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Not for the first time, Zhang Hao is woken up by Ricky’s music.

It’s too damn early for this. The sun has barely risen, but tendrils of syrupy light slip into his room through the gap in the curtains. If Ricky is trying to be quiet, he’s doing an awful job at it. The music blares, and even from his locked bedroom, the lyrics are clear as day. Zhang Hao hates this habit of Ricky’s, but with a sigh of resignation, he drags himself out of bed.

It’s the price he pays for the company.

Zhang Hao makes his way towards the kitchen, where Ricky is in a seemingly good mood. The music in question booms from a speaker haphazardly placed between two dirty bowls. He watches as Ricky hums to the melody, so absorbed in his surroundings that he doesn’t even notice Zhang Hao’s presence lurking behind him.

The song dissolves into their surroundings. Then, a familiar melody trickles in.

Somewhere in between, Zhang Hao clears his throat. It breaks the sound barrier between them. He can tell that it startles Ricky by the way he fumbles with his phone’s volume button, but his face doesn’t show it. It’s cool, impassive—something he has always admired.

The speaker’s volume is low now, barely above a whisper. But Zhang Hao knows the song too well. Can hear the characteristic lilt of each person’s voice.

“I can’t believe you’re listening to your own songs,” Zhang Hao says at last, his words slicing through the taut thread of tension held between them. “And since when do you cook?”

“I’m listening to our songs,” Ricky corrects. “And I don’t really cook. But does it hurt to try?”

Zhang Hao shrugs. The reason is reason enough. Then, he says: “That’s narcissistic behavior.”

“Can’t even listen to music these days without being called a narcissist,” Ricky grumbles. “It’s just called being nostalgic.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’m sorry,” Ricky apologizes suddenly. “Did it wake you up?”

Zhang Hao rolls his eyes. “Take a guess.”

“Uh…”

“You think I normally wake up this early?”

“Sorry,” Ricky says again under his breath, back turned and attention fixated on the stove. “But just so you know, you were the one who insisted that I stay here. I could’ve just stayed at a hotel.”

“Insisted?”

“I could’ve said begged—”

“So you’re blaming the host?” Zhang Hao interrupts with a click of the tongue. “Thought you knew better than to do that.”

Ricky turns around and smirks, and Zhang Hao matches the lift in his lips. Maybe it’s true. He had asked Ricky to come stay with him, even if he could afford to stay at any hotel in the city. But Ricky doesn’t care to press further and changes the subject then. “So what are you up to today?”

It’s not a loaded question. It’s just small talk between two friends, two people who have known each other for nearly half of their lives. But gone are the days where Zhang Hao knew what his day to day life looked like. Now, his days are comparatively quiet, supposedly restful. It’s been nearly a year and a half since he’s stepped out of the immediate spotlight, but the lack of routine still churns unease in his stomach.

So he says the truth. “Who knows?”

Ricky nods, scooping whatever concoction he’s made onto a plate. “Ditto.”

A snicker escapes from Zhang Hao’s lips. “You’re here for work, and you don’t know what you’re doing today?” he asks incredulously.

“We’ve been doing this for way too long. What’s the point in knowing?” says Ricky. He shovels a spoonful of food into his mouth. “It’s always changing, and the managers drag you around everywhere anyway. Sometimes, it’s better to not know.”

Zhang Hao sighs. “More power to you, I guess.”

Another song ends. A beat of silence later, a new one begins. Zhang Hao hasn’t heard this song in years, yet he knows exactly what it is when the first note resonates through the room. He wants to say something snarky again—how Ricky can’t get enough of himself—when his own voice spills into the quiet chasm. It’s not quite the beginning that Zhang Hao and Ricky are remembered for now, but it is the beginning he remembers for them.

He can feel Ricky’s careful gaze on him, waiting for a reaction. Ricky’s finger hovers over his phone screen, as if Zhang Hao’s response will determine his next move. But he keeps his expression measured and taps his fingers in time with the song. It eases the erraticness of his beating heart.

Neither of them speak, their silence punctuated only by the backdrop of music. Zhang Hao waits for the song to finish and watches as Ricky’s hand slowly retracts from his phone screen. Still, there’s an expression of concern etched into Ricky’s face, asking questions that he doesn’t really have the answers to.

He looks out the window instead. The sun has risen. Another day breaks.

←

It’s late when the Yuehua managers break the news.

Zhang Hao sits impatiently in a conference room, the fluorescent lights tricking him into thinking it’s daytime in their otherwise dark surroundings. His eyes wander around the room, where seven other trainees sit around the table with him. One of the trainees, Gyuvin, bounces his knee restlessly, sending ripples through the table. Next to him, another trainee, Yujin, fiddles with the hem of his sweatshirt.

The clock hand continues to creep towards midnight, yet there’s no sign of the managers who called this meeting in the first place.

He’s usually friendly with all of the trainees and will make small talk about their day, school, or really anything he can conjure in the moment. But nobody knows their fate tonight. They’ve fallen into a collective trance, and the only signs of life are fidgety fingers or the hum of the heater. There could only be a few reasons why they’ve been called here, but nobody dares to acknowledge the worst—this is their last night as trainees. Zhang Hao doesn’t hold out hope, but he thinks it’s kind of cruel to round them up and pull the trigger. Did they really need to call a meeting just to tell them to go home?

Their shared stupor is broken by the click of the door. Two managers enter the room. He recognizes one of them, a middle-aged man in charge of overseeing trainee activities. But the other manager—a younger woman—is unfamiliar. Zhang Hao stands to greet them, then shifts uncomfortably in his seat as they log in to their laptops.

“Thanks for joining, everyone. I know it’s late, but we needed to finalize some details earlier,” the unfamiliar manager says as she looks up from her screen. She chuckles, completely oblivious to the fact that her presence is the reason why the air has been sucked from the room. Then, she schools her expression and cuts to the chase. “We wanted to inform you all right away that we’ve selected the eight of you to participate in a survival program.”

At the news, relief washes over the trainees. Zhang Hao watches as Gyuvin and Seungeon widen their eyes in shock, as Yujin’s body relaxes, as Ollie squeezes his hand in celebration. It’s not the best case scenario—that’s reserved for being part of an actual debut team—but it could still be life changing.

She dives into the technicalities afterwards: the premise of the show, the dates of filming, the practice schedule. But the logistics don’t matter. What matters is that they’re all going. They all have a chance to debut.

Yet, Zhang Hao doesn’t know if his sense of relief translates into happiness.

The meeting ends, and they all file out of the conference room, eager to return to the dorms. Zhang Hao waves goodnight to everyone before slipping out into the alleyway behind the company building. The night sky blankets Seoul, and street lights pierce through the darkness instead of stars. The distant hums of car engines echo from a few streets away. He settles down on the steps, the coolness of the concrete seeping through his clothes.

“What are you doing here?”

Zhang Hao nearly jumps out of his skin. He lifts his head and finds Ricky standing there, with his trademarked expression: indifference.

“Why do you care?” Zhang Hao asks, but the question comes out harsher than he had intended.

“I don’t,” Ricky just says, nonchalant. “But I was gonna come out here anyway. Just didn’t think anyone else would do the same.”

Zhang Hao shifts over to make room on the stairs. “Well, you know what they say. Great minds think alike.”

Ricky cocks an eyebrow as he sits down beside him. “You think I have a great mind?”

Zhang Hao scrunches his face in mock-disgust. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Silence ensues. Zhang Hao wouldn’t say that he’s particularly close to Ricky. They’re not really friends, at least not in the way he’s friends with someone like Kuanjui or the people he met in university. On first impressions alone, their differences far outweighed their similarities.

Ricky is younger than him by about four years. Sure, they’re cordial, but they barely speak to each other intentionally. When they do, it’s never a serious conversation. Still, he remembers how the other trainees in the room reacted, how excited they had seemed about the opportunity. Yet in the brief moment when he and Ricky made eye contact from across the table, there was something that resembled camaraderie—like a shared understanding.

So maybe that’s why on Zhang Hao’s next exhale, he asks: “How do you feel about it?”

When Ricky doesn’t immediately answer, he clarifies. “The survival show, I mean.”

Ricky shrugs. “I think it’s a good thing.”

“Is it really a good thing?”

“I think so,” says Ricky. It’s a nonresponse that’s quickly steering them towards a circular conversation, but Zhang Hao gets what he’s trying to say. “What do you think?”

Zhang Hao stares at the pavement beneath his feet. An icy cloud of breath passes through his lips.

What does he think? He went to college and had other dreams first. Had a whole other life before trainee life, and still ended up in this situation somehow. As if battling it out with 97 other trainees, with their hands cradling fragile dreams, is something that he wants to do. But he made a choice.

“I think so too,” Zhang Hao answers slowly. He chuckles to himself. “It just makes me wonder why I went to college at all.”

A soft snicker escapes from Ricky’s mouth, though he can’t tell if Ricky’s being sympathetic or dismissive. Zhang Hao bites his bottom lip. It’s a conversation of few words, but somehow, this conversation with Ricky is the most transparent he’s been with any of the trainees. But now is not the time, especially when they’re supposed to be celebrating the fact that they may finally be able to achieve their dreams.

Theoretically, they’re closer to debut than ever before. Yet, they could easily end up right back where they started.

“It’s getting late,” Ricky says eventually, ending the quiet. “I’m gonna go back to the dorms. You should probably head back soon too.”

Zhang Hao nods and watches as Ricky’s figure dissolves into darkness. He thinks back to the managers’ faces and their saccharine smiles. From the way the managers talked about the survival program, they probably thought that they were doing everyone a favor; it wasn’t like they had plans to debut a new boy group soon. And despite Zhang Hao’s disdain for it all, he’s settled on this life, and he’s hungry.

He takes a breath. Crisp air settles in his lungs. This is it. This is what he’s here for. The hunger of debuting festers in him, and his appetite is far too great to give it up now.

→

Zhang Hao used to think that life's excitement was in its monotony.

There was something comforting in patterns and familiarity. The career path he chose wasn’t exactly conducive to monotony, though. Everyday was a different permutation of practice, performances, and pandering to the company or fans. But he was always awaiting the next sliver of free time, a luxury that he eagerly anticipated so he could lie around and do nothing for as long as he was allowed.

Things changed when his second group—a re-debut of him, Ricky, Gyuvin and Yujin—disbanded. After seven years of it, the shiny appeal of idol life dulled. Even the thought of reliving it was exhausting, so Zhang Hao decided to just step away for the time being. It’s been almost a year and a half since, and he supposes that this is what he always wanted.

A monotonous life. Just one long, drawn out time loop.

Somehow, it’s already late morning, time bleeding into the afternoon. Outside of his window, clouds hang low in a powder blue sky, their edges chipped away by the silhouette of towering buildings. This is life—Zhang Hao resting his chin on the back of his hand, elbow digging into the kitchen counter, and watching Ricky prepare to leave for the rest of the day.

“Entertain me, Shen Ricky, what are you doing today?”

Ricky casts him a side-long glance, then rolls his eyes. “Nosy much?”

“Not nosy,” Zhang Hao corrects. He strides towards the couch as Ricky fixes his hair in the mirror. “Just bored.”

Ricky sighs. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“No,” Zhang Hao answers bluntly. “Just let me live vicariously through you for a second.”

“Why me?”

Zhang Hao sweeps his gaze across the empty room. “Do you see anyone else here?”

Ricky lets out another sigh. “Not that I’m not enough, but it can’t hurt to have some other company around every once in a while.”

“Sure,” says Zhang Hao, noncommittal.

Ricky hums in acknowledgement, and that’s the end of their conversation.

He spoke too soon.

The door nearly implodes on itself with how much force is being used to knock. He doesn’t even have to open it to know who’s behind it.

“Surprise!” Gyuvin says even though it's not a surprise at all. “We brought…” He looks at his empty hands, then at Yujin, and chuckles. “Ourselves?”

“Sorry hyung,” Yujin interjects, pulling two bottles—wine and sparkling water—out from behind his back like a magic trick. “We were running late, but we got you these.”

The people standing in front of him are a relic of a past life. Zhang Hao stands there, dumbfounded, and studies the sheepish grin that Gyuvin and Yujin are sharing. Time is a crazy thing. It’s been less than a year since he’s seen them last, but he doesn’t remember ever noticing when their faces lost their unwavering youth. It still gives Zhang Hao pause when Yujin is the one forcing alcohol into his hands.

The cold glass of the bottles presses into the palms of his hand. “What are you doing here?”

“We heard that Ricky was staying with you,” Gyuvin says. He pushes past Zhang Hao to enter the apartment. As if on cue, Ricky emerges from the guest room and into the living room. Gyuvin beelines towards Ricky and pulls him into a hug, while Ricky grunts in an attempt to escape Gyuvin’s iron grip. Their faces might have matured, but some things don’t ever change. “It’s not everyday that he’s here.”

Zhang Hao shuts the door and knits his brows. “Not everyday, sure, but Ricky is here, like, almost every other month.”

“Well, yeah,” Yujin intejects. “He’s in Korea every other month. He doesn’t stay with you every time though.”

Ricky finally releases himself from Gyuvin’s grip. “You know, I feel like I should be upset at the fact that I keep coming here, but you guys don’t ever come visit me in China,” he says with mock-petulance.

“Why don’t you tell China to approve my visa application then?” Gyuvin retorts.

Ricky rolls his eyes. “That’s a shit excuse. Plus, Zhang Hao could come back anytime to see me if he wanted to, but I only see him when I’m in Korea. Why is that?”

Zhang Hao narrows his eyes, and it promptly shuts Ricky up. He knows that Ricky knows the answer to his own question, but it’s not something he wants to delve into, especially in front of the others. But he’s in no position to complain about Ricky’s company for the past few weeks. It's something to come home to. Breaks up the monotony that has defined his life for a while.

“If anything, I should be the one complaining,” Zhang Hao starts, trying to diffuse the unease that permeates the air. He turns to face Yujin and Gyuvin and juts out his lower lip into a pout. “Do you guys only visit when Ricky’s here? Why don’t you come and visit me more often?”

By the look exchanged between Yujin and Gyuvin and the uneasy smile on Yujin’s lips, he’s done the opposite of what he intended to. But their reaction is warranted. Even after their group contract as four ended, they all used to send texts and ask to hang out. His reply was always a variation of Sorry, can’t today. Not really feeling social, but maybe next time! Unlike himself, the others were still actively working. But every so often, a social media post would pop-up on his feed with a photo of a hangout. Only, the invites to him became more and more infrequent as time went on. He can’t really blame them.

“It’s just more efficient this way,” Yujin says and clears his throat, which earns him a slap on the shoulder from Gyuvin. He yelps. “What was that for?”

“Oh, don’t be a child,” Gyuvin snorts. “That barely hurt.”

“You're one to talk,” Yujin shoots back.

Yujin finds refuge on the couch and takes charge of ordering dinner. Zhang Hao clears the table and unpacks the food. In between bites of food, Ricky talks about the fashion project that brought him back to Seoul for a month. Gyuvin gives a rundown of his newest acting project, and Yujin spoils the concept of his solo comeback. It’s a bittersweet and sobering reminder of how far they’ve diverged, even in the short time they’ve been apart.

A voice cuts through his mass of thoughts. “What are you up to these days, hyung?”

Zhang Hao looks up. “Hm?”

“What have you been up to these days?” Yujin asks again. “Anything you should update us on?”

Zhang Hao sighs. “Just living the dream.”

“That’s a corny ass response.” Yujin’s chopsticks clatter against his plate. “Come on, I’m sure there’s been something since we last saw each other.”

Zhang Hao snorts. He looks back down at his plate and pushes a piece of meat around. “Honestly, not much. A few appearances here and there. You know, sit and look pretty for the camera.”

“Oh!” Gyuvin interjects mid-bite. “I just saw one of your ads running the other day. I think it was for that perfume ambassadorship?”

“They’re still using it?”

Gyuvin shrugs. “I guess so. You’re as famous as ever, hyung.”

“Right,” Zhang Hao deadpans. “I’m sure that’s it.”

The conversation continues until food is long gone and their dishes are piled up in the sink. He’s mildly tipsy, but it’s the liveliest his apartment has been in a long time. Ricky and Gyuvin fight over the one sponge Zhang Hao owns as they wash dishes. Yujin tells them to shut up, then takes over dishwashing entirely. Once everything has returned to its original state, Yujin and Gyuvin loiter around the common areas until they eventually end up by the door.

“We should do this more often,” says Gyuvin as he slips his shoes on. He forgoes the laces and nearly trips over himself, tumbling into Ricky for support.

“Dumbass,” Ricky mutters under his breath.

“What did you call me?”

“Nothing,” Ricky intones, feigning innocence. “But I agree. We should do this more often.”

Yujin nods in agreement. “Let’s get the band back together.”

They’re all looking at him expectantly for the final stamp of approval.

“Calling us a band makes us sound like a group of teenagers who just discovered electric guitars,” Zhang Hao says. He pauses for a moment, studying the silent pleading in their eyes, and his resolve crumbles. “But next weekend, if everyone is free?”

