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Most people forgot that Psychology majors had to deal with statistics. Numbers were predictable, followed rules and behaved exactly as expected. They made sense.
Human emotion didn’t. Especially his human emotion, where two plus one equaled misery and the square root of longing was always irrational.
Because the equation haunting him went like this: Matthew + Gunwook = something that didn’t include Hanbin.
No matter how many times he reworked the formula, the answer stayed the same.
He noticed it first in Matthew’s laugh – how it pitched half a note higher when Gunwook entered a room. How Matthew’s whole face transformed when Gunwook spoke, like someone had reached inside and turned up the brightness settings. His eyes crinkled differently. His smile lingered longer.
Hanbin had always been good at catching details. Part of being a good leader, right? Observational skills. Attentiveness to his group.
The fact that ninety percent of his observations lately involved classifying the precise variations in Matthew’s expressions when Gunwook was nearby was just... thoroughness.
“Gunwook said the funniest thing today.” Matthew’s voice cut through the room’s ambient noise, though his eyes found Hanbin’s immediately – they always did when he had something to share, which used to make Hanbin feel chosen, special. “Gunwookie thinks we should–”
“Gunwookie?”
The nickname slipped from Matthew’s lips like honey, sweet and intimate. Hanbin tried to keep his voice light, tried to arrange his face into something that looked like mild curiosity instead of unexpected alarm.
Matthew glanced up. “Yeah. It’s cute, right? He said he likes being called that. You should do it too, hyung!”
Cute. Right. Because that’s exactly what Hanbin needed to hear.
It was Boys Planet all over again.
Matthew gravitating toward Jiwoong during those uncertain weeks – “Jiwoon hyung” this, “Jiwoon hyung” that. And Jiwoong had never bothered to correct the mispronunciation. Still didn’t to this day. In fact, he seemed to treasure it, this small quirk that belonged only to him and Matthew.
Just like how “Hambin hyong” had always made Hanbin feel like he held something precious and irreplaceable in Matthew’s heart. Evidence of Matthew’s first days in Cube, of trust and fumbling Korean that pre-dated everyone else.
Apparently, precious things had shelf lives.
The rest of Matthew’s words dissolved into white noise. Hanbin nodded at appropriate intervals, made sounds that probably passed for engagement, and tried not to think about how easily special could become ordinary. How quickly irreplaceable could be replaced.
How long it would take before “Hambin hyong” got retired.
Hanbin couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it had started – this new thing that looked suspiciously like a private two-person solar system forming wherever Matthew and Gunwook occupied the same space.
Maybe it began with those late-night conversations he’d glimpsed in passing, hushed voices in darkened hallways talking about life and worries and dreams that stretched beyond their temporary group. The kind of conversations Hanbin used to have with Matthew. Would’ve been more than happy to have again and again too.
But Matthew hadn’t come to him, and that’s what stung. Not that Matthew had found someone else to confide in, but that Hanbin had seemingly been demoted from confidante to... whatever he was now.
He’d been edited out of the equation.
So he did what any rational, mature twenty-four-year-old in his position would do.
He started lurking.
Not on purpose. Or rather, not consciously at first. He just found himself nearby when Matthew and Gunwook were talking. His water breaks coincided with theirs. He discovered the urgent need for his presence in whatever corner of the building they were at.
Six times within an hour once. He’d counted. He’d actually counted.
He told himself he was being subtle. Practically invisible.
He was neither.
It sucked how perfectly they complemented each other. Gunwook was naturally tactile and openly affectionate. Mature yet needy. And Matthew had always been someone who bloomed under that kind of attention, or when he felt he needed.
They created this self-sustaining universe around themselves, complete with its own gravity and orbital patterns, and Hanbin found himself constantly on the outside looking in.
Observing. Suffering.
“What are you doing?” Ricky asked one day, and Hanbin nearly jumped out of his skin.
He’d been crouched behind equipment cases, trying to get a better angle on Matthew and Gunwook’s animated discussion about some movie they’d watched together. When had they watched a movie together? Had it been good? Had Matthew laughed at the funny parts? Had he–
“Hanbin hyung, you okay?”
Hanbin straightened up too quickly, head swimming, foam padding stuck to his hair and clinging to his shoulder. “Why? Do I not look okay?”
