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In the town of Aneth, autumn is a postcard. As summer fades into fall, the maple trees lining the streets blister into a deep orange, their leaves fluttering to the pavement one after another for the town’s residents to sweep into piles strewn along the sidewalk. It could’ve been the front page of a pamphlet boasting the scenery of New England – only in Aneth can you experience what all four seasons were supposed to look like, but notably the ones that conjure up images of cozy mugs of apple cider by the fire, perching carved pumpkins on the steps of your porch.
Most of the residents of Aneth were either generational, there for decades, or students at the college in town. Etienne College and Aneth were both undoubtedly old – almost older than the country they were founded in. The ivy lining the nearly 400 year-old walls had been there for decades, watching as Pulitzer prize winners, senators, indie band frontmen, and Broadway stars passed through its venerated halls.
But, the thing about Aneth was that people hardly ever stayed – it was difficult to convince the people that wandered through that there was an allure of living out the rest of their youth in Aneth when perhaps more bustling prospects like New York City or Los Angeles or nearby Boston existed. But, people would still always come – as if summoned by a calling or some other fated pull that compelled people to be charmed by the sleepy town.
Hanbin felt like he was somewhere in between. For those who lived in Aneth, it was home. But for Hanbin, the concept of where home could be was hard for him to define. He was never a student at Etienne or a true native of Aneth or the other nearby towns, but rather, he spent the summers of his youth there.
From as early as he could remember, Hanbin would pile into a car with his parents and his sister, and they would drive the three or so hours to Massachusetts from New York, the back of their car stuffed full with supplies and knickknicks and provisions for the summer. Once there, they’d all shack up in his grandparents’ house, letting June and July and August melt together.
His grandfather owned a small bakery in town – it wasn’t anything special or extravagant. He would sell bread, mostly – whole loaves whose heat would make the summer stick even more to Hanbin’s clothes. There was little else on the menu except plain coffee and two offerings of teas. The inside of the bakery didn’t invite much loitering inside it; there were, at most, three plastic chairs and two tables. It certainly wasn’t a place where someone would spend more than a couple of minutes after they retrieved their loaf of bread. In spite of that, the loaves always sold out by the end of the day, and there didn’t need to be style to convince people that the bread baked at Han’s Bakery was unrivaled in execution.
Eventually, when he was old enough, Hanbin was corralled into helping his grandfather every summer, kneading the dough and hauling the trays back and forth with prepubescent arms. Most teenagers would have hated the idea of being stuck working all summer when they could’ve been down at the lake or running around town, but Hanbin relished every moment at the bakery. Between shaping the dough into little round orbs and pushing them tenderly into the oven, Hanbin and his grandfather would spend their days chatting away. Hanbin’s grandfather hardly ever tuned into what was trending or what was on television, instead opting to pay attention solely to what was airing on public access radio and printed in the Korean-language newspaper that he’d get delivered to his front door every morning. Even so, Hanbin would tell him about all the new things that he was enjoying, the movies they were showing, the music that people were listening to. Eventually, Hanbin convinced him to put a telephone in his house, so their family could talk to him and his grandmother during the year, chattering away until the next summer arrived.
As time went on, Hanbin stopped coming every summer. It was the natural progression of how life went, a natural fading into growing up and growing older. Those days, he spent his summers in Paris, a full-fledged student at Ferrandi after painstakingly getting a grasp of the French language, learning how to bake more than bread. Every now and then, he’d ring his grandfather, telling him about France, what kind of pastries he learned how to make, what the weather was like. His grandfather would hum, impressed, silently proud of how far from home his assistant had gone.
Ever the upholder of filial piety, Hanbin would make sure to return every now and then, like the time he visited after his second year at Miséricorde in Manhattan. Over a dinner he made for the two of them, he told his grandfather all about New York – about the rush of the city, about what a Michelin star was and why it was impressive to have a couple, about how people go “Yes, chef!” and yell over the dinner rush in the kitchens. He would tell his grandfather what meals he had that reminded him of his grandmother, now noticeably absent from the chair she once occupied at the kitchen table.
The next time he visited, he was twenty-four. He sat at the kitchen table at 3 AM, every seat empty. His mother’s cries from earlier that afternoon still lingered in his ears, echoing in every crevice of them. In front of him sat a piece of paper. He didn’t know how his grandfather knew what a last will and testament was, let alone how to consult a lawyer to draft one. Yet, there it was, staring up at him.
Then, to my dearest grandson Hanbin:
I leave you my life – the bakery and this home.
Please use them both well.
Hanbin cries finally. He didn't let himself do it until he came back to Aneth, putting on a brave face for the rest of his family. But now, he lets a smattering of tears flow from his eyes, allowing the sobs he kept within him to wrack his entire body. The droplets stain the page, blurring the ink on them until they’re scarcely visible. Just barely, the final words cling to the page.
I love you.
I am very proud to be your grandfather.
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
It’s a rainy afternoon at the beginning of fall, and most of the mahogany leaves in Aneth are left soaked on the streets, soggy under the soles of the town’s inhabitants. On the far end of Dupont Street, a stone’s throw from the music building of the college, the lights of Han’s are still on, a welcome buoy in the midst of a gloomy, cloud-darkened day.
It’s been two years since it was remodeled and reopened. What used to be a dingy interior is now riddled with cushy, mismatched armchairs and overstuffed sofas. There are plants lining the windowsill and hanging from different corners of the ceiling, all ardently taken care of by someone who doesn’t really have a green thumb but certainly tries to. Two large bay windows flanking the front door give passers-by outside a peek at the homey interior and the delectable spread of baked goods on display near the register. In this new variation, Han’s not only offers bread, but other breakfast and lunch items as well – sandwiches, salads, and soups of the day alongside pastas or pot pies brought piping hot to your table.
Inside, students, tourists, and townsfolk all occupy the sofas and chairs – some silently enjoying a coffee, some studying deeply with books and a laptop scattered in front of them, others chattering with a friend or two. They have wi-fi now, the password on display near the register: BR3ADB0Y613.
Han’s Bakery is now Han’s Bakery and Cafe and known to the town as a love letter to the original owner, whose photo is displayed near the front window. The cafe is now faithfully led by his grandson, who spent his summers in Aneth and was determined to continue to provide Han’s as a beloved fixture in the town, but also to welcome new visitors and those wandering into Aneth to experience the charm of the town and the cafe for themselves. Though he very much relished the time spent at big city restaurants serving elevated experiences, this grandson felt like he needed to return to Aneth and see the cafe through. This is what Hanbin tells the New Yorker when they come to profile him. It’s all true, of course, but it feels surreal to hear it being read back to him from the page.
“Han’s Bakery and Cafe is a quintessential visit for those passing through Aneth, known to most as a quaint college town in Massachusetts, twenty minutes outside of Boston. Han’s croissants are a must-try – delightfully buttery and flakey, while still remaining as light as air.” Gyuvin brings the pages back together with a smack, slapping them together closed. They’re in the cafe, closed for the evening, the sign turned forward in the door’s window. Gyuvin is supposed to be cleaning up, but instead, he’s sitting on the front countertop (a cleanliness issue Hanbin decidedly ignores for now), a magazine held in front of him. “Do people really read this stuff?”
Hanbin shrugs at him, unfazed by the pomp and circumstance of food critic reviews. He’s sure that as a third-year college student, this world is substantially foreign to Gyuvin despite working part-time for Hanbin between classes and semesters for almost a year and a half now. Gyuvin peels the pages apart again, returning his eyes to the profile. “Sung Hanbin, whose grandfather opened the original Han’s Bakery, previously spent two years at the prestigious two Michelin starred Mizz-err-ee-cord–”
“Miséricorde,” Hanbin corrects him, perfectly accented.
Gyuvin ignores him. “–Under the tutelage of renowned pastry chef Lee Jinki. He then spent one year as the head pastry chef at Jangmi, the restaurant inside the five-star Hotel Alexandre that earned three Michelin stars the same year he began his tenure. ” He looks up at Hanbin with a skeptical eyebrow raised. “Is this true? You did all that and–” he checks the page again. “Studied in France?”
“No, Gyuvin. They told a bunch of lies in a nationally-recognized publication about me, and they all happen to be good.”
Gyuvin sniffs and eyes him suspiciously over the top of the pages. “Well, if you did all that, why’d you come here?”
“Did you not read the article?” It’s Matthew who’s interjecting. His apron is splattered with something that looks like the remnants of tomato sauce and he’s wiping his hands off with a spare cloth when he comes to sit next to Hanbin at the counter. His sleeves are clean, the mark of a chef with experience. Like Hanbin, Matthew came from a world that was a bit more high-brow, but little by little, he started craving a life that was slower paced. They were working with each other in New York, apprenticing around the same time. When Matthew heard that Hanbin was opening a cafe in Aneth, he called him up almost immediately.
He’s fixing Gyuvin with an incredulous stare now, slightly critical. “I mean, seriously, Gyuvin. It says it all right there. You didn’t even read out the part where they highlighted our clam chowder. And I spent so much time on that recipe…” Matthew looks particularly put out before he raises an eyebrow at him. “Don’t tell me this is what you’re like in class.”
Gyuvin laughs nervously, suddenly slamming down the magazine on the surface in front of him. “Anyways!” He says, much too cheerfully, hopping off the counter. “I think I’m gonna go wipe down the tables or something. Later!” Without another word, he’s gone, though Hanbin is doubtful any real cleaning will get done for the time being.
Why did you come here? It was a question that Hanbin regularly faced. On its face, it was a simple question, but Hanbin always heard the undertones in it: why did you come here instead of staying in New York? Why did you come here when you could’ve gone back to France? Gone to London? Why did you come here when Boston isn’t too far away? Why did you come here – is this the place you call home now?
Home was a sticky concept. For years, Hanbin considered himself something of a nomad, never staying in one place for too long. He was born in New York and grew up there, but maybe like most New Yorkers, he always felt like he was constantly on the move, like he had somewhere else to be. Home was never a singular place – more like somewhere to rest his head momentarily before thinking of where he’d go next. Maybe Aneth was something as close to home as New York was, but there was still an uncertainty. Maybe, the roots he planted in Aneth and the cafe weren’t as deep as he thought they were.
And, in spite of the dazzling reviews, Hanbin can’t help but still feel a small prickling of distrust in spite of it. It wasn’t like the cafe was struggling – quite the opposite it seemed, given the flourishing reviews from curious out-of-towners along with the steady flow of faithful customers and regulars who would fill its tables and chairs.
Rather, it was that Hanbin wasn’t sure if he was doomed to create only loaves of bread and croissants and danishes when he was so used to doing much more. When he was in Paris and New York, his creativity had peaked. He was making things that he had never made before, combining flavor profiles inspired by the different things he ate, influenced by the melting pots of cultures around him. It’s not that Aneth was unwelcoming for that sort of thing, but it’s not like the cafe was an optimal setting for haute cuisine. In a sense, he’s worried that he’s plateaued in his career, that in his quest to merely keep his grandfather’s memory going, that he sacrificed some of his personal creative liberties. He even created a whole menu full of fall items to test the waters, but much to his disappointment, much of the new items go unordered and largely untouched.
Matthew always chides him, reminding him that some of Hanbin’s ideas were certainly too elevated for their simple, small town that was mostly populated by families and slightly broke undergrads. He never fails to point out that if it weren’t for their more traditional offerings like danishes, croissants, and baguettes, that they would rarely get people lining up outside the cafe, especially not for acorn squash tarts with prosciutto and pomegranate or green chili crisp focaccias.
“But they taste good,” Hanbin whines to Matthew one day after he resoundingly rejects the idea of putting currant and candied orange scones on the menu.
“It’s not that I don’t think they taste good, Bin,” Matthew says. “But you’re thinking too–” He gestures at some high in the sky, a faraway imagined place above both of their heads with a wave of his hand. “Most people around here want a danish and a black coffee.” Matthew squints at him. “Which you’re aware of since you practically grew up here, so really, you’re just being stubborn about it.”
Hanbin visibly sulks at that, feeling a bit put out that his creativity is being stifled.
“Look, the most simple things you make are usually the best. We even got a feature in the New Yorker about your croissants. Isn’t that a good thing?” In response, Hanbin mutters something under his breath that sounds like it’s suspiciously littered with expletives, but if Matthew notices, he ignores him. It’s true, he was stubborn. It’s like he hears what Matthew is saying, but he’s already made up his mind that he was going to keep trying, even if it meant he had to peddle the fall menu himself. He wasn’t sure why he was so adamant about it – maybe he was trying to prove a point, mostly to himself. That even in this sometimes lethargic small town, he could make a life that he wanted, doing everything he can.
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
The first few weeks with the initial autumn menu are largely unsuccessful.
Matthew reprimands him, reminds him of what he already said like a broken record playing the same old song over and over again, but Hanbin grumbles loudly every time, only spurred on further to make it work. Maybe almond, cherry and chocolate-spiced florentines were a hard sell. Perhaps the general public wasn’t too enthusiastic about saffron and sour-cherry brioche, but that didn’t make Hanbin any less determined to change their minds and expand their horizons.
He scraps the first menu completely and starts from scratch. Like a crazed madman, he stays up until the early hours of the morning, determined to come up with something that will undoubtedly appeal to his reluctant customers, Matthew’s words of doubt be damned. He stays in the kitchen for hours on end after they’ve closed, creating mysterious concoctions night after night until his forearms tire from slicing and dicing up fruit, folding butter painstakingly into pastry dough. He even tries to wrangle Matthew into contributing, insisting that now is the time for pumpkin soup and butternut squash bisque. “No one actually orders that, you know,” Matthew tells him. “It’s like pumpkin pie in a bowl.” Petulant, Hanbin gives him the silent treatment for the rest of the day.
(They make up a week later only to have it out again when Hanbin is in one of his fits of experimentation.
“This is awful,” Matthew says, holding up one of his failed creations as it sits pitifully on a plate, custard oozing from the pie crust. “Frankenstein.”
“Frankenstein’s monster,” Hanbin says, correcting him. Matthew’s gone before the last syllable leaves his mouth.)
