Archive of Our Own

The first week back teaching has been an adjustment, to say the least. Zhang Hao has been lucky enough to pick up contracts with a few elementary and middle schools as a peripatetic teacher, travelling between them to spend a few hours in each moving around a classroom trying to coax nine year olds into playing something vaguely recognisable as The Octopus’ Dream, or even a G note, depending on whether the class has ever seen a violin before. Most of this week has been spent fielding questions about himself– who he is, why he’s here, where has their old teacher gone, can his ears move on their own, why are they learning the violin instead of the glockenspiel like last year, why are they learning the violin when their friend in a completely different school in a completely different province is learning the flute, is he really chinese, what kind of hybrid is he, is he married, does he have children, are his non-existent children also Red Panda hybrids, and do they have to do music lessons?

It's different, certainly. Slightly overstimulating, he’s found, being utterly surrounded by eager children when he’s more used to very few people in very tense rooms. At the same time, he feels there has been this nervous energy buzzing around him all week and it has taken until Friday afternoon, until leaving the final new class in the final new school, to work out what it is. Unfulfilled anticipation. Zang Hao’s body is still wired to expect catastrophe, ready to mediate fights or run to a rescue or barrel through reluctance to accept his help or authority, and he wonders how long it will take to train himself out of it.

The other adjustment, truth be told, is to the commute. He still hasn’t quite made up his mind about whether to get rid of the car, but has braved the first week entirely on public transport and it has proved acceptable so far. It’s different, to pile onto the metro with all the other commuters and try not to take anyone’s eye out with the violin strapped to his back, keeping his tail curled around himself and out of other people’s way, instead of getting to hide alone in his car as he gets from one place to the other. Earphones and imperceptible bopping as opposed to blasting his music and singing at the top of his voice in between cursing out other drivers also trying to survive the six pm crush onto the freeway. It’s different. More efficient probably, and as much as his new endeavour is going to improve his quality of life, lower his stress levels, probably extend his lifespan, it has also decreased his income somewhat, and he does need to consider the economic implications of keeping the car when he knows his travel for work is far better suited to the trains and buses of the metropolis. The idea of getting rid of it entirely and being wholly reliant on other people, other systems, to be unable to simply escape if he should ever need to is– honestly, it’s a little frightening.

It’s also not a problem he needs to solve tonight. He checks his phone to confirm the address of the restaurant as he exits the metro station and turns in the correct direction down the street. He’s looking forward to dinner tonight, partly for the food, which the online reviews have him highly anticipating, but also for the company. It feels like an age since he’s seen Ricky in person– even though it’s only been two months, it’s the longest they’ve gone without contact since Hao first met him, tiny and all alone as the grief and the fear poured out of him like a radiation leak in the social services office. It’s the way it goes, of course, they drill it into you before you start– be empathetic, be friendly, care, do your best, but don’t get too attached, because you can’t save them all, and they aren’t yours even if you do. He got better at it over the years, learnt how to create just the right amount of distance to protect himself while doing his best for his clients. It's easier, though, with most cases who he only works with for a year or two, and Ricky is almost unique in how long they’ve been together, and how much they have in common. It would be impossible for him not to be a bit different, he always reasoned with himself.

And, surely, everyone must find it hardest with the first.

Maybe it was a mistake or a misjudgement to take him to Hanbin; for his own sake, for the smudge it drew across all of his carefully penciled boundaries of professionalism, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. Ricky has finally found a home, the family he needs and deserves. For a moment, Hao thought perhaps he had found the same thing.

Hanbin hasn’t called him. They had agreed after that night, after talking through it all, that minimal contact was the best idea for now, until the boys were settled out of the service and Zhang Hao was officially resigned and set up in a new job. But it’s been a week, and Hanbin has to know, because he gave him the date, and the boys know, and Gyuvin has never kept anything secret in his life, so why is Hao still waiting, flinching every time his phone rings and feeling his stomach sink in disappointment when its not the name he wants. He could, in theory, pick up the phone himself, but he thinks he’s made his position perfectly clear, and Hanbin is the one with– well. He has a house, a business, his kids, he has a whole life, and Zhang Hao is the one in a rented studio in a foreign country starting his life over at the age of thirty three. If either of them was going to change their mind, it's patently obvious who it would be.

