Archive of Our Own

If Zhang Hao thinks back, there was never a moment in which he thought that Sung Hanbin was anything other than insane. Utterly perfect, yes. And insane underneath it all. That fact about him was carefully hidden from view—or at least Hanbin (gorgeous, compassionate, and far too trusting) certainly thought so. He covered it up as best as he could, beneath the calculated sheen of professionalism and pleasantry, more than aware of duty and perception and the fickleness of such a career.

Except it had only taken Zhang Hao a few weeks to figure it out, a couple of days to conceive a plan of action, and one singular, well-placed, “I voted for you as the K Group visual,” for things to inevitably change forever. In fact, Zhang Hao admits that he probably fell even harder, faster, ten kilometers a second—the sort of high-speed tumbling that ends up breaking free of orbit, rocketing fast and then becoming absolutely weightless—because of it. Hanbin’s quirks and eccentricities made him, in Zhang Hao’s perspective, beyond compare, and love came easy. The easiest it’s ever been, ever. In all of history.

And yet, for some reason, Zhang Hao doesn’t see this one coming.

Zhang Hao lets out a sound as Hanbin buries himself deep, their faces close and Hanbin’s body pressing down, lovely and warm, over his own. There’s the rough sound of their breathing, loud in the room, that accompanies what should be a quickie, but will undoubtedly go into overtime—on account of having been apart for so long. Of course, what constitutes “so long” is debatable, but for Zhang Hao that means more than three days.

Three entire days without Hanbin. Zhang Hao thinks he deserves a medal for valour.

So it’s good. Just what Zhang Hao needs, what he’s been craving for those considerable amount of hours. He loves the almost-too-big stretch of Hanbin’s cock, how heavy and hot it is inside him, the bone-deep satisfaction when they finish, the thrumming of his heart coming down to a normal speed and the aftershocks, and the way Zhang Hao’s limbs feel achy and loose as he lays there afterwards.

They just need to get to that point. He pulls Hanbin closer, both of them sweating in the summer humidity despite the air conditioning turned up as high as the company will allow. Then he clenches down when Hanbin doesn’t move, his hips right up against Zhang Hao’s and holding steady.

Hanbin, eyes meeting his as he pulls his face out of Zhang Hao’s neck, asks, “Do you think we should switch things up?”

Zhang Hao frowns. His legs are spread around Hanbin’s hips and his cock is throbbing, wet and swollen against his belly. Hanbin has always been more verbal—Zhang Hao resorting to noises and sounds, but hey, it’s just as effective—than he is in times like these, so a serious conversation isn’t surprising. It’s just that they have to leave for a schedule in an hour and Zhang Hao’s body is crying out for release, and he can’t quite understand why Hanbin would bring this up when they could be making a dent in the wall.

“What?” Zhang Hao comes back with. He arches his back off the bed in hopes that Hanbin will get the hint and move again.

He doesn’t.

Still motionless within Zhang Hao—and pressing right up against sensitive places, Zhang Hao thinks he’s going to lose it—Hanbin shifts onto one elbow, then links the fingers of their other hands together, knuckles pressed down against the wrinkled sheets. “I mean,” he says, and Zhang Hao gets a bit lost in his eyes and the long lashes that frame them, “do you ever think about trying something new?”

Sure, they’ve tried new stuff. Everything was technically new at the beginning. Those first few months of exploration helped offset the stress of debut. Hanbin came too quickly their first time (which Zhang Hao has nothing but fondness for, both in the moment and looking back) and from then on they tested their limits. Truthfully, they were off-kilter until Paris, when Hanbin reached for a condom packet and Zhang Hao tossed it across the room—and that made something ignite in Hanbin that had Zhang Hao smiling into the sheets when they finished, before he promptly fell asleep on Hanbin’s bicep. From then on, things settled.

So the word new… that was loaded. Zhang Hao, still fixated on the fact that Hanbin’s cock is evidently not moving, begins to wiggle impatiently, even though he indulges Hanbin by replying. “Would you like to clarify what you mean?”

“We could try a few things out,” Hanbin continues.

Despite the dampness at his sideburns and the light flush on the tops of his cheeks, Hanbin’s expression is bright and open, and Zhang Hao hates him for it—because he always has to make an extra effort for Hanbin to look debauched. And fuck it, Zhang Hao curses their schedule, as well. Because Hanbin’s right above him (just where Zhang Hao wants him), and if they had more time, he’d leave bite marks all across Hanbin’s chest tattoo. Zhang Hao likes when Hanbin’s skin blooms bright pink and sanguine.

It's not a possessive act. He just likes to see Hanbin—composed, collected, completely in control—decidedly not so.

Zhang Hao (not distracted, definitely not distracted) is a little frustrated, and simultaneously a little bit curious. Which is why he asks, “Right now?” Except he punctuates that with his strongest pout and a hard squeeze to Hanbin’s bicep, and finally the other takes the hint.

Hanbin moves again, starting up a slow and deep pace, the sort that makes Zhang Hao feel so fucking full, the sort that brushes right up against that sweet spot inside of him—but just barely. He lets out a long breath as his head tilts back on the pillow, knees widening incrementally to urge Hanbin closer and whine building in his throat.

“I could switch up my dirty talk,” Hanbin suggests. Flippantly, as though he’s not driving Zhang Hao insane.

“You’re funny to bring this up now,” Zhang Hao gasps. He figures that was probably the point, to get Zhang Hao in a place where he couldn’t try and dodge the question. Hanbin knows him too well. But that doesn’t mean Zhang Hao will go easy on him.

Hanbin leans down low, kissing Zhang Hao intensely before drawing back. “You’re taking it well.” Deliberately vague and not at the same time. He doesn’t hand out any more kisses.

Zhang Hao moans, soft and obstinate, as Hanbin speeds up, setting a pace that’s not fast by any means, but intense. He feels like he’s been on the edge for an hour. Hanbin’s cheeks are getting rosy and his mouth is swollen where Zhang Hao kissed him and all of it is far too much.

“Would you,” Hanbin hesitates, not breaking rhythm, “like me to call you names?”

He blinks up at Hanbin. “Like Steven?”

Hanbin blinks at him, then snorts into Zhang Hao’s neck, planting a light kiss at the junction of his shoulder. He doesn’t care that the angle changes again and his slow thrusts hit deeper, which Zhang Hao resents.

“Not quite.”

“Well,” Zhang Hao says, understanding that he doesn’t get what he wants until Hanbin does, but honest as he answers, “I’m open to trying.”

Shifting the position slightly, pushing Zhang Hao’s knees up higher, over his shoulders (the stretch is immediate and so fucking good), Hanbin says, “Darling. Sweetheart.”

“Mmmn.”

“Baby.”

And Zhang Hao releases another sound, a low moan, and he digs his fingers harder into Hanbin’s shoulder while his cock lifts up off his stomach, twitching. “Yeah,” he breathes. He’s always loved that last one. He pushes back on Hanbin’s cock desperately, still trying to get him to speed up and fuck him hard.

Determined to hold back and watch Zhang Hao squirm, Hanbin smirks. “Princess.”

“Um,” Zhang Hao frowns. That one is a favourite of Hanbin’s, though Zhang Hao has made it clear he should use it sparingly. “Maybe not.”

“Sorry,” apologizes Hanbin quickly. He fucks into Zhang Hao steadily, sweating with the effort, and pecks Zhang Hao on the lips again. Sweet. Contrite. Zhang Hao feels something in his heart swell—except it immediately bursts when Hanbin doesn’t stop talking. “You look so beautiful, Honeybunch,” he continues. “A puppy.”

Biting his lip to hold back a laugh, Zhang Hao says, “Ah?”

“The best puppy in the whole world.”

“Hanbin-ah.” Zhang Hao looks down at where their bodies are connected and then meets Hanbin’s eyes, flopping his head back against the pillow. His own cock is still hard, wet around the head and leaking, but he’s starting to flag. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Mr. Gorgeous,” tries Hanbin. “Do you like it right there? Cutiepie? Babycakes? My most tantalizing Snickerdoodle?”

Zhang Hao shuts his eyes for a long second. “Oh my god.”

Despite it all, it still feels good. Warm and simmering, from the base of his spine upwards. Hanbin is good at what he does—even if he’s also very bad at what he does. Zhang Hao thinks he’s going to come anyway, god help him.

“What if I…” Hanbin mutters to himself, trailing off. He frowns, like he’s thinking hard, and then he goes for it. A classic Hanbin move; no shame, just glancing down and leaping as far as he can, parachute on him but an afterthought.

“What if you what?”

Hanbin looks right in his eyes, the syrupy brown familiar and comforting. “You’re the most beautiful bee here and we have to repopulate this hive.”

“I am?” Zhang Hao asks, just going with it, taking his thrusts and wanting more. He fights the urge to reach down and stroke himself. He’s right back to full hardness.

“Your wings are,” Hanbin pants, “the prettiest. And you have the best stripes. Gorgeous legs, all of them.”

“Oh.”

“I’d chase you around and huddle together with you when it gets cold outside.”

“You’d never look at any of the other bees, would you?” Zhang Hao has to make sure, of course.

“No never,” Hanbin says quickly, earnestly. Big cock stretching and filling Zhang Hao, perfect. “You’re the only bee I’d want to have one million kids with. For honey production, of course.”

It’s utterly ridiculous. Zhang Hao wants to marry him. He thinks of chapels in Las Vegas, cars with tin cans dragging off the bumper, of grand scale and public professions of love in the city, Taiwan maybe, of banquet halls and flowers hanging from the ceiling and matching gold bands around their fingers. Hanbin got him a ring already, a year and a half into it.

He moans out, “Fuck me harder and we can save the hive.”

Hanbin pushes back in deep and holds himself there, just like before, long minutes ago. Zhang Hao whines again, toes flexing as he wriggles on the sheets.

“Ah,” Hanbin frowns. “It’s not good, is it?”

Zhang Hao breathes heavily, taking a second to come back down again—the ups and downs of this sending him reeling—and then he brushes back Hanbin’s hair from his face. He traces his hand down, rubbing a thumb against Hanbin’s cheek. He looks back at Zhang Hao with wide eyes, his pupils large in the lowlight.

“I like it when you compliment me,” Zhang Hao says, gentle. “But is this doing anything for you?”

“Well. No,” admits Hanbin. “Not really.”

“Okay,” he says delicately. “I’m amused, but it’s not getting me off faster, baby.” He slips his hand down and runs his fingers up Hanbin’s side in a soothing gesture.

Hanbin sighs, deflating against Zhang Hao, a pouty tone creeping into his voice. “I didn’t want to call you anything demeaning,” he confesses. “Unless you want me to?”

“I like your regular dirty talk,” Zhang Hao comforts, ever so fond, heart threatening to break free of his chest. “You always know just what to say.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says. “But I had fun.”

“Oh good,” Hanbin sighs, relieved. “I was worried I ruined it.”

Zhang Hao shakes his head and clenches down, wriggling again in impatience. “No. But Hanbin-ah?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you fuck me for real now?”