When he finally reveals the new fall menu board one day, one that he meticulously wrote and designed himself, he proudly displays it at the front of the store, next to the cash register. “Ta-da!” He gestures with some impressive jazz hands, but his enthusiasm unfortunately goes unmatched. There’s a brief silence that stretches on for entirely too long. If he’s expecting impressed applause, the blank stares that blink back at him must surely come as a disappointment. Matthew and Gyuvin merely look at each other, mirror images of dismay, and sigh before going back to their tasks in the kitchen.
Hanbin, clearly expecting more fanfare, frowns deeply. “Hey!” He calls after them, hands defiantly on his hips. “Do you know how long it took to write this out?” He raps the pen in his hand against the surface of the board, creating a grating sound that would certainly annoy their customers, but luckily, they haven’t opened yet. Still, he continues to scrape the pen under the letters, emphasizing the line that reads cardamom, orange and pear tarte tatin in his straight, blocky handwriting. There’s only silence as a response, perhaps another scoff. “Well, who cares what you think!” He stares at the board menu, still as determined and adamant as ever.
A muffled, “Whatever, Bin…” comes from the kitchen, leaving Hanbin to once again sulk until they open their doors bright and early at 9 AM.
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
There’s a morning that feels like any other when Hanbin hears the tinkle of the bell from the front door as it opens and closes again. He’s behind the front counter with Gyuvin, taking stock of the items still in the display and behind the counter in refrigerated shelves when there’s a slight movement at the front.
When he looks up, he sees a man, maybe in his mid-twenties, bundled up to his neck as though he’s trying to shield himself from the approaching chill of fall. His puffy coat seems to almost swallow him, enveloping him like a Michelin man marshmallow hybrid, and it makes him look smaller than he is, even with a bit of height on him. He’s carrying a leather bag that seems to be weighed down with books and perhaps other items, clearly a student of some kind from Etienne who must have wandered in looking for coffee. But unlike most of the students, there’s a case slung over one of his shoulders that he holds onto a little tighter than the other bag.
The man stares up at the menu, eyes grazing over it, clearly taking his time. He purses his lips slightly, and Hanbin can’t help but notice how plump they are, how they slightly glisten, like maraschino cherries. There’s a profound squint from him, almost to the point where his eyes are nearly shut. He takes an uncomfortably long time. Hanbin worries that if more customers start to trickle in, they’ll start forming a line behind him, and even then, he’d probably still stay staring at the menu board until the line spills out the front door. Even so, Hanbin seems a little more than content in allowing him to continue standing there. He thinks to himself, that actually, this man with cheeks like tteok can stay for as long as he likes.
“Can we get you anything?” Gyuvin cuts in, in what sounds like a helpful tone, interrupting that thought. “A pair of glasses perhaps?” Both the thought and the helpfulness were evidently short-lived. Hanbin sends a sharp elbow his way, which Gyuvin deftly dodges. Muttering under his breath, he sends Gyuvin to the back with Matthew, relegating him to dish duty for the remainder of the day.
The other man seems to startle at this slightly, as if only now registering the silent commotion in front of him. “Ah, I’m sorry.” His voice is soft, certainly three decibels lower than Hanbin’s regular lilt. There’s a depth to it though, like coffee syrup soaking slowly into a layer of almond cake. “There’s a lot to choose from.”
Hanbin takes his indecisiveness as an opportunity to gesture to their autumn menu, trying his best not to leap over the counter to wave a hand towards the board to the man’s left. “Have you seen our new fall items?” he asked, his voice entirely too high with excitement. He thinks he can hear Gyuvin groan from wherever he disappeared to in the back, but ignores it.
“Oh,” the man says, his eyes turning to peruse the offerings on the board. He clears his throat lightly, adjusting the case on his shoulder. He seems to relax a little more now as his eyes flit over the items, reading the board line by line. “How about a slice of the apple cinnamon babka? And a coffee. Iced.”
Hanbin resists the urge to jump for joy – the babka loaf was one of his first offerings, one that Matthew also gave into. It wasn’t difficult to see where the appeal was when Aneth was the perfect backdrop for a quintessential fall offering. When he baked it that morning, Hanbin kneaded the dough by hand before filling it with layers of Honeycrisp apples sauteed in cinnamon, nutmeg, butter, and cardamom. Kept in the oven until golden brown, what came out as a result was a slightly dense bread-cake hybrid topped with a cinnamon sugar glaze and crumbles. It was some of his finest work, though he was fretting as to whether that sentiment was shared with the rest of his customers. Until now.
“Is there a name we can call out for your order?”
“Hao,” he says.
“Hao?” Hanbin repeats. “Can you spell that?” The man – Hao – he remembers, does, before digging through his bag for his phone. A small charm, a tiny cartoon red panda head, dangles from it as he brings it towards the tablet in front of him, resting it against the sensor until it chimes. “It’ll be out in a couple minutes.”
Hao nods, offering Hanbin a small smile of thanks. “Thank you, um–” he pauses, as if to allow Hanbin to offer his name in return. Not used to customers being interested in him in the slightest, Hanbin is slightly taken aback at the sudden pause that waits for him to fill in the blank.
“Hanbin.”
“Right. Thank you, Hanbin.”
Hanbin watches as he takes the corner table, setting down his bag, along with his case. There’s a small Ditto sticker on the outside, accompanied by a purple Teletubbie keychain dangling at one of the zippers. When Hanbin comes by to bring him the slice and iced coffee, he’s spread a notebook over the table, accompanied by a number of books and an array of writing utensils. Over his ears sit a pair of large headphones. He’s so immersed in whatever he’s working on that he almost doesn’t notice Hanbin bringing his order. As Hanbin gently sets down the plate at the corner of the table, only then does he glance up to offer Hanbin a grateful smile. Hanbin tries not to observe him too closely over the next few hours that he stays at the cafe, tries not to be too nosy really, but he finds himself intrigued as to what this new customer could be so engrossed in. Perhaps there are other reasons for him to notice him, to fix his gaze on him when he thinks he’s not looking, but to at least still his heart hammering in his chest, Hanbin tries very much not to think about it and instead focus on taking orders from the remaining customers who filter in through the door.
He can feel Gyuvin watching him all the while, clearly allowing a number of thoughts to churn in his brain about it, but nonetheless doesn’t vocalize them quite yet. About an hour before closing, the kitchen closes to any new orders, instead leaving the items on display for sale. Hanbin looks over at the few customers still occupying the tables around the cafe and sees Hao there, headphones on and still clearly very immersed in the work spread before him. Strangely, while the coffee is nearly gone, the babka has gone untouched, with not even a crumb on the plate. As he cleans up a table next to Hao, he nods over to it after catching his eye. “Want me to wrap that up for you?”
“Oh,” Hao says, as if only now remembering that he’d ordered it. “Sure, that would be great. Thank you.”
As he brings by the to-go box, Hao’s already packed up his things, ready to head toward the door with his bag and his case slung over his shoulders. He takes the box and thanks him again. Hanbin lingers a little too long, as if he’d like to say more, but instead opts for, “Hope you come again soon.”
“I’m sure you would,” is muttered somewhere to his left.
Hao, thankfully, doesn’t seem to hear it. He nods with a gentle expression on his face, something like curiosity in it. “I will.”
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
Over the next few weeks, Hao does return every so often. Each time, he orders the same thing. He always sits at the corner table, his work spread in front of him, his headphones firmly fixed over his ears. He quietly works, sometimes pausing to note something on the paper in front of him. He sits for hours, undisturbed, undistracted, until sometime in the late afternoon or evening, he gathers his things and leaves again until the next day. And each time, only his coffee is finished, the babka left to be packed to-go. It’s strange, something Gyuvin doesn’t delay on pointing out.
“Maybe he’s like a vampire or something.”
Hanbin, hyperfocused on piping cream onto a circle of cake, murmurs, inquisitive. “Who?” He finally looks up when he finishes the last dollop. “Edward Cullen? That’s on the back of the book, Gyuvin.”
“No,” Gyuvin sniffs, slightly aggrieved. “That guy who always comes in and sits at the corner table. The one you always make moony eyes over.”
Hanbin sputters loudly. “I-I don’t make moony eyes over anyone.”
Matthew pops his head out from the freezer. “They’re total moony eyes, dude.”
“Who even asked you?”
Matthew shrugs and goes back to rummaging for lettuce. “They are, though.”
“See?” Gyuvin, triumphant, steals a croissant from the freshly baked batch. He pays no mind to the flakes that fall from it as he rips it in half.
Hanbin watches as they fall to the floor, glaring at each of them individually, one after the other. “I don’t make moony eyes.” he says again, mumbling bitterly.
His cheeks stuffed with bread, Gyuvin still manages to let out a laugh. “Whatever man,” he mumbles before swallowing. “Maybe he is though. I mean, why else wouldn’t he eat anything he buys?” He leans in, whispering conspiratorially. “Because that’s not where he gets his sustenance.”
Matthew pops his head out again. “Actually, you might be onto something.”
Gyuvin nods, triumphant, with Hanbin groaning something incoherent as a response. “I don’t have time for your vampire theories, you guys. I’m still trying to figure out this menu for next week.”
“Well since you’re so obsessed with him–”
“I’m not obsessed with him–”
“–Why don’t you ask him to sample the fall menu stuff? He’s here most days anyway and me and Matthew are so sick of orange blossom perfume cream or whatever the hell you made.”
Hanbin narrows his eyes. “It’s orange blossom water cream, Gyuvin.”
“Whatever, man. Are you gonna ask him or not?” Gyuvin dusts off his hands, adding more crumbs to the pile below him. He brings two hands up, forming them into two grotesque claws. Sticking out his front teeth over his bottom lip, he warbles in a showy Dracula-esque accent, “Maybe he’ll vant to suuuuuck your vloooood.”
“Or something else,” Matthew supplies, much to Hanbin’s dismay.
Gyuvin gives him a high five, letting out a sound of approval. “Bro, nice.”
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
When he next comes in on a Wednesday morning, Hanbin decides to be brave. It takes him some humming and hawing by the register and maybe a slight nudge, courtesy of Gyuvin, for him to finally put one foot in front of the other, but at some point, he gets there eventually.
“Hi, um.” He comes up to the man – Hao, he remembers, like he hadn’t spent most of his time remembering – tentatively, wringing his hand behind his back. “Sorry to bother you?” It comes out like a question, like he isn’t even sure if he meant to ask it.
Hao looks up at him curiously. “I don’t mean to disturb you, but you’re in here a lot–”
“I can leave if it’s a bother–”
“Oh!” Hanbin puts his hands up, shaking them wildly. “No, no, it’s not that.” He clears his throat and shifts his weight. “I was wondering if you wanted to try some of the items we were thinking of putting on the menu.” He bites the inside of his lip nervously. “Since you’re kind of a regular and whatnot.”
Hao looks at him for a while, as if turning something over in his mind. Finally, he shrugs lightly. “Sure.”
“Perfect!” Hanbin beams at him, his hands clapping together, trying to hold back a sigh of relief. He turned over all of the scenarios in his head leading up to this, almost all of them resulting in some sort of rejection, but he never imagined Hao would agree so easily. His brain tries to catch up with the scenario he found to be most unlikely. “We have some cinnamon things, I think? Since you seem to order that apple cinnamon babka all the time.” He’s about to turn back towards the kitchen when Hao clears his throat, somewhat awkwardly. His eyes seem to shift, and he looks visibly uncomfortable.
“Did I say something wrong?” Hanbin asks. He didn’t really mean to say it out loud, so it comes out sounding strange, like he decided halfway through his sentence that he was going to whisper the rest of it. He imagined this variation of the rejection scenarios, but oddly, it never came after an initial acceptance.
Hao’s eyes grow wide then, alarmed. “No!” He relaxes somewhat, or at least tries to, taking a strange breath. “It’s, um.” He clears his throat again. “I actually, um, don’t like cinnamon.”
Hanbin stares at him. It seems like silence passes by with the minutes as the cafe continues to bustle around them. “But–” he tilts his head, his eyebrows furrowed. “You ordered the apple cinnamon babka every time you came in here. For–” Hanbin mentally does the math. “The past three weeks?”
“I, um.” Hao shifts again. “I got nervous the first time I ordered. It was the first thing I saw.” His eyes ease slightly. “And you looked really excited when I did, so I guess it's force of habit now." Hanbin continues to gape at him, trying to tame the hammering in his chest if his ears weren’t betraying him. He passed with flying colors at his last physical, so there’s a part of him that’s sure that they’re not.
“But–” He’s short-circuiting a bit. “You never ate it.”
“Oh.” Hao laughs a little louder. “A friend of mine actually loves cinnamon, especially with apples. I gave it to him instead.” He tilts his head, looking up at Hanbin. “If it’s any consolation, you got rave reviews from him. I think he cried the first time. And every time after that, actually.”
Despite the praise, which Hanbin very obviously appreciates, he’s still trying to make sense of the myriad of words Hao provides him, as if struggling to place how they go together. “Sorry, but – didn’t you recommend it once? Even if you never even tried it?” He tries to ask it in a nonchalant sort of way, like he’s not constantly noticing what Hao is doing whenever he frequents the cafe. He wouldn’t do that, naturally.
(“You would totally do that,” from Gyuvin. He’s banished once again to the kitchen.)
Hao merely shrugs. “Seemed like some people needed some convincing.” He reshuffles the stack of paper in front of him, adding, almost like an afterthought. “And you looked so sulky about it.” Hanbin ignores that part, maybe even sulks about it then as well. “It was cute.” Just as quickly as he started sulking, his mood lifted just as fast. If he were a puppy, his ears would perk up immediately, like a dog hearing the sound of their owner mentioning a treat. His tail would practically be wagging if he had one. Even so, he tries to remain poised, secretly hoping that Hao doesn’t notice the way his eyes light up or how his ears turn a bright shade of crimson. That would be embarrassing. Hanbin is decidedly not in the business of embarrassing himself. Yet, he swallows hard, hoping his face doesn’t betray the fact that he very much wants to replay the sound of the compliment over and over again until he wears it out.
Hao seems to watch him throughout his thought process. It’s unclear if he’s noticing the five revolutions of emotions that pass across Hanbin’s face. If he does, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he offers, “Turns out I was pretty persuasive?” He isn’t wrong – after Hao would offhandedly mention to people waffling about what to order how good the fall menu items were, Hanbin saw a curious uptick in curious customers giving some of them a try. “I think the chocolate and almond millefeuille is a hard sell, though.”
