Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It snows. No classes today, but Hanbin’s too restless to stay at home. That’s the effect winter has on him. His least favorite season of the year, the one that seems to sap his spirit.

He settles into a cozy café, sipping on something warm and fragrant, hands cradling a colorful and vibrant ceramic mug. Hanbin hopes its comforting heat can seep into his cold hands, his very bones yearning for warmth.  Outside, the world is adorned with festive decorations, shop windows twinkling with holiday cheer. People meander about—some alone, others in couples or family groups, arms laden with bulging bags, most likely presents. Christmas draws near, after all.

On days like these, Hanbin wistfully reminisces of a time long past. Of a time when he truly felt himself, when he truly felt free. It’s a realization he’s come to recently. Perhaps tinged with the idealism of youth, memories tinted with child-like wonder, experiences seen through teenage glasses. Still, Hanbin yearns to return to those days.

If he closes his eyes and lets his mind wander, he can hear the lulling symphony of the waves lapping against the shore, the chorus of seabirds overhead. He feels the sun’s warmth on his skin, the rough texture of sand beneath his feet. He can smell the fresh scent of pine, he can taste the ocean, salty and lingering on his tongue. 

What stands out more in his memories is not something, but someone. A fleeting someone, that is.

If he closes his eyes and lets his mind wander even further, deep into the memories he’s kept hidden and locked away, he can hear the slightly high-pitched voice of the boy who changed everything, the way it cracks slightly over certain syllables, the way he stumbles over foreign words. He feels the roughness of his fingertips, worn from playing instruments, and the tickle of his silky hair. He can smell the fruity scent of the watermelon he just ate, the brine of the sea. 

He can taste the sweet flavor of his lips against his own.

Back then, Hanbin was taller, with longer legs and broader shoulders. The boy had braces. He loved music, was fond of cute things, was shy but opinionated, and so much more. A force to be reckoned with, stronger than the sea, prettier than the sunrise. 

He must not be a boy anymore. 

That boy once loved cotton candy, tanghulu, and sticky mango rice. He couldn’t eat apples unless sliced, and his braces often held remnants of the sweets he adored. He couldn’t eat them, doctor's orders, but Hanbin was a bit naughty, sneaking treats for him. He was happy, and Hanbin was too, their smiles wide and radiant, cheeks full of joy.

Hanbin has tried to imagine how he looks now.

Has he grown taller? Are his eyes as round, as shiny, as full of innocence as they used to be? Do his lips remain soft, pouting when he’s upset? Are his hands as rough, his touch as gentle? Does he still wear braces? Would Hanbin feel the same as he did back then, upon seeing him? 

Four years later, would Hanbin still be able to recognize him?

They’re no longer fifteen and fourteen.

On days like these, when all he sees is white on white, when his fingers are numb from the cold, when he wishes he was somewhere else, when he wishes he was someone else, Hanbin likes to remember.

☼₊˚.⋆✩⋆⁺₊☾⋆

Hanbin loves the beach. Not just the beach, he loves summer as a whole. Loves wearing sleeveless shirts, loves the sheen of sweat on his skin, the rough grains of sand that cling to him, even when they’re uncomfortable. He loves the blazing sun, its heat turning his skin a vibrant red. 

His cheeks always bear the brunt of the sun’s affection, turning pink, pinker than usual, peeling and dusted with countless freckles. In winter, they fade away, only to return with the summer’s warmth, the cycle repeating endlessly. 

Hanbin used to hate them. At ten, a classmate had mocked him for them, hurling hurtful words he can no longer recall. Crying his heart out at home, his mother traced her fingers over soft and supple skin, and whispered words he’ll never forget: Your face is the sky, and your freckles are the stars. They form a constellation, Hanbin. 

Hanbin, who has always been captivated by the stars, found solace in her comparison. 

Here, at the beach, the stars shine bright every night, bigger and closer compared to the city. No light pollution, his dad explained once. Hanbin would gaze at them, dreaming that if he reached out, he could grasp one, feeling its warm pierce through his skin, making him whole. 

Given the chance, Hanbin could lose himself in the sky for hours to no end. There’s something about it that makes him feel small, yet invincible. He’s nothing, yet he’s everything. A tiny speck of dust, but an important one. 

This is what he’s doing now, having arrived later than expected. The sun is not present anymore, making way for the full moon to appear. It reflects on the ocean, painting it a vibrant silver. Hanbin inhales deeply, salt filling his lungs, clinging to his bare arms, his bare legs. They dangle over the edge of the stairs leading to the beach house, their abode for the summer.

People often say he’s too introspective, too thoughtful for a fourteen-year-old. Hanbin’s never quite decided if that’s a blessing or a curse. 

The distant sound of Gyuvin’s voice, almost lost to the rhythm of the waves, reaches Hanbin’s ears. A soft smile touches his lips. Gyuvin might not be his blood brother, but he feels like one. He’s bickering with Hanbin’s sister over who gets the solo room with the king-sized bed. The same argument happens every year, with also the same outcome: Gyuvin loses before the battle even begins.

In a few minutes, Hanbin will need to head inside, unpack for the month ahead, and help his mom prepare dinner. But for now, he remains where he is, immersed in a calm that he only experiences when dancing. Hanbin could stay here forever, would stay here forever, if only given the chance. 

This tradition of coming to the beach every summer started before any of the kids existed.

Hanbin’s heard this story at least a thousand times, which means he can recite it without even trying. It goes like this: Gyuvin’s mom and his mom were childhood friends. born here, on Gangneung’s west coast, amidst the rugged cliffs and sandy coasts, stretching for miles to no end. Daughters of the sea, both women love to say, joking that they’re mermaids. Hanbin believed it for a good chunk of his childhood; his sister, on the contrary, never did.

After high school, they moved closer to the capital with dreams packed in small suitcases—a dream of owning a beach house, like the charming ones they admired along the coast.  Small, picturesque, colorful, a place to rest, and a place to remember. With this in mind, they worked day and night, in sickness and health, summer and winter.

Their dream materialized before Hanbin was born. Initially, it was a modest wooden cottage, hand-painted under the relentless summer sun. Hanbin’s only seen pictures of that first home. Over time, it has evolved into a place straight out of a movie—two stories, five bedrooms, and so much more. Yet it retains its warm, inviting aura. Hanbin has never felt more at home than in here, not even in his everyday home, back in the city of Cheonan.

At first, it was just Hanbin and the two women enjoying summer in this small paradise, sometimes joined by Hanbin’s father when his work allowed. Then, a little bright-eyed baby joined them—Gyuvin. A year later came his sister, just as small, but way more adventurous than any of them. Despite being only three and four years older, Hanbin took it upon himself to teach them everything he knew—swimming, hiking, camping, and so much more.

Now, Gyuvin joins Hanbin on the steps, complaining about sharing a room, but it’s all for show. He’s not fooling anyone, least of all himself, following Hanbin everywhere, anywhere. Not blood-brothers, but life-brothers, Hanbin thinks. 

The younger is always bursting with energy, wanting to chat even though there’s nothing to talk about, not when they did just that during the four-hour drive from their hometown. It usually takes less time, but vacation traffic on Yeongdong Expressway has slowed their escape from the concrete jungle. 

Gyuvin gets bored fast with Hanbin’s taciturn mood, heading back inside with the excuse of showering before dinner. No one pays Hanbin much mind—neither his mom nor Gyuvin’s. They’ve known him for fourteen years, aware that he tends to become introspective upon arriving at his beloved beach heaven. Tomorrow, he’ll revert back to his usual vibrant self: loud, energetic, expressive, talkative, extrovert. Tonight, he allows himself to simply be.

Hanbin doesn’t know how long he has been sitting outside when something exciting happens; something unexpected.

The house next door has remained vacant for a few summers now. It was once owned by an old lady, old in every single one of Hanbin’s memories, a local, someone who spent her entire life living here, right in front of the beach. As a child, Hanbin envied her, longing to live in that house himself. He told her so one day, and she responded by sharing countless stories of her long life. Gyuvin would occasionally join them, wide-eyed at the tales of ghosts and spirits haunting the Jumunjin Sea.

Three years ago, she passed away, no sons or daughters, no sisters or brothers. But she wasn’t alone on her last days; far from it. To Hanbin’s eleven-year-old mind, it seemed like the entire town of Gangneung had gathered on the beach to bid her farewell. Her ashes were scattered across the sea, her final wish fulfilled before her story ended.

That was Hanbin’s first brush with death. Back then, he didn’t fully grasp its meaning, but seeing her house empty and deteriorating—the vibrant paint slowly peeling away, her beautiful well-kept plants wilting—made him understand.

He should have realized sooner that something out of the ordinary was about to happen. The house, once familiar, has been transformed. The yellow paint is gone, replaced by a soft pink, the shade of the most beautiful sunset. Dead grass has been replaced by a plethora of flower pots, and a new wooden staircase has been installed, restoring the one that collapsed last year. 

There’s a car too. A car Hanbin’s never seen before, and he knows everyone around.

Two boys, one tall and one small, accompanied by a man and a woman, emerge from the vehicle. If Hanbin’s eyes are working right, which is hard, considering the darkness of the early night, they appear to be around his and Gyuvin’s age. They carry big luggage, and the words that travel through the air to Hanbin’s ears carry an unfamiliar cadence. Not Korean, that’s for sure.

It has always been Hanbin, Gyuvin, and occasionally his sister running along the beach, building sandcastles, burying each other, swimming in the shallow waves. Their neighbors are mostly locals, or just adults. The friends Hanbin has made have been weekend ones, disappearing come Sunday afternoon. But it looks like they’ll stay. Hanbin hopes he’s right.

He wants to go and say hi, always friendly and outgoing, always loving meeting new people. Yet a voice that sounds suspiciously like his mother’s advises him to wait. It might be impolite to intrude while they’re settling in. They must be tired from a long journey, so it’s best to wait until tomorrow.

Gyuvin vibrates with excitement when Hanbin shares the news of these potential new friends. Their mothers, however, gently remind them not to be too enthusiastic, lest they frighten the newcomers away.

With this in mind, Hanbin and Gyuvin march towards the house next door, a basket of fruits—purchased with their own money—in hand. They knock, but no one answers. The car Hanbin spotted the previous night isn’t here. Perhaps they’ve ventured around the city, or maybe they needed groceries. Disappointment settles over them, but they return home, determined to try again the next day.

The beach, with its soothing waves, washes away their dismay, and soon the boys forget about their failed attempt. Nevertheless, they try again the next day. This time, Hanbin keeps a watchful eye on the house's door, hoping to see it open and two boys emerge. But it remains closed.

The next day comes, and Hanbin doesn’t see them either. He’s starting to think that his wistful mind might have conjured their existence, too eager to have new friends, to make this summer even more special than the previous ones. 

By the fifth day, he just loses hopes of seeing them all together. 

Until he does. He’s not expecting it, which is why the surprise feels so sweet.

Nearby, a community center by the beach hosts a summer camp each year. Kids gather for a week filled with activities: painting, swimming, dancing, singing, and more. The highlight is the final day’s camping adventure, surrounded by the beach and the tall pine trees, sitting around a bonfire while toasting marshmallows like those American movies Gyuvin loves watching.

During the closing ceremony of the camp, everyone has the chance to showcase a talent. It doesn’t need to be anything flashy or elaborate—just a little glimpse of something they can do, so others can cheer them on. 

