough, he decides. “Do—do you want to touch me?” he asks, placing his hands over Hanbin’s.

He doesn’t urge him, only waits. Waits as Hanbin’s pleading gaze meets his, as his raw bitten lips breathe out a shaky, “Yes please.” And then, as if Zhang Hao’s eagerness wasn’t written plainly clear all over his body, he asks, “Can I?”

Zhang Hao just takes Hanbin’s hands and places them on his soft stomach. Hanbin caresses with his fingers the faint lines of muscle, following the soft trail of hair leading lower, to where Zhang Hao’s cock is hard and straining against his dress pants. 

All Zhang Hao wants is a kiss, wants to taste the sweetness of Hanbin’s tongue, the warmth of his mouth. But Hanbin turns his head as Zhang Hao leans in, and all he tastes is damp, hot skin, rough with stubble, beads of sweat caressing it.

Hanbin looks sheepish, not unsure. “If you’re sick tomorrow you won’t blame me, right?”

Zhang Hao hums, pretending to think long and hard. “I’ll blame you,” he decides, delighting in the way Hanbin’s lips form a cute and startled ‘o’. “Every affliction I have is your fault, Hanbin-ah.” He guides Hanbin’s hand to his bare chest, right over his heart, where it thumps, thumps, thumps, in rapid succession. “You feel that? That’s your fault,” he says, barely holding back a moan as Hanbin’s palm brushes his sensitive nipple. 

And then, he drags Hanbin’s hand lower and lower, until it rests right over his erection. Both of them gasp—Hanbin in surprise at Zhang Hao’s boldness, Zhang Hao at the overwhelming touch. “You feel this? Your fault as well.”

He kisses him then, fast, hard, ravenous, Hanbin’s hand still cupping him. Hanbin tries his hardest to kiss and touch and breathe all at once through his clogged nose, clumsy and awfully cute. He’s still eager, though, despite his limitations, eyes hazy and unfocused when Zhang Hao finally pulls back.

Zhang Hao noses along his jaw, tongue lapping at his sideburns, at that patch of skin where it’s deliciously rough. He leaves open mouthed kisses down his throat, on his damp chin. “You’re sick,” Zhang Hoa murmurs against his skin. “So let hyung take care of you, yeah?” 

Hanbin looks ready to argue—Zhang Hao can see it in the way his eyes turn indignant—but a loud sneeze betrays him. He can’t do anything but look at Zhang Hao sheepishly and agree. “Yes. Anything hyung wants.” His hands cup Zhang Hao’s cheeks, and he drops a peck to the corner of his mouth, feather light and tender. “Anything you want.” 

The words brush warm against his skin, and something in Zhang Hao melts and melts. It’s strange—this feeling. Wanting and taking, being wanted and being taken. He’s always been one to keep his desires close to his heart, lest he never gets to have it. It’s easier that way, to get over the disappointment when things eventually go awry. Because they always do.

This time, though, they won’t. Zhang Hao will make sure of it. He won’t let him slip away.

He guides Hanbin back to his room on pure instinct, following the brightest patch of light spilling from an open door, kissing him every step of the way until Hanbin’s knees bump the mattress. He lets himself be maneuvered easily—pliant, trusting. Fever might be making him drowsy, weaker, but his need is evident in the wet patch soaking his gray sweatpants, in the way his hands keep wanting to touch every inch of Zhang Hao’s body.

“Lie back,” Zhang Hao commands, pushing gently at his shoulder until Hanbin sinks into the cushions, eyes half-lidded and glazed. “Hyung will take care of everything.”

His fingers reach for Hanbin’s waistband, peeling his pants off his body almost reverently, brushing his fingers over the obvious bulge as Hanbin shivers. Hands roam under his hoodie, index catching on the meaty skin of his breast, on his pebbled nipple. The thick black fabric is quickly tossed aside, leaving Hanbin flushed and bare.

