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Zhang Hao had always thought what he wanted was to be loved loudly.
It made sense. Declared in spoken word, from the chest and rumbling from the gut. It would come in public, where his lover would be brave enough to hold his hand and kiss his knuckles. It would be even louder to his lover’s families and friends, a stark reminder that Hao was a constant presence, and he would always be that—there.
Therefore, he vowed to never fall in love with a coward.
It was a black-and-white debacle, either you loved him loudly, or you wouldn’t even get the chance to.
Then came a life he never thought he would choose. Being a trainee and hauling his entire worth into a handful of evaluations done by a board of directors he never recognized in a country where no one spoke his mother tongue.
Love faded into a search in the back of his mind. He couldn’t lose his footing, not here, and if someone were to love him so loudly and plainly in a place like this—he could lose it all.
So he closed his eyes, letting the thrum of the stage hum beneath the veins of his skin, listening to the squeak of shoes on the dance floor, letting love fade into nothing more than a figment of a dream. It was to a point where late at night, lying in that small bed that all companies would assign the trainees, he wondered if he would ever get the chance.
The chance to be loved.
He was sure he wanted a slow love. There was always something more important, more valuable, when it took longer to achieve. Despite his tendencies to fall head first into everything he put his heart and soul into, he thought love would come differently.
It would be loud, in his face, and glaringly obvious. That’s how the shows and books he read as a child had always outlined it. He would be able to catch it in his palm, study it, admire it, and find a way to love it back.
There wouldn’t be any bumps on the road. Hao was willing to make sacrifices if in return he received the promise of the person staying. He would give, give, and give, just like he has at every point in his life, and expect absolutely nothing in return.
After all, was that not the point of love?
This illusion he’s built, catered and small, ugly yet growing, blossomed into a flower within his throat that clawed beneath the shell of his skin.
He would wait.
Boys Planet came faster than Hao had caught wind of it. Promises of debut turned into the debris of ash, a forgotten memory, as each passing year flew by. Then, he blows the candle and suddenly he’s twenty-three and someone in the company has declared his age to be too old to make any final cuts for any pre-determined groups.
The survival program was his only hope, his only way out.
He went in with a clear head, a gentle nudging reminder at every corner that he had to win, and that passion and determination built a very firm wall around his heart.
Love would have to wait.
Boys Planet was more than just the stepping stone of the cuspling dream Hao had entwined into the past years of his life. It was also the same dream of the seven boys who came with him, sharing the cramped dorm rooms back in Yuehua, and all nestled beside him on the car ride to the venue.
Their bodies are hot, pressed into the thick jackets as they all sit squashed into the seats of the vehicle. There’s only a small tinge of silence that they share, aside from the nervous ticks that come in tapping feet against the floor and a shaking knee.
Hao lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding—this was also their dream.
Auditions come in a blur of adrenaline and ambition. Hao can barely remember it, what the crowd looks like to how the judges reacted. He only remembers the relief he feels when he gets off the stage, his three close trainees en suite behind him and the smile that stretches across his face. It hurts, from his cheeks from smiling to the small sting in his eyes that he fights back, but he knows he can do this.
There’s a disappointment that also seeps in, uneasy and a bit fickle. He had been appointed leader yet he wasn’t enough to bring all four of the group into the A-category with him. When the adrenaline wears off and he seats amongst the faces in the crowd after his performance—the thought brews.
There is something he has to sacrifice as leader, and thus Hao gives.
It’s a piece of emotional stability, holding hands and giving advice to those younger than him. He wonders if others are okay, smoothing down their hair and whispering the words he does know in Korean to try his best to comfort the others.
The rest of the auditions seem to blend into one another. Hao’s mind is exhausted, flipping things from Korean to Chinese and then back to Korean altogether. The names are even harder to remember and he makes a reminder to memorize every trainees name and name tag before they’re required to take them off.
It’s halfway through the mind-numbing reminders and critiques he speaks to himself that he sees him.
A breath of fresh air, a quiet gasp. Hao can’t help but grip the material of his pants a little tighter. It’s like a familiar, something he’s seemed to touch before, smell, and hold close. The man seems to dance with a kind of fluidity that could only be gifted by God himself, molded by the hands of a divine creation.