“I was fucking you for real,” Hanbin complains, but he’s laughing while he says it. That raspy, light laugh that’s more of an exhale than anything. Zhang Hao loves it. Without hesitation, Hanbin draws back and pushes back in, and then Zhang Hao’s cock is just as it was a few minutes ago: leaking slowly onto his own belly and sticky.

Hanbin never lost hardness, not for a second.

Zhang Hao slides his hands around Hanbin’s neck, tugging him down to get him to kiss him. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, just lips, spit, and tongue. It makes Zhang Hao’s head spin, still feels like it’s the end of a first date and Hanbin has just walked him to the front door. Hanbin forces Zhang Hao’s hands down onto the bed, linking their fingers together again, and Zhang Hao whines at both the hard pace and the lack of Hanbin’s kisses. He’ll die, surely, without them. He wants to go the rest of his life with Hanbin’s taste at the back of his throat.

Every thrust jolts his body up the bed. Briefly, he wonders if the company is going to get its deposit back. But then thoughts leave his mind as Hanbin tugs him close.

“Hanbin-ah,” he groans, when the angle changes and it’s just right, Hanbin nailing his prostate at every thrust, a natural talent. His orgasm builds fast; he doesn’t do well with being edged like this. He has a short fuse and he’s clear about what he wants. Hanbin always teases him and calls him insatiable for how fast he can get going and how desperate he gets. But it’s usually Hanbin who, despite doing most of the work, is eager for another round.

“Gege,” Hanbin gasps, his eyebrows knitting together, “you feel so good.”

“I’ve told you before that that’s sort of fucked up,” Zhang Hao moans. His cock lets out another spurt of pre-come onto his belly. “Say it again.”

“So tight, so hot. Hao ge—”

“Fuck,” Zhang Hao swears, moments before he comes untouched. He clenches down hard around Hanbin’s cock before it quickly turns shuddery, his breathing ragged and muscles fluttering. Hanbin holds him through it, panting wetly against the side of Zhang Hao’s face at the sensation.

Although Zhang Hao has a short threshold before he gets too sensitive, Hanbin only needs a few more thrusts before he himself comes. He’s like that. He always tries his very best to come second. Zhang Hao feels Hanbin’s cock twitch inside him as he releases, hot.

Then Hanbin sighs, his body relaxing for the first time since this morning. Zhang Hao rubs at his back and pets his hair. When Hanbin finally stirs and pulls out, Zhang Hao purses his lips as a silent way of asking for kisses, many of them, as penance. Hanbin is nothing if not willing to indulge.

“So where did the bee stuff come from?” Zhang Hao asks in the car, afterwards. When they’re en route to their schedule and the others are dozing or dazed with their headphones in, staring out the window with bags underneath their eyes.

And Hanbin just lets out a laugh.

The thing about Sung Hanbin—admittedly his best trait and worst trait, depending on the day, and something he’s well-aware of—is that he doesn’t do things halfway.

This, of course, extends to every aspect of his life. A healthy work-life balance, for instance, is not something he especially excels at; he prefers to go until his body physically protests his movements. Sometimes he goes until he crashes, knocked out for what he refers to as “sleep” but is really just a few hours’ nap. That one is probably for the worse, Zhang Hao tells him so. He comes back home exhausted, sanded down to something thin, and Zhang Hao is there to pick up the pieces, every single time.

He shouldn’t have to. Hanbin expresses that sometimes, at the points in which he’s weakest. During the latest and quietest of nights. He follows this up, in nothing louder than a whisper, with how he’s never been more grateful for the fact that Zhang Hao does.

When it comes to falling in love with Zhang Hao, Hanbin has always given far more than is required. Double maybe. Triple. A hundred times over. He’s nothing but glad to give it. Love happened both gradually and like a flash of lightning, gently like slipping into a warm bath, and frighteningly sudden and jolting. As though someone pushed him from behind. He used to think that only the aftermath of a rigorous workout or dance class could feel so fulfilling. Except when he holds back Zhang Hao’s sleeve so it doesn’t fall into his food while he’s eating, or when Zhang Hao needs Hanbin’s hand to hold for balance while walking down the stairs, there’s nothing that warms his chest quite like it.

If Hanbin were to study himself underneath a microscope, to really unpack that, he’s sure one element is that he feels content when he’s a reliable presence. That he’s helpful, required, in some way. Or maybe he just likes the idea of love as a physical act. Transformative. From something that can’t be seen into something that can.

None of that matters, really. It’ll be Zhang Hao for him, he’s sure of it, for the rest of his life.

Truth be told, Hanbin likes analysing others more than he likes to look inwards, choosing instead to brush a lot of that off and deal with it later. He’s sure of himself, of his thoughts and his actions, goals and ambitions—of which there are many. So Hanbin is not so sure why one off-handed comment from Gyuvin rattles him, but it does.

“They say that couples stagnate after the honeymoon phase,” Gyuvin jokes one day, when practice has ended, and after Zhang Hao’s energy has run out and he gets all floppy, eyes barely open and no longer interested in goofing off when they get a breather.

He and Gyuvin are stretching, shoes scuffed and muscles already starting to stiffen up, the last two in the practice room and delegated to clean up. Gyuvin pulls his arm against his chest and continues, “You might want to work harder to keep his interest, hyung. He’s a hot commodity, after all. What does he say… a top world star?”

“Yeah,” Hanbin nods, mind already working overtime, calculating when a honeymoon phase was supposed to end. “A top world star.”

And so it starts there. It only grows.

The thing is this: Hanbin doesn’t think of the two of them in terms like vanilla or kinky. It just doesn’t… fit. Too restrictive. A t-shirt that’s a size too small, uncomfortable at the edges. They like what they like, and if others would consider it strange, then so be it. But he has to wonder—because sometimes one of them will come back to the dorm late in the night, and all there is to do is sleep, nothing more. Soon enough, they’re waking up, rushing out the door and barely eating, never mind speaking. And the cycle continues again, over and over.

Is it boring? Have things gotten stale? Does Zhang Hao want more than this? Hanbin, for the first time since he kissed Zhang Hao’s cheek, soft and chaste, in an elevator (too fucking bold, in retrospect, but it all worked out), finds himself knocked slightly off balance.

It’s not that he thinks Zhang Hao will break things off, or fall out of love, or throw the ring Hanbin gave him into the Han River. If anything, they’ve both clawed their way through hell to ensure that theirs is a relationship based on communication. And yet—there’s that tiny, minuscule, incredibly persistent thing that’s incredibly difficult to ignore once it’s developed. Hanbin knows what it is, even though it takes him a while to recognize it: doubt. In himself and what they’re doing together.

Hanbin intends to rectify this. After all, spicing things up in the bedroom is simple and easy. A few searches in an incognito tab (done whilst on route to a schedule, he’s nothing if not a multi-tasker) later, and then he’s shakily asking Zhang Hao if they could try a few new things out.

So maybe the dirty talk stuff didn’t go as he planned. No matter, Hanbin isn’t one to give up easily. One failure isn’t representative of him as a whole. Or so they say.

Another afternoon that swiftly turns into a late night in the practice room. Hanbin is familiar enough with these four walls that he sees them in his sleep. The smell of sweat has permeated through the floorboards, he thinks, because even though practice has a smell—sort of chalky and rubbery, that air-conditioned mustiness—the tense and desperate sharpness of exertion can’t be dry-mopped away.

Hanbin monitors their movements in the mirror and picks out the parts that need refining. An arm extended further there, a knee dipped lower there. These things make sense to him, balance like equations and allow him to solve for x. He catches Zhang Hao’s eye through the condensation building on the surface.

The members collapse afterwards, dart towards the door or crawl and limp if they can’t manage. Hanbin only slightly exaggerates.

“Want to get food later?” Matthew asks, tying his shoe, tank top dark at the back where it’s wet. Less than half of the group remains, collecting their stuff and chattering softly. “I could order something.”

“Yeah,” Hanbin nods. He wipes at his face with a damp towel. “Sounds good. I gotta do some stuff and shower first, but I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

“Cool,” Matthew says. And then his name is being called from the doorway, Gunwook with his phone to his ear and Ricky loitering a few steps further back. He darts away and underneath Gunwook’s extended arm, door shutting behind him.

Then it’s just Hanbin and Zhang Hao in the stillness of the room. Zhang Hao, some of his energy miraculously returning as soon as it’s all over, takes his final sips from a water bottle and meets Hanbin’s gaze over the plastic. He’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, mismatched, the only one dressed like it’s winter. Hanbin runs his eyes up and down his form, not intending to hide it.

Zhang Hao puts the empty bottle down and then tilts his head. “Were you looking at me?”

“Yes,” Hanbin answers automatically. “Always.” He’s not lying. He wants to rip the layers off Zhang Hao, maybe even with his teeth. Wants to nip at the sensitive skin that he knows is underneath the fabric. He steps into Zhang Hao’s open embrace a second later, spinning them around and rocking side to side.

“Less than a week,” Hanbin sighs into Zhang Hao’s neck. Using their slight height difference to its full potential. The stress is building up; it ties itself into knots in the pit of his belly. There’s never enough time to practice before a performance. Somehow, they pull themselves together every fucking time, but who knows about the next? Or the one after that? The weight of it all is heavy, resting more on him than the others.

That’s why he longs, unashamedly and clandestinely, for release. The mixture of stress and adrenaline makes his pulse race.

“Don’t think about it right now.” Zhang Hao’s voice is soft in his ear, reasonable when Hanbin needs someone to help him back down, and his breath tickles Hanbin’s exposed skin. Like some of the others, Hanbin has also sweated through his tank top, and the fabric is clammy against Zhang Hao’s sweater. “Think of something else.”

Hanbin draws back to look at him, wondering if he read his mind. Zhang Hao just purses his lips, eager for a kiss like always, and Hanbin is honoured to give him what he wants.

A simple peck, at first. Then Hanbin pushes deeper, holds for longer, sucks Zhang Hao’s full bottom lip and lets it go slowly. Zhang Hao makes a sound in the back of his throat, sort of questioning and eager, and his hands clench in the tight fabric of Hanbin’s tank top, right at the waist.

The sound goes right to Hanbin’s dick, blood rushing south instantly.

“Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao manages, breaking the kiss. His pupils are wide and deep. “We should go back to the dorm.”

“Why?” Hanbin asks innocently. Breaking away, he begins to plant soft kisses on the side of Zhang Hao’s neck. He feels more than hears Zhang Hao’s sharp inhale. He’s sensitive there, as well as his ears, the inner junction where his thigh meets his pelvis, and again at the back of his knee. He knows all of this well. Hanbin doesn’t stop, just presses closer when Zhang Hao’s arms wrap around his shoulders, holding him there.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

And Zhang Hao is joking, Hanbin can tell. But he isn’t. Hanbin makes his way back up to Zhang Hao’s mouth and kisses him deeply, just the way Zhang Hao likes it. Tilts his head to the side and swallows Zhang Hao’s breathy little noises.

He wonders if it’ll be as good as this forever. Head-spinning and knee-weakening, like he’s been shot out of the sky. Hanbin hopes so.

