Chapter Text
“He’s the last of his kind, you know.”
“What? Really?”
“Yeah. Apparently the breed went extinct decades ago, but some lady was keeping one secretly in her house. They found him when she died and people came to clear out her stuff.”
Zhang Hao’s eyes are closed, but he’s awake. Aware. His ears twitch as he listens to the two humans standing outside his glass enclosure. The first speaker is familiar, an employee of the shelter who’s in charge of the cat hybrids. Jihan, that’s his name. The second person is someone Zhang Hao doesn’t know, but earlier he’d seen the man milling around in the staff uniform. A new hire, maybe.
“That one? The cat? Or wait, those droopy ears… Is it a dog?”
“He’s in the cat section, idiot.”
“Oh. Right.”
“Forgot what they’re called, it’s a weird name. A cat breed from China. I searched up pics online and most of them just look odd. Even if this one is somewhat pretty.” Jihan snickers.
Zhang Hao flinches, resisting the urge to self-consciously touch his ears—floppy and silky, the colour of flax, just a few shades lighter than his glossy tail. Any hybrid who caught a whiff of him could tell immediately that he was some sort of cat. Only humans, with their inadequate noses, ever mistook him for a puppy; he’d been told his ears resembled a labrador’s, even if the thick texture of his fur was longer—and softer, in his opinion—than a lab’s.
“Anyways, poor creature was cowering in a closet for three days before anyone came to check on the house. The whole place was mothballs and piles of hoarder trash.”
The other person makes a cluck of sympathy. “No one came to claim him?”
“Well, there was some distant cousin of the old lady, in China. They perked up when they heard he was the last of his kind. But adoption laws are pretty strict. They’d have to keep him for three years, minimum, before they’d be able to sell him.”
“Ah. Too much hassle?”
“I guess. Ghosted us pretty quick after that.”
“But I saw in his records that he went through a partial adoption?”
“Yeah, that was a few weeks ago. Real cute family, living in Gangnam.” Jihan says it with enough of a sneer for Zhang Hao to tell that it’s not a compliment, or only a begrudging one. “They did a trial run but returned him. Something about the kids being allergic.”
The kids weren’t allergic to him. But what could the family say otherwise? They sure as hell weren’t going to tell the shelter that the wife caught her husband trying to sneak into Zhang Hao’s room on the fourth night.
“You’d think they would’ve figured that out before starting the adoption process. Rich people never think things through.” The other man shakes his head. “And no one’s been interested since? He’s rare. Wouldn’t some collector type have snatched him up?”
Zhang Hao wants to tune them out, but they’re standing right in front of his enclosure, peering at him like he’s a zoo animal. Which he might as well be, kept in a glass-walled pen in this hybrid shelter, paraded for curious onlookers who are supposed to want to adopt him.
Jihan, the employee with more seniority, chuckles. “Of course. Multiple, actually. They’re starting to make offers.”
His companion frowns. “I thought shelters weren’t allowed to take bids.”
“Well, exceptions can be made. And he’s certainly an exception.”
I can hear you! Zhang Hao wants to yell. But the rising panic in his chest stifles his voice.
“Lots of people are interested. And hey, I get it.” He leers, and Zhang Hao is tempted to open his eyes just to spit in the man’s face. But more than that, the hybrid wants to know where this conversation is going. So he holds himself still, pretending that he isn’t desperately hanging off their every word.
“I’m pretty sure we already know who’s gonna come out on top, though.” Jihan speaks vaguely, nonchalantly, knowing that his companion will take the bait.
The other person leans in closer. “And who’s that?”
“Ah, I don’t think I can share.”
“Come on, Jihan. Just tell me.”
“Let’s just say, the richest buyers are always the ones with the most... particular tastes. This one favours exotic hybrids.”
“Oh. You could’ve just said it was a sex thing.”
Jihan shushes the other man vigorously. “Keep your voice down!” he hisses. He glances around, and makes eye contact with a frowning man standing at the end of the row, by the kennels for dog hybrids.
Startled, Jihan grabs his companion and the two of them scurry in the opposite direction, disappearing behind a door marked STAFF ONLY.
Zhang Hao feels sick. He turns to sit with his back to the glass, not wanting to dignify any of more of his visitors with his face.
For one, they were wrong. He’d had a good life before the shelter, living with Mrs. Tian, a woman in her eighties. She wasn’t the secretive hybrid hoarder that those humans had made her out to be; in fact, she’d been the reason that he lived a relatively normal, if sheltered and reclusive, life.