Hao can only watch.
Looking back on it, he wonders if the rest of Yuehua knew. Like they could hear the stutter in his chest, count the palpitations of a beat coming from his heart. He has an inkling Quanrui and Ollie knew well before him—they’ve never exactly told him.
His name is Sung Hanbin.
They meet. Inevitably. As though a strange string of fate had strung itself between them, embedded through fate and perhaps handful upon handfuls of past lives. When Hao looks into the other’s eyes, they’ve barely even spoken, yet there’s a spark in there that signals to Hao that Hanbin also knows.
Between them, love blossoms. Not only does it bloom, but Hao falls fast—hard.
From there, the illusion breaks. Everything that Hao had built from scratch, the fantasy of something slow that sizzled beneath the surface, all of that hadn’t been a reality with Hanbin. It was more as if there had been a gaping hole in Hao’s heart, one that had always been there and never stopped growing. He had walked by the brink of it, and the moment Hao had heard the judges introduce the name ‘Sung Hanbin’, he had tripped and fallen in.
When the ‘Tomboy’ mission begins, Hao finds a new version of himself fronting. One that’s braver, more teasing. He still remembers the day Hanbin had made his song choice. Hao was sure they wouldn’t be together. Strategically speaking, if what Hanbin wanted was to debut, he would use a dance-focused song to showcase all of his abilities.
It wasn’t just the audience who wanted to see that, Hao too.
Yet when he went against all odds, picking a vocal-based song when he had the opportunity to pick any other song with his privileges as first place, Hao couldn't help the question.
“Did you pick tomboy because of me?”
Hanbin had looked at him, head cocked to the side with his bangs sliding across his forehead. There it is again, that small sparkle in the corner of his eyes. It’s a mix of a cough and a laugh that comes at first, a shy pink festering across the rounds of his cheeks and spreading to the tips of his ears.
“I chose it because I wanted to be with you.”
Hao had glanced at the floor, unable to look up from the response. In the secluded hallways of the Boys Planet dormitory, two boys stared down at their feet as if it were the most interesting item in the room, their faces a matching flushed red.
Practice comes with teasing touches and excuses to be close to one another. Hao remembers thinking he was so subtle with it, subtle with his love. Though each time he recalls it, it brings a new wave of embarrassment that he had been so glaringly obvious.
Hanbin wasn’t any better.
Doing anything, from plastering Hao’s name tag onto his clothes for him to adjusting a hair clip. They hadn’t needed to touch so much. Yet a gravitational pull kept them close, unable to part.
The laundry room is a stark memory. It stands out in all of what Hao remembers of Boys Planet. He can still remember the feeling of his heart racing when he walked to the laundry room to find Hanbin, a suggestion coming from Kuan Jui paired with a push to Hao’s shoulder.
He had done everything to remain as calm as possible on the outside, petrified that the camera would pick up on his nerves as he made his way down to the hallway.
What comes as an even more poignant part of his memory is the sight he had opened the door to. Sung Hanbin, the same man Hao had loved so dearly, the man he had always held so highly, so confident, so bright, so incredibly brilliant, crumpled over the floor like he had been kicked off his pedestal.
There had been a throbbing ache deep within Hao’s core to see someone he could love so easily, be so unsure of whether he was worthy of any love.
Hao had held him, listening while running small circles on his back as he poured his entire worn and battered worries onto a platter. Even with tears staining his cheeks, skin irritated and red from rubbing his eyes, and his nose scrunching every couple of seconds, Hao couldn’t help but think that he still loves Hanbin, regardless.
“Hyung,” The honorific comes without warning, “I think you’re the other half of my soul.”
To that, Hao had simply pressed his lips against the other’s feverish forehead, eyes closed as he let himself sit drunk on the moment.
They get close on both of their terms. Holding hands beneath the table, giggling beneath the covers long after lights have gone out, and worse off, finding himself so enraptured with Hanbin’s smile he doesn’t think he could ever forget such a look even if he tried. Hao finds himself grappling, walking atop a tight rope, balancing everything in hopes of never getting too caught on camera. Although he’s in love, it would never overcome his need to continue chasing his dream.