“You’re really going to make out with me in the practice room?” Zhang Hao questions softly, amusement bleeding into his tone. Like he’s a refined and elegant lady and Hanbin is suggesting they fuck on the bar top after last call.

Hanbin, in answer, slips his hands underneath Zhang Hao’s hoodie, warm hands on cool skin. He slides up Zhang Hao’s back and then around to the softness of his belly. Zhang Hao flicks his tongue into Hanbin’s mouth and then it all turns desperate quickly.

Walking the both of them back, Zhang Hao’s back hits the grey wall and his shoes make a squeaking sound on the hardwood. Hanbin pushes for more, deeper, heavier, hotter. Spit-slick mouths and shallow breathing. His brain screams yes yes yes, now now now. He presses the line of his body against Zhang Hao’s, knee between his thighs, and Zhang Hao’s hardness brushes up against his own.

“Mmm,” Zhang Hao mumbles. “This is risky.”

Maybe it’s the thrill of being somewhere different, or how someone could walk in at any time. Maybe it’s the frantic hands and press of mouths that has Hanbin’s cock hard and aching in his sweats. It’s a strange balancing act—because as much as Hanbin finds a certain excitement in gambling like this, there are also parts of him that are flashing warning lights. What if, what if, what if. So many factors are out of his control.

He bites down on that last part, just as his hand finds its way underneath the waistband of Zhang Hao’s underwear. Caution to the wind, or however the phrase goes. High risk, high reward. Zhang Hao bucks up against the sensation and then nips at Hanbin’s bottom lip, laughing at his reaction. But as soon as Hanbin wraps his hand around Zhang Hao fully, stroking ever so lightly, Zhang Hao’s head tilts back and smacks against the wall, things getting serious.

“Oh,” Zhang Hao says airily, more pleasure than pain, but Hanbin kisses him on the cheek anyways.

“You might have to be quiet.” He’s back in the crook of Zhang Hao’s neck, not doing much other than breathing there. He knows that even that feeling is enough to drive Zhang Hao crazy.

Shaking his head, Zhang Hao digs his fingers into Hanbin’s shoulders. “Come on, come on.”

“Come on what?” Hanbin asks. He refuses to do anything but lightly stroke Zhang Hao’s cock, hand barely touching him at points. Zhang Hao twitches in his head, leaking fluid into Hanbin’s palm.

It happens quickly for both of them. Something about the post-performance rush, Hanbin figures. He’s all too familiar with the fiery want that sometimes engulfs him, when they’re en route back home with half their makeup still on, bone tired and wired all at the same time. They’ve had many nights where they have had sex and passed out pretty much right afterwards, clean-up minimal.

A good night’s sleep and a wonderful morning after.

“Don’t tease,” complains Zhang Hao. “Ah.”

With fumbling hands, they get Zhang Hao’s hoodie off and toss it aside. He’s wearing a t-shirt underneath (which Hanbin simply cannot understand, especially after the workout they had) and both of them are radiating heat, stifling in the already too-hot room. Neither of them cares. Once the bulky fabric is gone, Hanbin’s hand is back around his cock and he’s attaching his lips back to Zhang Hao’s, who is just as greedy for it.

Amidst Zhang Hao’s clenching fingers and his propensity to turn their movements into an uncoordinated mess when he arches into the touch, Hanbin holds Zhang Hao steady against the wall. He tries to keep as still as he can, not wanting to lose himself so much that he grinds his own cock against Zhang Hao’s thigh. That would be fast and effective, and Hanbin doesn’t want this to end just yet.

He likes this, the control he has over everything that’s happening. He decides the pace, how long this takes, when Zhang Hao comes. He has the other, quite literally, in the palm of his hand—even if it’s a little bit of an illusion. Hanbin is more than aware that Zhang Hao could break free, spin them around and take the reins. With all his rough and eager demanding.

He doesn’t usually want to, though. It’s just how both of them like it.

“I’m not teasing,” Hanbin denies. He flicks his thumb over the head of Zhang Hao’s cock. He considers licking a stripe up Zhang Hao’s neck. In a second, he gives in, leaving a sensitive wet trail, and then he nibbles on Zhang Hao’s earlobe.

Zhang Hao writhes and pants, eyebrows furrowed. “Close,” he whines. “Please, Hanbin-ah. Faster.”

“No,” answers Hanbin. He deliberately slows down. Like they have all the time in the world. “Ask nicely.”

“Asshole,” Zhang Hao swears, half a moan that’s probably his loudest yet. “Please.”

“Hey, do you guys know where I left m—”

The door to the practice room is thrown open and Gyuvin bulldozes his way through, one Airpod in and hair mussed.

Jolting against him, Zhang Hao lets out a sharp sound of surprise. And Hanbin, proactive when plans don’t go as expected, pushes him immediately back against the wall, covering him (them both, really) from view. It’s not enough to really hide what they’ve been doing, but it affords them a shred of decency.

“Oh shit,” Hanbin manages, just as startled. He’s sure his face is flushed bright red. Zhang Hao holds him close around the waist so that they stick together.

Because of course it’s Gyuvin—it’s unfortunately almost always Gyuvin, by virtue of proximity. A choice, Hanbin likes to remind him when he gets grumbly about being asked to vacate the premises (their dorm) for a couple of hours, that was a unanimous decision. He’s just sorry that it had to happen like this.

Gyuvin stands there, staring. Frozen with a blank expression on his face and one arm outstretched, his hand still clutching the door handle. No one moves for a long second. It’s just the sounds of heavy breathing from Zhang Hao and himself.

Zhang Hao’s eyes close and he tilts his head back against the wall. He lets out a frustrated, crying sound. Hanbin immediately slides a hand between, to cushion Zhang Hao’s head, just in case. Hanbin knows it’s performative; this is just his way of reacting. He gives Zhang Hao the care and attention he desires anyways.

When Hanbin glances back at Gyuvin, the other seems to snap back into his body. He still doesn’t say anything, just nods slowly.

“Gyuvin-ah,” Hanbin starts, and he doesn’t know how to finish that. Zhang Hao is still shoved between his body and the depressingly grey wall of the studio, unmoving. Hanbin should’ve paid more attention. It was his job to do so. The nauseating shame that accompanies failure washes over him.

Backing off, not making eye contact (and still not saying anything), Gyuvin closes the door to the practice room behind him. It makes a final sort of sound, one that echoes. Hanbin lets out a long breath.

“Okay. We’re not doing this again,” Zhang Hao admonishes.

“Are you angry?”

“No.” He’s slightly peeved, but a ruined orgasm will do that. It’s even worse when Gyuvin is the catalyst.

“I didn’t think anyone would actually walk in,” Hanbin says weakly. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Zhang Hao replies, expression soft. He pets the hair at the back of Hanbin’s neck. “I mean, no it’s not okay. It sucks. But at least it wasn’t the worst person who could’ve walked in.”

“I think Gyuvin has seen worse.” Not even from them, even, Hanbin knows. The old dorm arrangement, the very first one they were assigned to, was a nightmare of learning to live around each other.

Zhang Hao looks at him with a complicated expression. “He’ll be fine, he’ll survive. That’s not the point.”

Hanbin blinks. “What… What is the point?”

A long-suffering exhale from Zhang Hao. He pushes at Hanbin’s shoulders so that Hanbin takes a step back, then he adjusts his sweats where they’ve been tugged below his hips. Evidently frustrated, he ties the strings clumsily. Then he picks up his discarded t-shirt, grabs Hanbin’s hand, and demands, “Take me upstairs and finish this.”

Later on, Gyuvin will say that he’s grateful he didn’t see more of “whatever the hell was going on there.” No bleach in his eyes, in his words, would be enough to ever recover.

“You like being watched or something?” Gyuvin grumbles. “Weridos. I didn’t consent to being involved. A hand down his pants in public is insane, just so you’re aware.”

Hanbin apologizes, genuine, and then pinches Gyuvin’s cheeks when his dongsaeng can’t help but smile.

The worst part of the job, apart from the long hours, is the times in which they have to be apart. Zhang Hao handles it better than Hanbin—an opinion he’s not sure if the other shares—but the evidence speaks for itself. When he touches down, placing his first steps on the ground in some airport in some city, Zhang Hao checks his phone to see six messages from Hanbin.

It’s cute. It’s just what he wants—to feel loved. And god if Hanbin is ever good at doing it. Sometimes Zhang Hao asks why he hasn’t messaged him more.

All hotel rooms start to look the same after a while. This one has a standalone tub and a rain showerhead, and as Zhang Hao takes off Hanbin's sweats (the ones he wore on the plane; he has another pair in his luggage), he wonders if he has the energy to run a bath. Before Hanbin, Zhang Hao always equated baths with a slow kind of torture, like boiling alive in a soup. He’s grown to love them. They’re intimate. He likes seeing Hanbin stripped bare and relaxed, in those rare moments where he allows himself that.

Zhang Hao decides to take a shower instead, and he orders room service before stepping underneath the spray. He hates the smell of airplanes, the stuffy, recycled air and stale breath and aching-cramped misery. It always settles into his clothes and he mourns it now, the way Hanbin’s cologne has faded already from his shirt.

When he comes out of the shower, he towel dries his hair, eats as much as he can, and calls Hanbin back. Somehow, time slipped away from him; it’s like that when he travels. Suddenly up is down, and down is up, and two hours are six hours, which are also five minutes. Zhang Hao is exhausted and feeling like he’s been strapped to electrical wiring at the same time.

If Hanbin were here, they would cuddle in bed and talk until they fell asleep. Zhang Hao pulls back the sheets, slides inside, and accepts Hanbin’s call when his name lights up on the home screen.

“Hi,” Hanbin greets. He insists on video calling, and over time, this has reformed Zhang Hao from a staunch texter.

Zhang Hao peers at the screen, barely able to make out Hanbin lying in his own bed because of how dark it is in Hanbin’s room. “Hi,” he says back. He stretches out that syllable for as long as he can.

“Was the flight bad?”

“Delayed an hour on the runway,” Zhang Hao sighs, leaning back against the pillows. His body finally relaxes, hours after landing. There’s only an hour difference between them, but this, when added to the physical distance, feels like an insurmountable gap. Lightyears away, even. Hanbin could be halfway across the galaxy and it would feel just the same: melancholic and hollow.

Hanbin nods, His voice is soft and subdued on the other end. “And is the hotel okay?”

Looking around the room—a bit of a mess already, as Zhang Hao has thrown his airplane clothes on the chair and has the lights down low so he doesn’t have to see it—he shrugs. “It’s fine. They all start to look the same after a while.” He pauses. “I miss you.”

“You’re whining already.” Hanbin’s amusement comes through as loudly as the sound of the sheets as he moves around in bed. He looks just as tired as Zhang Hao feels, having had a similarly long day filming some brand promotional material. “I miss you, too.”

“I’m nervous for tomorrow,” he admits. There’s a show appearance, long hours of filming, and then a photoshoot afterwards. Zhang Hao knows it’ll be close to a twenty-hour day, no matter what the schedule says. These things tend to run into each other and management wants to do as much in as little time as possible. Buzzwords like “efficiency” and “maximizing opportunities” float through his head and as much as he’s grateful, he can also be resentful.

