Chapter Text
Intro: The Violin’s Confession
The grey hallways of the company have forever changed Sung Hanbin's opinion on what freedom looks like.
Before his life revolved around mixing and mastering, he would stare outside the dirty window of his home and pretend to live a reality in which dreamless and gloomy days were not part of his routine.
Wrecked roads would split into multiple routes of irregular pavement and dusty signs that pointed at places Hanbin could still remember the sight of. Of a lost, small town outside a bigger city with too few people to talk to, the smell from the cooking of different families filling the streets, sporadic children screaming in joy and anger, and his mother's smile reflected on the glass of the window.
He would hold his chewed and bitten pen between his fingers, playing around with it and watching it create spins and choreographies in thin air—a small vortex he could command and one of the few things in his life he could control.
The dusty browns and not-so-well-maintained roads have been replaced by slick and modern metallic hues that drown Hanbin in an overwhelming sea of possibilities.
It is not difficult, now, to imagine those realities; those worlds where Hanbin could create and then dream about his creations, gain the adrenaline rush from building stories beginning in empty nothings and turning them into pieces of history. It isn't hard, now, as he glances at the faraway twinkling lights of Seoul, so alive and so dangerously appetizing, to dream.
His eyes fall on the tiny pile of papers lying on his desk, not as attentive as they would normally be. He's distraught, not focused on the job at hand, and Hanbin knows himself and his work ethic by now to admit that he's too sleep deprived to try and make sense of the myriad of sample clearance documents on the table.
There's not much he can do to pull himself out of the slump he's been immersed in—not able to write anything for the past week.
Too much silence when he needs some sort of background noise to keep him entertained and too much chaos when all he wants is peace to focus on finishing a particularly messy chorus of a song or when he’s changing a few lyrics and the words can’t seem to make sense on paper.
Art block—it is what Jiwoong had told him during one lunch at the studio. One of their lunches where they would order the tastiest meal and then ritually cover all the equipment or the leather fabric of the couch in the room with many, many greasy handprints.
“A period of time when an artist cannot access their creativity and/or they cannot bring themselves to create a new piece of work.” He then had to search online with a nosy Jiwoong peering from behind his shoulders and nodding knowingly as Hanbin read the definition out loud.
It is quite fitting for the sporadic periods when making music felt like the hardest task to achieve and all he could do was stare at the walls of his bedroom, lifeless, or through the window to the recording booth in his studio and sigh every now and then in contemplation.
Maybe he’s really done it all—a recurrent thought that keeps him awake during the darkest hours of the day. His shelves at the studio are filled with lines of prizes and professional acknowledgments and the ones in his apartment, too. The wooden, thick lines are home to many objects, gold and silver and glass merge into a showcase of his talents. Of songs he worked on that topped charts, won awards, and became pillars of the music industry he’s a part of, but what if there’s nothing else for Hanbin to climb? What if he has reached his peak, the highest point of the mountain of success?
The DAW is open and bright on the screens of his computer, static noise blocking the overflowing amount of thoughts about the art block that has destroyed his creativity on more than one occasion. It’s all a mess in his head, really. All suppositions and worries that only manage to put an uncomfortable weight on his stomach without wanting to leave for days on end.
So he keeps scribbling down and erasing maniacally, throwing balls of crumpled-up paper in a fit, thinking of melodies he has yet to make but that somehow are already playing in his head, too difficult to turn them into reality.
The soft ringtone of his phone wakes him up from a lethargic state, and he picks it up with a newfound happiness when he reads the black letters on the screen.
“Mom?”
“Ah, my beautiful son has finally picked up the phone.” Only hearing the voice puts a tiny smile on his face.
“I'm sorry, I've been a little bit busy lately.”
His mother clicks her tongue to scold his behavior even when so far away. “You always say that, Hanbinie. I'm not falling for your excuses anymore.”
He chuckles slightly as he shifts on his chair before standing up. Jumping on the big bed on the opposite side of his desk, Hanbin speaks again. “You know I would never ignore your calls on purpose.”
“Jiwoongie told me you were going through something.” She always sounds so sweet, Hanbin thinks. It's like his heart gets a spoonful of the best quality of honey. “Is everything okay?”
“Jiwoong hyung needs to mind his business,” Hanbin mumbles in a quasi pout, back landing on the soft mattress. “I'm doing fine, just going through a block or something.”
“Or something,” his mother repeats. “Do you need me to come to the city?”
“God, no,” Hanbin sighs, worried that she might leave work and home just for his pathetic little writing slump. “Mom, you know how many times it has happened already. I'll be okay.”
“Are you coming home, then?”
He sighs again, unable to hide how much he craves a hug from the woman and the warmest words she always manages to gift to Hanbin with tight hugs and joking slaps to the arms.
