Chapter Text
Hanbin woke up to blinding pain because someone’s elbow nearly punctured his lung.
He gasped, rolled over, and found the culprit: Gyuvin—six feet of limbs and zero spatial awareness—starfished across half the mattress like a biblical plague. One of his knees was hooked over Hanbin’s hip, one arm under Hanbin’s pillow, and the boy was drooling, smiling faintly, mid-dream.
Hanbin blinked.
He had questions.
None of them had answers.
“Gyuvin,” he croaked, shaking him. “Why are you here?”
Gyuvin only murmured, “Yujin snores like a dying motorcycle,” before turning over and elbowing him again.
Hanbin blinked awake, squinting at the blurry shapes in the dim hotel room. There was drool on Gyuvin’s chin, and the faint smell of last night’s take-out still lingered in the air. Somehow, the blanket had twisted into a Gordian knot, trapping Hanbin like a reluctant burrito. He groaned, disentangling himself just as Gyuvin blinked awake, hair sticking up like static.
“Oh. Morning, hyung.”
Then, without shame, he asked, “Do you think they’ll let me bring chips to soundcheck?”
Hanbin considered committing a felony. “No. You can’t even say the word chips today.”
He sat up, hair sticking out like a crime scene, the digital clock blinking 6:03 a.m. in taunting red. It was concert day—the day everything had to go right. Of course, it started with attempted manslaughter by elbow.
He stumbled out of bed and stepped directly on a Hot Wheels car.
Taerae’s voice rang from across the room, disturbingly cheerful: “Hyung, that’s my lucky McLaren!”
Hanbin froze. “Why,” he asked very calmly, “is there a McLaren in my hotel room?”
Taerae, fully dressed in a shirt printed with literal flames, held up a miniature race car. “For speed energy.”
Hanbin made a small, strangled noise that might have been prayer.
“Hanbin-hyung,” Taerae said gravely, “she’s coming with me for luck.”
“Over my dead body,” Hanbin muttered, trying to stand up again while Gyuvin refused to move.
He was about to grab water when he noticed Taerae cracking open yet another can of neon soda. “Put that down,” Hanbin ordered. “You are drinking actual water today. Your organs have rights.”
Taerae looked betrayed. “Water tastes mild.”
“That’s what it’s supposed to taste like!” Hanbin shouted.
Behind him, Gyuvin stretched, mumbling, “Tell that to Yujin’s ramen.”
Hanbin inhaled deeply through his nose.
Concert day. Patience. Grace. The Holy Spirit.
Meanwhile, Jiwoong’s voice echoed down the hall: “Hao burned a Labubu again! Someone open a window!”
Matthew walked in through their door holding two iced coffees and said, without missing a beat, “Big day for the gays.”
By 7 a.m., Hanbin had already broken up two minor arguments, been yelled at by three stylists, confiscated three cans of Red Bull, and witnessed Jiwoong earnestly argue with a backup dancer about whether Titanic was secretly a BL film. Hao, meanwhile, was walking around with a headset mic he did not need, directing people like a one-man K-drama director.
Somewhere between soundcheck and sanity, Hanbin wondered if God ever regretted making him patient.
By 9 a.m., he was half-asleep and full of rage. Hao had declared himself the Supreme Commander of Feelings, Jiwoong’s “Blessed but Bi” playlist was loud enough to summon actual angels—or at least very judgmental ones—and Matthew had taped an “I ❤️ My Polycule” sticker to Hanbin’s water bottle “for morale.”
He peeled it off. Twice. It kept reappearing.
Meanwhile, Ricky was— a menace. A celestial menace.
He moved through the morning chaos like a curse disguised as a boy—stage makeup glowing under fluorescent light, calm, detached, entirely untouchable. Hanbin couldn’t look too long without feeling like he was breaking several biblical laws.
During soundcheck, it got worse.
He was laughing with Gyuvin, hair slicked back, skin catching the stage lights like weaponry. Hanbin tried to focus on the monitor levels, but the mic tech caught him staring and offered him water with an expression of deep pity.
“Mic test,” Ricky murmured.
“Mic test,” Hanbin repeated, trying to adjust the volume.
Then Ricky leaned into the mic, low and amused.
“Hyung, if you don’t start doing something instead of just staring, I’ll start charging rent.”
Hanbin short-circuited so hard that Matthew physically took the mixer out of his hands.
And that was before he discovered Ricky’s secret Twitter account.
They were backstage, chaos unfolding around them, when Matthew elbowed him with that particular look that always meant impending doom.
“Check your phone,” Matthew whispered, grinning.
Hanbin did.
Then regretted it instantly.
@princebbyric: he looks like a crime scene i’d gladly confess to. #binrik
@princebbyric: if he touches my mic cable again i will meow.
@princebbyric: poly truther king i will marry him myself.
Hanbin froze mid-step.
“Is this—”
Matthew nodded sagely. “That’s his alt.”
“What—how do you know?”
“I traced it,” Matthew said proudly. “Digital forensics.”