“You’re going to do a great job,” soothes Hanbin. He’d offered to run lines with Zhang Hao, like Zhang Hao does when he has to MC, but there weren’t really any lines. Hence the anxiety.

“Did you eat?” Zhang Hao asks, switching the topic.

“Yeah. Gopchang. Without you. It was delicious.”

“Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao says, letting the pout seep into his tone.

“Just kidding,” Hanbin laughs. “There were leftovers in the fridge. Heated things up with rice. When you get back, we should go out for dinner. A date. We could try that new place you mentioned.”

It’s achingly domestic, a dynamic they slipped into easily, almost without them knowing. It was two weeks to debut, clock ticking down, and they were fraying at the edges, when they realized that they couldn’t remember the last time they ate a meal without the other. Taerae called them “mom and dad”, respectively, although he rolled his eyes when he said it.

Zhang Hao hums. “I’d like that.”

“Seriously, don’t be nervous for tomorrow,” Hanbin repeats. “They already love you.”

“I’ll pretend you’re there,” Zhang Hao says. Then he makes a face. “Ah, that was cringe-y.”

Hanbin laughs on the other end. “Do your best,” he exaggerates. “Fighting.”

Pretending to shudder, Zhang Hao shifts his phone to the other hand. “Was the shoot difficult today?”

“The photographer was not very nice. He was probably tired. And the lights were hot. You know how it is.”

“The lights are always way too hot,” he admits.

“It’s done to stop you from getting too comfortable, I guess,” Hanbin jokes. “I think the pictures turned out alright.”

“I bet they loved you. They always do. And they should.”

Zhang Hao traces Hanbin’s features, as best as he can, in the lowlight. He’s handsome, even through the low resolution of the phone camera. Something in Zhang Hao’s chest starts to ache. He’d give anything to curl up beside Hanbin under sleep-warm sheets. He watches carefully as Hanbin tries his best to stifle a yawn with his hand.

“I don’t think I can go to sleep just yet,” says Zhang Hao.

More rustling as Hanbin gets more comfortable, rolls over from his stomach onto his back, his face just centimeters away from the lens and eyes large. “Not tired?”

“No,” Zhang Hao denies, patient and gentle. “I am tired. But my heart is still racing from the stress of travelling. It’s hard to calm down, you know? Feels like falling into a coma and then getting adrenaline straight to the chest.”

“Yeah,” Hanbin agrees, knowing just what he means even when Zhang Hao stumbles through the bad analogy. “Well…”

“Well?”

“What are you wearing?” Hanbin asks, tone turning into something different.

“Can’t you see me?” Zhang Hao responds—lightly, teasingly, even though the question sparks his interest. His brain comes back online at the promise of new and exciting developments. And he always gets a particular joy out of provoking Hanbin right back.

“Not all of you.”

“I’m wearing a top hat,” he lies, keeping his own camera close to his face. “And thigh-high stockings. With lace. Also boat shoes.”

“Okay,” Hanbin nods faux-seriously. “Can you tilt your phone down so I can see the stockings?”

Zhang Hao smiles sweetly. “Only if you’re good.”

Without missing a beat, Hanbin says, “I can ask really nicely. I can even get down on my knees if you’d like.”

“Hanbin-ah.”

“Hao.”

“I really thought you would be interested in the top hat,” Zhang Hao sighs. “This comes across as desperate.”

“The lace is on the top hat, right? That part was sort of vague.”

“You’re very annoying,” mutters Zhang Hao.

Hanbin’s eyes flicker down and his aegyo sal emerges. He always loves this, Zhang Hao being difficult, maybe even more than he himself enjoys relentless teasing.

“Slip a hand down into your underwear,” Hanbin demands, voice going lower.

And Zhang Hao is immediately on board.

Sitting up and adjusting his position, pillow behind his back, Zhang Hao does what he says. His cock is showing interest, starting to fill up just from Hanbin being a bit demanding.

So he’s easy. So what? There are worse things. But despite the self-awareness, he doesn’t plan on telling Hanbin how quickly he’s getting turned on, though. Zhang Hao likes to make him work for it—it’s more satisfying that way. Besides, Hanbin gets hard from just kissing. A minute of Zhang Hao’s mouth on his and he tries to move them or grind down or get his hands on Zhang Hao’s bare skin.

For Zhang Hao, there’s nothing more attractive than getting to see evidence of Hanbin’s desire. He wants Hanbin begging and wanting, thinking of only Zhang Hao.

“You knew I was lying in bed in just my underwear.” His hand is warm against his skin. Foregoing the lube he has in his suitcase, all across the room, Zhang Hao withdraws to spit onto his own fingers, then wraps his hand around his shaft. There’s less friction like this—not that he hasn’t been able to get off from a slight sting or burn before. This isn’t the time for that, and it’s not really what he wants from this.

“I guessed,” Hanbin replies. “Lucky me. I am, too.”

“That’s a given,” Zhang Hao comes back with. He’s intimately familiar with the lack of clothes Hanbin wears around the house and to bed. Without instruction (and maybe there’s a sort of thrill at the idea of disobeying Hanbin, like he wants to be chastised for jumping ahead), he begins to really touch himself. Just a small squeeze and light rubs, building up a slow rhythm. His cock gets the idea quickly enough. He’s almost fully hard.

They don’t have phone sex often, but when they do, Hanbin goes at it with the vitality of someone determined to max out their minutes on their plan. Zhang Hao has always preferred the real thing, the physical thing. The warmth and Hanbin’s practiced touches. Phone sex means that it’s all up to him, and Zhang Hao can be lazy, much preferring to flop back and let Hanbin do the work when he gets too tired.

Tonight, though, he’s ready and more than willing, the long-haul flight making him eager for release, anticipating the decompression that comes with. Hanbin naturally takes the reins anyway, proceeding to give more instructions.

“If you were here, I’d take my time with you,” Hanbin says. “Hey, slow down.”

He hadn’t even realized that his hand had sped up. It’s not visible on the screen, from here Zhang Hao has precariously balanced his phone in his hand, down against the mattress. Hanbin’s angle is different, further away, and Zhang Hao can make out the lifted hem of his shirt and the mostly-out-of-frame movements of his hand.

Zhang Hao makes a displeased noise. Hanbin breathes air quickly out of his nose.

“Does it feel good,” continues Hanbin, “to touch yourself?”

“Yes,” he says bluntly.

Soft laughter. “Are you imagining it’s me?”

“Yes,” Zhang Hao stresses, louder in the empty room, and he’s not lying. His dick is hard and straining. He pushes his briefs down his thighs and kicks them off all the way, frustrated with the angle. The extra room to spread his legs out and the cool air on his exposed skin makes him harder. There’s something illicit about it, like there's a risk of being caught, or like he’s doing something he’s not supposed to be doing. “Wish you were here.”

“I wish I was there, too. I’d make sure to kiss you. Just how you like.”

“I would be unhappy if you didn’t,” sniffs Zhang Hao.

“You always want so many,” Hanbin says. “I’d give you everything you want, baby. I’d kiss down your chest, then suck a nipple into my mouth until you make that specific sound—”

It’s easy to imagine it, given that they’ve done it so often that Zhang Hao has memorized Hanbin’s body, mapped him out and marked an x where he’s staked his claim, right above his heart. The hand on his cock is not his own, but Hanbin’s, smooth where Zhang Hao has callouses, and far defter.

He can feel Hanbin’s breath on his bare chest, the maddening sensation of lips on skin, and traces the tingling feeling southward. Zhang Hao releases a little noise, one that comes from high in his throat.

“—that one.” Hanbin says, breathy, and even on the low-quality video Zhang Hao can see the flush developing on his cheeks, like film photographs coming into focus in a dark room. He’s just as affected as Zhang Hao is, too hard too quickly, feelings multiplied from time apart. “Then I’d kiss your belly and, when you start to squirm around, all desperate, I’d take you into my mouth.”

Hand working faster, Zhang Hao can see it: the way Hanbin’s eyes flick up, the stretch of his lips as they wrap around his cock, the way his eyebrows push together as he concentrates. Zhang Hao likes to give as much as he receives, but he’s strung up tightly tonight. The mental image of Hanbin taking his cock down his throat has him twitching in his hand and leaking pathetically over his fingers.

Unfortunately, Hanbin’s phone has moved, and now Zhang Hao is looking at t-shirt fabric and bedsheets, with only the barest glimpse of Hanbin’s face.

“Want to see you,” Zhang Hao complains, but it comes out whinier than he intended.

“Oh. Sorry,” Hanbin answers. He comes back into view on the tail-end of a yawn, blinking rapidly. Zhang Hao gets a screenful of Hanbin’s unruly stubble as the camera moves again.

“You’re in the mood to drive me insane, aren’t you?” Zhang Hao grumbles. He’s still fisting himself and Hanbin’s doing the same. Hanbin’s phone is back upright, though it’s further away now, and Zhang Hao has a view of his hard dick—just a sliver in the corner of his screen. He clenches his jaw, unhappy. It should be in his mouth. It should be inside him, filling him up.

“Thought of you today in the car,” Hanbin starts, his voice low, “on the way home. Thought about fucking you in the back seat. Didn’t even care that the windows aren’t tinted.”

Zhang Hao pants out Hanbin’s name. He stops moving his hand, just squeezes himself at the base, not wanting to come too soon. It’s terrible. It’s risky. It’s hot. It has him wanting. Zhang Hao’s eyes shut.

“Want to taste you,” Hanbin continues. “I’d only suck you for a little bit, just enough to make you all needy. What I really want to do is part your thighs, leave a mark right where only I can see it, hold you down as you try to squirm.”

“Do it,” Zhang Hao says. He’s slightly ashamed of how much of a gasp it is. His hand trails down to his hole. It’s dry, of course. He curses his past self. There’s not much he can do tonight, but he licks his fingers anyway and presses against himself. The pressure alone is enough.

“One leg over my shoulder. I’d lick you, at first, slowly to warm you up. I’d stick my tongue in you when you get loose for me. I’d have to hold your hips down because you like to buck up, but you love that. I’d have to work for it, wouldn’t it?”

“I’m not easy,” he breathes. His cock is so goddamn hard.

Hanbin laughs, but it’s very quiet. Distant, almost. “No. No you’re not. And if I take too long, you’d run your fingers through my hair and you’d grip hard, grinding down on me.”

Zhang Hao’s legs spread open wider on the bed. Like he’s trying to get Hanbin closer. It’s useless, obviously. Hanbin’s so far away. But for a second, it’s as though Zhang Hao can feel him there, tongue against his hole and hands on his skin. He presses a finger against himself, not going in; he doesn’t have the patience or the stuff on hand to make that work. He’s unhappy about it. It’s fine. He makes do.

“I like when you get like that,” Hanbin sighs. His voice is even quieter, like it’s slowing down. He takes a long pause. “You should ride my face sometime. I’d curl my fingers into your thighs and let you do whatever you wanted.”

“Hanbin-ah…”gasps Zhang Hao. “Close.”

“Mmn,” Hanbin hums, like he’s only half-listening.