Hanbin gapes at that before decisively snapping his mouth shut, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “It tastes good,” he mutters, petulant, offended, offering the same explanation he always does, as if that would grant any new clarification as to why anything goes on a new menu.
“It makes a total mess,” Hao points out. “How is anyone supposed to eat that without getting flakey crumbs everywhere?”
It’s the same thing Matthew said. Hanbin isn’t sure how much he likes Matthew and Hao being on the same wavelength, assuming that he likes it at all. Hanbin chooses to ignore the question, asking instead, “How do you even know what a millefeuille is?”
Hao shrugs, smiling a little, as if he knows he’s about to play with his food before eating it. “I’ve been known to watch Great British Bakeoff here and there.”
Hanbin huffs at that, hands on his hips again, still petulant. He stands in front of Hao with an unanswered question hanging in the air, so he asks again. “Does this mean you’ll try some of the new items?”
Hao nods, seeming to enjoy how Hanbin lights up when he does. “Sure.” A moment when he contemplates to himself passes. “No cinnamon, though.”
Hanbin grins. “We’ll see.”
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
As the days pass and turn into weeks, Hanbin continues to bring his fall offerings. It becomes an easy routine, one that Hanbin starts to look forward to. He starts coming into the cafe earlier, already thinking up new items that Hao might like, wondering if there are those he won’t.
Over time, they increasingly get used to each other’s presence as Hanbin regularly brings him some of the things to try. He notably never gives Hao anything with cinnamon, though he did manage to convince him exactly one time. (“Still no,” Hao says. Hanbin goes around like a puppy whose tail has been stepped on for the rest of the day, much to Hao’s amusement.)
On a Monday, he makes pumpkin cookies – topped with coarse sugar and baked until chewy, rich with the hint of brown butter. With a nod of approval from Hao, he put them on that week’s menu, and they sold out so quickly that Hanbin made a note to keep it on the menu until Thanksgiving.
The next week, a jalapeno cheddar pull-apart bread that doesn’t receive much fanfare from most of the customers on its own. But, after listing it as a side with one of their lunch items – a creamy tomato basil soup – it eventually turns into a beloved fixture on their permanent menu.
All the while, he spends most of his weeks chatting with Hao, his presence almost as regular now as anyone else, like Gyuvin or Matthew, or even their longtime customers. Though an easy routine, a difficult problem lies in front of Hanbin. Difficult was certainly open for interpretation, but he wouldn’t exactly call his growing attraction to Hao something that was effortless. In actuality, it was kind of hampering Hanbin’s ability to function on a daily basis when it seemed like most of his thoughts and days were filled with Hao. It gets to a point where aside from Gyuvin, even Matthew starts taking notice.
“What’re you bringing for your boyfriend today?” he asks as he simmers chicken, celery, onions, and carrots in a creamy broth for their pot pies to be served that day, the scent of turmeric and thyme spiraling through the kitchen.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Hanbin says automatically, trained to respond after harping the same to Gyuvin repeatedly, for days on end.
“Sure. What is it today, though?”
“Tiramisu basque cheesecake.”
“Jeez, dude. What happened to just scones and cookies? How has he not slept with you yet?”
Hanbin lets out a lightly strangled noise, offended. “I’m not doing all this for that–”
“Oh, and you’re saying if he wanted to, you wouldn’t?”
There’s a resonant silence, only the thick sound of soup bubbling from the pot perched on the stove.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
Hanbin clears his throat loudly, leaning against the counter. “I said nothing, Matthew.”
“Whatever,” Matthew scoffs. “It’s so obvious when you keep giving him stuff for free–”
“He leaves a tip, come on.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
Hanbin garbles incoherently, waving a hand wildly, like it’ll put an end to wherever the conversation is going. “Fuck off, dude.”
A muted cackle from Matthew. Then, he turns to Hanbin suddenly. “Oh, he left a note for you. You didn’t see?”
Hanbin straightens embarrassingly quickly. He smoothes down the front of his apron in an effort to mitigate the damage, like he’s suddenly very nonchalant at the news. “He did? Where? What did it say? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
Matthew, taking his time, seems to search the crevices of his brain for much too long before letting out a feeble gasp, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a crumbled piece of paper which seems a bit battered, like it's seen better days. “Ah, here it is.” Hanbin reaches for it, but Matthew keeps it well out of his grasp as he unfolds it. “No, no, I’ll read it to you: ‘Dear Hanbin-’” He pauses. “Big giant heart there.” Clears his throat. “‘Dear Hanbin, thank you so so SO much for all of the FREE baked goods you make for me EVERY SINGLE WEEK. Thank you for making so many, that are FREE, that even Gunwook started complaining about it and asking when he was getting a FREE scone since we’ve been giving away items, as you know, for FREE. Specifically, to me only. You’re sooooooo kind and generous even though you’re such a big, giant, pathetic loser. Please fuck me if you’re free on Friday. XOXO, Zhang Hao.'”
Matthew crumples up the note, obviously fake, in front of Hanbin’s eyes, which are positively seething at him. “Awwww, that is really so sweet.”
He dodges a smack from Hanbin with a cackle before going back to the pot pies.
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
Hanbin wonders if he's being obvious. Like if Hao can see the look in his eyes whenever he sees him and picks up on it immediately. That maybe Hao can peer into his mind and see how most of his thoughts are occupied with him, curious to know more about him. It's not obsessive. Hanbin doesn't think he'd go that far. But maybe it is something like infatuation. At the very least, he can call it a bit of a crush. It wasn't a crush though - if it was, Hanbin didn't recall a crush feeling so heavy, like it was persistently blooming through every part of him until it reached his fingertips.
“Are you a student at the college?” Hanbin asks Hao one day, realizing that even after about a month had passed since they started seeing each other regularly like this, he still doesn't exactly know what Hao does. He’s packing up the rest of a hazelnut and chocolate tart at the corner table Hao usually occupies, making a note to save him a couple of slices to take home. He'll even save some for Gunwook since he's been complaining about not getting any samples himself.
Another item from Matthew’s Approved List, Hanbin was more than excited to present the tart to Hao. Sometimes, the fall menu doesn’t even cross his mind first, not when he thinks of the way Hao lights up when he enjoys something, his eyebrows raising and his eyes opening wide. Sometimes he makes a sound of approval, humming loudly at the first bite. He imagined it when he made the tart earlier, pressing the dough firmly into the pan. His fingers, long and slender, deftly pinched the dough, forming the crust into its shape, and in spite of himself, he felt his mind wander somewhere, thinking of other ways his fingers could steadily knead into something malleable, somewhere slightly more reactive. He wondered what sounds he could elicit with his hands, strong and sturdy from carrying sheet trays leaden with loaves, pots weighed down and full of fruit jam. Perhaps they would be delicate, like their owner. Or maybe something surprisingly rough that almost contradicted an elegant face.
Hanbin had to pause and take a step away from the counter before he placed both of his hands on it for purchase. A rough, deep breath to ground himself. It felt sacrilegious, to have such a sensual thought in front of something he made, like he was defiling something pure, and he felt ashamed, made evident by the fierce blush appearing in his cheeks.
He tries not to remember it as he stands in front of Hao, lest the guilt of it eat him alive, or worse, Hao notices it on his face.
There’s a bit of a lull in the day, with only a few customers trickling in here and there. Hao had come in earlier that morning and seemed to be working on something feverishly until the lunch hour came, when he finally released his ears from his headphones.
Hao sighs, lost in thought, swirling the ice in his cup around, the drink nearly empty. Hanbin makes a note to bring him a refill. “Sort of.” He slurps lazily at the remnants of it until only ice remains. “I’m a grad student. Studying music composition.”
Hanbin gapes at him. “Wow,” he says. “That’s impressive.” It would explain the long hours of writing, the headphones always over his ears.
Hao shrugs. “It’s not much, but it’s something.” He organizes his papers, which Hanbin now sees; they contain a flurry of notes on them, ones that Hanbin knew nothing about, neatly written between lines of sheet music. “I studied music performance in undergrad – violin.” That would also explain why he would bring the case with him sometimes, to leave with it in the afternoon or well into the evening. “So I compose a lot with that. I teach sometimes, too. As a TA.”
Hanbin’s eyes widen at that, still clearly impressed. “Wow,” he repeats. “I know you probably hear this a lot, but I’d love to hear something you’ve made sometime. Or to hear you play.”
Hao smiles in lieu of a response. He tilts his head at Hanbin, the crumbs of what’s left from the tart the only thing left on the plate in front of him. “Enough about me, though.” A curious look takes over his face as he leans forward, his arms crossed in front of him on the table. “Aren’t you super famous or something?” He taps the newspaper folded neatly in front of him with a slender, graceful finger. “I read about you in the paper. Ferrandi trained, Michelin star restaurant pastry chef.”
Hanbin raises an eyebrow. “Doing a background check on me, then?”
This elicits a soft sound from Hao, amusement lining the edges of it. “I was just being nosy.” He tilts his head. “So?” he starts. “What’s your story?”
Hanbin laughs. “How much time do you have?”
“I think I could squeeze you in. I’m very busy, you know.”
A grin bursts across Hanbin’s face. “I’m flattered.” Then, he hears his name being called from the back, Gyuvin yelping something about the croissants. He looks back at Hao apologetically. “Ah,” he sighs. “Duty calls. Next time?”
Hao offers a smile, nodding pleasantly. “I’ll be waiting.”
There’s a flutter beneath Hanbin’s chest at the sound of that, wispy and feather light like newly spun sugar. He can feel a rush to his cheeks, knowing that now they’re probably a bright pink. Noticing how Hao is still smiling at him, still looking at him almost expectantly, Hanbin clears his throat a little awkwardly, nods maybe once, before abruptly shuffling away to the kitchen. When Hanbin retreats behind the curtain, he finally releases a breath, his hands bracing him against the counter.
“Smooth,” Gyuvin says, watching him with a judgmental eye. “Really smooth. Very suave.”
“Shut up,” Hanbin says, his eyes not even looking up to find him. “You’re fired.”
Gyuvin giggles, an evil sound if Hanbin’s ever heard one. “You’d never fire me.” He nods at Matthew, who’s putting together sandwich orders in the corner. “Right, Matthew?”
Matthew, clearly not listening, nods. “Yeah, man.”
Hanbin trudges around the kitchen for the next hour, grumbling under his breath, knowing that it’s true.
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
The worst day of Hanbin’s life happens on a random Thursday.
On that day, Hao comes through the door with another man, someone Hanbin has never seen come in or even remotely recognizes. Not that he observes Hao that closely. (He does.)
Hao offers a little wave in his direction, but rather than the usual small talk with Hanbin before he starts working, before Hanbin can ever cheekily ask him, “The usual?”, Hao goes straight to his usual corner table, in deep conversation with whoever’s accompanying him. Hanbin, feeling more put out than he’d like to admit, is left hanging, a slice of pumpkin pie and apple tarts pathetically sitting on a plate that still has yet to be claimed by its intended recipient.
“Ouch,” Gyuvin says with a scoff. “Guess you’re old news.” He says it in a way that is certainly meant to be a joke, but he quickly finds out it’s the wrong thing to say when Hanbin sets down the plate abruptly with a clatter. “I was just kidding,” Gyuvin mumbles, somewhat alarmed. He’s never seen Hanbin so agitated in his almost two years at the cafe. Hanbin, usually overly polite and hyper accommodating to everyone he meets, even to total strangers, even to random animals, is suddenly carrying himself like a man who’s been egregiously insulted. All the while, Hao and the stranger continue chattering on and on, sometimes laughing loudly between whatever it is they’re hotly discussing.
To Gyuvin’s right, there’s a grating, irritated huff. He’s afraid to look over, and like witnessing a car crash, Gyuvin’s eyes watch as Hanbin feverishly starts organizing the items in the display case. It’s not a task that he normally does – it’s something he usually assigns to Gyuvin, considering it’s literally his job. “Um,” he says, gingerly, afraid to approach the newly awakened beast. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do that?”
“No,” Hanbin says, unreasonably curt. His hands are fidgeting with the display, but his eyes are very much fixed on Hao in the corner, along with the man who came with him. Handsome – a handsome man. That was objectively clear to anyone who saw him. He had features like a matinee idol, like he stepped out of a coming-of-age film where the protagonist tearfully confesses his love and yearning and god, it makes Hanbin sick.
It’s clear now that he’s only fixing the display to have an unrestricted view of the two of them at their table, as if watching from the counter would make clear to him what exactly this man is to Hao. As if sensing something amiss, Gyuvin follows his line of sight, sees how it goes straight to Hao’s table. Gyuvin’s mind seems to be churning, calculating all of the actions in front of him. Then, when the proverbial lightbulb suddenly alights over him, he barks out a laugh. It startles a couple of girls sitting at the table near the front, and realizing the volume of it, he claps a hand over his mouth. Even so, his giggles are barely stifled as he shakes with laughter, his eyes wrenching shut in pure glee.
Hanbin whips around, staring at him. “What?” he snaps. He seems uncharacteristically agitated, like his car got towed on a rainy day.
“Oh my god,” Gyuvin chokes out, still barely holding his laughter. At this point, tears are practically begging to fall from his eyes. He leans down, right next to Hanbin’s ear as he continues shuffling the pastries around uselessly. “You’re jealous,” he hisses.
Hanbin flinches a bit, like he’s trying to avoid a gnat that flew too close to his ear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He gives up on the display case, snapping the door shut. Briskly, as if he’s trying to escape, he moves to the cash register instead, pressing the buttons on it in an order that only makes sense to him, like it’ll do something productive.
Gyuvin follows him, unrelenting. “You’re so jealous,” he murmurs, his voice still low. He at least has the decency to keep it down, lest Hao or the man notice. “I haven’t seen you this jealous since the shop down the street had a line down the block for selling empanadas.”
Hanbin stops punching buttons at the register. “I wasn’t jealous then,” he protests. “And I’m not jealous now. Shut up.” He huffs out a sigh, reaching down beneath the counter to find some spare napkins and lids to refill with at the coffee station.