Ricky studied him with the kind of knowing look that made Hanbin want to dig a hole and live in it forever. Possibly take the foam padding with him. “You look like someone who’s losing joint custody of his best friend and handling it really badly.”
Hanbin paused, considering this assessment with the gravity it deserved. “That’s disturbingly accurate.”
“I know.” Ricky gave him a once-over. “How long have you been back here?”
“…I don’t want to answer that.”
“Hyung.”
“Forty minutes.”
“You need to get a grip.”
Getting called out didn’t stop him, though. Before long, he’d graduated from passive loitering to casual shadowing.
Coffee run? Suddenly Hanbin was desperately parched. Choreography practice? He mysteriously needed to work on that exact same routine. Bathroom break? Well, he couldn’t follow them there, but he’d definitely timed how long they were gone. He trailed after Matthew and Gunwook almost everywhere, having foregone the concept of decorum.
Sometimes it worked – Matthew would turn to him with that familiar smile, include him in whatever story he was telling, and for a blessed moment the universe would right itself.
But more often, Hanbin felt like he was trying to redirect a river that had already carved its course. The current pulled one way, and Hanbin stood ankle-deep in the shallows uselessly.
“You know they can see you, right?” Gyuvin appeared beside him one afternoon, when Hanbin was pressed against the wall outside the studio where Matthew and Gunwook were working on their harmonies.
“I’m not hiding,” Hanbin said defensively.
“Hyung. I can see your shadow. They can definitely see your shadow.”
Hanbin glanced down at the telltale dark outline stretching across the floor, visible through the studio’s glass door. “Ah.”
“Have you considered just talking to…” Gyuvin narrowed his eyes, assessing. “Matthew hyung? This is about him, right?”
“Have you considered not giving me advice that would kill me?”
Gyuvin raised his hands in surrender, backing away slowly. “Third-wheel habits die hard, I guess.”
Ridiculous or not, shadowing wasn’t cutting it anymore. Hanbin needed strategy.
Which evolved into active intervention.
He’d made a spreadsheet one sleepless night – colour-coded by platform and level of intimacy displayed – tracking Matthew and Gunwook’s interactions across social media. Each data point recorded. Each instance of physical contact classified.
High intimacy: hugs lasting longer than 3 seconds, hand-holding, heads touching.
Medium intimacy: playful shoving, arms around shoulders, sitting with legs touching.
Low intimacy: high-fives, fist bumps, standing within 1 meter.
He had a chart. He had graphs. He had a pivot table.
He’d also googled “how to tell if your best friend likes someone else more than you,” which was probably a new low even for him. The algorithm had thoughtfully suggested follow-up searches: “how to deal with jealousy in friendships”, “am I being replaced” or “how to stop being clingy”.
He’d closed the browser. Some things you didn’t need quantified.
When the numbers started tipping too heavily in Matthew-Gunwook’s favour – when the ratio exceeded what Hanbin had arbitrarily decided was acceptable – he’d suggest to Matthew that they should create content together. Dance challenges, Tiktoks.
“We’re dance mates,” he’d remind Matthew, as if Matthew could somehow forget. “Shouldn’t we be showing that off more?”
Matthew would agree easily, the way he always did. If he noticed the timing of these suggestions, he never mentioned it.
“I like this taste,” he said during one particular video, looking directly at Matthew while putting just enough emphasis on the words to make them sound vaguely suggestive. The rush of satisfaction he felt watching Matthew squirm on camera was probably disproportionate to the achievement, but Hanbin was past caring about proportional responses. He was operating on a new scale where any evidence of his effect on Matthew felt like reclaiming territory.
He posted selfies with Matthew whenever opportunities arose, cropping them just so, choosing angles that showcased their closeness. During performances, he took full advantage – worked as many touches as he could into their choreography, just enough to pass as natural but not enough to raise eyebrows.
Playful taps on the butt, tickling past the ribs, fingers trailing across backs as they moved past each other. Any excuse for contact that would end up somewhere on the internet.
He’d also become exceptionally skilled at finding reasons to put his hands on Matthew during behind-the-scenes filming. Straightening earrings that didn’t need straightening. Adjusting in-ears that were perfectly positioned. Smoothing shirt collars that weren’t wrinkled. Each touch was brief, casual, easily dismissed as friendly affection, but Hanbin made sure they all ended up in the final edits.
