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After months of living in Planet Camp and the hurried move into the group’s dorm following the finale, going back to his old apartment is as familiar as it is jarring.
There was never much to the place to begin with, it being a tiny studio almost in the outskirts of Seoul that Hanbin rented to be closer to G1ide and Just Jerk, but what little was there made it home when he decided to give another shot at an idol debut. Though his parents had helped him support himself so he wouldn’t have to sacrifice too much training time with endless part-time jobs, there still was an indescribable enjoyment to be found in his relative independence. It wasn’t long before Hanbin came to love the place.
It’s different now. The lights are too harsh when he turns them on, the surfaces too hard, the spaces bigger than he remembers in a way that feels wrong. It’s well kept, thanks to his mom coming over every other week to clean while he was on the show, but the impersonal emptiness that clings to unlived-in spaces hangs heavy in the air.
Less so when Hao finishes taking his shoes off and tucks them away neatly besides Hanbin’s, then takes an appreciative look around. His eyes linger on the plants by the window and the mismatched cushions on the couch before finally landing on Hanbin, slightly crinkled by the smile playing on his lips.
“You have a nice place, Bin-ah.”
When Hanbin told Hao that the managers had given him leave to spend the night here, so he could sort through the stuff he still wanted to bring with him, Hao asked “what time are we going?” before Hanbin could ask him if he could and/or wanted to come along, as if not coming wasn’t even a possibility for him. And while Hanbin had been eager for some time together in private (to the snickering remarks of some of their other members), he had no idea how grateful he would be just for Hao’s presence. Seeing him standing there, it’s as if his apartment had never been empty in the first place, his disquiet soothed immediately and rather effectively.
“Thanks, hyung. It won’t be mine for much longer, but it’s kinda nice to be back for a while.”
And I’m glad you’re here, too, Hanbin doesn’t say.
He thinks Hao can hear it.
The other boy shakes his head as if to say ‘don’t mention it,’ claps his hands. “Where do you want to start?”
It’s not a tough choice to make, considering the scale of the space. Despite that, progress is slow. Hao asks about the story behind every object Hanbin unearths, and Hanbin is perfectly happy to indulge his curiosity. That, in turn, derails them into longer conversations that keep them distracted.
“My dad gave me this after I completed my barista training,” Hanbin says, explaining why he had been so insistent to fetch the worn down stovetop coffee maker in his hands when buying a new one to use at the dorm would be cheap and more practical. “He got it custom-made, see? There’s an inscription at the base.”
“Property of barista Sung Hanbin,” Hao reads, the words carved by laser on the stainless steel. He raises his eyes to Hanbin with a grin. “I’ll have to try the coffee you make in this, Mr. Barista.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll make it for everyone,” Hanbin promises, chuckling when Hao pouts at him. “You’ll be my first customer though,” he quickly reassures. “Speaking of which, did I ever tell you that when I worked at my mom’s cafe…”
Much of the night passes like this, the space between them filled with easy conversation just as the cardboard box they brought gradually fills with Hanbin’s belongings, neatly packed in bubble wrap and kraft paper with Hao’s help. Pieces of his past to take into his future; material evidence that there once was a Sung Hanbin before the Sung Hanbin.
Pieces of himself that he will gladly share with Hao, along with everything else.
It’s almost eleven when they finally finish rounding up the assortment of objects Hanbin wants to take with him, leaving only the clothes he wants to retrieve from his closet, and they realize they haven’t had dinner— thanks to their stomachs reminding them with embarrassingly loud twin growls. They order takeout from a nearby place that runs until late, and their conversation lands on the fate of the apartment.
“So you’re rescinding your lease then?” Hao asks, as dignified as he can with his mouth full, picking the topic back up as if they were discussing it just a moment prior.
Hanbin shrugs. “It wouldn’t be fair to my parents to keep it. No point in making them continue paying a chunk of rent for an apartment that will stay mostly empty for two and a half years.”
“I get it,” Hao nods. “It’s the right thing to do. I’m just happy I could visit while it’s still yours.”
“It didn’t really feel mine anymore, to be honest.” Not until you saw yourself in, he swallows along with a mouthful of jjamppong. “It’s weird to think that this is probably where I would’ve come back to if I hadn’t made it. There’s not enough idol trainees in my company to warrant a dorm, you know.”
That, however, is something Hanbin is absolutely certain will have changed dramatically by the time their two and a half years as a group is up, if past seasons of Mnet survivals were any indication. Small agencies that would’ve been passed up under normal circumstances tend to be overrun by applicants when a trainee succeeds.
The thought upsets him.