He determines as he approaches the restaurant that he will absolutely not be spending any of this evening subtly or unsubtly interrogating Ricky about Hanbin. Tonight is for them. It’s for him to get to know the young man who has grown in place of the frightened child he first met, for them to learn each other anew outside of the relationship dictated by the circumstances of their acquaintance.

It’s nice inside, and he’s only a minute after they agreed to meet, which means Ricky could arrive anything up to thirty minutes after now, although he will let him know if he’s running more than ten minutes late, as he always does. He gets a table and a menu and a bottle of soju, because it's friday and he doesn’t have to drive and Ricky is an adult now, not his client, so it's not inappropriate. How bizarre.

Fifteen minutes and three increasingly annoyed swoops from the waiters pass, and Ricky still isn’t there, nor has he called or messaged to explain his tardiness or give an estimated time of arrival. Hao has had as much of the soju as he ought to before eating, and while Ricky has never been known for his punctuality, this lack of communication is irritating and uncharacteristic, it has him drumming his fingers on the table and running a hand obsessively over the fur of his tail where it’s curved politely over his lap. After another few minutes, his phone finally buzzes, and he picks it up only to be met with not a notification from Ricky’s kakao chat, but Gyuvin’s. He opens it to find a picture, a photograph of what looks like Gyuvin’s dorm room, complete with one Shen Quanrui lying on the bed in designer pyjamas with an ipad in front of him, a bowl of popcorn to one side and his tail curled happily in the air.

Kim Gyuvin: ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ Enjoy your date.

What the fuck?

Zhang Hao looks around, a sinking feeling enveloping him that he knows exactly what is about to happen, the premonition coming straight to life as Sung Hanbin walks through the front door of the restaurant. He doesn’t even look around. It’s like he has a homing signal buried behind Zhang Hao’s ribs, because he simply looks up from his phone and meets his eyes immediately, face going through a whole journey before it alights on understanding. He walks over, something hesitant about it, and says the first words Hao has heard from him in two months.

“Let me guess,” he sighs, pushing a hand through his hair. “Gyuvin was supposed to meet you here for dinner?”

He looks good. He always looks good, even when he doesn’t, but he looks good. The t-shirt he’s wearing is low enough to show his tattoos and tight enough to show his build, his cheeks just a little pink, probably from the exertion of running to the restaurant. Hao can feel his ears twitching as his eyes rake their way unbidden all around the body before him.

“Close,” he says, tearing his eyes from the shoulder Hanbin’s yellow flannel has drooped from, revealing the fit of his sleeve around his bicep and a flash of ink running out from it on the inside of his arm. “Ricky.”

Is this awkward? He doesn’t quite know what to say, what he’s allowed to say, because all of the rules are gone now and there are no lines inside which he has to colour but that means there are none to guide him either. He could do anything, and the only thing stopping him is the uncertainty of whether Hanbin wants him to or not. Zhang Hao is not exactly used to being unsure whether or not people want him.

“Little shits.” His eyes twinkle as he drops into the seat, draping the jacket he was holding over the back of the chair. “One day they’ll mind their own business.”

“Well it isn’t my fault,” Hao sniffs. “They were perfectly normal when I brought them to you. You must have taught them bad things.”

Hanbin holds his hands up in acceptance of the blame. If they’re shittalking the children, they don’t have to discuss why they've done what they’ve done, or what this means, or where they go from here. It’s always been their comfort zone, somehow, even though it represents their greatest connection and greatest complication all at once, and if they’re arguing about who is to blame for how Ricky and Gyuvin have turned out then Zhang Hao does not have to think about all the things he has said and done to this man, and all the things Hanbin said and did to him in return, and how all of that was followed by weeks and weeks of radio silence with nothing but a pair of underwear and sweatpants that didn’t belong to him folded neatly in his top drawer to confirm it really happened.

