Chapter Text

Zhang Hao is a fly on the wall.

The prettiest, smartest, most talented one of the horde, sure, but wholly unimportant in the grand scheme of things—especially at Roze Arts High School, where who your family is determines your place in the social hierarchy, and what you wear to parties matters more than your GPA.

And Hao is, genuinely, okay with that. He came to Korea to focus on his education, not his popularity, and he certainly has no desire to be infamous enough to make a cameo at Haneul’s.

When people say “Did you check Haneul’s?” in the halls, they aren’t talking about a person. Haneul isn’t a who. It’s a what.

(Or, technically, Haneul is Hao, but that’s not something anyone needs to know. It would be bad for business. And probably grounds for a disciplinary meeting with the headmaster—which, coincidentally, was his nickname back in China!)

Haneul’s 88 Counseling Center is the biggest, juiciest gossip blog in all of Seoul. A digital deity sent from some disguised hell, omnipresent and ready to air out everyone’s dirty laundry with the press of a button.

It also doubles as a confessional booth, though Hao’s never claimed to be a priest. He isn’t sworn to secrecy, nor does he have any moral obligation to advise his impressionable peers to be better people, so he spends all his free time running the advice column with that philosophy in mind.

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Hao gets a little too lazy to be witty by the last one.

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Does Hao ever think before he posts? Yes! He thinks “teehee :3c” and then he clicks post.

His blog is purely for the trolls and the lols. Anyone stupid enough to actually take his advice was bound to do something stupid anyway.

Besides, he’s already absolved himself of any and all responsibility with the disclaimer buried in a wall of text on the bottom of his site: Haneul cannot be held liable for any heartbreak, injuries, or death resulting from the advice given on this blog. All posts are for entertainment purposes only.

Hao always knew his little hobby would come back to bite him.

He just didn’t think it would happen so literally, and in the form of Sung Hanbin’s lips crashing into his, no less.

If you asked Hao why he was at Sung Hanbin’s New Year’s party, he’d probably blink at you, bat his lashes innocently, and say something unimposing like, “Oh, my friend dragged me here.”

Which is technically true. His friend’s name just happens to be Haneul, the friend lives in his laptop, and he is said friend.

He calls it a hobby, but honestly, it’s become a full-blown profession. The rumors don’t post themselves.

Someone has to uncover the rot beneath the gilded exterior, and if that means sneaking into the Sung residence in the dead of winter wearing two layers of clothing, then so be it.

It’s not really sneaking, per se. He’s not important enough to get an invitation, not masochistic enough to third-wheel his host family’s son and his date who were invited, but he doesn’t exactly stick out when he shows up at the doors thanks to the lacy, gaudy, gold-accented mask he bought from Gmarket for 21,000 won.

Because as if this night couldn’t get any more pretentious, it’s a masquerade ball. The kind where everyone pretends a glorified piece of paper over your eyes renders you unrecognizable, even though everyone has practically known each other since birth.

His suit is nothing special; it’s his slutty waist and tall stature that get him in with the slightest nod of acknowledgment by the doorman. Anonymity has always been his favorite shield, and with everyone masked and tipsy, he blends into the sea of entitlement all the same.

It takes about three chalicefuls of spiked punch and an hour of being pressed cock to ass with far too many sweaty strangers for his liking before Hao remembers exactly why he hates parties.

He’s not here for the so-called atmosphere, or to rub shoulders with Seoul’s elite. Not in the networking sense, anyway. He’s here for the scandal, for the high of catching people at their worst moments, to eavesdrop and find out whose father is having an affair with the maid or embezzling company funds on blow.

Hao’s goal for tonight? Dig up fresh dirt on the host himself, Hanbin.

(Not to be confused with P. Hanbin. After Hao queened out with him at Taerae’s sleepover soiree, at which he was given a live demonstration of his Snow Fairy shower gel, diplomatic relations were established and he was unofficially granted amnesty from Haneul’s. Of course, P. Hanbin doesn’t know that.)

The other one is the golden boy, a future SKY university attendee on a full nepotism scholarship, reigning alongside Jo Yuri as one half of the school’s power couple: Sung Yaoi—uh, Sung Hanbin. Must’ve been the wind.

Golden as his image may be, S. Hanbin is no stranger to Haneul’s. He’s just as guilty as the rest of his peers, indicted on at least a dozen counts of underage drinking, smoking, and worst of all, going out on a school night. You name it, he’s done it.

Well, everything except the proverbial it, apparently. Hanbin is, by all nonconsenting third party accounts, a virgin. Which is kinda contradictory, considering he’s also heard that Hanbin has a huge…heart. Philanthropy runs through his veins, especially when he’s feeling excited. About giving back, of course!

Whether there’s any truth to the rumors, Hao has no idea. His rule of manicured, heart-nail-stickered thumb is: if it fits someone’s narrative, it’s good enough for the blog. Every tip that lands in his inbox, no matter how out of context or laced with malice, gets posted without a second thought. Don’t shoot the messenger.

Is what he’s doing morally reprehensible and defamatory? Yes, but it’s not like anyone’s lives are at stake. Probably. Any good investigative journalist should be willing to get their hands dirty.

Hanbin’s family owns, like, half the real estate in the country. If Hao makes a post calling the Sung heir a spoiled brat on his humble, aggressively pink blog, he’s pretty sure the world will keep turning. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and Zhang Hao gets prettier (or however the saying goes—Hao has never concerned himself with matters of accuracy).

According to a loyal reader whose parents get invited to all the Sung family galas and every other pompous social event of the sort, Hanbin wasn’t always the prodigal son.

There was a time where Sung Hanbin was just another awkward, blushy teenager, still growing into his limbs and his surname. That was before he spent the summer of ’07 abroad on the white sands of Santorini and came back hot, having discovered the tantalizing effects of showing a little forehead, with some fresh, illegal ink on his chest. Then again, the law has never meant much to chaebols.

While Hao’s only ever seen Hanbin in passing and in pixels, it’s hard to believe that someone so perfectly self-assured could have ever been anything but.

He just has that it factor—not as much as Hao does, or did, as he seems to have left most of his star quality back in China along with his dignity and half his wardrobe—but still. It’s there. Somewhere. Hao can acknowledge it, even if it wounds his already bruised ego.