“I was there two weeks ago,” he chuckles, changing the ear he's been hearing from. “Ah, I must be such a missable person. What to do...”
“Sung Hanbin,” she cuts him off with a chirpy laugh. “You are shameless. Your mother misses you the second you walk out the door, don't you know that?”
“I know, Mom,” he whispers. “I know. I don't think I can be there this weekend, but I will try my very best to come the next one. Is that fine?”
His mother hums pensively. “I guess it's better than not seeing you at all.”
“I miss you too, by the way.”
“I know you do, my sweet son.” He feels like he's going to cry any second now. “Are you eating well? Don't make me force Jiwoong to tell me the truth.”
He instinctively takes a glance at the empty containers of take-out food forming a small dome of sad meals inside the bin by his desk.
“I am,” he half-lies. He has been eating vegetables, rice, and all sorts of meat cuts, so he guesses it is not trash food. “Don't worry.”
“Get here as soon as possible so I can get some real food in you.” She just keeps her scolding tone no matter what the topic of conversation is. “And I'll give you new boxes to keep in the fridge.”
“Again, it's only been two weeks,” Hanbin tries to reason. “I still have the majority of the food you gave me last time.”
“And I know you’re not eating, so apparently I have to spoon-feed you myself like I used to.”
“I don't—what are you doing here, traitor?” His voice gets icier when the door of his apartment beeps at the touch of the passcode being pressed in, and Jiwoong enters the space with an enormous smile on.
The older man always has that fascinating little smile on, something Hanbin has learnt to love and hate, something that brings people to get flustered just by Jiwoong talking to them.
“You really are in need of a scolding,” his mother is saying gravely through the phone, but Hanbin shuts his eyes at the overwhelming things happening all at once.
“Mom, I’ll call you later. Jiwoong hyung has decided to die tonight.”
“Tell him I say hi.” The woman ignores the threat made by Hanbin and prattles about Jiwoong instead—the same man who’s now waving at him but really wants to greet his mother.
“Yes, yes,” Hanbin exhales deeply, closing the call after whispering a little “I love you too” directed to his mother, and then places the phone on the bed.
“Remind me to change my passcode,” Hanbin exclaims dryly. “I can’t have you roaming around here like you own the place anymore.”
Jiwoong has that handsome face all scrunched up into a tight expression that should suggest amicable feelings. It doesn’t necessarily translate to his eyes. His bleached hair shows up in soft strands from under a black beanie and he's throwing his heavy coat on the sofa of the small living room before getting closer.
“In my defense, it was your mother who asked me.” The older man takes a seat on the chair where Hanbin had been until now, and he drags himself to the bed to face him. The wheels creak under the weight and they emit an annoying sound when Jiwoong scoots closer and closer, so close he can place both hands on Hanbin’s shoulders.
He decides not to budge for now, curious about how his friend is going to save himself. “You know I can't say no to her. I would probably tell her my biggest secrets if she asked me to.”
“You’re not helping your situation at all.”
“I don't need to make it better,” Jiwoong distances himself with an open mouth. “I owe your mother the truth, and I always thought she had some kind of sixth sense for liars…”
“Are you hearing yourself?” Hanbin deadpans, hand moving to flicker Jiwoong on the forehead but being stopped by a weak slap on the wrist.
“So,” Jiwoong cuts the conversation, and Hanbin is suddenly on high alert by the way he’s approached. “I have good news and bad news.”
“This is not going to end well.” Hanbin takes a deep breath and lets a hand comb through his dark hair even though it's useless since the jet-black locks get in the way again like shadowy curtains.
Jiwoong is pursing his lips in hesitant pouts that only manage to unnerve him more. “The good news is that we’ve got a new client who wants to release a full album very soon, and we know it’s going to be very successful.”
“You know it's going to be successful,” Hanbin parrots, not to Jiwoong but to hear the words back and make sense of them.
Jiwoong puts a hand in the air, and his index finger sways left and right. “No, no,” he sounds serious. “I said ‘very successful’.”
“Mh,” he hums, a tad scared of where this is headed. “Okay.”
Kim Jiwoong is many things, Hanbin ponders while his friend takes the sweetest time to get to the point with his Adam's apple bobbing up and down and his hands falling to his lap.
He's the director of the Art & Repertoire Department, with so many responsibilities it could instigate a migraine if Hanbin thought about it, and with a strong, strong understanding of the industry.
The older man is as hardworking as he is content in taking time to take care of himself and the artists he works for. The people behind the artists’ music, too, if Hanbin has to get technical. For every time Hanbin has stayed up to an ungodly hour, Jiwoong has left food in warm containers for him on the coffee table of his studio and his favourite beverages in whatever free, tiny space is available on the big desk. He's fun, adventurous, and a person Hanbin can genuinely find comfort in—but this, what the director says next, makes Jiwoong become something that Hanbin despises with his whole soul.
