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“Tell me, how do you like it in bed?” Zhang Hao hums, giggling when Hanbin’s whole body stiffens. The phraseology reeks of a non-native speaker and the longer Hanbin sits there the more he convinces himself he’s hearing things.
Although he believes that Zhang Hao’s Korean is proficient, dare say excellent, enough to know and use an advanced vocabulary, his brain still cannot compute that the boy would be able to string together those words in that order.
If the heat rising on his neck is any indication of his surprise, he finds himself finally stuttering out a drawn out “what,” before clearing his throat and his composure to add in,“do you mean?”
Zhang Hao’s eyes sparkle in the dim light of the hallway fresh and bright, like he’s won a game Hanbin wasn’t aware they were playing.
He finds himself searching for cameras as discretely as possible, his eyes darting to different edges and corners. It’s 3am, they shouldn’t be rolling but he wouldn’t put it past Mnet staff —
Zhang Hao snorts, tipping a water bottle to his lips. “I’m not mic’d. It’s not going to pick me up.” He draws out the last syllable with a pop. Cute.
If Hanbin didn’t feel like the world was spinning with the axis being him, he’d have the clarity to draw attention to the way Zhang Hao hums out the ending of his sentences, lazy and unfocused.
“You’re wound up,” Zhang Hao says in lieu of any sort of explanation, “I know. Me too.” He’s tapping his long, elegant finger tips on the ground in a rythme that becomes increasingly staccato and anxious. Hanbin watches them distractedly —wonders if they’re following an old pattern to a violin piece, the way they dance across tile.
Wound up is a delicate way to put it, he needs something more vicious and raw — Hanbin’s a string fit to snap, frayed coils hanging on precariously. It’s the nth hour with tomorrow finally being filming for the signal song. He had dragged Zhang Hao out apologetically to practice the duet just one more time because it’s got to be perfect. Everything needs to be perfect. There’s no use unless it’s perfect —
“Hey, I asked you a question,” Zhang Hao says, hitting Hanbin’s sneaker with his own. Hanbin laughs; it’s the easiest thing to do.
“What, were you being serious, Zhanghao-shi?” He says while taking a sip of his own water. Zhang Hao huffs playfully like he’s asking for Hanbin’s favorite color or what TV shows he binges when he’s not practicing. Nothing intimate. Certainly nothing that makes Hanbin’s cheeks appear more rosy than normal.
”Thought it might get you out of your head; you’re thinking too much. ‘Can tell.” Zhang Hao shrugs standing. His hair, freshly washed, bounces as the older boy rocks back and forth on his feet, looking down at Hanbin expectantly.
“So, tell me something you wouldn’t tell anyone. It can be silly, although I mean the goal is to shock you out of whatever your currently spiraling about, so the raunchier the better.” Zhang Hao says, brown eyes flashing but fully composed.
Like he hasn’t tilted Hanbin’s whole world.
Hanbin by all accounts, knows Zhang Hao must have mischievous side; there’s no way he would mesh well with Gyuvin, Ricky, and the rest of Yuehua if he didn’t possess an ounce of chaotic energy. But most of those interactions have been observations from afar, rare times he’s seen Zhang Hao drop his guard completely — or maybe he just chooses selectively when to show this, everything he does seems to be calculated down the second — and rolls his eyes at something Ricky has said or slaps Gyuvin for being too obnoxious with Yujin.
Zhang Hao is smart and good-looking. A devastating combo that had Hanbin chewing on his lips throughout auditions wondering if he was in over his head a little. He remembers watching the way Zhang Hao tracked the cameras with his eyes, the lift of his eyebrows, and the fluidity of his dancing, remembers thinking fuck. Zhang Hao was smart enough to play this game like a practiced master instead of a pawn, to put him on the defensive when he planned to take whole show on striking offense.
But in this moment, sitting on cold tile with fatigue pulling sharply at his bones, Hanbin entertains the idea that they met elsewhere. Not as competitors. But maybe, like he’s back in the studio after a grueling dance practice and Zhang Hao’s just another classmate. A cute boy with a cute personality that Hanbin will fake the confidence to get in a word with because he’s inevitably a moth drawn to a flame.
The raunchier the better — okay, Hanbin thinks.
“My underwear is blue,” He says, purposely evasive. He’ll play the game.
Zhang Hao stares, although when their eyes meet this time, a smirk is lifting at the corner of pink lips.
“What are you, a 10 year-old?” He drawls.
“You said raunchy Zhang Hao-shi —“
He watches the exaggerated roll of Zhang Hao’s eyes, before the boy huffs, “Call me Hao. Hyung preferably, I think I’m older than you.” He offers Hanbin a hand.