By the time the fourth glass of punch is settling in his stomach, Hao’s bored of the ballroom. There’s nothing worth reporting, nor anyone worth his scrutiny, so he starts drifting along the margins, carefully weaving his lithe body between clusters of masked idiots in search of air that's less oppressive.

If there’s anything he’s learned from running Haneul’s over the past two years, it’s that the best gossip never presents itself out in the open. It’s born in places just as closed off as the secrets themselves. Back stairwells, elevators, supply closets—anywhere but this low-lit, chandeliered purgatory, really.

Freedom is only ten steps away, maybe fewer if he hadn’t gone for that last drink, when a firm hand catches his wrist.

Hao’s stomach drops to his juicy, fat ass. He knew he was particularly gifted in the back, but did tonight really have to be the night someone noticed?

He mentally flips through the telephone directory of a list of people he’s actively avoiding: the scorned victims of his blog, exes, the casting agent who’s been tailing him since he landed in Korea, and most of all, his parents.

When he finally turns around—because that’s just what you do when someone has an ironclad grip on the cuff of your bespoke suit—he’s met with a face he knows too well and yet not at all.

Don’t speak of the handsome devil, and he shall appear to spite you anyway.

Pretty philtrum, annoyingly perfect pointy nose, earlobes tinged pink; Sung Hanbin is, objectively (and to Hao’s horror, subjectively), good looking.

The mask somehow enhances his beauty, despite concealing his most appreciable features. Delicate silver filigree curls across the bridge of his nose, flaring out at the edges like the wings of a butterfly. Hao tries not to stare, really, but it’s hard not to when Hanbin is looking at him with what he’s semi-affectionately referred to in his posts as “psycho eyes” on several occasions.

“Dance with me?” Hanbin asks, completely ignoring the fact that Hao was trying to leave. Something in his voice tells him that it’s not really a question, and Hao knows better than to cause a scene by refusing.

He nods, forcing a neutral expression onto his face as Hanbin smoothly steers him towards the rest of civilization by the small of his back. Hao, not so smoothly, steps directly on Hanbin’s toes through the leather of his Oxfords.

“Oops,” he says, not even pretending to be remorseful as they stumble through a poor excuse of a slow dance.

Hanbin barely reacts to the attempted coup. At least now he knows the real reason Hanbin ditched the practical dance department in favor of broadcasting and entertainment.

There are about a million thoughts running through his head right now, and concerningly few of them are related to self-preservation. Hanbin is close enough for every drop of his cologne to pervade Hao’s nostrils, for him to count each of his unfairly long lashes. Thinking coherently when all five senses (except taste) are currently being put to work is a feat that not even Zhang Hao can accomplish.

Still, one rational thought manages to surface over all the Hanbin-induced static in his brain: Why was the Sung heir dragging him, of all people, onto the dance floor when his girlfriend is a few meters away?

Perhaps Hanbin just has better taste than Hao gave him credit for. There’s only one serious contender for Twink of the Year, and Hao’s fully prepared to bear the weight of the crown. If Hanbin wanted to be his consort, then let’s just say Hao wouldn’t deny him the honor.

Hanbin pipes up after a beat, slowing the tempo of their sway. “Sorry to ruin your escape plan. I don’t know how I’d live with myself if I let the prettiest thing in the room leave.”

Hao doesn’t even bother pretending to be flattered. He knows he’s pretty. If Hanbin’s trying to get a piece of him, he’s going to have to grovel more than that—is what he’d think if he were a stronger man.

Internally, he’s kicking his feet and twirling his metaphorical hair, and figuring out how to tell his roommate when he gets back. Gyuvin will totally freak out and give The Scream (1893) a run for its money.

But he absolutely cannot give Hanbin the satisfaction of knowing that he’s—god, he doesn’t even want to say it—attracted to him. Physically. That’s all. So he rolls his eyes, huffing a short, disbelieving breath. “I think you’d be much better off.”

“Are you always this hard to get close to?”

Hanbin’s lashes flutter as he speaks, head tilting just so, tongue darting over bitten lips and no, no, no—Hao should not be composing a novel about him in his mind right now, nevertheless one that’s approximately 2 seconds away from devolving into erotica. He can’t help it, okay? It’s the writer in him.

Before Hao can bristle, deflect, or call it a case of mistaken identity, Hanbin interrupts. “​​I don’t think you realize how many people want to get your attention.”

Hao pulls a face, lip jutting out in confusion. “What, me?”

“You’d know if you ever looked up from your phone.” Hanbin’s gaze drops to the bulge in Hao’s slacks (get your mind out of the gutter!) where his hot pink Motorola MS500W sits. It’s been buzzing with a constant stream of notifications throughout the night, and is extremely happy to see the other boy.

“I just—have a lot of calls to attend to. I’m very busy,” Hao says, a little too defensively. Pardon his French, but what the actual fuck was Hanbin talking about? “With…”

He trails off, words suddenly failing him. With what? Exploiting peoples lives for clicks? Whoring around? The CSAT was nearly two months ago. School is simply a pastime for him now. “Studying. Violin. Performing. At weddings, and stuff.”

“Funny,” Hanbin murmurs, eyes flickering down to Hao’s lips, then back up again. “Because for someone so busy, I see you everywhere. Ricky’s party last weekend, that little Italian place in Yeonnam, my florist in Hapjeong, here…We must have a lot in common, then.”

Hao’s pout settles further, and he bites the inside of his cheek. He avoids Hanbin’s gaze, suddenly feeling a bit conscious. Not self-conscious, god forbid. All that time he spent spectating, Hao never thought anyone was really paying attention to him.

“Masks come off at midnight,” Hanbin says. His hand comes up to Hao’s face, beginning to toy with the rhinestone chains dangling at the edge of his mask, fingers dragging slowly along the pearly appendages that extend from the sides.

He reaches behind Hao’s head, past his nape, and hooks his fingers around the ribbon fixing it in place, teasing at the knot. “But I’m impatient.”

One, two tugs, and the ribbon comes undone. Fully unmasked, Hao stands frozen, head spinning—though that might just be because of the punch and the way Hanbin’s other hand grips his waist, fingers digging into fabric.

