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The first time they talked had been in the car, on the way to the shoot for the VCR. Before that, Hao had already picked up on every detail about Hanbin that the trainee gossip mill had to peddle.
Some facts: he had been a CUBE trainee, was best friends with Seok Matthew, danced for BTS and Wanna One, worked at his mother’s cafe when he wasn’t training.
Some speculations: a distant cousin of Kim Doyoung (unconfirmed), once fist fought Hoetaek and lost (unlikely on both counts), was gay (pot calling the kettle black).
It hadn’t occurred to him that through all the gossipping and covert watching from across the practice hall, Hao had built up an expectation of Hanbin. They were both first-ranked in their respective groups, thus direct competitors given Mnet’s classic xenophobic strategy. Even with all the priming about Hanbin’s benevolent reputation, Hao was wary of any casual hostility or even plain awkwardness.
Instead, he’d opened the van to Hanbin unwrapping a roll of kimbap, chopsticks mid air as he greeted Hao. “Want some?” he asked, bending over the arm rest to proffer a piece. “I bet you didn’t get a chance to eat breakfast yet.”
They had a lot in common. That much became apparent to Hao while they made easy conversation in the car, lingering on the smooth rhythm of similar interests, meshing personalities. It was the same phrase Hao found himself repeating to the camera behind the scenes of the Tomboy stage, the exact challenge that Hanbin would later admit he chose specifically for Hao. The underlying subtext that fans extrapolated on with glee: a dancer choosing a vocal & rap song, just to be in the company of another contestant.
Hao had tuned into the industry long enough to know that pandering works. Fans liked them together almost as much as they liked them apart. They were two sides of the same coin, a likeness that couldn’t — shouldn’t — be separated.
Sung Hanbin was a producer’s dream. Hao didn’t mean this as hyperbole; he meant it as fact.
He’d taken a walk one night to distract himself from the soreness of his limbs and stumbled on a conversation between two of the crew members, oblivious as they flicked their cigarettes towards the bushes and blew smoke into the night. From the get-go Hanbin had been a standout, one of them remarked, practically writing himself into the season’s limelight. The writers adored him, the other pointed out. Like an afterthought, one wondered if he was a little too perfect . They laughed, and stomped out the butts of their cigarettes under their soles. Makes you wonder if he’s really a human at all.
For a reason Hao could not name, the comment bristled him, working under his skin with an uncomfortable texture. Of course, he was lying. He knew the reason — he too had thought the same about Hanbin, catching himself redhanded in mundane moments, wondering if there was any side of Hanbin that was less than favorable.
It was obvious to state that the industry rewarded perfection, and valued individuals with infinite smooth surfaces. The job required both performance and internalization, method acting that indiscriminately cannibalized who you were and who you were supposed to be. At the same time, all past trails shone like blood splatters under luminol. Hao was never living down that awful lipsync video he’d filmed when he was 12, or the fact that heterophobic showed up as a suggested autofill when he searched for his romanized name on Twitter. But for all of his embarrassing moments eternalized by the Internet, the public opinion was still favorable. Zhang Hao at 22 had a shiny face.
Still, Hao mostly felt the same. He was just as impatient as he was at 15, and as desperate as he was when he’d been offered a contract with Yuehua, throwing his thickest socks into his suitcase, eager to see his first snow in Seoul. Under the weight of what must have been seven billion cameras, he’d smothered what he considered his most disagreeable personality traits. He budgeted his words, careful to blunt competitiveness into something that could be admirable instead of aggressive. To his dismay, he even found himself buying it, at least until he saw Hanbin and wondered if it was a moral failing to not be yourself.
It’s not like they planned it. There was never a meeting with the producers, or even a hushed conversation in the blindspot beside the stairs, the one place in the dorms besides the bathroom that trainees frequented to hash out their problems. They never whispered to each other in empty shower stalls or tapped out texts between their knees in the dining hall. It just happened.
One day, they’re the centers for the theme. The next episode, Hao blew a kiss across the stage. He did it without much thought and Hanbin reciprocated with little hesitation. Later on, watching snippets of the show on Ricky’s contraband tablet and scrolling through the comments, he would wonder if a subconscious part of him had meant to set off the chain of dominos. The notion settled uncomfortably in his throat and he swigged water, swallowing it down.