It was petty and calculating and definitely pathetic, but he needed some way to stake some claim. Not that he could ever say that to Matthew directly. The thought alone made his skin crawl with embarrassment. So he hoped Matthew could read between the lines, because he was running out of ways to say “please notice me” without actually saying it.
Point was, if Matthew was going to build constellations with someone else, Hanbin was going to chart every coordinate. If the internet was going to flood with Matthew-Gunwook content, he was going to ensure equal representation to balance the scales.
It was practically a public service. Really. For the fans.
That’s what Hanbin told himself while tracking engagement metrics on their latest post together, trying to determine if the 15% decrease in likes meant anything significant. Trying to extrapolate meaning from numbers that probably just reflected posting time and caption quality.
He promised himself that he’d stop all this once the numbers evened out, that there was a logical endpoint to the madness.
There wasn’t.
All his tracking proved was that he was in a losing race against someone who didn’t know they were competing.
Gunwook: Twenty-three interactions this week.
Hanbin: Eleven.
The ratio was getting worse. Hanbin added a trendline to the graph, watched it slope downward, and felt something cold settle in his stomach.
At this rate, he’d reach zero by next month.
Gunwook had ridiculously large hands.
This was Hanbin’s first coherent thought the morning he walked into the practice room to find Matthew wrapped up in one of Gunwook’s casual, effortless hugs. Those hands spanned nearly the entire width of Matthew’s back, fingers splayed possessively across his shoulder blades, and Hanbin just stared.
“I also have hands,” he muttered under his breath, flexing his fingers experimentally. “Two of them. That’s the standard number.”
He said it like it was a crucial detail everyone – Matthew specifically – was somehow overlooking. His hands were good hands. Trained hands that could definitely, theoretically, provide equally satisfying embraces.
He flexed them again. They seemed smaller than he remembered.
“Uh, hyung?” Taerae, who had the misfortune of walking past at that exact moment, paused mid-stride. “Were you just talking to yourself about your hands?”
“They’re perfectly functional,” Hanbin informed him with complete seriousness. “In case that was in question.”
“It wasn’t in question until right now.”
“Well, now you know. Two hands. Fully operational. Available.”
“Should I be concerned?”
“Only if you don’t appreciate quality hands when you see them.” Hanbin wiggled his fingers for emphasis.
Taerae backed away slowly. “Right. I’m just gonna... go practice over there now.”
Hanbin barely registered him leaving. He was too busy comparing his hand span to Gunwook’s in his mind, running calculations. Gunwook probably had an extra two, maybe three centimetres of reach. That was significant. That was more… hand.
He flexed his fingers one more time, like repetition would somehow make them grow.
Maybe if he did hand exercises? Stretches? Was there a way to increase hand span?
(He Googled it. There wasn’t.)
Later – much later, after he’d exhausted himself with practice and pretending everything was fine – Hanbin found himself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.
His phone sat on his chest, rising and falling with each breath. He’d been scrolling through music earlier, trying to find something to drown out the noise in his head, and had stumbled across a song.
“Me, You, and Steve.”
That it’s finally me and you, and you and me
Just us, and your friend Steve
Do-do-do do do-do do, Steve
Do-do-do do do-do do, leave!
He’d listened to it three times now.
The song was about two people trying to have moments together while a third person kept showing up. Steve, who was always there. Steve, who nobody had explicitly invited. Steve, who the narrator clearly resented but couldn’t actually hate because Steve hadn’t done anything wrong except... exist.
The song was meant to be funny. Wry and self-aware. But Hanbin didn’t find it funny.
Because he was Steve.
The friend. The addition. The one whose presence changed “us” to “us and also Hanbin, who’s here for some reason.”
Except he wasn’t supposed to be. He was supposed to be who Matthew chose first. Who Matthew wanted to be around the most.
His perfectly functional hands curled into fists in the darkness.
He didn’t want to be Steve. But the evidence told him he was Steve, whether he liked it or not.
Damn it.
By now, Hanbin had learned that collecting moments with Matthew was an uphill battle. Especially when the groupings for most of their upcoming schedules seemed custom-built to test him.
Matthew was constantly being paired with his ‘situationships,’ as fans had dubbed them. Taerae, Jiwoong, and increasingly, Gunwook. There was a running joke about it somewhere online, within their group, probably in the company offices – this idea that Matthew collected men’s hearts like other people collected photocards.
