Almost blind | Haobin

70| birthday picnic |70

It was awkward now. Too awkward, in fact.

Hao’s birthday had arrived so suddenly, yet no one seemed to be in the mood to celebrate. No one except Hanbin. Obviously. He woke up early, slipping into the kitchen with determination, even though he knew perfectly well that cooking was not his strongest suit. Still, he remembered how Hao had tried so hard to make his birthday special, fumbling his way through it but smiling the whole time. That memory warmed him and Hanbin felt he owed him the same effort. He wanted to do something just for him.  Even alone, if he had to.

The kitchen was a battlefield within minutes. Flour dusted the counters, the floor and even Hanbin’s hair. The mixing bowl looked like it had survived an explosion. Hanbin frowned at the uneven batter, tapping at his phone screen to scroll through the recipe again, silently praying the cake wouldn’t turn into a disaster.

Hao was still asleep upstairs and Ricky with Gyuvin were quiet too—probably still in bed. Hanbin had even texted Gunwook, Kuanjui, and Yujin earlier, suggesting they could all sneak out later to celebrate away from the heavy atmosphere of the house. But for now, he wanted this moment, something simple and homemade for Hao.

The silence of the house was broken by soft, dragging footsteps. Gyuvin shuffled into the kitchen, his hair tousled, pajama pants hanging loose on his hips. He paused at the doorway, blinking at the sight before him. The mess. The flour. His son in the middle of it, stubbornly whisking as if the kitchen itself hadn’t already surrendered.

For a moment neither of them spoke. The silence pressed between them like an invisible wall. Hanbin kept his back to him, focusing on the bowl as if he hadn’t noticed his father standing there. Even though he noticed him immediately.

Finally, Gyuvin sighed, rubbing a hand down his tired face before stepping forward. His voice was quiet and almost hesitant.
“Let me help you,” he said, moving closer and reaching for the bag of flour. He slid the bowl toward himself as if it belonged to him.

Hanbin tensed, lowering the whisk. “You can’t bake either,” he muttered under his breath, folding his arms over his chest, watching his father do all the work.. The words came out sharper than he’d intended, but he didnt care.

Gyuvin shot him a look, one eyebrow arched. “Maybe not. But I still know more than you do,” he murmured back, not raising his voice, just steady, almost cold. He poured the flour in a controlled motion, nothing like Hanbin’s messy attempts.

Hanbin clenched his jaw, watching his father stir with quiet precision. He hated this. Hated how easily Gyuvin could just step in as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t been the one tearing him and Hao apart days ago. He grabbed the carton of eggs from the fridge, cracking them harder than necessary, the shells shattering more violently than they should have.

Silence stretched again and it was definitely thick and uncomfortable. Hanbin could feel the weight of it pressing down on him, heavy with unspoken words. He wanted to shout. He wanted to ask Gyuvin why. Why it was always him and Hao who had to pay the price for their parents’ decisions.

Gyuvin, too, seemed restless. His movements were steady, but his eyes betrayed something else—a flicker of guilt, of hesitation. He had thought about his conversation with Ricky all night, the words replaying like a broken record.

Maybe they are hurting them more than helping them.

It gnawed at him now, especially seeing Hanbin trying so desperately to make something for Hao, flour smudged on his cheek, determination burning in his eyes. Then, Hanbin finally broke the silence, his voice low but it was sharp enough to cut. “You think helping me bake a cake makes up for it?”