Hanbin looks delicious like this—a little bit fatigued, but no less excited. He yearns for Zhang Hao’s touch, for his lips to be everywhere, and Zhang Hao happily complies. In his twenty-five years of life, he doesn’t think he’s ever been this eager to give, to please. All it took was an annoying boy from work to make that spark be born in him.

A kiss to Hanbin’s collarbones has him squirming, tongue lapping at the inked skin, nipping and sucking until it's bruising red, until his cock looks painfully hard underneath his briefs. 

Then, a kiss to his sternum, to the supple meat of his pecs. He doesn’t neglect his nipples, not at all. His tongue circles one while his thumb tweaks the other until Hanbin squirms, weakly gasping, “Hyung, if you keep going I’ll come.”

Zhang Hao only laughs, a little bit smug, a little bit mocking. Hanbin flicks him on the forehead.

His lips trail lower. To Hanbin’s ribs, to his belly button—that one has him laughing breathlessly, ticklish. A kiss just above the waistband of his boxers makes him gasp. Zhang Hao feels bold, and he also wants to give back, Hanbin’s mouth seared in his mind forever. That’s why he presses an open-mouthed kiss over Hanbin’s thin cotton underwear, tongue tracing the outline of his cock through the fabric. It’s rough, uncomfortable, but doesn’t matter, as Hanbin leans into it, blissed out. 

A little bit of teasing never hurt anyone, Zhang Hao thinks as he keeps half-tasting him. Hanbin’s hands find his hair, and he doesn’t tug, but it comes close to it. When Zhang Hao glances up, He looks debauched, undone from so little. Truthfully,  Zhang Hao can’t say he’s faring any better, the thought of Hanbin even looking toward his cock could have him coming in three seconds. Pathetic? Yes. But he’s beyond caring at this point.

Hanbin’s tip peeks over the waistband of his boxers, red and angry. Zhang Hao can’t help but caress it with one finger, and Hanbin groans, low, his voice almost gone. “Come on,” he all but pleads, eyes half-lidded. “Don’t tease me anymore. I thought you were taking care of me.”

“You’re no fun,” Zhang Hao pouts, but Hanbin looks so pitiful—all red and feverish—that he peels his boxers off in one go, cock springing free, slapping against his tummy.

It’s Zhang Hao who moans, even if he’s not being touched. Hanbin’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He can’t believe he spent so long denying himself of this, of him. His gaze flickers lower, catching the tender bruises of Hanbin’s knees, skin marred by what they did last night. 

Heat rushes to Zhang Hao’s cheeks at the remainder—Hanbin’s mouth on him, right there on the street. Shame and desire twist together as he kisses those bony knees gently.

“I… I had a good time yesterday,” Zhang Hao admits, looking up at Hanbin in all his naked glory, his thick thighs, his flushed cock, his soft belly, his rounded chest, his sinning eyes. “But don’t get hurt because of me again.”

Discarding his own pants quickly, Zhang Hao climbs over him, knees bracketing his hips. He brushes some strands of damp hair away from his forehead, kisses him again slower, deeper, their cocks perfectly aligned, sliding together in a way that makes Zhang Hao’s eyes roll back.

And when Zhang Hao touches him, finally touches him, skin to skin, hot and real for the very first time, hand fully wrapped around his cock, Hanbin gasps so hard it turns into a cough. But he doesn’t beg him to stop, quite the opposite. His fingers dig into Zhang Hao’s shoulders, hips rolling weakly, wanting for more, needy moans ghosting against his ear.

The slide isn’t dry—not at all. Hanbin’s dripping, wet and ready. “You’re so sensitive,” Zhang Hao murmurs in wonder as he thumbs over the slick head. “Is it the fever, or is it me?”

Hanbin doesn’t answer, eyes squeezed shut as he shudders to every stroke. Zhang Hao enjoys it too—hell, he might enjoy this even more than being touched. He loves the weight of Hanbin’s warm cock in his hand, the sweet mewls that leave his lips as he squeezes just a little bit harder, strokes just a little bit faster.

“Stop,” Hanbin gasps finally, glassy-eyed. Zhang Hao does, immediately worried, until Hanbin blurts, “Can I—can I eat you out?”  