Mrs. Tian’s late husband had been an exotic hybrid collector—not of the sexual variety, or at least not human-and-hybrid sex: her husband was a breeder, and he’d owned Zhang Hao’s parents, two sumxu that he’d brought over from Beijing to Seoul. And Zhang Hao had been born in that house, the one he hid in for three days, after Mrs. Tian died and before anyone else showed up.
But Zhang Hao had neither memories of Mr. Tian nor his parents, all of whom had passed in a car accident when Zhang Hao was just a kitten. Mr. Tian was behind the wheel, ferrying the two sumxu hybrids to an exotic hybrid show, when a truck careened into their vehicle. Mrs. Tian said it happened quick. Truth be told, Zhang Hao could never decide if it was a tragedy or a mercy that they were all gone—he was the last of his kind, and there would be no more breeding.
The older woman raised him after that; not a grandson, but also not quite pet. A companion, maybe.
He went with her on grocery trips, to the hybrid vet a few times, to the pharmacy and then the library, and to countless thrift and antique stores, where he’d wander the musty aisles, holding her bags while she perused the jewelry cases, the racks of lamps and boots and bags. He never went anywhere without Mrs. Tian and so he never really made friends, but the townspeople were friendly enough. The librarian always seemed happy to see him, at least. And while Mrs. Tian wasn’t the most lively company—she could in fact be moody and belligerent at times—Zhang Hao had cared for her all the same. She was the only one he had.
Toward the end of his time in that house, his owner's memory deteriorated rapidly. Sometimes she forgot to feed him, forgot to even shop for food, and Zhang Hao would have to scrounge for dusty cans in the highest pantries. She forgot to pay the electricity bills, and their power was cut a few times, leaving Zhang Hao shivering beneath his blankets. The worst was when she forgot to fill his heat suppressant prescription. Zhang Hao was hit with the worst series of heats he’d ever experienced, made more agonizing by all the years he’d suppressed them.
Even so, Zhang Hao misses that life. He doesn’t want to be here, in this sterile room, with its fluorescent lighting and glass viewing wall that does nothing to hide the leers.
Zhang Hao wraps his arms around his legs and draws them up to his chest. Those two humans—the ones goggling at him from outside—were wrong about his previous owner; but Zhang Hao doesn’t think they’re wrong about what’s coming for him.
Sold to the highest bidder.
He can feel the panic surging up his throat, so he presses his forehead to his knees and tries to take deep breaths. But the harder he tries, the harder it becomes to breathe, until Zhang Hao falls onto his side, gasping, gasping—
“Hey. Hey! Something’s happening to that hybrid!” The voice rings out, concerned and clear as a bell. From where he’s curled up on the floor, wheezing for breath, Zhang Hao recognizes the man who had been standing by the dog hybrid kennels. “Do something!”
The door to the staff room jerks open and the two employees from earlier tumble out. Jihan fumbles with the ring of keys at his waist. He drops them and curses.
“For fuck’s sake,” says the man who had originally called out. Angry, Zhang Hao thinks. No—livid. “Tell me which key it is.” Cowed, the shelter employee does as he’s told.
And then suddenly the door is open, and air from outside floods Zhang Hao’s enclosure.
Someone appears in Zhang Hao’s sightline. Crouches by his heaving body and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. He’s handsome, Zhang Hao thinks deliriously. The face of an angel. A sun, star, and moon, all at once.
“You’re going to be okay,” the man murmurs.
And Zhang Hao finds himself, improbably, believing him.
“Weren’t you going with Ricky to pick out a dog hybrid? For Ricky?”
The confused voice pipes out of Hanbin’s phone as Hanbin stands by the window in his tiny apartment, running a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. It flops right back, and he blows out a frustrated breath. Zhang Hao has known him for all of three hours and already filed the hair-mussing away under a newly created folder in his brain for Hanbin’s tells. This one reads: anxiety.
“Well, yeah.”
“What happened, man?”
“I heard these shelter employees talking, okay? Nasty stuff. Acting like the hybrid—Zhang Hao, his name is Zhang Hao—didn’t even exist. Matthew, I couldn’t just leave him behind like that.”
Zhang Hao decides that he rather likes his name coming from this human’s lips.