Zhang Hao’s dick has made a small puddle of pre-come on his stomach, pooling right between the gentle ridges of his abs. When he’s alone, he swallows down the noises he makes. Sometimes, a few still slip through. It’s different when he’s with Hanbin, who pulls sounds out of him easily, tugging on his strings and Zhang Hao goes limp in response.

He’s so close, right on the edge. Zhang Hao isn’t one to feel ashamed of coming quickly (knows full well he can go again—or if Hanbin is eager, he guides Zhang Hao gently through the oversensitive parts, staying hard throughout), so his hand works faster, his thumb pressing underneath the head of his cock and adding a jolt of pleasure.

It's a while before Hanbin speaks again. The camera has slipped more, his face and body completely gone, and it’s just the headboard and the sheets on the screen.

“You’d get antsy, though, if I ate you out like that for as long as I wanted to,” Hanbin finally says. There’s the sound of a yawn through the tinny phone speaker. “And tired. I’d take care of you afterwards. You’d be so relaxed. I’d just slip inside easily and fuck you hard.”

He was just thinking about it. Hanbin verbalizes it, like he’s reading Zhang Hao’s mind. That’s how in-tune they’ve always been. It’s enough to tip him over the edge.

“Going to…” he says.

Then Zhang Hao pants roughly, body shaking a little bit, as he comes over himself. It’s not entirely satisfying, though. He wishes Hanbin was here. His arm flails out to the side of the king-sized bed, automatically reaching out for him when he comes down, like he always does. Because Zhang Hao loves the way he’s taken care of; Hanbin’s achingly attentive and lets Zhang Hao curl around him, sharing his body heat.

The bed is empty, though. Hanbin is thousands of kilometers away. It’s a shame. Zhang Hao feels so cold without him.

“Baby,” Zhang Hao sighs. He’s sticky and gross, the nakedness not feeling thrilling anymore but too vulnerable, and Hanbin is silent on the phone. He squints at the screen, trying to make out the dark shapes of Hanbin’s room. “Are you frozen?”

No reply. Zhang Hao reaches over to the nightstand, rips some tissues out of the box, and cleans himself up. Clinical. Unsatisfactory. Pulling up his pair of briefs and pajama bottoms makes him feel slightly better, less exposed. Not much, though. Post-orgasm clarity feels cold when he’s alone in a different country. It would help if Hanbin would reply.

“Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao says. Then he repeats it, louder and pouty. “Hambin-ah.”

There’s no response on the other end—until he hears a very quiet sigh and then deep breathing.

Blinking hard, it finally clicks. Zhang Hao taps the screen and brings the phone close to his face—even though he can only see the edge of Hanbin’s shoulder and face. “Did you fall asleep on me?” he asks, incredulous. “You didn’t even have an international flight.”

He’s given only silence. Zhang Hao exhales deeply. He’s not angry, nor is he disappointed. Maybe a little bit sad, because Hanbin is so good that he tries even if he’s dead on his feet. Zhang Hao’s own exhaustion fully settles in alongside the fondness.

“Okay. Goodnight,” he continues, whisper-soft and tender. “I’ll send you a message before I fall asleep.”

And he does. Right after he stares at Hanbin’s partial form and the mess of crumpled bedsheets, pushed off to the side, for a moment longer. He considers not hanging up, wanting to fall asleep to the sound of Hanbin’s breathing on the other end. But he can’t; it would probably drain both of their phone batteries, and they need to be up early tomorrow for work.

Zhang Hao sends him a message, ending with I love you, instead. And he pretends that they’re together, in the same bed, even though they’re not. He clicks off the lights and doesn’t even dream.

In retrospect, phone sex after a long day of work may not have been a smart move.

Hanbin is deeply apologetic when he wakes up to two texts that read, You’re in big trouble for running yourself ragged like this and, I love you. Sleep well. Zhang Hao, naturally, tattles to half the group and even Chen Kuanjui about it. Hanbin’s sure, with the way things spread, that their entire friend group is aware of Hanbin’s transgressions—falling asleep without saying goodnight, the greatest offense he could make—by the end of the next day. Hanbin gets a number of teasing text messages about it.

Zhang Hao leaves the sex part out of it, obviously. Gyuvin, at the very least, doesn’t suspect a thing, though Hanbin imagines that he’s grateful. Or that he would be if he knew. Logistics.

The unfortunate part of it all is that things refuse to go as intended—again—despite Hanbin’s planning and trial-and-error.

It starts like this, on a regular day.

Hanbin sticks his head out of his bedroom and asks, “Hey, would you like to try out handcuffs sometime?”

And Zhang Hao, barely awake and on his second cup of coffee, sitting right across from Gyuvin at their wobbly dining table, thinks about this for all of four seconds. “Okay, yeah,” he replies. Then he takes another sip of his coffee and hums.

Hanbin’s mom bought them a coffee maker and none of them like it, but they feel obliged to use it. Gyuvin blinks hard at this and adjusts in his seat, looking like he’s gearing up to say something.

“Cool,” Hanbin says as he starts to turn back around to where his laptop is sitting open, waiting for his card details.

“Sorry,” Gyuvin interrupts, “but do I have to be here while you two do this? Again? What happened to decorum and decency?”

“What do you mean by ‘again’?” Zhang Hao asks innocently.

“I’m going to click check out,” says Hanbin.

Grumbling, Gyuvin says quietly, “Unbelievable. Did I do something wrong in a past life? Did I commit a crime? Did I steal someone’s cow?”

Hanbin makes shining hands at him until Gyuvin stops glaring laser beams into his chest.

Then the mail arrives, a week later, in a plain cardboard box, and Hanbin manages to get to it before anyone else in the household can, signing both his and Zhang Hao’s names as the recipient. He brings it back into his room and tosses it on the bed, darting out to the kitchen and returning with a pair of scissors.

Zhang Hao looks up from the book that he’s reading, pillows and a stuffed animal between his back and the headboard, as Hanbin slices open the box. It’s smaller than he thought it would be, all things considered, but maybe they’ve managed to compact it somehow.

“Is that what I think it is?” Zhang Hao questions, immediately curious. He has that look on his face, the cute one, where his eyes get large and his mouth falls open slightly. Hanbin’s surprised that he managed to hold himself back from interrogating Hanbin for this long—all of two minutes.

“Hopefully,” says Hanbin. He sets the scissors on top of one of his shelves, the one he keeps all his perfumes on, perfectly arranged. “You can say no, you know, if it’s not your thing. Although, you did mention a few times, while we were… that you…” He brushes his hair back from his face. “Well, anyway. Let’s just see how this goes—”

He tears open the bubble wrap and reveals a smaller box, innocuous except for the writing on the outside that advertises a pair of police-grade handcuffs. Across the apartment, they hear Gyuvin curse at his computer, evidently losing at whatever video game he’s playing.

“Huh,” Hanbin says, frowning. He shakes the box and there’s the sound of metal on metal, muffled.

Zhang Hao snaps his book shut and crawls over to the edge of the bed, not even pretending to read anymore. “Handcuffs?”

“I really thought I ordered the soft kind.” He peers into the larger cardboard box but there’s no invoice. Shouldn’t there be? Or maybe not. Maybe they really do mean discreet when they ship this stuff. “They were definitely padded when I put them in my shopping cart.”

“Cute,” Zhang Hao smirks. He takes the smaller box from Hanbin’s hands.

them from Hanbin’s hands. After a few seconds of frowning, he grabs for the scissors and then roughly cuts through the tape on one end. It takes some finessing, but then the metal drops into his lap and Zhang Hao’s eyes light up. “Oh,” he laughs. “I’m not sure what I expected.”

It’s just a pair of basic handcuffs, like in the movies, steely and intimidating. They shine under the cheap dorm ceiling light.

“I know what I expected, and it wasn’t this.”

Zhang Hao examines the handcuffs, turning them over, not unlike a raccoon. “I think these would cause marks if you struggled.”

“Hence the padding,” Hanbin says dryly. He doesn’t think he can return them now with the box unsealed, but he weighs whether getting customer service involved is worth it. They’re definitely not going to use these. “Hao, the last thing we need are the stylists and makeup artists raising their eyebrows.”

They don’t use toys very often. When they do, it’s usually Zhang Hao who does the purchasing. Decidedly not from Taobao, which is what Zhang Hao whines when Hanbin makes a joke about it. Time is an issue (and toys need that, alongside privacy), but really Zhang Hao explains that he prefers just Hanbin. Because silicone or glass or vibrations are nice, yeah, but don’t compare to the real thing.

Honestly, Hanbin is flattered. He tries his best. Nevertheless, sometimes additional fun can be had, as he’s come to realize over the time they’ve been together.

Fiddling with the metal strand and running his fingers over the tiny teeth along the outer edge, Zhang Hao gazes up at Hanbin. “Were you planning on using these on me or on yourself?”

“Either,” Hanbin shrugs. “Why limit ourselves?”

“I think people typically have a preference when it comes to bondage.”

“Really? I didn’t know you were an expert,” he teases. “You’ll have to tell me more about that.”

“Hanbin.”

“Or are you in the business of arresting people? Can you read me my rights?”

Zhang Hao fixes his gaze on him. “Is your imagination used for anything other than your strange fantasies? I’m beginning to get concerned.”

“Do you fantasize about this? What do you dream about?”

“You,” Zhang Hao says, suddenly serious. “Just you.”

And Hanbin can’t help it. He leans over and presses a light kiss to Zhang Hao’s lips. “Baby, it’s all up to you.”

“Well… It could be fun,” says Zhang Hao slowly, considering this, after his smile has dimmed and he’s collected himself again. “You wouldn’t be able to touch me until I say so. I might make you struggle and wait for it, until I was ready. Until I thought you were ready.”

Hanbin’s lips turn downwards. “Hey… Hao. Wait, that’s…”

“I thought that’s what you bought these for,” Zhang Hao laughs. “Unless you’re just saying ‘either’ to give me the illusion of choice. That’s not very fair, is it?”

“No, I meant it,” Hanbin says, and then he tilts his head down and looks up at Zhang Hao. Even though they’re both sitting on the bed, basically eye-level. “But I think you might be very pretty tied up.”

“Flatterer,” Zhang Hao sniffs. A long pause. “Say it again.”

“You’re always pretty.” Hanbin puts a knee on the bed and leans down to tuck his face into Zhang Hao’s neck. “So pretty.”

“Okay,” he nods, giving in easily. “Okay, yeah. But I think we should test these out first.”

“Definitely,” Hanbin agrees. “Though maybe we should…” He falls quiet as the metal closes against his wrist and the teeth lock into place as Zhang Hao adjusts the handcuff. “Oh,” he says dumbly.

His lover is rougher with his things than Hanbin is. Inadvertently, but it’s true. Zhang Hao tugs at the handcuff, a little bit severely, to test the give, and his eyes are dark and studious when Hanbin meets his gaze. “Does that feel okay?”

“Well,” says Hanbin, swallowing hard, “it’s sort of tight.”

“Sorry,” Zhang Hao smirks, not sorry at all. “It’s my first time.”