“Ricky had the nerve to tell me he’d pay, as well,” he adds, just to drive home the seriousness of the situation.

“Truly despicable,” Hanbin agrees, that glimmer of mischief making itself known in his eyes. “Does hyung want to help me punish them?”

He taps at his phone for a few seconds before placing it on the table, naver maps open on the screen showing different branches of the restaurant they’re sat in. There’s this one, in Jongno-gu, and then one in Gangnam, one in Seocho-gu, one in Hongdae and one just west of them in Myeongdong. Hanbin’s smile grows for a second, and then he picks the phone up, starting a call and bringing it to his ear. He coughs once and an artificial frown folds his face up.

“Gyuvin-ah?” he says. “Where are you?”

His ears strain, but he can’t make out what's said at the other end.

“I mean I’m at the restaurant and you aren’t here. You said you were already here.” A pause. “What do you mean look around? You’re a bit old for hide and seek, don’t you think?”

He meets Zhang Hao’s eye and points at his phone.

Tell him there’s no-one here, he mouths.

His heart squeezes in his chest, a laugh trapped below his diaphragm that he can’t let out for fear of giving the game away to Gyuvin. He feels giddy, like a naughty school child, and he opens his chat with Gyuvin, considering for a second, before changing his mind and swiping his keyboard from Hangul to Mandarin.

Care to explain why I’m sitting alone in this restaurant and Gyuvin is sending me pictures of you in his flat and telling me I have a date?

He sends the message to Ricky and waits for him to read it.

Whoever Gyuvin thinks he’s set me up with isn’t here. I’ve never been stood up before and I can’t say I’m enjoying it. I hope you know I’m going to eat enough for two people and send you the bill.

He watches as the little number one disappears from beside the message, then locks his phone and puts it back on the table and settles in to watch the show, signalling to the waiter to bring another glass and some menus.

“Yes, Gyuvin-ah, I’m in the right restaurant, I do know how to read. No, of course I’m not in Gangnam, I’m in Myeongdong, like we said, and if you aren’t coming then I don’t see how it matters. This isn’t a nice trick to pull on someone, Gyuvin-ah.”

Hanbin is not a good actor. He sounds about two seconds away from laughing the whole time, but Gyuvin must be worn down enough from guilt for it to work, because Hanbin gives him an exaggerated thumbs up.

“I thought this was where you wanted to meet… what do– oh for fuck’s sake, Gyuvin.” Hanbin lets the statement sit in order to cover his phone and lean his face away to cough out a giggle. “This is what happens when you try to meddle and trick people. Now poor Hao hyung is sitting all alone. You had better call him and explain and apologise. Properly.”

Hanbin hangs up and sets his phone down, then their eyes meet and all hope of composure is lost.

“Why would you tell him to call me, I can’t…” He manages to push the words through his cackles, and screeches when his phone screen lights up. “Ah, no, Hanbin, what do I do? I can’t answer!”

They watch the phone go dark, then light up again, still laughing as the waiter (who looks unimpressed, to say the least) brings them their menus and another shot glass.

“We’re evil,” he says, pouring the soju out and passing a glass to Hanbin. “We’re terrible people. You’re a horrible father.”

Hanbin just smiles at him, a little sheepish, and pushes the second shot glass back across the table.

“I’m trying to take responsibility for my mistakes, you did say it was my fault. Also, sorry, but I brought the car.”

Zhang Hao looks at it for a second, then picks it up and downs it to follow his own.

“And that’s where you went wrong. Join the public transport revolution, Hanbin-ah. It’s all the rage.”

“How is all that going?”

It’s easy, horribly easy, to launch into a dramatic retelling of his glorious return to the world of education, to pout and complain and exaggerate to prompt the sympathetic noises and the interest and the cooing. It’s horribly easy to order a worryingly large number of dishes and eat them together, to pass food onto each other’s plates and discuss their favourite restaurants, to share their strangest food combinations, to argue over durian’s worth as a fruit (Zhang Hao gets a little loud about that, but Hanbin’s eyes crinkle up in that way that means he clearly doesn’t mind it). It’s horrible, horribly easy to talk to Hanbin. Even if they’re avoiding the topic of why they’re here, even if neither of them have mentioned that night, or the things they discussed, or their past or their future. It’s like they’re getting to know each other. Truly.