This human: Hanbin. Sung Hanbin, he learned, after he got into the car with Hanbin in the passenger seat and his companion—Ricky, he remembers—behind the wheel.
Hanbin had swivelled around, made eye contact with Zhang Hao, and promptly ran a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”
Ricky glanced sideways at him. The engine came to life with a smooth purr. “Having regrets already?”
Hanbin let out a loud breath. “No.”
“Then what?”
“I didn’t even introduce myself,” Hanbin muttered. The tips of his ears were red. Another Hanbin tell, Zhang Hao noted.
The human turned to face Zhang Hao, biting his lip. When the flesh slipped out from between his teeth, his lips were a darker, cherry red. Zhang Hao was transfixed. “I’m Sung Hanbin. That’s Ricky.”
“Hi, Sung Hanbin,” Zhang Hao had said shyly. “Hi, Ricky. My name is Zhang Hao.”
Ricky made a noise in the front seat. Hanbin shot him a look. “You can just call me Hanbin. And, um, I know your name. I saw it when we were signing the forms.”
Hanbin had turned back around, but Zhang Hao could still see the red tips of his ears.
They’d stopped by a hybrid store and picked up supplies that the shelter employees—not the assholey ones; two girls who were manning the front desk—had suggested. A collar made of soft brown leather, with a matching leash. Supplements and vitamins. Special shampoo and brushes for Zhang Hao’s fur, his ears and tail; special toothpaste, for Zhang Hao’s sharp, white teeth. Tins of wet food, a case of kibble, and two bags of wild salmon treats. Electronic claw-clippers. And last but certainly not least: a giant plush shaped like a red panda.
Hanbin had asked Zhang Hao if there was anything he wanted, and he quickly shook his head. He didn’t know much about money, but even he could tell the price tags on everything were a little daunting. Confirmed when Ricky inspected some of the hybrid toys and whistled. “Not cheap, raising a hybrid.”
Hanbin shot him another look. “Which is why I was going to help you pick a hybrid.”
This made Zhang Hao shrink a little, dropping his gaze. It didn’t escape Hanbin’s notice. Guilt flashed across the human’s face, before it softened.
Hanbin said, not unkindly, “I didn’t go in with the intention of finding anyone. But we found each other anyway. Kinda like fate, don’t you think?”
Head still bowed, Zhang Hao glanced at Hanbin through his lashes. He liked that more than he’d care to admit. In all those hybrid romance novels he’d read, curled on a wicker chair in Mrs. Tian’s sunroom, or tucked under his covers with a flashlight, there’d often been talk of fate. Red string of fated mates, and the like. Even though that wasn’t what Hanbin meant, Zhang Hao felt a pleasant warmth suffuse him all the same.
“And if fate brought us together, then I think we should at the very least mark the occasion. What’s something you’d like from this store, Zhang Hao?”
Ricky snorted. “You’re so corny.”
Hanbin ignored him, still gazing intently at the hybrid.
Zhang Hao’s gaze flicked to the red panda plushie that had caught his attention the moment they’d entered. It was big enough to cuddle, was his first thought, and something about that had made uncharacteristic longing well up in him.
Hanbin immediately hauled the plushie into their shopping cart. Ricky’s eyes widened. “Hyung, do you know how much that—”
“What’s next on the list, Ricky-ah?”
After the hybrid store, Ricky had dropped Hanbin and Zhang Hao off at Hanbin’s apartment. It turned out that he lived in a third-floor walk-up. The building was on the older side and smelled like mildew, and Hanbin’s neighbour definitely smoked; the unit next door reeked, making Zhang Hao wrinkle his nose.
Hanbin glanced at him. “Something the matter?”
Zhang Hao didn’t want to offend his new owner before even stepping foot into his house. So he stayed quiet, teeth worrying at his lip, and this time, Hanbin’s eyes were the ones to track the movement.
The human stopped outside his door and set the shopping bags down. “Zhang Hao.”
“Yes?” His stomach clenched. Hanbin sounded serious. Not angry, like at those men from the shelter. Not exasperated—fondly—like he’d often been with Ricky. And not teasing, like he’d been with Zhang Hao in the hybrid store. Serious. Was Zhang Hao in trouble?
“You’re not in trouble.”
Zhang Hao blinked. He blurted, “Can you read minds?”
Hanbin laughed. A full, bright sound. It caught Zhang Hao completely off guard. This was the first time Zhang Hao had ever heard him laugh, and already he wanted to make Hanbin do it again, and again, and again.