“You really should have someone proofread your posts, Haneul,” he says, his voice barely above a breath, leaning in so close that his lips brush against Hao’s cheek. “Your Korean’s almost as cute as you are.”

Hao opens his mouth to try and defend himself, but any snarky retort he has is swallowed instantly. Hanbin’s mouth meets his before he can get a single syllable out, tilting his head to close the remaining distance.

He was supposed to be collecting material for next week’s bombshell—not starring in it. But right now, it’s far too late to worry about intentions, because Sung Hanbin’s lips are on his with intent, and Hao is kissing back. With tongue, obviously.

The clock strikes twelve. The trains have stopped running, everyone’s gotten a year older, and by morning the entire school is about to find out that Roze’s elusive gossip blogger is actually just a nosy twink.

Graduation has never felt further away.

Hao is quickly learning that not all PR is good PR.

If there’s one thing about Hao, it’s that he never really thinks about the consequences of his actions—until the consequence is Sung Hanbin making out with him at the party of the year when the year hasn’t even started yet.

Honestly, can you even call it a consequence when Hanbin tasted like reputation, luxury, and all the things he’s been missing from back home, with a hint of Cherry Coke roll-on lip gloss? (Yuri’s, probably.)

Okay. So maybe that’s a consequence.

Because he’s no longer just reporting on the drama. He is the drama. And there’s going to be a lot of drama if he doesn’t post about this on his blog, especially since he’s always the first to break any story about Hanbin. Last week, it was:

As to why Hao was at the devil’s sacrament? That’s a secret he’ll never tell.

What Hanbin said to him—about people wanting his attention, not the part where he insulted his Korean skills—still gnaws at his mind. He gets the occasional tip about “that Chinese hot twink” or some blurry shot of himself playing at a wedding, but he always figured it was just Gyuvin trying to mess with him.

He should’ve known that wasn’t the case after someone submitted a photo of him mid-bite at brunch with Gyuvin taken via hand mirror. He blames his clouded judgment on the durian deficiency he’s developed since moving (being exiled, if you asked Hao) here.

Hao never posts about himself. It’s a rule. One that he’s going to have to break, because photos of the kiss are already flooding his tip line. At least most of them were taken from his good side.

He pretty much bolted the second Hanbin’s lips parted from his, like Cinderella fleeing the ball—except this story was riches to rags. The taxi fare back to the suite he begrudgingly has to call home, which also happens to be in a building owned by the Sung Group, came straight out of his rather ungenerous travel stipend. God, he misses his life before Korea.

As soon as the private elevator opens on 22F, a huge rat—okay, fine, his host family’s beloved Italian greyhound—scampers over to him, clawing at his ankles with its cold paws.

Hao gives the dog a reluctant pat, cringing at the tactile horror of skin over skull before quickly retreating to his room. He slams the door behind him with a noise that echoes throughout the entire south wing, muttering a clipped non-apology to Mrs. Kim and shooting a pitiful look at the door that Eumppappa will neither see nor understand.

His first order of business is to look up the Korean word for romantic cheating. He snatches his laptop off his desk and flops into bed, wedging the clunky thing between his knees and his chest. He pulls up Naver search, promptly cursing himself for having used the term for academic cheating in his post instead.

The wind blooms? Seriously? In Chinese, there’s no poetry about it; the victim is just a world-class cuckold. Never wear a green hat.

Gyuvin is the worst editor ever. Hao should, like, fire him for failing to catch such a critical error. Not that he gets paid or anything.

He groans, downloads one of the more flattering pictures of himself making out with Hanbin, and throws it up on his blog paired with some stupid one-liner. Then he checks his advice email for any new submissions.

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He deletes all of them swiftly for violating his terms & conditions, a proud authoritarian enforcing his strict regime. Haneul’s is pretty much a lawless land, but even a lawless land needs some rules. Rule no. 1: no one tells Haneul what to do.

Then his bedroom door bursts open and Hao, honest to god, shrieks. Kim Gyuvin, the son of his host family, and for lack of better options, his closest confidant in Korea, comes barreling into his room without so much as a curt knock.

Gyuvin must’ve bailed on the party way earlier than him, seeing as he’s already washed up, clad in cartoonish pajamas, and ten times more sober than Hao—which isn’t saying much, because he doesn’t even drink.

Gyuvin is the only other person (other than Hanbin now, apparently) who knows Hao runs this stupid blog, because Hao left his laptop open to the editing screen one too many times, foolishly trusting the Apgujeong Meddler himself not to snoop around.

His eyes are practically bulging out of his skull, toothbrush dangling idly from his mouth as he gapes. “You kissed Hanbin hyung?!”

“He kissed me, thank you very much,” Hao says, a little smug, like he didn’t spend the entire ride home reliving that exact moment. It’s been way too long since he felt that kind of adrenaline rush. Hanbin was a good kisser, and Hao can’t help but wonder what other things he might be good at.

Hao’s about to scold him for slobbering on the carpet—seriously, can he not do this in the bathroom?—but before he can get another word out, Gyuvin shuts the door behind him quickly. Not fast enough, though. Eumppappa takes the opportunity to dart inside, curling her skinny little body protectively by Hao’s feet.

Gyuvin tries to speak around a mouthful of toothpaste, words coming out totally unintelligible, but Hao gets the gist: “Don’t you know he’s with Yuri? Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m very aware. As if I don’t spend every second of my time keeping tabs on his love life,” Hao replies, his pout betraying his loose attempt at not sounding bitter.

Gyuvin holds up a single finger before stumbling into Hao’s bathroom. He bends over the sink, spitting into it with all the grace of a rabid dog.

“Oh my god. Hao hyung. You’re the other woman. Uh—other man,” he says, still wiping his mouth as he plops next to Hao on the bed. “Yuri is literally going to kill you!”

Hao rolls his eyes, though he feels a strange sense of pride in the title, even if it is inherently problematic. He wonders if there’s a witty Korean expression for “homewrecker.” Looks like that will be his next search query.

“Relax, Gyuvin. It was just one kiss. And he was the one kissing me, okay? I’m, like, the victim.”

Gyuvin snorts. “The victim of what? Finally getting to act on one of your many depraved fantasies about Hanbin hyung that you post on your little blog?”

Hao flushes, looking away. “It’s not like that!”