It is, he realises, an awful lot like a first date.

The time passes so smoothly, and they eat more than is probably usual for two people, and Hao finds he has no self-consciousness about stuffing his face. He doesn’t usually go on dates for the purpose of eating well, because he knows that isn’t what most men are looking for from him, and while he may believe one ought to be one’s authentic self with those one loves, it isn’t exactly love he’s usually looking for. He hasn’t been on a date with the hopes of finding anything except half decent sex for a long time. A good, oh, five, six years or so.

Before he knows it, the dishes are empty, so is half the bottle of soju, and nearly two hours have passed. He thinks about fighting Hanbin over paying the bill, and then reasons that he was promised to be treated to dinner tonight, and it isn’t his fault if the person who was supposed to treat him isn’t here. He’s had a big week. He deserves to have someone else pay for it.

They don’t decide that Hanbin will walk him to the closest metro stop, it just sort of happens, the conversation carrying on as they walk down the street under the blossom, petals already starting to fall even though the trees have only just bloomed, little specks of white blown down the streets like snow. A group of teenagers spill out of a convenience store, blocking the path in front of them as they wave their ice-creams and their energy drinks, shouting for the whole world to hear about the rejection one of their number just faced. Hanbin’s hand finds his arm, a gentle, protective touch, just holding him back until the sudden throng is cleared from the pavement. After that it’s like he can’t quite remember how his arms work, can’t contain them, knocking his elbow or brushing his hand or his tail every other step as they cross the last few hundred metres to the station entrance.

“Ricky’s flat’s around here somewhere, isn’t it?” he asks suddenly.

Barely a month until his birthday, until he can move in. The place is probably finished already, just sitting empty, waiting for him.

“Yeah,” Hanbin says. “It’s over that way, closer to Changdeokgung. All the work is finished now, he can’t wait to move in. I mean, he’s pretending not to be excited, but you know him.”

“It’ll be good for him to have something entirely his own, I think. Probably good for Gyuvin’s flatmates as well,” he snickers, and watches as Hanbin’s ears turn pink.

“Please, do not make me think about that.”

Zhang Hao’s laugh is always too loud, always incongruous to what people expect when they look at him. It echoes off the buildings, spreads down alleyways and into restaurants, makes people turn their heads to look at him.

“Oh, to be young and in love,” he sighs. “I still can’t believe Gyuvin couldn’t wait until they’d left. Honestly, that boy.”

“We aren’t known for our patience,” Hanbin says, a little shy, a little fond, ears still pinkened under the streetlights.

It’s as close as they’ve got to acknowledging it. And Hao finds himself tired of the avoidance, all of a sudden, of this half-game they’ve found themselves playing. He wants –needs – to know where they stand.

“It’s Friday night,” he says, a bit awkward. “I mean, I don’t have work tomorrow. Do you want to go for a drink? Or–” He bites his tongue before he can invite Hanbin back to his place. It still feels inappropriate somehow. “There are some things I think we need to talk about.”

They’ve stopped in the middle of the pavement. The entrance to the metro station is only a few metres away, so it will be easy, if he needs to, to run away. Zhang Hao does not normally run away from things. He runs towards them at full speed, head on, tackles them as they come and leaves no room for second chances. He doesn’t go back on decisions once he’s made them, not the important ones. He commits to things, to courses of action, he finds a goal and he runs straight at it with dogged determination until he reaches it. He knows, he knows for absolute certain, that he has made the right choice leaving his job. But learning how to give up has been difficult and unforgiving, so much more than holding on ever was.

“I… I can’t,” Hanbin says, turning to him with wide, guilty eyes. “I told Jiwoong I’d be back by ten, at the latest, I can’t just expect him to keep Yujin, I’m sorry, it’s not–”

“It’s ok. Really, Hanbin-ah. You weren’t expecting this. Neither was I.”