Another Hanbin tell: when he was truly happy, he grinned so hard that dimples appeared his in cheeks. Zhang Hao was surprised, and secretly pleased, to see that they were shaped like whiskers. Whisker dimples.
“No. Can you?”
Zhang Hao shook his head. “That’s a hybrid myth. We’re just good at paying attention to people. And sometimes we can smell how you’re feeling, though it varies from hybrid to hybrid.”
“Ah.” The human nodded. “Well, you’re just easy to read,” Hanbin explained, which immediately prompted Zhang Hao to pout.
Hanbin’s eyes widened. The whisker dimples appeared again. He reached forward almost instinctively—and hesitated, hand raised mid-air, inches from Zhang Hao’s face, before dropping it back down to his side.
“Sorry. You’re just so cute, I wanted to squish your cheeks…” He sounded sheepish.
Zhang Hao blushed furiously. Cute? Hanbin thought he was cute?
“Anyways.” Hanbin sobered. “What I wanted to say earlier was… I know neither of us were expecting this to happen. And I’ve never had a hybrid before, so I don’t know…” Hand through hair. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know if I’ll be any good. I don’t want to be your owner—” Hanbin shuddered. “I’d rather be your friend. Roommate. Or something.” Then he sighed.
“I’m not making any sense, am I?”
Zhang Hao was quick to reassure him. “I think I get it. Like a companion?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
The hybrid nodded, a smile lighting up his face. Hanbin’s hands twitched at his sides. “It was like that with my previous owner. I was her companion.” He paused and tried to convey his next words with all the sincerity that he felt.
“I’ll be good, Hanbin, I promise.”
“Ah—” Hanbin’s ears were slowly and steadily turning red again. “Thanks, um, Zhang Hao. And it goes both ways, you know. I’ll be good for you, too.”
Zhang Hao had never heard anyone say that before. That they would give to him what he gave them. With his previous owner, who had generally been pleasant, there was always the unspoken default undergirding their dynamic: while she wasn’t a traditional owner, and she cared for him and he for her, they would never be equals.
Maybe, with Hanbin, they could be.
“And as part of that, I want us to be honest with each other. I want to know what you’re thinking and how you’re feeling, Hao. I can’t know if I’m doing this okay unless you tell me. And I’ll do the same with you, too. Promise?”
Zhang Hao nodded.
“Okay, good. So tell me why you looked like you were going to throw up when we got to my door.”
“It wasn’t your door.” Zhang Hao’s eyes were wide, trained on Hanbin. The human gave him an encouraging nod. “The smell of cigarettes from your neighbour’s house… I can’t stand it,” he admitted, fidgeting with his tail. “Makes me kinda nauseous.”
“I’ll have a word with them about smoking around the apartment,” Hanbin said decisively. “We’re not supposed to, and I don’t enjoy smoking anyway, but I’ve, uh, been a bit of a pushover about my neighbours. Now that you’re here though, I’ll get it sorted.”
And then he bent and retrieved the shopping bags. “Okay, enough dawdling. My place is a mess because I didn’t think I’d be having guests over—well, a new roommate. I guess I can’t put it off any longer.”
Hanbin heaved a dramatic breath, as though mustering up all his strength, and pushed open the door to Zhang Hao’s new home.
In the present moment, Hanbin paces by the window. He’s still explaining to his friend—Matthew—on the phone the series of events that led Zhang Hao to becoming Hanbin’s hybrid. “The fools were talking out in the open about the illegal auction they’d set up for Zhang Hao. And one of the bidders was—” Hanbin glances back at Zhang Hao and lowers his voice. “Some fetish collector. What was I supposed to do? Let them get away with it?”
“Well, you could’ve just told the managers at the shelter what was going on and left it at that.”
“How can we trust that they weren’t all in on it?” Hanbin huffs. “No way they were totally oblivious to the hybrid trafficking going on right under their noses. Come to think of it, I should really report that place…”
Matthew sighs. “Taerae’ll have a field day with this one.”
“It’s nice having friends with consciences who also happen to be lawyers,” Hanbin agrees cheerfully.
“I have a conscience. I just don’t go around impulsively adopting hybrids. How are you even going to afford taking care of one, Hanbin?”
Again, Hanbin glances surreptitiously at Zhang Hao, who immediately busies himself rummaging through their shopping bags.
“I’ll make it work,” is all he says.