Oh, it is very much like that. The truth is, he knows a lot more about Sung Hanbin than he’s let on.

Gyuvin isn’t talking about his posts on Haneul’s 88 Counseling Center. No—he’s talking about Hao’s private Cyworld. The blog that Hao unleashes every single one of his unfiltered thoughts and very punishable desires upon at length, most of which involve Sung Hanbin performing a number of acts on him that Hao will currently decline to describe.

Definitely not his most eloquent, nor his most informative pieces of writing, but he stands by what he said.

He really needs to invest in a lock on his door. And maybe a chain for his laptop.

Pleased that he has the upper hand for once, Gyuvin clears his throat exaggeratedly and begins to recite one of Hao’s entries from memory and jackassery. “‘To my future husband, Sung Hanbin—”

“Shut up,” Hao whines, slamming his laptop closed, desperate to cut him off before he can get to the part about life in their Paris mansion with their Shiba Inu named Sansan and Husky named Liuliu.

Even so, he doesn't relent, dangling his phone in front of Hao by the keypad. “Should I text him? Does this mean you guys are dating now? Should I tell Hanbin hyung how much you want him to—”

“Give me that!” Hao hisses, practically lunging at him. “If you even think about texting him, I swear I’ll tell everyone what you and Ricky did on my birthday last year when you clusterfucks were supposed to be picking up the cake.”

Gyuvin goes pale faster than Hao did after that salmon bibimbap that made him puke twice in one night. “You wouldn’t,” he whispers, voice completely devoid of any bravado.

“Please. We all know the only ‘bakery’ you were at was Ricky’s Buns.”

“Okay, okay, fine. No need to go nuclear.” Gyuvin holds up his hands in false surrender, dropping the phone, but there’s still a glint of mischief in those freakishly big eyes of his. “Wow, this is so much better than when I thought you just hated him.”

“I do hate him,” Hao insists, crossing his arms petulantly. He knows he’s fooling absolutely no one.

There’s a thin line between love and hate, and Hao’s pretty sure he crossed it somewhere around the eighth paragraph of his latest ode to Hanbin’s chest tattoo.

(But you didn’t hear any of that from him.)

Mornings in Korea for Zhang Hao usually go like this:

He wakes to the tinny sound of his Hello Kitty alarm clock (a little too cute for anyone over twelve, but it was a gift from the Kims that they bought thinking they would be hosting a teenage girl), Eumppappa scratching at his door with a vengeance, and the scent of breakfast drifting under the crack—usually a “charcuterie board” consisting of beef, mango slices, yogurt, and exactly three Kraft Singles.

Hao’s not sure if it’s a cultural difference or parental negligence. He’ll swallow down his judgment, but the so-called food? Not so much.

Mornings in Korea for Zhang Hao do not begin with texts from an unknown number that read like a legal summons.

Hao blinks at the screen, trying to decide if he’s extremely hungover or if Sung Hanbin just texted him asking to meet up.

For a moment, he seriously considers ignoring it. Maybe he’ll book the next flight back to China and go into witness protection until this drama blows over—though his parents probably wouldn’t appreciate his premature return, especially if it's because he’s managed to reach social pariah status in yet another country.

Not that they’d approve of this either. But, fuck it, it’s for the blog. If he’s going to die at the thick, veiny hands of the Sung heir, at least he’ll go out in style.

By 10:45, Hao is vaguely presentable: hair still damp from a rushed shower, favorite sky blue linen shirt barely buttoned, and the aftermath of last night’s bad decisions evident under his eyes. After a struggle that began with his refusal to have the Gyuvin Special™ for breakfast and ended with him having to wrestle Eumppappa back behind a baby gate after several escape attempts, Hao was left breathless and stumbling down into the lobby, almost certain that he was going to be late and subject to whatever consequences Hanbin had in mind.

It’s a pleasant surprise when he’s greeted outside the entrance by a man wearing a crisp suit, standing at attention beside a glossy black limo.

He’d been planning on taking the subway, but this works too. Hao’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth—especially when it’s talking money.

“Zhang Hao?” the chauffeur asks, as if he’s questioning why on earth Hanbin would send for someone who looks so…scattered.

“This is he,” Hao pants, cheeks going slightly pink. He almost runs back inside to fix his shirt until realizing it’s too late to try and keep up appearances now.

The drive to Hotel ROMEO is one that he should be familiar with by now; barely twelve hours have passed since Hao took this exact route, only then he was tipsy, giggly, his lips tingling from a kiss he wasn’t supposed to have. This time around, the world is achingly sober—although he can say the interior of this car was much nicer.

Hao leans his head against the cool pane of the window, sighing deeply. Then he jerks upright in horror, realizing his hair is fucked up as it is. He quickly combs through it with his fingers, attempting to delude himself into believing that he looks fine, and that everything will be fine.

But he can’t, because this is Sung Hanbin he’s meeting—the same Hanbin he’d spent years gossiping about and obsessing over, the one Hao was certain didn’t even know he existed until, well, he kissed him.

The limo rolls smoothly to a stop in front of the entrance of Hotel ROMEO. The chauffeur opens the door for him with a gloved hand, guiding him past the concierge desk and through an ornate set of double doors.

Inside, the private dining room is empty save for a single table set for two, with a charcuterie board as the centerpiece—an actual one that appeals to his stomach much more than whatever abomination Gyuvin likes to make at home. On it sits a meticulously arranged American-style breakfast: thick slices of French toast dusted with powdered sugar, two different types of eggs, and crisp smoked bacon, accessorized by a pitcher of mimosa and an assortment of fruit. No durian, though.

The only sight more mouth-watering than the food is Hanbin.

He’s already sitting there, his hair a perfect comma over his forehead. His forearms rest atop the tablecloth, sleeves rolled up just enough to show off the shiny Rolex sitting on his wrist.

Hanbin appraises him in the light, his gaze lingering at the expanse of bare skin on Hao’s chest where the buttons of his shirt have been rendered strictly ornamental. His eyes narrow slightly at all the wrinkles in the fabric.

(The Kims own a steamer. Hao just doesn’t know how to use it.)

“Sorry for being late,” Hao mutters, not even trying to play up the sweetness. He drops into the chair across from Hanbin and pours himself a glass, downing a third of it in one swig.