“The camera can’t make you do anything,” Kuanjui told him in an even voice, mid-stretch. Hao had brought it up subtly, hedging around the topic of the upcoming eliminations. Earlier, in the hallway, Hanbin had caught him coming out of a practice room and asked if he wanted to pair up for the entrance. He’d said yes, because there was no reason to say no. Hao had never been opposed to the path of least resistance.
When Hao relayed this to Kuanjui, Kuanjui rolled his eyes. “Please. You’re the most stubborn person I know.”
Hao glared at him through the bathroom mirror. “Second to you, I’m guessing.”
Kuanjui just sighed, tugging on his wrist to bend at a side angle that made Hao wonder how he’d yet to dislocate spine. “Look. Say what you will about the editing. Just remember you’re the one supplying the content.”
Hao hated the bluntness with which Kuanjui approached everything; it was the exact reason Hao seeked him out. Annoyed, Hao set on examining the too-large glob of toothpaste he had just squeezed out. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Just as Kuanjui let out another sigh, the door swung open.
“Sorry,” Gyuvin squeaked out, wiggling past them with a shower caddy. In a few seconds, the sound of the water padded the room. After tossing a furtive glance over his shoulder, Kuanjui siddled closer, hand coming to rest on Hao’s shoulder. They didn’t need to whisper, not unless Gyuvin had actually been doing the Chinese homework the company had given him, but Kuanjui still kept his voice low, close to Hao’s ear.
“Don’t play dumb, Hao. You know.” Then, perhaps like a consolation, he hugged him. “But don’t be hard on yourself either.”
Hao huffed, jabbing his elbow into Kuanjui lightly. “Move, I need to brush my teeth.” Kuanjui hugged him just a bit tighter, like a boa constrictor, then released, getting in a pat on the shoulder before he slipped out the door. In his absence, Hao was left to eye himself in the fogging mirror, the sound of Gyuvin humming background to the all too loud churn of his thoughts.
“Did you mean it?”
So patience was not Hao’s forte. Sue him; time operated differently in the dorms, hours trickling by like fine sand, slow at first, then quick all at once. There were only so many days between the challenges, stretches of fugue states filled with practice, being only let out for air in brief intermissions to greet a hundred and one fansite cameras in his face. He was grateful, and more deeply, relieved. Fame, even if he cringed at the word, was reassuring, affirming. This was what he was meant to do after all.
But he couldn’t shirk the constant weight of the camera. No matter what he did, his every action felt consequential, especially in proximity to Hanbin. The camera took notes when they held hands, when they tucked blankets over one another, when they so much as looked at each other in passing.
“What do you mean?” Hanbin asked. They were sitting by the stairs, just out of the range of the cameras, sharing a bag of chips that probably came out of Gyuvin’s suitcase.
“What you said about choosing Tomboy because of me,” Hao said, too proud to mince his words.
Hanbin laughed. It was a nice sound, bright and warm, just like Hanbin himself. There was an ease to Hanbin that Hao wished he could locate in himself, a type of kindness that begged skepticism until you realized there was really no murky depth.
“Of course,” Hanbin replied. The bag of chips crinkled as he held it towards Hao. “Want more?”
Hao shook his head, dusting his fingers on his knees. Then, because he couldn’t help himself: “But why?”
Hanbin was silent for a second, chewing. Hao wondered if there was still time for him to play the obtuse foreigner card.
Just when he was about to feign confusion, Hanbin answered. “I thought we would look good together.” Hanbin had the tendency to look people in the eyes when he spoke, and this time was no exception. He was perpetually earnest, honest to an appropriate degree. Hao thanked only his ego for the strength to keep eye contact.
“What a roundabout way to tell me I’m handsome,” Hao injected, breaking off with a laugh. He cleared his throat, trying to calm his nerves. Things didn’t need to be so serious. They had so much to win by feigning pretense.
“Sure,” Hanbin agreed, and let it go. He was good at that, Hao thought. Always knowing the right thing to do.
Zhang Hao the Boys Planet contestant was an ace. He delivered on every mission, mostly pitch perfect and absolutely on beat. He was charismatic, with a boyish face that could turn fatal at another angle.