“Hao hyung,” he tests, mouth opening wide over the h’s. It feels less awkward then he thought it would, but he finds himself heating up inexplicably again with the way Hao is still looking down at him. A calculated scrutiny that thins out at the edges the longer they maintain eye contact.
The older boy hums, “let’s practice Hanbin-ah, come-on, you can tell me all of your fun facts later.”
Fun facts, he laughs internally, got it.
In actions though, Hanbin finds it comfortable to not respond, mostly because his sleep addled brain is fried and foggy, but also because of the brisk pace Zhang Hao sets, picking up the slack where Hanbin had let off. Its relaxing for once, having someone else lead. Zhang Hao has already called out every detail he had tucked away in his brain and begun the counts to address them.
So, maybe they’re both huffing the same brand of insanity, he thinks as he watches Zhang Hao’s eyebrows furrow when the angles of their movements don’t quite match.
“Again,” he huffs quietly, but pushes Hanbin in front so he can copy.
It’s pleasant — the silence that stretches as they practice, only permeated by occasional comments. It settles on his shoulders like a heavy blanket and strengthens the fog in his brain till his thoughts move slower. Understood silence settles into his bones intoxicating him.
By the time he gets back to his own bed, he feels loose - less anxious about tomorrow.
Later, much later, he wonders if that was the first move Zhang Hao placed on the board, or if he was already, irrevocably behind.
Filming is always stressful — or exciting.
Hanbin’s quite positive his body can’t differentiate between the feeling of anticipation due to anxiety, versus, anxiety due to excitement anymore so he’ll just have to roll with it.
He follows the stage directions easily enough his body falling into a comfortable rhythm. Dancing he knows — it’s one of his more powerful pieces to fall back on. They make it to the first run through and suddenly there are 96 other trainees, but it’s only him and Zhang Hao dancing. It makes him feel hot.
It makes the studio feel a little claustrophobic suddenly.
He doesn’t mean to stare Zhang Hao down when they practice; it’s a habit of being an attentive dance partner. Regardless, he watches the boys eyes flicker anywhere but his face as the cameras zoom into their duet gathering more behind the scenes footage.
He thinks it weird how one person can be so full of contradictions; full of confidence and full of coyness. Zhang Hao balances the two in front of the camera with the grace of an expert tightrope walker.
So maybe, this is when he decides to really start to play a game within the game. 4D chess, if you will. Because truly, if nothing else, Sung Han Bin is a competitive asshole, even if he’d never let those thoughts escape the confines of his brain.
He’s a competitive asshole and Zhang Hao makes him feel like he’d give up everything, anything just to have those eyes focused on him. And that — that’s a problem, because Hanbin’s focus needs to be on debuting.
Zhang Hao avoids his eye contact with impressive evasion for all of practice, infuriatingly enough. But, for the final take, Zhang Hao locks eyes with him early, keeping his gaze in quiet command for nearly the whole sequence. Hanbin can’t tell if he’s out of breath from dancing for at least eight hours straight today, or from the way time, sound, hell everything, stops momentarily.
Tell me what you’re thinking right now, he wants to say. Was that another move on the board?
When they choose songs for the second mission he knows where he’s going. He counts the seconds down and barely pays attention to the drama that unfolds around as trainees are bumped out of their first choice right and left. He’s happy he has something singular to focus on — the anxiety of watching trainees get kicked out would eat him alive if not.
He only pays attention to where Zhang Hao settles, bashfully taking his spot behind Gunwook. Gunwook, Zhang Hao, and Hotaek-hyung. Really a masterful strategic decision on Zhang Hao’s part, but did Hanbin expect anything less?
So he’ll gracefully play his role in following Zhang Hao on the chessboard.
When he walks up to Tomboy, the most confident part of his decision is the one to linger at Zhang Hao’s side. See if he can spend just enough time too close to him that the other man briefly doubts.
He stays long enough just to watch the flutter of the other man’s breathing, to spend time in his head determining if he’s placed a move on the board Zhang Hao will understand. The cameras love the drama and this is as authentically as he’ll ever get to rattling the other man’s bones, hopes it’s a little payback for earlier. Good, he thinks as he watches uneven huffs, good.
For once in his life, he wants more for himself, feels undeniably greedy. He’s allowed himself one thing — but now it seems like two are up on the table. Greed is an unfortunate sin that he’s far too willing to indulge in, so he’s really not going to give it up at either one at this point.
