jianbe

[jianbe]

jian laughs. low, slow, too late to be real. he doesn't say anything at first. just kinda' looks at myungsoo like he's trying to see behind the eyes, like he's trying to read a new script in a play he already starred in. maybe one where the audience is smaller, crueler, dressed in silent wealth and sharper whispers. he takes the moment, tucks it into the space between them like a knife. "right," he says, voice light but the corners of his mouth pull wrong. "a good cause. your business has always been efficiency. move things along. get it over with. detach.”

but the thing about the east asian rich society is—they don't forget who you were seen with at the last afterparty. they archive flirtations like receipts. and jian's of course seen the photos. heard the name said just loud enough in the powder rooms. shouta @shoutabe. quiet little thing, boy next door looks, all rings and runs in his tights type, hopeless romantic like it means something. and of course it would be him. all that pretty, all that chaos bottled just right and petite. different from jian in every way.

he should laugh again. instead, he says, "i heard shouta was quite the… stir in the lee household, too." his gaze flickers sharp, then softens, too quickly. like he didn't mean it. like he did. "tell me, do you still keep your artists in rotation, or is this one special? me and your mother can't exactly tell."

and for a moment—just one—he hates himself for asking, for admitting he still talks to his mother despite of the fact he broke up with myungsoo, in spite of him, actually. he hates that he cares. so he smiles, lashes lowered, and takes the fan to his throat. "don’t worry, i won't linger. i have a meeting with my PR firm after this. i just want to make sure this gala feels 'intimate' this year. maybe more art, less emotion." then: "think you can manage that?"

myungsoo doesn't flinch. doesn't blink. just watches jian's performance unfold like a scene he's already memorized, already bored of. he's seen all of it before. maybe not exactly like this, but close enough to kill the thrill. he doesn't move from the pillar, doesn't even unfold his arms. he exhales slow, smoke curling lazy from his lips. doesn’t care that the cigarette is mostly ash now, just lets it dangle, burned down like the end of how bad of an idea was coming here.

“you always did like to make the weather about you," he says, voice flat, maybe a little amused. "heat can't be undignified, jian. it's honest. shows you what people are really like when they sweat." his eyes drag over jian, the silk clinging, the fan fluttering, like a judgment he's not in the mood to deliver. not yet. maybe not ever.

he doesn't rise to the bait. doesn't give him the satisfaction of flinching. instead he smiles, sharp, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "yeah. but some things aren't worth finishing."

the words hang so heavy, like the humidity, like regret with nowhere to go. he drops the spent cigarette and crushes it under his boot, deliberate, final. then jian says it; i was right, wasn't i? — and for a split second, something flickers in myungsoo's face. but he catches it, locks it down, swallows whatever tried to claw up his throat. "you were," he says, gaze not leaving him. "but being right doesn't mean anything if you also keep circling back. or, your family, should i say." jian steps too close, brushes too soft, smells like citrus and something expensive. but myungsoo doesn't move away. he doesn't need to. just looks at him like he's already left. "come on, i'm doing this for your mother. hosting her charity gala at my studio is more than appropriate. it's for a good cause, so if we could move things along?"

[jianbe]

he appears like a mirage — click, jimmy choo on white stone, something silk and slightly sheer fluttering as he moves. his lips catch the sunset like it has secrets to tell. he's got one earring in (a little pearl dagger) and sunglasses he doesn't need, perched low like he's inspecting the damage.

"kid," he repeats, half a scoff, half a smile that could curdle milk. "i should've charged interest."

he doesn't get too close — not yet. just leans against one of the stone pillars, arms crossed, collarbone sharp enough to write sonnets on. there's a curve to his mouth that says: you're thinking about me again. there's a glint in his eye that says: i want you to say it.

a cicada screeches. jian fans himself with one manicured hand. "god, this heat is so undignified. do you have water, or do i have to steal from your fancy little pitcher again?"

he finally glances at the spent cigarette. "still smoking things you don't finish?" his voice is light, teasing — but he means something else. he always does.

a beat. then quieter, smoother: "i was right, wasn't i?" he looks at myungsoo, no longer amused. "we are orbiting different things now. just... you still end up here anyway."

his lashes flutter once. "why?" but while he waits for the answer, he steps past him, brushing too close, like fruit that should be off‑limits. like mangoes in july.