“He is an incredibly famous idol who—”
“Absolutely not.”
“Let me finish, for God's sake!”
“No,” he ends the discussion before it can grow into something more. “Stop thinking of ways to convince me; it's not happening. Let us both save time.”
His friend crosses his arms and pushes himself closer to Hanbin with the chair. “Sung Hanbin!” He does look like a cat with the way his eyebrows curl harshly.
“No.”
“You don't even know what I'm proposing,” Jiwoong whines out loud, blond strands of hair flying around when he shakes his head. “I promise you it is not that bad.”
“I'm not spending my time and energy working with an idol, hyung. Everyone at the company knows, you know, hell,” he makes a choking sound. “Even the media is aware of that.”
“Well, that's fucking sad, Hanbinie.” Jiwoong rebuts.
He's about to turn to his computer again, fingers tickling to get back to work, but his older friend unravels his arms to take Hanbin's hands into a strong hold.
“Let go.”
Jiwoong’s forehead crinkles. “Listen to me. This is not simply an idol. This is the idol, Hanbinie—stop giving me that stare. I am serious.”
Hanbin is imprisoned by arms drawn with much more defined muscles than his, so he lets Jiwoong embrace him, even if with too much vigor, and gives him a blank stare.
“We signed Zhang Hao with us not even a year ago, and we want to work on a full album with him.” Jiwoong's voice is soft, too soft. He's speaking to Hanbin like he would to a five-year-old who has been caught doing something naughty. “The Zhang Hao, Hanbinie. The man who could sell plastic bags if they had his face on them.”
“I'm done listening,” he says dryly, only a yawn away from shooing his friend out of the apartment. “He's an idol.”
The name doesn't even ring a bell if Hanbin has to be honest, probably because he prefers to isolate himself in the studio and only roam around the company to count coins and get his favourite snacks and drinks from the scattered vending machines around the enormous building.
It's not like he's antisocial. God, everyone in his life would most definitely confirm the contrary. Hanbin is talkative, so talkative his mouth dries up sometimes when he's chatting about music, his favourite artists, how hard but also rewarding work is. Whenever he has the chance he stops everyone for small talk: in the hallways of the company, during recording sessions, with staff members, fellow producers, stylists, and singers.
He's not shy the majority of the time, and he enjoys dwelling in social gatherings with big laughs and amicable conversations that give him a lot of pleasure and warm feelings.
Being loved is something Hanbin has been used to whenever he goes. From the days he used to help his mother at her café, where he would make old ladies swoon with a flirty grin shot their way, to the current ones, filled with interns blushing when they cross his path in the hallways or meeting rooms and artists who leave their phone numbers around his studio.
But Zhang Hao sounds like nothing he has heard before. Ricky is the only Chinese artist he's worked with in the past, and he loves the boy with cute mannerisms and polite behaviour just as much as he cares for Jiwoong. Maybe, if he was forced to work with Ricky, he wouldn't put up this much of a fight, but the fact that he doesn't even know who he has to work with—for—only makes this harder.
“Again, not just an idol.” Jiwoong shakes his shoulders and sings songs.
Hanbin gives him a fake smile. “Again, I don't care.”
“Don’t make me pull the seniority card.”
His lips close into a straight line. In a matter of seconds, he weighs his options and his eventual escape routes.
Hanbin wants to make songs he enjoys working on and products that best match his own personal taste. Hanbin is not made to work for specific artists that control his every move, command him to change things they don't like, and put their highly manicured fingers all over his equipment and computer screen to yap about things they clearly don't know anything about.
He makes the demos that are the most satisfying to him and sends them to whoever needs to have them on their desk, and that's where his willpower decreases.
To think, only think, about entertaining an idol throughout the entire process of producing and writing an album is something that brings chills to run across both arms and settle at the back of his neck.
He brings a finger to his mouth with the intent of picking the skin around the nail of his thumb, but he stops himself and sighs. God, then he has to take into consideration the fans, too.
The fans of some idols are as dedicated as they are merciless when it comes to anything or anyone related to their favourite person. Hanbin doesn't have to imagine what it would be like to be in such a vulnerable place—he guesses he has earned a little portion of fans, too, after being the new addiction to the company years ago and only creating hit after hit, but working with an idol would mean wearing a big vest with a bullet's eye on it.
“Why doesn't Producer Sung Hanbin want to work with me?” It's what he had to listen to from the mouth of a tired Jiwoong that tried to imitate the idols that went to his office to complain about Hanbin's choices.
Sung Hanbin will not work with an idol because he's not willing to babysit some person morbidly obsessed with the idea of fame. He has seen the beauty bloom from some idols genuinely riveted in learning the ways of music and the creative part of it all, but he has also witnessed the ugliness that some of them bring into the equation.