Hanbin glances at his watch, completely unfazed. “You’re on time.” He gestures toward the platter between them, the polite host that he is. “Help yourself.”

Silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft clink of forks and knives on china. Hao tries to remember his manners, but the food is too good, and it takes everything in him not to scarf down the toast in one bite.

When he finally gets his hands to stop shaking, Hao sets his utensils down, deciding that it’s time to get to the main course: Operation Grovel.

"Look. If this is about the blog, I'll stop posting about you, okay? I swear. Actually—I'll just shut it down completely. Then you’ll have nothing on me." Hao’s tone is a bit too whiny, even more than it usually is when he’s speaking Korean, but that’s just how you know he’s desperate.

The threat is partially empty; he doesn’t really want to quit the only thing that makes Korea even remotely tolerable for him, but he’d rather choose a boring life over the alternative.

If anyone finds out he’s Haneul, there’s no doubt he’ll be expelled on the spot. It’ll be goodbye, school, goodbye, Korea, and goodbye to any semblance of freedom again. And while he does miss his old life sometimes, he knows exactly the kind of wrath that he’ll be facing in China the moment he touches down without a high school diploma.

Hao’s parents would probably confiscate his internet, his inheritance, and toss yet another one of his designer handbags. His obnoxiously red Loewe Amazona 28 was the closest thing he’ll ever have to a baby. Fly high, sweet angel.

Hanbin maintains eye contact for a moment too long, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek—a lethal weapon against a spineless Zhang Hao, so stupefying that he almost doesn’t even realize that Hanbin is speaking.

“If you shut it down, I’ll just expose you anyway,” Hanbin says, all matter-of-fact. “Then you’ll have no blog, no future, and everyone will know Haneul’s was run by a hot Chinese twink and not a girl.”

“Rude,” Hao mumbles, secretly giddy underneath his cool facade. Hanbin may have called him a twink, but he called him hot two words before that. Every cloud has a silver lining—though, Hao much prefers gold. “Fine. What do you want?”

“You.”

Hao scrunches his face in disbelief, suddenly feeling butterflies flutter low in his stomach. They need to be exterminated, pronto.

He opens his mouth, about to call Hanbin’s attempts at flirting greasy, until realizing he has no idea how to get the idea across in Korean. He knows the word for “pervert,” but “pervert” doesn’t quite capture the correct nuance. So Hao just continues to nurse his drink, waiting for Hanbin to elaborate on his ransom demands.

“I’m gay, Hao,” Hanbin clarifies, most likely mistaking his silence for shock.

Everyone who’s ever read his blog knows that Hanbin’s long chain of girlfriends was a more obvious front than Ricky’s clothing startup.

(Despite his adamance that the investment money is going towards operational costs, Hao won’t believe it until he actually sees the “Rolemodel” trademark inked on something that isn’t Ricky’s neck.)

People were just being nice about it. If Hanbin was expecting a standing ovation from him for coming out, he’s not getting one.

“Obviously,” Hao replies, idly tracing a smiley face in the condensation on his glass. “There’s a reason that video of you dancing to BoA on Dance Dance Revolution exists.”

“And if that’s the case,” he continues, “you could’ve just told Yuri that, idiot. You didn’t have to cheat and you definitely didn’t have to drag me into it. If you want to ask me out, court me the normal way. Wow, romance really is dead.”

This is the real Hao talking, not agent of chaos Haneul. Surprise, surprise: he does have a conscience. Unfortunately for everyone else, it only ever seems to present itself when the crisis at hand is his own.

“She’s known for a while.” Hanbin blinks—an immovable object against the unstoppable force of Hao’s incessant bitchery. “And didn’t you tell me to cheat?”

“Excuse me?” Hao frowns at the accusation, setting his mimosa down a little too hard. Didn’t Hanbin read the fine print? Perhaps the only thing more dead than romance these days is media literacy.

“I wasn't telling you to cheat, I was telling [email protected] with the Hamtaro profile picture to cheat,” he points out, though in retrospect, it was a very obvious trap. “There’s a difference. And the advice column is satire! I didn’t think any sane person would take infidelity written in glittery pink letters with an exclamation point seriously.”

"Well, apparently I did,” Hanbin retorts, infuriatingly pleased with himself. Hao wants to wipe the look right off of his face. Preferably with his lips.

But Hao’s tired of all this foreplay. “Can you please get to the point? I’m here, tail between my legs. What do you want from me? Just say it.”

He barrels on, not giving Hanbin the chance to answer. “Free violin lessons? I can do viola, piano, and cello too. Do you want me to blackmail your enemies? Or…other kinds of favors? My hands are really—”

Hanbin goes through a myriad of emotions, his face cycling through various expressions of shock and horror, before finally landing on one of plain exasperation.

“Something like that,” Hanbin says before exhaling deeply, rubbing his temples. “I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend, Hao.”

Hao opens his mouth. Closes it. Did he just hear him correctly? Or was he really that much of a lightweight?

Okay, Hanbin still has ten fingers, and there’s still only one of him. Hao is about to stand up on one leg and start counting backwards as the ultimate test, but he can’t even do that sober. He only had like, one mimosa. Or two. Maybe three. Honestly, he just kept pouring. Fuck.

“I’m sure you know all about my father getting remarried,” Hanbin says, ignoring the fact that Hao was currently short–circuiting.

Hao does know all about the recent engagement and impending Sung–Jang family merge. Ever since the announcement at the Sung Group’s 70th founding anniversary celebration, the “Sung family” post tab on his blog (not to be confused with the “Hanbin” one—that’s a whole separate beast) had no shortage of juicy gossip and terrible puns about their growing business empire.

There was some attempt at image restoration in the media, presumably orchestrated by the family’s PR team: DSLR photos of them on ski trips wearing matching embroidered padded jackets, hosting an endless amount of charity galas, and, Hao’s personal favorite, the staged paparazzi shots of Hanbin holding hands with his perfect singer girlfriend Yuri. When figuring out what to post about on Haneul’s for the day, Hao tended to go for the low-hanging fruit—a.k.a. Hanbin.