This time, this dream isn’t just him running for that lonesome star. Someone’s beside him, holding his hand, footsteps in tandem with every leap of faith he takes.
He wants to debut with Sung Hanbin.
They never talk about it.
Traditionally, Hao has always been told: never assume you’re in a relationship with someone unless they say it. He had taken it to heart, it seemed like common sense. Just like in math, there’s a formula for everything. Therefore, if there was one for love, who was he to doubt it?
But he doesn’t want to talk about it—no—not that he doesn’t want to talk about it, he knows he doesn’t have to talk about it. It might be too soon, too fast, it goes against every law that Hao has established in his mind. But he believes it.
Simply because when it’s late at night, there’s an echo of a crestfallen silence, and all the pressure begins to weigh on his shoulders, Hao just has to turn in his sheets. The bed is too small for two people, far too small, yet somehow when their legs entangle between each other and their chests are pressed together like this, they fit.
Like always.
Hao can count all the lashes that flutter against Hanbin’s cheek. He’s only known the man for three months, maybe even less. It’s ridiculous, it’s preposterous. Anyone else would say this wasn’t built to last. His chest will tighten, a vice-like grip constricting across his throat and his eyes begin to squeeze shut to fight off the onset feeling of wanting to cry.
Hanbin will stir, as if he can feel what’s wrong, like he can touch Hao’s body and know what he’s feeling. He’ll tighten the hold he has around Hao’s waist to prevent him from falling off the bed, guiding Hao’s head into his chest in his half-asleep state. His eyes don’t even open, perhaps even performing the action subconsciously.
Hao will sniffle, trying to collect himself and bite his lip from ever letting a noise fall through. He’ll let himself curl into Hanbin’s space, pressing his cheek into Hanbin’s cotton shirt and letting a small tear sneak through.
“Zhang Hao…”
It’s a habit Hao has noticed that seems to overtake Hanbin every night when they fall asleep together like this. His own name, whispered on Hanbin’s lips in that quiet, vulnerable voice of his. In the quiet intimacy of the tiny dorm space and the risk of another trainee overhearing, Hao lets himself be, folding into the skin of the other as they morph into two.
‘Say My Name’ and the ‘Over Me’ mission is another beast. One that comes with overcoming personal insecurities and the looming reality that even when Hao dreams of debuting together with Hanbin, he still has to pull his own weight. So he throws himself into the frenzy of practicing, allowing himself to get so busy his knees bruise and his arms ache.
Yet in the soft ripples of the night, they find each other once again. Massages given to Hao to heal the tenderness in his shoulders, and quiet little conversations of choreography that Hao could embed into his dance break. He liked to think of it as pieces of Hanbin he could showcase, even when they were no longer in the same group.
When performances rolled around, Hao’s eyes had been drawn to the yellow name tag sitting on Hanbin’s uniform for the former half of the night. He wanted to ask, a part of him unsure if it would cross the boundary of them ‘not talking about it’.
Nevertheless, he still does.
He had looked over at Hanbin, a small flitting smile on his lips as he tried to lighten his voice to sound as teasing as possible. He hadn’t wanted too much of his overflowing feelings to show, hoping he could smother the tops of it from his voice alone.
“Your name tag… is there an owner to it?” He had pointed to it, lifting a brow as his tongue fumbled around his mouth as he tried to remember the exact phrasing of the words to come next.
Hanbin hadn’t waited for him to continue. His fingers had moved quickly, removing the name tag from his own clothes and pinning it to Hao’s. He hadn’t smiled nor giggled, a more serious look coming over his features as he faced Hao.
“It hadn’t before,” His hand lingers over Hao’s chest, right where he placed the name tag, “Now it does.”
Later that same night, still dressed in his clothing from his performance, Hao finds himself back in Hanbin’s room. He had taken off the name tag, afraid of cameras and lingering trainees from saying too much. It stayed tucked in his pocket, weighed down as if to anchor him into the moment.
The bathroom door opened, revealing a freshly washed and showered Hanbin, hair still wet and stuck to his glistening skin. The moment he saw Hao waiting on his bed, his entire face had lit up, beaming and bright as he hurried to seat himself next to Hao.