Hanbin knows about the madness that comes from trying to convince a young, disinterested artist to care. Care about writing lyrics on a page of a brand new notebook, building stories with notes, and creating art for the sake of doing it, not for the gains that come from it.
He guesses it's part of working in this company—one where idols get treated like actual people with working minds who have the freedom to make music and simply decide not to.
Jiwoong has scolded him about it one too many times, with their voices growing louder and more frustrated as time went by, and then apologizing right after with lots and lots of nice words.
“You're thinking about it, aren't you?” Jiwoong’s chirpy voice takes him back to reality.
It's even worse when paired with the bright, brown eyes sparkling like stars. The soul of Jiwoong is extremely tender at its core, Hanbin has to really fight against the most logical side of himself when he's challenged by his adorable friend batting his eyelashes and tugging at the soft spot in Hanbin's heart.
He hates himself. “Just one A&R meeting.”
Jiwoong gasps, and his whole body moves with him. His back stands up so straight Hanbin fears for his spine, and the older man has his fingers wrapped around Hanbin's hands. “Really?”
“One meeting,” Hanbin threatens with his eyes. “And I will decide if I want to accept or not.”
“Wait a minute,” Jiwoong’s facade drops drastically. “One meeting is not enough to tell you everything and convince you.”
Hanbin knows. “I don't care, that's all I'm willing to do.”
“Hey!” Jiwoong sounds offended. “That's against the rules.”
“What rules?”
The older man sways his arms in the air to indicate nothing specific and everything at the same time. “Our verbal code of rules,” he appeals to some unknown source. “Our friendship rules.”
“You are making zero sense right now.” Hanbin sits with his legs on the bed and crosses them. The shorts he's wearing ride a bit along his thighs, and he wants to pull them back, but Jiwoong grips his hands once again.
They're staring right at each other, and Hanbin is so close to shutting down entirely and letting Jiwoong give his spiel to a deep-in-sleep Hanbin.
“I'll accept having only one meeting, but you have to promise to give it your undivided attention and really think about it.”
Hanbin appreciates how much Jiwoong is trying—it’s physically visible by the tense shoulders and the ironclad clasp around his wrists. It doesn't cancel out how skeptical he feels about diving into this new challenge and how against working for an idol he is, especially.
He bites the inside of his bottom lip and emits a dusky grunt. “Fine.”
"This is going to be amazing," his friend says as he falls on him with no delicateness whatsoever. “I cannot wait.”
The bed makes an echoing sound when both their bodies bounce on the mattress, and Hanbin whines loudly at the pressure.
“Get off me.” Hanbin fights against the giggle that blooms in his chest, but he ends up laughing anyway. “I hate you.”
“I'm going to work day and night to convince you,” Jiwoong murmurs against his head. “I'll find the way. I'll make this happen.”
Hanbin wants to scoff and roll his eyes in the most insufferable of ways, but his arms envelop Jiwoong's sturdier body in an awkward hug given their positions. “Whatever, I don't think you're going to be able to do that.”
“Challenge accepted,” Jiwoong babbles.“We’re going to make the best album ever. Start clearing up that shelf,” he then points at one of the wooden shelves on the wall by his home setup. “You’re going to need the space for all the trophies we’re going to win.”
“Oh, my God.” Hanbin shakes his head and tries to break free from the hug. “Please, hyung.”
“You and Zhang Hao are about to make history, Hanbinie.”
He's never going to admit how the sentence alone makes mysterious shivers crawl along his arms and back.
It's a matter of three days, really. Kim Jiwoong is the name that keeps appearing on his screen so often and during the most unpredictable of moments.
Hanbin gets called when he's recording with a singer, his phone buzzing and interrupting the session so often that he needs to turn off the device at once. During meetings, when multiple bell chimes inform him of receiving messages, they're all disarrayed emojis and dates for a hypothetical meeting to be set with Zhang Hao’s team. Before falling asleep, with his head comfortably sitting on his fluffy pillow and body wrapped in heavy blankets, Jiwoong calls to blabber about this damned A&R meeting. After he wakes up, mouth full of rice and steamed vegetables from his mother's cooking that comes in plastic containers, Hanbin stays in a video call with a beaming Jiwoong as he roams around the company's halls and begs Hanbin to keep a day free for him.
He does, of course, and it happens to be a chilly Friday afternoon—doomsday.
Hanbin is disinterested in the white walls around him or the big projector with many mechanical components that still make it look slick and expensive. He guesses the few posters around this particular room add some warmth, mainly representations of famous artists under the label, but he has always been against the cold ambient surrounding them at work.