“Yes, you are.” Gyuvin keeps going, badgering and badgering and badgering him even as Hanbin walks over to the coffee station and starts refilling the coffee lid compartment that already has a sufficient amount. “Green with jealousy, as green as the freaking Grinch, literally the most jealous in the entire world, you’re so insanely jealous, jealous, jea–”
Hanbin stands up straight to turn around and face him, hands on his hips. With his voice at full volume, he practically gnashes at Gyuvin, “I’m not jealous!”
The cafe comes to a gradual stop as the conversations pause. Patrons freeze mid-sip. Laughter fades into silence. Everyone’s eyes fall on Hanbin. Even Hao is watching him, an indecipherable look on his face as Hanbin’s words hang over the whole cafe, gradually sinking into everyone’s psyche.
From the kitchen, Matthew scoffs, his voice muffled but still clearly dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah, man, you’re not jealous at all.”
Hanbin looks at Gyuvin, his eyes very much avoiding Hao and the general area around him, including his companion, and doesn’t say anything. Instead, he disappears in the back, mumbling something about not feeling well and taking the rest of the day off.
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
The next time Hao is at the cafe, he comes alone. Hanbin has been licking his wounds for the past two days, giving weak excuses for his sour mood. He rarely comes out to the dining area of the cafe, hiding away in the kitchen, pretending he has things to bake in solitude. Hanbin never took rejection well. He builds himself so much, gets his hopes up so high, that when he’s ultimately disappointed, the crash landing is one he can hardly recover from. To say that he wears his heart on his sleeve would be an understatement – more aptly, he bares it to the world before him, offering it up to everyone around him. But there’s a twinge of shame this time – he’s not so vain to think that Hao most certainly bore a torch for him, but there he was again, hoping.
When Gyuvin reports to him that Hao has returned, it takes Hanbin nearly a half hour to muster up the courage to come by his table. He’s empty-handed this time, wringing his hands behind his back nervously. “Hi,” he says, mumbling slightly.
Hao looks up from his notepad, pulling down the headphones from his ears. “Hi,” he says, a gentle smile on his face. But then, it fizzles slightly when he notices Hanbin hasn’t come bearing any gifts. “No samples today?”
There’s a pang of guilt when Hanbin notices the disappointment. “Oh! I, um–” He chews on his bottom lip, trying to finesse his way around what he wants to ask. “I just wasn’t sure if I was bringing some for, uh, your friend, also.” He coughs slightly. It’s an awkward sound, like it’s misplaced in their conversation.
“My friend?” Hao looks genuinely perplexed, like he can’t exactly piece together the route that Hanbin is taking him down.
Hanbin wrings his hands behind his back nervously. “Yeah, uh.” He clears his throat. “The one you came in with the other day. Gyuvin mentioned he brought you guys some stuff since I, um.” He lets out a weird breath. “Since I had to call in sick for the rest of the day.” It’s a shameful sentence to admit. He promised Gyuvin he’d get him lunch for a month, an apologetic tradeoff for behaving so uncharacteristically badly.
Hao looks at him, puzzled. Then, there’s something like recognition in his face, like a thought started creeping into his mind. “Oh.” He suddenly remembers. “You mean Jiwoong?”
Hanbin looks away. There’s that pang in his chest again that doesn’t feel good, like it’s wringing itself around his heart and suffocating it, unrelenting. The clock on the wall looks very interesting. He stares at it. “Yeah. If that’s what his name is, sure.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound so bitter, but Hanbin supposes he can’t help what his own voice sounds like when the ugly parts of him decide to rear their heads.
Hao watches him. For a second, his eyes follow Hanbin’s, like his trying to figure out what’s caused him to stare so intently, to sound so upset, when very little discontent has happened between them in the time that Hao’s been coming to the cafe. Then, a realization plants itself in his mind. It seems to overtake him completely until it’s finally in full bloom, compelling a mischievous sort of look about him. “Hm,” Hao says. He looks like he’s fighting the urge to laugh. It’s not unkind, but Hanbin very much feels like he’s not clued in on a joke.
He risks taking the bait. “What?”
“Oh, nothing, it’s–” Hao lets out a small laugh. “I think Jiwoong’s husband would be pretty disappointed if he knew we were having treats without him again.” Hao tilts his head at Hanbin. He doesn’t wait for Hanbin to process the sentence before adding, “He really liked the apple tarts, actually. You might want to keep that one on the menu.” He leans forward, resting his chin on both hands, blinking up very pointedly at Hanbin, almost fluttering his eyelashes at him.
Hanbin gapes at him. It’s a bit of a stupid look, one that Gyuvin will never let him forget. He can hear Matthew’s voice gnawing at his ear – You know what they say about assuming, Hanbin – he always says it in such a patronizing voice. It’s not very helpful at this moment.
Hao continues to smile up at him, but suddenly leans back, shaking his head with an overly performative show of dismay. “And to think I was looking forward to whatever you had for me today,” he says with an overdramatic sigh. “You didn’t even say hello the last time before you left so quickly. It makes me so sad, Hanbinnie. I thought I’d done something wrong.”
Hanbin gulps, both at being caught red-handed for being a green-eyed monster and at the term of endearment that feels reserved just for him. “I’m really stupid,” is what decides to say. “A total idiot.”
Hao crosses his arms, affronted. “Well, at least you know.” He leans forward again, his eyes fixed on him, pinning him down with his gaze. “You’ve lost interest in me so easily? Because I was sitting with someone else?”
Hanbin feels a severe pang of guilt punch him in the gut. “It sounds so bad when you put it like that.” Beneath the guilt is a slight thrill. There’s the rush of a feeling that he's been caught and that maybe wore his interest as blatantly on his face as he feared, but also at the confirmation that the palpable chemistry between them isn't something he’d just imagined. “I promise I’m not so mean or so fickle.”
There’s a smirk tugging at the corner of Hao’s lips. “I liked seeing you jealous, though,” he says, his voice low so that no one else can hear. “Feels like it’s just for me.”
Hanbin's breath hitches slightly, letting a laugh escape him now that he’s finally released from Hao’s interrogation tactics. He decides to be bold for just this moment, venturing deeper in the waters now that he knows they're warmer than expected. “You know it is.”
“Good.” Hao smiles then, a little more widely, a little more forgiving. “Bring me something sweet then or I’ll really think you’re mad at me.”
Hanbin, always amused by Hao’s demands, obliges him.
(Gyuvin, who’d been watching their interaction, meets him with a knowing look.
“Fired,” Hanbin mumbles. “You’re fired. Again. Forever.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” He shrugs. “I’m not the one who’s whipp–”
Matthew, appearing from the stockroom, clamps a hand over his mouth and drags him towards the back, more for his safety than anything else.)
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
The day Hanbin makes opera cake, he does it not for the fall menu or their fixed menu, but because he thinks Hao would like it. He wraps the slices neatly in a brown box and ties it with a ribbon. He wonders to himself what the risks are to wearing his heart on his sleeve, that whether this gift is too much of a showing of his intentions, which may or may not be well-received. That evening, right as they’re about to close, he sees Hao still lingering near the door, carrying his bag and case. Matthew and Gyuvin have gone home already, along with the rest of the customers, leaving only the two of them in the cafe.
“No classes or performances tonight?” Hanbin asks, untying his apron and hanging it on a hook near the kitchen.
Hao shakes his head. “No, not tonight.”
“I made something for you.”
“You always make things for me.”
“Not for the menu or anything. Just, um. Just because.” He presents Hao with the box, complete with the pink ribbon tied neatly over it. “It’s, um, opera cake.” He tucks his hands behind his back so Hao doesn’t see him fidgeting with them nervously. “It’s a layer of almond sponge cake soaked in coffee syrup. They layer it between chocolate ganache and almond buttercream and do it a couple times, so there’s about six layers in total. Sometimes people say the layers are like the acts of an opera, so I thought you might like it, with the music and everything. And it’s not too sweet.”
Haobin watches him ramble, a small smile playing on his lips. “Sounds like a lot of work.”
Hanbin shifts a little, suddenly sheepish. “Ah, well, you know.”
Hao steps closer, his cheeks a little pink. “Thank you, Hanbin. I know I’ll love it.”
Later, after Hanbin closes up the cafe, Hao asks Hanbin to walk him back to his building, which he does. He offers to carry Hao's case for him, which Hao allows.
Once they arrive in front of Hao's building, right in front of the steps of Hao's door. Their steps slow and they come to face each other. "So,” Hanbin draws out, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his coat.
Hao looks at him. There’s only the sound of someone above them closing an open window before he asks, "When are you going to kiss me?"
He asks it so nonchalantly that Hanbin startles slightly, his eyes snapping forward to meet Hao. "I–" Hao continues to look at him expectantly. He lets his mouth close. It would be foolish to deny it, almost self-sabotage to act like he wasn't wanting to. "Soon. Now probably."
Hao nods, satisfied. He looks at Hanbin expectantly as Hanbin shifts his weight, chewing on the inside of his cheek. After a stillness flows between them, Hao steps forward, like he can’t wait any longer for Hanbin to pick the right moment, and leans in closer, reaching out to grasp the folds of Hanbin's coat. He tugs on them lightly, drawing him in until he finally leans forward and presses their lips together. Hanbin gasps softly, letting his brain process what's happening for only a second before he pulls his hands from his pocket and brings them to Hao's waist, pulling him even closer. Hao lets out a light breath in approval, parting his lips, allowing Hanbin in. Hanbin takes the hint this time with little hesitation as he deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue against Hao's. The movement elicits a coarse whine from Hao, so Hanbin does it again, a rush flowing straight through him when Hao's grip tightens, attempting to pull him even closer. Hanbin can feel a flush burning through him, from the tips of his ears to just under his navel, tugging at him incessantly. The hold around Hao’s waist is taut, caging him in his arms as they keep chasing after each other’s lips, their kisses growing more heated, more urgent. Hao brings his arms up to circle around Hanbin's neck, pressing even closer, angling slightly to deepen this kiss further, licking hungrily into Hanbin’s mouth. Hanbin moans softly, baring his own arousal openly, hands roughly pulling Hao flush against his chest.
Then, there's a sound behind them, like someone clearing their throat, sounding extremely agitated. They barely hear it, too wrapped up in each other, but luckily they do. It's Mrs. Choi, the elderly, retired schoolteacher who even babysat Hanbin as a child as he would run around the park playground with her grandson, Yeonjun. Hanbin remembers that she lives in this building as well, and much to his dismay, realizes that the two of them are blocking the front of the building as she’s trying to get in.
"Oh! Hi, Mrs. Choi," Hanbin says, his voice too squeaky and his mouth too swollen, lips blown completely red. There's a sheen of saliva still on his mouth; hurriedly, he wipes it off with the back of his hand, which only makes the frown on Mrs. Choi’s face deepen. He awkwardly detaches himself from Hao to part the way for her. "You, um." He clears his throat. "You've met Zhang Hao? From Etienne?"
Mrs. Choi merely looks at them both and tuts loudly, shaking her head as she passes them, as fast as her 81 year-old legs can take her, before disappearing up the front stairs and into the building.
"Okay, well, tell Yeonjun I said hello?"
Yeonjun does not need to be told hello. Hanbin sees Yeonjun every week when he comes with his girlfriend for a coffee date, sitting at the same table near the window. The consequence of living in a small town, Yeonjun will most certainly be hearing about this in the form of many loud complaints from his grandmother, and Yeonjun, subsequently, will almost undeniably be giving Hanbin shit about it until the day that he dies.
Hao presses his hand to his mouth, his own cheeks flushed red as he tries to stifle his giggles until Mrs. Choi is certainly out of earshot. As soon as she is, Hanbin finally lets go of the breath he’s been holding, practically collapsing into Hao with a groan. Hao lets himself laugh out loud, the sound almost echoing through the otherwise silent street. It settles into something quieter as it fades, wrapping his arms around Hanbin’s neck, returning to the position they were in before they were interrupted. Hanbin brings his arms back to circle round Hao’s waist, very obviously eyeing his lips and the way they pout at him. “Come up for a bit?” Hao says, his voice as quiet as an autumn leaf drifting to the ground.
Hanbin’s grip tightens around his hips, and he thinks he’s never felt anything as close to desire as this before. He swallows hard, eyes still hungrily watching Hao’s lips. “I have to get up early tomorrow…” he mutters, trying to act the least bit nonchalant, trying not to seem too overeager, but even he doesn’t really believe it.
Hao seems to know this, knows he’s already gotten what he’s wanted, but he plays along, gleefully toying with Hanbin like he always does. “You will, don’t worry,” Hao murmurs. “I’ll make sure you sleep well tonight.”
Hanbin nods, not needing much more persuading. Hao takes his hand in his and leads Hanbin up to his apartment.
The placid light from the streetlamp outside alights the otherwise pitch blackness of Hao’s room, a subdued glow the only source of light. It filters through the window and stretches over the breadth of Hao’s face when he bares himself to Hanbin, getting on his knees with his eyes staring up at him, wide open and expectant even in the dark. Hanbin reaches for him, cups a hand in his cheek, his thumb tracing the plush expanse of Hao’s bottom lip. When it slightly recoils after he pulls his thumb from it, Hanbin inhales sharply, his eyes dripping with something much heavier than want. “Your lips are so pretty,” he murmurs, pushing his thumb down onto Hao’s lip.
When he brings his gaze back to Hao, he can see the same look mirrored in his eyes as well. They’re heavy now, lids pulled down by desire as they fixate on Hanbin. “Did you think about them?” he whispers, his eyes closing at the feeling of his fingers tracing over his mouth. “I bet you did.” He lets his mouth fall open, taking Hanbin’s thumb lazily into his mouth. At the sight of it, there’s a feeling that pools in Hanbin’s gut. There’s a mild, strangled noise that leaves him, one that only grows more insistent when Hao takes him further, making a great show out of swirling his tongue around Hanbin’s finger.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” Hanbin mumbles, biting down on his own bottom lip.