Hanbin has always loved dancing. When he was nine and his sister was five, their mother enrolled her in a ballet academy. It’s safe to say that she loathed it; she’s always been more inclined to sports. But Hanbin, sweet little Hanbin, was enchanted, watching her classes with wide-eyed wonder. His mother soon recognized his sister’s distaste and Hanbin’s fascination. He was the one who ended up going religiously three times a week. 

It’s been five years since then, and Hanbin’s ventured beyond just ballet: hip-hop, contemporary, traditional Korean dances, you name it. Recently, something else has caught his very curious eye. A dance style he has never seen before, characterized by rapid, geometric hand and arm movements. Obsessed, he’s spent hours trying to mimic these moves in his room

But that’s something for the future. This year, he has chosen to present Seungmu—a traditional Korean dance. His mother has even packed him a long-sleeved white shirt, perfect for the performance. Hanbin is thrilled, eager to share his art with others. 

With this in mind, Hanbin enters the community center with a spring in his step, anticipation bubbling beneath his skin. The place, as always, is beautifully adorned with colorful banners, and various activity zones are fully set up. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his mother preparing everything for the campers. Since Hanbin and Gyuvin decided to join, she has been involved too, not liking to leave her children out of sight. 

Hanbin’s favorite spot is the large, open pavilion with its wooden floor and ceiling. Simple yet charming, with rows of pine wood picnic tables and benches, made from the same wood that dots all over the coastal area. It’s open on the sides, allowing a clear view of the blue ocean. It’s used for dining and gatherings, but Hanbin loves to sit here with a glass of cold orange juice, simply listening—to the wind rustling the tall trees, to the joyful shouts of younger kids, to the calming rhythm of the waves. 

The first day always follows the same routine: gathering in a circle to introduce themselves, followed by free time to play beach games. As the sun sets, a bonfire ignites for an ice-breaking session, and then everyone heads home to return the next day. 

Hanbin’s excited. It amplifies tenfold once he spots two unfamiliar figures leaning against a wall at the far end of the room. The space is small enough for him to finally get a clear look at his elusive new neighbors. Even though he saw them in the darkness, Hanbin knows it’s them. His anticipation is almost palpable, a tangible hum of energy urging him to approach.

They don’t look very approachable, though. The boys are quiet, standing out like a sore thumb against the rowdy crowd. Most here are familiar faces— classmates, neighbors, or yearly visitors, like Hanbin and Gyuvin—greeting each other with hugs and high-five like old friends. 

The new boys barely wave when acknowledged, the shorter’s hand gripping the taller’s wrist with a deep frown etched on his face. In a shocking turn of events, it’s as if he’s the one guarding the taller boy. His eyes, large and curious, remain shielded.  

Hanbin takes his time observing them, hidden behind a wall of curious children. The smaller boy is eye-catching. His eyes are cat-like, two slits on his soft and child-like face. Blonde streaks adorn his hair, and his all-black outfit—skinny jeans and a hoodie—seems oddly out of place in the summer heat. Hanbin’s sister always makes fun of him when he dresses in black, calling him an emo, but this boy looks the part for real, his ears decorated with metal even though he’s no older than twelve. 

Gyuvin, meanwhile, is practically starstruck, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he gazes at the cat-eyed boy. Hanbin knows what’s on his mind. Gyuvin, ever the extrovert, is ready to charge forward and strike up a conversation. Hanbin, however, grabs him by the back of his shirt, a silent warning. 

“Not yet,” he whispers, tone firm but gentle.

Gyuvin is angry, arms crossed over his chest, lips slightly pouty. Just a baby in Hanbin’s eyes. “Why not?” he asks, voice tinged with a childlike petulance.

“Look at him, Gyuvinnie. Really look.” The shorter boy shifts uncomfortably under the collective scrutiny. The taller boy places a reassuring hand on the shorter’s back, glancing around warily. He nearly jumps out of his skin when a girl with a shy smile taps his shoulder. “He seems a bit overwhelmed. If you go over now, you might just make him more anxious. Let’s wait until things settle down.” 

Hanbin watches intently as the taller boy gently dismisses the girl, her disappointment evident as she walks away, her head bowed. A heartbreaker, Hanbin muses.

Gyuvin considers this, nodding thoughtfully. “You’re right, Hanbin-hyung. I was just very excited. We never get new people around, and his hair is so cool. Do you think my mom would let me dye mine too? I need to talk to him; he looks so tough.”

Hanbin shares the sentiment. If it were up to him, he would have already breached the distance between him and the taller boy to introduce himself and maybe make him more comfortable in this new environment. He’s often told he has a knack for helping people feel at ease. But he also looks shy, unsure. His responses are limited to nods as he remains largely silent. 

His close inspection has made him notice more details: the boy’s cheeks are prominent, round and soft and squishy, and so are his lips, set on a pout. The smaller, emo boy whispers something to him, drawing an unexpected laugh from the taller one, who shows his teeth for a fraction of a second before it’s hidden by his hand. Something shines when he laughs, in the literal sense. Probably braces, Hanbin muses. It must be the reason why his lips are slightly protruding, even when he’s not purposely pouting. His hair is dark, short at the sides but longer at the front. He’s tall and slim, taller than everyone here, except Hanbin himself. Thick frames perch on his nose, adding to his distinctive look.

The pouty boy whips his head around, his gaze locking with Hanbin’s. Hanbin’s eyes widen in surprise. The fleeting glimpse he catches before ducking his head in embarrassment reveals eyes round and shiny. Shy, yes, but not unsure as he was at first. Soft and curious, maybe.

Hanbin tries to deplete his mind of any thoughts regarding the boy, willing his blush to go down, but it doesn’t really work. Gyuvin’s still staring at the friend he wishes to make, wide mouth and starry eyes, so he hasn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, thankfully. He would be making fun of Hanbin otherwise.

Stealing another glance at the soft-cheeked boy, Hanbin finds his dark, inquisitive eyes still trained on him. He seems deep in thought, as if solving a complex problem. This is promising—if he’s intrigued, there might be a chance to approach him and turn this encounter into something more than a fleeting meeting.

“I’m excited too, Gyuvin,” Hanbin confesses with a smile. “We’ll talk to them later, promise.”

Later comes sooner than expected—just five minutes. 

Gyuvin, unable to contain his restlessness, slips away under the guise of needing the bathroom. Naturally, he skillfully deviates from his path, bypassing Hanbin’s notice. Next thing he knows, Gyuvin’s in front of the angry kitty boy, bouncing with excitement and chattering about who knows what. Angry kitty boy looks, well, angry and intimidating, but Hanbin’s starting to think that’s just his default expression.

Hanbin rushes across the room to stop Gyuvin from doing whatever it is he’s about to do. It’s not a matter of mistrusting him—far from it. Despite being young and immature, Gyuvin is kind and dependable. But his impulsive nature often leads to unwanted consequences, especially given his age.

In a heartbeat, Hanbin finds himself face-to-face with the tall, round-eyed boy and his grumpy companion. Since catching a glimpse of the back of the boy’s head, Hanbin has longed for this moment. Perhaps it’s the boy’s elusive nature, or Hanbin’s fourteen-year-old hormonal brain, but his heart beats a bit faster, and his cheeks warm with the thrill of finally being this close.

Hanbin notes that the boy is shorter than him, by at least half a head. His ears, big and pointy, are adorned by metal studs. He’s cute up close, in a kind of nerdy way. His glasses are too big for his delicate features, his clothes too loose for his thin frame.

He doesn’t speak at all; it’s the shorter boy who takes the lead in their interaction, positioning himself protectively in front of his friend, eyebrows furrowed and arms crossed. Shielding him, almost. Maybe the taller boy is even shyer than Hanbin originally thought. Gyuvin’s over excited newborn puppy energy must have spooked him a little bit.

As Hanbin’s eyes linger on the taller boy, he notices how intently he studies him in return. His gaze explores Hanbin’s face, blinking slowly, almost owlishly. His index finger finds its way to his mouth, and he bites and bites. Hanbin has the urge to gently admonish him as his mother might, but it’s not his place. His own hands ball into firsts, fighting the urge.

In the blink of an eye, the moment passes. Hanbin’s attention returns to Gyuvin, who is still chatting animatedly. The angry kitty boy has yet to speak, but Gyuvin continues undeterred, talking about summer camp, about Gangneung’s beautiful beaches, about his dog back home. Hanbin feels a pang of guilt for disrupting Gyuvin’s excitement, but he did warn him beforehand.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, Hanbin halts him. “Gyuvin, what did I tell you?” he whispers in hopes the rest can’t hear, using the big-brother tone that Gyuvin sometimes loathes. 

“Sorry hyung,” Gyuvin murmurs back, though doesn’t look apologetic in the slightest. He just looks like Hanbin’s the biggest pain in the ass. Hanbin can’t help but feel amusement bubbling up. This is Gyuvin, after all. The two boys haven’t fled the scene, so maybe they’re okay with Gyuvin babbling his heart out. Hanbin should trust him a little more. “I was just excited to meet you. We don’t get many new people around here. Everyone knows each other, and they’re pretty boring,” he says to the black-and-blonde-haired boy with an apologetic grin. “And you look so cool! I love your hair!”

The shorter boy’s eyes soften at Gyuvin’s words, not looking like an angry cat anymore. Just a slightly inconvenienced cat. A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugs at his lips. That’s the magic of Gyuvin—his charm is irresistible, capable of winning hearts in an instant. “Thank you,” he replies, the words thick and unfamiliar on his tongue. “I like your…'' he trails off, gesturing vaguely at Gyuvin’s entire being.

Gyuvin laughs. “There’s nothing remarkable about me.”

“You are you. That’s remarkable.” 

Gyuvin gasps dramatically, a hand flying to his chest. “Wow, we need to be best friends right now,” he declares, grabbing the boy’s hands and jumping up and down with excitement.

The taller boy stands quietly behind his younger friend, looking amused. He meets Hanbin’s gaze briefly, and they exchange knowing smiles. 

In the span of two minutes Hanbin learns everything about the pair. Zhang Hao and Shen Quanrui, or Ricky, as he prefers, are cousins from China. Gyuvin claims he and Hanbin are brothers, a statement Ricky scoffs at, clearly not buying it. Gyuvin is awful at lying, and it seems like Ricky has him figured out in a mere second.

The cousins have been learning Korean for six months, which is why Ricky’s parents thought vacationing here would be a good idea. Their conversation shifts seamlessly between English and Korean. Thankfully, Gyuvin is rich; meaning that he goes to an international school. His proficiency in the foreign language surpasses Hanbin’s, who can barely say hi and my name is Hanbin Sung and I’m fine, thank you. 

Ricky and Gyuvin are the same age, just as Hanbin suspected. The language barrier between them doesn’t hinder their conversation. Well, Gyuvin does most of the talking, but Ricky listens intently, offering witty retorts and interjections. 

The other boy, Zhang Hao, leans against the wall, looking at little Ricky with a tender smile. His youth is accentuated by that gentle expression, making him appear even more innocent. He seems content seeing the younger boys getting along. Hanbin, intrigued, watches him closely, and he must feel it, as he turns his head and stares back. He hasn’t uttered a word, and Hanbin itches to hear him, to discover if his voice matches the gentle demeanor he observes. 

Taking a step closer, Hanbin mirrors Zhang Hao’s position. The space between them is minimal, but Zhang Hao remains still, a sign Hanbin interprets as positive. “You okay there?” Hanbin asks, hoping to fulfill his wish of hearing Zhang Hao speak. 

For a moment, the other boy tenses, caught off guard. His eyes widen, almost deer-like. “Yeah, thanks,” he responds. His voice is indeed soft, but also high-pitched and raspy, both at the same time, just like it tends to be when boys are growing up. It’s melodious, soothing to the ear. Hanbin wonders if he sings.