Hanbin bites hard into his own lip. Zhang Hao just looks at him sweetly. Gathering himself, Hanbin rubs at his wrist, testing the movement of the handcuff on his skin. The metal is harsh and unyielding; definitely something that would leave bruises and marks. It’s not what he had in mind, really. He envisioned Zhang Hao with his hands delicately locked behind his own back, or above his head, tied to the headboard of a hotel room, whining and squirming and calling out Hanbin’s name.

So these handcuffs are kind of a bummer. Maybe they’ll make nice home décor.

“Yeah, I’m not too sure about these,” Hanbin admits, as they start to feel uncomfortable. Too harsh. Something softer would be better. “They’re not as fun as I thought they might be.”

“Alright, that’s fine,” Zhang Hao says, placing his hand on Hanbin’s wrist. “I’m happy we tried.”

“Kind of a waste of money,” Hanbin jokes. “They’re not really multi-purpose, you know? Unless you have any ideas beyond hanging them up on the wall.”

“No. But it’s not a waste if we had fun.”

He laughs. “Did we?”

“I did.” Zhang Hao pecks Hanbin’s cheek and sits back. “Order the right ones, the padded ones, and we can try them on me some time.”

“Uh huh,” Hanbin nods, mind way ahead of his body as he toys with the metal cuff. “Let’s get these off, then.”

“As soon as you give me the key,” Zhang Hao hums.

Frowning, Hanbin looks at him and says, “You have the key.”

“No, I don’t.” Zhang Hao opens his hands, palms up. Hanbin stares at this and his heart begins to beat fast, jumping to the worst scenario in a second. “See?”

“I see,” he says, nervous laughter creeping up his throat. The handcuffs clink against themself as he moves, the other empty cuff swinging down, empty, on its short chain. “It should’ve been in the package when you opened it.”

Zhang Hao gives him a stare that communicates the exact same anxiousness that Hanbin is feeling. “I didn’t see a key.”

“Maybe it fell? Onto the bedsheets?”

“You’re right,” nods Zhang Hao. He starts to pat down beside him carefully, twisting around, and Hanbin follows suit, mirroring his movements. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”

Dropping to the floor, Hanbin runs his hands over the hardwood, past his abandoned slippers and then underneath his bed. “It might’ve fallen,” he mutters, mostly to himself. After a minute of searching that only pulls up some dust and a hair clip that one of the stylists likes to use on them, he sits up on his knees and yanks on the metal.

Unsurprisingly, the handcuff is locked tight. That’s something he should’ve expected.

“Huh,” he says intelligently. “You didn’t happen to find it did you?”

Zhang Hao is sitting cross-legged on Hanbin’s bed with his phone in hand, screen right up to his face. At the sound of his voice, he peers down at Hanbin and replies, “Nope. I’m looking up how to pick handcuffs.”

“Do you think,” Hanbin laughs nervously at the increasingly unruly measures, “that we’ve exhausted all other options? Ones that might involve obtaining a key, perhaps?”

“We could always dislocate your thumb,” says Zhang Hao dryly. “Rub some butter on you and try to wriggle your hand out.”

“You know what? I’m super excited to see what Naver has to say about lock picking and possibly burglary,” Hanbin returns, now infinitely more cheerful. “Please continue.”

“Kind of wanted to try the thumb thing.” He sounds disappointed. At any moment, Zhang Hao rolls the dice and it could land on earnestness or mischief in equal measure. Hanbin loves him for it, but the headaches can be ruthless.

Hanbin’s eyes narrow. “You want me down. You want me incapable. You want to nurse me back to health. That’s sort of sick and twisted.”

“No. Yes. Well… It would only be for a little while,” Zhang Hao pouts. “I like you here with me.”

“You’re the one who always goes out,” counters Hanbin. “With other people. All the time.” The little pinpricks of jealousy make themselves known.

Except he’s no better. In fact, he’s probably worse, god help him. He’d have Zhang Hao by his side all the time, always knowing where he was, if he could. Hanbin crawls up beside Zhang Hao on the bed and in a second, Zhang Hao is leaning into him. “Please hurry and find a video about how to fix this.”

Three videos later and Hanbin is jumping up and darting to the bathroom, one of his slippers left behind in the great escape. He’s thankful that this time Gyuvin is happily tucked away in his room; Hanbin’s not sure if he could take the humiliation of being caught in another compromising scenario again. He runs back with a few bobby pins clutched in hand, the unoccupied handcuff banging into his arm like the world’s most annoying—and mildly painful—tether ball.

“So,” Zhang Hao starts, the video still open on his lap.

“Shiv method first,” Hanbin says, bending a bobby pin open wide so that it becomes a straight line. He has others in case he screws up. He doesn’t want to screw up, though. Hanbin is the type to want to do things right, once, no mistakes.

“You sure? The zig zag bendy trick looks like it’s definitely going to work. I’d bank on that one rather than the stick thing.”

Trust Zhang Hao to go for the more challenging method. Hanbin has to love his ambition. But he remembers the video demonstration, how you had to get the angle just right, and he shudders, already feeling overheated in this bedroom from the stress.

“Easy one first,” he pleads.

“I think I would be really good at picking locks,” Zhang Hao muses, sort of bouncing a little in excitement. “Like, a natural talent.”

“Don’t mind me, darling.” Hanbin sticks the flatter end of the bobby pin into the ratchet, up against the teeth. “What would you do with such a gift?”

“Hmm. I’d get my boyfriend out of handcuffs when he gets stuck.”

Hanbin exhales deeply, then gestures, wrist up. “By all means.”

Zhang Hao shakes his head and when Hanbin returns to his work, he watches him with incredible focus, eyes bright and pupils wide, like when a cat sees a bird outside. “Jiggle it a bit,” he instructs. As though Hanbin isn’t already doing that.

“Trying, Hao.” Hanbin thinks that his hair will turn grey in the next five years.

Five minutes—probably less—of frustrated jiggling and then it happens. He’s not even sure how or why it works, but he feels more than hears when he gets the angle of the bobby pin just right. He pushes the stick of plastic up against the metal and the catch releases. Hanbin focuses as he pushes the strand into itself until he runs out of teeth, the cuff tightening even more. Then it falls off his wrist and into his lap a split second later.

Hanbin sighs, rubbing where the handcuff was. Zhang Hao claps quietly.

“‘Nickle-plated carbon steel,’” Zhang Hao recites from the outer packaging. “Foiled by the determination of one Sung Hanbin.”

“And we didn’t even have to bend this into a makeshift lock pick,” Hanbin grunts, tossing the mangled bobby pin aside. “I guess we’ll never know if you have some inherent talent.”

Zhang Hao picks up the discarded handcuffs and offers them to Hanbin. “Shall we try again and see?” he jokes.

It’s going to be a no. Not today, anyway. Hanbin tucks the handcuffs away into a drawer, right by the socks that he doesn’t wear as often, keen to forget this experience.

“Well,” Hanbin sighs. He sits back on the bed. “This wasn’t as sexy as I imagined.”

Zhang Hao just laughs at him. “We can still have sex if you’d like.”

Hanbin perks up. “Yeah? The ordeal hasn’t ruined the evening?”

“I’ve been hard since you brought in the damn box.”

And Zhang Hao is drawing Hanbin into a kiss, all smiles, a second later.

Hanbin doesn’t end up getting in touch with a customer service representative about the mishap.

Scented candles and warm oil and the soft sounds of waves, interspersed with piano music. The lights are down low and Zhang Hao lays on his stomach, eyes closed, completely relaxed.

“Planning,” Hanbin tells Zhang Hao a few days later, “is imperative for these sorts of things.”

He isn’t quite sure what has gotten into Hanbin recently, but he can’t really be upset about it. In the midst of album preparations (which, in turn, means a schedule right from hell), Zhang Hao likes the intrigue—and the love and stability—that Hanbin provides.

As much as they love to talk, it can be rough. Zhang Hao gets brittle and Hanbin takes it upon himself to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. So sometimes nights are quiet, stewing in their collective exhaustion, and sometimes they fight. They occasionally snap back at each other or say things harsher than they intend, and every time Hanbin apologizes first—because Zhang Hao is too stubborn and Hanbin can’t sleep without things being resolved—and it always ends with them curled up in bed.

In any case, Hanbin’s sudden interest in exploring things in the bedroom is not unwelcome, though it is sort of unexpected. They have what works for them and Zhang Hao is nothing if not satisfied. Nevertheless, when Hanbin brings up massage parlour roleplay, Zhang Hao’s, “Yes. Please,” tumbles out of his mouth before he even realizes he responded.

There are some things that he’s learning that he likes, too.

Even though they’re working with limited space and resources, Hanbin does his due diligence to make his bedroom look both soothing and authentic. Sheets off his bed to mimic the massage table, oils on standby, possibly too many candles lit at one time that is deemed legal for the building that they’re in. Gyuvin’s out of the dorm for the night, some kind of hosting event afterparty.

It’s nice. Zhang Hao sinks into the mattress and waits. Naked except for a strategically-placed towel.

Then Hanbin is standing on the other side of the bed, his presence a tangible thing that Zhang Hao feels through closed eyes, and he asks, “Are there any muscles in particular that you’d like for me to focus on in our session today?”

“Mmm,” Zhang Hao gets out, completely relaxed. “Maybe my shoulders and thighs. I do a lot of dancing.”

“Do you now?” Hanbin asks. “Then these hands will really loosen you up.”

Huffing out a breath against the pillow, Zhang Hao says, “I think that’s too much too soon.”

“Oh, you’re right. Sorry,” Hanbin stage-whispers, like if he says something too loud he’ll break the immersion. He clears his throat and continues, in a stronger tone. “I can do that for you, sir.”

What it is is sweet. Zhang Hao is so full of love that he’s sick with it.

There’s the sound of oil being warmed up between palms, and then delicate hands are pressing on the bare muscles of Zhang Hao’s back. Then the smile on his lips fades as he relaxes again.

Hanbin’s good at this, always has been. Zhang Hao saw him on stage during his very first audition and knew that he’d be good with his hands—although he banished that thought away because he didn’t actually know Hanbin at all yet. Pushed down that thought until further observations were made. A couple of months later and Hanbin was crouching over him in a tiny dorm bed and neither of them cared that the cameras might be recording. Honestly, Zhang Hao figured that they would cut all of it out. So he was quite interested in seeing what actually aired more than the things (and there were plenty of things on that set, not just between himself and Hanbin) that were edited out.

Pressing firmly against him, Hanbin runs his hands over Zhang Hao’s skin, the scent of lavender and warm milk filling the room. He takes his time and works up to the deep kneading and pushing motions, targeting his shoulders and the part right at the base of his neck.

“Ah,” Zhang Hao says softly. It comes out more intense than he meant.

Hanbin’s hands briefly pause, but he gets right back into it, pretending he didn’t hear. Zhang Hao knows he did, the pervert. He usually tries to encourage Zhang Hao to be as loud as possible.

“Please let me know if anything hurts or feels uncomfortable,” is what Hanbin says instead. The music swells with emotion, classical, accompanied by some waves. Zhang Hao wonders where on Earth he found a playlist so tacky.