The Sung family tree needed a major update after that. There are the Sungs by blood—Hanbin, his perpetually remarried father, a gaggle of aunts and uncles and cousins however many times removed, plus the honorary Sung: Hanbin’s half-brother born out of wedlock, Han Yujin, whom Hao has nicknamed “Little H” for the purpose of brevity and humiliation.

Then there’s the Jangs, consisting of Hanbin’s future stepmother, socialite Jang Doyeon, and her two daughters, Wonyoung and Hyunseo. She’s a total Mother, leaving a trail of husbands that have disappeared under mysterious circumstances in her wake. Hao can only aspire to be as iconic as her when he’s in his 40s.

Hao’s obsession with the Jangs comes second only to his obsession with Hanbin, which says a lot. When Wonyoung walked in Ricky’s fashion show in that custom ruby red gown, Hao posted about it for a week straight. It was probably the only stretch of positive coverage his blog had ever seen.

“Of course I do! I can’t believe Jang Wonyoung is going to be your stepsister,” Hao says, his voice going up a register out of sheer excitement. “She’s probably going to be, like, the future it girl. Totally Lucky Vicky!”

Hanbin shoots him a look. Hao just shrugs, shameless. “Sorry. Continue.”

“I wanted to make a huge public spectacle at the party,” Hanbin says. “Cheat on my fake girlfriend, piss off my father and show him he chose gay son…” he trails off. “My reputation’s shot anyway, so I might as well go all in and have an affair with the hot Chinese twink. They’ll have no choice but to call off the engagement.”

Blah, blah, blah. Proper name, place, backstory stuff—Hanbin basically just confessed to him. Whatever teenage logic and family drama that led him to this dumpster fire of a revenge plot, as well as the word “pretend,” was completely irrelevant.

“Yes!” Hao blurts, regretting it when he sees how surprised Hanbin is at being met with such little resistance. He coughs loudly in an attempt to salvage any remaining mystique. “Is what I would say if I were a sellout. But I’m not going to do this just because you want to upset Daddy. I have suitors lined up.”

He really doesn’t. Hanbin’s been his dream man since the day he saw his last name on the music building at Roze, but Hao would rather die than make this easy.

Luckily, Hanbin takes the bait. “It has to be you. Also, it wouldn’t be the first time a Sung man cheated with a foreigner,” he says, looking at Hao knowingly.

Hao flushes, vaguely remembering a post he made last semester involving Hanbin’s father, an American model, and a yacht. Hanbin must really keep up with his blog. It’s flattering, honestly. “What about my blog? Do you want me to stop posting?”

Hanbin shakes his head. “No. I need Haneul to control the narrative. People have to believe that we’re actually together in order for this to work.”

“One fake relationship to another, really? Have some decorum,” Hao scoffs. “Pick someone else.”

Please don’t, he thinks.

“You want to stay in Korea, don’t you?” Hanbin asks, though it’s more of a threat than a question. “You like living with the Kims, running your little blog, playing your music…Nobody back home knows what you’ve been doing here, and nobody here knows what you were up to back home. Do you really want to face your parents and explain why you failed here too?”

Hao flinches. He knew he was pushing it, but that was totally uncalled for. Does that mean he knows about Chinagate?

He stares down at his mimosa, as if it might offer him a prophecy in its reflection. One thing's for sure, though; going home and facing the mess he left behind at home is not an option.

He sighs, loud and pouty, but the white flag has already been waved a long time ago. “Okay. I’ll help you. But can I at least ask how you knew it was me?”

Hanbin smirks. "No one else walks like they're wearing 15-centimeter high heels except for you, Zhang Hao."

Hao’s eye twitches. He meant in general, not how he found him last night at the party, but Hanbin’s answer is sobering regardless.

For as long as he’s been in Korea, he’s lived vicariously through his Haneul persona, encouraging countless scandals and affairs from behind the safety of his screen. Never once did he think there would come a day where he’d be taking his own terrible advice.

Hao has had his heart set on Yonsei University since his third day in Korea, when he realized how good he looked in a blue-and-white striped sweatband and Yonsei baseball jersey, bought on a campus tour with the Kim family.

He’d raised his fist in the air in the gift shop mirror, feeling an instant sense of loyalty to a school he’d never even heard of until that day. Go Eagles!

From then on, he committed himself to the cause. He studied day in and day out for the CSAT, spent his afternoons at hagwons (mostly eavesdropping on hot gossip from equally hot tutors and his fellow prisoners-of-bore), and built his entire personality around being a future SKY student.

All his efforts paid off when the acceptance email came in, complete with a tuition bill promptly forwarded to his parents who paid without complaint (at least, none he heard). Now he just needed to stay out of trouble until graduation, prove he’s reformed from the disorderly conduct that forced his exile from China in the first place, and then move into his own private suite instead of slumming it in the dorms like the other international students.

Sung Hanbin puts a wrench in his carefully laid out plans.

It’s not that Hao hasn’t encountered crazy rich people before. In fact, he grew up surrounded by them. He was spoiled from birth—a musical prodigy and star in the making.

By the age of 16, Hao had his face plastered on the cover of L’Officiel and was declared a “Friend of the House” by Gucci, meaning front row seats at fashion week, sponsored trips to Italy, an endless supply of gifted bags, and the like. His life was a blur of rosin, runways, and questionable violations of child labor laws, escaped only by trolling anonymously on Baidu Tieba forums and flirting with random men on the internet.

He learned the hard way that anonymity online does not exist, especially if you’re dumb (or conceited) enough to post your face all the time. So his parents exiled him to Korea, where no one knew his name and he didn’t know the language. Hao was stripped of his platinum card and left with nothing but his monthly allowance, which was measly once converted from yuan to won, and the Taobao clothes on his back.

Hao misses his old life all the time. Or really, he just misses having his own walk-in closet. Now he has to share one with Gyuvin and Eumppappa, for some reason. He also misses Baobao, his darling mini poodle—she’d absolutely love Seoul.

Even now that graduation is on the horizon, he’s still deeply resentful about his parents shipping him across the sea to finish secondary school in order to “teach him a lesson.” He studied hard for the Zhongkao, goddamnit.

It was precisely this resentment that found a then 17-year-old Zhang Hao standing miserably at a stranger’s wedding, his violin digging into his collarbone, the shoulder pads in his suit jacket threatening to dislodge with every kiss of bow to string. This was one of his first gigs in Korea—Mrs. Kim had recommended him to a friend, insisting that the exposure would be good for his character, whatever that meant.