Hao only blinks up at him innocently, pulling off so he can angle his mouth to press a kiss to Hanbin’s wrist, then the palm of his hand. “Am I doing something wrong?” He leans in closer, his face dangerously close to where Hanbin has grown half-hard beneath his briefs. Hanbin merely shakes his head before letting his eyes flutter shut when he feels Hao’s hands trace over the fabric, gasping out loud only when his fingers finally touch skin. “I could tell how badly you wanted me,” he murmurs, a spit-slicked hand on Hanbin. “I could see it every time I came in.” He strokes a little harder, more insistently, eyes still watching him. “I was waiting for you to see how much I wanted you, too.” He pouts a little, like he knows that Hanbin’s eyes are still staring, unwavering, at the plumpness of his lips. “I wanted you to think about me all the time. Did you?”
He laps at the tip of Hanbin’s cock before spitting on the tip, swirling his tongue around it languidly. “Fuck,” Hanbin barely manages to choke out. “Of course I did, Hao…how could I not?”
Hao keeps stroking him, but the pout on his lips only grows more pronounced. “How? Tell me.” A slight twist of his wrist that feels like a punch to Hanbin’s gut. “What did we do?” A ragged breath. “I know you thought about it. I could tell by the way you watched me.” There’s the insinuation of something improper behind his words, like he knows where Hanbin’s thoughts had wandered more than a few times.
Hanbin, feeling significantly caught, is at a loss for words. “I didn’t–”
“You did,” Hao insists, something devilish in his eyes, sharp delight lining them. “Tell me.” Hao leans forwards, licking a stripe up the shaft of Hanbin’s cock. “Did you think about me sucking you off like this?”
Hanbin has to gather himself, at least so he doesn’t cum right then and there. “Yeah,” he murmurs, slightly gritting his teeth and letting out a slow exhale. After getting at least some of his bearings, he reaches down to cup Hao’s chin in his hand, tilting his face up to see him better. “All the time.”
Hao hums, pleased. “All the time?” Slowly, he takes Hanbin into his mouth. Hanbin’s head falls back with a groan as he feels Hao swallow him down, almost to the back of his throat, before pulling off with a pop. He brings a hand back to his cock, stroking him again. “Was I good?”
Hanbin can only moan in response, a hand finding Hao’s hair and giving it a slight tug. He’s fully hard now, a realization that seems to delight Hao. “Fuck, you’re so big,” he whispers, eyes still watching every reaction from Hanbin as he takes him in his mouth again, this time bobbing his head, as if testing the waters. Then, once he finally adjusts to his size, he picks up his pace, relaxing his throat to swallow Hanbin down further, bobbing his head faster. His eyes water as Hanbin hits the back of his throat each time, his hand keeping a steady grip on Hao’s hair.
“God, Hao…” he groans. “Just like that…”
Hao readily obliges, sloppily swallowing him down over and over under saliva starts dripping down his chin. He hardly notices when he pulls off, only focused on Hanbin and the way he watches him hungrily, like he wants to consume every part of him lest he die of starvation. “You like that?” he murmurs. “Feels good?” He’s stroking Hanbin languidly, expectantly, like he’s not fully aware of the answer.
Rather than give Hao an answer, Hanbin fully gives in, succumbs to Hao’s demands for him to fulfill his pleasures and desires, more than willing to give Hao what he wants. He finds that in the process, it only stokes his own yearning, the simmering ache for Hao that he can hardly satiate. There’s a moment when Hanbin can barely take it any longer and brings Hao up to the bed, peeling off the remainder of his clothes. Languidly, purposefully, he opens him up, slender fingers exploring the depths of him like he has all the time in the world. Hao whines loudly, complains that he’s taking too long, that it’s almost too much. But Hanbin keeps taking his time, leisurely stretching him to his limit, watching Hao’s face intently whenever he curls his fingers at exactly the right angle. When he finally presses Hao deep into the mattress, every thrust evokes a high-pitched moan, increasing in volume with every rough snap of his hips. Hanbin revels in it, tries to calm the stirring beneath his chest every time he hears it – a breathy whine tinged with a roughness, like Hao wants so much more than what Hanbin is giving him that it frustrates him. Hanbin likes watching Hao’s face, likes seeing the way it twists with pleasure, the way his mouth falls open with every movement, how he bites down on his bottom lip when Hanbin touches him. He relishes in the way Hao looks at him, almost like he’s mad at him, like he wants to devour him, like he wants him so badly it burns through him like fury.
Most of all, Hanbin likes Hao’s mouth and the sounds that come from it, the words that he hisses at him while he throws his entire weight behind thrusting into him. They’re not nice, not very kind, and certainly not sweet. They’re vulgar, full of expletives and filthy names directed both at Hanbin and himself, but they spur Hanbin on further, rile him up until he’s taking it out on Hao who only delights in it. They’re not quiet either, not whispered into Hanbin’s ear – he says them with his chest, all while looking Hanbin straight in the eye until Hanbin rolls his hips in a way that cuts off his words mid-sentence and makes his eyes roll back. He stays that way as Hanbin keeps grinding into him, fucks into him insistently until they both find their release, vicious whines piercing through the darkness of Hao’s room. Hao arches his back while still clinging onto Hanbin, fingers dragging down his back and down the side of his ribs. A long, choked moan escapes him, unapologetically noisy like he doesn’t have a single care about who hears him. Hanbin’s eyes watch him as he comes down from it, chest rising and falling, panting out every breath. He watches the way he smiles, finally satisfied, licking his lips like he’s just finished a decadent meal.
Afterwards, after they finally catch their breaths, Hao looks up from where he’s lying on Hanbin’s chest. “When was the last time you slept with someone?”
Hanbin peers down at him, raising an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I’m just curious.”
Hanbin considers this, trying to think back of the last hookup he had. “Maybe four months ago or something.” It was during a trip back to New York – an old flame he hadn’t seen in awhile who was up for something noncommittal and fun. They’d hooked up a few times before, but it never evolved into anything serious.
“Was it good?”
Hanbin sits up a little, moving to prop his head up on his hand, his elbow resting on the pillow. He waffles, hesitating, and it’s obvious. “It was okay.”
“Liar.”
Hanbin laughs lightly, reaching over to brush a hand through Hao’s hair. “What would you rather I say then?”
“That I was better.” He looks up at Hanbin, lightly tracing a nondescript pattern on his chest. “That you can’t even remember anymore because you can only think of me.”
Hanbin hums, fingers lingering on Hao’s cheek. “Possessive.” He says it like an observation.
Hao nods. “Does it bother you?”
“No.” Hanbin brushes a stray lock of hair out of Hao’s eyes. “I’m possessive, too.”
Hao lets the beginnings of a smile spread across his face, but before it can completely flourish, he hides it in Hanbin’s chest. Hanbin lets out a surprised laugh and tries to coax him back to the surface. “Hao!” he calls after him. “What’s the matter?”
When Hao resurfaces, his cheeks are flushed pink. “I’m–” he lets out a bit of a sheepish laugh. “I’m not usually like this. I feel like I’m going a little crazy. Like I am crazy.”
Hanbin grins down at him, pulls him closer, right against his chest. “Maybe I’m a little crazy, too.”
There’s a flash of something behind Hao’s eyes at the sound of Hanbin’s words. He tilts his chin up, eyes expectant. Hanbin leans down to press their lips together. As he deepens the kiss, he leans over to press Hao back into the mattress. Hao lets him, once again allows Hanbin to unravel him, noisily, as the evening wanes into the early hours of the morning.
After their last round, after Hanbin has long lost count, Hao makes good on his promise – the last thing Hanbin remembers is curling up next to Hao, pulling him against his chest to hold him close before he allows himself to be taken by a deep slumber.
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
The next morning, Hanbin still manages to wake up before his alarm. The place on the bed next to him is empty, but there’s a clattering not far off in the kitchen, the smell of toast and bacon wafting into the room. He’s reminded that he’s not in his own bedroom, but Hao’s. As he sits up, blinking sleep out of his eyes, he notices the items that Hao’s filled his room with. It’s tidy, but still with a considerable amount of clutter. There’s sheet music scattered across his desk in the corner, notebooks stacked atop each other in no particular order. There are a few posters of singers and bands and movies Hanbin recognizes and doesn’t. Framed photos showing Hao smiling with friends and family. It feels oddly intimate, to be in the place that Hao calls home while he’s at Etienne.
Groggily, he finds his briefs and the spare shirt Hao threw at him blindly the night before. As he pulls it over his head, he looks down to see his chest littered with marks, though it seems like his neck came out unscathed. Still weighed down by sleep, he makes his way into the kitchen, roughly running a hand through his hair. There’s a part of him that worries that the daylight will suddenly reset a clock between them, like Hao will see him and suddenly realize that the night before was a mistake. But instead, he hears Hao humming something to himself, murmuring out loud a song in what sounds like Mandarin to Hanbin’s uninitiated ears. He seems to be smiling to himself. Hanbin sees that there are two plates set out and two mugs of coffee set out on the kitchen table.
Silently, a sigh of relief. He comes up behind Hao, wrapping his arms around his middle and buries his face in the crook of Hao’s neck. Hao lets out a small whine at the feeling of the new presence in the kitchen, a little laugh accompanying it. “Hanbin,” he murmurs. “I’m making breakfast.”
“What for?” His voice is still scratchy from the early hour. “I could’ve done that.”
Hao tuts, continuing to butter a piece of toast. “You bring me stuff all day long. Let me at least do this. And stop distracting me.”
Hanbin presses up against Hao a little closer, nuzzling his nose under Hao’s ear. “But you look so nice.” A hand sneaks under the hem of Hao’s shirt (his shirt, he realizes) to lightly graze the skin right above his hips.
Hao scoffs, buttering the toast with a little more force. “I just woke up.”
“And you look very sexy in the morning.” Hanbin nips at Hao’s earlobe, earning him another whine of complaint.
Hao abandons the butter knife and plate of toast, setting both aside to turn in Hanbin’s arms. Though Hanbin has him crowded up against the counter so his back is slightly arched up against it, he still presses a hand against Hanbin’s chest, fixing him with a playful glare. “You’re going to make me late for class if you keep this up.”
This doesn’t deter Hanbin, who leans in to press several soft, small kisses to Hao’s cheeks and down his jaw. “Oh?” he mutters, feigning ignorance. “What are we learning today?”
Hao’s eyes flutter closed at the feeling of the kisses gently peppering his face, his hands splaying over Hanbin’s chest as he gets pulled in closer. “Teaching,” he corrects. “It’s the Music Theory class I TA for.”
Hanbin rests his hands on Hao’s hips, pulling back to look at him. “Hot,” he says, a cheeky grin on his face. “What do you wear when you teach, Professor Zhang?”
Hao rolls his eyes at him. “I’m not a professor yet.” He’s successfully fighting back a smile of his own. But, feeling generous, he indulges Hanbin this once. “Just a sweater and trousers usually.”
“Glasses?”
“Obviously. I need to see.” He turns back to the toast, setting the slices on the plates in front of him.
Hanbin grins, satisfied by that answer. He presses closer, the hardness of the morning taut against Hao’s backside and tightens his grip on Hao’s hips. “Yum.”
Hao lets out an embarrassed scoff at that, this time unable to hide the rush of deep crimson that starts to flush over his cheeks, both at Hanbin’s words and the obvious evidence of his arousal.
“What?” Hanbin goes on, enjoying the reaction far too much. “It’s so unfair that a bunch of undergrads get to see you being a sexy teaching assistant and I don’t.”
Hao rolls his eyes. “What, you want me to roleplay it for you?” Hanbin raises an eyebrow, clearly interested. “I was kidding.”
Hanbin juts out a lower lip, tilting his head. “Unless?”
Hao’s eyes sparkle with something mischievous as he looks back at Hanbin over his shoulder. “Maybe if you’re good.”
Hanbin grins, deciding he’s won, and leans in, mouthing at Hao’s neck. It’s his favorite spot, he’s decided. All night long, he gnawed at and grazed his teeth down the expanse of Hao’s throat, delighted at the whines and whimpers it prompted from him. He’s hearing them now as he nips at the spot under Hao’s jaw, feeling the way Hao starts to grind back into him. “I’m always good,” he murmurs. “You know that.”
That seems to trigger something in Hao, though he likely won’t ever admit it to Hanbin, preferring to have even the facade of the upper hand in the little game they both like to play. But, Hanbin knows he’s won this round, knows it in the way Hao turns around in his arms to pull him closer, keeping his face close to his when he arches up against him. His eyes fixate on Hanbin when Hanbin crowds him up against the counter to thrust up against him, feeling Hao’s growing hardness through the thin layers of fabric between them.
Hao has that same look in his eyes, like he wants to consume Hanbin whole, as Hanbin keeps grinding into him, eliciting moans from Hao that get increasingly louder. He eggs Hanbin on, murmuring against his mouth between whines and groans. “You want me so bad, don’t you, baby?” he whispers roughly, prompting Hanbin to moan with a ragged gasp, giving rise to a thrust so hard that it slightly hikes him up against the counter.
“Fuck,” Hanbin hisses. “You feel so good…” His hands roam beneath Hao’s shirt, his fingers digging into the skin at his side. Hao’s head falls back at the feeling of it, arching his back violently to roll his hips even harder into Hanbin. It’s overwhelming, almost too much. Hanbin can’t believe they’re so far gone from just this, grinding into each other desperately, like every touch sets their skin on fire.
Feeling greedy, Hanbin reaches down to pull Hao out of his boxers, stroking him with a spit slicked hand. They moan loudly together, beyond just teasing now. Hanbin lets go of them to pull down his own briefs and thrust against Hao insistently, sliding them against each other. Hao clings to his shoulders, letting out a whimpered moan, melting in Hanbin’s arms. He loves saying Hanbin’s name, loves telling him how good he feels, loves to keep riling him up until they're both clawing at each other, rushing to discard the remainder of their clothes.
Irrespective of the time, Hao lets Hanbin bend him over the kitchen counter for the next hour. Hao complains loudly after when they’re cleaning up, admonishing Hanbin for lining his neck with hickies, almost like they’re a succession of notes on sheet music. Hanbin merely leaves another on him, right at his clavicle, for good measure.
“Imagine how much sexier it would've been if you wore your glasses,” Hanbin mutters later, when he walks with Hao towards the music building.