It’s not a rejection, it’s just the consequences of being tricked into this instead of being allowed to organise it, and Hanbin’s commitment to his kids is one of the things he loves most about him. It’s still so horribly disappointing.

“We can talk another time, right? You… you go home to your son. Goodnight, Hanbin-ah.”

He turns with as reassuring a smile as he can and walks towards the stairs, the half finished bottle in his jacket pocket banging against his hip in a way he had been too distracted to notice before.

“You could come.”

It’s blurted out, like it’s as much of a surprise to Hanbin as it is to Hao himself. He turns to see him standing, mouth pressed together. His eyes are wide, almost frightened, and his ears and cheeks are rosy.

“You’re right,” he says. “We have things we need to talk about. I don’t… I don’t want to leave it another two months. Do you?”

He doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t.

They barely speak during the journey. Zhang Hao realises, watching Hanbin merge effortlessly into a different lane of traffic as they speed across the city, one hand on his steering wheel and the other on the gearstick, that they have never been in a car together before. It feels so small, even though there’s more room between them now than there was out on the pavement. They aren’t touching. But the whatever-this-is, the tension, it feels so contained in this little vehicle, trapped within its walls. It steals his voice and his breath all at once, knowing where Hanbin is taking them, and how in control he is. A tonne of metal, hurtling seventy miles an hour, dodging other speeding heaps of machinery, all taken in hand easily with the flex of a forearm and the glide of a gear stick. He needs to stop looking at him. He curls his tail in front of himself, like it can protect him from his inappropriately horny thoughts.

Or are they inappropriate anymore? They’ve just been on a date. He’s being driven back to his date’s place. In any other circumstance, horny would be the exact appropriate direction for his thoughts to go in, in fact, they would probably be disappointed if his thoughts weren’t going in that direction.

He’s not sure any of his previous dates have had a seven year old waiting at home for them, though.

This isn’t going to be a repeat of the last time they were alone in Hanbin’s house. That was–
Well, it wasn’t a mistake. He refuses to think of it as a mistake. He really, really hopes Hanbin doesn’t think it was a mistake. But it was different, it was uncontrolled, and this, it has to be controlled, if they’re going to get anywhere, if they’re going to sort this out, for better or for worse. They can’t just jump into bed together again, they have to talk. They have to decide where they go from here.

The village looks much the same as it always has; somewhere that hasn’t changed in six years is unlikely to change much in two months, but it still feels somewhat jarring to drive past the stone and find it has carried on uninterrupted in his absence. His absence, god, he’s never even lived here. Hanbin pulls into his parking space, and they climb out of the car, Zhang Hao clutching his violin to his chest, his tote bag of other essentials hauled chivalrously over Hanbin’s shoulder without even a question. The house, when they enter, is free of noise except for the distant rumble of the dishwasher and quiet conversation, words muffled, from beyond the closed door of the living room. Hao lets his shoes join the pile by the front door, hangs his violin case on one of the coat pegs to keep it out of the way, and follows Hanbin through into the living room.

“Oh!”

Zhang Hao recognises Matthew immediately, although they have never officially been introduced. He bows politely, consciously willing his ears to still, his toes not to fidget on the carpet. Matthew’s delighted grin is unabashed, the pleased sway of his tail nearly hitting Jiwong in the face.

“Hyung, come on, time for bed, your old man bones need rest.”

He ushers Jiwoong out of the room, hurries him into his shoes and through the door with all the subtlety of a neon billboard, leaving Hanbin blushing in the sudden silence of his house.

“I just need to– make yourself at home, I’ll be one minute.”

He darts out of the living room, and Hao looks around at the sudden emptiness, wondering if he should bother sitting, and instead wanders to the door to see what he’s been left there for. Hanbin is leaning through the doorway of another room, looking into it, and then he draws back, pulling the door closed so carefully you’d think he was trying to avoid triggering an alarm.

“Sleeping?”