“Um,” Gyuvin mumbles, breaking eye contact. He rocks on the heels of his feet. “I have plans next weekend.”

“You have plans all weekend?” asks Ricky.

“Well, on Saturday,” Gyuvin begins, gaze locked on the ground like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “I have to be on set all day, which they wouldn’t normally do, but they could only reserve the space for this upcoming weekend for some reason. And then on Sunday, I was going to run a few errands and…” He stops himself mid-sentence, hesitation donning on his face. “I had plans with Hanbin hyung.”

Zhang Hao freezes. In his peripheral vision, he can see Yujin’s eyes widen.

“They’re making you work on a weekend?” Ricky replies instantly, without the slightest reaction to Hanbin’s name. “That’s fucked up.”

“Isn’t it?” Gyuvin shakes his head and sighs. “Saturday is usually the best day of the week too. But—I mean—if everyone is free next weekend, then you guys could join Hanbin and I too. And I’m sure they’re busy, but we could invite everyone else too. Then the band would really be back together.”

Who is everyone? It could be the people at their company who they’ve been working with for years. It could be the old trainees that they still keep in contact with every so often. Or everyone, the fateful group that formed from basically strangers, and became friends over the two and some odd years they were together, and then strangers again. It’s no secret that Gyuvin still remains in touch with most of them, but it’s rarely something they ever bring up.

“So do you want to come?” Gyuvin repeats. He peels his eyes off the floor, gaze leveled on Zhang Hao. There’s an anticipating glint in his eyes, like he’s trying his luck again, after Zhang Hao just agreed to the first request.

The silence stretches for a second longer than he had hoped.

“Maybe next time,” is what Zhang Hao eventually settles on. It’s more than a downright no, but judging from Gyuvin’s forlorn expression, he might as well have shut it down completely.

“Yeah, next time,” Gyuvin echoes, as if he’s trying to make himself believe it.

“It was nice catching up with you guys,” Yujin chimes in. His hand reaches for the doorknob. “We’ll find some other time, when we’re all free.”

Zhang Hao watches their figures retreat down the long hallway of his complex. He shuts the door and is jumpscared by Ricky, who is standing a few steps away from him. To his surprise, Ricky doesn’t laugh at his reaction. He says nothing. Just supplies a sympathetic look, pats Zhang Hao on the back, and leaves for the guest room. Then, he’s alone.

Zhang Hao lets his back make contact with the door. With newfound weights anchored to his chest, he slides down the door and settles onto the hardwood floors. He could say he’s exhausted, that he hasn’t been used to this amount of social interaction in a while. But the name Sung Hanbin infects his mind like a virus. He squeezes his eyes shut and exhales the remaining air from his lungs in hopes that it’s the cure.

←

So it begins.

The eight Yuehua trainees become four. Or more like, two groups of four. They’re rivals—the Korean group and the foreign group—but it’s not that serious. At least not as serious as the producers want it to be, especially when Gyuvin, the least intimidating person he knows, wanders to where they’re sitting during breaks and pretends to size them up.

They’re each other’s competition, but it’s not just the eight of them. There are 90 other trainees fighting for nine spots. It’s an inherently selfish game.

They’ve been filming for hours already. The trainees file out one by one. They give their reactions to the stage and choose a seat. Then, the producers cut for a break until the next group of trainees enter. Other than the ones he came with, Zhang Hao can’t remember any of the trainees’ names. But it doesn’t matter; he’ll learn them with time.

Zhang Hao first meets Sung Hanbin when Hanbin steps out onto the audition stage. Zhang Hao doesn’t know if he can even count this as a meeting. After all, meeting implies that they’ve exchanged words and had conversations. But he is the audience during Hanbin’s one man show. Hanbin does exactly what he needs to do. He sings well. He dances exceptionally. Then, he pulls out a hand heart from his pocket, and the crowd goes wild.

Sung Hanbin is the epitome of the perfect idol. Sung Hanbin is also the only name he remembers that day.

Filming for the day comes to an end. Zhang Hao makes small talk with some of the other trainees he’s met, and they bond over the commonality of fatigue. As he makes his way back to the dorms, he hears a laugh echoing from the other side of the hallway. Without thinking, he turns his head to the source of the sound. It’s Hanbin, conversing with another nameless trainee. From the way that Hanbin is acting—the fold of his eyes, the lift of his lips, the lilt of his voice—it’s as if they had known each other for ages. But from what Zhang Hao can pick apart from their conversation, they are near strangers.

He notices Hanbin’s presence everywhere after that. Hanbin’s there when they’re training, with a smile on his face. He’s there when they’re eating lunch, happily making conversation about his day. All of the trainees are drawn to him, but Zhang Hao just continues to watch as an outsider, waiting for the light to fall from Hanbin’s face. Light only threads deeper into his eyes.

So he has a grasp on the kind of person Hanbin is: handsome, talented. And nice, almost to a fault.

Maybe it’s just a front for the competition, Zhang Hao thinks. Maybe he’s just doing this to get on their good side, so they won’t notice when Hanbin ultimately becomes everyone’s biggest competition.

While they’re learning the choreography for the signal song stage, his gaze catches Hanbin’s from across the practice room. They make eye contact for a split second. Hanbin’s face lights up, eyes smiling before his lips even do. Zhang Hao has to fight the urge to smile back. He snaps his gaze to the ground, but goosebumps rise on the surface of his skin. He tries to bury the static that fizzles in his heart, digs a whole grave for it. But curiosity can’t be beat—truth be told, he’s no different than everyone else—and the feeling rings like a siren inside.

The stage is technically where Zhang Hao meets Hanbin, but Zhang Hao doesn’t really meet him until they’re in the car together.

The air is crisp and biting. He’s bundled in his winter clothes, fighting with the layers of fabric as he crawls into the car to record for the signal song. Hanbin is there too, exchanging pleasantries with the staff. His eyes are lifted into a smile as he waves goodbye to someone.

The car door slams shut. Daily chaos blurs through the windows, cold earth spinning under the wheels of the car.

Zhang Hao can’t look Hanbin in the eye. If he’s honest, he’s been avoiding inevitable small talk. His head is down, gaze low, fingers absentmindedly playing with the cuff of his jacket since the program frowned upon phone usage.

Hanbin doesn’t take the hint.

“It’s nice to finally sit down and meet you,” he says. Zhang Hao turns to glance at Hanbin’s face. Decides that looking him directly in the eyes is dangerous territory. Instead, he allows himself to momentarily fixate on Hanbin’s smile. “I’ve been meaning to formally introduce myself to you. I thought we would’ve had some time to talk before, but it’s kind of funny to meet like this, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Zhang Hao agrees. “It’s nice to finally meet you too.”

Silence clings to the air like frost on glass.

“It’s been a while,” says Hanbin, picking the conversation up again. “But I just wanted to let you know that I really loved your audition.”

“I could say the same for you. I was impressed.”

“Well, thank you,” Hanbin says with a chuckle. “When’d you learn to play the violin?”

“Not too long ago,” he replies, shifting in his seat. His coat bunches beneath him. “Actually, I didn’t really start playing until I started university.”

“Wow…” Hanbin says, awe coloring his words. “I thought you had been playing for your whole life.”

“What about you?” asks Zhang Hao, diverting the attention away from himself. “When’d you learn to dance?”

“I started in middle school,” Hanbin replies. He scratches the back of his neck. “It was just supposed to be a hobby though.”

“What changed?”

“I realized that I didn’t care that much about anything else,” he says. Zhang Hao cocks an eyebrow. “Not like anything else, anything else,” Hanbin backpedals, eyes wide. “Obviously there are other things that I care about. But career-wise, I don’t know. It just made sense.”

“Then what made you want to become an idol?”

“Well,” Hanbin laughs sheepishly. “We all have dreams, don’t we?”

Zhang Hao mirrors his smile and nods. “That we do.”

“How do I put this…” Hanbin’s face is frozen in thought. “I always thought about it as a joke. But then… Not to sound cliche, but one day I woke up, and it wasn’t a joke anymore. It would’ve been nice to keep going down the same path I was going. There was nothing wrong with it, I was happy. But I just had to give it a try or else I was gonna regret it. And if I try, then I have to give it my all. So… that’s why I’m here.” He pauses and looks to Zhang Hao for a reaction. “Does that make sense?”

Hanbin is a rambler, but his words are sincere. Zhang Hao admires his honesty, relates to it even. It would’ve been fine for him to stick to his predetermined path—playing the violin and teaching music to kids. But his fatal flaw was living in a world of what ifs. This is his life currently, a what if that’s indistinguishable from reality. He’s made it this far, so he’s fighting to hold onto it, fist clenched and knuckles white. He’s careful not to slip.

Winter is unrelenting. It holds the city in its icy grip. He looks down at their hands that have inched towards each other as they've talked. He can feel heat emanating from Hanbin, their pinky fingers millimeters away from grazing. If they were to touch, there's a current that would shock them both.

Zhang Hao is a moth—a dumb moth at that. But it’s instinct. He’s drawn to the light even when it’s hot. He flies towards the flame even though he knows it will burn him.

“Sorry,” says Hanbin, cutting through the current. His eyes are shifty, nervous. “It’s our first real conversation, and I’m giving you my entire life story.”

"No, it’s okay,” Zhang Hao says with a shake of the head. He chuckles to himself, and Hanbin’s face visibly relaxes. He misread Hanbin, and there’s something comforting in the fact that they’re more similar than he originally believed: in beginnings, philosophy, the fate they’ve signed themselves up for. It’s the reason why they’re even in the car to begin with—as K-Group and G-Group centers. A physical representation of what they had to sacrifice to even get here. “It makes sense. I appreciate it.”

Hanbin breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank god. I thought I scared you off for a second there.”

“Really, it’s okay,” Zhang Hao says as reassurance. “You didn’t. But actually, I think it's kind of funny that you put it that way.”

“Why’s that?”

He grins. “Because that's exactly why I'm here too.”

One conversation is enough for Zhang Hao to stop resisting the pull of Hanbin’s gravitation force. He finds Hanbin when they’re eating lunch. Joins him when there are breaks in between practices. They’re melting magnets, and he almost forgets that in their current circumstances, it's every man for himself.

→

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been apologizing a lot lately,” Zhang Hao muses. He sits down on a barstool as he watches Ricky pace around in his apartment aimlessly, like he was waiting for Zhang Hao to show face this morning. “What did you do this time? Break something? Burn down something?“ He gasps and brings his hands up to his mouth. “Did you get arrested?”

“None of the above,” says Ricky, but he doesn’t seem amused. His eyes roll into the back of his head. “What would I have even done between last night and this morning?” He pauses, pondering the hypotheticals. “And if I got arrested, how the fuck would I be here right now?”

“Okay, defensive much?” says Zhang Hao, his arms raised in surrender. “But sorry. Continue.”

“What I was going to say was that I’m sorry,” Ricky says as he settles into the seat next to him. “I don’t know why Gyuvin thought it was a good idea to bring up Hanbin last night. But I could tell you were uncomfortable, so I can just let him know to not bring it up next time.”

This is not the intervention he wanted—or expected—this morning. Gyuvin is a grown man, so who is Zhang Hao to police his actions? He knows Ricky means well, but the apology pisses him off anyway.

“It's fine,” Zhang Hao replies in the most measured tone he can manage. “You don’t have to apologize for him. We’re all adults here.”

“I know—”

“Plus, it’s not like there's a ban on whether we can talk about him or not.”

“I know that too,” Ricky scoffs, exasperated. “But since you never bring him up—”

“Well, if you want to talk about it so badly,” Zhang Hao says while Ricky is still mid-sentence. “Then let's talk. You first.”

“I—”

“Do you still keep in touch with him?”

Ricky arches a brow. “Why are you suddenly turning it on me? This feels like a setup.”

“It’s not,” Zhang Hao simply states. “Just answer the question.”

Ricky gives him a suspicious look. But then he sighs, his shoulders deflating in the same defeated breath. “I mean, not really. We’ll wish each other happy birthday and things like that. But we were never that close, so it was kind of inevitable.”

“Makes sense,” Zhang Hao says with a nod. He could probably count on one hand the number of times Hanbin and Ricky went out of their way to spend time with each other outside of work. On his other hand, Zhang Hao could count the number of times that he and Ricky intentionally hung out outside of work then. If someone would’ve asked him way back when, he would’ve never guessed that Ricky, of all people, would be the person he stayed in touch with the most—let alone the one he’d invite to stay in his apartment.

“Your turn then,” Ricky says as he directs the question towards him. “Do you still keep in touch with him?”

Ricky is neither dumb nor oblivious. He was there when it all went down, when Hanbin’s presence at their new dorm went from always to fuck all. It should come as nobody’s surprise when Zhang Hao’s answer is a blunt “no.”

An uncomfortable silence follows.

Ricky hesitates. “I know it’s been a while, but do you mind if I ask?”

Zhang Hao hums. A while is one way to put it. “Ask away.”

His voice softens. “What happened?”

Zhang Hao blinks at him. The tissue that he had hastily tacked over the Hanbin-induced scabs peels away, layer by layer, until it hits an exposed nerve. He’s a hypocrite, he knows. He brought Ricky’s line of questioning upon himself. Still, he searches for a needle to stitch the answer back up while he’s on the verge of bleeding out. So—

“Who the fuck knows,” Zhang Hao says. He stands up, head spinning. “It’s too early for this. I’m gonna go get some coffee.”

←

Zhang Hao has lost count of the weeks he’s spent here.

It’s as if the broadcasting company tries to make their experience as miserable as possible. There aren’t any windows to free them from the imprisonment of long hallways or bleak practice rooms. It’s suffocatingly cold, and the ceiling seems to drop down onto him at times, white tiles pressing into him like pinpricks. Phantom weights of exhaustion have shackled around his ankles.

He’s tired. He has no desire to be around anyone. The dorms are stuffy. The beds are crammed anywhere they could fit. There are cameras affixed to the corners of their rooms. The red recording light haunts him. It's a constant reminder of the surveillance. He doesn’t want to know what would happen if he wipes away the tattooed smile, so he silently curses at them when he can.

He finds refuge in the laundry room. It’s the only place in the building where he can guarantee there are no cameras or watchful eyes.

Zhang Hao pushes the door open. The hinge lets out an ugly creak. His eyes adjust to the darkness that blankets the room, eased marginally by the light from the hallway. From the corner, he can hear the faintest of sniffles. Zhang Hao blinks and he can make out Hanbin's silhouette, even in darkness. It’s the smallest he has ever seen Hanbin, who’s curled into a tight ball, his head resting on his knees. It's a stark contrast from the Hanbin he bears witness to every day—all smiles and soft words. This is different. It feels forbidden.

He turns to leave when Hanbin calls out to him, voice barely there.

“Hao hyung?”

Zhang Hao turns back on his heels and meets Hanbin’s eyes. They’re puffy from crying but wordlessly pleading. “Yeah?”

“Can you stay here?”

Zhang Hao slides down behind him. Hanbin melts into his side immediately, his head buried in the nook between his neck and shoulders. Zhang Hao’s hand finds itself in Hanbin’s hair, his fingers running through the strands. Minutes pass by in silence, and the only sound is the exchange of their breaths.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Hanbin shakes his head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to keep you—it’s too much.”

“I have time.”

Hanbin takes a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering shut. His chest rises, falls, and rises again before he says: “I wish—I wish everyone could just… like me.” He looks up at Zhang Hao, eyes shining. “Is that stupid? Or selfish of me?”

“It’s not,” Zhang Hao whispers. There’s barely any space between their bodies, but he still tries to pull Hanbin closer to him. “But you can’t make everyone like you.”

His voice is tired. “I know. But I wish I could.” Hanbin forces out a laugh. It’s bitter on his tongue. When Zhang Hao doesn’t say anything, Hanbin continues. “I just feel so ungrateful. So many people would kill to be in my place, and yet here I am.”

“Hanbin…” says Zhang Hao. He opens his mouth again to speak. Closes it. Finally, he starts again. “What's the point in that? If everyone liked you—what would you gain?”

Hanbin is silent then. Zhang Hao can see the individual gears in his head churning, thoughts tangling into a convoluted web of knots.

“I don’t know,” he eventually says. “I don't know what I would gain—what anyone would gain. It’s just hard to stop thinking this way.”

The strings tied around his heart pull, and the pain digs into his chest. A film forms over his eyes, tongue heavy with words he doesn’t quite know how to piece together.

“If they don't like you, then fuck them anyway.” Zhang Hao finally says, blinking the world back into focus. “They don’t know what they’re missing out on.”

He doesn’t mean to be funny, but Hanbin laughs. It’s unforced, free laughter falling from his lips. His eyes soften into crescents. “You want me to… what?”

He slaps Hanbin in response, hard enough to make him wince. “Don’t be weird.”

“Fine,” Hanbin huffs.

“Seriously though,” says Zhang Hao. “There will always be people who won’t like you for whatever reason. But there will also be people who know you and will always support you. So it doesn’t matter what everyone thinks about you, just the people who matter.” He swallows and leans into the gag to break the tension. Straightens his spine, which forces Hanbin to peel his body off of Zhang Hao’s. “So repeat after me: fuck the haters.”