It’s a bit absurd that Hanbin draws these conclusions from just a couple of whispered words, but his observant nature can’t help it. Ricky watches them closely from the corner of his eye, assessing whether Hanbin is trustworthy enough to be around his cherished cousin. His thin frame is tense, ready to attack, yet his attention remains on Gyuvin, as if nothing is amiss. 

Zhang Hao edges closer, their shoulders brushing. Ricky relaxes, redirecting his focus entirely back to Gyuvin. “Hanbin,” Hao adds like an afterthought with a sweet smile that doesn’t reveal his teeth. If Hanbin could, he would squeak in delight, jump in place, fist his hand in celebration. His name sounds delightful coming from his slightly accented tone, in a way that Hanbin’s never heard before.

Curiosity getting the better of him, Hanbin asks, “How old are you?” 

“Fifteen. You?”

So, he’s a hyung. Hanbin had expected him to be slightly younger or the same age as him, not older. There’s something about this shy boy that stirs Hanbin’s protective instincts, a feeling he usually reserves for Gyuvin. But this time it’s different. 

Now it’s not the time to think about that, as Zhang Hao still waits for his answer, head tilted to the side in a way that makes him look like a puzzled puppy. “Fourteen,” Hanbin answers.

He blinks a few times as the information sinks in. “Oh, I’m older. I thought you were older than me.” As his sentences grow longer, so does his confidence, and Hanbin’s heart quickens in response. It’s odd to feel such an immediate attachment, but there’s something irresistibly endearing about Zhang Hao. 

Hanbin hums in agreement. “I thought so too. Today, I will be your hyung, if you want me to. People always say I’m helpful and reliable. If there’s anything you need, just look for me and I’ll do anything in my power to help you.”

“Reliable?” Zhang Hao repeats, the word rolling awkwardly on his tongue.

“You can trust me. That’s what it means.”

Zhang Hao’s mouth forms a silent oh. “Trust…” he says thoughtfully. His index finger traces his lips, biting at the delicate skin. Hanbin just watches, not wanting to miss a single shift of his expression. Finally, he speaks, seemingly reaching a conclusion, “I do. Trust you.” Hanbin’s heart swells with joy, feeling as though it’s grown three sizes. “If I need anything, I’ll let you know. Thank you, Hanbin.”

Hanbin’s cheeks flush warmly, his smile so wide it almost hurts. He must look dumb, but he’s been entrusted by someone who initially seemed skittish and unapproachable, by someone who doesn’t look like he trusts easily, even if their convo suggests otherwise.

The camp director’s voice cuts through the murmur of the room, calling for silence. It’s been the same man for as long as Hanbin can remember, his hair turning from black to gray to white as the years go by. His speech also remains the same, praising the upcoming week’s activities and emphasizing the core virtues: teamwork, respect, and open-mindness. 

Soon, it’s time to head outside for a brief ice-breaking session. Kids are free to play for a while the adults start on the bonfire as the sun goes down.

Zhang Hao and Hanbin don’t talk, just trail behind the lively Gyuvin and the somewhat amused Ricky. Gyuvin spends the whole walk to the beach pointing to places and recalling past memories. 

Once, he starts, pointing at a small rock outcrop where the waves crash rhythmically, Hanbin-hyung was sitting there while reading a poetry book. I’m pretty sure he thought he was in a drama or something. Out of nowhere, water! A wave got to him and took his book. I’m pretty sure he cried. Hanbin pouts and swats at Gyuvin’s arm, but his laughter is uncontrollable. Ricky joins in, quieter but genuine. 

The memory is still vivid for Hanbin. It happened just last year. It was his favorite poetry book, a gift from his mother on his fifth birthday. He barely even knew how to read back then, but he carried that cherished book everywhere.

Gyuvin hasn’t let him forget it. It’s embarrassing to remember it, but it’s worth it when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees the glint of metal on his companion’s teeth as he laughs, more comfortable in the presence of the two new friends who have suddenly become part of his vacation. 

Hanbin longs to see Zhang Hao’s smile, but a mere breath passes and his hand covers his mouth, obscuring the elusive sight. He wishes Zhang Hao would allow himself to smile without restraint, freely, without feeling the need to hide. Hanbin makes a silent vow to himself: to make Zhang Hao smile big and happy. It’s a challenge he accepts, determined to prove himself right. 

The game they play for the ice-breaking session is simple: two truths and a wish, a twist on the classic. Instead of a lie, you reveal a hope, something you wish for. It’s a little bit more deep than two truths and a lie, Hanbin thinks. He’s aching to hear what Zhang Hao has to say. 

They sit together in the sand, itchy and coarse but so familiar, knees occasionally bumping against each other. Zhang Hao’s knees are bony, marred by small, purple bruises. Palms on his thighs, he keeps fidgeting with the fabric of his sweatpants. Hanbin wonders if he’s nervous. Ricky, sensing his unease, speaks to him in what Hanbin assumes is Mandarin.

Zhang Hao’s smile is gentle and reassuring. He replies in Korean, “I’m okay. Korean is fine. Remember we’re here to practice, Quanrui.”

“Yes, Hao-ge,” Ricky nods solemnly, while Gyuvin repeats Quanrui, Quanrui on the sidelines. He’s very protective towards his older cousin, Hanbin’s come to realize. Despite being young and small, Ricky’s fierceness in looking after Zhang Hao is endearing. Hanbin likes him a lot. 

The game starts, but all the truths and wishes from other kids and teenagers fly right over Hanbin’s head. He’s not paying attention, too excited about the chance to learn more about his quiet companion. 

His fingers have stopped playing with the fabric of his clothes, and now they drum against his leg. If Hanbin concentrates hard enough, he thinks he can make out a pattern in it. A song? Is he a musician? A pianist, maybe? He does have musician hands; fingers long and slender, calloused palms, as if they’ve been rubbed raw over and over by practice.

If that were the case, then Hanbin would understand. Not his hands, but his feet. They’ve acquired a misshapen shape from years of ballet, from years of dancing. He used to feel ashamed of showing them, but not anymore. They’re a testament of his dedication to something he loves.

He doesn’t want to sound petulant, but everyone’s answers are uninteresting. Some kids say I have a sports car, most likely a wish. I don’t go to school; I have a treehouse; I’m the best swimmer in the team; I won the class president election this year, and so on. The answers drag on for minutes and minutes, but for Hanbin it might be hours.

Finally, it’s Gyuvin’s turn. Just Ricky left, and then Zhang Hao. Hanbin does pay attention to what his younger friend has to say, even if they know everything about each other.

“Okay,” Gyuvin begins, eyes sparkling. It’s contagious, and Hanbin can’t help but smile. “I have an Italian greyhound back home.” True. “I’m the biggest mango fan on Earth.” True. “And Shen Quanrui is my best friend.” Oh? 

Hanbin’s eyes shift to Ricky. He doesn’t look opposed to the idea of being Gyuvin’s best friend. In fact, he looks pleased, smile small but warm. Hanbin has already claimed him as his little brother, alongside Gyuvin. Kids are cute, and there’s something incredibly heartwarming about their instant friendship. 

Ricky’s turn follows. In Hanbin’s mind, he’s a paradox: grumpy and closed off at first, yet surprisingly open-hearted. “I was born in Shanghai,” the black- and blonde-haired boy begins. True, Hanbin musses. He looks rich enough, and the car he saw the other day was an expensive one. “I’m the number one fan of strawberries,” which doesn’t sound like a wish, “and Kim Gyuvin is my best friend.” 

Gyuvin enthusiastically throws his arms around Ricky, chanting a little too loudly, “Best friends forever! Best friends forever!” The black- and white-haired boy pats him on the back, gentle and measured, a perfect balance to Gyuvin’s exuberance. They’re the perfect opposites.

When Zhang Hao’s turn arrives, all eyes turn to him, Hanbin not the only curious, it seems. It’s understandable; he’s the new addition to the well-known roster of people joining the summer camp, and he’s also quiet. He doesn’t appear as nervous as Hanbin might have expected. Instead, his focus is palpable, brows furrowed as he searches for the right words. 

“Hello,” Zhang Hao begins, his voice cracking on the last syllable. “My name is Zhang Hao. I play four instruments: the violin, the viola, the cello, and the piano.” Bingo. Hanbin’s guess was right. Hao is indeed a musician. They have something in common. “I was born in Fujian, China.” True, Hanbin thinks. The wish, he deduces, must be the last statement. “This…” he trails off, his eyes making contact with Hanbin’s before he looks down shyly, taking a deep breath. “This is the best summer of my life.” Wish.

Hanbin’s breath catches in his throat. His cheeks flush, overwhelmed by the simple declaration. Ricky’s enthusiastic shout of “Well done, Hao-ge!” fades into the background; all Hanbin hears is the pounding of his own heart.

It’s Hanbin’s turn now, but he struggles to find words. Zhang Hao’s have left a mark on him. All he can think of is making these three weeks unforgettable for Zhang Hao. When he goes back to China, Hanbin wants him to remember every moment. To be at school, and to remember; to lie in bed at night, and to remember; to see the beach, and to remember. 

What exactly does he want him to remember? Perhaps the question is more about who. 

“I’m Sung Hanbin. I started doing ballet when I was nine years old.” True. His feet flex on instinct. It’s been too long since his pointe shoes have been on. Zhang Hao’s gaze is fixed on him, but Hanbin avoids meeting it. If he dared, he would see the spark of shared passion, gleeful at finding a fellow lover of the arts. But he remains ignorant. “I’ve been coming here every year since I was three years old.” True. Hanbin inhales deeply, meeting Zhang Hao’s gaze head on. He wants him to know, to understand that this is a response to what he just said. He’s not the only one who has high expectations. “This is the summer that means the most to me.” Wish.

Finally, Zhang Hao smiles. The color of his brackets is light pink, and Hanbin might not know him enough to say this, but it suits him perfectly. His upper lip thins out, almost disappearing, while the lower lip remains full, a subtle pout even when stretched. His teeth are small, his cheeks are round.

Hanbin’s heart feels all light and fluttery, insides twisting almost uncomfortably. But above it all stands only one thought: he’s never seen a prettier sight. He’s even prettier than the beach, a place Hanbin loves with all his might. 

This would be a clear sign of what’s unfolding in Hanbin’s heart, but he remains blissfully unaware, too young, too innocent to grasp the full weight of his feelings. Later, much later, he’ll look back on this memory and piece everything together: the moment where his heart began to fall for the beautiful and enigmatic Zhang Hao, the boy who never allowed himself to fully smile, except in the presence of Hanbin.

But for now, at this moment, Zhang Hao’s hand instinctively raises to shield his smile. Hanbin, quick as ever, intercepts and intertwines their fingers. The other boy’s surprise is evident, eyes flickering between Hanbin’s face and their joined hands, back and forth, back and forth. Hanbin anticipates his withdrawal, but instead, Zhang Hao’s smile softens, and he squeezes. 

Hanbin’s cheeks redden further, and he glances around, suddenly self-conscious, remembering they’re in a room full of people. No one has noticed; the game continues around them, leaving them in their own little world.  

Only Ricky watches, eyes fixed on their hands. Hanbin’s anxiety about Ricky’s protectiveness dissipates when Ricky gives him a subtle thumbs-up before turning his attention back to the game.

And so, their friendship begins, their bond is sealed. As the summer unfolds, Zhang Hao and Hanbin become inseparable, their friendship blooming into something special.