“Hanbin-ah.” Hao had fumbled for the name-tag, placing it into Hanbin’s palm. The other hadn’t looked confused or hurt, knowing what Hao was doing wasn’t a rejection. There had been an unspoken confession laced in that name-tag, but this wasn’t the time for it.
Hao had swallowed back a lump in his throat, feeling the rough calloused palm of the other placed faintly around his jaw, thumb circling his skin as the words fell out.
“Please give this to me again,” Hao had requested, “When we debut…” There had been a slight pause and a slow shuddering breath, “Together.”
Hanbin’s response came easy, a simple breath paired with an, “Okay.” Short and sweet, yet all Hao needed.
That night Hao had fallen asleep with his fingers crossed, mumbling prayers under his breath that he’ll make it—that they’ll make it.
The finale comes before Hao’s ready for it. His hands were still sweaty from the nerves of his last performance, the jacket of his clothing sticking to his frame in every direction his body had bent. He doesn’t miss the fact that Hanbin’s hand never leaves his waist, he also doesn’t miss that all of it is captured on camera.
Waves upon waves of nausea, the kind that swallows his throat and prevents him from breathing. It’s a nervous anticipation, that slight sliver of hope that the hand he’s holding will continue to be his to hold. For the next two and a half years. For the next five. And even easier to imagine, for an eternity.
Two faces. Blasted across the screen, bright and jarring. A stark difference between pink and blue. Hao could only taste copper in his mouth, eating back all the confessions he wanted to spill right under the spotlight and on the floor.
Zhang Hao and Sung Hanbin.
He made his first mistake. At the time it seemed as though it was the end of the world, now that he’s older he’s beginning to think the younger version of him has no idea how many more he will make.
Though, he wouldn’t have changed that ‘mistake’ for anything else. Because the moment his lips touch Hanbin’s neck, whispering a quiet “I love you, please don’t cry” that he hopes stays between them, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so euphoric since.
When the announcement comes it’s the firing of a gun. It doesn’t click fast enough in Hao’s mind, singing through the air and shooting straight through his heart. He knows he’s won, from the way Hanbin’s hand holds his just a little bit tighter and his smile seems to light up the entire world. But it’s only when Hao turns to the crowd, searching for the Yuehua trainees who once stood beside him, his best friend from another company crumpled to the floor, and his parents hiding in the mass of people does it really click.
He brought their dreams home.
And he’s crying, it’s embarrassing when he looks back on it, but it’s the kind he couldn’t seem to stop, even with his sleeps an uncomfortable soppingly damp, and the corners of his eyes left red and irritated.
The rest comes in different blurs, hugs and congratulations exchanged with the rest of the members he can call a family today. The stark memory comes with getting off the stage, the staff ushering them towards their own families and forcing them apart from one another.
Hanbin still managed to find him, clasping his hand in Hao’s for a handful of seconds that it lingered. Cold metal encased within his palm, Hao looked up in surprise to see the tears brimming the edge of Hanbin’s eyes. For the first time that night, away from cameras, Hanbin whispered the words to him before he disappeared into the crowd.
“I love you too. I’ll see you soon.”
What had been left sitting in Hao’s palm was the distinguishable yellow name pin. Across it read what Hao had whispered beneath his breath and memorized beyond a core thought etched into his mind.
성한빈. Sung Hanbin.
The first thing Hao learns after his debut is that he’s no longer afraid of the dark.
When he was younger, it seemed to be one of his biggest fears. In the middle of the night, he’d leave a trail of lights to the bathroom that he’d turn off too hecticly on his way back while he’s running to dive back under his covers. He hadn’t liked the idea of not knowing, not being able to see, not being able to perceive, not being able to discern if there was anything hidden within the shadows of his childhood home.
To some extent, he’s still afraid of the same thing.
He still fears the unknown. But it’s much bigger than just the dark now that he’s older. There’s the uncertainty of the length of his contract signed with the new company, the uncertainty of if he’ll get along with every single member, and even moreso, the uncertainty that lay between him and Hanbin.
The contract is guaranteed to some degree. There’s two and a half years that he gets with his dream, his new group, and sharing a house with the eight other boys. Yet nothing beyond that. There’s no certain answer to if the name ZEROBASEONE will continue or not.