D2 Entertainment began its journey many years ago, with a man who had a vision funded by young artists dreaming of music. An agent had scouted Hanbin in a dance studio in Seoul—with his then-bleached hair sticky and humid from the sweat and his palms all clammy. He was told he was too talented to not try to audition for a company, a great company.
The company that belonged to one of the most successful music producers in the city, the name Min Yoongi definitely reminded Hanbin of something, but he was hesitant to accept the offered black business card out of pure fear. Matthew, his best friend and now lyricist working under the same label as him, had gripped the small paper between his fingers and smiled big and bright at the surprised agent, telling him Hanbin was easily swayable and that he would manage to make him join the company.
It goes without saying that it took Seok Matthew half a day and an endless streak of pleas paired with his big, glimmering eyes that only made Hanbin sigh and groan and whine.
His friends might really be his biggest weakness, Hanbin thinks now while still blinking at the white wall.
Thinking about his first days here is not easy. Everything looked so big, so scary, so new, and so terrifyingly gigantic. He was used to a big city; Cheonan was loud and chaotic, with streets full of people living incredibly different lives, but to be a part of a company this big, after only being a dance teacher in medium-sized studios, was a challenge. A challenge he defeated through intense studying on how to develop his knowledge of music and infinite questions about why it was so much fun for him to learn from other music producers how to make songs.
Looking back at it when years have passed, his confidence bloomed to make space for a new Sung Hanbin that breathed music and made music to breathe.
He stares at the faces of the singers and grins at the forced poses he also sees on coffee bottles at the supermarket or big ad signs when he enters the subway. Hanbin waits for Jiwoong with a cup full of coffee enveloped by his right hand, warmth comfortably traveling to the rest of his arm. Aware of what will happen next, a weary breath escapes his mouth; a bunch of people with their hands full of papers and too many phones and other devices tugged to their chests covered in perfectly ironed shirts.
Sadly used to it by now, Hanbin cares about thinking of when he'll get back in the studio and drown himself in work again. Maybe he'll stop by the dance studio too tonight and exhaust himself to the limit of no return.
Twirling and exhaling, time goes by with hot sips of coffee and his thoughts in a whirlwind. He doesn't even notice when the voices outside the meeting room get louder and louder, less like a buzz, until the white door opens up and the swarm of people Hanbin had expected starts storming in.
He recognizes most of the faces present as he stands up and greets everyone politely with a bow. As predicted, the screens of their devices are luminous and busy with texts and photos. A few portfolios are there too, trapped behind straight arms and other multiple file folders.
“Producer Sung.” He listens to his name being cordially echoed by a few of them, and he smiles. One person specifically moves towards the left end of the big table and drags a chair out. “Thank you for attending, I know how busy you are.”
His head shakes way too quickly. “It's my pleasure, really. Thank you for the time you're giving me today.”
Jiwoong's voice comes through the door, and so does his laugh, mixed with another high-pitched one that cuts through the noise.
Sung Hanbin has seen famous people. He's surrounded by them day and night, during the early hours of morning as he scans his card and gets past security at the entrance of the company and when he walks past the never-ending practice rooms of the building.
He has seen attractive women smiling at cameras while they take selfies and adjust their already shiny and composed hair, dressed in luxury brands and glimmering jewelry. Hanbin has witnessed attractive men, also, dripping from head to toe in incredibly well-fitted clothes that highlight their impeccable body proportions and refined make-up, which helped them look like pictures.
Having lived in the company for years, Hanbin can testify to it all—for the idea of beauty that circulates in the veins of the industry and renders everyone simply… beautiful.
Seeing the man that walks past the door by Jiwoong's side makes Hanbin ashamed of even thinking he knew what the word ‘beautiful’ really meant.
Zhang Hao, he learns in a matter of mere seconds, is a star that shines so bright he could combust and take everyone in his vicinity with him.
“Hello, everyone.” Jiwoong is as chirpy as always.
The idol on his left appears to be scanning the room rapidly with deep, brown eyes framed by faint shades of pink and a full pair of dark eyebrows dipping downwards in the middle of his forehead. It's natural when Hanbin is the only person left standing.
Hanbin suddenly feels very aware about the basic t-shirt he's wearing and the casual pair of baggy jeans that drop down his legs when he sees the idol and their eyes lock from two different sides of the room.
Many thoughts come alive in Hanbin for the very first time. Words he never had the awareness to share with himself before, compliments he didn't know he was ever going to give birth to, and a lot of mental stuttering that he hopes is not a sign of his mind slowly losing it.
Not a single one of them makes sense when Zhang Hao bats his eyelashes at him and his plump, slightly glossy lips curve and strain to form the prettiest form of music Hanbin has ever had the pleasure to see. “Hello, I'm Zhang Hao from D2 Entertainment. I look forward to working with you, producer Sung.”