Later, when they’re looking over lines and Zhang Hao is pressed up against his side he feels his impulse control slipping. Maybe it’s the way Zhang Hao’s brows are furrowed in concentration, lines tight in anxiety on pale skin. Or maybe it’s the way his finger tips have gone white on the lyrics he’s been clutching.
“Tell me something you wouldn’t want the cameras to hear,” Hanbin says quietly, hides his lips and stares at the lyrics to feign innocence. He can only look anxiously through his fringe, but he watches as Zhang Hao’s knee stops bouncing in place and fingers relax on the paper he clenches. He focuses singularly on the chuckle that escapes Zhang Hao’s lips.
“I knew you’d follow me here,” Zhang Hao says meeting his eyes briefly. A pink tongue swipes across plump lips and Hanbin prays to god the cameras don’t pick up the line of his own vision.
“That confident, huh?” He says instead tipping his head back towards the wall. If he stares up at the ceiling maybe the camera crew will continue to ignore the conversation they’re having.
Zhang Hao hums in affirmation, turning the page to the lyrics. Hanbin focuses on the ambient noise, closing his eyes against harsh lighting.
“And I might have a preference for partners who are rough in bed.”
And really, he can’t help it if his eyes snap open at that, and he certainly can’t help the flush that immediately springs to his face, nor how his body jerks to look over at Zhang Hao with wide eyes.
But Zhang Hao is cool and collected, adjusting an emoji pin in his hair before pointing back down the lyrics page, “help me with this line?”
With every move forward, Zhang Hao kicks him back a place.
“Sure,” Hanbin says, then tacks on with the rest of his courage, “I have a thing about being ordered around.”
Zhang Hao’s eyes shoot up, but only momentarily before landing back on the page. His ears give it away though. They’re dusted pink.
The designated crying spot is the laundry room. No cameras, loud machines to drown out noise, and an actual lamp that clicks on in the corner. Why? Hanbin’s not sure, but he’s not about to question it now.
Instead, he slumps against the washer and hopes the spin cycle vibrates his head into mush.
Each week is getting harder — he has only downward to go. The pressure of maintaining and exceeding expectations is starting to eat him piece by piece, raw and down to the bone. His sleep is wrecked. He slumps down further until he’s laying entirely on the ground. He reasons it’s the laundry room, the tile looks decently clean, and the least of his worries at this particular moment is a dusty floor.
He spreads his limbs out, reaching in all directions and thinks about his fingertips reaching opposite directions. He had read once it was a way to tricking your body into feeling it was safe. If there’s ever a time to figure out the wonders of meditation, there’s no time like the present, he thinks willing calmness.
So it’s of no surprise to him that his spiraling thoughts keep him from noticing the turn of the handle and the light footsteps that accompany them. Or maybe he’s ready — ready for someone to find him sprawled out on the laundry room floor having a mental breakdown. Preferably the filming crew.
An impromptu reveal of how psychotic Sung Hanbin truly is.
He does however, startle at the fluorescent lights flickering off and the small huff of breath he hears.
“You’re a crazy man,” a quiet voice says and Hanbin lets out the breath he had been holding. It whooshes out at once like the withdrawal of a wave. “Who the fuck keeps the light on while doing this?”
The room is barely large enough for Hanbin to sprawl out without touching the machines, but when he opens his eyes and watches through his eyelashes, he sees Zhang Hao plop to the ground next to him, stretching long limbs over his own so they can both fit.
“Tell me something you wouldn’t tell anyone,” Zhang Hao says quietly when he’s settled.
Hanbin only has to think for a moment. Vulnerability comes naturally, he overshares as easily as he breathes.
“I’m really good at pretending to be perfect, if people saw me for me, they’d see the flaws.”
“I understand that,” Zhang Hao whispers after a moment, contemplative but sincere. Their fingertips are brushing.
“Your turn,” Hanbin says, pressing a cheek against the cold tile. From this angle, he can see the shadows that the lamp casts on Zhang Hao’s face, traces the slope of his nose and follows the way his hair flops against the floor.
“I have the nagging suspicion that even if I make all the right moves, it won’t be enough. This is just the set-up for a very cruel downfall,” Zhang Hao sighs, like a balloon letting out air. He hisses on the exhale like the admission stings.
Hanbin can understand that. He reaches his hand to dance fingertips against Zhang Hao’s palm. He revels in the warmth against contrasting cool tile.
“I also am not a fan of tofu. ‘The textures weird.” Another admission to knock a piece off the board, just as vulnerable and unexpected.
Hanbin laughs. He can hear the scrunch of Zhang Hao’s nose but the visual is cuter. He shifts his eyes back to the ceiling, closes them, and exhales.