Hao rolls his eyes at him, seemingly unmoved, and says nothing in response.
(There’s a murmur around the Music Department later that morning – about how Zhang Hao, renowned Music Composition graduate student, normally extremely punctual and put together, burst into his TA section 10 minutes late, looking flustered and somewhat disheveled, his lips swollen red like they'd been just bitten. Known to be horribly rigid during his sections, the students thought he would be more prickly about it, but strangely, everyone found that it was one of his best classes, noting that much of it was due to his uncharacteristically chipper mood. Even more strange, he kept his scarf on the whole class, wrapped around his neck, even when the heat was on in the classroom.)
As soon as Hanbin arrives at the cafe, a little before opening, he's greeted by Gyuvin, who's wearing a smile that's much too excited for the early hour. "Well, well, well," he says. "Look who it is." He's eating a bagel that Matthew pulled out of the oven. It has far too much cream cheese on it. "Done terrorizing the elderly of the neighborhood? Scandalizing the poor, innocent people of our town?"
Hanbin, who just spent the last twenty minutes kissing Hao breathless outside of the music building, effectively making him late for his lecture, is far too happy for a quip, too content to even notice the dig, and merely grins in response before disappearing into the kitchen.
“Wow,” Gyuvin remarks, moderately shocked. “Guess someone finally got laid.”
Hanbin pops his head back through the curtain. “You’re fired for that one, by the way.” Nevertheless, he disappears back into the kitchen, loudly humming a tune to himself.
Gyuvin rolls his eyes with a scoff before finishing off his bagel.
Later, right when Hanbin gets home, he gets a text from Hao wishing him goodnight. He smiles, but it only grows wider at the text after – a photo of Hao wearing his glasses and not much else.
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
In the weeks that follow, there’s a stirring amongst the town, gossip floating through the town channels – that Sung Hanbin, the young owner of the cafe at the end of Dupont Street, the grandson of the late Mr. Han, started seeing the tall and handsome graduate student from Etienne who used to play Christmas songs on the violin in the college quad in December. Through the grapevine, the rumor spreading around town is that Mrs. Choi caught them kissing right outside her doorstep, entirely all over each other (which was incredibly improper, if you asked her). Then, from Mrs. Vogel, the owner of the salon down the block – one of her clients saw them holding hands one evening after the cafe had closed while they walked down the street towards the Adams Avenue apartments, shoulders bumping together with how close they were as they made their way down the sidewalk, stopping into Wayne’s Grocery for a bottle of wine. Then Miss Lee, whose niece went to Etienne, even said Hanbin was seen at one of the music department recitals to watch a performance of one of Hao’s compositions, seated in the back with one of the employees from the bakery, a bouquet of flowers laid across his lap. All through the town, reported sightings of Hanbin and Hao – taking strolls by the lake, splitting a scone on a park bench, walking just near the music building with wired earphones shared between them – something curious simmering.
It’s not like the rumors are untrue. They see each other quite regularly now, mostly in each other's company. Hanbin finds his days include Hao more often than not. His favorite moments are when Hao lingers at the door when he doesn’t have any classes in the evenings, and he’d wait for Hanbin to close the cafe before Hanbin would walk him home. Some nights, most nights, Hanbin would come up to Hao’s apartment where he’d kiss him for hours on end, mapping out every inch of his skin with his hands.
They have sex, a lot of it. There are days when Hanbin would appear on Hao’s doorstep and they'd hurriedly rush through the door of his apartment, sometimes not making it to his bedroom. More than once, Hanbin has taken him on the floor of his living room, much too frantic to bother finding the couch. One weekend, Hao calls him late at night when he's out of town for an academic conference. When Hanbin finally answers, he talks to him in a husky breath, tells him what he's doing in the solitude of his hotel room, how he can't stop thinking of him, how he misses him and needs him. Hanbin talks him through it, murmuring encouragement, desire, how he needs to see Hao as soon as he returns. Hao sends him a number of suggestive photos – some more than suggestive – to tide him over until they see each other next, but Hanbin finds that it's still not as good as the real thing, something Hao is delighted to hear. They never do it in the cafe, a much too sacred space, but one time, after an entire evening of trading heated looks and shamelessly flirtatious touches, with Hao even going so far as to lick a bit of sugar off his own finger with his eyes on Hanbin, Hanbin spreads Hao out on the backseat of his car, parked right behind the cafe, railing into him hard until the windows fog up.
“But are they together?” everyone would whisper. It was the subject of great speculation, one that was quite literally the talk of the town. There probably hadn’t been this much excitement since two longtime shop owners announced their marriage to each other four years prior. Everyone wanted to know and everyone was asking.
Hanbin didn’t know the answer. Truthfully, he never thought to ask. It’s not that it never crossed his mind, but it wasn’t something that ever felt like the right time to bring up, and Hanbin was never one known for his excellent timing or intuition.
But Hanbin can already tell that Hao is getting restless. It’s not that he has an uncanny intuition, it’s that Hao doesn’t miss any opportunity to subtly remind him whenever he’s there. Unfortunately for Hanbin, however, he never was particularly good at taking hints or solving riddles. Even Gyuvin and Matthew keep badgering him, but Hanbin, for the life of him, doesn’t seem to understand what everyone is getting at.
“What are you showing me, Gyuvin?” he murmurs absently, a bit distracted by the cake he’s mixing.
Gyuvin, aghast, desperately tries to shove his phone screen in Hanbin’s face. “Ten. Date. Ideas.”
Hanbin raises an eyebrow. “Are you seeing someone?” The mixer whirs loudly. “Is it that guy you keep talking about? What’s his name again? Ricky?”
Gyuvin, taken aback, stutters loudly. “What, no-” He drags a hand over his face, grumbling loudly. “This isn’t for me, it’s for you.”
Hanbin, perplexed, keeps mixing his cake. “What would I need that for?”
Gyuvin lets out a yell. It’s loud, louder than he usually is, and it startles Hanbin so much that he jumps slightly. “Matthew!” he exclaims. “I can’t with him! I just can’t!” He disappears back into the cafe, muttering under his breath.
Hanbin pauses, looking at Matthew, eyebrows raised. “What’s with him?”
But Matthew just shakes his head in disappointment, trailing after Gyuvin with a sigh.
Finally, Hao, tired of listlessly beating around the subject, tired of everyone trying to facilitate the situation, tries to take a more direct approach.
“You haven’t asked me yet.”
It’s a random afternoon, and the cafe is full with a number of customers filling the tables. Hanbin is collecting Hao's empty glass after they've been chatting for some time, the ice still melting in it. He holds it up, clueless. “If you wanted another coffee? I’m about to bring it out right now.”
(“How come Hao always gets free coffee?” Gunwook complains under his breath.)
“No, not the coffee Hanbin.” He leans a little closer. “About us.”
“What about us?”
It seems to be the wrong thing to say, maybe the worst thing, since it makes Hao’s eyes narrow at him, his mouth turning downwards into a displeased pout. “Forget it. Forget I said anything.”
“Hao–”
“I’m working on something.” He turns back to his notebook in front of him, clearly seething over something unknown to Hanbin.
Confused, he stands there gaping at Hao, the glass still in his hand. He stares at the ice melting in the remnants of the coffee, like they’ll reveal an answer to him like tea leaves. But as it happens, there’s nothing there. He swallows hard before reluctantly turning to head back into the kitchen, still wracking his brain. When he’s two steps away from the partition, a thought suddenly occurs to him. He stops, squeezing his eyes shut when it all becomes clear. “Fuck,” he mumbles to himself before turning around again, making a beeline straight for Hao’s corner table. Hao’s corner table, he thinks – as if Hao commandeering the corner table in the cafe for the past few months have deemed him a tenant in their little shop, a fixture now as permanent as the sconces lining the walls. “I’m sorry,” he says, returning back to Hao’s table. “I’m an idiot. As you know.”
Hao looks up at him, his mouth still fixed in a firm line. He doesn’t respond.
Hanbin swallows hard, trying to gulp down the embarrassment stuck in his throat. “A big one. The worst. Probably the biggest one in the country.” He bites his lip. “I can tell you all about it over dinner, though. If you want.” At some point, maybe in the five seconds that he spent walking back to the kitchen, Hanbin realized there was no such thing as a perfect moment. There would be no optimal scenario that would present itself, allowing him all of the ideal conditions to ask Hao on a date. There was only that moment and only now.
“Ah.” There’s a steady silence that seeps between them. The only sound heard is the light tinkle of the bell as customers start to trickle in.
It’s a sound of disappointment, but it doesn’t seem to be one about the proposal, but more so that both of them know that the only reputable dinner date options around town without having to go to Boston are between a dingy little pizza parlour that’s frequently run down by teens and undergrads and an Italian restaurant that has a suspicious looking fettuccine alfredo. There are a number of take out options, but nothing that exactly screams wine and dine.
“I can make us something,” Hanbin suggests. “I don’t just bake stuff, you know.”
Hao’s eyes flit up to him, wafting over his face. “Oh,” he says, quietly. “Like a date?” It’s clear that he’s fully aware that Hanbin is asking him out, but almost like he’s determined to make Hanbin work a little harder, he seeks the clarification anyway.
As if summoned by a magic spell, Gyuvin pops up behind the counter a distance away, now suddenly riveted by and completely tuned in to their conversation. In a silent movement, he corrals Matthew from the kitchen to stand next to him, if only to make sure he has another eyewitness for what he’s observing and undoubtedly eavesdropping on, which is apparently Hanbin finally getting a clue. The rest of the cafe seems to start eavesdropping, now tuned in to the Grammy Awards of small town entertainment, This all goes on behind Hanbin, none the wiser.
Hanbin contemplates his answer, chews on his bottom lip. He decides to be brave. “Yes,” he replies. “Like a date.”
“Hm.” Hao leans forward, his chin resting atop two folded hands. “A date sounds nice.”
“So would you like to?”
Everyone in the cafe seems to be eavesdropping now with Gyuvin and Matthew. It’s like they’re all holding their breath, awaiting Hao’s answer. Hanbin is, too.
A smile from Hao, like he knows he’s toying with Hanbin. “I would.”
A collective exhale is somehow heard throughout the room as everyone returns to barely minding their own business.
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
The evening of their dinner, Hanbin is panicking slightly. There’s no head chef yelling at him, barking orders, but there’s a weight on him that’s so immense, that he thinks he’d almost prefer it if there was. The menu isn’t anything complicated – a radicchio salad tossed in vinaigrette, ricotta gnocchi with a creamy mushroom sauce and garlic bread on the side, finished with a coffee crunch cake that would eventually be covered in a whipped cream frosting topped with a honeycomb textured coffee candy on all sides. Everything is coming out fine. Yet, Hanbin is somehow still standing in the middle of the kitchen, fretting over nothing. The table has already been set, a cream tablecloth over it with a bouquet of flowers set in the middle. Each plate has been placed neatly with the appropriate utensils next to them.
“What am I doing?” he says to no one.
It’s not that Hanbin’s never had a guest over at the house. There were many dinner parties, and a number of visitors who were gracious enough to give Hanbin their time and company. His parents were frequent guests, eager to help him maintain the house and visit the cafe. His sister as well, sometimes with friends, sometimes a boyfriend. But this was different. Hao certainly wasn’t just any visitor, and it felt important to Hanbin that everything went exactly right.
He’s fretting about the bouquet, when the sound of the doorbell ringing makes him jump slightly. Shaking his head slightly, like he’s a bit embarrassed that he jumped at all, he gathers himself and takes a measured breath.
When opens the door, he sees Hao on the other side of it. The sun has barely set, and the sky is still burning orange as dusk settles in. Hao’s wearing a coat, one a bit nicer than his puffy one, with a scarf wrapped around his neck to shield him from the chill. “Hi,” he says with a smile, holding out a bottle of wine to Hanbin. “I’m a bit early.”
Hanbin takes it from him with a smile of his own. “That’s alright,” he says. “Come inside. I’m just finishing the cake.” Hanbin contemplates greeting him with a kiss, but at the last minute, changes his mind, convincing himself that the right moment has already passed. He kicks himself slightly, wishing he could turn back time, but tries not to dwell on it as he steps aside to allow Hao in.
As Hao shuffles into the house, he gapes at him while he peels off his outerwear, first the scarf and then his coat. “You made a cake?” Hanbin helps him shrug off his coat before taking it to hang on the coatrack by the door. “You didn’t have to make a cake for me.”
“Well, I wasn’t going to get a cake from another bakery. Imagine how embarrassing that would be.” Hanbin holds up the wine bottle, observing it. “Thanks for this, by the way. We should open it.” He trails back into the kitchen, loudly rummaging around for a bottle opener. “Make yourself at home,” he calls out.
Hao hums at that, his eyes drifting to observe the house around him. “Did you grow up here?” He walks from the foyer into the living room, family photos littered all around the walls and shelves. Aside from a bit of organizing and maintenance, the living room remained largely unchanged from when Hanbin’s grandparents lived in the house. Everything else went through a bit of remodeling, at least to make sure the house was still standing. Hanbin had made the master bedroom, the one room that was largely unused in his childhood, his own and progressively moved all of his things into the house. His own knickknacks lined the shelves, intertwined with other family items and memorabilia. The other rooms were more or less guest rooms, saved for when his parents or his sister came to visit.
“Sort of,” Hanbin says when he reappears in the living room. He hands Hao a glass before clinking it lightly against his own. “I spent summers here. With my grandparents. My grandfather owned the cafe. It used to be only a bakery, though.”
Hao’s eyes sparkle at that, roving over the frames atop the fireplace. He sees one of a stony faced teenager wearing a school uniform, his shirt buttoned up to the neck with a tie hanging right below it, face slightly rounder than its present variation. “Is this you?”
Hanbin winces a little. “Ah, yeah. In high school.” He runs a hand through his hair a little self-consciously as he stares at his past bowlcut.
“That’s so cute,” Hao says with an excited murmur. “That’s so nice that they kept all these.” He looks over at Hanbin. “Seems like this was a place that was like home.”
Hanbin nods, finding that strangely, he likes the sound of that. “What about you? He takes a small sip from his glass. “Where do you call home these days?”