As Hanbin lies in bed that night, sleep elusive, skin itchy and warm, his mind reels with thoughts. Everything feels different this time around, as if he’s drifting on a cloud, yet everything remains the same, except for him. What’s so special about Zhang Hao that has him feeling this way?

This summer, he wants it to be a good one, the best one, one that will change his life forever, one he will remember for years to come.

It’s ironic how life can twist and turn. Hanbin’s mother always says Be careful with that wandering mind of yours. Be careful what you wish for. He should have listened to her words.

His wish is granted, in more ways than one. Just not how he would have liked it.

☼₊˚.⋆✩⋆⁺₊☾⋆

The week glides by in a hazy blur, Zhang Hao and Ricky a stable presence throughout the camp. They spend the whole day together, working on the planned activities, and in the afternoons, walking home along the shore. Ricky and Gyuvin are full of energy, racing and splashing in the waves, laughter ringing in the air. Zhang Hao and Hanbin walk side by side, their pace more measured. 

Hanbin has witnessed Zhang Hao’s rare smile more often than he ever hoped, a beautiful sight against the backdrop of the setting sun. Each day ends in a familiar routine—parting at their doors, ready for dinner and sleep, only to begin again the next day. 

Hanbin learns many things. Ricky, for instance, is a hidden artist. On arts and crafts day, he surprises everyone with a rendition of Gangneung’s west coast, with four tiny figures playing by the shore. Gyuvin is nearly in tears, and Hanbin, overwhelmed, showers Ricky with hugs and kisses. His heart is as gentle as his art.  Ricky gives it to Gyuvin, and the boy treasures it as his most precious possession, ensuring it arrives home safely, to be framed and cherished. 

Zhang Hao’s endless charms extend to art as well. He draws a very cute red panda that resembles more of a cat adorned with a pink bow. It’s glittery, slightly off-color; kind of strange, to be honest, but Hanbin praises him nonetheless, which makes Zhang Hao beam with delight.  

Zhang likes it when Hanbin calls him gege. It’s a wonderful discovery.

On the third day of camp, as on the previous ones, they sit together. Each morning, Zhang Hao and Hanbin meet with a gentle bump of shoulders and soft smiles. Hanbin always asks, “Did you sleep well?” while caressing the back of Zhang Hao’s arm, feeling the softness of his skin, slightly sticky from sunscreen.

Zhang Hao responds with a slightly high-pitched, “Yes, and you?” while his fingers brush Hanbin’s palm. He can’t help but notice how rough they are, a side effect of playing string instruments, perhaps. Hanbin answers with a nod and a smile, and they keep walking towards their destination, Ricky, Gyuvin, and the sea as background noise. 

Out of the corner of his eye Hanbin catches sight of Zhang Hao tilting his head up, bathing his skin in the morning sun, breathing deeply the salted air. He suits summer, suits this beautiful landscape, blends into it as if he’s always belonged.

That afternoon, they rest on the sand, foreheads glistening with sweat from an intense game of tag. Zhang Hao is breathless, cheeks flushed, and his hair is damp. It’s evident he dislikes sports, all whiny and pouty. The sunlight has kissed his skin, tanning slightly, eyes vibrant. Hanbin can’t wait until the end of summer, curious if Zhang Hao, like him, will get freckles from the sun’s touch.

Hanbin nudges him with his elbow, feeling a flutter of nervousness. He’s been wanting to ask something for a while, but the right moment hasn’t presented itself, with Ricky and Gyuvin always around. Now seems like the perfect time—just the two of them, with no audience. 

Zhang Hao looks at him with wide, expectant eyes. “Hao,” Hanbin begins, testing the name on his tongue. He’s noticed that Gyuvin calls him just Hao without any formalities, but Hanbin, mindful of respect, has refrained from using it too freely. “What should I call you? Hao-hyung? Or just Hao? Hao-ge? Gege?”

Zhang Hao’s eyes widen even further, deer-like, cheeks flushing a deep crimson that extends to his neck. “Wh-where did you learn that?” he stammers.

Hanbin is taken aback. Did he say something wrong? Zhang Hao’s fluster is confusing, eyes lowering to his lap when they make contact with Hanbin’s. “I heard Ricky calling you Hao-ge and asked him what it meant. It’s like calling you hyung, right?” Hanbin explains, tilting his head. “He said I should also call you gege. I want you to feel comfortable here, hyung. Did I do something wrong?”

Hanbin’s pouts, Zhang Hao’s eyes zoning on his lips. He blurts out a loud “No!” and then mutters something in Mandarin that Hanbin can’t understand. Zhang Hao hides his face in his hands, emerging a minute later, still red but visibly calmer. “I mean no, you didn’t. You can call me however you want. Even just Hao is fine. I don't mind.”

Hanbin smiles, big and radiant, the one that shows his dimples as he gently takes Zhang Hao’s hands in his, feeling the roughness of his fingers. “I’ll listen well to gege, then.”

Zhang Hao’s blush returns with renewed intensity. Hanbin is curious and decides he might have to ask Ricky or look it up later, as Zhang Hao seems reluctant to explain further.

As the days pass, Hanbin discovers that the younger ones are good at sports. Ricky proves to be some sort of basketball prodigy, despite being young and not that tall, making impressive shots from mid-court. Gyuvin is euphoric, tackling Ricky and rolling around on the floor. The other kids swarm Ricky like ants to honey, but he graciously dismisses them, focusing his attention on Gyuvin. 

Zhang Hao and Hanbin watch from the bleachers, their lack of energy contrasting with the younger kids’ enthusiasm. Hanbin feels tired just from seeing them running around. Gyuvin called them grandfathers in their teenage bodies, and Hanbin agrees. Their talents lie elsewhere, Zhang Hao mentioned earlier—Hanbin is athletic, but a different kind, a softer and more graceful kind, and Zhang Hao is a musician. Sports are banned.

Hanbin persuades Zhang Hao to join him on the volleyball court once they’ve cooled down, just to have some fun and burn some energy, but things take a turn for the worse. The other boy gets hit on the nose by a powerful serve. Hanbin sees it all happen in slow motion as the ball, struck with great force, flies across the net, with an alarming speed. Zhang Hao’s reflexes are too slow, the ball traveling a straight path towards him. The ball slams into his face before he can react.

The impact is followed by a loud, painful sound and Zhang Hao’s piercing scream. He collapses to his knees, clutching his nose, tears streaming down his face from both the pain and embarrassment. Hanbin rushes to his side, trying to see if anything’s broken. Zhang Hao winces away from the instructor’s probing hands, colliding with Hanbin’s chest, who wraps an arm around his shoulders in a tight hug. 

The other boy’s eyes are big and pleading, and Hanbin understands without words what he means, which he wants. It’s what he would want too. 

“Can everyone leave?” Hanbin’s request comes out more as an order, and the other kids obey immediately. As one of the oldest and more respected of the camp, his authority goes unquestioned. One by one, they leave, except for the culprit, who lingers by the entrance at the instructor’s request, gaze lowered, arms raised protectively over his chest.

Zhang Hao’s still clutching his nose, but his distress has lessened. Hanbin feels a sense of relief. His thumb catches one of Hao’s tears running down his cheek. It’s an intimate gesture; he’s never touched him this way before, only his hands and arms. 

It’s weird, how his heart speeds up, how the back of his neck prickles with heat. He’s squished Gyuvin’s cheeks many times, but he’s never felt this way. The softness of Zhang Hao’s skin and the faint stubble beginning to grow on his face adds to the unfamiliar sensation growing in Hanbin’s chest. 

“Can we see, gege?” Hanbin asks gently, placing his hands over Zhang Hao’s.

He pouts, fat droplets still escaping his doe-eyes. “It hurts,” he says, his voice pitiful enough to make Hanbin’s chest ache. 

Another tear caught by Hanbin’s thumb. He speaks in a soothing tone, reminiscent of how his mother used to when was a very clumsy and energetic kid, falling on his knees more than once, or when he got injured during ballet. “I know it hurts. You can cry all you want, but we need to check if you’re okay. Can we, please?”

Zhang Hao doesn’t look fully convinced, but he slowly peels his hands away. His nose is red, and not bleeding, a good sign in Hanbin’s eyes. The instructor examines him, turning his face and asking a series of questions. His conclusion is that Zhang Hao’s nose is not broken, since it’s not swollen and he can breathe normally. 

Relief courses through Hanbin’s veins, and Zhang Hao’s tears subside as he realizes he’s fine. Hanbin understands now that, more than pain, he was afraid.

Hanbin’s mood darkens with a murderous intent. He knows the other boy didn’t mean to hurt Zhang Hao, but he should have been more careful. Thankfully, nothing is broken, so he doesn’t have to break a nose in retaliation. 

That train of thought catches him by surprise; Hanbin, by nature, is not a violent person. Seeing Zhang Hao in pain has awakened a fierce protectiveness within him. He gets Ricky now.

Hanbin’s mother drives them home. Although she’s seen Zhang Hao, sneaking some furtive glances when she sees them hovering around each other, this is their first real meeting. Hanbin, oversharer by nature, has been somewhat secretive, which has only piqued her curiosity. He wanted to keep Zhang Hao’s existence to himself for a little bit longer. Also, he’s a little frightened of his mother’s watchful eye. The reason why remains a mystery to him.

She asks a few questions, but nothing too intrusive. Zhang Hao, though shy, answers politely, indulging her. She calls him a nice boy and he smiles, wincing in pain, yet still happy. When Hanbin’s mother tells him she’s glad Hanbin has found such a good friend, Zhang Hao giggles, sweet and mellow. Hanbin smiles too, too focused on the boy sitting next to him to notice his mother’s knowing glance in the rearview mirror. 

Ricky’s parents are out exploring the city, not expecting any accidents, so Hanbin’s mother leaves them with some peeled fruit and an ice pack for Zhang Hao’s nose. It’s still red but less inflamed.

They sit on the porch, overlooking the beach, legs and arms pressed together in a comfortable silence. It should feel awkward to Hanbin; he’s used to constant chatter and chaos at home. Yet, with Zhang Hao, the silence is soothing. There’s something calming about his presence, about the way he happily munches on an orange, about the way he breathes deeply, savoring the salty air. Hanbin’s content just observing him, learning to read his emotions from expressions rather than words.

Hanbin offers Zhang Hao a whole apple, but he refuses. “I can’t eat that,” he says. When Habin looks at him, he’s pouting, arms crossed. 

“Why not?” Hanbin asks, curious.

Zhang Hao shows his teeth, not in a smile, but to point at the pink braces. “I don’t know the word.”

“Braces, hyung,” he replies slowly, making sure Zhang Hao can hear the syllables and mimic them. He’s a really fast learner, Hanbin’s noticed. “Braces,” Hanbin repeats once more for good measure.

The other boy attempts to say it, his mouth moving silently a few times, then more audibly. “Braces,” he murmurs, almost shyly, but Hanbin hears him clearly. “Is that okay?” 

He sounds a little bit insecure, so Hanbin makes sure to go overboard with praise. “Perfect. You did great, Hao-gege. You’re an incredibly fast learner, so don’t be shy.” Zhang Hao’s smile, bright and full of apple-cheeked joy, is enough to make Hanbin’s day. 

His gaze drifts to Zhang Hao’s hands. They are balled into fists in his lap, as if fighting the urge to travel all the way to his mouth. It’s clear this must be an old habit, a way of hiding his happiness, not used to smiling freely. That makes Hanbin feel sad, but thankful at the same time, as he’s been given a glimpse into something usually kept hidden from most.