“I’d very much like someone to force my brain to stop thinking right now.”
The silence is deafening. Hanbin contemplates opening his eyes.
When Zhang Hao straddles his hips — it feels natural even if it shoots heat down his spine. He keeps his eyes closed for his own sanity and hopes he can read the silence well enough that he anticipates Zhang Hao’s next move.
But can he really ever anticipate Zhang Hao’s next move?
The world feels slow, but there are fingers pressing into his chin as Zhang Hao forces his gaze and body upwards while settling down on his knees, shorts bunching. Thighs are startlingly pale and he finds himself impulsively tracing the line muscle on Zhang Hao’s left leg.
He notes how his shirt hangs off his frame with a little too much room — he has no authority to talk, he hasn’t been eating either.
Zhang Hao’s thumb drags against his bottom lip and Hanbin’s heart jumps into his throat as his eyes jump to meet brown irises. The look on Zhang Hao’s face is contemplative and for once, Hanbin doesn’t have to force his face into something neutral, purely platonic, or even pleasant.
For once, he hopes his expression is clear and not muted. He has been told before his authenticity is startling — he’ll play that card with bated breath.
There are no cameras here.
The sound of the clunking laundry in a spin cycle is syncing up with his heartbeat as Zhang Hao continues to inspect him carefully, like if brown eyes burrow deep enough, they’ll see everything.
“You’re doing it again,” Hanbin whispers. He has to focus on speaking his words clearly while keeping his tongue away from Zhang Hao’s fingertip.
“Doing what,” Zhang Hao says clinically, applying constant pressure. His head cocks to the side.
“Making an unexpected move,” Hanbin says, shifts his weight into his hands, “to throw me off.”
Zhang Hao hums. “You wanted someone to force you to stop thinking.”
“Yeah, but I don’t see —“ he starts.
“Don’t you? You’re not stupid Hanbin-ah. I know that.” Zhang Hao’s smile is light, teasing. He gives Hanbin a second of grace before tapping at his bottom lip.
“Open your mouth,” Zhang Hao prompts, pressing his finger downwards. Hanbin swears he heard him wrong.
“What —,” He says intelligently and Zhang Hao presses down.
“I said,” Zhang Hao annunciates, “open your mouth,” with just enough pressure and eye contact that it makes Hanbin want to scurry away underneath the intimidating gaze. His mouth is falling open. The pad of Zhang Hao’s thumb traces Hanbin’s canines before lightly pressing on his tongue.
“Good boy,” he whispers, tilting Hanbin’s chin up even more. The whimper that comes from his own throat is obscene, even to Hanbin’s own ears. Sure, he had ideas about what he thought he could make happen but this - this.
He thought he could get Zhang Hao to make out with him, not unravel him piece by piece in the fucking laundry room.
He rushes to grab at Zhang Hao’s hand, catching his wrist intending to throw him off, apologize, maybe throw himself off a the nearest cliff for making such a desperate noise. He’s not desperate.
But Zhang Hao is stronger than he looks, pins him with fingers curled around his jaw and pupils blown wide in brown eyes. Strong eyebrows are raised in challenge.
“Bin-ah,” Zhang Hao shushes leaning in, “don’t.” It’s the softest command he’s ever been given.
He’s fucking powerless. In one move no less. Laid bare and vulnerable, all of his weaknesses already ascertained before he had gotten a good look at the other side.
“Suck,” Hao says staring at Hanbin’s lips as he places another finger to press down on Hanbin’s tongue. It’s sits there, heavy and warm. The stare leaves no room for argument. His breath is caught in the back of his throat.
He closes his mouth gently, adverting his gaze, moves his lips shyly as his face burns. Burns. It’s his only move.
“There you go, so sweet,” Zhang Hao whispers, “You’d do anything to make others happy? Wouldn’t you baobei? So obedient.”
If this was a move intended to make Hanbin not think, it’s not working. Or is working? His thoughts shoot across his brain in a cosmic fury leaving nothing but dust in their wake.
But there are still fingers crowding his mouth, moving farther down his throat until he has to concentrate solely on not gagging instead. He remembers to inhale but struggles to exhale. He watches Zhang Hao watch him like he’s trying to pick and tug until he’s got Hanbin exposed to the bone.
And he’s very nearly got him there.
“Tell me something Sung Hanbin,” Zhang Hao whispers coyly, “do you want to fuck me?”
Hanbin’s hips jump of their own accord and Zhang Hao giggles, breathy in his ear. “That’s it, maybe another time baobei. Keep your hips still. Earn it, you’re a hard worker right? Of course my Bin-ah is. The best — you’re going to work for it.”