The words knock the air from him. But this doesn’t come out of nowhere, Zhang Hao’s seen him, has noticed the particular way his eyes linger on his ass on days he’s feeling a little frisky and his pants wrap just a little tighter around his ass. He’s felt his hands on his hips, wandering, twitching. 

Still, Zhang Hao’s about to chastise him for being so crass, ready to say no. After all, Hanbin’s sick, fever-warm and struggling to breathe, but his pleading eyes are a lethal weapon. That, combined with the breathy way he asks, “Just for a little bit? Please?” leaves him with no choice but to cave in.

“Okay,” he breathes, just as desperate, anticipation curling tight in his gut. 

This—he’s never done before. But Hanbin seems so eager, motioning for Zhang Hao’s hips to straddle his face, that his cock can’t help but weep sadly at being neglected for so long, at the prospect of something warm and wet inside him.

Zhang Hao hesitates for a half a second, flushed all the way to the tip of his ears, but Hanbin only nods, lying flat on his back, pliant and grinning, lips parted and wet with saliva, sweat trailing off his hairline, down his neck. “You’re going to make yourself worse,” Zhang Hao warns weakly, already anticipating Hanbin’s answer.

Hanbin just grins, a little wicked, voice a low rasp. “I’m already dying. Let me die happy. Or maybe this is just a fever-induced hallucination.” A bright smile takes over his features, the one that shows his whiskers before he says, “Just indulge me, hyung. Pretty please?”

Zhang Hao just rolls his eyes, pretending annoyance, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays him. He shuffles forward, straddling Hanbin’s chest, bracing his hands against the headboard, knees caging Hanbin’s red, supple cheeks, head pounding enough to ache. 

It gets worse when Hanbin’s hands grab his hips, firm and possessive. There’s heat in his stare, but not the sickly haze of someone too far gone to think. It’s pure want, desperation. Zhang Hao lets himself hover just barely over Hanbin’s mouth, stomach tense, breath caught in his throat. 

And then, Hanbin hooks his fingers into the waistband of his underwear, dragging it down mid-thigh. From there he must see everything. Must see Zhang Hao’s hole, his soft balls, the way a bead of pre-cum squirts from his dick. The moment stretches, heavy, charged, just them staring at each other as Hanbin breathes deeply though his nose. 

Hanbin’s hands spread him open, and he leans up, tongue lapping along Zhang Hao’s hole. Zhang Hao shudders, a breathy moan breaking free, fingers curling white-knuckled around the wooden headboard. His thighs tremble, fighting the urge not to sit right over Habin’s face, but Hanbin keeps guiding him lower, refusing to let him move away.

He’s sloppy at first, eager, overeager, spit and tongue everywhere as works at Zhang Hao’s rim, tries to breach his entrance with his mouth only. It’s overwhelming, too much, and he can’t help grinding down, clamping his thighs tighter around Hanbin’s face. He feels everything. Hanbin’s fevered breath, the rasp of his stubble against the meaty skin of his ass, the slick pressure of his tongue against his hole—and it’s too much.

“Fuck—Hanbinnie,” Zhang Hao moans, thighs quivering, heat coiled deep in his belly. His cock aches, neglected, but he doesn’t even care. All that matters is Hanbin’s filthy tongue trying to break in, the way his legs have all but trapped him in place.

Hanbin hums against him before pulling back, tongue trailing along the seam of his balls. Zhang Hao lets out a dragged out whine, hips twitching, desperate to keep rocking against Hanbin’s tongue, but one look at the boy underneath him stops him in place. Hanbin—red, barely breathing, spit dripping from the corners of his mouth to stain the white comforter. It looks like he’s a little dazed, and his chest is heaving erratically. 

“That’s enough, baby,” Zhang Hao whispers, shifting to sit down on Hanbin’s stomach, dropping a faint kiss to Hanbin’s swollen lips, brushing back the hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. “You can barely breathe. Don’t push yourself like that, yeah?”