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏 —

written for 𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐣𝐢𝐚𝐧 ( @jianbe ) ♡

myungsoo lights a cigarette he won't finish, the smoke curling up into the thick june air like a thought he's too tired to keep. seoul hums in the background, cicadas, soft traffic, heat shimmering off the villa's white stone. the pines don't sway anymore he notices, just stand there, dazed. hm. everything feels a little overexposed in the han household, like an old photograph left in the sun far too long. he's standing where the garden used to end and the wild grass started, where jian once said, "you're super yummy! but i feel like our paths are going in different places right now."

he'd laughed then. kind of. more like a choke. what does that mean? he had asked. "i don't know. venus is in cancer [or something like that, he can't remember] and i just… i think we're meant to orbit different things. different people." then jian smiled, like it hurt. myungsoo thinks about that.

now there's ol' sweet shouta. there's mindeulle and his calm waters. he doesn't want to hurt them or have them get bored of him like jian might have... sometimes he lies at night and wonders, 'is it me? am i hard to love?'

he never says it out loud, but it sits in his throat like fruit gone too ripe... he thinks, 'they would like jian.' he's sweeter, like mangoes in july. his cigarette burns down to nothing. the air sticks to his skin and jian finally shows up, "hey, kid. you're late."

[jianbe]

yo ☁️ thanks for letting me wiggle my way in. i'm 𝒔𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏 and this little firework is 𝑯𝑨𝑵 𝑱𝑰𝑨𝑵 (韩健) — a walking contradiction in designer sneakers. born into china’s 0.01% elite, raised with five siblings and twice as many expectations, and somehow still turned out like this 🫧✨ he’s dramatic, hyper-flexible (literally), and usually upside-down somewhere doing a handstand when he's not dancing. jian is what happens when a rich boy with middle-child syndrome chooses glitter and jazz hands over golf clubs and finance internships. he might not be the sharpest pencil in the set, but he's everyone's favorite highlighter. a little ditzy, very lovable, with more charm than sense — jian makes being underestimated his secret weapon. beneath the sunshine? someone desperate to shine on his own terms. scroll down for more, and like this post if your muse has the patience to wrangle this chaos! 💎

® extra pages: about, pinterest, discord (mssg).

𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑶𝑵𝑨𝑳𝑰𝑻𝒀

"No one notices quiet miracles. You gotta be shiny, baby," he says, flipping his hair and probably forgetting what you just asked.

theatrical, affectionate, and deeply expressive, sometimes too expressive.

people tend to assume he's airheaded… and sometimes they're not wrong!

gets things done through vibes, not logic.

craves being seen and adored, a result of always being "the extra one” in a sea of siblings.

lowkey insecure about not being as "academic" or strategic as other trainees.

soft-hearted and extremely loyal, even to people who don’t deserve it.

gives surprise gifts, throws glitter at practice, naps mid-stretch.

mood shifts like a summer storm, sunny one moment, sulky the next.

low pain tolerance but dramatic enough to make a paper cut seem fatal.

weirdly strong, like… can hold a plank for five minutes while talking about lipstick

𝑩𝑨𝑪𝑲𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑹𝒀 & 𝑭𝑨𝑪𝑻𝑺

youngest son in a powerful Beijing dynasty family, real estate, investments, name it.

he cartwheeled through formal dinners in custom Dior once. does that count?

to stand out, he became the bubbly, bendy, flamboyant one, and it stuck.

rarely made top of his class, but always made top of everyone’s heart.

started with acrobatics, rhythmic dance, and stage performance from a young age.

auditioned for variety shows before he could even spell "contract". he's a well known and loved in china.

trilingual (Mandarin, Korean, English), Conversational in Japanese, but somehow always misuses all four.

moved to seoul at 16, got into trainee life by sheer talent and glittery persistence.

lives in a fully paid-off penthouse but often forgets his own door code.

sings decently, dances like a demon, gives 200% even when he doesn't totally understand the assignment.

honestly? he just wants to be loved for being him, not the last name behind him.

𝑷𝑳𝑶𝑻 𝑰𝑫𝑬𝑨𝑺

your muse finds him annoying… until they don't! hehe

roommates: jian talks in his sleep. loudly.

mentor figure trying to get him to take things seriously (good luck)

someone who's always covering for his oops moments.

childhood friend he's always compared to.

confused slow-burn romance because jian's oblivious to tension. (1/2)

shopping buddy who enables his "buy first, cry later" habits.

opposites attract, your muse is reserved, jian is a walking emoji.

[jianbe]

[jianbe]

POSE 2.09 : Life’s a Beach

[jianbe]

Kagrra, - Utakata

My favourite song from them.

[jianbe]

[jianbe]