Hao taps the side of his glass. “I don’t know,” he says. “I guess China. But sometimes it feels like I can hardly remember it. Or I wonder if I’m remembering it differently, and when I go back it’s not how I remembered it at all. Places seem to blend together these days.”
“What about here? Aneth? Would you call it home?” Hanbin tilts his head. “I guess it’s someplace more temporary since you’re only studying here.”
Hao looks at him for a long moment, as if studying all of the features on his face. “I used to think that. Now I’m not so sure.”
“Hm? Why not?”
“It feels different now,” he says, eyes leaving Hanbin’s to drift over the photo frames again. “Like I can make something here. At the college or…” He trails off at the end. Hanbin doesn’t pry. “Anyway, I think home is such a small word.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, it doesn’t even encompass everything that home is. What is home? Somewhere to rest? Somewhere we feel safe? Somewhere we come back to?” He sighs. “All of those things have different meanings to me. You know, in other languages, like ones with characters – sometimes the character for home makes other words, like ‘country’ or ‘family’.” He brings his glass back to his lips. “We always envision home as a house or a place. Something physical. I always think it’s something that’s only a part. Like, of something bigger.”
Hanbin smiles wistfully. “Are you sure you’re a musician? Sounds like you could be a poet.”
Hao scoffs. “All artists are poets, one way or the other.” He tilts his head. “You don’t see yourself that way?”
Hanbin shrugs. “I guess I do, to an extent.” He says, thinking it over. “I think everything has a taste. Every experience. Whether you’re sad or happy. Excited. I think you can make that translate into a meal.”
“I think the same way. About sounds and music. Everything sounds like something. That’s the great thing about making things, isn’t it? Knowing someone out there might experience your art and what you've put out as a feeling and feel it the same way you do.” Hao hums. “Isn’t that poetry? Aren’t you a poet, too?”
Hanbin returns the question with a sheepish look. He realizes suddenly that his nervousness has more or less melted in Hao’s presence. “I guess so.”
After dinner, Hao wanders back into the living room while Hanbin finishes icing the cake. There’s a piano in the corner, one that doesn’t seem to have been played for some time. Gingerly, he lifts the cover and presses the keys, tinkling a slow tune with practiced fingers, wrought with experience. Hanbin drifts back into the room, two plates of cake in hand. He sets them down on the coffee table near the piano and comes to sit next to Hao. “I didn’t know you could play,” he says.
Hao startles slightly. “Sorry,” he says, slightly abashed. “I should’ve asked, but I couldn’t resist.”
Hanbin shakes his head. “No, please go on,” he says. “No one’s played it in years. My sister learned some, but she says she lost it.” He watches Hao’s hands as they meticulously skim over the keys. “I thought your thing was violin.”
Hao smiles, almost like he knows a secret. “It is,” he says. “But it helps with composition if you know how to play multiple things.” Then, cautiously. “Whose piano is this?”
“My grandmother’s,” Hanbin answers. “She would always play for us. My mom knew how to play, too. Didn’t really catch on for me, though.” A shared smile between them. “Play me something?”
“What do you want to hear?”
“Anything.”
“Really narrows it down, don’t you think?”
Hanbin laughs, his eyes crinkling. “Alright, fine. How about–” he pauses, thinking. “You said everything has a sound, right?” Hao nods, a confirmation. “Play what I sound like to you. Something that sounds like me.”
Hao is quiet as he considers that, but there’s something lingering beneath the silence. Wordlessly, he turns back to the piano and begins to play. The first notes are gentle, soft, like they’re caressing Hanbin as they pull him through a dream. They seem apt for the evening, conjuring images of a moonlit stroll. It’s evocative of something nostalgic, as if the song is willing Hanbin to remember a feeling he can’t yet name. But then, there’s a moment when it progresses and the song seems to build, seems to get louder, notes rising and falling with a speed, almost like a frenzy. The notes almost impose on him, the way they increase in volume and in frequency. They keep building and building, overlapping over each other like they’re two birds racing through the air at top speed. A push and pull, like a chase, like he wants to break out into a full sprint. Then, they slow, descending into something more serene, a free fall as light as a feather. Tender notes kindling contemplation, like the song has found its breath again after trying to catch it.
At the final note, Hao can’t seem to look at Hanbin.
Hanbin releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding and doesn’t realize his eyes are wet. He stares at Hao, unable to reconcile with the fact that he has played him a beautiful piece of music and associated it with him. Beautiful seems too frail of a word. He doesn’t know if a mere word could even encapsulate whatever flows through him, reaching his eyelids, to the tip of his lashes.
“That was–” He can’t find the word. He swallows hard, his heart hammering against the inside of his chest. “What was that?”
“Liebestraum No. 3 by Franz Liszt.”
“What’s that mean?” he asks, a whisper.
Hao lifts his eyes. “Dreams of Love.”
Hanbin inhales sharply, his eyes unable to leave Hao’s. They’re so close he can count the moles on Hao’s face and finds that he’d like to memorize them, like everything else about Hao. Struck by something that feels important, he leans in and presses his mouth firmly to Hao’s, catching his lips in a kiss.
Without hesitating, Hao kisses him back immediately, insistently, reaching out to grasp the front of Hanbin’s shirt. Initially slow, their kisses evolve into something more urgent, hurried and desperate. Hao grips harder at Hanbin’s shirt, pulling him impossibly close while he licks into his mouth, wordlessly demanding more. There’s a discordant noise from the piano when Hanbin’s hand comes down on it to adjust himself, a clattering of frantic notes coming from the keys. Then, suddenly, Hao pulls away abruptly, wrenching himself from Hanbin. “We can’t,” he says, panting hard. “We can’t.”
“Why not?” Hanbin is watching him, confused and a little alarmed with heavy breaths of his own.
“We’re in your grandparents’ house.” He whispers it like he’s horrified, like at any moment, Hanbin’s grandmother will come into the room to scold them.
Hanbin stares at him, unsure of how to respond at first. “Hao, I don’t know how to tell you this, but they’re not coming back anytime soon. Or at all, really.”
Hao lets out a sound, batting his chest lightly. “That’s not funny!” Hanbin laughs anyway. “I mean it, I don’t want to like–” He waves a hand, reaching for the word. “Defile their memory.”
Hanbin’s gaze softens. “I don’t think we’re doing that, Hao.” He reaches out to stroke Hao’s cheek lightly. “And anyway, I think they’d want us to be happy.”
Hao is quiet at that. “Do you think they’d like me?”
“Well, I would’ve said yes, but–”
“But what?”
“Well, ever since you brought up defiling their memories, I don’t think they’d appreciate you having horny little thoughts in front of their piano.”
Hao glares at him, smacking his shoulder. Hanbin puts on a feigned show of pain, wincing like it hurts. When Hao keeps glaring at him, he laughs loudly once before letting it simmer into a silent smile. “I think they would’ve loved you, Hao,” he says.
“You mean that?”
“Well, we could do a seance–”
Hao pinches him, this time at his side, with an unamused look. Hanbin reverts back into a fit of giggles, taking Hao’s face in both of his hands and peppering it with kisses over the sounds of Hao’s protests.
Eventually, he gives in when Hanbin finds his lips again. They pick up where they left off, Hao parting his lips for Hanbin to lick into his mouth, their kisses deepening with rough gasps traded between them. Slowly, they make their way up to Hanbin’s bedroom, where Hao begs Hanbin to give everything to him, to please him, maybe even to love him. Hanbin, in turn, gives into him easily, since everything with Hao was always easy. It's like they're two sides of the same coin, two reflections of each other while still being wholly their own.
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
“Do you think he’ll stay?”
Matthew and Hanbin are sitting at one of the tables long after they’ve closed. It’s a small celebration, one to toast another year of the cafe being open, a bottle of peach lambic at the center of the table with the remains of a pizza Hanbin made after the last customer left. They’ve already had three glasses between them and Hanbin’s cheeks are tinged a light pink.
Hanbin doesn’t need to ask who he means. “I don’t know,” he answers, honest. “I hope so.” He fills up their glasses again. “You don’t think he would?”
Matthew shrugs, taking a sip once it’s full. “Most people leave.”
“You stayed.”
Matthew sighs, somewhat muted. “I wanted this place, though,” he says. “I sought out this town. Who knows if it’s the same for him?” Hanbin knows he doesn’t mean it in a way that’s meant to be contrarian, or even distasteful. He says it matter-of-factly as he always does, seeing things as they are.
But Hanbin has never been one to be practical, and merely hums unenthusiastically at the thought. He polishes off his glass before refilling it again. “Yeah, who knows.”
After they’ve finished the first bottle and then a second, finally making their way through a third, they both wobble out of the cafe to head home. Matthew piles into an Uber, but Hanbin, waving off Matthew’s inquiries, insists that he’ll walk home. It’s a Thursday evening and while it’s late, the streets are still scattered with undergrads and townspeople, piling into the bars on nearby Main Street for a night out. Hanbin remembers that he’s meant to head home, but as his feet place themselves one foot in front of the other, he finds himself walking towards Hao’s building. When he gets to the front, he somehow manages to buzz Hao’s unit.
“Hello?” crackles through the speaker.
“It’s me,” Hanbin slurs.
“Hanbin?”
“Mhmmmmmmm…”
“Are you drunk?”
“Very much.”
When he finally makes his way to Hao’s front door after being buzzed in, he knocks twice, leaning against the door frame and resting his head on it. He can barely keep his eyes open let alone keep himself standing, and allows them to close just briefly. He can hear Hao padding over to the door before he opens it and throws him a goofy grin once he does. “Ah, Hao,” he slurs. “You’re home.” He says it again, more insistently. “You’re home.”
Hao pulls him inside before closing the door again, setting him down on the couch. “Of course I’m home,” he says. “It’s eleven o’clock at night.” Hanbin only realizes now that Hao is dressed in his pajamas, consisting of a too-big sleep shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Hanbin feels significantly overdressed in his jeans and sweater beneath his coat. Hanbin helps him shrug it off before hanging it near the door. He strides over to the kitchen where he fills a glass with water. When he comes back to the couch, he hands it to Hanbin, who takes it with a grateful murmur.
“Why are you so drunk?”
“S’Thursday,” he mutters, words still garbled together. “But spa…spo-” He huffs, frustrated. “Specifically, we were celebrating–” He takes a breath, trying to let his words catch up with his brain. “Celebrating the anniversary of the cafe opening.”
Hao smiles a little, watching as Hanbin takes another gulp of water before setting the glass down on the coffee table. “That’s great,” he murmurs. “But–” he observes Hanbin a little closer. “Why do you seem so sad about it?”
Hanbin leans in, burying his face in Hao’s neck as he wraps his arms around his middle. “M’not sad,” he mumbles. “Not about that.”
“About what then?”
Hanbin hides his face further in Hao’s shoulder, his words muffled by how deep he’s buried his face there. “Hanbin…” Hao says with a laugh, trying to wheedle him back to the surface. “Hanbin, what is it?”
Hao turns slightly to look at Hanbin’s face and his laughter quickly dies when he sees tears forming in Hanbin’s eyes as they stare back at him. “Hanbin,” Hao says again, now visibly concerned. “What’s wrong?”
Hanbin holds him closer, squeezes him tighter. He shoves his face back into Hao’s chest, hiding it away and staining Hao’s shirt with tears in the process. “I don’t want you to go.”
Hao lets out a small sound of disbelief, pulling away slightly so he can reach a hand down to brush the hair from his eyes. “Bin, where am I going? I’m right here.”
“Away from here. From Aneth. I don’t want you to leave.”
Hao looks down at him, staring, before he takes his face in both of his hands. “I’m not leaving, Hanbin. I’m not going anywhere.”
Hanbin, still drunk, feels his eyes well up even more, pooling with a barrage of tears. If he was sober, he’d be able to keep them from falling, but in his inebriety, they cascade from his eyes freely like a flood. “You promise?” He grips at Hao’s shirt, holding it desperately like Hao would fade away between his fingers if he let go. “You’re not leaving?” There’s the implicit unspoken thing beneath the question. You’re not leaving me?
Hao, trying not to be so endeared by this sudden onslaught of emotion, wipes at his tears gently. “Of course not, babe,” he murmurs. There’s the hint of a smile on his face as he lets Hanbin drunk cry in front of him, slightly ruining the state of his shirt. Once he’s tired himself out, he allows Hao to lead him back into his room where he helps him change into sleeping clothes and deposits Hanbin into bed. He crawls in next to him, permitting Hanbin to cling to him throughout the night.
“Hao…” he mumbles, tucked beneath the sheets. “You’re home…” he murmurs it again against Hao’s shoulder. “You’re home.”
Hao runs a hand through his hair, still amused by his drunken ramblings. “I am, Bin. This is my apartment.”
“No,” he says, his eyes still closed. Hanbin’s brow furrows like he’s frustrated, like Hao isn’t understanding what he’s saying. “You’re home, Hao.” He huffs a heavy sigh. “You’re home…you’re home…you’re home.” He keeps mumbling it until he falls asleep, the words slipping from his lips over and over like a mantra.
Hao’s breath hitches when he realizes it, when the connotations of Hanbin’s words suddenly strike him.
He doesn’t say anything, instead shuffles closer to Hanbin, clinging to him just as closely until he drifts to sleep not long after.
When Hanbin wakes up the next morning, the only thing he can register is the persistent throbbing that rages through his head. He groans, throwing an arm over his face. He remembers drinking far too much with Matthew, but can’t seem to remember at what point it became excessive. Was it the second bottle? The third? All he can recall is trudging down the street thinking of Hao, needing to see Hao.
Hao.
He sits up then, far too fast, and the sudden movement makes him wince. Defeated by his own mortal limitations, he lies back down with a sigh.
“Leaving already?”
Hanbin blinks a single eye open to see Hao lying next to him, awake.
Hanbin gives him a knowing look. “No, but I was really hoping I wasn’t here.”
Hao chides him, amused. “Why? Not happy to see me?”
Hanbin turns over so they’re face-to-face. “No, it’s not that. It’s that me being here means that everything last night actually happened, and that would be a little embarrassing for me.”
“Right, because you have the sort of reputation where you don’t regularly embarrass yourself.”