Back home, money was never a problem. Zhang Hao did not worry about tuition or his next meal, or, god forbid, his next job. Those were plebeian concerns.

And yet there he was, reduced to booking low-paying wedding gigs to supplement his “allowance,” playing for a banquet hall filled with people who still lived like he used to. Music was the one luxury his parents couldn’t take away from him, at least.

Sure, Hao lived in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Seoul, but Seoul wasn’t his turf. This was the land of the Sungs and the Kims and the Jangs—not the Zhangs, no matter how his name was converted into Hangul.

He’d ended up forgetting half the setlist, relying on the catalogue of wedding-safe scores engrained in his mind and muscle memory. You could never go wrong with Canon in D and Jay Chou.

When he finished his performance, he made a beeline for the men’s room in an attempt to avoid any small talk about who his parents were (irrelevant, now), what his family does for a living (also irrelevant), and whether or not he had a girlfriend (very irrelevant).

He splashed his face with cold water, hoping to freshen up—or maybe just waterboard himself into forgetting he had zero friends besides the dog. Even that was a stretch, given the way Eumppappa chewed the handle off his Gucci Jackie bag last week.

Not to mention he had zero forums left to troll on; the Kims granted him the privilege of internet access, but Chinagate was not something he could simply bounce back from. He fucked around and found out, and his past mistakes are not to be repeated. Who knew what the consequences would be this time?

To preface, Hao wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He just happened to have ears, and they happened to hear someone crying in the stall behind him while he was having an existential crisis in the mirror.

He tried to tune it out, signal to the other person that this wasn’t as private of a space as they thought it was. He let the faucet run, triggered the hand dryer, and even coughed loudly like a Victorian orphan succumbing to consumption to really emphasize his presence.

But the crying just got louder, and Hao was only human. He glanced down and caught a flash of sleek Prada loafers through the gap beneath the stall door. They were really, really nice. Hao made a mental note to look them up later. If he couldn’t afford them, maybe he could find some decent knock-offs at Dongdaemun Market. Being thrust into poverty really brought him to the lowest of lows.

“No.” The voice in the stall choked. “No, I’m not coming. Tell Father—Tell him I’m sick or something. I don’t care. I’m not going to just show up and pretend everything’s fine.”

Hao quickly gathered he was on a phone call, though it was just as plausible the guy was on something and talking to himself.

The stranger sniffled, then continued bitterly: “If it’s that important, he can just call me himself. Or tell me from jail. That’s where he’s going, right?”

Although this was a total invasion of this stranger’s privacy, Hao couldn’t stop himself from getting invested. The only thing missing was the popcorn.

“Leave me alone. Don’t call this number again.”

There was a sharp click as the call ended, before the stranger let out a long, resigned sigh that echoed throughout the entire restroom.

Hao scrunched his face. Who was this Prada-wearing, daddy-issues-having, mess of a teenager with a possible felon father? And why was his life so much more interesting than Hao’s own?

And then it hit him. Urethra!

Wait, no. Eureka!

A blog revolving around himself wouldn’t cut it anymore. He needed to appeal to a different niche: rich kids.

He practically went to school with all of them. They passed by him every day, clutching their Tiffany pearls and designer purses, crudely spilling their dirty secrets when they thought no one was listening. Even with his limited Korean, Hao could still make out the basics: “girlfriend,” “boyfriend,” “let’s break up,” and “son of a bitch.” Why not turn their champagne problems into entertainment?

He could sprinkle in some ill-intentioned advice here and there, stir things up between bitter exes and frenemies, and perhaps finally become somebody here—under a pseudonym, obviously—but somebody nonetheless.

He paused at the exit, feeling a pang of guilt in his chest as he heard another choked sob come from the stall. Just a slight pang, though. Hao’s creative juices were already flowing, and he certainly wasn’t about to let something as minor as ethics get in the way of his calling. He figured Prada boy would get over it eventually.

Hao wiped his hands on his slacks and left the bathroom with a newfound determination.

First, he had to get a VPN. Rookie mistake, honestly. Then, he had to find someone who was in with all of Seoul’s elite, who could be bribed with snacks and other earthly pleasures (and was also way better at Korean than him).

Kim Gyuvin.

Hao had been sussing him out for weeks now, trying to figure out if he was actually worth befriending. He was tolerable enough to cohabitate with, but to confide in? Further investigation was still required, and this was another part of his field research.

He predictably found Gyuvin hunched in a corner by their reserved table, holding his Nintendo DS Lite, thumbs flying across the tiny console.

“Hey,” Hao said, ducking under a garland of artificial roses. He gave Gyuvin’s screen a judgmental once-over.

Gyuvin didn’t even pause. “Wanna play?”

He tilted the DS toward Hao, showing off his character—Peach, obviously, emanating a cloud of pink hearts and performing a slam dunk straight into the mouth of Petey Piranha.

“Are you seriously playing Mario Hoops 3-on-3 right now?” Hao asked, brows furrowing in disdain.

“This wedding blows,” Gyuvin said, shoving a macaron into his mouth. “Where have you been? I’ve had at least eight aunties ask for your business card. I told them you only accept payment in Birkins.”

Hao rolled his eyes, ignoring him. Maybe it was too soon to try and enlist Gyuvin’s help. “Don’t speak with your mouth full. It’s rude. And tell your parents I’m heading back early.”

Gyuvin swallowed before looking at Hao incredulously. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Hao waved his hand dismissively, snatching a strawberry tart off of Gyuvin’s plate and strutting away.

It’s been over two years since the day he decided to open Haneul’s 88 Counseling Center. In that time, the city’s scandals have come and gone—but his crush on Sung Hanbin remains constant.

Hao has gotten older, but wiser? That’s debatable.

His first Herculean trial as Hanbin’s (fake, but who’s going to correct him) boyfriend is the Sung charity gala, where they’re fundraising to save the red pandas? Giant pandas? Something like that. Hanbin told him over the phone a few days ago, but he was busy wrangling Eumppappa into a fuzzy cream turtleneck.

He just knows it’s some kind of animal that’s cute enough to care about, and was probably made endangered by the activities of the people who’ll be donating tonight in order to feel better about themselves—including him!