Hanbin practically jumps out of his skin, turning back to look at Zhang Hao in astonishment. He looks like a hamster that’s been electrocuted, or seen a ghost, as though in the thirty seconds it took to look in on his son he had forgotten there was anyone else there. He rubs his chest sheepishly, cheeks still pink in the dim hallway.

“Mm, he’s out like a light. Snoring like a little engine too. A bit like–”

He cuts himself off with a cough, and walks abruptly to the kitchen, from which the sounds of rummaging emit, before he emerges holding two ceramic soju cups triumphantly aloft and gently herds Zhang Hao back into the living room, following him in with the half bottle of soju he had smuggled out of the restaurant in his coat pocket. He pours them each a shot and they drink after a silent toast.

Zhang Hao turns the soju and the words he needs to say over in his mouth.

“Why haven’t you called?”

Hanbin’s head shoots up, the look he fixes him with shocked and guilty.

“I didn’t… I thought, if you wanted it, you would. When you want something, you always just go for it. You’re always so certain. And when you didn’t call, I thought maybe, you know. I have a seven year old. I’m a foster carer, that’s not going to stop, and I’m rooted here, the studio, our family, I’m not just me. It’s so much to take on just for– And you’re so independent, you know? I thought you might need more time. To think about what you wanted.”

On the one hand, it makes perfect sense. On the other hand, Zhang Hao has never been so insulted in all his life.

“Do you think I’m a liar?”

“What? No!”

“I told you what I wanted, two months ago. What I want hasn’t changed in the last five years, not as far as you’re concerned,” he tells him. “I know who you are, I know what you are, and I know what a relationship with you would entail, and I’m not just willing, I want it. Yujin is perfect. He’s wonderful. I adore him, I can’t wait to get to know him properly. Your family, too, your friends, your whole life, Hanbin-ah, I– I want in. All of it.”

Hanbin is still looking at him like he can’t quite believe he’s even there. Zhang Hao isn’t usually the person who has to bare his heart in the hopes of reciprocation, he is far, far more used to being the pursued than the pursuer. It stings a little bit, to have to drive this conversation, to make himself vulnerable first, but if the prize is Hanbin?

“I fell in love with you the first time we met. I never believed that was possible before, but I did. I’ve spent all these years watching your family grow and all I’ve ever wanted was to be part of it. I promise you, I know what I’m getting into.”

The cup hits the coffee table with an awkward clink as Hanbin sets it down. He stands, and the look in his eyes from before, the disbelief, is all gone, glazed over by something darker, something with intent. Something Hao remembers all too well from the last time he was sat on this sofa. His tail curls up, his chin tilting to look up at Hanbin in expectation, and down the hall a door creaks open.

“Shit,” Hanbin breathes. He takes a moment, eyes closed, to inhale and exhale, and then he strides out into the corridor to see what’s afoot.

“Yujin-ah? What happened?”

Hao can’t help but follow him out, to watch as he kneels down in the hallway to talk to Yujin, who looks simultaneously shaken and composed.

“You were gone.”

“I was out for dinner, Uncle Jiwoong and Uncle Mattew were here. I told you about it, remember?”

“No. When I was asleep. You were gone.”

“In your dream?”

Yujin nods. He isn’t crying, but when Hanbin puts his arms around him he clings devastatingly tight.

“There was a monster and you were gone.”

“I’m right here, baby,” Hanbin soothes. Hao watches, fascinated and half envious, as he lifts him up and tucks his head over his shoulder, stroking through his hair. “I’m not going anywhere. Toilet time and then back to bed, ok?”

“Why–”

“Bad dreams are your body’s way to wake you up when you need a wee, so you don’t make a mess of your nice bedcovers, isn’t that right, Hanbin-ah?” Zhang Hao finds himself saying.

“Really?” Yujin yawns, dark eyes fixing on Hao in an almost unnerving concentration.

“Absolutely. Hao ge is very clever. He knows these things.”

Yujin stares at him over Hanbin’s shoulder for a while and then nods his acquiescence. Zhang Hao takes the time they’re in the bathroom as an opportunity to put the soju and the cups away– he doesn’t really think drinking any more is a good idea tonight. He exits the kitchen and enters a battle.