Hanbin stared at him. “You just recognized his typing pattern, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, obviously.”
Meanwhile, @princebbyric had posted again.
@princebbyric: the way he breathes makes me want to perform CPR unprovoked.
Hanbin slammed his phone against his chest like he was shielding himself from divine punishment.
Across the room, Ricky was sipping from a straw, eyes flicking up in silent acknowledgment.
He knew Hanbin had seen it.
He giggled.
Hanbin briefly considered switching careers to deep-sea fisherman.
The concert went on like divine chaos.
Fans screamed, lights pulsed, sweat shimmered. They performed. They lived. Hanbin forgot how to breathe halfway through Sparkling Love because Ricky had looked straight at him during his verse—lips grazing the mic, eyes unwavering, smile just slightly wicked.
Backstage, chaos erupted. Hao was crying (emotionally moved or dehydrated, no one could tell), Jiwoong was giving motivational hugs to anyone who passed within range, and Gyuvin was already live on Instagram, yelling, “WE DID IT BABYYYYY!” while Yujin hovered like an angry gamer spirit behind him.
Ricky disappeared mid-chaos.
Hanbin, as usual, followed disaster like a moth.
He found him upstairs at the hotel, in front of the minibar—hair still damp, shirt half-buttoned, light bleeding through the curtains. He was typing furiously on his phone.
Hanbin didn’t even have to ask.
He saw the screen.
@princebbyric: if he doesn’t kiss me after this concert i’m deleting his entire fanbase myself.
“Delete what?” Hanbin said flatly.
Ricky jumped, locking his phone in one motion—too late.
“You saw that,” he said, tone halfway between self-satisfaction and panic.
“I saw all of it,” Hanbin replied. “You’ve been running a—”
He gestured wildly. “—propaganda campaign.”
Ricky’s lips curved. “I prefer mutual pining awareness project.”
“You made a thread!” Hanbin hissed. “With evidence! Pie charts!”
“You like thorough,” Ricky said simply.
“Ricky.”
“Mmm, hyung.”
“Do you even know how insane this is?”
Ricky took a step forward. “Oh, fully.”
Hanbin’s throat was dry. “You… you’re running the ‘Ricky is into Hanbin’ agenda.”
“Someone had to balance out your polytruther cult,” Ricky said, straight-faced. “It’s about equal representation.”
“Equal representation? You’re—you’re sabotaging me publicly!”
“Or privately helping you,” Ricky countered. “Depends how you interpret the lore.”
Hanbin gaped. “The lore—Ricky—what lore—”
“You’re shaking,” Ricky murmured.
“I’m furious!” Hanbin blurted, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. “You—you can’t just make me your ship!”
Ricky tilted his head, eyes glimmering with mischief. “You don’t like the ship?”
Hanbin’s pulse stuttered. “That’s not—that’s—”
“Then say you don’t like it.”
Hanbin took a step closer.
Another.
Ricky’s back met the minibar with a dull thud.
The tiny fridge hummed behind him like it was holding its breath.
Ricky’s voice dropped. “Say you don’t like it, and I’ll stop.”
Hanbin stared. Ricky’s lashes cast delicate shadows on his cheekbones, and the faintest sheen of sweat still clung to his skin—glittering like something celestial. His nails, neat and pink, brushed against Hanbin’s wrist, feather-light.
Hanbin’s thoughts short-circuited somewhere between don’t look at his lips and oh no, I’m looking at his lips.
He whispered, “You’re insane.”
Ricky smiled. “You like insane.”
Hanbin laughed—low, incredulous, wrecked. “I—God—yeah. I do.”
And then Ricky was there—warm, close, breath mingling with his, that impossible grin curling into something softer. The world shrank to two heartbeats and a humming minibar.
Hanbin’s hand rose instinctively, cupping Ricky’s jaw. “This is—”
“Late,” Ricky finished, almost whispering.
Hanbin didn’t bother replying after that.
He closed the distance.
The kiss wasn’t cinematic—it was too real, too clumsy, too them.
Ricky’s fingers caught in Hanbin’s shirt; Hanbin’s breath hitched against the corner of Ricky’s mouth. It was half laughter, half surrender—a confession written in heat and disbelief.
The kiss deepened, slow and desperate.
Ricky’s fingers found the back of Hanbin’s neck; Hanbin’s thumb brushed the corner of Ricky’s jaw. They moved like they were afraid to stop—terrified that pausing would undo the whole fragile miracle of it.
When they finally broke apart, Ricky’s lips were swollen, eyes bright.
“Hyung,” he whispered, “you can tweet it now.”
Hanbin groaned. “Don’t. You. Dare.”
But he was smiling—the kind of smile that felt like sunlight and doom all at once.
They lingered, chest-to-chest, hair tousled, breathing mingling in the quiet after the storm of concert chaos.
Then came the urgent knocks.
Matthew’s voice: “Hanbin-hyung! Yujin’s actually throwing up for real this time. Can you—?”