Perhaps Zhang Hao is shy about his braces. If that’s the case, then it needs to change, starting now. “I like your braces a lot. The color is really pretty, hyung. It suits you well,” he says earnestly.  Zhang Hao’s smile turns bashful, and this time, his hand wins the battle, hiding again, turning away from Hanbin, ears flushed a bright red. Hanbin realizes he might have been too honest. “Do you want me to cut the apples for you? I can go inside and get a knife,” he offers, hoping to change the subject.

Zhang Hao’s mop of brown hair bounces as he shakes his head no, still avoiding eye contact. “Do you have any candy?”

The question surprises Hanbin. “Do you like sweets, hyung?” 

Zhang Hao turns to him, face lighting up with excitement, shyness momentarily forgotten. “Yes, but my mom doesn’t let me eat them. Braces,” he explains, using his newly learned word. 

Hanbin files this information into the part of his brain reserved to store important things. Like the correct position to do a pirouette, or how to properly break new ballet shoes. He springs to his feet. “I’ll bring you some. Wait here.”

He searches the house, collecting every candy he can find: chocolates, candies, gummies, bubblegum, marshmallows, you name it. Gyuvin will definitely kill him later for depleting the pantry, but Hanbin will die happily. His last memory will be Zhang Hao’s delighted face, full of awe, almost as if it were his first time seeing candy. 

Grabby hands at Hanbin’s loot, they sit together, indulging in the sweets. Hanbin feels a bit sick from the excessive sugar, but Zhang Hao keeps unwrapping and sharing, insisting on giving one to Hanbin each time. Hanbin quickly learns he can’t refuse Zhang Hao’s requests.

Eventually, a considerable mound of candy wrappers accumulates, and Zhang Hao yawns, eyelids growing heavy. “I’m sleepy.” Sugar crash, Hanbin’s mom would say. He ate almost his body weight in candy, but it kept him distracted from his injured nose, which is good.

Hanbin smiles warmly. “Sleep then, Hao-ge,” he says, offering his shoulder as a pillow. 

The other boy surprises him by sprawling out on the bench and resting his head on Hanbin’s thigh. No one has ever done that before; Hanbin is caught off guard, feeling a wave of panic, hands frozen by his sides. Is he allowed to touch Zhang Hao, or is it forbidden? 

Hanbin’s surprised once again as Zhang Hao takes one of his hands and places it on his head. Tentatively, Hanbin begins to run his fingers through Zhang Hao’s thick hair. It feels oddly intimate, his chest constricting at the sight of the other boy’s round eyes looking up at him. “I’ll keep icing your nose so it stays pretty,” Habin jokes with a faint touch to the red skin.

Zhang Hao smiles. It’s even better from this angle. “Flatterer,” he murmurs, blinking a few times, eyes trained on Hanbin’s face. And then, they close, falling into a deep sleep, faint snores escaping his lips. 

Hours later, Ricky and Gyuvin find them in the exact same position. Hanbin’s stomach growls with hunger, competing with the sound of the crashing waves. His bladder is also full and aching slightly, and his leg has gone numb from the awkward position. He keeps his promise of icing Zhang Hao’s nose, each time eliciting a soft whine from him in his sleep, like a wounded puppy. It’s cute, making Hanbin’s heart skip a beat. 

He doesn’t dwell too much on this fluttery feeling; today, his heart has been unusually restless, and he has always had a soft spot for all things cute—Zhang Hao included.

Stare trained on the sleeping boy; he doesn’t notice their younger friend’s arrival. When Ricky whispers in amazement, Hanbin retracts his hand from Zhang Hao’s hair, feeling as if he has been caught doing something he shouldn’t have. Ricky and Gyuvin share an amused look, clearly enjoying Hanbin’s nervousness.

Zhang Hao stirs awake from the movement, blinking slowly up at Hanbin, syrupy warmth emanating from his eyes. It takes him a few minutes to fully grasp his surroundings. When he does, he scrambles upright as best as his groggy state allows, bowing his messy head in apology. “Sorry. Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

Hanbin is puzzled. “What for?”

Zhang Hao looks up sheepishly through his eyelashes. “I used you as a human pillow.”

“If you were bothering me, I would have woken you up, gege,” Hanbin reassures him. 

In the periphery, Hanbin hears Ricky’s faint gasp followed by a barely concealed snicker. When Hanbin glances over, he notices the younger boys silently exchanging knowing looks. It’s amazing how attuned they are to each other in such a short span of time, Hanbin muses. But then again, he feels a similar connection with Zhang Hao.

“Good evening, Hanbin-hyung, Hao-gege,” Ricky interjects, teasing. His smirk makes him look like a particularly smug kitty. 

Zhang Hao’s face flushes with embarrassment as he yells something in Mandarin, pointing an accusatory finger at Ricky. His voice isn’t angry but rather filled with embarrassment. Hanbin wishes he could understand their language beyond the basics. This new school year, he promises he’ll improve.

Ricky’s smirk only widens. “Sure thing, Hao-gege.” That Hanbin understands. Zhang Hao, now thoroughly embarrassed, takes off after Ricky, shouting so loudly that it echoes across the entire coast. Hanbin watches, amazed. The boy he met just a few days ago seems like a faraway memory.

They’re a bit of a mess. But Hanbin’s happy he’s found new friends. As Ricky tackles Zhang Hao into the sand, Hanbin springs into action, ready to come to the rescue.

☼₊˚.⋆✩⋆⁺₊☾⋆

Zhang Hao, quiet and shy at first, is a force to be reckoned with. Hanbin is grateful he pursued their friendship; otherwise, he would have remained unaware of the amazing person hiding beneath the surface. As Zhang Hao grows more comfortable with his two new friends, his true personality begins to emerge.

It’s a slow process, trying to get him out of his shell, for him to feel comfortable enough to let his tongue wander even if he doesn’t feel too confident in his language skills, especially in the presence of more people. Zhang Hao’s shyness mostly stems from his belief that he might not be understood, despite his Korean being impressive. 

As Zhang Hao becomes more at ease, he starts to let his guard down. Hanbin learns that he has plenty to say and loves sharing his thoughts. He proudly sports bright pink Hello Kitty band-aids, provided by Hanbin’s mother, to cover the bruise on his nose. Though striking and attracting curious glances, Zhang Hao doesn’t shrink in embarrassment. Instead, he freely shows up to the camp activities, pink-band aid on, and lets everyone stare.

The bruise is not as big as Hanbin thought it would be, yet he still makes sure to give the guy who caused it a dirty look every time he crosses paths with him. The lack of apology makes Hanbin feel justified in his retribution. He doesn’t feel remorse every time the guy flinches in panic, scattering off as fast as he can.

Zhang Hao is quite vocal about his displeasure, especially after being injured to death, in his words. He seems to trust Hanbin enough to reveal his true self. It’s shocking at first, Zhang Hao’s whining, pouting and demands. His eyes always grow all round and glassy as he uses their height difference to his benefit, batting his eyelashes slowly. He’s perfected the art of being endearingly cute to get what he wants. 

Zhang Hao might say, “Hanbin, my nose hurts so much. Do you have some of those sweets we ate the other day? I think I’ll feel better after eating just one”. He, in fact, does not eat just one. Or, “Hanbin, my nose hurts so much. Can you please touch my hair so I can relax?” He might also ask, “Hanbin, my nose hurts so much. I don’t want to do sports today. Can you please keep me company?” 

Truth is, he doesn’t need to do all that. Hanbin will say yes regardless. But he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t enjoy the show. He enjoys it very much.

They teach each other many things, and their patience in communication brings them infinitely closer. Zhang Hao sometimes gets frustrated when he struggles to express himself, like the time he wanted to praise Hanbin’s dimples but couldn’t. He just ended up blurting “Pretty cat,” and Hanbin kept looking everywhere for the animal.

During the week, Hanbin earns a new nickname. They’ve been lounging under the sun for a few minutes, with Zhang Hao’s face shaded by a large hat. He doesn’t really like to tan due to his sensitive skin. Hanbin’s is as well, but he’s accustomed to it, along with the thousand freckles making home of his cheeks.

Zhang Hao’s gaze is fixed on Hanbin, concentration evident. It’s cute how his tongue darts out, how his eyebrows furrow. “Pink cheeks,” he suddenly blurts, his index finger gently touching Hanbin’s rosy cheek.

“Pink cheeks?” Hanbin repeats, puzzled. Zhang Hao’s touch lingers, and it makes him shiver, though he attributes it to the cool breeze.

The other boy nods, looking almost proud. “You have pink cheeks, and freckles,” he notes, tracing each one of them. Come winter, they’ll be gone, but during summer, they multiply. “I had to look up how to say ‘pink cheeks’ and ‘freckles’ in the dictionary, Hanbinnie.” 

Hanbinnie. He must have heard it from his mother. The nickname, coming from Zhang Hao, carries a different weight than it does from Hanbin’s mother. From her, it sounds loving and maternal, like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold day. But from Zhang Hao, it’s tender, yet something more that Hanbin can’t quite decipher. Instead of warmth, Hanbin feels a strange mix of emotions: a desire to crawl out of his skin, a racing heart, a longing to swim in the ocean for hours. It’s all oddly exhilarating, and he finds himself wanting to hear Zhang Hao say it again and again, a thousand times over. It’s weird, but he embraces it.

Hanbin nods. His cheeks flush even deeper, turning a shade closer to scarlet. “I have pink cheeks and freckles,” he confirms, taking Zhang Hao’s slender finger into his palm. “Do you like them?”

The other boy nods. “Yes, they’re very pretty. Like stars,” he says, stealing Hanbin’s breath away. The faint memory of once feeling self-conscious about his freckles resurfaces. He was very dumb back then. If Zhang Hao finds them beautiful, then everyone else’s opinion fades into irrelevance. “You are now pink cheeks. That will be your name.”

Hanbin nods solemnly. “I like it, gege. Thank you very much. I feel like I should give you a nickname back, right? I just can’t think of anything” All the epithets coming to mind aren’t really suitable. He can’t name him Pretty Smart Witty Funny Beautiful Smile Zhang Hao, can he? 

The other boy smiles, the one reserved just for Hanbin, big and bright and pink. “Just gege is fine, Hanbinnie.”

Hanbin’s happy. Knowing that Zhang Hao has thought enough about him to give him a special nickname fills him with joy. This is their little thing, something to share with each other only.

☼₊˚.⋆✩⋆⁺₊☾⋆

The last day of camp arrives faster than Hanbin would have liked. With only two weeks left in this magical place, the prospect of returning to normal life looms large. If he’s lucky, he’ll see Zhang Hao again; if not… he doesn’t want to think about it, as the thought alone sends a pang of sadness through his chest. It’s unusual for him to get attached so quickly, but Zhang Hao fits him like a perfect glove.  

The night has fallen, and the campsite is all set up. Zhang Hao and Hanbin are sharing a tent, while Ricky and Gyuvin are in another. It’s different, and Hanbin’s a little bit nervous; Gyuvin has always been his designated tent-roommate for as long as Hanbin can remember. Although Zhang Hao has slept on his legs before, the idea of sharing a tent seems more nerve-wracking.

But Hanbin doesn’t have the time to dwell on his nerves; the closing ceremony is about to start. He’s been eagerly preparing to showcase his art. While many here have seen him dance before, Zhang Hao hasn’t, and Hanbin hopes to surprise him, to see him in awe, to look at Hanbin with those shiny, starry eyes. 