Through time, perhaps even the first fifteen minutes of moving into the dorms, the second uncertainty fades into a buzz within the background. He mends too well with the other members, a little too well. So much so that he can’t help but wonder if all good things weren’t built to last.
And then there’s Hanbin.
His sweet Hanbin, bright-eyed and too ambitious. Shouldering more responsibilities than he can carry, and still finding some solace within Hao’s cramped room. Hao will wonder if things ever change, and as he’s gotten older, he’s beginning to realize that the only constant in his life will be these two things:
ZEROBASEONE, and subsequently, Sung Hanbin.
The second thing Hao learns is that he has a sharp tongue.
Perhaps it’s from all textbooks Hao learns his Korean from, a bit too formal and a bit too ceremonious. It never really occurs to him, not when all the members are applauding him for learning a new word or even spouting a saying they haven’t heard since they’ve visited their old Korean grandmothers.
But then he sees Hanbin playing with a child.
They’re invited as a guest onto some kind of show, babysitting little kids and Hao fumbles with his body and his words as he tries to accommodate a much younger audience. Hanbin’s there, gazing at him with eyes that can spill with honey, lips stuck in a dazed smile that if Hao can even catch it, he’s sure the camera right in front of them captures it just as well.
It’s when Hanbin’s scolding one of the small girls all over Hao does he really realize the way Hanbin speaks. There’s a definitive sternness to it, his voice hard as he reminds her she can’t go climbing over Hao and pulling on his hair. Yet he’s soft around the edges, eyes round and massaging her fingers as he coaxes her into releasing Hao’s hair from her tight small fingers.
Something fond bursts in his chest, a small smile flitting its way across Hao’s face. He can’t help but draw the parallels between how Hanbin’s speaking to her to how he reaches out to Hao after a small argument. It’s warm all around the rim of his stomach and for a moment, Hao dreams.
He wants a family. With Hanbin.
The third of what Hao learns, he least expects it.
He’s selfish, so incredibly so.
It’s a thought that comes and goes, fluttering in the forefront of his mind and then humming to the back. Like when he’s in Hanbin’s bedroom, freshly showered and hair dried by the other, wearing an old T-shirt he had stolen from the very bedroom owner’s closet.
It’s one of the few moments that they get the dorm all to themselves, roaming hands all over one another, Hanbin with his habit of sliding his rougher hands up and down the sides of Hao’s waist. It only leaves a shiver down the older’s spine, a small shudder in his body and a whine from his lips.
Hao’s one to be demanding in times like these, leading Hanbin to where he wants the other to, touching him where he wants to, sliding his hands over the expanses of Hanbin’s skin that he so desperately wants to crawl under as if his own.
They’ll kiss like they’ve never touched before, feverish and a clash of teeth. It’ll be too wet, a slide of tongue beneath the other like all they’ve ever wanted is to swallow the other and let the taste linger. Hao can only hope that with every kiss they share, Hanbin’s mouth will remember over and over and over again just what it feels like to have Hao on his tongue.
Hao will brush back Hanbin’s bangs when they break apart from his forehead, pushing the hair from the hot sweaty skin beneath, and giggling at his own antics.
There’s a daze in Hanbin’s eyes like he can’t see too clearly—too delirious—and he’ll try to kiss Hao again with his swollen lips even when Hao pushes him away.
Hao can only cup Hanbin’s face, feeling the heat radiating off his cheeks into the palms of his hand. He’ll study Hanbin’s face, eyes darting over his eyebrows and over his cheekbones. He’ll brush his finger over the folds of Hanbin’s skin, the marks of his dimples, and run his thumb over that spot as if to soothe the skin.
Hao is selfish in the way he wants this all to himself.
Hanbin will gasp, a petulant whine that only comes out when he’s with Hao, “Zhang Hao,” He’ll let out a breathy noise, hands digging into Hao’s waist as he grinds up, “Please kiss me.”
And Hao will listen, pulling Hanbin into his orbit. Again, and again, and again.
Two years and almost a half later, Hao loses time.
The bed is warm and Hao is older. He’s laying on his side, staring at the different pictures and posters that line the walls of the room he’s in. There’s one picture frame he’s moved from his own room into this one, a picture of two boys sitting in the back of a car and both of their masks pushed so far up their face that he can barely see their eyes.