It’s been easy to stay anchored to the present in the post-finale rush. Filming the commentary episode, doing their first live, practicing the new versions of ‘Here I Am’ and ‘Say My Name’ for KCON, the magazine shoot— their days have been so full of things to do and so little time to do them that this short respite with Hao feels almost divorced from reality. Hanbin keeps his smile through it all, not only to encourage the others but also out of genuine happiness, weeks away from their debut but already feeling an incredible sense of accomplishment and pride for them.
Whenever there is downtime though, usually in breaks between practice or in those quiet moments before falling asleep, his mind races with restless thoughts about the future two and a half years from now.
He knows his agency will have a solo career or a group waiting for him upon the end of his contract. Depending on how much more valuable he’s become to them by then, they might even let him choose. But the more Hanbin thinks about those prospects, the less certain he is about which one he hates more. He’s already grown so close to his boys, came to love them so fiercely in such a short time span, that the idea of redebuting with people other than them is almost as torturous as the idea of redebuting alone.
Would he be a leader again?
Would he have a maknae as young as Yujin, or someone even younger?
Would he ever be capable of loving them as much as he loves his boys?
Would he ever relearn how to live without his other half constantly at his side?
Hanbin thinks of the fear that had started to creep in during the interim rankings before the finale, when Hao’s position wasn’t shown, and how it settled heavy and icy in his stomach throughout the broadcast with each passing ranking where Hao’s name wasn’t called. He thinks of the wave of relief he felt flooding every crevice of his being when they were both called as candidates for number one, the pure elation he felt for being called with Hao easily overtaking the joy of being called himself. He thinks of the way Hao’s mere presence is enough to make him feel at home again visiting a place that no longer felt like it, because at some point his heart had merged Hao and home into one single, indistinguishable concept that he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to separate again.
The idea of moving towards a post-ZB1 future without Hao terrifies Hanbin. His chest tightens with that same horrible feeling from the finale just thinking about it.
In his wildest daydreams, he transfers to Yuehua when it’s all said and done. Half of his heart would still be missing, but he would have Yujin, to whom he developed a brotherly attachment bordering on parental; he would have Gyuvin and Ricky, his and Hao’s emotional support idiots—
And Hao. He would still have Hao. They wouldn’t have to be apart.
“Bin-ah?”
Hanbin blinks, forcing his attention away from the Hao of two and a half years from now and back to the Hao presently in front of him.
“Sorry, hyung, you were saying?”
Hao regards him with an inquiring look. “Are you alright? You zoned out for a moment there.”
“Sorry,” Hanbin repeats, feeling the tips of his ears getting warm. He awkwardly scratches his nose, not quite meeting Hao’s gaze. “Guess I got a bit lost thinking about the future.”
For what feels like a very long pause, Hao says nothing as he continues to examine him with an unfaltering expression of concern, and Hanbin knows that it’s a matter of seconds before the other boy clues into what he’s not saying. That always seems to be the inevitable outcome with them, their silence often speaking more loudly than their words.
Gently, Hao reaches across the table to hold Hanbin’s hand. Their fingers lace together of their own accord, firm and reassuring, pushing a shaky sigh out of Hanbin. It should be trivial at this point, but it never fails to ground Hanbin when he needs it the most.
“You know you’ll always have us, right?” Hao speaks slowly, each word chosen with great care, his tone barely above a whisper, as if anything louder would shatter something delicate. “Regardless of where our future paths lead, our bond will remain. We all love you, and you got another thing coming if you think any of us would ever let go of you that easily. Especially me.”
Hanbin finally meets Hao’s eyes, and what he sees makes his breath hitch. There’s a strange look on his face— one Hanbin has seen before but hasn’t been able to name despite the nagging feeling that he should.
“Really?”
Hao lifts their joined hands and, without breaking eye contact, gently brushes his lips against Hanbin’s knuckles, a feather-light kiss like those he peppered on his neck at the night of the finale. Where those had been calming, however, this is the complete opposite, sparking an electric current that travels through Hanbin’s entire body, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
“Of course. You’re my best friend.” Punctuated with another kiss. “My better half.” Then another. Hao’s eyes sparkle under the white light of the kitchen. “My Binie.”
“Your Binie,” Hanbin parrots. It almost sounds like a question, too small to be sure.
“Yes. Mine. And I’m not letting you go, ever.”
Hao is fully beaming at him when he lets their hands fall back to the counter. Hanbin can’t help but return that smile, his heart finally put at ease.
“Thank you, hyung. Truly. I won’t forget it.”
“You better not.”
A promise is no proof of anything, but Hanbin realizes he doesn’t need more proof than the answers he’s already found. He’s sure of it when he catches Hao giving him that same strange look later that night as they lie down to sleep, faces too close and limbs in a tangle.
Hanbin definitely knows what that look means. He's known it all along.
He feels the same.
And he knows they’ll be fine, come whatever may.