Under the moonlit serenity of the beach, fourteen-year-old Hanbin stands alone on cool, soft sand. His audience sits cross-legged a few meters in front, quiet and attentive. From a small speaker, the first haunting notes of a gayageum ripple through the night air, mingling with the gentle hiss of the surf and the distant murmur of the wind.

Hanbin dances, the white and long fabric of his shirt flowing with his movements, expression depicting deep concentration and reverence. His movements are precise and fluid, feet bare sinking into the wet sand.

Occasionally, he closes his eyes, as his arms move and his body flows, circular motions, and then sharp gestures, allowing the sensations of the night and the rhythm to guide his movements through the dance. 

Despite this, he keeps an eye on Zhang Hao, eager to catch his reaction. His eyes are drawn to every single one of Hanbin’s movements, expression shifting to awe, like he can’t believe what’s in front of him. Hanbin feels proud, feels like dancing forever. 

The dance concludes with Hanbin facing the sea, his hands raised towards the moon, symbolizing an offering and his connection to the universe. A gentle smile graces his lips as he gazes into the small crowd of people, applause mingling with the crashing waves.

Zhang Hao isn’t clapping. Hanbin isn’t sure if he’s even breathing. The urge to run to him, to ask him “How it was, gege? Did you like it?” is almost overwhelming, but Hanbin remains rooted to the spot. His heart races, an unfamiliar feeling creeping in. He doesn't get nervous when performing anymore. If it’s not that, then Hanbin wonders what it could be.

A little while later, as Hanbin’s changed into casual clothes, as they’ve laughed and ate, as they’ve sat in a large circle in front of a bonfire, as Hanbin’s been mesmerized over and over by the sight of Zhang Hao’s eyes shining gold from the fire’s reflection, they lay side by side on their tent.

The other boy can’t seem to find a comfortable position to rest in, turning and turning, huffing small puffs of air in annoyance at his inability to sleep. They’ve been quiet, which is not unusual, but this time, it’s charged with something Hanbin cannot define. It’s foreign, and he’s never felt it before. Things between them are usually easy, Hanbin just acting his heart out without thinking, but now, he hesitates before placing his hand on Zhang Hao’s arm to stop him from squirming.

Zhang Hao wanted to say something earlier, yet he didn’t. He would look at Hanbin, stare at him for a few seconds, gather his wits to spill something out, and then deflate. It happened six times, and yes, Hanbin was counting. He thought that, once they were alone, Zhang Hao would speak, just as he usually does, but it’s been deadly quiet.

Easily spooked Zhang Hao is back, it seems, as he almost jumps out of his skin when Hanbin’s hand finally touches his wrist. He’s on his back, just like Hanbin, and he retracts his arm fast, as if Hanbin’s touch burned.

“Gege, is everything alright?” Hanbin asks, voice unsure.

“Yeah, Hanbinnie,” the other boy answers automatically. After a few seconds, or minutes, a loud huff escapes his lips. “Actually, no,” he retracts, turning to his side. Hanbin feels his eyes on him, but he doesn’t dare to face him. “I’ve been meaning to say something, but I can’t find the right words.” His voice is just a whisper, but the frustration is loud and clear.

Hanbin feels for him. He wished he could speak his language, so he’d have an easier time. This brings an idea into his mind. It might be stupid, but he’s never claimed to be wise. Turning to his side, Zhang Hao’s face on the pillow next to him, Hanbin smiles. “Say it in Chinese if you want to.”

Zhang Hao’s eyebrows furrow, pout visible under the faint moonlight entering through their tent opening. “But you won’t understand.”

Yeah, Hanbin won’t. But words are not the only means to speak. “Perhaps I will.”

The other boy speaks, and speaks and speaks. It’s like a dam is broken, words spilling through his mouth. He sounds different, but his essence is still there, and Hanbin’s still endeared. He has a slight lisp, which is not that noticeable on the daily. 

And yes, Hanbin might not understand a thing, but he does understand his eyes; soft and pliant, round and shiny. He does understand his smile, small but content, as if he’s talking about something held dear to his heart. He does understand his hands; moving wildly in front of him, trying to get his point across.

Most importantly, he does understand his touch. One of his palms finds Hanbin’s and his fingers caress his own. There’s awe in his voice, and also admiration. 

When Zhang Hao finishes his little speech, he’s breathless, cheeks tinted red. But he doesn’t look down in bashfulness as he once would. No, his eyes are trained on Hanbin’s head on, almost daring. 

Hanbin has a faint idea what he was talking about. He might be ignorant of the intricacies of the other boy’s language, yet they share a soul. The artist’s soul. They speak the same language. “Were you praising me? Did you like my dancing, gege?” Hanbin asks. He tries to sound smug, but his voice comes out all hopeful.

“I did, Hanbinnie,” Zhang Hao admits.

The fluttery feeling in Hanbin’s stomach is unfamiliar, at least, in this setting. He often feels it before dancing, before a big competition, but not because of someone’s words. But the binding smile that splits his face is unrestrainable. It’s broken its chains and set free.

Zhang Hao gasps in wonder, and he too smiles. His finger finds Hanbin’s upper cheek, and he traces softly. “This. What is this?” he asks, almost reverently tracing the indents on Hanbin’s skin. “The name?”

“Dimples.”

“Dimples,” he repeats back, perfect right away. Hanbin’s come to think that there’s nothing Zhang Hao can’t do perfectly at his first try. “Pretty kitty.”

Oh. So that’s what he meant back then, Hanbin realizes with a blush. The other boy was trying to praise his dimples, yet didn’t know the word. He’s pretty sure Zhang Hao’s able to feel his skin heating up under his touch. “Thank you, you’re pretty as well,” escapes his lips. The other boy smirks, smug, like he already knows it. He must, Hanbin thinks. It’s hard not to, when it’s such a blatant fact. “Thank you for liking my dancing too, gege. It means a lot to me,” Hanbin declares with intent this time, more vulnerable.

“I want to see you dance again.”

“I’ll dance for you every day we have left,” Hanbin says, excitement pouring from his every pore. “And after this, you can come see me anytime you want. To practice, to my competitions, anything, gege. It’ll make me very happy.” 

Hanbin knows something like that it’s unlikely to happen, considering the kilometers that stretch between them. But it’s worth a try. It might not be tomorrow, but no one knows what will happen in a few years. Fate might have something in store for them.

Zhang Hao’s hand on his cheek, while a vow falls from his lips. “I will one day. I promise.”

Hanbin believes him.

They sleep, hands intertwined, heads resting against each other.

☼₊˚.⋆✩⋆⁺₊☾⋆

The week after camp passes in a lazy haze. They sleep in late, spend their days at the beach, explore the tall pine forest, or stroll into the city to indulge in ice cream. The younger ones are always happy to devour some sweets, and so is Zhang Hao, reveling in the forbidden sugar his mom usually restricts. Hanbin delights in feeding him as many treats as he can find. 

Zhang Hao’s joy is palpable when they discover a tanghulu shop—his face lights up at the sight of candied fruit. It’s rare he gets to eat some, he says, as the melted sugar gets stuck on his braces. They eat until their stomachs ache. Cotton candy would have been a safer choice, but Hanbin still enjoys the thirty minutes he spends watching Zhang Hao struggle to clean the sticky mess from his braces with an array of unfamiliar tools. 

Zhang Hao’s been wanting to see the sunrise for some time now. It’s hard to do so when he’s not a morning person. Hanbin has seen first-hand: Ricky has allowed him to enter their shared room when Zhang Hao refuses to get out of bed. Hanbin gently shakes him, only to be met with endless tossing, groaning, yawning, and the occasional half-opened eyes that immediately close again. 

He becomes grumpy if he hasn’t had his full eight hours of sleep, dozing off in the sun, offering only soft grunts in response to conversation, soft sighs escaping his lips from time to time. It's funny, it’s endearing. Hanbin loves poking him in the cheek, just to have his hand swatted away, loves talking endlessly about silly things. Zhang Hao pretends to hate it, but Hanbin has seen the smile he tries to hide.

They tried once, waking up at five a.m., but it was a disaster. Zhang Hao stayed over, curled up in Hanbin’s bed while Hanbin slept on a futon, Gyuvin and Ricky curled up on the top bunk. The attempt failed miserably; Hanbin woke up, but Zhang Hao and the kids remained asleep. 

It’s on a Sunday when they’re finally able to see the sunrise. Hanbin has a striking idea the night before: if Zhang Hao can’t wake up, they should just stay awake. The other boy agrees, and they prepare for their early morning adventure. Ricky and Gyuvin want to join them, but by midnight, they’re fast asleep.

Since Hanbin’s mom would never allow him to pull an all-nighter, they fake a sleepover and sneak out in the early hours. The night is spent sharing secrets under Hanbin’s comforter, low whispers to avoid waking the others or alerting the adults. 

Zhang Hao struggles to stay awake, blinks growing slower and slower, but Hanbin makes sure it doesn’t happen. He must make sure this wish comes true.

Outside, they spread blankets over the sand—some to sit on, other to wrap around Zhang Hao’s perpetually cold body. Hanbin sits beside him, shoulder to shoulder to share warmth. He wishes he could wrap Zhang Hao in his arms, but he hesitates, unsure if he’s allowed. He does it with Gyuvin all the time, but with Zhang Hao, it feels different. Hanbin’s still trying to understand why.

The only sounds are the waves crashing and the soft wind rustling around them. It’s peaceful, and Hanbin closes his eyes, savoring the salty and fishy breeze. Zhang watches the sky change from dark blue to a lighter shade, inch by inch. 

“How is life in China, gege?” Hanbin asks, breaking the silence. He’s curious about Zhang Hao’s life beyond the beach—about his life in the city, at school, at home. He wants to know the musician, the violinist, the pianist. His image of Zhang Hao is confined to this place, and he yearns to know him everywhere, though he knows that’s impossible. 

Zhang Hao’s shoulders shrug. “It’s good, I can’t complain. I get to play music, which I love. The rest doesn't really matter.” His tone is resigned, and Hanbin doesn’t like it. He wants Zhang Hao to be happy, to live fully and smile freely, as he has during these past two weeks. “My parents are very strict, and sometimes I’m a bit… what’s the word,” he trails off, staring at the horizon, just thinking. “Unconventional for their taste. That’s why we don’t get along most of the time.”

Unconventional… that’s an interesting word. Hanbin doesn’t see anything unconventional about Zhang Hao. To him, he’s remarkable, talented, passionate. 

Hanbin wants to ask more, but the sour expression on Zhang Hao’s face suggests it's a sensitive topic for him. He doesn’t want this moment to be marred by bitterness. 

Under the fading stars and moonlight, with the sun still changing, Hanbin feels safe. Safe to open his heart, hoping Zhang Hao feels the same. So, he speaks his mind.

“I think you’re amazing, gege,” Hanbin declares, his words raw and sincere. Zhang Hao’s head turns towards him, eyes wide and gleaming with surprise, as if he’s never heard such a praise before. If that’s true, it’s almost laughable. Hanbin wants him to hear pretty words every day. “You’re talented, you’re kind, you’re pretty, and you’re smart. You’re everything people wish for, and more. Be proud of who you are and don’t let anyone, even your parents, make you feel less for just being yourself. They might think you’re… unconventional,” Hanbin says the word with distaste, not understanding the meaning behind, but if Zhang Hao dislikes it, then so does he. “But you can turn its meaning around. There’s nothing wrong with being different. It means you stand out from the rest; it means you’re remarkable, unforgettable.”

Zhang Hao is silent for a moment, his response a faint, “Hanbin,” that tugs at his heart. He opens his arms, and Zhang Hao slips into them, nestling against Hanbin’s neck. His smaller frame fits perfectly against Hanbin’s.