Hanbin sputters out a strangled noise, much to the delight of Hao, who laughs at his reaction. Hanbin, unable to take anymore teasing in light of his raging hangover, slides down under the sheets, hiding himself away.
Hao laughs again, reaching for him over the covers. “Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad.”
“I cried.”
“And so what? Who doesn’t drunk cry every now and again?”
Hanbin only grumbles in response, content to avoid Hao and the rest of society for the remainder of his life. There’s a significant movement above the covers before Hao suddenly appears in front of him, the comforter over both of their heads.
“Hey,” Hanbin protests. “This is my hiding spot.”
“It’s ours now,” Hao says with a shrug, shuffling in closer.
They lie like that for what seems like minutes, the silence comfortably setting in between them. There’s a question nagging Hanbin, one that’s dug itself into the back of his brain, but now feels like the time to excavate it.
“So,” Hanbin clears his throat, somewhat uncomfortably. “You’re not leaving?” He chews on his bottom lip, hoping his face doesn’t betray the deep worry that settles in the pit of his stomach.
Hao tilts his head, observing him quietly. “Would you want me to?”
Hanbin scoffs for a second, laughs softly. “What kind of question is that?” He looks at Hao then, wondering if he’s being too selfish. Too greedy, rather, to ask Hao to stay when he could be finding every form of success possible outside the borders of Aneth. Hao doesn’t say anything and continues watching him, waiting for an answer. “Of course I don’t want you to leave,” he says. It’s barely there, almost muffled by the rustling of the amber leaves outside Hao’s window, outside of their sanctuary made of Hao’s sheets.
“Then why would I?” Hao replies, just as soft, just as quiet, like a whispered secret between them when the lights are all out. “Especially when I have a reason to stay.”
“You’d stay for me?”
Hao smiles, slow, saccharine. “I started thinking about staying since you made me that opera cake.” He inches a little closer, whispering like it’s just the two of them hiding away from the world. “I’ll have to go places sometimes. After I graduate. Sometimes not too far like Boston or New York. But sometimes it’ll be like Paris. Or London. Not for long, like a couple of days or weeks. But I’ll always come back here. To stay.” A pause. “If that’s okay.”
Hanbin nods, feeling shy suddenly. “Yeah,” he says, his ears burning. “That’s more than okay with me.”
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
They both call in sick that day, coming up with feeble excuses to not come in. Hao cancels a section, probably to the delight of his students, while Hanbin leaves the cafe to Gyuvin and Matthew, having more than enough confidence that they’ll manage without him. Greedily, they grant themselves a long weekend, eager to spend the day and the upcoming weekend lazing away in each other’s company. They sneak back to Hanbin’s house, giggling together like they’re doing something naughty, like they’re trying not to be caught cutting class by the people of the town. (They’re found out anyway with more than a couple nosy, but endeared, eyes catching them running through the leaf-lined streets back to the Han house, fingers interlocked.) Once they reach the front door, they both sigh with relief, content to have quiet (and perhaps some privacy) at last.
After Hanbin makes them breakfast, they curl up on the couch under a shared blanket. “I love this house,” Hao says, warming his hands around his mug of tea. “It feels so lived in.”
Hanbin considers this. “It used to feel really empty before,” he says. “When it was just me.” He looks over at Hao, seeing something beyond just him momentarily. “Maybe it's nicer now that you're here.”
Quietly, after they’ve finished their tea, they make their way upstairs, hands intertwined together. Tenderly, Hanbin undresses Hao one layer at a time, pressing kisses to every inch of newly revealed skin. He takes his time, knowing that much of the afternoon and the evening and the weekend will be spent like this, Hao before him, a blank canvas to mark and dig his hands into. Hao eases back onto Hanbin’s bed, watching intently as Hanbin’s eyes rove over him, over every inch of his skin, displayed only for Hanbin’s viewing pleasure.
His breath hitches when Hanbin comes to hover over him, his own clothes disposed of on the bedroom floor. Hao licks his lips at the sight of Hanbin's cock at full mast, squirming slightly with anticipation. When Hanbin leans down, Hao opens his mouth automatically, readily granting access to the tongue that licks into him, rolling against his own.
Hanbin’s hands trail down Hao’s chest before stopping shy of his nipples. They're taut, hardened by arousal. When Hanbin drags his fingers over them, Hao lets out a hiss that melts into a whine. “So sensitive,” Hanbin murmurs. “You're that turned on?” He does it again without waiting for an answer. He doesn't get one anyway, since Hao can only let out an almost pained breath in response. Hanbin's stare stays fixed on Hao when he drags his lips lower, licking over Hao’s nipple before taking it into his mouth. Hao arches violently at that, arms coming up to grasp Hanbin's shoulders with an uneven breath.
“God…” Hao sighs as Hanbin returns his mouth to his neck, mindlessly grazing his teeth against the skin there. “I love how you fuck me.”
Hanbin chuckles at that, biting down lightly on Hao’s shoulder. He hisses, letting out another moan. “You like it that much, baby?”
Hao hums a confirmation. “I want you to fuck me all night,” he murmurs dreamily, as if imagining it, his hands dragging down Hanbin’s back. “Like crazy. All weekend. Until I can't take it anymore.”
Hanbin grins. “You sure you can handle me all weekend?”
Hao smirks. “And what if I am?” He pushes Hanbin down onto the bed, climbing atop him. “What if I was made to take your cock?” He grinds his hips down to slide them together, watching as any amusement fades from Hanbin’s face. Hanbin stays fixated on him, almost mesmerized at the way Hao gyrates on top of him, whining for him like he's putting on a show.
“You'd love that, wouldn't you, Hanbinnie?” he murmurs. “Having me over and over again until you've had your fill…”
“Hao…” Hanbin gulps. “You're driving me insane.”
“Good,” Hao purrs. “I love it when you're crazy over me.”
As night falls over the house, they tangle their limbs together, twisting into both new and familiar positions, chasing after each other’s pleasure through the night and well into the early morning. As the sun rises, Hao rides Hanbin until Hanbin leaves bruises on his hips, a result of his fingers digging in much too hard when Hao starts murmuring something in his ear. Hanbin makes good on Hao’s request, giving it to Hao like a man possessed through the night, in a myriad of ways. While much of it is frenetic, sometimes Hanbin slows his pace, undoing Hao little by little.
He watches Hao’s face, tells him how beautiful he is and how he wishes he could see himself. They're well into another round when the roosters crow, but there's no sign of them letting up, even as sunlight filters through the curtains.
Lying on his side, Hanbin moves to pull Hao against his chest, mouthing urgently at his neck. Hao lets out a loud, labored breath, arching his back against Hanbin. Hanbin slides against him, teasing, with a glint in his eyes. It elicits a noisy whine from Hao as he wrenches his eyes shut at the feeling of it. It makes him bite down on his bottom lip before he blindly reaches up to tangle a hand through Hanbin’s hair, giving it a sharp tug. Taking that as a hint, Hanbin leans over to kiss him again, to crash their lips together, wet and hardly graceful, like they’re trying to swallow each other down, their mouths motivated by nothing but sheer want and desperation. “Get back in me,” Hao says, his voice rough and demanding, like he’ll starve if he doesn’t feel Hanbin immediately. “Fuck, I need you…”
Hanbin groans, grasping Hao’s thigh firmly before obliging him, pushing back into him without a word of warning. They both moan loudly at the feeling of it, only growing louder when Hanbin starts pounding into him at a relentless pace, hips snapping into Hao impossibly hard, practically jolting him into the mattress. Hao can only wail at the feeling of it, gripping onto the sheets for purchase as Hanbin continues railing into him, jostling him higher onto the mattress. “God,” he practically sobs. “Right there, Hanbinnie, fuck.” He turns his face to bury it into the mattress, wailing out Hanbin’s name. “I’m close,” he chokes out, face pressed against the sheets. “Hanbin, please.” At that, Hanbin grips his hips tighter, throwing his weight into every thrust, harder and harder until finally, Hao lets out a final wail, his release all over his stomach and the mattress. Hanbin fucks him through it, two hard snaps of his hips before Hao empties himself completely, a total mess beneath him.
Hanbin pulls out then, and Hao sits up, knowing what he wants and is eager to oblige him. Hao looks up at him through his eyelids, still heavy with want in spite of the fact that he just came. He licks his lips when he feels the hand at the back of his head and opens his mouth easily when he sees that Hanbin’s eyes are just as crazed with desire as his, ready to swallow down what Hanbin has to give him. With his other hand, Hanbin strokes himself, sharp breaths escaping his lips. “Come on, baby,” Hao murmurs. Hanbin moans, eyes squeezing shut when he feels how close he is, brow furrowed in concentration. Sweat glistens at his neck, rolling down his chest. There's a sheen over his stomach, his arms, lean and defined. The remains of where Hao came in the round prior was still on his stomach, slick atop his abs. There are marks scattered across his neck, Hao not even bothering to be careful where he placed them. He marked Hanbin with reckless abandon, eager to signal to the world how he was spoken for.
The sight of it makes Hao whine again, delighting in how his partner is someone he can't help but find undeniably attractive. “Fuck,” he whispers. “You're so fucking hot.” Unable to resist, Hao bats Hanbin’s hand away and moves to stroke him himself before getting his mouth on him, harshly swallowing him down, sloppy movements as he takes Hanbin down the back of his throat. It evokes a harsh moan from Hanbin, who tenses up at the feeling, his hand gripping Hao’s hair a little tighter when he feels the tension build, right beneath his navel. It's then that Hanbin finally comes, spurting thickly in Hao's mouth. It's so much, but Hao swallows all of it down, keeping his eyes on Hanbin the entire time, moaning around him. He pulls off of Hanbin with a satisfied smile, licking his lips before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Fuck,” Hanbin groans out as he collapses next to Hao, still trying to catch his breath. “You're crazy,” he says, grazing his lips against Hao's shoulder. “Totally insane.” He clings to Hao closely, nuzzling into his neck. “How does it keep getting better every time?”
Hao merely hums, satiated, and lets his eyes close. “God, you're telling me,” he hums. He laughs a little, in slight disbelief at how content he is. He turns to Hanbin and beams at him, turning over to curl into him, shuffling closer until they're face-to-face.
Hanbin opens one eye to look at him, a little suspicious. “Why're you looking at me like that?”
“No reason,” Hao says. “I just like looking at you.”
Hanbin smiles, fingers trailing up Hao’s side. “I hope it's a nice view.”
Hao leans in closer, grazing his fingers against Hanbin’s lips. “It's always nice with you.”
Later, when they've showered and had a meal, they’re watching a Hallmark movie on the couch, something soapy about a big-time lawyer who came back to find love in a small town. Neither of them are paying too close attention, opting instead to sprawl over the sofa with a blanket thrown over them, offering their commentary every so often.
At one point, Hao turns towards Hanbin, pressing a palm to his cheek. His fingers are a little cold, but Hanbin, always running warm, doesn’t mind. “You know when I said I’d come back to Aneth to stay?” Hanbin nods, his eyes tinged with something like devotion. “Did that mean I could stay with you?”
“Of course, Hao.” Hanbin leans into his touch, reaching up to take the hand on his face into his. “You’ll always have a place with me.”
── ⋆⋅♡⋅⋆ ──
Every now and then, Matthew allows him one or two decidedly experimental, entirely too high-brow menu items to take the edge off. Some of them are successful, like the time Hanbin put a gougere on the menu, a tiny choux pastry filled with gruyère, nutmeg, and pepper. They sold out the first day, with a line forming down the block the next. Hanbin held it over Matthew for months, even when his next venture was definitively a fall from grace. Hanbin still insists loudly that the charred chicken and broccoli rabe pesto sandwich was just ahead of its time, but Matthew waves him away to make pop the danishes in the oven.
More importantly, there are days where he’ll bake his experiments in the early hours of the morning or sometimes well into the evening when there’s an idea that keeps him up that he can’t shake. On those days, someone would shuffle groggily from the confines of their shared bedroom and tread through the old house, rubbing sleep from beneath his eyelids. He’d be tired from travel or the rigor of composing, or from crouching over his desk for hours on end, grading his student’s papers. He has students now, his own classes. They call him “Professor” as he stands in front of the lecture hall, explaining the substance of the nocturne displayed on the screen behind him.
At home, their home, Hanbin would coax him to sit at their kitchen table or on the couch or in one of their armchairs, slyly sliding his next offering on a plate in front of him. Hao would munch on it quietly, and Hanbin would carefully watch his reaction, listening to the small sounds of approval or discontent, whichever it was.
“And?” Hanbin asks one day. Or morning, rather – it’s 2 AM and he’s spent the last hour chopping up plums for the tart he’d baked earlier, frenzied like a man possessed and unable to sleep while the recipe sat uselessly in his brain. Hao found him perched in front of the oven, muttering something in French over and over again – beurre noisette, beurre noisette, beurre noisette.
Hao murmurs happily, savoring the sticky sweetness lined with a slight tart taste as he chews, the brown butter pastry contrasting sharp brightness of the plums. “Good.”
Hanbin lets out a sigh of relief. He collapses on the couch next to Hao, burying his face into Hao’s shoulder. “Good,” he echoes, his work finally done.
Hao reaches up to tangle a hand in Hanbin’s hair. “Everything you make is good. Everything about you is good.”
Hanbin takes that as a subtle cue. He moves to hover over Hao, pressing closer to him until they eventually melt into each other, the sounds of their whines and heavy breaths harmonizing gently until they both reach the crescendo of their song.
Afterwards, as the sun creeps closer towards the sky, eager to rise over the horizon, Hanbin and Hao tangle up on the couch, pulling a comforter over their bare skin.
“What do you think love would sound like?” Hanbin whispers to Hao, his arms tightening around Hao’s middle. He presses a kiss to his shoulder. “If you wrote it?”
Hao looks at him. The crackle of the fireplace is the only sound between them, and the flames burning within it reflect in Hao’s eyes, warm. He takes one of Hanbin’s hands, presses his palm flat against his bare chest, over his heart. It’s beating steadily, increasing in rate as their eyes meet with something unspoken. Hao leans forward, his eyes on Hanbin’s lips, the thumping in his chest hammering faster and faster, so loudly that it might burst out of him, until–
Finally, their lips touch.
“Like this.”