Hanbin is left with nothing. Nothing matters to him anymore. The meeting, the room, the people seated around the table that are comfortably opening up files and tapping their fingers on the screens of big screens or typing on their laptops.
He's watching Zhang Hao and everything that involves him. The shiny pinks around his eyelids, the sharpness of the corners of his eyes, the highlighted cheeks and moles starring his flawless face, his high and round cheekbones rising and slightly falling when he notices Hanbin isn't responding.
“Yes,” Hanbin gulps. “Yes, hello—” he bows clumsily. “My name is Sung Hanbin. I produce for the company, and—it’s my honor—pleasure—I’m happy to work together. I hope we'll get along well.”
He's never hated himself as much as he does now after he hears his own voice falter and shake.
The bony spheres under his eyes move again, and Zhang Hao’s smile appears as big as earlier. “The pleasure is all mine. I'm very excited to be here today.”
One of the women sitting hums suddenly. “Zhang Hao wasn't supposed to be present today, but our A&R team leader thought it was a good idea for you two to meet before going onwards.”
“Your team leader.” Hanbin parrots dumbly in a whisper, turning his head slightly to the right and then down to where Kim Jiwoong—his greatest enemy—sheepishly quips at him with a smirk he’s trying to hide behind the edge of the cup he’s drinking from. “You don’t say.”
Mentally, he’s preparing to give Jiwoong the beating of a lifetime. He cannot wait for the meeting to be over so that he can drag his friend to the nearest empty room and yell at him for approximately three hours straight.
“Please take a seat,” the woman who’s probably the employee responsible for all the paperwork aside from Jiwoon tells no one specifically, but Zhang Hao closes the door behind him and takes a seat right opposite Hanbin.
With no way to escape him, Hanbin is forced to rest the coffee cup on the table and exchange glances with the idol in front of him.
It doesn't even make sense, Hanbin wants to snort, for someone to simply be this pretty. Nor for Zhang Hao's skin to be all about the smoothest tapestry of perfection; he is, without exaggeration, perfect. Even the white lights of the room reflect a sky full of glitters on his face, some natural hue that Hanbin recognizes is devoid of any kind of artificial highlighter. The man shines off some personal, inimitable energy, and it's destabilizing.
“We will keep it short because we're told you are not sure you want to take on the project—” The woman, Park Sangeun if he remembers correctly, points one of her hands to Jiwoong, who sets his lips into a straight, guilty line. “But I can assure you, producer Sung Hanbin, it would be an impressive move for the company if you decided to collaborate with our team for this album.”
All the words are uttered with confidence, even if he's not sure about her expression, given how much of his attention is reserved for Zhang Hao.
“We’re going to let you in on the general creative vision for the album and the structure of the project if that's fine by you.”
“Please,” Hanbin never forgets about courtesy. His eyes finally leave the figure of the idol to move to the big screen hanging on the wall by the table. “I will listen carefully.”
The presentation begins after a few minutes of setting the laptop up and adjusting the plan. Sangeun seems rather strict in the way she commands the space and the people around her—two of the other employees quickly scamper back to their seats after she dismisses them with three wriggling fingers of a hand, but she also asks for Jiwoong's quiet consent to start.
“We would like the album to have a total of ten songs,” her voice cuts through the not-too-loud murmuring of the other employees present. “And as Zhang Hao himself requested, it would be preferred to have an intro, an interlude, and an outro to use as narration check points.”
Hanbin is catapulted again to the nominated person. He is still smiling, but with much more attentiveness now. The lips still glow, a mirrored glaze that is desperately begging for Hanbin to stare, but he somehow manages to fight through the desperate call and maintain eye contact.
Zhang Hao must be a siren, he comes to the conclusion when the idol’s eyes wrinkle at the corners to share some unknown information with Hanbin. A smile that almost appears to be flirty—perhaps it's just his sick, sick brain playing games with him.
Fatefully so, Hanbin loves working on intros, writing interesting and unique interludes or skits, and there's nothing he enjoys more than creating the most memorable closing track for an album.
He nods, watching over Park Sangeun and playing nervously with the cardboard around his coffee cup. “I can work with that.”
The woman hums in agreement, encouraging herself to continue. “It won't be strictly necessary for the B-sides to be over the three-minute mark, but it's the average length that we think would suit a full album better.”
“That sounds reasonable.” He takes a sip of coffee before he adds something. “Does this include the opening, interlude, and outro?”
It's Zhang Hao that replies to him this time. “No, no. I'm very open to experimenting and giving my—our own twist to them. I'm a very big fan of the one skit you made where it's you and the artist you worked with talking in the dance studio about the album, for example.”
“Oh,” he is genuinely surprised by the random fact being dropped. That one album was made with a dancer who used to be his co-worker back at home and who then debuted in the same company as Hanbin years later. “So there's more flexibility," he assumes after what he's told.