“But what if the monster is in there?”

“There is no monster, Yujin. It was just in your head.”

“But what if it comes out of my head and it eats me?”

“Now why on earth would it do that?” Hao interrupts, just as Hanbin runs a hand through his hair, holding in frustration. “Look at you, you’re nothing but skin and bones. No self-respecting monster would eat you.”

He makes his way back to the sofa, intending to leave Hanbin to it, but finds he has acquired a small, curious shadow.

“Is that true?” Yujin demands, climbing up onto the sofa next to him. His eyes are drooping, but he’s keeping them stubbornly open. It's the only thing that betrays his fear.

“Well I certainly wouldn’t eat you, and I eat a lot more than your average monster. Besides, monsters can’t come out of your head. How would they do that? Crawl out of your mouth? Anything that can crawl out of your mouth would be far too small to eat you, don’t you think?”

Seventy percent of childcare is keeping them from mortal danger. The other thirty percent is delivering nonsense with a straight face. Yujin stares, considering, and Hao meets his eyes calmly, refusing to look away.

“My mouth is quite small,” Yujin admits, and that seems to be that.

He lets a huge yawn scrunch his face up and instead of climbing off the sofa he lies down, depositing his head onto Zhang Hao’s thigh.

“You know lots of things,” he says, and it's difficult to stop the puff of pride that fills him. “Can I pet your tail? It’s very fluffy.”

“Just this once,” Zhang Hao lies, draping his tail over the child’s waist, letting him hold it between his arms, brushing it against the swell of his cheek. His little hands sink into the fur, stroking gently. He doesn’t pull.

“You’re a violin.”

“I’m a violinist,” he corrects.

His hand has found its way into Yujin’s hair, the fine black strands soft and silky around his fingers. He hardly seems to weigh anything, he’s almost afraid to touch him lest he melt away beneath his fingertips.

“Are you only allowed to be good at one instrument?”

He considers the question for a moment.

“It's very difficult to be good, so most people only manage to be good at one. Some people who are more clever or have more time can get good at more than one.”

“Are you only good at the violin?”

“I’m best at the violin, but I learnt to sing too. And play the piano, although I’m not as good at that.”

“The violin is too squeaky and we don’t have a piano.”

He has an urge to argue that a violin is only squeaky when played by an idiot, but ideally he’s trying to usher this conversation to its conclusion, not invite more of it.

“You should sing.”

It sounds more like a demand than a suggestion, and Zhang Hao does realise he’s being emotionally outwitted by a seven year old, he’s just not entirely certain that he cares. So he sings. He reigns his voice in, stays quiet, almost whispering an old Chinese classic that his mother likes. It’s too quiet for his technique to be good, but Yujin doesn’t seem to care. His eyes drift closed, and by the end of the third verse his breathing has evened out and the little hands have dropped limp from his tail. Hao keeps going, just in case, winds his way to the end of the song until he’s certain Yujin is well and truly unconscious.

When he looks up to suggest to Hanbin it might be safe to move him, he’s met with eyes already trained on him, the hand resting on his son’s ankle flexing minutely. Hanbin just stares at him, expression dark. Not displeased, but intense. Almost fearful.

“Move in with us.”

It comes out in a jumbled whisper, and his eyes widen afterward, like he can’t believe he’s said it. Zhang Hao squeaks. Both of their gazes drop to the sleeping child, breath held, but he continues undisturbed, the slight grate on the edge of his breathing indicating the snoring is almost ready to kick in.

“Hanbin,” Zhang Hao murmurs, not looking at him. “Put your son to bed. Now.”

He doesn’t move, avoids his eyes as Hanbin carefully scoops Yujin up, his little body a flopping dead weight in his arms, and carries him out of the room. He sits, holding his breath, until he hears the door softly close and the quiet tread of feet down the hallway. When the feet stop, a figure in the doorway, he moves without thinking, grabs the front of Hanbin’s t-shirt and yanks him into a kiss.

“You are insane,” he hisses as his hands grip at the back of his neck, trapping him into another as Hanbin flails to respond. “You’re out of your fucking mind. Yes. Of course yes. When?”