As Zhang Hao cradles Hanbin’s cheek, he turns his head around, dropping a kiss to his palm and nuzzling into it like a kitty. “Did hyung like that?” 

“I liked it a lot,” Zhang Hao admits with a smile, lying against Hanbin with his head buried in the warmth of his neck, biting and kissing lazily. There’s no rush in it, just the giddy need to touch, to taste the salt on his skin. 

Hanbin tries to catch his breath, nosing at his forehead, fingers trailing his spine. He’s growing restless, though, much Zhang Hao can tell by the way he squirms, rubs himself against Zhang Hao’s hipbone not at all discreetly. Little puffs of breath leave his lips, followed by a loud moan when Zhang Hao drops his weight, trapping his cock.

“Hy—hyung,” Hanbin stammers, breathless once more, while Zhang Hao just smirks against the pale column of his throat. His want is palpable, it’s on the way his hands lower to knead at Zhang Hao’s ass, exposing his wet hole to the morning air, it’s on the way his hips twitch, his body shivers. “Can we—Can I fuck you now, please?”

Zhang Hao decides to be a little shit, just for old times sake. Propping himself up, he stares down at him, smirking. “No, you’re sick.”

The way Hanbin’s face reddens with indignation is almost comical—to Zhang Hao, that is. He has to swallow down a giggle as Hanbin exclaims, “What? Are you kidding me?” along with a pout and pleading eyes. “I’ll lie down,” he says, a little bit frantic when he notices Zhang Hao’s will not bending. “You… can ride me, hyung. Just take what you need. I promise I’ll stay put, I won’t move a muscle. Promise.” 

Zhang Hao gasps softly at the offer. It’s tempting, and maddening that Hanbin’s so willing to just give and give, soft and pliant under Zhang Hao’s hands, trusting. “Just… I think I’d be really mean of you to leave me here like this when I’m so sick,” Hanbin adds, punctuating his statement with a very obvious fake cough. “See? I’m sick. Hyung’s the only one who can cure me.”

He smiles, endeared, so smitten with this cute, feverish boy. “Shut up, silly,” he giggles, slapping Hanbin’s cheek softly in jest. “I’m gonna do all the work today. Just watch, yeah? Watch and learn so next time you get it right. I’m your role model, after all,” Zhang Hao says with a wink. “Now give me lube.”

Hanbin fumbles for the lube at the nightstand, clumsy with his hands in a way he never is, knocking over a box of tissues in the process. “Sorry,” he mutters, lashes lowering shyly to the apples of his flushed cheeks. “My hands are slippery.”

A loud smooch is pressed over Hanbin’s forehead as Zhang Hao chuckles, stealing the bottle of lube away from his hands. “You’re lucky you’re sick. Next time I won’t be so nice,” he teases cheekily, coating his fingers deliberately, letting the squelch echo between them, while Hanbin watches entranced as it drips down all the way to his elbow. 

“No touching, pretty boy,” Zhang Hao murmurs as he kneels, wet fingers sliding behind to trace his hole. Hanbin groans in protest, but Zhang Hao’s tone softens, sweet and firm and whiny as the pad of his index traces his hole. “You’re sick. Let me take care of you, Hanbinnie.” 

The words render him silent, and he just watches in awe as Zhang Hao starts to work himself open. The first finger slides in easily—he’s already loosened from Hanbin’s tongue. Just the thought alone makes Zhang Hao sink deeper, seeking friction, fullness. It’s not enough, not when Hanbin’s right there, looking so red and quiet, eyes bright and dewy and round, not blinking once as Zhang Hao pushes two fingers in and out slowly, moaning low in his throat. 

“Feels good already,” Zhang Hao whispers as his thighs tremble, Hanbin’s hands on his waist keeping him upright. “I bet you’ll feel even better.”

Hanbin bites his lip so hard Zhang Hao can see little rivets of blood blooming from the tender skin. “Hyung…”

“Shhh.” Zhang Hao silences with a kiss, messy and tender, all tongue and teeth. 

Two fingers become three, but it’s not enough. Not enough when Hanbin’s right there, willing, and looking out of a wet dream. 