Hanbin’s eyes widen, like he’s unsure of how to react. “Screw the haters?”

“No,” says Zhang Hao with newfound resolve. “Fuck the haters.”

“This is dumb.”

“Says you. Say it.”

“Fuck the haters,” Hanbin mutters. It's weak, but there’s remnants of a smile on his face anyway. “I’m sorry. This is so dumb.”

Zhang Hao shrugs. “But it works, doesn't it?”

“Kind of. Thank you.”

Zhang Hao frowns. “Only kind of? I'm wounded.” He brings his hands up to his pounding heart. Hanbin mirrors his frown, but his bottom lip juts out like he’s pouting instead. Curiosity brings his hand to Hanbin’s face. He pokes his lip with his index finger. “You’re cute when you cry, you know?”

Hanbin bursts out laughing then, a clear jubilant sound. Wind chimes in summer air. “I’m not trying to be cute.”

Then, they’re like this again. Hanbin relaxes back into his side, his breaths now regulated. One of Zhang Hao’s hands weaves back into his hair, the other hand loosely curled in Hanbin’s hand. He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but they’re closer than before, and there’s no space for anything except for a stitch of silence. He’s so, so close that Zhang Hao could mistake Hanbin’s beating heart as his own.

“Do you like me?” Hanbin whispers in one warm, swift breath. The words swell in his ears.

Zhang Hao knits his brows together. “That came out of nowhere?”

Hanbin chuckles in response. “You just said that it doesn't matter what everyone thinks. Just what the people who matter think.” Hanbin’s thumb traces circles along the side of his hand. “So I just wanted to know.”

His heart stutters against his ribcage when he realizes the implications of Hanbin’s words.

“You already know the answer.”

“I think I know.” Hanbin says, and the word know is starting to sound weird to his ears. “But I want to hear you say it.”

“Hanbin…”

Hanbin looks up expectedly. Even in darkness, he thinks he can see the faintest of pinks dusted across his cheeks. Zhang Hao’s resolve bursts into tiny fragments. Fine dust settles around them, impossible to clean up, but he’ll worry about it later.

“Of course I like you. You’re a great person.” Zhang Hao stops. Gulps down the treacherous words he wants to say. “You don't even have to ask.”

The air around them stills. For a split second, Hanbin’s eyes fixate at his lips with want. Zhang Hao is no stranger to this look. He knows exactly what it means, but he doesn't make a move for it. Instead, he locks eyes with Hanbin, and it's a promise. An understanding. There’s a shooting star in his irises, a silent wish on his breath.

He thinks back to the conversation he had with Ricky when they first found out about the show. Is it really a good thing? That’s what he had asked Ricky, when he was apprehensive of the entire premise. The answer leaps and catches in his throat, but it isn’t in the form of a debut, or fans, or how many cheers he can garner. It's in the form of a boy who is one breath away from him, but who he can barely have.

“I’m sure you already know, but I like you too,” Hanbin whispers, air fanning across Zhang Hao’s ear. “Thanks for finding me—I’m really glad you're here. I just hope…” He trails off. “I just hope that it’ll all be worth it in the end.”

The competition takes on a new life. Everywhere he goes, he catches Hanbin watching him from the corner of his eye, wearing a soft smile on his lips. Zhang Hao returns the smile, personal satisfaction brewing when Hanbin fights to contain his expression.

Life goes on. Trainees leave. Pressure builds. The finale creeps closer. He has to constantly remind himself of two things. One: It’s an inherently selfish game. Two: It’s every man for himself.

But Hanbin is there, and he can barely remember his original motives. Hanbin’s sole presence pushes him to be better—for them to be better. It’s a shared dream, tightly looped around their intertwined hands.

He is so close to the end. He can’t lose sight of the finish line, so he has to constantly remind himself of two things. One: It’s an inherently selfish game. Two: It’s every man for himself. Zhang Hao adds a third thing to his list and utters it under his breath: We will debut together.

He repeats it to himself until he drifts into sleep, sending the words into the universe. It’s a manifestation. We will debut together. We will debut, we will debut, we will debut.

→

It’s another day like this: Zhang Hao wakes up to a familiar melody. It trickles into his room and bounces off of his walls. His own voice rings in his ears.

Songs are an artifact of time, but they hold no memory on their own. The memory of a song is crafted from the voices of the people who made it come alive, the peals of laughter in backstage waiting rooms, and the candid smiles exchanged during performances, willfully ignorant of the audience before them. This used to be his livelihood—something that he could be proud of.

Now, it just sounds like noise.

Zhang Hao brings the pillow out from under him and presses it over his ears. It does little to muffle the sound from Ricky’s speaker.

One person’s nostalgia is another person’s misery, he thinks and tries to tune out the music completely.

“Shen Ricky,” Zhang Hao greets with more enthusiasm than he should have in the morning. “Tell me a joke.”

Ricky doesn’t miss a beat before saying: “You.”

“Okay,” he replies as he finds a seat next to Ricky at his dining table. The chair scrapes against the floor. “Damn.”

Ricky scoffs, not bothering to look up from the stack of papers in front of him. “Did you finally decide to stop ignoring me?”

He stares at Ricky for a moment, whose attention remains glued on the papers. It has been two or three days, but Zhang Hao wasn’t ignoring him, per se. Just in fear of another intervention, so he had waited until he thought he heard the front door lock to emerge from his room and into the real world.

“I wasn’t ignoring you,” Zhang Hao simply states.

Ricky looks up to shoot him a disbelieving look. Then, he shakes his head and returns to the papers. He’s dressed to the nines, clothes ironed and hair styled, but there’s an unusual frown carved on Ricky’s face.

Zhang Hao picks up a single sheet of paper that has strayed from the pile. He tries to read it, but his eyes swim in the small font and legal jargon. “What’s this?”

“It’s a contract,” says Ricky. He exhales. “They’re trying to get exclusive rights to… Honestly, I don’t even know.”

“Don’t you have lawyers for this?”

“Yeah, but… I don’t know,” Ricky drifts off and bites on his bottom lip. His face appears apathetic in light of legal talk. He drops the papers and makes eye contact with Zhang Hao. “Look, forget what I said earlier. I’m—”

Ricky cuts himself off abruptly and shakes his head, like he’s changed his mind about his intentions behind the whole conversation. Zhang Hao has known Ricky long enough to see the internal conflict play out, debating whether he should issue another apology. Because that went so well last time.

Zhang Hao stops Ricky before another attempt at an apology can even leave his mouth.

“Do you think I have FOMO?”

Ricky blinks, dumbfounded. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, FOMO,” Zhang Hao says again. “Fear of missing out.”

“I know what it means,” Ricky says with a tsk. The papers rest on the table, untouched. A crease forms between Ricky’s brows. “Like… career-wise or…?”

“No, because you didn’t invite me to go clubbing with you last night.” The crease of confusion deepens. Zhang Hao rolls his eyes. “Yes, career-wise. What else would I be talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Ricky answers. “It’s not everyday that you’re asking me to validate you.”

“I’m not asking for you to validate me.”

“Sounds like it.”

“I’m just asking,” Zhang Hao asserts. “But not for validation.”

“Well, I thought you were happy without the whole idol thing,” says Ricky. “Besides, aren’t you still working? You heard what they said; your ads are still around.”

They must have different definitions of working. Working is what Ricky does—appearing at events, participating in meetings, networking with people. Zhang Hao sits behind a camera once a month, maybe, if he’s up to it. Thinking back on it now, he can’t even remember when his last official schedule was.

He’s neither here nor there. Not an idol, not a nobody. A weird in-between.

“Barely,” Zhang Hao says with a derisive snort.

Ricky turns his entire body to face Zhang Hao. “You tell me then. Do you miss it?”

“Depends. Performing, maybe.” Zhang Hao gestures to the scene in front of him. “This… not so much.”

←

On the day of the finale, two faces appear on the screen for the first and second place announcements. Hanbin is on one side, his eyes shaped in shock. Zhang Hao’s eyes drift to the other side, where he’s met with his own face. He almost feels foreign to himself when he’s projected like this.

An entire ocean of people surrounds him. Deafening screams engulf him like saltwater. He gulps it down and diverts his attention back onto the screen.

They’re debuting together. He’s debuting. He’s debuting. They’re debuting together.

On instinct, he pulls Hanbin towards him in a hug and holds onto him like a lifeline. Their hands meet in a clasp, and the invisible string around their fingers tightens. He doesn’t even realize how tight the grip is until there are pins and needles in his thumb.

Hanbin says a few final words before they announce the winner. Zhang Hao does the same, but the words stumble out of him. He can barely even hear himself, his thoughts muffled like there’s cotton in his ears. He had prepared something to say, but now he’s not sure if he’s even sticking to the script.

In the end, Zhang Hao wins. He doesn’t comprehend it when the announcer says his name instead of Hanbin’s, doesn’t comprehend it when Hanbin is the one pulling him into a hug this time. Reality only begins to sink in when walks up the stairs—hand in hand with Hanbin—and sits in the first position seat.

Zhang Hao looks into the audience, towards the faceless crowd that’s screaming his name. He looks towards the trainees who didn’t debut, around to the people who he will spend the next two and a half years with. He looks back at Hanbin, his smile brimming with starlight.

Then, he cries.

Debut is nothing like he anticipated. The cloud of elation he was floating on when he was announced as the winner dissipates. He loses his footing and plummets hard, with no cushions to pad the landing. Each day is another battle that they have to face. They’re forced to wake up at the crack of dawn. They’re dragged from one place to the next and count down seconds until they’re up on stage. A ghastly shadow of passive aggressiveness is cast over the dorms, dark circles contouring all of their eyes.

Normalcy returns when debut promotions end. Most of the other members are out tonight, quick to get away from the dorms.

Zhang Hao stays in. He had been anticipating free time since they debuted. But compared to just a few days ago, it’s too calm, a jarring contrast from the stress of promotions, where everything agitated him, and he would let his mouth run ahead of his brain. It’s a tricky balance game. An oscillating seesaw. Activity sits on one end, peace on the other. The discomfort of peace settles in him like silt.

He lies in bed, mindlessly scrolling on his phone in the dark. He refreshes his feed for the second time, then a third, but there’s nothing new. With a sigh, he lets his hand drop, the phone landing screen down, and closes his eyes. But an intrusive thought tugs at the edges of his brain, refusing to be ignored. So he grabs his phone again, unlocks it, and types into the search bar. It autofills before he can even finish.

He taps on the first result, and the video begins to play. The announcer addresses the audience. Hanbin and him show up as first and second place candidates. The phone’s glow illuminates his face as he watches Hanbin intently. The Hanbin on the screen looks virtually unburdened compared to now, when he has undertaken the responsibilities of leader. In the video, Hanbin expresses his desire to remain in first place, where he’s always been. And he should stop the video already, but then, the buildup before the announcement is happening. Zhang Hao holds his breath, even though he already knows the outcome.

Guilt pricks at his skin like thorns, but it’s not enough force to draw blood.

Before the video can announce the winner, a sliver of light creeps through the crack of his door. Hanbin’s silhouette appears in the doorframe. Zhang Hao quickly locks his phone and tosses it aside.

“Hi,” says Hanbin. He closes the door and crawls under Zhang Hao’s covers, slotting his head in the crook of his neck. He’s freshly showered, and the faint scent of Hanbin’s body wash clings to his skin.

“Hi,” Zhang Hao replies. “I thought you went out? Where’s everyone else?”

“They’re still out. But I started feeling a little tired, so I came back.” Hanbin’s wet hair is cool against his skin, his voice dripping with honey when he asks: “Whatcha up to?”

The shred of light slipping in through the bottom of the door doesn’t do much for visibility, but he can still see an innocuous glimmer in Hanbin’s eyes. This Hanbin isn’t the same as the one he saw on screen just moments ago. This Hanbin is real, in his grasp, and—even without all of the makeup and hairstyling—impossibly handsome.

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Zhang Hao replies. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason. You’re just cute,” Hanbin says with a giggle. “But you just look like you’ve been thinking a lot.”

Zhang Hao chuckles. “But? Thinking a lot takes away from how cute I am?”

“I didn't say that.”

Zhang Hao frowns, and it causes Hanbin to giggle even more. Hanbin latches onto his waist and draws him closer. They still haven’t talked about what this means exactly, but he knows. Hanbin has given him a million unsaid confessions, and his heartbeat jackhammers against Zhang Hao’s chest. A match strikes his own aching heart, and he brings a trembling hand to Hanbin’s face, lightly tracing his cheekbone with his thumb. He looks into the abyss of Hanbin’s eyes, at how the glimmer has been replaced with desire, and heat rises to the surface of his skin. Then, Hanbin’s gaze flickers down towards his lips. It’s enough for Zhang Hao to bring their lips together.

It’s their first kiss, but it’s long overdue. Zhang Hao leads the kiss. He flips over for leverage and pushes Hanbin into the mattress. Licks into Hanbin’s mouth, and it tastes like the soda that he drank with dinner. But Hanbin is more inexperienced. Clumsier. His teeth knock into Zhang Hao’s, and he’s more hesitant with touches, but it doesn’t matter because then Hanbin’s fingertips press into the back of his neck, asking for more.

When they break apart, his lungs are gasping for air. If Hanbin’s jagged breathing is any indication, then it’s the same for him. Zhang Hao’s body has been burned to ashes, and he can barely prop himself up. But he makes eye contact with Hanbin and can’t contain the smile that dons on his face.

Hanbin mirrors the smile. It’s the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

He fights the urge to kiss Hanbin again since the other members could come back at any moment. He compromises by laying on top of him, putting as little distance between their bodies as possible. Hanbin circles his arms around Zhang Hao and holds him with gentle hands.

“Hao?” Hanbin whispers into the night.

“Yeah?”

“I’m so happy,” Hanbin says in a murmur. “I don't think there’s anything that could make me happier than this.”

“Me too,” Zhang Hao whispers back in agreement. Hanbin’s words cause him to forget about the others entirely, so he cups Hanbin’s face with his hands and kisses him again.

⭤

Even though Zhang Hao cherishes his alone time, all good things come in doses. His apartment has been eerily quiet lately. Ricky leaves earlier in the morning to get to his schedules, some last minute meetings before he returns to China. Zhang Hao is left to his own devices for most of the day. By the time Ricky returns, neither of them are in much of a mood for conversation. If it weren’t for Ricky’s belongings haphazardly scattered around his apartment, he might as well be alone.

So that’s probably why he’s cozied up in bed with his phone, the cursor blinking in the search bar.

Zhang Hao fights the urge to type. Wonders what low he had to hit to get to this point. But the battle is quickly lost when his fingers flit over his screen in a familiar pattern, and his phone shows results for Sung Hanbin.

He stares at the screen for a moment. Hanbin’s information is listed like a factsheet. Sung Hanbin. Solo Artist. Birthday: June 13th, 2001.

His self control has been mostly lost, but he still mentally congratulates himself for not searching Hanbin up earlier. He used to do this more often years ago, just for fun. Then, to keep tabs on Hanbin right after they broke up. But it’s unfamiliar now. He doesn't know when the photo for Hanbin’s profile changed to this new photo—a professional headshot, with hair styled neatly and face matured, but it’s still undoubtedly Sung Hanbin.

If he had to blame someone for this, it’s Ricky. Since Ricky’s been in this nostalgic phase—playing their music out loud and bringing up Hanbin—he can't stop thinking about it. Or maybe it’s Gyuvin’s fault for even mentioning Hanbin, inviting him to plans that he knew Zhang Hao wouldn’t agree to.

Zhang Hao blinks until his phone screen comes back into focus. He skims over Hanbin’s profile again until his eyes meet the inevitable. Music Group: ZEROBASEONE (2023-2026). It’s funny when it’s written out like this, as if it just was a small blip of their lives. It technically is; they’ve all outgrown that label now. Zhang Hao especially has tried to neatly pack that part of his life away and pretend it doesn't exist, even if he is surrounded by half of the same people.

He eventually makes it past Hanbin’s profile and taps on News. As expected, there haven't been many articles written in the past year. Other than some speculative gossip articles about Hanbin’s return to the industry, the last real article was posted over a year ago, when Hanbin announced his temporary hiatus from the music industry.

Hanbin was at the peak of his career then, just as Zhang Hao’s group contract was coming to an end; Zhang Hao could barely walk anywhere without hearing one of Hanbin’s songs playing or seeing his face on a poster. But it made sense—Hanbin was born to live this life. He was made to be on stage, his energy fueled from the applause and admiration of his fans. So, when the news of his hiatus broke, it was nothing short of a shock to everyone.

Even though he’s read the article numerous times, he still opens it. He has damn near memorized it, could probably even recite every word without so much as a glance. Singer Sung Hanbin announces an indefinite hiatus from music. In his handwritten letter, he reassures fans that he will be back but is taking time to focus on personal matters.

When they were promoting together, Hanbin used to talk a lot about soulmates. How everyone had someone they were connected to in a mysterious way, that everyone had someone they were fated to be with in life. It was just a matter of chance if you were going to meet your soulmate or not.