Travelling down, Hanbin takes his time with Zhang Hao’s arms, paying extra attention to his wrists, hands, and fingers. Zhang Hao doesn’t have a lot of time to play the violin lately, but he’s managed to pick it back up after months of a drought. He feels the strain far more than usual. His mind remembers everything; he plays on autopilot, really. Except there's a disconnect, an unfamiliar stiffness of his limbs and joints where his body refuses to do the movements like he used to. So he fumbles through it and it frustrates him further.

He expressed this to Hanbin, who understands. “I feel like I can feel it slipping away from me. I hate that I can lose a part of myself so easily.”

And Hanbin, of course, understands better than anyone else.

Zhang Hao sighs as Hanbin’s hands leave his arms and trail down his back. “It’s nice.”

“That’s good to hear.”

There’s a rustling sound as Hanbin adjusts the blanket on the bed. Then he returns to Zhang Hao’s side. “I’m going to move the towel a little bit for you. Again, please let me know if you feel uncomfortable at any time.”

“Uh-huh,” he mumbles. He keeps his eyes barely open. He was told to relax, after all.

Hanbin folds the bottom part up to expose more of Zhang Hao’s legs, and he exhales at the feeling of the cool room air on his skin. Returning with more oil, Hanbin begins on Zhang Hao’s right leg, massaging his calves and moving up to his hamstrings.

When Hanbin’s hands slide up the back of his thighs, Zhang Hao automatically parts them further—just a bit. He stops himself from arching back into it, but only just.

“There we go,” Hanbin says quietly. Something about the way says it makes something burn low in Zhang Hao’s belly. “That’s it. Relax for me.”

They have a lot of time. Made sure of it, carved it out from their busy schedule with a blunt object. Hanbin is adamant to use all of it, it seems, and Zhang Hao welcomes this eagerly. He lies there immobile with slow breathing, though certain presses of Hanbin’s hands make his heart beat faster.

“You’re tense here,” Hanbin comments, working his hands into the back of Zhang Hao’s leg, under his knee. “Is it stress?”

He veers so close to where Zhang Hao is most sensitive. He twitches and clenches his jaw to stop himself from making an embarrassing sound or kick out or something. “Probably.”

Hanbin lightly dances over the place behind Zhang Hao’s knee and slides upwards to the larger muscles underneath his ass. Up and down, kneading and depressing for long minutes. Then his hand slips around to Zhang Hao’s inner thigh.

Zhang Hao parts them further.

He’s starting to get hard against the mattress. Not noticing anything, Hanbin carries on working, commenting once in a while about the muscle groups or asking if anything is too sensitive. Zhang Hao holds back a whimper when Hanbin finally—finally—slides his hand underneath the edge of the towel. Just a bit, just slightly. But it’s enough to have Zhang Hao biting his lip.

“I don’t mind sounds or noises,” says Hanbin. “They’re an automatic response that can’t often be helped. It happens to all of my clients. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

“That’s comforting,” Zhang Hao replies. It’s airy.

“I’m going to ask you to roll over.” Hanbin’s face comes into view and his expression is pleasant, welcoming, open. “I’ll help you with the towel to help preserve your modesty.”

“Thank you.” Zhang Hao wants to scream. Somehow, he manages not to.

Hanbin does just that—ever the model employee. He’s helpful and professional, unfolding the towel and then refolding it when Zhang Hao has adjusted himself so that he’s lying on his back. If Hanbin notices the bulge underneath the towel, he doesn’t mention anything.

The sounds of the bottle pumping out more oil, and then Hanbin rubbing his hands together. Zhang Hao closes his eyes as Hanbin’s touch returns, this time on his chest.

“Some tension here, too,” Hanbin comments softly, though it’s loud in the quiet of the room.

And Zhang Hao can’t help it; he’s always found Hanbin’s voice to be a turn-on, especially in the mornings when it goes low and gravelly. It makes Zhang Hao limp and pliable against the sheets, all while his cock continues to swell underneath the heaviness of the towel placed on his hips.

He squirms. He knows this is the point, but he’s not sure when he’s supposed to lean into the next part of the fantasy. Hanbin smooths up and down his arms.

“Oh. Are you sensitive there?”

“No,” Zhang Hao says, slightly frustrated. He wants Hanbin’s hands on him in different places. “I just think this area is good now. You can move on.”

Hanbin pauses. “Are you relaxed?”

“Yes. Very,” emphasizes Zhang Hao. He thinks it comes out whiny. So be it. “You’re doing a great job.”

Breathing air quickly out of his nose in amusement, Hanbin moves along. Down Zhang Hao’s chest and torso to his thighs again. It’s slow going, clearly an exercise meant to drive Zhang Hao insane. He wonders what he needs to do to crack Hanbin’s professional exterior.

The answer ends up being not much. When Hanbin moves Zhang Hao’s thigh wide, up and out to the side, Zhang Hao makes a small, desperate sound. He lets it fall open further, completely indecent for this establishment.

“I know this is a completely natural reaction to stimuli,” Hanbin begins, a hand finding its way underneath the towel again (and Zhang Hao almost sighs in relief), “and I don’t typically do this… but we do offer an additional service for some of our favourite clients.”

“What sort of service?” Zhang Hao asks as Hanbin’s hand wraps around his cock—and there we go. Even if he likes to make Hanbin work for it, even if he already knows where things are headed, he has his limits.

“Think of it like extra stress relief.”

He hums, playing along. “Oh. At no additional cost?”

“This only happens if we want it to happen. So no, no extra charge for you today.” Slow pumping that teases. Then Hanbin reaches down to grasp at Zhang Hao’s balls, massaging lightly, before returning to his shaft. “We have to like you, you see.”

“Okay,” Zhang Hao breathes. “Go ahead.”

“I…” Hanbin starts. He stops his movements, leaving his hand immobile and warm and perfect—and doesn’t continue.

Zhang Hao opens his eyes, looking down where Hanbin is frozen, a complicated expression on his face. Frowning, he props himself up on the bed with one elbow. Hanbin’s room comes back into focus: the candles, the portable speaker, the massage oil one of the shelving units.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“I’m sorry,” Hanbin apologizes quickly, blushing red. “I’m thinking about how this is a KOSHA violation.”

Zhang Hao presses his lips together. He doesn’t want to laugh, not when Hanbin is so achingly earnest. He waits until it passes so he can respond to Hanbin—darling, wonderful, empathetic Hanbin—with the sincerity he deserves.

“Do you feel as though I’m taking advantage of you?” Zhang Hao asks gently, carefully. He makes sure to meet Hanbin’s eyes. “It was you who suggested a special kind of service, you know.”

“I just can’t help but feel like a special service should be a different scented oil. Or an extra ten minutes for free,” Hanbin frowns. “Do you think we’re perpetuating harmful stereotypes about massage therapists?”

Zhang Hao pouts, sitting up on the bed fully and holding the towel to his body so that his more vulnerable bits are covered. “So does this mean you won’t be sticking a finger in me?”

“Um.” Hanbin short-circuits. “Well. It’s just…”

“I respect massage and physical therapists as a profession,” Zhang Hao clarifies, and it comes out in a rush. “Does this, all of this, make you uncomfortable?”

Hanbin’s cheeks are still rosy pink and round when he replies, “I feel a bit guilty. I know it doesn’t really matter what happens in the bedroom when it comes to stuff like this, but part of it does feel sort of icky.”

“Alright,” Zhang Hao says. Without heat or disappointment.

“Sorry. You paid upfront but you can get a refund.” Hanbin tries to joke about it, but the landing doesn’t quite stick. “Please see the front desk for a voucher.”

“Hanbin-ah, I really like when you give me massages,” says Zhang Hao fondly. Hanbin’s righteousness is one of the qualities he always loved about him. Too nice, to the point where Zhang Hao worries sometimes. He sits up all the way, and reaches out and puts his hand on Hanbin’s own, patting slowly. “You’re very good at them, just like your dirty talk when you don’t force it.”

“Ah,” Hanbin says sheepishly.

“But to be honest, I’d even like it if you read me terms and conditions. Textbooks. Manuals for assembling furniture.”

“Hao. I can’t tease you about that. I love you too much.” Hanbin’s shoulders relax as he lets the air out of his lungs, whatever he was stressed out about dissipating into thin air. “We’re so good at communicating.”

Zhang Hao laughs. “If you’d like, we could try a less sexualized profession?”

It’s silent for a moment as Hanbin considers this, a small smile growing on his face. Any awkwardness fades away into their more familiar banter. “Such as?”

“Um,” Zhang Hao scrambles. “Pirates?”

“Are pirates a profession or a lifestyle?” Hanbin asks, one eyebrow up.

Zhang Hao waves his free hand, the other one still pressing the towel to himself so that it doesn’t fall. “Baristas, then. Snowboarding instructors. The guy that exchanges currency at the bank.”

Hanbin looks at him and Zhang Hao waits to be shot down or teased again. But there’s just a second of nothing. And then Hanbin is swinging one leg up on the bed, over Zhang Hao’s thighs, and covering him with his body. Heart skipping a beat, Zhang Hao looks up at him in anticipation, engine revving and ready to go, zero to sixty in under three seconds.

“All of those at once?” Hanbin jokes lightly. As though his crotch isn’t pressed up right against Zhang Hao’s own and as though they weren’t close enough to kiss. Hanbin has always liked withholding those until the last possible moment, to Zhang Hao’s continued dismay. “I sort of like the banker.”

“No way money got you going,” Zhang Hao blinks. “And no, you have to pick one, just one.”

“It wasn’t the money, baby.” Hanbin’s eyes dart down to Zhang Hao’s mouth and back up again. “It was the image of you wearing glasses and doing menial tasks. You’re hot when you write stuff down. Imagine if you stamped stuff or pushed buttons on a calculator.”

“That’s even worse, you—”

He’s shut up with a kiss. Zhang Hao immediately melts into it, arms up around Hanbin’s neck instinctively. He snakes a hand between their bodies and blindly pushes the towel away, then arches up against Hanbin’s body for friction.

Zhang Hao can’t hear anything but the rush in his ears and the beating of his stupid heart. He sticks his tongue into Hanbin’s mouth as soon as he can.

Hanbin breaks the kiss when it starts getting heavy. Zhang Hao sighs loudly, lips tingling.

“So maybe I can’t get into the right headspace for massage therapy,” Hanbin laughs. “But I’m still going to fuck you.”

“Oh good,” Zhang Hao says dryly, watching Hanbin keenly as the other takes his shirt off and flings it across the room. “I was worried that you would try and make me ask.”

“Never,” says Hanbin. “You’d spontaneously combust.”

“You talk a lot about combustion, but my dick is hard enough to explode—”

They fuck until they both get sweaty and hot and they accidentally knock over one of Hanbin’s figurines. Zhang Hao does get to tell him, before he falls asleep, that Hanbin is welcome to give him a regular massage any day of the week.

Hanbin bites him on the shoulder.

Quite famously, Hanbin is ambitious. He found his greatest match on a survival show, in a situation that shouldn’t have ended well for them—but somehow did. Usually, Zhang Hao is usually one step ahead of him. That’s alright, though. Hanbin strikes harder.