“Hanbin-ah,” He turns in the sheets, only to roll directly into the other’s chest, “Do you remember?”
It was taken right after their first big fight. One they had moments before Hanbin was to meet Hao’s parents for the very first time, the first formal meeting. Hao remembers being so irrationally angry and only after a handful of coaxing from Hanbin had he finally allowed himself to sit facing the other. Hanbin’s mother had been texting him in the middle of it all, anxious and asking for a picture to update her before they reached Hao’s home.
Hanbin had printed and framed the picture for Hao. He claimed if they ever felt angry at one another, they could look at the picture and remind themselves that they had gotten through this, what more was another small fight?
Hanbin only hums in response, wrapping an arm around Hao in a grasp they’ve figured to be the best way to stay close without overheating.
Disbandment is the only thing that ruminates in Hao’s mind these days, overpowering any other fear he’s ever developed in the past. He wonders if losing his younger fears and being more afraid of the future is one of the many consequences of getting older.
“It’s been two years…” His voice trails off, he finds that his own finger has begun subconsciously tracing little shapes all over Hanbin’s chest, grazing his nail over the skin like it can spell out an answer for what seems so inevitable.
Jerking his head up, Hao gazes at Hanbin from where he lays, chin now resting on Hanbin’s chest as he opts to drawing lazy circles all over the other’s chest instead, “What are you going to do after all of this?”
He leaves it vague on purpose. It’s a loaded question after all. ‘This’ could mean a lot of things, ZEROBASEONE, the idol industry as a whole, their current company, them, Hao’s stomach lurches at the thought, it could mean us.
“Well,” Hanbin’s speaking into his hair, Hao muffling a giggle when he can feel the other’s breath tickle his scalp, “For starters, we’d probably move in together.”
Hao’s finger stutters, dropping from a circle to a jagged straight line.
We.
“We would?” Hao asks just to tease, slowly resuming his pace of different patterns on Hanbin’s skin, “And where would we move?”
“Hmm,” Hanbin considers it for a moment, “You’ve always liked a house by the water.”
Hao’s brows furrow, a small frown etching across his face as he imagines it, “Wouldn’t be very safe if we were to have a dog.”
Hanbin shifts in his position, lifting a leg to lay it over Hao’s body as if caging him to the bed, “Don’t worry, I’m very strong,” He lifts an arm into a weak attempt of a flex, “I’ll build a fence so the dog or you don’t fall in.”
To this, Hao slaps Hanbin’s chest with his hand, hard enough that it leaves a resounding noise and Hanbin’s face contorts into a wince, “Nobody’s falling in the water.”
Hanbin only nods lazily, like he isn’t taking the words to heart.
“You have to say it.” Hao nudges him with his whole body, eyes narrow as he studies the other.
“Fine, nobody’s falling in.” Hanbin pulls him in impossibly close, so much that the heat of his body seems to spread all across Hao’s in a suffocating smog that usually has Hao pushing the other away. This time, he doesn’t want to.
Even with disbandment and discussions of the contract ending, Hao can’t help but think that he isn’t so afraid anymore. Not when the future that Hanbin sees always carries a piece of him. It’ll always be them, us—we.
As Hao grows older, he’s starting to think the version of love he’s craved all along was never to be loved loudly.
When shrouded in the quiet blanket of Hanbin’s room, listening to the rise and fall of the younger’s chest as his breathing evens out as sleep overcomes him, their limbs all intertwined with one another, Hao begins to want this to be something only he gets.
He thinks he’s fed a good bit of it to fans, slipped through a fan sign and allowed the two of them to be caught on the lens of a fan who’s slipped too much into their privacy. He’s been good at drawing that line of something that’s private but not a secret. But this?
Hao sighs, feeling his hot breath reflect back onto his face from how he’s pressed up right against the skin of Hanbin’s chest. The apple of one of his cheeks is smushed to the point one of his eyes has to automatically squeeze shut and his lips graze right by his lover’s chest every time either of them shift.
This is something only he gets.
It’s not for them. It’s not for you.
Hao smiles as he drifts off to sleep. This is only for him to keep.