His fingers leave his hole with a loud squelch, wrapping his hand around Hanbin’s cock, stroking him slowly, carefully, slicking him up. It seems to be torture for Hanbin—having to stay still, every muscle taut with the effort not to thrust up. 

“Hanbinnie is so good,” Zhang Hao breathes against his lips, dropping a playful peck before straddling him again. He lines himself up, one hand braced on Hanbin’s chest, rubbing the flushed head against his hole, savoring the feel of what’s about to come. 

Then he sinks down, slow, centimeter by centimeter, the burning stretch making his eyes flutter shut. “Fuck,” he moans, thighs clamping around Hanbin’s sides until he bottoms out, plump of his cheeks flush against Hanbin’s hips. 

When he dares to look down, Hanbin’s the perfect picture of restraint—fists clenched tight in the sheets, lips bitten raw, eyes squeezed shut, his whole body shuddering from pleasure. “Hanbinnie,” Zhang Hao breathes out, forcing himself still.

“You okay?” Hanbin asks, looking back, a shaky hand rising to cup his cheek.

Zhang Hao nods, barely biting back another moan. Hanbin feels so good inside him, so thick and warm, the stretch burning in all the right ways. That, plus the endless emotions boiling in his chest make everything almost unbearable. “Yeah. Just—don’t move.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, hyung,” Hanbin says with a weak chuckle. “I can barely breathe. Also, I think I’m going to come embarrassingly fast. Apologies in advance.”

Zhang Hao laughs too, soft puffs of breath leaving his lips, before bracing his arms on Hanbin’s chest. He rolls his hips experimentally, letting out a loud, whiny moan as Hanbin drags against his walls. He feels so malleable under him, so needy as Zhang Hao starts riding him slowly, tortuously, rising and falling with control. 

Their bodies glisten with sweat, Hanbin’s rolling down his temples, trickling down his neck, making his chest glisten, salty. Zhang Hao knows this, as he bends down to lick a long strip from nipple to chin, then swallows his tongue in a wet kiss.

Soon he’s bouncing in earnest, thighs aching, legs trembling. The sound of skin slapping fills the room, but that’s not all. Zhang Hao’s a moaner, loud and unabashed, but he didn’t picture Hanbin as one as well. It seems impossible for him to contain the guttural grunts spilling from his lips, the ragged gasps as he watches Zhang Hao’s cock slap wetly against his belly.

 “You’re so beautiful,” Hanbin rasps out, blissed out and almost delirious with want. “So perfect. You’re mine.” 

His hands spread Zhang Hao’s ass cheeks, meeting each roll of his hips with weak thrusts. It feels so good, so deep, and the rough possessiveness of Hanbin's voice only adds up to it.

“So are you, Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao murmurs, staring back at him. Beautiful, perfect, mine, he thinks, but doesn’t say aloud. Hanbin hears him nonetheless, doesn’t need to read minds to know. It’s written all over his body—in the way his hands cradle Hanbin’s face, in the way he leans over, still riding him in earnest, just to steal another sloppy kiss.

He moans into Hanbin’s mouth as the grip into his ass tightens, fingers pressing deep into his soft flesh. “Hao,” Hanbin chokes out, “I’m not gonna last—”

“Me neither,” Zhang Hao gasps, voice cracking. 

His highs are shaking, spent from the effort, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t, not now that he’s had a taste of the sweetest fruit. Not when Hanbin’s cock is hitting just the sweetest spot inside him, again and again and again, sending white-hot pleasure spiraling up his spine, making his toes curl.

He reaches for his own cock, but Hanbin beats him to it, slick hand wrapping around him, stroking roughly, perfectly in sync with his thrusts. It’s too much—so much Zhang Hao can’t help but close his eyes, tilt his head back in pleasure, clenching tightly around Hanbin’s hot length as the boy writhes and spams beneath him.

Zhang Hao can feel it, the way Hanbin’s cock pulses inside him, the way his grip gets even tighter on the supple flesh of his ass, the way his stomach tenses. His eyes are half-lidded, red all over, beautiful and soft, trying his hardest to hold onto this moment.