How different things will be in one year, two years, three years? Will Zhang Hao grow taller than him, will his braces be gone? Will he be as sweet, as soft, as sharp? Their future is uncertain, so Hanbin cherishes the present.

“Do you dream of anything, Hao-ge?” Hanbin asks, as the first rays of sun begin to appear. It’s beautiful, the way the sky transforms into a canvas of blues, oranges and pinks; the way the clouds move out of the way for the biggest star to shine through. It’s Hanbin’s first sunrise as well, and he feels grateful to share it with someone so special. 

“Dream?” Zhang Hao asks, looking up from his spot at Hanbin’s chest.

“Something you want to do in life.”

“I want…” Zhang Hao begins, but his words trail off. His gaze shifts to the horizon, watching the dawn break. The sky blushes with a golden hue as the sun peeks over the distant waves. The sea awakens, shifting from a murky gray to a vibrant mix of blues and greens. It looks out of a movie, the way the water shines, like a million jewels are scattered all across. But the most memorable part of the scene is Zhang Hao’s words. 

When Hanbin steals a look at him, he looks serene, a faint smile brightening his features. He’s a star in Hanbin’s eyes, but not just one: all of them. “I want to be myself. Everywhere. Not just here.” His words carry the weight of a resolution, a commitment to making his dream a reality.

Though they’ve only been together for two weeks, it’s enough to make Hanbin’s life change forever.

☼₊˚.⋆✩⋆⁺₊☾⋆

Some things make him remember. Simple things, things he sees every day. 

A violin in the music shop he passes on his way to campus, a tanghulu shop on the street. Candies, apples. The sunrise, and the sunset. The beach. Gangneung’s west coast, in particular. There’s a reason Hanbin hasn’t returned in three years.

Of everything, the stars in the sky are the hardest to avoid. All of them. They’re everywhere, daily; there’s no escape. Memories begin to flood back, of a time where happiness was the rule. Of when he was just a kid, innocent, hopeful, unaware of the many ways one could be hurt. 

Most of the time, these memories just flash by, something he wishes away. But when he lingers, he knows the outcome: an aching chest, a distant look in his eyes, a bittersweet tilt to his lips. 

One memory stands out more than the rest. Hanbin has begged for it to fade with time, but it only becomes more vivid and colorful, more vibrant with each passing day. Happier, better.

It starts like this:

It’s everyone’s last week in Gangneung. Zhang Hao and Ricky leave on Wednesday, a trip to Seoul and then a flight to catch, while Hanbin and Gyuvin stay until Saturday. 

The four boys have formed a bond that feels unbreakable. Ricky and Gyuvin have spent entire days together, from dawn to dusk, running around the beach or chasing each other under the shadows of the tall pine trees. Zhang Hao and Hanbin have as well, albeit more quietly.

Today, Hanbin wants to do something special. With only two days left with Zhang Hao, and while this summer has been full of lovely memories, he’s still a little bit unsure. He doesn’t want Zhang Hao to forget about him, to forget about them. 

The idea to show Zhang Hao this secret place has been on Hanbin’s mind for a while. He’s been eager to share it with him, but he wanted to be selfish, wanted to just be the two of them, and today seems perfect. 

The kids went to a souvenir shop with Ricky’s parents early in the morning, Leaving Zhang Hao still fast asleep. This will be their time alone. Gyuvin won’t know, and he won’t complain endlessly about being left out of their adventure. Besides, he has seen it before. It used to be their sanctuary when they were younger.

Hanbin slips into the front door of his neighbor’s house. It’s always unlocked, and this time, empty. Empty except for the lump buried under thick blankets on the second floor. Hanbin has visited a few times before, but never lingered. Now, alone, he has time to explore. Zhang Hao’s suitcase rests on a corner, a pale pink hue with stickers all over it. It’s so unmistakably him that Hanbin can’t help but smile. 

Hanbin takes a deep breath, lungs filling with comfort. It smells like salt water, like pine trees, like Zhang Hao’s fruity perfume. His heart swells, his insides churn. Hanbin will miss him. He yearns to see his actual room, back home in China, to learn more about him and find the missing pieces of his puzzle. Does he like to collect plushies like Hanbin? Is his room scattered with remnants of his love for music? Does he have a favorite band, a favorite actor, posters with their faces littering the walls of his safe haven? 

A raspy voice spooks him out of his musings. “You are weird,” Zhang Hao says groggily, only his amused eyes visible from the edge of his blanket.

Hanbin gasps, a hand flying to his heart. “You scared me, hyung!”

“That’s what you get for staring off into the distance with a pained look on your face.” Zhang Hao looks the best like this, Hanbin thinks: freshly woken up, soft smile, sleepy eyes, hair in disarray. Less guarded, more youthful. Hanbin’s grateful he’s able to witness such a lovely sight. “What were you even thinking about?” The other boy asks, sitting up. The blanket pools at his hips, revealing a shirt that looks suspiciously like Hanbin’s. He doesn’t comment on it, though.

“You,” Hanbin blurts out, the confession slipping from his lips unplanned.

He doesn’t regret it, especially not when he sees Zhang Hao’s cheeks flush a pretty red, his shyness making him hide behind his hands. “Flatterer. Say good morning first and then think of me all you want,” Zhang Hao murmurs, voice muffled.

Hanbin moves closer, sitting on the edge of the bed, peeling Zhang Hao’s hands away from his face. His eyes remain averted, still blushing. “Good morning, gege. Get out of bed, we’re going on an adventure today.”

That catches Zhang Hao’s attention. “Will I have to walk?” he asks, already pouting. 

“Yes,” Hanbin replies. The other boy opens his mouth to complain, but Hanbin places a finger gently over his lips, silencing him. Zhang Hao’s eyes widen in surprise at Hanbin’s bold gesture. He can’t help but notice the warmth and softness of Zhang Hao’s lips, and the contact feels like it’s burning. His finger quickly retears, cheeks and neck warming up in embarrassment. Hanbin wants to crawl under the bed and hide. What possessed him to do that? “Don’t complain. I’ll carry you, if necessary,” he adds quickly, trying to fill the awkward silence. 

Zhang Hao laughs, incredulous. “You are crazy…”

It takes Zhang Hao quite a while to get ready, but Hanbin doesn’t mind. He sits in the living room, motionless for at least thirty minutes, replaying the moment in his mind obsessively. Is it strange to touch a friend like that? Does Zhang Hao think he’s weird? He didn’t seem disturbed or disgusted, but Hanbin wonders if he might be hiding his true feelings. Hanbin doesn’t believe that’s the case, though. 

Also, why does Hanbin’s heart race so much when he’s close to Zhang Hao? He’s always been a touchy person, comfortable with physical affection. Yet this feeling is different, more intense. If he asks Gyuvin, would he understand? Or is it better to keep this secret to himself? He can’t ask Zhang Hao, as he’s the cause of this dilemma.

Hanbin’s still deep in thought when Zhang Hao sits next to him, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. It seems like he hasn’t been scared off. That’s a relief.

“Shall we go, Hanbinnie?” Zhang Hao asks softly, his tone gentle as if speaking to a wounded animal.

“Let’s go, gege.”

A ten-minute walk west from Hanbin’s beach house, following the coastline, leads to a rock path. Most people don’t venture further, assuming there’s no way through. But little ten-year-old Hanbin and seven-year-old Gyuvin were adventurous. They squeezed through narrow passages and discovered a hidden paradise. 

It’s a small beach, surrounded by tall rocks, isolated from the outside world. A little secret just for them, untouched by humanity. Small flowers dot the landscape, and the water is calm, almost wave-free. The sand is soft, softer, not rough on the skin, and the water is crystal clear. If you swim out far enough, you can see small, colorful fish. Years ago, Hanbin and Gyuvin were captivated by the beauty of this place. Even now, Hanbin feels the same. 

The journey here was challenging. Zhang Hao, Hanbin has learned, has poor balance, so Hanbin had to practically carry him at times. Their hands were clasped tightly together throughout, Zhang Hao’s grip almost suffocating, but Hanbin didn’t mind. He loves feeling the other boy’s hand against his, as it is unusual, but not unwelcome. Gyuvin only ever holds his wrist, and his sister is all grown up now. She thinks touching Hanbin’s a bit gross. The contrast between Zhang Hao’s cold hand and Hanbin’s warmth creates a perfect balance.

As the beautiful terrain gives way to the beautiful beach, Zhang Hao’s initial fear turns into awe. Hanbin has very beautiful memories of this place—young and wild with Gyuvin, running around, eating sandwiches, and basking in the sun. Seeing his companion’s eyes light up with wonder makes everything sweeter, the experience even more special. 

“Hanbinnie…” Zhang Hao whispers in awe, standing in the middle of the beach, gazing at the horizon. “This is beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Hanbin concedes, staring at the boy instead of the beach. He can return here next year, and the year after that. But he doesn’t know when he’ll have Zhang Hao next to him again, close enough to touch, close enough to feel his warmth, close enough to see his smile. He needs to memorize this, this sight, this feeling. He needs to memorize him, lest his mind ever dares to forget. He doubts he ever could, though. “It is.”

They walk, hand in hand, until their feet touch the cold water of the sea.

Hanbin is always meticulous, so he spent the previous night preparing everything for this little trip. His bag is packed with sandwiches, snacks, candies, towels, spare clothes, and blankets in case Zhang Hao gets cold. 

After their little dip in the water, they explore around. Zhang Hao is particularly enchanted by the white and yellow flowers growing in the crevices of the rocks. They collect shells, pretty stones, and even spot a few crabs. 

Hanbin gets a scolding from Zhang Hao. His skin already feels tender from the sun, red and raw. He splashes some water on it for relief, but Zhang Hao’s disapproving gaze follows him closely. Sometimes, Hanbin thinks, Zhang Hao is like a mother hen, always concerned about their health and wellbeing.

Cold hands grip Hanbin’s shoulders, followed by the soft sound of a bottle being uncapped. Zhang Hao moves in front of him, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, tongue peeking out. He’s close, so close Hanbin can count each and every eyelash adorning his eyes, every single mole littering his face.

The sunscreen offers soothing relief to Hanbin’s skin, Zhang Hao spreading it carefully. “You get freckles because you don’t use sunscreen,” he chides. Hanbin is mesmerized, in a sort of trance, wishing he could find an excuse to touch Zhang Hao’s face in the same tender manner. “I love your freckles, but the sun is dangerous. You need to take care of yourself.” 

He finishes his ministrations with a tap to Hanbin’s nose, yet he doesn’t pull away. Hanbin doesn’t know when it happened, but one of his hands has wandered without his knowledge, finding home in the curve of Zhang Hao’s waist. 

They’re close, so close, and there’s a palpable tension between them. A gravitational pull of sorts, where Hanbin finds himself inching nearer and nearer, their breaths mingling. Hanbin’s eyes drift lower, to those moist, pouty lips, and then to his brown eyes, wide and doe-like but also half-lidded, reflecting something that Hanbin recognizes in himself. This feeling, this unspoken connection, seems to be mutual. 

It would take almost nothing for Hanbin to lean in, and… and what, exactly?

He doesn’t know. Uncertainty shatters the moment. Hanbin hugs the other boy, thanking him with a voice that sounds overly sweet, almost too sunny, even to his own ears. He then dashes towards the sea, eager to escape the lingering sensation, to drown it in water. It’s over, just like that, as quickly as it began. 