“And why are you telling me this?” Zhang Hao had asked incredulously, their bodies facing each other as they laid on Hanbin’s bed.

“Well, that's what I think we are.” Hanbin replied expectantly. “Do you not think so?”

“I don't really know if I really believe in the concept of soulmates.” Zhang Hao said in return. He didn’t miss the bolt of disappointment that flashed across Hanbin’s face, but he continued anyway. “I think it's more about choices that we make rather than fate itself.”

“I see…”

He looked Hanbin directly in the eye, gaze unwavering, and said: “It doesn't really matter though. Because it means that I made the choice, and my choice was to be with you, Sung Hanbin.”

In response to that, Hanbin had smirked and hooked his leg across Zhang Hao’s torso. Hanbin pressed their lips together, turning Zhang Hao onto his back to deepen the kiss. Back then, it’s as if the world around them vanished, and nothing else mattered but the warmth radiating from Hanbin’s skin.

Now, even under layers of clothing and blankets, an unnerving chill darts around Zhang Hao’s bloodstream. He clicks the power button on his phone and watches as the screen goes dark.

Almost a decade later, and he’s starting to think that maybe Hanbin was right in the end. The way everything played out couldn’t be written off as just choices that either of them made—it’s easier to ascribe it to fate. They lived fairly similar lives prior to debut, then debuted in the same way, and then re-debuted just a few weeks apart.

And even now, when their careers have come to a standstill, Zhang Hao thinks bitterly, they’re still somehow in sync.

←

They only have two and a half years as a group, so each day operates at maximum efficiency. An album is dropped, songs are promoted, appearances are made, comeback preparations are restarted. Rinse and repeat. It's perpetual motion—a perpetual melody—and time slips through his fingers like water.

Zhang Hao’s days are a motion blur. Weeks and weeks pass without him even pausing to catch his breath. But it’s bearable because Hanbin is there with him. They’ve crafted their own rhythm, a routine they’ve fine-tuned over the past few months. Once group schedules wrap for the day, they order dinner and eat together. Night falls, and they’ll go on a walk. Hanbin’s room is basically his own, and they spend what time they can together before they fall asleep.

The day of disbandment looms over like a dark, dense cloud.

One week before their disbandment, they all gather in a barbecue restaurant. Bottles of soju litter the table, and the room is saturated with laughter. By the end of the night, everyone is chanting Hanbin’s name so he can raise a post-celebratory toast. Banging their fists on the table, which would probably annoy the fuck out of the other patrons if they weren’t in a private room.

“Okay, okay,” Hanbin says as he stands, wearing a sheepish expression on his face. Even Hanbin, who has always been the sentimental type with his words, looks like he’s struggling to speak. All anticipatory eyes rest on him.

“Everyone’s staring at me.”

“Should we all look away?” Taerae retorts. “Would that help?”

Gunwook chortles. “He has stage fright.”

Hanbin swats his hand in their direction, but there’s no malice behind it.

“I just wanted to say,” Hanbin starts. His eyes drift around the room. “I’m so incredibly grateful to have been able to be a part of this group. Thank you for trusting me to be your leader for the past two and a half years. We might be going our separate ways soon, but…” He stops on Zhang Hao directly then, lips lifted in a subtle smile. “There are no other people that I would rather have spent my time with.”

“It’s not the end,” Matthew interjects and raises his glass. “ZEROBASEONE is forever.”

It’s a paradox that nobody wants to acknowledge tonight, so they all raise their glasses. Cheers to that.

By the time dinner ends, the night is a mass of midnights. Zhang Hao steps out of the restaurant first and stands still while the rest of the group lingers inside. Winter has returned with scathing force, and the air glazes his exposed skin with ice. It’s the changing of the seasons, a brutal reminder that life keeps moving even if he doesn't, but his quiet is interrupted by raucous laughter that travels with the group as they make their way back to their apartment complex.

Balmy air greets him when he steps into the unit he shares with Hanbin and Gyuvin. Zhang Hao flips the light switch, and the white light that floods the living room reveals their scattered belongings. His eyes scan the room. It looks the same as it always does, but it’s only a matter of days until the time-capsule disintegrates in the palm of his hands.

Wordlessly, Hanbin interrupts him by wrapping his arms around Zhang Hao’s midsection and draping himself across his back. Zhang Hao takes the hint, but he still grumbles with each step he takes towards Hanbin’s room. Once they make it there, Hanbin detaches himself and flops onto his bed, with no regard for his outside clothes despite the smell of fumes from the food. Zhang Hao sits beside him, mattress sinking under his weight.

“One week left, huh,” Hanbin utters. His gaze is locked on the ceiling, but there’s a blur clouding his eyes.

“One week,” Zhang Hao echos, bringing his hand to Hanbin’s hair. “Feels like we should be preparing for something else by now.”

“I almost thought it never was going to end,” says Hanbin. He chuckles then, but the sound is caustic. “You know, there were days that I couldn’t wait for it to end, and now that it’s ending, I don’t ever want it to end. But I think my perception of time is so fucked up. How does it feel like July was just yesterday, but then last week seems like forever ago? And then sometimes it feels like we debuted just a few weeks ago, but then I look back on the videos, and we look so young. I can barely even recognize us.”

Zhang Hao continues to card his fingers through Hanbin’s hair. “You’re making us sound like we’re ancient.” He softly presses his fingertips into the side of Hanbin’s head, turning him to face Zhang Hao. “Look at me. I am the epitome of youth.”

Hanbin studies him. Stares like he’s never seen him before. Affection blooms in Hanbin’s face like a moonflower. Zhang Hao moves his hand to pinch Hanbin’s cheek, but before he’s able to, the expression wilts. “What’s gonna happen now?”

Both of them have been frequenting their home companies for the past several weeks. Their debut plans have been mostly arranged. Even before then, they’ve had ideas of what their plans would look like for quite some time. There is an entire career mapped out ahead of them, a detailed manual of step by step instructions. It’s the most straightforward it has ever been—nothing like the uncertainty of the past.

Zhang Hao knows that isn’t what Hanbin is referring to though.

“We’ll be okay,” Zhang Hao says belatedly. “We survived all this time together, right? And we didn’t tear each other’s heads off.”

“Because there are other things that we’ve torn off,” Hanbin snorts at his own joke. Zhang Hao just narrows his eyes in return, causing Hanbin to regain his composure. “That’s what I mean though. We’ve spent so much time together, I don’t even know what it’s like to be on my own anymore.”

“Sung Hanbin. Don’t act like I’m already gone,” Zhang Hao warns. “If anything, shouldn’t it be better when we’re not always together?”

“Why?”

There are a plethora of reasons why it should be better: they’re away from the watchful eyes of the public, there’s nobody to scrutinize their every action, and they can just be, with no cameras and no audience. He could list them all, but Hanbin already knows the reasons; they’ve had numerous conversations about it.

“Because,” Zhang Hao says with a shrug. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“It does.”

“And you could never get rid of this pretty face.”

“Never.”

“Plus, I heard disbandment sex is really good,” Zhang Hao remarks, lifting one eyebrow suggestively. “It has all of the benefits of breakup sex. Minus the breakup, of course.”

That earns him a lighthearted slap on his arm from Hanbin. Then, Hanbin is pulling a fistfull of fabric from Zhang Hao’s shirt, bringing their lips to meet, and none of the reasons seem to matter anymore.

The actual day of disbandment is uneventful. They pack up their dorm, collect their belongings from the company lockers, and say goodbye to the staff. It’s the life cycle of a bright star: it’s born, it burns, and it dies, twice as fast as it had started.

When Zhang Hao returns to the Yuehua conference room, he’s still technically a trainee. This time, however, there are only four of them—him, Ricky, Gyuvin, and Yujin—seated at the table, waiting for the directors and managers to appear. They’re all older, a little wiser, and there's no ambiguity around what this meeting is for.

This is about their new beginning—their re-debut.

After the meeting, Zhang Hao elects to return to their new dorms earlier than the others. He’s greeted by Hanbin, who is sitting on the couch, already making himself at home.

“Don’t you have your own apartment?” asks Zhang Hao, kicking his shoes off and joining Hanbin on the couch.

“Yeah,” says Hanbin. “But I missed you.”

“It’s been one day,” Zhang Hao teases as he melts into Hanbin’s side. “I missed you too.”

Hanbin’s lips curl into a smile. He wraps an arm around Zhang Hao’s shoulders and pulls him in close. “How did the meeting go?”

Zhang Hao presses his face into Hanbin’s neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne and basking in the warmth that radiates from him. He closes his eyes in respite. “They’re re-debuting us in a few months. Something about a high society, fantasy sci-fi, city-life concept. I don’t know—I stopped listening halfway through.”

“The concept fits you,” Hanbin hums.

“I just said a bunch of random ass descriptors,” Zhang Hao argues. “How would you know whether it fits me or not?”

“It doesn’t matter what the concept is,” says Hanbin, his voice soft and sweet. “You’ll be amazing no matter what.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Sung Hanbin,” he retorts, though the heat on his face betrays him. “Didn’t you also meet with your company earlier?”

Hanbin nods in affirmation. “They ended up scrapping the group entirely. They want me to debut solo.”

“Is that what you wanted?”

“Yeah, it is,” Hanbin says in response. He lifts his hand and squeezes Zhang Hao’s cheeks. “I don’t want to be in a group without you.”

“It’s not too late to join us, you know,” Zhang Hao says in jest. “They’d probably pay a small fortune to have Sung Hanbin in their group.”

“You think they have enough money to pay for four other small fortunes?” asks Hanbin with a snicker.

“I don’t know. Can’t hurt to ask though.”

“Might hurt when it bankrupts them.”

Zhang Hao arches a brow. “And I should care about that, because…?”

This is their new routine for the remainder of debut preparations. Zhang Hao cycles through dance practices, recording sessions, wardrobe fittings, and test shoots. Once Hanbin is freed from his schedules for the day, he visits Zhang Hao’s dorm before returning to his own apartment. It makes the dorm a little more crowded, but he doesn’t mind. It’s a weird sense of normalcy: to go to practice, to be surrounded by so many people at once, to come home to Hanbin.

Zhang Hao re-debuts on a Monday. The stage feels vacant with four people standing on it instead of nine. Their performance ends, and Zhang Hao counts down to greet the audience. Muscle memory runs deep, and their new group name contorts his lips into unfamiliar shapes.

One month and three weeks later, Hanbin re-debuts solo. Zhang Hao sneaks into the broadcasting station with a bouquet and open arms. Hanbin quickly greets him before he’s being ushered onto the stage by staff. Zhang Hao watches Hanbin’s debut from backstage. Wonders how someone can feel so far away when they were in reach just moments ago.

Lights and confetti shower Hanbin at the end of his performance, but reality pours down on Zhang Hao with hostile force. The stage is no longer theirs to share. They’re no longer one team. This is their new normal.

→

Zhang Hao’s morning routine looks like this. He wakes up. He drags himself out of bed. He does his skincare routine. He trudges to the kitchen. Ricky left for China already, but if he hadn’t, then Zhang Hao would’ve been woken up by the alarm clock of Ricky’s music and made some conversation.

He adds one more thing to his routine. Once he’s left to his own devices, he pulls out his phone and searches Hanbin’s name.

Usually there’s nothing. Nobody—reporters and fans alike—has many updates on Hanbin. So he’s scrolling through the same articles, reading over news he’s already heard before.

This morning is no different. Zhang Hao settles on the couch with a slice of bread—breakfast—and types Hanbin’s name into the search bar. He scrolls past his profile and expects to see the same old articles. What he doesn’t expect is a new article. Without even reading the headline, he clicks on it. The second he skims the headline, his body freezes over. His phone drops to the ground with a bang.

He doesn’t make a move to pick it up. Instead, he throws his head back onto the couch. Zhang Hao’s heart ricochets in his chest, blood pumping through his body at the speed of light. He closes his eyes and inhales. Exhales. Inhales again, but it barely does anything to calm his turbulent heartbeat.

Zhang Hao doesn’t know how much time has passed when he finally retrieves his phone from the floor. The screen has darkened, but when he unlocks his phone, he can’t escape it. The headline bores into his eyes. Sung Hanbin announces return from hiatus, signs exclusive contract with Yuehua Entertainment.

He does the only thing he knows to do, emotions clouding his judgment: closes the article, opens the phone icon, and taps on Ricky’s contact.

The phone rings once, twice. Then three times. The space between each ring feels longer than the one before it.

“Pick up, pick up,” he hisses under his breath right before the call gets sent to voicemail. As if on cue, the call connects.

“Hello?”

“Did you know already?” Zhang Hao blurts without bothering to return the greeting.

“Good morning to you too.” Sheets rustle in the background. Ricky’s voice is laced with grogginess from sleep. “Know what already?”

“That Hanbin signed with Yuehua?”

Ricky doesn’t give an immediate answer. For a moment, he thinks they’ve disconnected, but when he looks at the screen, the call duration is still elapsing.

“Zhang Hao…” Ricky starts. “I didn’t know for certain, but I think Gyuvin did mention it to me in passing. I just found out earlier too.”

He doesn’t know what he was expecting to hear, but the answer leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth. When he doesn’t answer, Ricky’s voice pours through his phone speaker again. “Why are you asking?”

“Someone sent me the article,” Zhang Hao says to save face. “Though I would’ve liked to know from one of you before I found out from the news.”

“I know, I know,” Ricky says. “But I promise I just found out today too.”

He irons his lips shut and thinks about why he cares so damn much in the first place. But he also doesn’t know if Ricky is telling the truth entirely. Ricky rarely ever brings Hanbin up in conversation, except that one time to apologize for when Gyuvin did.

“Okay,” Zhang Hao breathes. “Well, sorry to interrupt. Hope you’re having a great morning.”

“You too, but…” Ricky’s voice falters. Zhang Hao hears him get out of bed. Hesitation hangs heavy, even between the cell towers that connect them. “I know you don’t want to talk about it, and I know there’s something weird between the two of you, but… It’s been years. I wish there was some way you could get over it.”

“Oh wow,” Zhang Hao says in monotone. “Getting over it. I’ve never thought about doing that before.”

“Shit,” Ricky mutters under his breath. “That came out wrong. But you know what I meant. I just wish it wouldn’t affect you so much.”

It’s a reality he’s been unable to face. Most people get over their exes in due time. The thing is, he has—dated people, broke up with them, gotten broken up with—and it’s been fine. His first boyfriend had been in high school, a guy who had confessed to him one day after class. They dated for a few months and then broke up over a short series of text messages. He moped over the breakup for a week, but that was it. If anything, he’s almost grown to have a startling lack of reaction to these situations.

But this isn’t just someone who ran up to him after school with a breathless confession, or a random hookup who he’s found relief with. It’s Hanbin, and that should somehow be enough of an explanation.

“You’re right,” is all he can muster in response.

The call disconnects. He reopens the article and reads it again, eyes lingering on each word for a second too long. The article has quotes from Hanbin and the company, discussing how excited Hanbin is to start this new chapter of his life, and how he can’t wait to show what's in store. Hanbin probably joined the company because of Gyuvin’s persistence, but Zhang Hao can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, Hanbin thought of him as the ink was drying on his new contract.

He drops his phone again. This time, it falls onto the soft cushion of the couch.

Fate, choice… he doesn't know anymore. It’s all the same.

←

It’s becoming harder now.

Their first debut was difficult, but nothing could’ve prepared him for this. The re-debut has Zhang Hao running on empty. Even after the promotional period for their debut album ended, his schedule is chock-full of performances and appearances. If he’s not performing, then he’s guesting on a variety show or a radio station. If he’s not guesting anywhere, then he’s taking back and forth flights between Korea and China for his brand ambassador obligations.

Hanbin’s schedule isn’t any better. They send each other updates through text messages and calls when they can, but time flies past their fingertips and updates become few and far between.

It’s an unfortunate equilibrium. Time acts as a counterweight, as if the world is conspiring against them. When Zhang Hao returns to Korea with time to spare, Hanbin’s schedule is packed to the brim. When Zhang Hao is barely getting by, Hanbin has plenty of free time on his hands. In the meantime, Hanbin still makes time to visit the dorm when he can. They try their best to sneak out in the middle of the night, but Zhang Hao can make out tired circles under Hanbin’s eyes.

The next time he sees Hanbin, he peppers soft kisses to his eyelids. A smile ghosts Hanbin’s face, but Zhang Hao can’t help but think that it’s not enough. He tries to ignore the weak sensation worming around beneath his skin and inching towards his bones.

Their next comebacks coincide.

Their respective practice rooms become their new homes, but they try their best to stick to old routines—Hanbin coming over when he can, Zhang Hao meeting him late into the night.

But as the comeback creeps up, there’s a nagging voice in his head that asks: will you be greater than what you once were?

The songs are released. Performances, fansigns, guest appearances, photoshoots—the schedules play on repeat, over and over again. They try to make time for each other backstage, but they’re always peeking around corners, trying to find nooks of privacy in between watchful, lingering eyes.