“Let go,” Zhang Hao whispers, lips brushing Hanbin’s jaw. “You can come, Hanbin-ah.”

That’s all it takes. Hanbin gasps, body convulsing with the force of it, hips stuttering as he buries himself impossibly deep inside Zhang Hao, groaning his name over and over. His insides flood with warmth—a never ending amount, so much that Zhang Hao can feel it leaking out his hole, dripping down his thighs as Hanbin buries his face in the crook of his neck, clinging to him desperately.

Zhang Hao brushes back his damp hair, holds him while waiting for the shudders to calm, for his chest to stop heaving. He’s warm, way too warm, trembling hands resting over the soft curve of Zhang Hao’s waist. “Sorry—I couldn’t… hold it.”

His chest rises and falls above Hanbin, thick droplets of sweat slicking down his back, and he leans back just enough to smile down at ahim. “I didn’t want you to.”

Zhang Hao bends down to kiss his cheeks, his temple, his teary eyes. There’s wetness trailing down his skin, salty tears that Zhang Hao catches with his tongue. His lips are last, soft, unhurried, letting Hanbin ride the aftershocks of his orgasm in peace. Hanbin kisses back weakly, boneless, still breathless.

As their lips part, a thin string of saliva still connects them. Hanbin frowns faintly, pointing with shy fingers at Zhang Hao’s still painfully hard cock. “What about you, hyung?” 

“I’ll take care of it now,” Zhang Hao says with a cheeky smile, cupping Hanbin’s jaw. “Don’t move.” Hanbin only nods, eyes never leaving him.

With a shaky breath, Zhang Hao grinds down again. The come dropping down his hole makes an obscene squelch, but it also makes the slide easier, smoother. It’s slow, languid, just grinding down on Hanbin’s hardening cock, despite how recently he came. 

It drives Zhang Hao crazy—the way Hanbin twitches and whines from oversensitivity, the way his hands keep stroking Zhang Hao’s thighs, his short-blunt nails leaving red stripes every time they drag down.

“I can’t believe—” Hanbin breathes out, barely there, barely here. “You’re still going.”

“I need to come too,” Zhang Hao replies, breath hitching as he rolls his hips again, as Hanbin’s cock brushes against his prostate. With a lewd moan, he looks down, eyes half-lidded, mouth half-open. “Can I?”

“You can do whatever you want.” 

And Zhang Hao does. He doesn’t need a hand on his cock to come—just Hanbin’s thick length, and his tender, enamored gaze, watching him like he’s something out of a dream. His whole body tenses, mouth falling open as he spills across Hanbin’s chest, untouched, thick white stripes painting his flushed skin. 

He collapses forward, arms wrapping tight around Hanbin’s, feeling both their hearts pounding against each other. They stay like this for a while, still joined together, breathing in unison, sweating, touching. 

Hanbin’s the first one to stir, even though he looks half-dead, barely keeping his eyes open. “You okay?” he asks, lazy fingers trailing down Zhang Hao’s spine. 

Zhang Hao lifts his head just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I should be the one asking you that, don’t you think?”

“Feel like I got hit by a truck,” Hanbin says with a crooked smile, the one that shows the dimples high up his cheeks. “And I’m so tired. I feel so sleepy.”

“That’s because you’re sick, Hanbin-ah.” Zhang Hao’s palm finds his temple, his cheeks, and yes—he’s burning up, skin flushed with the wrong kind of red.

“Lovesick,” is what Hanbin murmurs, eyes slipping shut, hand still wandering reverently over Zhang Hao’s skin.

“You’re so stupidly cheesy.” Zhang Hao kisses him right on the mouth before carefully lifting himself off Hanbin’s lap with a wince. His thighs tremble, sore, and Hanbin’s release drips sticky down his legs. It’s uncomfortable but… a little alluring too. 

If Hanbin weren’t on his deathbed, he thinks he’d be ready for round two in no time. Which is crazy. Zhang Hao has never had the highest libido like, ever. Hanbin is the one to blame for every single thing that goes off-path in his life, Zhang Hao supposes. 