Things are normal. Hanbin is good at pretending, and Zhang Hao seems to be as well. They leave that brief moment behind, enjoying their afternoon. If Hanbin notices Zhang Hao staring at him with a faraway look in his eyes, he says nothing. If Zhao notices Hanbin staring at him with a faraway look in his eyes, he doesn’t say anything either. 

Hanbin doesn’t know what the other boy is thinking, but he is caught up in an endless loop of conjectures. What if he had closed the distance between them, and their lips had met for the briefest of seconds? Would have Zhang Hao pulled away, disgusted, or would he have leaned in closer? Hanbin will never know.

The most pressing question remains unanswered: how can he define the emotions he feels when he’s near Zhang Hao, when their hands brush, when their faces are mere inches away? Why does his heart ache when he watches him sleep, why does his stomach flutter when Zhang Hao’s mouth is sticky with candy and a pleased smile lights up his face?

The cause of Hanbin’s turmoil lies on the sand, towel forgotten. Sand coats his hair, his body, his hands, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His clothes are wet with salty water, and his glasses have been carefully set aside. He keeps squinting his eyes: be it the sun, be it his poor sight, Hanbin isn’t sure. But it’s cute. And there it is again, that familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach, right over his ribcage. 

Zhang Hao has been quiet for a while, arm raised to shield his face from the glaring sunlight. Hanbin knows something’s on his mind. The sigh that escapes his lips carries a hint of melancholy, of somberness. “I’m leaving soon,” he murmurs, voice a soft whisper. Hanbin’s heart constricts at the remainder. It’s all he has been dreading for days, and it’s unavoidable. There’s nothing they can do to change the near future.

“So am I,” Hanbin replies, reaching for Zhang Hao’s hand, the one resting limply between them. His skin has softened over time. When Hanbin first held it, it was rough and calloused, but now, it’s softer. Probably from rest, from not having to rub tirelessly over hard chords. “Will we see each other again?” Hanbin asks, trying to sound confident, but his voice comes out small and vulnerable.

If Zhang Hao read his mind, would he want to see Hanbin again, or would he drift away forever?

“Yes,” Zhang Hao assures, his certainty palpable, as if he has glimpsed the future. His hand grips Hanbin’s with even more strength, and their eyes lock. He seems confident, as though everything has been meticulously planned. “I won’t come back next year. It’s impossible, as I’m supposed to be somewhere else.” He doesn’t elaborate, and Hanbin doesn’t press. It wouldn’t make a difference. Hanbin can’t travel to meet him, as much as he wishes he could, and Zhang Hao can’t abandon his plans just to see him. “But in two years, we will meet again. I promise.”

Hanbin wants to believe him, but they’re kids. Most of the time, it’s not up to them. “How can you be so sure?”

A kiss to their intertwined hands seals the promise. Hanbin’s gasp is lost in the light breeze that wraps around them. His stomach churns with nervousness, with anticipation, with anxiety; he doesn’t quite understand it. Everything with Zhang Hao is new to him. “I just am. Please wait for me, pink-cheeks,” he says, with all the conviction of someone who believes his dreams will come true.

Inside Hanbin’s chest resides a heart so full it almost bursts. His feelings for the doe-eyed boy are intense and unfamiliar, but pure and untainted. He wants to ensure they remain that way forever. “I will. I will wait for you,” Hanbin vows, and he means it. “No matter how many years it takes you to come back, I’ll wait.”

Zhang Hao smiles, that big and bright thing that Hanbin has come to realize is reserved just for him. “Thank you, Hanbinnie.” Then, he stands, still holding Hanbin’s hand, and tugs it gently so Hanbin will follow. “Swim with me?”

They wade into the water, not letting go of each other, gradually moving farther from the shore until their feet can no longer touch the bottom. In the calm, tranquil sea, they float side by side, surrounded only by the sky and clouds, always joined.

As the sky’s blue slowly gives way to peachy hues, Zhang Hao stands up, pulling Hanbin with him. The sun’s rays sparkle against the water, casting a golden glow on his skin. The words he speaks will forever be etched in Hanbin’s memory, a turning point, something that will change his life forever.

“Let’s live without regrets, pink-cheeks.”

There’s one thing Hanbin wishes he had the courage to do—the only thing he’s afraid to attempt. But Zhang Hao is brave enough for both of them. Hanbin decides to follow his lead, wherever it might take them.

Zhang Hao submerges himself underwater, taking Hanbin down with him. The turquoise water envelops them, giving him a siren-like appearance. Zhang Hao’s legs wrap around Hanbin’s middle, while Hanbin’s hands find his waist. Lanky arms encircle Hanbin’s neck, a strong hold preventing them from parting. At this moment, Hanbin thinks they fit together perfectly; they always have.

Their weightless bodies fight against gravity, yet their mouths lose the wrestle. Curved in sweet smiles, they near and near, until there’s no space left between.

And so, they kiss.

Hanbin never really imagined what his first kiss would be like. He hadn’t thought it would come at all. Recently, though, his mind has been dreaming up scenarios. He imagined it would taste sweet, like tanghulu, like cotton candy. 

In reality, salty water sneaks through the small opening of his mouth.

Hanbin’s never kissed anyone before, and he bets his heart Zhang Hao hasn’t either. It’s awkward and clumsy. He keeps his eyes open, afraid of missing any sign of discomfort on Zhang Hao’s face, but the other boy only holds him closer, his grip firm around Hanbin’s neck. 

They both run out of air at the same time, swimming up, breaking the surface with desperate gasps. As they make their way back to the shore, they cling to each other. Hanbin couldn’t see clearly through the blue-tinted water, but Zhang Hao’s cheeks are flushed red, and so are his ears. Hanbin’s not faring any better. 

They exchange furtive glances all the way to their towels, when they sit side by side, when Zhang Hao closes the distance and rests his head against Hanbin’s. 

Shy smiles, shy eyes, shy hands. Just kids navigating uncharted territory.

The second time, it does taste sweet. With only the sunset as their witness, they kiss again. And again, and again, and again. They kiss until the sky darkens, until the endless stars twinkle, until the moon bathes them in silver lightening.

Let’s live without regrets, Zhang Hao said. Hanbin could never regret this. He can never regret Zhang Hao.

☼₊˚.⋆✩⋆⁺₊☾⋆

On Wednesday, they say goodbye.

Hanbin wakes up on the lower bunk he shares with Gyuvin, Zhang Hao pressed tightly to his side, holding him close. The kids are snuggled up on the top bunk, snoring softly. Last night was their final sleepover before they part ways for an indefinite time—two years, Hanbin reminds himself. Twenty-four months. Seven hundred and thirty-three days. 

Hanbin wishes things were different, wishes this summer could stretch on forever, wishes the seasons would never change. Right now, he despises winter, never wants to see snow again.

Zhang Hao wakes up clingy and whiny, demanding attention. Hanbin’s mom brings them breakfast in bed, and Hanbin worries about her reaction to finding them entwined like this. But she doesn’t even blink. She greets Zhang Hao warmly, as always, and gently wakes the younger kids.

They don’t kiss again, but Hanbin is fine with that. All he needs is Zhang Hao’s closeness for the last remaining hours they have together. They stay in bed until well past noon, just basking in each other’s presence. Ricky and Gyuvin don’t say a thing when they come down and see them. Gyuvin just gives them a thumbs up, and that’s it. Whatever it means.

Hanbin helps him pack his last bags, helps him carry his suitcase downstairs, helps him load it into the truck of their rented car. 

The kids hug next to them, but they don’t cry. They just promise to see each other again someday, innocence shining through their words.

Theirs, on the contrary, is tearful, even though Hanbin fights hard to hold back his tears. He’s always been a crier, but he didn’t expect Zhang Hao to be one as well. He’s only seen him cry once before, when he got hit by a ball weeks ago. It feels like lifetimes have passed since then.  

Zhang Hao’s eyes shine as they always do, but for a different reason. They’re filled with tears, with their beloved sea spilling relentlessly despite Hanbin’s attempts to comfort him. He cups his face, brushing away the stubborn wetness with his thumb. It might sound strange, but he looks strikingly beautiful, even in his sorrow. “Don’t cry, gege,” Hanbin pleads, as he weeps too.

A small smile breaks across Zhang Hao’s face. “You’re crying too, pink-cheeks,” he notes, mimicking Hanbin’s gesture, his hands gently catching the tears that won’t stop falling. To the world, they might seem overly dramatic, but to Hanbin’s teenage heart, it’s everything. Zhang Hao is everything: his soft eyes, his soft skin, his soft tears. “We cry together, we laugh together, and we love together. That’s how the world works,” the other boy says, resting his head on Hanbin’s chest, right over his pounding heart.

Love. Hanbin hadn’t been able to name this feeling before, but love fits. Love. He loves Zhang Hao, and Zhang Hao loves him. Whatever that means, whatever it entails. They don’t have time to figure it out.

They just have this summer, their memories, and the future.

“We love together,” Hanbin echoes, enveloping Zhang Hao in a tight hug. “I hope you find a way to be yourself, Hao-gege.” His words make Zhang Hao sink even further into his embrace, as if trying to merge into one. 

Ricky is already seated in the car, and Ricky’s dad has the engine running. They’re just waiting for Zhang Hao to finish his farewells, and they go. To a place Hanbin has never seen, to a place where someone important to him inhabits. Zhang Hao squeezes Hanbin one last time, their faces almost level. Hanbin’s still a bit taller. Everything about them has changed, except that.  

A final hug, their heads bumping together. “I hope you always live without regrets, Hanbinnie,” Zhang Hao whispers against his ear, their cheeks brushing. Then, he presses a kiss to the corner of Hanbin’s mouth, so close to where he always wants to feel him, sweet but sour, everything Hanbin’s ever wanted yet cannot fully have. “This was the best summer of my life. Until we meet again.”

Until they meet again.

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There’s a small box on Hanbin’s nightstand. It’s neither his nor Gyuvin’s. It wasn’t there this morning, or the week before.

He doesn’t notice it until he gets home later that afternoon, after spending the rest of the day after Zhang Hao’s departure staring at the sea. Gyuvin, usually quick with a joke, doesn’t tease him this time. Maybe he senses Hanbin’s melancholy, or perhaps he feels the same way. They don’t talk much; Gyuvin sits quietly beside him, both watching the sun dip below the horizon. 

The box is small and white, adorned with a painting of a violin and a ballet dancer on the lid. Zhang Hao and Hanbin.  

Hanbin opens it to find letters written in a language he doesn’t understand.

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Two years have passed. Two hectic years, even by Hanbin’s standards. Class after class, competition after competition, school work after school work. That doesn’t mean he hasn’t had time to think about him.

Hanbin is freshly sixteen, brimming with hopes and dreams, ready to get crushed by the weight of reality.

Eyes shining with hope, heart bursting at the seams with excitement, he knocks on his neighbor’s door as soon as he arrives. And knocks again. Knocks until his knuckles hurt, until they’re red and raw. Knocks until the day turns to night. He knocks through the blinding sun and into the half-moon. 

Maybe he’s running late. Maybe he’ll come tomorrow. Hanbin will be patient.

The next day, he returns. He sits on the wooden steps at the entrance of his neighbor’s house, waiting. He doesn’t knock again; he knows that no one has arrived.

It’s the end of the summer, and he still waits. His eyes linger on the empty house, on the vacant parking lot, hoping for a sign. But as much as he hopes, nothing comes. No one comes.

He’s just sixteen. But it’s enough to understand what heartbreak is. 

A year later, Hanbin returns to the empty house for a third year in a row. He said back then, No matter how many years it takes you to come back, I’ll wait.

But what if he never does?

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