Zhang Hao the person could barely get up in the morning. In the bathroom, he squatted to brush his teeth, sometimes prying his eyelids open to keep from knocking out. He got annoyed at small things, like Jeonghyeon muttering in his sleep, or when people walked too slow, and then got annoyed at himself for not being more benevolent. Imposter syndrome was a faulty phrase to use, because he knew he was good at the singing and the dancing. The idol persona, though, was harder to maintain, less tangible, but at the same time like a pair of skinny jeans that dug into your skin if you breathed too hard.
“Sometimes I think you’re too good at being nice,” Hao told Hanbin. They were alone in Hanbin’s room, the overhead LEDs turned off, hallway light trickling in through the slight crack of the door. With inconspicuous care, they had muffled the mics under their pillows, hoping to pass off faulty audio as a careless mistake.
Hanbin tilted his head. In the dark, Hao could barely make out the edges of his face. He only knew his proximity by the sensation of Hanbin’s knee ghosting near his thigh. “Is that a compliment?”
“Yeah,” Hao said. Honesty was easier in the dark. He played with the strings of his hoodie, tugging on them, then loosening. “I’m supposed to be your twin, but I don’t think I have the patience that you do.”
He meant for it to come off as sarcastic, but instead it must have seemed pathetic and a little self-pitying. He could feel Hanbin frown. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”
Hanbin’s worst trait – his compulsion to make everyone feel good. Hao remembered his thing about wanting to be a teacher, and gathered his knees to his chest, deflecting.
“Maybe.” Trying for a joke, he continued, “Do you even know what impatience feels like?”
He didn’t expect the stifling pause, or the way Hanbin shifted, his reply lost under his breath.
“What?”
Hanbin cleared his throat. “I do, hyung.”
And only then, did Hao realize how close they were. Hanbin leaning against the headrest of his bed, and Hao tucked just in the corner. It would only take a slight movement for either of them to come into contact, a distance so small he wanted to mistake it as negligible. The lump in his throat grew.
In the end, it was Hanbin who moved first. One hand inching towards Hao’s thigh and the other falling onto Hao’s shoulder, touch light enough it could have been a mistake. But Sung Hanbin didn’t make mistakes. He was always deliberate, exacting, a sharp bow launched by a taut string.
“Okay?”
Not really. Underneath his quickening pulse, Hao was thinking about the camera that was still in the corner of the room, the mics blunted by the pillows. The laughter that drifted down from the hallway. Someone could see.
Because he was the type to voice his worst thoughts, Hao tried to be funny. “Should we turn on the lights?”
Hanbin didn't pull away. His hand drifted against Hao’s jaw, grazing. In time, his thumb would find its way to Hao’s bottom lip, and after consideration, push in.
“Should we?”
They stayed in the dark.
Hanbin one, Hao two. Hanbin one, Hao two. From episode eight to episode 11, they marked a straight trajectory, two parallel lines destined to cross. Nothing changed. The camera continued to pin them at the center, cutting from Hanbin’s face to Hao’s, and back. Park Hanbin wondered out loud if he should have changed his name before going on the show. Even in the dorms, Hao could feel the ongoing gaze that other trainees cast on them, curious, but never rude enough to push it.
The night Kuanjui left, and Ollie, and basically everyone, Hao sat in the stairwell, his stomach hollow. He’d known this would happen, yet it was strange to accept that soon it would just be nine of them, thrown together in whatever configuration, for better or for worse. He’d secured his debut. He kind of wanted to throw up.
“Hey.”
A cold water bottle to his forehead. Hao looked up at Hanbin through his fringe, groaning.
“I’m annoyed. You’re always seeing my worst side.” Sighing, Hao grasped the bottle, twisting the neck. “And it’s never the other way around.”
Hanbin sat down next to him, leaning on his knees. “I wouldn’t say that too soon. We still have some years to go.”
“Can’t wait to debut and never talk to you again.”
Laughing, Hanbin dropped his head onto Hao’s shoulder. The dorm felt emptier than ever, raccuous conversations mummed to tired footsteps, a somber tightening. They sat in silence, letting their breaths still and sync, looking ahead. The future — it was so wide, it could have crushed them.