He feels close to incineration with Zhang Hao slowly lowering himself down until their hips match so that he can feel Zhang Hao’s thighs as steady pressure, can feel the curve of his ass against his aching cock. His hands jump to clutch to the exposed skin on milky thighs, high up, the place where the end of Zhang Hao’s shorts bunch up dangerously close to the crease of his thigh. If Hanbin could just get his hand a little higher, push the shorts up even more —
Zhang Hao’s hips suddenly hover above his own, his ass out of reach. Hanbin whines petulantly this time. Digs his thumbs into Zhang Hao’s hips in retaliation, bunching up his loose fitting shorts until he reaches hipbone, and presses hard enough that he hopes it bruises. He brings his hands around to grab as fistfuls of Zhang Hao’s ass cheeks and knead. The sharp intake of breath that has Zhang Hao coloring red makes him want to preen.
The subtle loss in composure gives him the opening pull back.
“You like partners that are rough in bed, yeah?” He coughs as Zhang Hao removes his fingers.
“You’re terrible at being ordered around,” Zhang Hao rolls his eyes.
“I don’t give up control easily.”
Zhang Hao’s scoff is almost condescending. “Who said you had control in the first place?”
Hanbin opens his mouth to quip back, but it just gives Zhang Hao the space to shove his fingers back in unceremoniously; it’s a little too rough and makes Hanbin choke on his spit, glaring up through his eyelashes.
“There we go,” Zhang Hao says lowering his hips, satisfied, “give up. Hyung will take care of you.” Hanbin thought the noises couldn’t get more embarrassing but the whimper that leaves his mouth when Zhang Hao grinds his hips down slowly sounds like that of a wounded animal. His own hips buck up chasing friction.
He watches Zhang Hao’s tongue dart across his bottom lip leaving a shiny finish. Zhang Hao’s cheeks are finally betraying him, dusted a maroon that crawls all the way up to his ears, like rich wine.
Hanbin rocks his hips upwards, swirls his tongue around the fingers in his mouth, teasing.
“Na uh,” Zhang Hao scolds, “only I move,” but it seems physically hard for him to pry his hips away, leaving Hanbin’s cock throbbing. He presses three fingers into Hanbin’s mouth as if to prove a point.
“Go ahead, you know what good boys do.”
And again, it’s a voice that leaves no room for discussion. A sharpness in his tone that makes Hanbin crumble, dissolve.
He laps at Zhang Hao’s fingers, making a show of wrapping his tongue around and in-between; taking Zhang Hao’s fingers down to the knuckle just to sit there and moan.
He laves at Zhang Hao’s fingers like he’s starving. Zhang Hao to his credit, pushes back just as hard; forces him to concentrate on only Zhang Hao.
What he sounds like, breath losing its veneer of control with each rock up again Hanbin’s stomach. What he feels like, warm and heavy pressing him down into tile, his fingers of his left hand crawling up the back of Hanbin’s neck to thread in between strands of hair and pull. What brown eyes look like blown out and focused, the small smile that plays on puffy, wet lips when Hanbin whines again.
He can feel Zhang Hao’s cock trapped between bunched shorts and Hanbin’s abs as Zhang Hao’s hips flutter down in tight circles, chasing his own high.
He wants to whine out how close he is to cumming, plush friction of Zhanghao’s ass steadily grinding on him while Zhanghao thrusts fingers into his mouth obscenely. He can feel tears gather at his eyes and Zhanghao tuts; his hand lets go of Hangin’s hair just to coddle his jaw.
He sees straight through him, as always.
“There you go, Bin-ah. You can. That’s what you want to ask right? Cum for hyung.” He whispers and Hanbin is cumming, shout muffled by Zhang Hao’s fingers.
He makes a sticky, tacky mess in his pants curling into the body on top of him and gasping for air. If he could press his palms any harder into a Zhang Hao’s hips, he’d brand them white hot.
He has enough sense to look up at the wild stutter of Zhang Hao’s hips; to drink in the way his mouth curves and his eyelashes flutter as hips jump forward in the aftershock.
He’s the most beautiful thing Hanbin’s ever seen.
Their eyes meet as Zhang Hao lazily opens his eyes and rolls his shoulders like a cat, unfurling tensed muscles.
“Tell me something you don’t want anyone else to know,” he whispers sinking into Hanbin’s arms. He drapes his body across Hanbin’s so that they meet at every point.
“I think I might lose to you,” Hanbin says, “and I think I’m okay with that.”