“Now,” Hanbin gasps, his own arms finally functioning enough to wrap around Hao’s waist in return. “Now, right now, just stay here, don’t go back, please gege, don’t leave us again.”

Zhang Hao laughs breathlessly into his mouth and kisses him again and again and again.

“Never,” he declares. “Never, I promise. You’re stuck with me for life.”

The last time Zhang Hao woke up in this house, the day that ensued had been, although relieving, somewhat of an unmitigated disaster to begin with. He is once again in the kitchen, in borrowed sweatpants that don’t quite fit his tail even though Hanbin has, in an extreme act of chivalry, carved a hole in them with a pair of scissors. He once again woke up naked in Hanbin’s bed, uncertain of where he was for a moment before the memory of the previous night emerged and he could identify the person with their face smushed into his left ear. Unlike last time, they have made it to breakfast without any unexpected interruptions or anyone shouting. The calm is making him feel borderline suspicious. He’s about ninety-eight percent certain that Yujin is not going to turn around and accuse him of gross professional negligence or of having a long-running affair with his father, is fairly sure he wouldn’t know what at least one of those things is, but he still sort of feels like he’s waiting for it to happen anyway. He wonders when his body is going to stop going into each day expecting crises it will never again find.

While Yujin is busy eating slices of bread and jam like they’re going out of fashion, Hao and Hanbin are engaged in a battle of stolen glances across the kitchen table. Despite some of the nerves, it’s hard to tamp down a smile, giddiness fizzing away with the slight anxiety in his stomach, moving his ears without permission.

Leaving the service may be the single most selfish thing Zhang Hao has ever done. It was going to break him eventually, but he probably had a few years in him before that happened, potentially dozens of children he could have helped in that time, and yet he left now anyway. He’s been counting down to Ricky’s coming of age for over a year, like setting that goal made it any better, really, and it’s difficult to reconcile that selfishness with this reward. Hanbin. The kids. An easy job, music at the centre of his life once again. A proper home in a country he still sometimes feels like a guest in.

“Are you going to live here?” Yujin asks all of a sudden.

Hanbin flounders, glancing between Hao and his son, clearly unsure what to do with Yujin broaching the topic when they haven’t yet discussed how to tell him.

“Would that be alright?” Hao asks, tail curling defensively in front of his stomach..

As Yujin chews, he feels like he’s standing in a dock waiting for sentencing. Eventually, he just nods.

“It’s usually not grown-ups who come to stay with us,” he says, then stares very hard at them each in turn for a frankly terrifying minute. “Are you getting married?”

Hanbin goes through a series of visible internal debates over how to explain the institutional homophobia that makes such a thing impossible in a way that his seven year old will understand and not, Hao assumes, throw a fit over. Eventually he catches Hao’s eye, slightly apologetically.

“Something like that,” he says, voice hesitant. “Is that… ok?”

“Yes,” Yujin says decidedly, then: “I’m going to watch Pokémon now.”

He shuffles out of the room, leaving his dirty plate and cup still sitting on the table, and Hanbin doesn’t even chide him for it. Instead he lets out a large breath and leans forward to rest his forehead on the hardwood.

“I haven’t had a boyfriend or… or anything. Since before I fostered him. I didn’t realise how nervous I would be,” he says. “God. That went well. It went well. Jesus.”

Hao snorts fondly, reaching to stroke his fingers through Hanbin’s hair, brushing over the fists clenched in his pyjama shorts with his tail. Perhaps there is a certain courage required in selfishness after all. He pushes his own plate out of the way and lowers his head to the table, turning it to look at Hanbin, and waits for the other man to turn and look back. The Pokémon theme tune travels quiet and tinny down the hallway from the open living room door.

“What did we do to get this lucky?” he wonders aloud.

Hanbin smiles, one cheek distorted by the table surface, and reaches up to take Hao’s hand from his hair and intertwine their fingers, his other hand burying once again into the fur of his tail.

“Something good, I reckon.”

“Mmm,” Hao agrees. “I think we must have.”