Zhang Hao tries to take the promotional period day by day. He kills time in the waiting room post-performance, waiting around until he gets the green light to leave. But even when he should be resting, the voice keeps nagging him. Against his better judgement, he checks how the songs are doing on charts, then how Hanbin’s are doing. He keeps reminding himself that it's just a grid of manmade information—there’s no inherent value in it—and shuts his phone off. Bittersweet chords coat his tongue all the same.

He snaps his eyes shut. A stop motion picture loops in the backs of his eyelids. Stage lights. Warm hands. Faint applause. It takes him back to the finale. He doesn't dare watch it anymore, but the memory still squirms in an alcove of his mind.

It’s been weeks since he last saw Hanbin on something other than a screen.

When Zhang Hao sees Hanbin again in person, it’s when they both finally have a moment of free time. They go through the motions of their routine, but it doesn’t feel quite right. It feels like a stitch drawn too tight. A key hit too sharp.

By the end of the night, they’ve settled into bed like they usually do. They exist in parallel. Zhang Hao turns his head, hair brushing against the headboard, and looks at Hanbin. The room is dark, but the halation of the lamp highlights the corners of Hanbin’s face. He still looks so beautiful, but worn, exhaustion etching lines into his features that weren’t there just a few months ago.

A stab of guilt cuts through his chest.

“I don’t know if we should do this anymore.”

Zhang Hao doesn’t mean to let the words escape. They were just supposed to be another intrusive thought, meant to be locked away. But he’s said them out loud, and he doesn’t know if he can bury them in silence again.

Hanbin doesn’t say anything at first, but Zhang Hao sees his eyes widen. Then he blinks, slowly and unbelieving, like he dares Zhang Hao to say it again. He swallows, fighting the words that bubble up in his throat, but they come up again anyway.

“I don’t know if this is working out.”

“Why?” Hanbin asks, his voice cracking on the single syllable. “Can you tell me why?”

“Because I’m hurting us,” says Zhang Hao, because he’s always been honest with Hanbin, even when he wants to withhold the truth.

“Hurting us?” asks Hanbin. He sounds incredulous, like he doesn’t buy the reason. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. If anything, I’m the one—”

Zhang Hao can’t listen to Hanbin blame himself for things that aren’t his problem, so he cuts him off. “You don’t need to blame yourself,” he snaps because Hanbin was never the problem. Then stops to inhale, back turned to look at the ceiling. “I’m so proud of you, you know?”

“I’m proud of you too,” Hanbin says in return, but his voice is quiet. Confused.

“But I wish I could be happy for you too,” Zhang Hao mumbles. He can’t look at Hanbin. “I wish I could be happy for both of us, but I’m not.”

Hanbin doesn’t say anything, so Zhang Hao continues. “I feel so fucking guilty for looking at where we are on the charts. And I feel so guilty when you win something and we don’t. Or when we win something, and you don’t. And I know you’re exhausted after your schedules—even when you say that you aren’t—and it kills me to watch you work yourself to the bone, but I’m here thinking about these things instead. It’s all so dumb. So, so stupid.”

But even if Zhang Hao can acknowledge how dumb and futile it is, this is who he is—who they are—isn’t it? They met as competitors first, their callused fingers clutching onto a dream and fighting for the first place spot. Zhang Hao won, and Hanbin congratulated him with warm hands and even warmer words, but it didn’t stop the seed of guilt from being planted. It lay dormant for years. Yet, here they are again, in a different form of competition, causing the seed to take root and infect Zhang Hao with the blight of discontentment.

This is the cold, hard truth that Zhang Hao has tucked away under the skin of his three-year younger self, of someone who was longing for dreams, for life. He can acknowledge that too. It still doesn’t change anything.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Hanbin whispers, but his voice trembles. Zhang Hao can tell he’s lying. “I don’t care.”

“It shouldn’t matter,” Zhang Hao corrects. He doesn’t know when he started crying, but a stream of tears runs down his face. He can taste salt on his tongue. “But it does.”

It’s quiet.

“Is this what you really want?”

Zhang Hao can’t speak; each time he tries, a flood of tears threatens to spill out.

“Okay. I get it,” says Hanbin as he reaches for him and lands a kiss on his forehead. It’s familiar, featherlight. Zhang Hao finally peers at Hanbin’s face and sees the water collecting in his eyes. Hanbin’s waterline is a sluice for his tears, but even in the midst of a breakup, there’s still enough compassion in him to comfort Zhang Hao. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Zhang Hao finally manages to choke out.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not.”

“Okay, it’s not,” Hanbin relents. “But if this is what you want, hyung, then it’s okay. I understand. I really do.”

His words are a sucker punch to the gut. It's normal for Hanbin to call him hyung when they’re in professional settings and rarely ever struck him when he didn’t say it. When Hanbin says it this time, however, it’s a clear verbal boundary, even if his words are still soft. It’s yielding acceptance.

This is what he asked for, so he shouldn’t touch Hanbin, but Hanbin offers his hand. Zhang Hao interlaces their hands and it burns like a live wire. He solders their limbs together and relishes in it for one last night. Hanbin whispers into his hair, offering comfort as he quietly cries.

Zhang Hao doesn’t even realize that they’ve fallen asleep until he wakes up the next morning with puffy eyes, an empty, cold presence in the bed, and the chainlink of their fingers removed, the metal peeled apart with bare hands because Hanbin had left.

He turns towards Hanbin’s side of the bed. He didn’t leave too long ago; Zhang Hao can tell from the indent that’s left in his mattress and the lamp that’s been turned off in consideration for the sunrise. He fixates on the crinkled sheets that indicate Hanbin’s former presence, and an ache burgeons in his chest. It’s a cavity rotting from the inside out, shards of Hanbin’s sugar heart stuck to his hands. It's a candle with an extinguished flame, the wick glowing red until it’s charred black. It’s a love that’s gilded in gold, oxidized by his own brackish tears.

Life doesn’t wait for him, though, and he follows his schedule as usual. Zhang Hao is grateful that his only obligation today is dance practice, but he’s two counts off on every step. Midway through rehearsal, he knocks right into Yujin, causing both of them to topple onto the ground.

Their choreographer calls for a break.

While the rest of the group find their water bottles, Zhang Hao sinks down to the floor, his back pressed against the mirrors. In the background, Gyuvin makes an awful joke, causing Ricky to stifle a laugh and Yujin to roll his eyes.

It’s a familiar sight, but the practice room feels more barren than ever. He holds back the urge to cry in public and glances at the clock instead. He thinks about how many hours he’s been here today—how many hours he’s been here in total—and how much time he’s wasted practicing towards nothing; about how he debuted twice, when most people don’t even get to debut once; and about how lucky he was to have two things at the same time. He looks down at his open palms, at his heartline, and wonders how selfish he must be to trample good things under the weight of his clumsy feet.

The choreographer summons them back to practice. The melody reverberates through the room and pressure builds in his skull. All of the notes sound flat.

→

Zhang Hao takes one deep breath before tugging on the door handle of the company building. The door glides open easily, and then he’s on the elevator ride up to the studio where he used to spend every waking hour.

There’s no reason for him to be here. When he does have schedules, they’re rarely held at the company building. If he does stop at the company building, then he’s rarely here to sit in practice rooms.

It adds yet another thing to his routine. He begins to frequent the company more often. The staff greet him. They’re kind enough to not mention anything about how his appearances have become more frequent. It’s easy to go through the motions, sit in a room and complete mundane tasks that he could’ve done in the comfort of his own home. But there’s a subconscious thought, a subdermal itch—like he should be expecting someone when he walks through the lobby and down the aisles.

It takes less than a week of this new routine until he turns the corner and comes face to face with the person he knew to expect. The tangibility of said person builds a cage of steel over his lungs.

The last time Zhang Hao saw Sung Hanbin was through a screen.

“Hi,” Zhang Hao says, voice unsteady. “You’re actually here.”

Hanbin’s eyes widen in shock, but he quickly recovers with a smile as he approaches Zhang Hao. He has his arms lifted by his side like an open invitation, like they’re just two friends catching up after not seeing each other for a while. In a sense, they could be.

“Here I am,” says Hanbin.

Zhang Hao doesn’t know if he’s making a pun. The irony of it isn't lost on him. He accepts the invitation anyway and lets himself be drawn into a hug, but their bodies have significant distance between them.

He backs away, but their eyes remain locked on each other. Zhang Hao plays a rapid-fire game of spot the difference, searching for change between the Hanbin of the past and the one of the present. The present has a more defined jawline. His hair is slightly shorter, his shoulders are broader, and his face has lost its innocence.

But he has the same dark, bottomless eyes.

An odd sensation kindles on the surface of his skin.

“It’s been a while,” says Zhang Hao, clearing his throat. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good,” Hanbin replies. One corner of his lips remains lifted. “How are you?”

It’s basic small talk. Zhang Hao straightens his spine, holding his body unnaturally still. “I’m good too. How are they treating you?”

“Pretty well, actually,” he says. There’s no tension there, Zhang Hao can tell. Hanbin scratches the back of his neck. “The studios are bigger. And the food here is a lot better than what I’m used to.”

“I think they’re just trying to impress you,” Zhang Hao scoffs. He abandons trying to stay upright, letting his shoulders fall in an angle. “Just give it a few more weeks and they’ll start putting rocks in your food. Let me know if you still feel the same then.”

Hanbin snickers to himself and shakes his head. “You should threaten them and see if it changes anything.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried. Lawsuits. Arson. Murder. You name it.”

“Didn’t work?”

Zhang Hao shakes his head. “But maybe I’ll try Sung Hanbin next.”

Hanbin hasn’t been a part of his life for the past five years. He’s barely held a full conversation with him since they broke up. But the way that Zhang Hao is able to fire back a response, it’s as if nothing has even changed since the last time he spoke to Hanbin, or saw him on something other than a television screen. It’s as though he’s remained entangled in his life and they were back to their incessant habits.

Hanbin’s lips curl upward in a faint smile at the joke, but soon settles into a thin, quiet line. Words aren’t a necessity; he knows then that he’s misinterpreted the ease between them for something else.

“Well, it was really nice seeing you,” Hanbin eventually says. “Let me know if any of the threats work. Maybe I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah,” Zhang Hao answers, a tingling sensation crawling up his neck. “I’ll see you.”

He stands still, watching as Hanbin walks down the hallway and turns the corner, like a disappearing act—out of sight, out of mind.

Zhang Hao expects this to be the end of it, even though they technically work at the same company now. He doesn’t expect to run into Hanbin again. He’s cautious, scanning the hallways before leaving the room, entering and exiting at odd hours of the day. But his efforts are futile; he can’t stop running into Hanbin. The weeks go by, and Zhang Hao gives up on trying. He places a bet: every time when he leaves the practice room, or the conference room, or any room, he’ll bump into Hanbin again.

He wins—or maybe he loses. He doesn’t know.

But this is how they were, and how they still are. Impossibly in sync.

When they do run into each other, they give each other a perfunctory greeting. At most, they’ll make small talk, only if they have the time for it. Hanbin will always have a pretty smile on his face. Zhang Hao will try to push the feeling when he sees it, when it’s a reminder of the same secret smile that he used to share between them. And then he’ll go about his day, watching as Hanbin fades away down the hallway.

But it keeps happening.

“I feel like you’re stalking me,” Zhang Hao finally says when he runs into Hanbin for the nth time that week.

Hanbin looks at him with a smirk. It’s obvious he just got out of some sort of dance practice from his athletic-wear or from the way his hair sticks to his forehead.

“I was gonna say the same,” he says. “Should I be worried?”

“Guess that means it cancels out then,” Zhang Hao says in return. “Otherwise I was gonna have to file a report. They’d have a field day with it. It would be quite the news story, wouldn’t it?”

Hanbin tilts his head and raises a brow. “Is that another threat?”

“It may or may not be,” Zhang Hao sing-songs. He sways on the balls of his feet. “Take it as you will.”

Hanbin snickers, disbelieving. “Okay. But not if I file it first.”

“Who do you think they’re gonna believe?” Zhang Hao points to himself. “Me? Or the new guy?”

Hanbin lets out a laugh then, but he changes the subject. “You must be here often then. They’re still working you hard?”

Zhang Hao hums in response; it’s neither a confirmation nor a denial. A strange concoction of ease and discomfort swirls in his stomach and bubbles towards his heart like a bottle rocket. Hanbin’s question is two things at once—a reminder of how his career has become a shell of what it once was. And yet, it’s another reminder that even though it’s been years since they’ve had a conversation longer than a passing hi or how are you backstage in music shows, this is why they clicked. It’s easy. It’s always been easy.

His stomach grumbles in the silence that follows, and it’s loud enough to be heard. Hanbin looks down at his stomach, then looks up knowingly. Then, Hanbin is asking: “I haven’t eaten yet. Do you wanna get dinner?”

Dinner is a casual affair. It’s a hole in the wall restaurant, with few tables and fewer patrons. They sit across from each other. Bowls of soft tofu stew and curls of steam act as the partition between them. Their conversation is just talking about boring life happenings. A continuation of their conversation in the hallway. They speak vaguely about Zhang Hao’s life, and Hanbin talks about the comeback that he’s preparing for.

“I’m not in a rush though,” Hanbin says between spoonfuls of soup. “I’m just trying to take it at my own pace. So whenever it gets released is when it gets released.”

“It’ll be great. Whatever you end up doing.” And it’s true.

“I just wanted it to feel like me,” Hanbin says. There’s a tinge of grief in his voice. “Do you know what I mean?”

Zhang Hao nods. Conversation falls into a lull. The soft sound of utensils clinking against bowls fills the air. But there’s a burning question in his mind. They’re never been two for trivial small talk, so he lets the question escape from his lips.

“What made you want to sign with Yuehua?”

Hanbin’s face freezes for a split second. It’s not enough for a normal person to notice, but Zhang Hao isn’t any normal person, so he notices.

“I just wanted to try something new,” says Hanbin with a pause between each of his words.

Except, whenever it was brought up in the past, Hanbin joining was never an option.

“I take it that my complaining wasn’t enough to deter you?” asks Zhang Hao with a snicker.

A faint smile begins to form on Hanbin’s face. “I guess I had to experience it for myself.”

Zhang Hao clicks his tongue. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“It can’t be all bad if you’re still there,” Hanbin chides. Zhang Hao makes a face at him. “It is interesting though—being here. But enough about me. I feel like I keep asking, but how have you been?”

He gives the answer that he keeps giving Hanbin. That he gives everyone. “I’ve been alright.”

Hanbin brings a spoonful of rice to his mouth. “I think Gyuvin mentioned something about you living alone now?”

Zhang Hao answers with a curt nod, an affirmative, not the least bit surprised at the fact that Gyuvin is passing on random tid-bits of his life.

“Do you like it?” asks Hanbin.

“It’s okay,” Zhang Hao replies. He takes a deep gulp of water. “I get to do whatever and nobody’s there to judge. And there’s no one I have to battle it out with for the shower anymore.”

“I forgot about that,” Hanbin snorts. “I don’t miss having to do that at all.”

“You haven’t had to do that for years,” Zhang Hao scoffs. “But it’s different. I’m still trying to get used to it.”

“It took me a while too,” says Hanbin, and his gaze is distant. “Sometimes it feels like I'm still trying to get used to it.”

Their food has long since been gone, and their empty bowls have been cleared from the table, leaving only empty space between them. Hanbin insists on footing the bill, because “I was the one who invited you out,” despite Zhang Hao’s protests. So they should leave the restaurant, make room for other customers, and go their separate ways. Just as he’s about to say his goodbyes, he looks up and catches a flicker of something in Hanbin’s eyes.

Maybe it’s because his apartment has been feeling emptier since Ricky left from his extended stay, and there’s nobody showing up at his door unannounced anymore, but against his better judgment, he meets Hanbin’s gaze and lets the words leave his lips anyway.

“Do you wanna come over?”

Zhang Hao keys the code into his apartment unit and turns the knob to open the door. Light spills from a stray lamp that he had forgotten to turn off before leaving.

“Welcome in.”

“It’s really nice,” says Hanbin, eyes darting around as he walks into Zhang Hao’s apartment. He wanders into the living room and looks down at the side table. “You’ve gotten better at decorating.”

“Better implies that I used to be bad at it.”

“I never said you were bad,” says Hanbin. Atop the table are some landscape photos, a random book, and a thin glass vase of dried daisies. He lifts the vase, spins it around in his fingers, and places it back gently. “It’s just very you.”

Their conversation is cut short when he realizes how close he’s gotten to Hanbin when he turns around. Hanbin’s eyes lock with his, and Zhang Hao thinks he can count each individual eyelash from how close he is. It’s a flashback of how they first met, how the current between them flowed then. Back then, he was far too fearful to even touch Hanbin, but now—

Zhang Hao didn’t have ulterior motives for inviting Hanbin back to his apartment, but Hanbin’s hand brushes against his own, fingers lingering for a second too long to be an accident, as if he’s asking for permission. Hanbin takes one more step to close the gap, and the air in Zhang Hao’s lungs catches fire.