Zhang Hao nods, cherry red strands hopping up and down. “Absolutely.”
Hanbin remembers his torn-up leather diary inside the bag lying on the floor by his feet. He quickly bends down to search for it, and he fishes it out of the bag in a matter of seconds. The pen, however, seems to be lost forever in the small enclosure of papers filled with black ink, various lip balms, headphones, and God knows what else.
There's a moment where the rest of the people in the room talk to each other, a thin veil of chatting as he keeps searching, but at one point, the back of the hand Hanbin still has on the table gets tapped by a cold finger.
Zhang Hao beams at him and offers a pink pen from the other side of the table. His hands are pretty, too, obviously. Pink knuckles, manicured nails that still show small, small dried beads of blood around them. A few gold rings envelop some of the fingers, thin bands that complement the fair complexion. The hands are long and slender, ones that would typically belong to the most melodic and difficult musical instruments to play.
He finds himself wondering, for the time it takes his heart to beat one time, if Zhang Hao plays the piano. Maybe the cello. He finds himself wondering, Hanbin, about the ungodly number of ways he can get to know Zhang Hao and what else lies behind the picture of the idol he presents to the world.
“Thank you,” he mumbles as he accepts the offered object. The diary between his hands cracks open, and on a new, blank page, he starts writing down what he speaks of. “One intro, one title track, two to three b-sides, and an interlude—or skit.” He quickly looks over Zhang Hao. “Two to three b-sides and an outro.”
A unanimous hum rises.
“That would be ten tracks,” he sighs, scrolling down the few lines he's written down. “Two, maybe two and a half months’ worth of work.” He turns to Zhang Hao. “For me, every single day will be devoted to making this album come to life… if I decide to produce it.”
“It will be every day for me, too.”
“Sorry?” Hanbin stammers out, taken aback.
Zhang Hao is unruffled. “I have every intention of giving this album my all. Every week, every day, every hour, if you will let me. I’ll be there.”
“I don’t need—” he clears his throat; the pen between his fingers almost drops. “I don’t need you to—”
“I want to.” Hanbin is interrupted by a determined reply that covers them all with a blankety silence. “I want to be a part of the process, too. At the making of each song, lyric, and beat. I will be there, producer Sung.”
In what way is he supposed to respond now? How is he supposed to order his heart to stop drumming so loud in his ears at how Zhang Hao’s eyes sparkle with a fiery spirit he hasn’t seen in a very long time?
“May I know what the concept you’re going for is?”
The idol’s head cocks to his right to give a questioning look to Park Sangeun, who only nods with the shadow of a smile lingering on her red lips. Zhang Hao snaps back at him. “The general feeling would be an album that makes you excited about hitting play over and over again.”
Hanbin scoffs instinctively. “That’s a bit vague.”
“You are pretty impatient, producer Sung.”
He's being scolded. Hanbin is being scolded by someone who he has just met and who's sending a playful smile his way before he lowers his head to turn a few pages inside the folder on the table. “These are copies of very scattered and chaotic lyrics I wrote for a few songs whenever I had the time.” He's presented with a significant pile of papers and what clearly look like the scans of written sentences on them.
“I think a few of them are worth your time and might address your doubts.” Zhang Hao pushes the papers tidily clipped together across the wooden surface, and Hanbin takes them before he can stop himself.
Zhang Hao has cute handwriting, even if it is messy. Many lines are completely illegible because of the few scribbles on top of them as a way to delete them, and a lot of words are blacked out to substitute them with other ones on top.
“If your concern is the concept,” the idol continues while Hanbin lazily—albeit interested—flips through the pages. “I want something that can harmonize bold and sexy with soulful and melancholic. I do enjoy pop a lot and R&B also and slow music just as much as upbeat, fun songs—”
“Zhang Hao-ssi.” Hanbin finishes glancing through the other's lyrics. “There’s a lot to think about.”
The man with red hair seems to deflate visibly. “I am aware. I just,” Hanbin sees him gulp. “I have a lot to say.”
Hanbin hums. “Everyone does.”
“I have a lot to say through music,” Hao corrects himself, shaking his head. “I need to create music to share what I really want to talk about. Singing songs others make for me is not enough anymore. This feeling of impotence—” his lips curl. “It is making it impossible for me to grow as an artist, and I want you to teach me.”
“I am not a teacher.”
“You did teach dance, though; am I not right?” He needs to note down how in the hell Zhang Hao knows that about him.
If it's a challenge Zhang Hao is asking for, Hanbin can't possibly manage to keep up. Not when the other bats his long eyelashes with a scorching passion that makes Hanbin’s skin feel on fire.
So, he takes a deep breath. “Bold and sexy with soulful and melancholic.”