Hao would rather die than give up his leather and fur. Sorry, PETA.

He only realizes he doesn’t even know what he’s signed up for when Hanbin sends him a nondescript address and a message that leaves him blushing:

That’s how he finds himself standing outside his building, shivering under a sky the color of Eumppappa, waiting for a sleek black limo to roll up and sweep him away again. He waits for a good five minutes past noon, and…crickets.

Hao frowns at his phone, hoping he’s missed something, but Hanbin’s last message is just that stupid winky face. No calls, either. Did Hanbin seriously expect him to arrange his own transportation?

He pouts at the sheer cruelty of it all, debating calling a taxi, or just taking the subway like he had so many times before. In the end, he does neither and decides to take the miserable route, seeing as he’s already late. Fashionably so.

Fashionably might not be the word for it when he’s pathetically slipping on ice every other block.

Hao told himself that two kilometers was a walkable distance. The address was in Gangnam, and so was he, so it should have been, what, a fifteen minute walk? That’s what Naver Map said.

But what Naver Map failed to mention was that the only walking Hao’s legs were made for was on a runway, because fifteen minutes turned into thirty. By the time Hao reached the towering brick facade of BNTAILOR, as indicated by the name on the gold plaque, he was out of breath and patience, cursing the existence of every Sung in Korea.

Hao stares up for a moment in awe before continuing, passing an array of well-dressed mannequins in the shop window. He tugs on the door handle and enters the building, albeit reluctantly.

He’s about to walk right back out and triple-check the address when an assistant appears at his elbow. “Zhang Hao?”

God, they love to ask that question around here.

“Obviously,” Hao says, rolling his eyes and shoving his phone into his coat pocket.

The assistant bows, motioning for him to follow. She leads him down a hallway lined with mirrors, each of them reflecting his gorgeous (slightly disheveled, but still gorgeous) reflection.

They come to a pause in front of a doorway, and the assistant gestures Hao forward. “Mr. Sung is just finishing his fitting. You can wait inside.”

Inside the room, Hanbin stands before a full-length trifold mirror, jacket removed, leaving him in a perfectly fitted undershirt that left little to the imagination. Hao feels like he might faint.

The corner of Hanbin’s mouth twitches into a smile as he meets Hao’s lingering eyes in the reflection of the mirror.

“About time,” he says. He turns slowly to face him, taking in Hao’s mussed hair and cold-bitten cheeks. “I almost thought you stood me up.”

Hao scrunches his face. The audacity of him to even suggest that Hao would bail on their agreement when he was the one who didn’t send a car over, leaving him defenseless and ride-less on an unforgiving January day. He should be thankful that Hao didn’t succumb to the elements due to his negligence.

He tries to summon an eye-roll, one of his usual witty comebacks—anything besides remaining in a catatonic state, really—but he simply cannot when Hanbin’s arms are on full display, and on one of them is a tattoo that he’s never seen before.

He’d cursed internally upon realizing he missed Hanbin in his suit, already imagining how good it must have looked hugging his broad shoulders. Though, this might actually be better.

Dark cursive script runs along his inner bicep, and Hao barely resists the urge to pull his phone out and take a photo for his blog(s). He decides to have some class and ogle it with only his eyes instead.

See? He’s capable of doing the right thing. Sometimes.

Hanbin tilts his head, noticing him staring. “Eyes up here,” he teases.

“I thought about it,” Hao says finally, a lie even to his own ears. His gaze catches on Hanbin’s tattoo again, ignoring his remark. “When did you get that?”

Hanbin’s other hand drifts to his arm automatically to touch the inked words. Don’t regret what you do.

“A couple weeks ago. My father has a matching one,” he says.

Hao wants to pry, to ask what it means to him, as well as how Hanbin’s emotionally unavailable father even agreed to get a matching tattoo. But before he can open his mouth, a man Hao assumes to be the tailor appears with a garment bag.

“Mr. Sung chose something special for you, Zhang Hao,” he says. “Shall we?”

That makes Hao perk up despite himself. Something special? Perhaps Hanbin actually does see his worth. He bites down on his lower lip to keep from smiling.

Hao shrugs off his coat, peeling off his winter layers unceremoniously until he’s down to his dress shirt. He sighs loudly, ignoring the feeling of Hanbin’s gaze burning into him from the corner of the room where he’s decided to situate himself.

If Hanbin wanted a striptease, he’d have to take him out to dinner first—preferably somewhere without prices on the menu. He still had some dignity, contrary to how things may appear.

Hao tries not to squirm as the tailor loops the measuring tape around his shoulders, then across the sensitive skin of his chest and waist, jotting down measurements as he goes. His hands linger at Hao’s waist, which makes Hanbin sit up a little straighter in his seat.

Hao manages to slide his arms through the sleeves of his suit jacket without incident, but as soon as the tailor begins to mess with the buttons on his shirt, Hanbin is up and across the room in an instant. He crowds into Hao’s space, signaling with a subtle jerk of his chin that he’ll take it from here.

Jealousy, if that’s what this is, looks good on him. Hao has to suppress a giggle as Hanbin begins to fuss with his lapels and bowtie, smoothing over the velvet of his suit and finding any excuse to touch him under the guise of helpfulness.

Mr. I-Know-Best moves to the jewelry tray, running his fingers over an array of delicate silver rings and bracelets. Hanbin plucks out a pair of rings and threads them through Hao’s digits himself, scolding him when he spots him rotating it around his finger habitually.

“Don’t touch,” he says, lighthearted yet commanding. “It’s on loan. Like you.”

Hao shoots him a look, but Hanbin only grins in response. His hand drifts down to his waist, tracing lightly where the suit jacket still hangs a little too loose on him.

It’s not a perfect fit. Not yet, at least. There’s still a gap, a slight dissonance between who he used to be and who he’s supposed to become here—between the Zhang Hao who walked runways at Beijing Fashion Week, and the Zhang Hao who walks to tailors in Cheongdam.

But looking into his reflection with Hanbin at his side, a part of him feels sixteen again—like for the first time since landing in this country, he might actually belong to this world of champagne brunches and charity galas.

He doesn’t even mind that it comes at the cost of being someone’s arm candy.

Not when that someone is Hanbin.