It’s all too familiar—the lust, the love, the want. Zhang Hao knows it’s a bad idea, but god, he wants so badly. If he’s still able to read Hanbin’s expressions correctly, he can tell what Hanbin wants too.

He doesn’t know who makes the first move, but then, Hanbin’s lips are on his. It’s chaste, testing, just a bite at his upper lip. But Zhang Hao presses into the kiss, and his hand cups Hanbin’s face, his thumb grazing Hanbin’s cheekbone. It emboldens Hanbin, who’s hands travel under his shirt and around his waist, nails digging into his skin.

When they first started dating, he remembers Hanbin being the more reserved one between the two of them. But right now, Zhang Hao can’t think, because Hanbin’s lips are trailing hot, wet kisses down his neck. His teeth nip on his collarbones, and Zhang Hao lets out a breathy moan. His legs wobble, and he’s sent toppling into the couch behind him. He drags Hanbin down with him, but it doesn’t deter him all and he continues to suck into his neck.

“Hanbin,” Zhang Hao rushes out. “Bedroom.”

Hanbin grunts, but he doesn’t make any move to leave.

“Bedroom,” he says again, a little louder. “Do you want to defile my couch?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Hanbin breathes out in between kisses. “We could add some character to it.”

“You don’t care because it’s not your couch,” Zhang Hao quips. His fingers weave into Hanbin’s hair. He tugs at the strands with enough force for Hanbin to stop. But then Hanbin peers at him, his eyes shining and lips red, and Zhang Hao nearly forgets about his initial reservations.

Zhang Hao takes a long inhale, heart hammering against his ribcage. Still, he stands with unsteady legs and leads Hanbin into the bedroom. Before he’s able to close the door, Hanbin is pressed up against him again, pushing him into the mattress, and bringing their hips together.

Zhang Hao tries desperately to push down his arousal. This isn’t supposed to happen. Hanbin shouldn’t make him feel anything other than guilt and maybe nostalgia. But the sight of Hanbin hovering over and looking at him, with his pupils dilated and lower lip caught between his teeth, has heat pooling low in his stomach and proliferating through every nerve ending.

Then, Hanbin grinds down on him, and Zhang Hao grows hard from the friction of Hanbin’s bulge pressed against his. His hands quiver as brings his hand up to frame Hanbin’s face, thumbs brushing against the apples of his cheeks. The neckline of Hanbin’s shirt dips just low enough for him to trace the tattoo below his collarbone—sun, star, moon.

His finger lingers on the star.

“Hao,” Hanbin whispers. His eyes don’t leave Zhang Hao’s, not even for a moment. His hands travel down his waist and to Zhang Hao’s pants, fingers right at the waistband. “Can you?”

“Yeah,” Zhang Hao rasps before Hanbin can even finish his words. He lifts himself from the mattress and shimmies out of his sweatpants so he’s left in his boxers. Hanbin unbuttons his own pants and peels off his shirt, not wasting a second before he’s back on top of Zhang Hao, his palm pressed against Zhang Hao’s crotch. His hand stops, just pressing. He grins.

Zhang Hao lets out a breathy moan at the friction. “Fuck. You’re a fucking tease.”

“I’m not. Just wanna remember,” Hanbin says as he pulls on the waistband of his boxers. “I miss how you look when you’re like this. You’re beautiful.”

He can’t even comprehend what Hanbin is saying because then, he’s everywhere. It’s all too familiar, the way his lips find his chest, kissing a trail down to his crotch, the way his hands wrap around his cock, smearing precum over the tip and working down the length. The anatomy of a flame burns within his fingertips. But then, Hanbin comes to a sudden halt.

“Do you want me to…?” asks Hanbin, eyes teeming with lust.

Zhang Hao should stop them before they go any further, before he’s unable to forget what it feels like to have Hanbin on top of him. Before he’s unable to forget what it feels like to want so much that he doesn’t know if he can want any more.

Truth is, he’s never been able to forget.

“Please,” says Zhang Hao, his voice barely a whisper.

Hanbin’s hand wraps around his cock, and he swirls his tongue around the tip, making it slick with spit. Then, he takes it into his mouth, his hand wrapping around the base of his dick, and it causes Zhang Hao’s entire body to shudder. His fist tightens in Hanbin’s hair, and he wants to savor it, but he can feel himself slipping. Maybe it’s because he hasn’t even gotten blown by anyone in a while, but pressure builds in his core, rekindling an eternal flame.

“Hanbin,” Zhang Hao rasps as Hanbin continues to work him in his mouth. “Fuck—I’m gonna come.”

His dick hits the back of Hanbin’s throat, causing Hanbin to make a raspy sound. He strains his neck to look at Hanbin, and he shouldn’t look so good—with his dick in his mouth, hair sticking up—but Hanbin peers at him through half-lidded eyes. That’s all it takes for him to come—his head crashing onto the pillow, hips snapping forward, and a slew of curses falling from his lips.

Zhang Hao is rendered breathless. Hanbin wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Nice to know I can still make you come like that,” says Hanbin, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Shut up,” Zhang Hao bites back, barely able to regain control over his own body. “My turn.”

He shifts their positions for leverage, taking control and wrapping his fingers around Hanbin’s cock. He strokes up and down, lips ghosting the tip, and it causes Hanbin to tremble under his touch.

Just to see Hanbin squirm again, he drags his tongue up the underside. Then, his lips wrap around Hanbin’s cock and he takes him in. Even this is enough for Hanbin’s back to arch off the mattress, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth. Finally, Hanbin stops holding back and his hands work into Zhang Hao’s hair, pulling and pulling in between moans of his own name.

It doesn’t take long before Hanbin spills into Zhang Hao’s mouth, with Zhang Hao’s name carved into his lips. He swallows him down and rests his hand on Hanbin’s inner thigh.

“Fuck,” Hanbin breathes out. “That was…”

“Good?” Zhang Hao finishes for him.

“Yeah,” says Hanbin, his chest rising and falling with each unsteady breath. “Fuck. Yeah. Good. Better than good.”

Zhang Hao crawls back to his side of the bed and lies down next to Hanbin. There’s space between their bodies, and the weight of what they just did gradually dawns on him. Hanbin should leave. He should do what he didn’t do at the restaurant and ask Hanbin to leave. But Hanbin doesn’t seem like he's in a rush to leave. He’s not climbing out of the bed. He’s not scrambling to get dressed. He’s not saying anything. So Zhang Hao bites the words down on his tongue.

Hanbin continues to lie next to him, and his arm naturally slides under Zhang Hao’s neck. He allows himself to be pulled in closer by Hanbin, bridging the gap. The familiar scent of white bergamot, jasmine, and coconut water lingers on the inside of Hanbin’s wrist. Though the scent has mostly worn off by now, he can still catch the slightest hint of it; it’s the same cologne Hanbin used to wear years ago.

And just like that, everything feels as it once did. As if nothing has changed at all.

←

The news breaks faster than he wants it to.

The dorm becomes a distant, cold, and desolate place. Gyuvin rarely frequents the dorms except to sleep, and unless he’s in some secret relationship, then odds are he’s probably with Hanbin. Yujin tip-toes around him, as if to not disturb a land mine. And Ricky brings him back takeout occasionally, but he doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t pry.

Moonlight glows through the window. Zhang Hao’s body is caught in a limbo, half-sitting, half-lying on the bed. Earbuds are fitted in his ears, but there’s no music playing. Their only purpose is to block out white noise.

A soft knock at his door breaks through the calm. Then, the door creaks open.

“Can I come in?”

He lifts his head to look at the unexpected visitor. “Sure.”

Yujin closes the door behind him as Zhang Hao sits upright, making space for Yujin on the bed. Life is brought back into the room when Yujin flips the light switch. He sits down next to Zhang Hao, but he’s a few hair’s breadths too far for it to be comfortable.

Still, he asks: “Are you doing okay, hyung?”

Zhang Hao frowns. “I am. Are you not?”

“No, I am,” says Yujin. He falters, gnawing at the inside of his lip. “But it’s been busy. I just want this comeback to be done already.”

Zhang Hao hums in agreement.

“There’s only so many times I can sing the same song.”

“That’s the life of an idol, you know,” Zhang Hao chastises. “Shouldn’t you be used to it by now?”

Yujin grumbles. “I don't wanna get used to it.”

There’s a hidden meaning in there somewhere, but Zhang Hao can't be bothered to look for it.

“I broke up with that girl over the weekend,” Yujin murmurs after a stretch of silence.

“Why?”

“Just wasn’t working out.”

“How do you feel about it?” Zhang Hao asks cautiously.

“Fine,” Yujin answers, curt and unfeeling. “I’m not that hung up on it. It’s not like we were anything serious anyway; we were only together for like a month. But she kept getting mad ‘cause I wasn’t texting her back fast enough. So it was probably better to end it sooner rather than later.”

Zhang Hao hums. “As long as you’re okay.”

“Yeah,” says Yujin. “I am.”

“Didn’t you two have the same name?” Zhang Hao gently tsks. “You missed out on your chance of being one of those weird ass power couples. But I’ve always found it a little odd when people date people with the same name as them.”

“No, we didn’t,” Yujin grits through his teeth, completely ignoring everything else that Zhang Hao said. “Her name was Yeojin.”

“Close enough.”

They settle into silence again. Yujin’s gaze is downcast, expression unreadable. But Yujin rarely comes to him for relationship advice because he still feels shame in confiding in Zhang Hao about the tribulations of young love. So there’s something else.

“Is it true?” Yujin asks, peering at him with forlorn eyes.

Zhang Hao furrows his brows. “Is what true?”

“That you and Hanbin hyung broke up?”

And there it is.

Zhang Hao looks out the window towards the sky. The stars are mere specters of light hidden by skyglow and city smog. This is the quintessential human experience—to bond over love and love lost, even if it’s with someone seven years younger than him. Air expands in his throat. He takes a slow breath and swallows it down.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“It’s fine. And it’s true,” Zhang Hao admits wearily.

“Oh.”

He shakes his head. “But it’s okay. You shouldn’t worry about it.”

“Okay,“ Yujin says. His shoulders fall into a dejected slump. “I wasn't worrying. Just wondering. It’s been feeling emptier in here lately.”

He can’t blame Yujin for asking, but a nagging immaturity flaps its wings in the hollow of his chest. Like how he’s known Yujin—all of these people—longer than Hanbin has, but Hanbin’s company was the thing that ultimately brought them together.

Zhang Hao shoves him on the shoulder lightly. “I wonder if you’d be saying that if you still lived with eight other people.”

To that, Yujin only laughs.

Their next comeback gets delayed. The company gives them some bullshit excuse about how the song isn’t ready, even when it’s been recorded for months by now, and how what they had prepared would get lost in the sea of similar comebacks, even though it never mattered before.

The song does eventually get released, which means they have to promote it on music shows. Timing is the enemy, because as luck would have it, on the day of their comeback stage, Hanbin is the special MC.

It’s the first time he’s really seen Hanbin since they broke up. But Hanbin has always been good at his job. He doesn’t miss a beat. He greets everyone with a hug and introduces the group with overt enthusiasm, especially given how early it is in the morning. To the untrained eye, nothing is wrong, but Zhang Hao doesn't miss the way that Hanbin interacts with him. There are no cursory motions. The smile, the greeting, the hug—it’s all painstakingly thought out, everything familiar sculpted into something that’s not.

As Zhang Hao stands on the risers, he blinks once, and he’s brought back to Hanbin’s audition stage. Zhang Hao remembers the feeling of being in the audience and watching star formation occur in real time.

He blinks again, and the stage lights shine harshly against his eyes. When his eyes come back into focus, Hanbin is right there, standing in front of him on the MC platform.

→

jang jang
hey
it’s hanbin
is this still your number?

zhang hao
hi
it is

jang jang
cool
it was rly nice catching up the other day
was wondering if you wanted to get dinner again
only if it’s not too much of a bother ofc

zhang hao
nice seeing you too
sure
just lmk when you’re free

Zhang Hao doesn’t know why he agrees to another dinner, but he does. Dinner goes as he expects. They talk about nothing special, but it's a smooth and rhythmic conversation.

Dinner comes to an end, and they idle in the restaurant even after the bill is paid, waiting for someone else to make the move to leave first. And Zhang Hao knows he shouldn’t, but then, he’s inviting Hanbin back into his apartment. They barely make it past the bedroom door before his lips land on Hanbin’s, like he’s making up for lost time.

Zhang Hao has had the shape of Hanbin’s mouth memorized for years—has barely even tried to forget it. But he drinks Hanbin like he’ll forget if he doesn’t. His hand curls around the back of Hanbin’s neck, and he drags teeth across Hanbin’s bottom lip and licks into his mouth.

Zhang Hao’s hands travel under Hanbin’s shirt then, lifting the shirt over Hanbin’s head and looking at him through half-lidded eyes. He feels Hanbin shudder from the brush of his fingertips.

Zhang Hao leads them to his bed, but he’s only just able to keep them from tripping over their feet. They fall gracelessly into the mattress. When Hanbin is pinned under him, Zhang Hao draws warmth from his body and lets it seep into his bones, marrow-deep. Hanbin’s hair fans against Zhang Hao’s sheets like a halo, and he looks fucking beautiful. The thought should terrify Zhang Hao. And it does, though only just a little.

“Hao,” Hanbin whispers like a plea. His eyes roam down Zhang Hao’s torso. He can read the combination of shadows and words mixed in the darks of his irises; it screams desire. “Your shirt.”

Zhang Hao peels himself off of Hanbin’s body, and the warmth leaves him almost immediately. He takes his shirt off, taking note of every one of Hanbin’s movements—how Hanbin’s eyes are glued to his exposed skin, how he fidgets with his fingers from impatience, and how he worries at his bottom lip until it’s spit-slick and bitten red.

“Huh,” says Zhang Hao, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. “You still like this, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Hanbin breathes out, plain and simple. “Can you come back here already?”

He raises a brow. Dares Hanbin to voice what he truly wants to do. “And if I don’t?”

Hanbin’s eyes darken then. He scoffs. “And you were the one calling me a fucking tease.”

It’s all just talk. Zhang Hao wastes no more time. He unzips his pants and climbs back into the bed. Trails a path of hot kisses from Hanbin’s neck and down his torso. Then, Hanbin is unbuttoning his own pants and throwing them into a pile on the floor. He sits up and gains leverage, guiding Zhang Hao with flame-tipped fingers until his back is flush against the mattress. Hanbin’s hand cups his cock through the fabric of his boxers, and Zhang Hao grows hard from the touch. Hanbin’s hand lingers for a moment longer before it travels right under his boxers. He snaps the elastic band against his skin.

“Tell me what you want,” Zhang Hao says, but he’s barely able to get the words out without losing his breath.

Silence follows, but his heart is deafening in his own ears, a drumbeat that pounds against his skull.

“Can I fuck you?” asks Hanbin in a whisper, fingers ghosting the skin below the waistband. Every touch burns with a slow explosion.

“Yeah,” Zhang Hao nods. “Fuck—yeah. You can.”

He can see Hanbin swallow thickly when the reality of the words reach his ears. Then, Hanbin reaches over to his side table and opens the drawer and grabs a nearly full bottle of lube and a condom. His body is awkwardly positioned, like if he were to fully detach himself, Zhang Hao would slip right through his fingers.

But Zhang Hao keeps himself anchored to the bed, watching as Hanbin brings himself back on top of him. Hanbin opens the bottle, squeezes lube into his fingers and rubs it between his fingers.

Hanbin leans down and presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“Can I?” he breathes into Zhang Hao’s ear.

“Yes,” Zhang Hao grunts.

Hanbin’s fingers circle around his opening before he presses a finger in. It’s gentle and warm and familiar, and Zhang Hao writhes from the sensation, but it’s not enough.

“Hanbin,” Zhang Hao stammers. “Put in another.”

“You sure?” asks Hanbin. “You’re really tight.”

“You know damn well—” he grits back. “You know I’m sure.”

Old habits die hard, and everything feels like how it used to when Hanbin presses a second finger in, and then a third. Zhang Hao inhales sharply when Hanbin curves his fingers, knowing exactly how to angle them so that they press against his walls and right against his prostate.

A gasp leaves his mouth.

“Fuck,” Zhang Hao breathes, because Hanbin really would be able to make him come with just his fingers. “I’m ready. Please.”

Hanbin slides his fingers out, and Zhang Hao is left with his cock full and heavy between his legs. It’s like time is bent in slow motion. And even though it's been years since they’ve done this, Zhang Hao doesn't know how much longer he can wait. It’s almost painful to watch Hanbin rip the foil, roll the condom on, and cover it in lube. But he returns, and he’s reminded again of how long it’s been since he’s seen Hanbin between his legs like this—Hanbin’s hands pushing his thighs apart, his cock lined up at Zhang Hao’s entrance.

He shudders as he feels Hanbin push himself inside. It’s so painstakingly slow, but his breath hitches and the pit of his stomach burns.

“Is this okay?” asks Hanbin. He dips down, bringing one of his hands to frame Zhang Hao’s jaw. His thumb grazes his lower lip.