Zhang Hao mirrors confusion, but he quickly gathers his emotions up. “Yes. I would like the title track to be sexy and daring but not vulgar in any way. With the B-sides, I'm sure we can work on songs that check all my boxes when it comes to the overall message I want to give.”
“I will need to prepare a demo and hear you sing.”
“Of course!” the idol almost hops from the chair. “Of course, yes. I have an amazing voice, you'll see.”
It's the first time Hanbin laughs since the meeting has begun. His whole chest trembles with amusement at the shameless remark. Jiwoong must enjoy it too because he giggles under his breath. Hanbin still hasn't forgotten that he will kill him very soon.
“I don't doubt it for a second. Our CEO can recognize real talent from kilometers away. The very fact you're working here is proof enough of you being an impressive artist.”
“But you still don't want to work with me.” Zhang Hao's face drops the longer Hanbin speaks.
His eyes fall on the other man's lips for a moment. “I didn't say that.”
“So you will?” It's almost like Zhang Hao is a cartoon character with the smallest traits of his pretty face that can contort into so much expressiveness.
“I didn't say that either.”
“Oh, please,” Jiwoong snorts. “You wouldn't even bother with all of this if you didn't want to make the album happen.”
“Leader Kim,” The woman on Hanbin's left gasps, and it is thoroughly entertaining.
Hanbin, however, is busy giving Jiwoong the driest of looks. “You’ve been pestering me about this album for a week, and I care about my mental health and inner peace enough to at least give it a thought.”
“Should we proceed with the presentation, then? We've got a few storyboards ready for the title track and visuals compiled for you to take inspiration from. Samplers that fit the style, too.”
A part of him wants to kick them all out of the meeting and only leave Zhang Hao, a sweet presence in a dull room made of gray, tasteless nothings, so that he can extrapolate from what seems to be a brilliant brain everything he needs to work on the album.
He doesn't.
Hanbin nods and lets Jiwoong give Park Sangeun a reassuring head tilt.
From then on, he watches a visual presentation of what the concept of the album and specifically the title track will be—a balanced mix of striking confidence and a broad lens of genres to showcase Zhang Hao’s personal growth and journey but also his vocal skills.
There are a few songs he notes down that the team has listed as a main inspiration, the majority of which are old school and with an R&B, slow beat that Hanbin knows he could easily write a melody on top of.
He notes everything down diligently, with long and short arrows that travel across the page and connect ideas and possible songs that could bloom from the annotations. Two options for a title track… One with a quiet storm vibe, with spacious arrangements, and as an oxymoron, a tender but sexy pace. The other one is something more upbeat, almost funky and groovy, that can easily become a hit in his mind. The B-sides are something Hanbin could potentially work on later on, with the idol himself present and perhaps other producers or the team.
Hanbin feels oddly motivated by this new challenge. Not only the album per se but also the man who is anxiously picking at the skin around his nails while Hanbin writes things down. Zhang Hao probably thinks Hanbin is not paying attention to him, but with the corners of his eyes, he can tell what the other’s general motions are.
Will the passion he sees in the idol transfer to him by proxy? The hunger for creating art and working together with someone to make it a reality?
“Do you think you have everything you need, producer Sung?” Park Sangeun fixes a black strand of hair behind her ear and stares at him from the big screen.
Hanbin slumps into the chair and nods reluctantly. “I think so, yes.”
“Are you sure?” Zhang Hao chimes in with his body leaning over the table and eyes big.
“Yes,” Hanbin blinks slowly before he closes his notebook. “I’ll receive the presentation by e-mail too, I guess.” He gives a questioning glance to Jiwoong, who hums quickly in confirmation in lieu of answering. “Then I’m all set.”
“Does that mean you’ll be the main producer of my album?”
The building they’re in is busy, with countless souls running around and living many lives that somehow intertwine with each other like an always active beehive where music notes seem to linger in the air at every step or shake of hands. The city the building is nestled in has become home to his many sleepless nights and tiring days, a breathing—because Seoul breathes under all the concrete blocks, cement, and cold steel—home that welcomed him with pure magic when all he had was dreams and crumpled and stained money bills. Then he’s back to the meeting room, to the small space that doesn’t even appear to be in the same world as the one he just thought of.
He has the eyes of everyone present on him, fingers toying with the pink pen and his heartbeat ringing in rumination.
Sung Hanbin doesn’t work with idols because it reminds him of locked-up, far-away realities he once thought he could be a part of. And now, he stands in front of someone whose ardent desire for dreams has him dreaming once again, even after years of thinking he was not allowed to any longer.
He exhales after some time, lips tight. “I think we could create beautiful music together, so… yes.”
When Zhang Hao’s lips part to show a smile full of radiant beauty, to Hanbin, Seoul has never looked more magical.