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Hao knew something was wrong the moment he walked into the studio.
Hanbin wasn’t just practicing..
he was punishing himself.
Sweat dripping.
Breathing harsh.
Repeating the same move with this desperate, frustrated energy Hao had seen only a few times…
usually right before Hanbin crashed.
“Hanbin,” Hao called.
No response.
He was too far gone.
Hao walked straight up to him and caught his wrist mid-movement.
Hanbin’s chest heaved.
His eyes were red. not from tears, but from exhaustion.
“What are you doing?” Hao asked quietly.
“I have to fix it,” Hanbin whispered. “Everyone’s relying on me. I can’t be the weak link.”
Hao’s face softened in that painful way… the kind that meant he was worried to death but trying not to show it.
“You’re not a weak link,” he said. “But you will collapse if you keep going.”
Hanbin looked away.
“Hao hyung.. I can’t stop. If I stop, everything falls apart.”
Hao stepped closer, cupping Hanbin’s face firmly.
“Listen to me,” he said, voice trembling just a little.
“I don’t care about the choreography right now. I care about you.”
Hanbin’s eyes flickered.. like he wanted to believe it, but guilt was pulling him apart.
“I’m fine,” he insisted.
“You’re not.”
Hao’s voice cracked. “You didn’t eat. You didn’t drink water. You’ve been here since morning. Hanbin, look at yourself.. your hands are shaking.”
Hanbin swallowed hard.
He hadn’t realized he was shaking until Hao said it.
Then Hao did something that broke him a little.
he pulled Hanbin into his chest and held him tightly.
Not gentle.
Desperate.
“You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Hao whispered against his hair.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
Hanbin froze at that.
Slowly, slowly, he wrapped his arms around Hao’s waist and let his forehead fall against Hao’s shoulder.
“…I’m scared,” he admitted.
The words were quiet, but they shattered something.
Hao tightened his arms.
“Then let me help you,” he murmured. “You don’t have to face everything alone.”
Hanbin exhaled shakily, nodding against him.
They stood like that for a long time. Hanbin trembling, Hao holding him like he wanted to shield him from the world.
Eventually, Hao pulled back and brushed Hanbin’s hair from his eyes.
“Let’s eat,” he said softly. “Just a little. For me?”
Hanbin hesitated… then nodded.
And Hao smiled with so much relief it almost hurt.
Hanbin didn’t mean to slip.
It wasn’t dramatic-
no sobbing, no collapsing-
just this quiet, hollow look in his eyes as the adrenaline faded and exhaustion hit him like a wave.
Hao noticed instantly.
They had made it back to Hanbin’s dorm, shoes kicked off, lights dim.
Hao had guided him inside with a hand on the small of his back.
But Hanbin didn’t move past the doorway.
He just stood there, staring at nothing.
“Bin-ah,” Hao said softly, stepping in front of him.
Hanbin blinked, but it was slow, unfocused.
His breathing had gone shallow again.
Oh.
He’s slipping into that headspace again, Hao realized.
The one where everything becomes too loud and too heavy and too much.
Hao reached for his hands.
“Come here,” he whispered.
Hanbin hesitated for a second but then he let Hao take them, fingers cold and limp.
Hao led him to the bed like he was leading him out of a storm.
When they sat down, Hanbin finally whispered,
“…I can’t think.”
“I know,” Hao said gently, brushing sweat-dried hair from his forehead.
“You don’t have to think. I’m here.”
Hanbin’s lips trembled.
“I tried so hard…”
“I know,” Hao repeated, voice softer this time.
“But you don’t have to try right now.”
He moved behind Hanbin, wrapping his arms around his waist and tucking his chin into Hanbin’s shoulder.
Grounding him.
Anchoring him.
Hanbin’s breath hitched… then slowly evened out.
Hao whispered,
“Can you tell me three things you can feel?”
Hanbin swallowed.
Hao always did this when Hanbin spiralled,
it was their quiet ritual.
Hanbin’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Your… hands.”
Good.
“The blanket.”
Good.
“And… your heartbeat.”
Hao’s arms tightened.
“Good job,” he murmured. “You’re doing really well.”
Hanbin leaned back fully, body giving out in that way where it wasn’t weakness.
it was trust.
Full, unguarded trust.
Hao shifted them both so they were lying under the blanket, Hanbin curled against his chest.
The room was dark, quiet, safe.
Hao stroked the back of Hanbin’s neck slowly, rhythmically.
“You scared me today,” he admitted into Hanbin’s hair.
“I don’t want to see you push yourself until you break.”
Hanbin didn’t respond with words.
Instead, he curled his fingers into Hao’s shirt, holding on like it was the only steady thing in the world.
“I’m tired,” he murmured, voice small.
Hao kissed the top of his head.
“Then sleep. I’ll stay.”
Hanbin’s eyes fluttered, but didn’t fully close yet.
“…don’t leave.”
“I won’t,” Hao promised.
“I’ll be right here. All night. I’m not going anywhere.”
Slowly, the tension melted from Hanbin’s shoulders.
His breathing steadied.
His grip loosened, but only a little.
Hao pulled the blankets up to their chins and made sure Hanbin’s head rested comfortably against his chest.
“Hey,” Hao whispered.
Hanbin hummed sleepily.
“You did enough today,” Hao said. “You are enough. Even when you aren’t perfect.”
A tiny, fragile sound left Hanbin’s throat,
half a sigh, half a whimper of relief.
Hao tucked him closer, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
“Sleep,” he murmured one last time.
“I’ll take care of you when you wake up, too.”
And with that, Hanbin finally let go and
fell into the softest, safest sleep he’d had in weeks,
held firmly in the arms of the one person who always stayed.