“Stay still. Don’t even think about getting up.”

Hanbin groans, creaking one eye open. “I wasn’t planning on it.”

Zhang Hao’s already moving, slipping on Hanbin’s hoodie, padding to the bathroom for a warm cloth. He kneels beside the bed, wiping gently at Hanbin’s neck, chest, forehead, tummy—everywhere he’s dirty—watching as his eyes open, as he blinks slowly, languidly.  

“Cuddle me?” Hanbin asks, pout soft and devastating. Zhang Hao realizes in that instant he’s just as weak to Hanbin’s pout as Hanbin is to his own. 

“Yes, just give me a second. I’ll get you some water, then medicine, then sleep, yeah?” He tucks a strand of damp hair behind Hanbin’s ear, covers his naked body with his duvet.

Hanbin reaches out blindly, weak fingers curling around Zhang Hao’s wrist. “Will you stay?”

Something about Hanbin’s question tugs deeply at Zhang Hao’s heartstrings. Maybe it’s his sudden fragility, maybe it’s how easily he trusts, how unguarded he is. Maybe it’s how freely and recklessly he opens his heart out to Zhang Hao. 

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And he doesn’t. Once Hanbin’s all settled, Zhang Hao cuddles next to him, watching him, tracing the soft slope of his nose with his eyes, the deep curve of his lips.

Hanbin catches him staring and smiles. “Hyung,” he whispers, almost conspirationally. “I feel like you fucked the flu out of me.”

There’s nothing attractive about the way Zhang Hao snorts, but Hanbin looks charmed. “You’re delirious,” he mutters, brushing his face. “And still burning up. Sleep.” 

Hanbin hums, eyes fluttering shut, a small smile grazing his soft, flushed features. Zhang Hao almost lets him drift off, but he remembers something. The thought is sharp, urgent. He almost feels bad about this, about disturbing Hanbin when all he needs is to rest, but this is a pressing matter.

“Wait, Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao calls, shaking him by the shoulder, feeling his own heart lap to his throat. One of Hanbin’s eyes opens groggily, while Zhang Hao takes his prickly cheeks between his hands. “Look at me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Even though it looks like it’s taking all the energy he has left, Hanbin looks at him. And Zhang Hao looks back, expecting something, anything. But there’s nothing. Just silence. 

Hanbin’s labored breath, Zhang Hao’s chest thumping in his ears, the loud swallow of saliva.

“A—are you… thinking right now?” he blurts, almost scared of the answer. He doesn’t know what he expects to hear, what he wants to hear, but it doesn’t take him by surprise when Hanbin nods, murmuring a quiet affirmation.

Thoughts… he’s thinking right now. And Zhang Hao… he can’t hear him. 

What is this feeling threatening to overcome him? Is it—is this fear? Longing? Sadness?

No, that’s not it. It actually feels like relief.

“I—I can’t hear you anymore,” Zhang Hao stammers out. He doesn’t need to explain further. Hanbin understands. It’s been like this before, he’s been shut off, he’s been hearing Hanbin on and off for a few days now. But somehow, this time feels…different. He feels different.

“Good.” Hanbin smiles, blissed out, teasing even in exhaustion. “Then you’ll have to believe me when I say I love you,” he says before closing his eyes and passing out in five seconds, leaving Zhang Hao to deal with this whole situation alone.

“Lo—love? You love me?” he whispers to Hanbin’s sleeping form. “He loves me?” he echoes to no one in particular. Maybe himself, maybe the universe. His answer comes from Hanbin himself, who tucks himself against Zhang Hao’s side, nose stuffy, cheeks rosy. “Wow, he loves me.”

And he knows—he knows he doesn't need to read Hanbin’s mind anymore to know that. It’s everywhere—for him and the world to see.

Zhang Hao coughs. It suspiciously sounds like “I love you too,” but he swears it’s because he magically caught the flu as well.

Also, he doesn’t go back to work that afternoon. He’s lovesick too.