Hanbin blinked, breaking away. Ricky’s eyes went wide—panic, mischief, something in between.
Hanbin’s stomach dropped. He scrambled to his feet, swiping at Ricky’s messy hair. “Uh—wait, no, stop moving!”
Ricky blinked up at him, eyelashes sticking together, lips slightly parted. “Hyung… what are you—?”
Hanbin reluctantly removed his hands from Ricky and brushed imaginary lint from his shirt. “You look… presentable enough! Act normal! Act like… uh… people who do not look like… yeah!”
He practically shoved Ricky toward the wall, straightened his collar, ran a hand through the back of his own hair.
The door swung open. Matthew and Gunwook appeared in the hallway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
Gunwook’s gaze flicked between them. “Uh… what exactly is happening here?”
Matthew squinted, suspicion written all over his face. “Why does Ricky look… like he just lost a fight with a hurricane?”
Ricky waved weakly, cheeks red. “I… I was practicing… aegyo… with hyung…”
Gunwook’s mouth literally dropped. “Private… aegyo…?”
Matthew groaned, throwing up his hands. “I would literally rather you guys fucked than do that.”
Gunwook snorted. “Are you trying to kill him? Your aegyo is a precision-guided weapon aimed directly at Hanbin-hyung’s soul”
Ricky huffed. “It… wasn’t supposed to—”
Hanbin reached up, patting his cheek firmly, murmuring, “Go rest. I’ll handle Yujin.”
Ricky slumped onto the bed, muttering, “Aegyo… never again…”
Gunwook shook his head. “Neither of you can lie for shit. Why even bother?”
Hanbin exhaled, rolling his eyes, and headed toward the hallway. Behind him, Gunwook muttered, “I need a drink,” while Matthew scribbled something in his phone, probably an expose thread titled What Just Happened in Ricky’s Hotel Room?
Group Chat
Gunwook: finally collecting my winnings 💸
Matthew: i meddled so i should get half
Gunwook: i predicted minibar
Hao: u also said they do the nasty so no
Yujin: [link] here’s my fanfic
Matthew: yujin… why am i scared to open this link
Ricky: proud parent moment i raised a fujo child
Hao: do we… uh… get him therapy???
Gunwook: noooo i love whatever’s wrong with him. weekly updates pls
Taerae: context: you did this to yourself
Hanbin: this chat is monitored!!!
Gunwook: reminder: my bet was scientifically accurate. i want accolades 🏆
Yujin: ur only accolade is reading my fic aloud while they panic
Gyuvin: can i play ricky? i do his voice real good
Ricky: this is the last time i let u all do anything with my life
Jiwoong: what’s a fanfic
Excerpt from Yujin’s Fanfic: BinRik: The Traumatized Child Chronicles
The rain fell like shards of glass through the shattered hotel window, drumming on the pavement below as if the universe itself demanded justice. Hanbin stood by the minibar, trembling, clutching a wet Labubu doll.
“You think you can just…” Hanbin’s voice broke. “…practice aegyo in private and escape the consequences?”
Ricky tilted his head, smirk curling like a dagger. “I thought… you liked it?”
No. Hanbin’s heart screamed. This was a trap laid by fate itself.
Meanwhile, Gyuvin appeared in the doorway, eyes glowing with righteous fury and a single Oreo crumb clinging to his hoodie like a badge of judgment. “You… you two…” His voice was the sound of thunder. “You are destroying me!”
Yujin, crouched in the corner behind a stack of discarded Hot Wheels cars, scribbled feverishly into his notebook, tears of trauma mixing with ink. Why must I witness the clandestine aegyo rituals of my parents?!
“Hyung! Hyung!” Yujin’s inner voice screamed in bold italics as his fictional self flung himself across the room. You’re supposed to protect me, not flirt with me while holding my stuffed animals hostage!
Hanbin’s knees buckled. Gyuvin’s Oreo fell to the ground like a martyr. The rain pounded harder. Somewhere, Matthew fainted offscreen, possibly in a metaphorical sense.
“I—” Hanbin gasped, unable to finish the sentence because words had abandoned him, leaving only the helpless, burning realization that he was caught in the poly-truth of fate.
The child—Yujin’s avatar—screamed silently into the void, trapped between two chaotic parental figures who were apparently unaware of the trauma they inflicted while practicing “aegyo” under the flickering neon lights of Hotel Apocalypse.
To be continued…
Comments
NotGunwook: omg i am emotionally invested. binrik’s hotel room confrontation gave me LIFE. the tension, the symbolism, iconic.
ReallyreallynotMatthew: can u make matthew a sluttier mistress in the next chap
Kim Jiwoong: please come out of your room and touch grass before you get institutionalized.
definitelynotHao: poor gyuvin. i hope he gets revenge
NotGyuvinforreal: the tragedy… the hopelessness… i love this 1000/10
ImRicky: beautiful.
IMnotHanbin: i can’t believe i live in this timeline. also, i want my privacy back.
EvilTaerae: can taerae be an f1 driver
—Yujinnie (author): no wtf