Zhang Hao can barely get a word out from the feeling, so he parts his lips slightly instead, guiding Hanbin’s fingers towards his mouth. He sucks on his thumb, peering at Hanbin through his lashes when he does. There’s pure, unadulterated lust swimming in Hanbin’s eyes.

“Zhang Hao,” Hanbin says through a sharp breath. “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous. Always been.”

Then, Hanbin is pulling Zhang Hao’s hips towards him, fingers digging into his flesh and building a rhythm. He wraps his legs around Hanbin’s waist. It’s still slow, and every thrust causes him to curve his body up towards Hanbin. Hanbin speeds up as he fucks into him, and Zhang Hao thought last time was good, but right now—

Right now, every touch Hanbin gives him—on his ass, waist, chest—is with too much care. Every look Hanbin gives him is with too much affection. It’s as if time has preserved every detail of the exact look he used to give Zhang Hao years ago. It makes the insides of his heart burn, but he can’t bear to look away. Hanbin wraps his fingers around Zhang Hao’s cock, pumps him the way that nobody else has been able to replicate, and dips down to kiss him.

It’s too much at once—how Hanbin thrusts into him, how his hand is on his cock, how they’re kissing with desperation to last a lifetime. The kiss is sloppy, messy, and tastes like sweat and salt, but he couldn't care less. He kisses and kisses and kisses Hanbin, hand at the nape of his neck, trying to stick the star drunk feeling to the roof of his mouth.

Zhang Hao can feel himself getting close before he comes, his entire body going tense and vision blurring. Then, Hanbin comes and he’s spilling inside of Zhang Hao. They keep kissing even as they ride out their orgasms until they’re left gasping for air.

Without another word, Hanbin pulls out and leaves for the bathroom. Zhang Hao is left laying on the bed, still trying to replenish the air in his lungs. Hanbin eventually returns with a towel to wipe the come and lube from his skin.

They’re there, then, with Hanbin standing at the foot of his bed, Zhang Hao remaining on the mattress, both of them completely naked.

It’s silent.

“It’s late,” says Hanbin, breaking the silence.

“It is,” Zhang Hao says. That much is obvious.

“Um…” Hanbin mumbles, voice dwindling to nothing. “Should I—uh…”

Zhang Hao shifts over on the bed, making enough space for Hanbin to slide in next to him. His hand rests in the empty space, but he doesn’t move it. He sees Hanbin’s eyebrows raise, as if he’s confused, before understanding dawns on him and clambers into bed. They don’t say much after that, but Hanbin wraps an arm around him like it’s second nature, and they fall asleep shortly after.

And this is what happens: Hanbin invites him out to dinner, Zhang Hao invites him back to his apartment, and then they’re rushing to find the bed, fucking into each other until their bodies have been spent.

This is how they are and how they were—Hanbin is there, by his side. This time, however, there are no limits, no ticking time bombs, no cameras, no observant eyes. Zhang Hao knows they’re technically exes, a relationship that imploded on itself, and that this is something that should be off limits. But it’s too fucking easy to do this: to see Hanbin, to fuck around with Hanbin, and to welcome Hanbin back into his life.

←

Three months before their contracts expire, they get pulled into negotiations. The company sits them down and shoves papers into their faces. The managers explain what they’ve added to the contract terms. Legal jargon, profit split percentages, and stock options aside, the only thing that lingers in Zhang Hao’s ears is two more years. Before he’s able to dwell on it, the managers are standing up to leave, telling everyone to take their time looking through the documents. Their words say one thing, but their coercive tone says another.

But the dorm—where there’s no corporate entity listening through the doors—is where the real negotiation happens. Their dorm dining room is their newest conference room, with laptops open and papers strewn across the table. It’s quiet, save for the sound of clattering laptop keys and shuffling of paper, like they’re all waiting for someone else to break the silence.

Zhang Hao gives in first. “What do we think?”

His question jolts everyone out of their collective daze. Gyuvin flinches, almost knocking himself out of his seat, but regains his composure in an instant.

“It’s okay,” Ricky starts, voice low and stilted. “The terms are a little better.”

“They are better,” Gyuvin agrees wearily. “Do we want to renegotiate some of them? We could probably get them to take out the clause about the company having access to our social media—we’ve been at this long enough to know what we can and can’t post.”

“Right,” says Yujin, his eyes surveying the documents again. “I think we should ask about adding more specifics to the solo activities and promotions.”

“The profit sharing too. I feel like that could be better,” Gyuvin lists off. “But honestly, I don’t really understand that part.”

“I guess even the four of us don’t add up to one lawyer,” Ricky jokes, but it falls on deaf ears.

Yujin huffs. “What argument do we make for that, though, when we don’t even understand it ourselves?”

“I don’t know,” Ricky says defeatedly. “These are all things that we can talk through with management later.”

The three of them continue to pick apart the contract. They go line by line, clause by clause, finding things to scrutinize until they’ve reached the last page. If they’ve noticed Zhang Hao’s uncharacteristic silence throughout the rest of the conversation, they don’t mention it.

“Well, we’ve all said our piece,” Ricky says, back drooping against the chair. He finally turns his head to look at Zhang Hao. “You never told us what you thought.”

Zhang Hao doesn’t say anything at first, caught off guard by Ricky’s directness. He looks down at his hands. The paper has wrinkled under his fingertips, the once crisp edges now crumpled and soft. Their original artist contract duration was seven years—two and some years spent in the project group, then nearly five as a permanent group. Two more years, the company had explained to them, and you would have a full seven years as a group.

Wouldn’t it be great?

Zhang Hao swallows. He fights to bring a smile to his face. “Two more years, right?”

Gyuvin and Yujin exchange confused looks; negotiating the contract length was never in the picture. But Ricky’s face falls in an instant, like he sees right through Zhang Hao. It’s the first time he’s seen Ricky like this—walls of faux-apathy fallen and replaced with an open wound. It’s raw realization.

“I guess that’s the one thing we forgot to talk about. Whether we wanted to continue,” Ricky mumbles. The words as a group are omitted, but Zhang Hao hears them nonetheless.

Silence rises like smoke.

“Do we want to?” asks Yujin, voice impossibly small.

Zhang Hao looks back down. His fist is clenched into a ball. He unfurls it, and the contract is now just a wad of paper in his hands. The question digs a dagger of guilt deep into his gut, and he’s too tired to try and remove it. But there’s also a laundry list of things he’s tired of, like consciously adorning a smile on his lips at all times, keeping his head down whenever he steps outside, sneaking around late into the night, and letting hot billows of resentment build up until they have shattered everything he has ever touched.

This all started as a dream. Seven years later, he has traded almost his entire young adulthood in exchange for meaningless contracts and stipulations—and for what?

But this also wasn’t the conversation that he was expecting to have today. In fact, the conversation was only supposed to be about contractual terms. Nobody had ever suggested the idea that they weren’t going to renew their group contracts, so Zhang Hao wants to fall victim to the sunk cost fallacy and say: Yes, I want to. What’s two more years when we’ve already done seven?

Instead, he says: “I don’t know.” His words are barely audible, even to his own ears. He can’t make eye contact. “But please don’t let me be the reason to hold you guys back. If you want to continue as a group, then you should.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” Gyuvin retorts instantly. “There is no group without you.”

“And we’ve been wanting to do more solo stuff anyway,” Yujin says with resolve. “If we’re not in a group, then maybe we can finally focus on that.”

“Exactly. Don’t you think I’d be a good actor, hyung?” Gyuvin brings his hands to his face and frames it like a flower. “I definitely have the face for it.”

Zhang Hao sends him a half-hearted chuckle. “Sure you do.”

“Don’t be mad just ‘cause you’re jealous.”

“And who said I was jealous?”

Gyuvin pulls a face at him.

“But real talk, we’ll all still be in the company,” Ricky adds in between their bickering. “So regardless of what we decide, it’s not the end.”

Zhang Hao remembers hearing that string of words from somewhere else, but he can’t place his finger on it.

They enter their next scheduled contract meeting with new intentions. It’s not what their managers were expecting; they’re in a constant back and forth with them, trying to confirm whether this is what they truly want. In the end though, they find themselves revising their individual contracts.

They finish out the rest of their time as a group in a blur. They have one more comeback as a group, and Zhang Hao goes through the motions of the promotion cycle one last time.

The day of disbandment sneaks up on them like nightfall. Zhang Hao has done this disbandment thing once before, but last time, there was something new to look forward to.

This time, it feels like the end.

→

Time slips through the sieve of his fingers. Weeks, maybe months, have passed since he first saw Hanbin. In that brief span of time, Hanbin has quietly infiltrated his life. Zhang Hao doesn’t know when or how it happened, but then he’s getting dressed in the morning, and half of his closet space has been taken up by Hanbin’s clothes.

It would be easier than going back to my own place in the morning, Hanbin had said.

He’s reminded then—even if it’s under the pretense of sex—it’s barely about sex anymore.

Hanbin sticks to his schedule during the day. Sometimes, Zhang Hao will meet him at the company building. Other times, he’ll hear the keypad of the door beep and unlock. Then, Hanbin places his shoes neatly on the rack next to Zhang Hao’s, greets him in the room, and crawls into bed. Sometimes, they’ll fuck around. A lot of times, nothing happens. Hanbin will just come home with food, or they’ll try to make something together in the kitchen. Then, they just lay there, in bed, in silence, in comfort—like Hanbin lives in his apartment.

But they’re careful to never speak on what happened, and everything just exists in the now.

Zhang Hao thinks he prefers this version of his quiet life above all others. But they’ve been on a slow descension into dangerous territory for weeks. It’s false familiarity, a delicate pocket of the past that they’ve both packed with them into the present.

Tonight is no different.

Zhang Hao lays in bed, scrolling through his feed. He can feel Hanbin’s steady gaze on him. It’s not intrusive, just there as a quiet reminder that Hanbin exists in this space with him.

“Anything interesting?”

“Not really,” Zhang Hao murmurs. His feed blurs in front of his eyes. There’s a dumb skit looping on the screen. He brings it in front of Hanbin’s face. “Unless you count this.”

Hanbin watches but snorts unenthusiastically and pushes the phone back in Zhang Hao’s direction. He continues to scroll through his phone. Every so often, Zhang Hao will stop on something, tapping on Hanbin’s arm to show a post. But it’s a mostly quiet exchange, only the tapping of fingers and soft rustling of sheets.

Then, out of nowhere, Hanbin asks: “Do you still sing?”

Zhang Hao freezes. His thumb pauses mid-scroll. The question is so sudden that he’s not sure if he’s even heard it right. He glances at Hanbin, but he’s just lying there, looking at him like he asked about the weather.

“What?” Zhang Hao finally says, blinking in confusion. He sets his phone down beside him.

Hanbin brings a hand to his head, twisting short locks of hair around his finger. “I just realized that I haven’t heard you sing in a while.”

“Maybe if you were streaming my music,” says Zhang Hao, lips lifted in a sly smirk. “Then you could hear me sing whenever you want. ”

Hanbin rolls his eyes. “I do stream your music.”

He doesn’t even register the sudden admission. “And it’s still not enough? Greed is a deadly sin, you know.”

“It’s not the same,” Hanbin counters. He drops his hand. “But that’s not what I meant—you know that’s not what I meant.” He pauses, mouth pulling into a frown. “Please tell me you still do.”

The truth: Zhang Hao sings. Sometimes, he hums to himself when he’s doing mundane tasks. He also sings when he’s in the shower.

Also the truth: Zhang Hao doesn’t sing. He no longer stands on stage and pours his soul out to a sea of faces. He doesn’t get the same rush of adrenaline from performing anymore. Hasn’t in a long time.

“Not really,” says Zhang Hao. “Sometimes. Not as much as I used to.” There. It’s halfway between the truths.

“You used to love it,” Hanbin says softly, but his words carry a weight that lands heavy in the space between them.

Zhang Hao squeezes his eyes shut. Annoyance balloons in his chest and pushes against his ribs. The subject remains a sore spot, an ametrine bruise of purples and yellows, because yes, he used to love it. And then he let a career of something he used to love map out every choice for him—good, bad, and ugly.

But he also did this to survive. And then his survival instincts went into overdrive, because he could’ve given it up long ago if it was just to get by. He was twenty-two years old and overflowing with dreams and ambition and passion. He was chasing two dreams at once, until the paths forked in the road and he was forced to choose one. But the thing about passion is that it’s a fickle, lukewarm, shapeless thing, and the fire in his chest has been reduced to embers that barely glow.

Sometimes love just isn’t enough. Passion isn’t enough. Survival isn’t enough, either.

It’s all just a part of life. He knows that now.

And yet, Hanbin is asking about it—the very thing that brought them together, but also the thing that drove them apart.

“I’m sorry,” Hanbin sighs. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean to pressure you. I just… yeah.”

Zhang Hao nods, his eyelids fluttering open as he lets out a quiet breath, trying to let the pressure dissipate.

But his own question lingers in the back of his mind, stubborn and unanswered.

“Can you be honest with me?”

Hanbin blinks. “Of course.”

Zhang Hao inhales deeply, holding Hanbin’s gaze as he asks: “Why did you sign with Yuehua?”

“Because I wanted to try something new,” says Hanbin, answering without even pausing to think. The words, the inflection—it all sounds rehearsed, like a PR response, and eerily similar to the answer Zhang Hao heard the first time he asked in the restaurant.

It’s not the truth. At best, his answer is a thin, hollow skeleton of the truth.

“But there are a million companies out there dying to have Sung Hanbin on their roster. They’d probably—I don’t know—do a fucking backflip off of a ledge or set themselves on fire for you,” Zhang Hao quips, impatience building. “So why did you choose this company? What made this place stand out from the rest of them?”

Hanbin delivers another cryptic response. “Because…” his voice dwindles. “It just felt like something I should do.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t really know what to say,” Hanbin says with a sharp exhale. His eyes dart away and land on a floating point. “I’m just trying to make it worth it.”

Zhang Hao frowns. “Worth it?”

Hanbin remains quiet.

“Is it worth it?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Zhang Hao continues to stare at him. His frustration melts into something softer. “Was it ever worth it?”

Hanbin’s lips pinch into a thin line. He peers at Zhang Hao intently with quartz-like eyes for what feels like minutes.

After an eternity has passed, he says: “There was this story I heard about these astronauts once. Have I ever told you?”

Zhang Hao shakes his head. His question is a reminder of the time they’ve spent apart and the accumulation of untold stories. Still, he isn’t sure where Hanbin is going with this.

Hanbin sighs and rolls onto his back. “These astronauts spend their entire lives wanting to go to space. They train for it for years, but then they're in space, and they realize that it’s actually not that great—it’s just this cold, vast and empty place. Then, they see Earth from above.” He pauses, but his eyes remain tied to the ceiling. “It’s actually crazy if you think about it. They spend their entire lives counting down the days until they’re in space, only to realize that everything beautiful they’ve ever known was back on Earth.”

Zhang Hao furrows his brows. “What does this have to do with anything?”

“I think about it a lot,” says Hanbin. “Like, what does it mean for someone to dedicate their entire life to something, only to realize that it wasn’t at all what they expected?”

“But they only realized it after they went. So do you think they regret going?” asks Zhang Hao.

Hanbin turns back to look at him then. The sheets shift beneath him. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“What does this have to do with you, though?”

“I guess I just relate to it,” Hanbin says through an exhale. “I mean, it doesn’t compare to space, but I spent a lot of time pursuing this career too and thinking that it was what I really wanted. Thinking that it would be worth it in the end.”

There’s a graveyard’s worth of grief in Hanbin’s words. A pang materializes in Zhang Hao’s chest, a feeling so unmistakable that it nearly suffocates him.

“Was it?”

Hanbin is quiet then. If Zhang Hao looks close enough, he can see a lonely star flickering in his eyes.

“Yes,” Hanbin finally says. His voice is firm with a decisiveness that Zhang Hao wasn’t expecting. “It was worth it. I’ll never, ever regret trying. There are things that I never would’ve experienced if I hadn’t pursued this path. But… I guess if it was all truly worth it, then I wouldn’t still be here trying to make it work. So no. It wasn’t. Because then I lost sight of the Earth.” He gulps, his throat visibly tightening. “I lost you.”

←

Their schedules as a group have ended, but the company is gracious enough to let them stay in the dorms for an extra month.

Storage boxes begin to accumulate up in their rooms. Their belongings are shoved into the boxes haphazardly, as if they’re hesitant to fully commit to it, so packing is unattended to—everything half-in, half-out.

In their mess of a living room, Zhang Hao rests on the couch and scrolls through his phone. Ricky sits on the opposite end with a laptop perched in his lap, typing away at the keyboard furiously.

They’re just sitting there, but Zhang Hao has found ease in this a strange sort of friendship, one of few words and silent conversation.

Then, Ricky slams his laptop shut. “I think I’m gonna go back to China.”

Zhang Hao looks up from his phone. “Okay…?” he drawls, pinching his eyebrows together in confusion from the sudden confession. “Any reason why?”

“Just could use the change of pace,” says Ricky with a sigh. He runs his hand through his hair. “Maybe not forever, but I think that’s what I wanna do right now.”