He just doesn’t like the feeling of failing. He’s faced with the uncomfortable truth now.

One of their rare days off, after a comeback. Their sleep schedule has gone back to what they would consider normal (which is rough at best, but they make do) and Hanbin has spent as much time as possible in sweat shorts and slippers, the phantom pain of leather stage pants and insoles in already-clunky shoes, worn for hours, not being something he particularly misses.

Hanbin slides into bed beside Zhang Hao. The other is scrolling through his phone in an oversized shirt and pajama pants, despite the late-morning heat outside. Zhang Hao wordlessly scoots over so that Hanbin can share his pillow.

“Are you bored?” Hanbin asks. No build up, just out with it. He figures it’s best to get it over with, even if the shame of it feels like he’s performing open-heart surgery with a pair of rusty scissors.

Zhang Hao pauses. “Is that what all of this is about?”

“Is what all about?”

The other tosses his phone beside him, onto the bedsheets, and he looks up at Hanbin through his bangs. “The new stuff. The sex stuff.”

“Oh,” Hanbin says, laughing without humour to diffuse the anxiousness. “Yeah. Sort of. Okay, yes.”

“Look at me.” Rolling over onto his side (and pulling Hanbin around to do the same), Zhang Hao lets out a sigh and then nods. “Do you want to tell me why you thought I was bored?”

“I didn’t,” explains Hanbin. “I mean, it didn’t occur to me, not really. Except then Gyuvin said that couples go through a drought period and it gets tough for them… and I simply reflected on that.”

“You let Gyuvin give you relationship advice?” Zhang Hao gaped.

“When you say it like that it sounds silly,” Hanbin says slowly.

Zhang Hao stares at him. “Gyuvin’s longest relationship is with his socks. He’s had those longer than we’ve been a group, I think.”

Hanbin bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “I’m not sure if that proves your point?”

“His second-longest relationship hasn’t even happened yet. It’s ambiguous.” Zhang Hao turns serious. “Can you explain what’s happening with that? It’s so odd.”

“No. I’m not sure Gyuvin knows what’s going on, either.”

“Typical,” huffs Zhang Hao. “What I’m trying to say is that I wouldn’t listen to him about anything. Especially about relationships going stale.” He reaches out and pokes at Hanbin’s cheek until Hanbin gets frustrated and brushes him off.

“You don’t have to know how to cook to know if the chicken you’re being served is raw.”

“What does that even mean? Who cooked you chicken?”

“I don’t know,” confesses Hanbin. “But it makes sense to me.”

“Baby, I don’t think Gyuvin thinks that about us,” Zhang Hao says pragmatically. “He was just teasing you.”

“I,” Hanbin starts, “just want to make sure that you’re not…”

“No,” Zhang Hao emphasizes, gaze meeting Hanbin’s and holding, unblinking. “Of course not. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Hanbin says. And he’s grinning, probably. Like an idiot. Because Zhang Hao rolls his eyes and then kisses him on the nose.

Drawing back, Zhang Hao asks, “But your solution to this was to try out new things in the bedroom?”

“I thought it could spice things up.”

“Hmm. The bee stuff was definitely interesting.”

“Sorry,” Hanbin whines, burying his face in the pillow until Zhang Hao pulls him away. Zhang Hao keeps a hand on his bicep, first petting and then resting it there, immobile. The warmth seeps into Hanbin’s skin through the fabric like a hot pack.

“In the future,” Zhang Hao begins, “I think we should talk more about it before we jump right in.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “That’s probably for the best.” Hanbin mentally organizes everything in his head, the new processes and steps and categories. All he really wants is to keep Zhang Hao happy; he’s not sure why he ever thought Zhang Hao might not be.

It’s like Zhang Hao knows what he’s thinking. He looks at Hanbin like he’s hopeless. “You know, I still liked it. And when I wasn’t too keen on something, you stopped.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

Zhang Hao places another kiss on Hanbin’s face, right on his cheek. “Nevertheless.”

“So… the dirty talk is a yes, then?” Hanbin asks. He leans in closer, so they’re sharing breath, and Zhang Hao immediately responds, on like a light switch. “When I tell you how good you feel around me and how well you take it?”

“Yes.” Zhang Hao’s fingers tighten on the fabric at Hanbin’s shoulder. “Hanbin-ah…”

Tactical experience, Hanbin notes, pays off. With gratifying results.

He realizes, then, that this experiment was far less of a failure than he previously thought. Even so, he doesn’t imagine that he’ll be roleplaying as a pirate anytime soon—unless Zhang Hao requests it. Then, of course, Hanbin can probably (very quickly, immediately, even) get on board.

Hanbin kisses Zhang Hao then, and it’s as easy as it always has been. Clothes fly off, hands grasp, they gasp, and Hanbin hopes that fiery want and need never goes away. It never takes much for him, not with Zhang Hao, to get him hot and bothered. He’s always loved the way a kiss is enough for him to be ready.

Zhang Hao shudders out a small moan when Hanbin pushes in, their half-empty bottle of lube tossed somewhere on the sheets. Hanbin’s right hand is still sticky, even though he tried his best to wipe it off with tissues (it never works, why does that never work?). He just hopes it’ll dry soon enough. Luckily, Zhang Hao’s too gone to care today, urging him on faster with wandering hands that pull and cling.

“Remember the first time we did this,” Hanbin breathes into Zhang Hao’s ear, and the other tightens up reflexively at the sensitivity. “In Paris?”

By this he means condom-less. They’d been sanded down by that trip, a schedule with too many expectations and too little time. Hanbin remembers crying. He also remembers how Zhang Hao stayed with him, as much as he could. They fucked raw in a hotel room that faced a main Paris street, with the window cracked open to let in a breeze and the sounds of people and traffic, and it was the beginning of something.

Hanbin left the country with the deep understanding that this was who he would marry—one day, if it were ever possible.

“I don’t think,” Zhang Hao says softly, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation of Hanbin moving slow and deep, “I could forget.”

Hanbin tells him, then. “I want to marry you.” Honest. It tumbles out of him the same way a Jenga tower tips over with the smallest touch.

“You already asked me,” Zhang Hao reminds him. He tips his chin up for a kiss and Hanbin obliges, quick and sweet. In return, Zhang Hao shudders out an exhale and wraps his legs tighter around Hanbin’s waist, pulling him as close as physically possible. “I already said yes.”

“I’d ask a million times.”

Zhang Hao moans, louder than usual. Interested, Hanbin speeds up his thrusts, adjusting his knees and hitting deep. Zhang Hao’s hands curl around the back of his neck and their faces are close. Not kissing, not breathing into each other’s mouths, but almost.

“You should get down on one knee again,” says Zhang Hao.

“I would. One hundred times.” He lifts Zhang Hao’s thigh up higher where it’s slipping off his waist. It’s getting hot in the room—and quickly. He snaps his hips faster and watches his reaction: what makes Zhang Hao’s toes curl and his eyes squeeze shut, his head thrown back. What makes him moan even though he tries (at first) to swallow them down.

He’s so fucking tight and hot. Hanbin could die like this.

“I’d marry you on every continent,” Hanbin continues. “A small house wedding here in Korea. A beach, a stuffy old hotel, a hall that fits five hundred.”

“You have lofty dreams.”

And Zhang Hao is far too articulate. Hanbin angles his hips until he gets it just right, and Zhang Hao cries out, clenching down as he hits his prostate dead-on. He wants to reduce Zhang Hao to nothing but a mess. Desperate, moaning, needy. He makes sure to hit right there each time.

Hanbin watches his face carefully. “I’d do it. You deserve it.”

“You’re insane,” Zhang Hao moans. “Right there. Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

As much as Zhang Hao likes the dirtier stuff, it’s the sentimental stuff that gets him close to the edge the fastest. Nothing gets Zhang Hao off more than the promise of forever. Hanbin doesn’t think anything of it; he’s the exact same. They fit.

Huffing out a laugh, Hanbin does as he’s told, fucking hard and deep—probably rougher than usual, but they’re both desperate, drawn paper-thin and chasing each of their releases. Neither of them care. Zhang Hao even tries his best to push back onto Hanbin’s cock (as best he can whilst on his back and pliant) with some success. The sound of their breathing and bodies meeting chases away the quiet from earlier. Makes it run screaming, even.

“Faster

,” Zhang Hao groans, the Mandarin slipping off his tongue easily. They’re both sweaty, so close, Zhang Hao’s hands slipping off Hanbin’s shoulders from the dampness and their aggressive movements. He places them back soon enough.

“Oh god,” pants Hanbin, orgasm building far quicker than he intended. There’s always something about that. There’s an immeasurable pleasure that he gets from making Zhang Hao feel so good that he only remembers his first language. Proof of a job well done.

“Faster,” he repeats. “It’s so good.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, dumb. He places one hand flat on the headboard for balance as the bed creaks. Zhang Hao’s bed always does that; the mattress is older and likes to let itself be heard. It’s why they much prefer Hanbin’s. “Yeah.”

“Hanbin,” pleads Zhang Hao. “Come on, come on, come on—”

And Hanbin would ask him, “Are you close?” except it would probably earn him a glare at best and a smack on the shoulder at worst. Just as well, Zhang Hao lets it be known of his own volition.

“Close,” he gasps. “Right there. Harder. Hanbin.”

“I got you,” Hanbin reassures.

Slipping a hand between them, Hanbin only has to stroke Zhang Hao’s cock a few times before he’s spilling over his own belly and Hanbin’s fingers. Eyebrows furrowed as Zhang Hao contracts around his cock, Hanbin keeps his pace and ignores the itchy trickle of sweat that’s running down the side of his neck.

Zhang Hao moans out his name, high and needy, and it’s really all he needs. He pushes himself deep, balls right up against Zhang Hao’s body, and comes with a low gasp.

He thinks he might’ve blacked out for a second. Hanbin blinks and his face is buried in the soft skin beneath Zhang Hao’s ear, and the other is petting his back soothingly.

“You here with me again?” asks Zhang Hao.

“Hi,” Hanbin says weakly, still dazed. When he eventually pulls out (after complaints of his body crushing Zhang Hao’s) a rush of come follows, pooling onto the sheets, and he quickly gets them both cleaned up. It takes a while, but then Zhang Hao has clothes on, wrapped under blankets, and Hanbin wears as little as he can get away with.

“My back hurts,” Zhang Hao grumbles, tapping on Hanbin’s arm even though he already has his full attention. “That’s why we shouldn’t do this in my bed. It’s too small.”

Hanbin laughs. “Next time, we can stop and shuffle over to the other bedroom. When you’re sitting on my face and squirming, I’ll be sure to remind you that we need to think twice about our location.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“I am.”

Stifling a yawn, Zhang Hao says, “I’ll get you back for that.”

“Really? When?”

“When you least expect it. Sleep with one eye open.”

Hanbin smiles. “I look forward to it.”

After a long moment, Zhang Hao mumbles, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Good. You should.”

“I just had a thought, though,” Hanbin begins, pulling Zhang Hao closer, and the other releases a breath as though he’s saying, finally.

“About what?” he asks, looking up at him with bright eyes.

“How do you feel about trying blindfolds?”