“Okay,” Zhang Hao says again. “Is there a reason why you’re telling me this now?”

“Well, I was just wondering,” Ricky starts. His fingers drum against the lid of his laptop. “If you were thinking about going back too.”

Ricky’s question sits heavy in his chest. Sure, he’s thought about returning to China, just like he’s thought about fleeing to another country where he doesn’t speak the language, just like he’s thought about spending the rest of his life on a deserted island. And just like he’s thought about staying here, in Korea. In Seoul.

There are no concrete reasons to stay, but the thought of leaving is paralyzing. Home doesn’t have the same ring to it anymore, and this is the place where he built his present life. The entire city is a memento, a keepsake of old dreams that’s gathering dust but impossible to throw away.

There are no real reasons, but he wants to stay.

“I’m not,” says Zhang Hao. He surprises himself with the firmness of his answer. He hadn’t made a final decision before now, but his response is as definitive as it gets. He wants to stay.

“Alright,” Ricky says with an exhale, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Whatever you want. Just don’t forget about me.”

“My memory works perfectly fine, thank you very much,” Zhang Hao snorts. “And you’d probably send your ghost on a first class flight from Shanghai to Seoul just to haunt my ass.”

Ricky chortles as he stands to leave. He flattens invisible wrinkles from his pants with one hand, his laptop dangling carelessly from the other. He turns his back, but pauses and glances back at Zhang Hao. His gaze is steady, but there’s hesitation there, words hovering yet left unsaid.

Zhang Hao raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“You shouldn’t feel guilty about it,” Ricky eventually says, the tone of his voice soft and careful. “I think this is what we all wanted. You were just the one to say it first.”

It’s the first time after their initial discussion that any of them have acknowledged he was the one to pull the last Jenga block on the group. For a moment, Zhang Hao can feel the familiar bite of guilt gnawing at him. But guilt is a funny thing. It comes in waves—suffocating, then receding and leaving a hollow echo of what could’ve been.

For now, he chooses to believe Ricky.

“Thanks,” Zhang Hao mumbles back.

The month passes. Ricky returns to China and begins working on a clothing collaboration. Yujin dives into meetings about a solo album. Gyuvin lands the lead role in a teen drama. Zhang Hao shoots for some ad campaigns and brand ambassadorships. They share their updates in the group chat, and each of them respond at various paces.

The seasons switch cadence; cinnamon summer fades into crystalline winter. Late into the night, guilt will still seep in through the cracks until he’s left with a pile of debris to sift through. But he can’t change the past. And isn’t this what the new life is for? To let go, to do things for himself, to clear the lingering cobwebs. To stop making mountains out of molehills, face the music, and move forward—without remorse.

Zhang Hao unlocks his phone and opens his messages. Unread notifications from the group chat flash on his screen. He scrolls past it, clicks on another name, and sends a text. It’s small, but it’s a step towards something.

zhang hao
you should come visit me when you’re back in seoul

ricky
ok
i will

→

Zhang Hao’s phone vibrates in his back pocket, and Ricky’s name lights up the screen. Ricky is not the type to call him in the middle of the day, so he picks up.

“Hi,” Ricky greets. Then, he skips the pleasantries. Gets straight to the point. “I’m coming back to Seoul in two weeks.”

“Is that all?” Zhang Hao snorts. “Things that could’ve been a text message for ₩100,000, please.”

Ricky continues, unfazed. “But I’m not staying for long this time, and you didn’t answer me earlier, so I was just calling to ask if I could visit you again. We can finally hang out like we talked about last time, with Gyuvin and Yujin. They’ve been asking. I can make a reservation somewhere.” He pauses, waiting for a response. “Are you still there?”

Zhang Hao blinks, shaking off the momentary daze. “I’m here.”

“Okay,” Ricky drawls. “Did you hear anything I just said?”

“Yeah,” says Zhang Hao. “Yeah, that’s fine. We’ll find some time.”

“Okay,” Ricky repeats, as if he’s still not fully convinced. “What are you up to?”

“Same old,” he says and it’s not entirely a lie. But with one half-lie, Zhang Hao is offsetting it with a half-truth. Before he can stop himself, the words slip out: “Hanbin’s at the company now.”

“Right,” Ricky says in monotone. The one word stretches on for an eternity. They haven’t talked about it since the initial announcement. “He is.”

“Right.”

A beat.

“Have you seen him?” asks Ricky.

Seen is an understatement.

“Yeah. We’ve spoken.” Another understatement.

“Oh,” says Ricky.

In the midst of their silence, old feelings and grievances rise to the surface like foam, all things he’s never been able to say out loud in fear sounding foolish. Because that’s exactly what they are—foolish. Sure, he’s talked about the breakup in a vague sense, but the only time he’s really talked about it was during the break up with Hanbin. And when Ricky asked that one time, but that was quickly shut down.

But Zhang Hao can’t keep running around the same endless loop, his thoughts undulating, pushed down only to rise again. It’s an exhausting cycle—constantly bandaging semi-healed wounds, only to rip the scab off again and again and again.

So he asks:

“Have I ever told you what happened?”

“No,” Ricky replies. There's hesitation in voice. “But you can. Only if you want to. I’m not too busy right now.”

Zhang Hao stalls. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Ricky’s voice crackles through the phone’s speaker. “Wherever you want. The beginning, maybe.”

So he starts at the beginning. He tells Ricky about the offbeat feeling for placing first. He tells him about the confidence he had in their relationship right before their disbandment as nine, to when the fault lines formed when they re-debuted again as four. He tells him about how he felt when Hanbin re-debuted solo. He tells him about the misaligned schedules, the weight of the eyes watching them, and the pressure on them to be bigger and better than they were before. He tells him how it all caused the twine of kaleidoscopic love and dreams that fastened their hands together to slowly unravel until it was threadbare.

“But it was so fucking stupid,” Zhang Hao finishes, voice low. “It doesn’t even feel like it should’ve mattered that much. I don’t know why I let it affect us like that.”

When he’s done speaking, Ricky doesn't say anything for a while. Dead, radio silence.

Finally, his voice emerges from the speaker.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Why do you keep calling it stupid?” Ricky asks. Because it is, Zhang Hao wants to counter. Self-awareness is a wonderful thing. But Ricky continues. “I get that it wasn’t the most rational thing to do, but think about it. It was a tough time. We were young. We just disbanded, and instead of taking a break like normal fucking people, we had another debut to prepare for. And he just debuted again too. There were so many things changing at once. Sure, if you could go back in time, you would do things differently. But you can’t. So can you really blame yourself for feeling that way back then?”

Ricky can’t see him, but he keeps his eyes downcast, shrinking in on himself. The question is left unanswered.

He hears Ricky sigh from the other side of the line. “How do you feel about it now?”

“I don’t know,” Zhang Hao murmurs because he honestly doesn’t know. They’ve fallen into a new, spun glass version of their old habits. One wrong move and it could all shatter again. “You know what he said to me the other day? I think he basically confessed to me that he joined Yuehua because of me.”

The confession doesn't seem to surprise Ricky in the slightest, because he asks: “What did you say to that?”

“Nothing really,” says Zhang Hao. Admittedly, Hanbin’s confession wasn’t the most surprising, but he was still at a loss. “I didn’t really know what to say.”

“But do you know what you want?” asks Ricky.

He thinks about Ricky’s question. He’s been trying to put the regret of everything—the breakup, the disbandment—behind him, to no avail. But now, he wants to. He wants to stop putting all the blame on himself. He wants to stop comparing everything in the present to scattered fragments of the past. He just wants to live and exist and be. And he wants Hanbin there, with him, by his side, through it all.

That much has never changed. He has always wanted Hanbin.

“It’s something to think about, but just choose what you want, Zhang Hao,” Ricky says, voice steady. “Not what you think you deserve, or what other people want from you, but what you actually want. The rest will figure itself out.”

Zhang Hao pauses. Allows the words to linger for a moment. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Ricky echoes. “So back to my visit—are you gonna let me know when you’re free, or…?”

For the remainder of the call, they’re scouring through dates on calendars and reading restaurant reviews and dissing the pretentiously trendy cafes that just opened near his apartment.

The call finally ends. Zhang Hao is left staring at his phone screen. He can’t change the past, but he makes a choice to change his present fate—runs right towards it.

His phone shines in his face. He opens the music app and searches for a song that he’d kept hidden away.

Something inside his chest blooms when he presses play.

It’s a rare day where he has to leave his apartment early in the morning to make it to a schedule. Zhang Hao hasn’t been home since the morning. He even woke up before Hanbin did.

He doesn’t return until night has spilled into the sky like an inkblot. When he returns, Hanbin is already there, with headphones drawn over his ears. His attention is fixated on the stove as he stirs something in a frying pan.

The sight makes Zhang Hao’s heart stutter in his chest.

He keeps watching Hanbin. He’s humming a soft melody under his breath. There’s a content lift in his lips, his free hand marking a dance while he cooks. He doesn’t notice Zhang Hao standing there either. So Zhang Hao doesn’t disrupt the peace, observing how Hanbin’s figure is cascaded in overhead light from the kitchen. There’s music in the way he moves, even if it’s just the melody of the quiet hums and sound of oil sizzling and feet shuffling against the floor.

It’s not an upbeat tune, or a downcast melody, but this is the music of his life—waking up to Hanbin in the morning, returning home to Hanbin at night.

The stove turns off.

Hanbin turns around, spatula in hand. His eyes widen when he sees Zhang Hao standing there. Then, his eyes fold into half-moons. It breaks through his reverie.

“Hi,” says Hanbin. He places the spatula in the sink. “You’re home. Why didn't you say anything?”

He can’t ignore how his heart swells when he hears Hanbin refer to this place as home.

“I am,” Zhang Hao says. He walks towards Hanbin. “But I didn’t wanna interrupt. You looked preoccupied.”

“Still,” Hanbin whines. “You should’ve said something,” He loops an arm around the small of his waist and draws Zhang Hao in close. Hanbin smells faintly like food, but Zhang Hao sinks into him anyway. Since he came to the realization of what he wants, he wants to live this mundane life forever, over and over again as long as Hanbin’s there.

The question leaves his lips like a gust of wind.

“Did you mean what you said the other night?”

Hanbin hums in confusion. “I’ve said a lot of things.”

“You know…”

Hanbin pokes his side. “You need to be more specific than that.”

“That you joined the company because of me?”

Hanbin’s fingertips press into his side a little firmer. He says the answer like it’s just a fact. “Yes.”

It’s just one word. And he doesn’t say anything else. But Zhang Hao knows what it means. He’s always known, when Hanbin never left his apartment the first time, when it was all a means to an end, when Hanbin said it to him cryptically. The puzzle pieces itself together.

He knows. But he needs to hear Hanbin say it.

“But why?”

“Because it's you, Zhang Hao,” Hanbin says. He puts emphasis on his name, and it sends a rivulet of shivers down his back. “When has my rational decision making ever existed when it comes to you?”

“But I was the one who broke up with you.”

“I know.”

“I was the reason why we ended,” Zhang Hao continues. “I was was the reason why—”

“I know,” Hanbin repeats. “But it’s not only your fault.” He turns Zhang Hao around by the shoulders and stares at him directly in the eyes. “We were equally to blame.”

“How?” asks Zhang Hao incredulously, because he was the one who pushed the first domino. Hanbin only agreed to it.

“Because back then,” Hanbin says in a quiet voice. “I couldn’t admit it to you—or myself.” He stops to take a breath. “But I really did understand why you did what you did. And what you were trying to say. Because I felt the same. But I was so fucking scared of what would happen if I said it outloud—that being apart affected me the same way it did for you.”

Zhang Hao peers at Hanbin, whose eyes are ever shining under shrouded light. Who is beautiful and authentic and more, even just standing in Zhang Hao’s kitchen, and it saturates his blinded eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Zhang Hao says in a whisper.

“It’s okay,” Hanbin murmurs. “You've always been the brave one. You’ve always been able to voice what you thought, and you’ve always been honest with yourself, even when I couldn’t. I’ve always admired that about you. But I’m trying—I’m getting there too.”

He should’ve known that Hanbin, always kind of knew in the back of the brain. They’ve been on the same wavelengths this entire time. Zhang Hao can’t hold back tears that form in his eyes, threatening to spill at any moment.

“I love you,” he spills instead, and it sounds right. It is right.

Hanbin's smile widens. He cups his cheeks and wipes away a stray tear with his thumb. “I love you too.”

Zhang Hao laughs then, a strained sound through a slog of tears. Through the glass of tears in his eyes, he can see the smile on Hanbin’s face. It reflects light and love and life.

“Fuck,” Zhang Hao says. He pounds his clenched fist on Hanbin’s chest. “Fuck. I’ve always loved you. I don’t think there was ever a day I didn’t.”

“I know,” Hanbin utters, fingers flitting down his arms. It’s the gentle touch of a brush to a stone mirror. “I love you too. I’ve never stopped.”

Warm hands rest by Zhang Hao’s side, and warm lips press into the corner of his mouth. Everything is warm about the way Hanbin kisses him. And even when they pull away, Zhang Hao doesn’t let him go, like Hanbin lacks object permanence, and he’ll disappear again if Zhang Hao lets him out of his grip.

“You were the one who made it worth it, you know.” Hanbin whispers into the space between them. “It was always you.”

This is a life at its core, Zhang Hao realizes as Hanbin holds him. Life was when he stopped trying to tune out the static and embraced the flow as it came. It was when he stopped trying to battle unlit matches with wet firewood. It was when he finally remembered what it’s like to want to hold onto a person until he can’t anymore.

The food Hanbin made sits untouched, only kept warm by the residual heat from the stove. Hanbin looks towards the stove and snickers, but he still doesn’t let go.

He looks back at Zhang Hao, his smile askew. “Do you wanna eat?”

Zhang Hao takes a breath. His hand rests on Hanbin’s heart, and he can feel it pulse against his palm like music. It feels like the rest of his life.

He presses another kiss to Hanbin’s lips. “It can wait.”

⇒

“You’re literally burning it.”

“You think you could do better?”

“Give it to me.”

“Fine,” says Matthew, passing the tongs over to Taerae with a less than menacing scowl on his face. “I’d like to see you try.”

“How are you even burning it?” Ricky questions as he cuts meat on the grill. “Just leave it alone.”

“Patience is a virtue,” Gyuvin adds as he shoves a perilla wrap into his mouth.

“That’s rich coming from you,” Yujin retorts. Gyuvin glares at him in jest, chopsticks pointed at him like daggers.

“Since when were you such a proverbial person?” asks Gunwook.

“Since when was everyone in my business?”

Gunwook brings his hand to his heart like he’s wounded. Next to him, Jiwoong snickers. “Ouch.”

A mosaic of his youth surrounds Zhang Hao, preserved within the walls of this dingy barbecue restaurant. Hanbin sits beside him. Affection accumulates in his smile, even through the group’s quarrelling. Hanbin’s hand rests on his thigh, their fingers intertwined. Hanbin wields chopsticks in his non-dominant hand and grabs a piece of meat from the grill. Then, he brings it up to Zhang Hao’s mouth and feeds it to him.

“Boo,” Matthew drones as he watches the scene unfold, but there’s a grin on his face. “You two do realize you’re in public, right?”

Zhang Hao obnoxiously chews meat in Matthew’s direction. Hanbin doesn’t say anything, but Zhang Hao notices the tips of his ears rise red.

“Leave them alone,” says Ricky, giving Matthew a light shove on the shoulder. Then, his gaze shifts to Zhang Hao and he says: “Matthew’s right though.”

The rest of the night passes in a whirlwind. Laughter spills from all corners of the table and conversations crescendo throughout the restaurant. They linger inside long after the closing time, much to the dismay of the staff. When they’re finally forced to leave, conversation continues to trail them. Zhang Hao steps outside, and the surrounding summer night is alive. The sun has long set, but the air still carries its warmth. A mild breeze flits across his skin.

The nine of them loiter outside in the night. Zhang Hao says his goodbyes to everyone with a promise to see them later. Then he’s left alone with nothing but a full heart and sore cheeks from hours of laughter. But there’s someone lingering—

“They’re still as energetic as ever,” Hanbin says with a sigh, lacing their hands together. “I think I’m socially exhausted though.”

“You? Socially exhausted?” Zhang Hao tilts his head to the side, disbelieving. “Those words don’t even belong in the same sentence.”

Hanbin shakes his head. “You’re rubbing off on me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means we spend a lot of time together.”

“As if you want to spend less time with me.”

“Of course not,” Hanbin says. He squeezes his hand. “I love you.”

They take the long route home. With Hanbin by his side, Zhang Hao looks up at the obsidian sky. It’s studded with stars, visible even amidst the city lights. He looks at Hanbin, streetlights highlighting his face. They trade silence between them during the walk home, but Zhang Hao can still hear the harmony of their heartbeats.

And when Zhang Hao wakes up tomorrow—and the next day, and the next—Hanbin will still be by his side. The sun will pour into their room, motes of dust suspended in beams of light, and another day will break.