They had existed before all those other pairings, though. That should’ve counted for something. Roommates first, best friends first, dance partners first. In Hanbin’s completely unbiased opinion, they worked best together – complemented each other’s strengths, covered for each other’s weaknesses.
But somehow, in the endless shuffle of promotional activities and fan service demands and whatever mysterious algorithm the company used to determine pairings, that history had gotten lost. Buried under newer, shinier combinations.
Hanbin tried not to let the occasional disappointment show. Tried not to do the math on how many schedules he’d had with Matthew this month versus how many Matthew had with everyone else. Tried not to wonder if Matthew ever felt the same quiet deflation that he did about stuff like this.
Now whenever he was asked about Jakkkungz during interviews or fansigns, Hanbin felt a desperate kind of relief wash through him. Finally, a chance to talk about them, to remind everyone – to remind Matthew – that they shared something special and worth celebrating.
He’d lean into those questions with perhaps too much enthusiasm, talking about how much he treasured Matthew, how grateful he was they were living this dream together, how Matthew made everything better.
He wished the whole world knew just how thoroughly Matthew had become woven into his existence. Wished there was some way to make it clear that whatever connections Matthew had with others, what existed between them was just… fundamentally different.
But those opportunities were increasingly rare, and Hanbin found himself hoarding each one like a dragon guarding gold.
Like during that concert when he finally got picked to do a challenge with Matthew, but Gunwook had naturally reached over to rest his hand on Matthew’s shoulder.
Hanbin moved before his brain fully engaged, gently removing Gunwook’s hand and stepping between them with a smile that was extra polite while his eyes probably blazed territorial warnings.
Hey, his face said it all. It’s my turn. This is my moment with Matthew.
Then he turned to his ball of sunshine and opened his arms expectantly. “Princess-carry hyung now, please.”
The fans screamed. Matthew laughed, incredibly amused but more than happy to oblige. And for exactly thirty seconds, Hanbin could pretend nothing had changed, that Matthew was still his.
Thirty seconds out of a two-and-a-half-hour concert. 0.33% of the total performance time.
It was never going to be enough. But it was all he had, so he held Matthew a little tighter and smiled a little wider and pretended it didn’t sting when Matthew had to put him down.
The tour was everything they’d worked toward. Months of preparation, countless hours perfecting every song, every transition.
Hanbin had anticipated exhaustion, adrenaline, the addictive rush of live performance and fan interaction. And it delivered – the roar of thousands of voices singing their lyrics back at them, the ocean of light sticks moving in synchronized waves, the electricity that ran through his body every time they hit a difficult formation perfectly.
This was what they’d dreamed about during those uncertain trainee days. The culmination of all their hard work paying off in real time.
But what Hanbin hadn’t anticipated was that one of the worst moments of the tour (in his unprejudiced opinion) would happen right there under blazing lights, with all their fans watching and recording everything. Everything that would be clipped, gif-ed, analyzed and dissected for months to come.
“This is my man,” Gunwook announced into his microphone, voice carrying across the entire venue as he then lifted Matthew clean off his feet.
The embrace was effortless. Possessive. Gunwook’s arms wrapped around Matthew with the confidence of someone who had every right, and Matthew – Matthew melted into it with such natural ease that Hanbin forgot how to breathe.
The entire venue exploded with cheers.
And Hanbin was positioned at centre stage, where he had a perfect, unobstructed view of everything. Front row seats to his own nightmare, playing out in high definition with professional lighting and crystal-clear audio.
Just five steps. That’s how far he stood from where he wanted to be.
He kept his professional smile fixed in place, maintained his stage presence with the muscle memory of someone who’d trained for this his entire life. But something inside him was unravelling, and thousands of people were watching it happen without knowing what they were seeing.
Later, he’d watch the fancams and see his own face in that moment – the microsecond where his expression slipped before he caught it, before he remembered where he was and what was expected of him.
He’d read comments from fans who noticed the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, who speculated about what he’d been thinking.
But right now–
“What’s wrong?” Hao asked once they made it backstage.
“I’m having what you might call an existential crisis,” Hanbin replied, staring in the direction Matthew and Gunwook had disappeared, arms still slung around each other.
“Ah.” Hao nodded knowingly. “But maybe unclench your fists.”
“What–”
“Remember we’re still under contract,” Hao added cheerfully. “Violence voids the warranty.”
“Helpful,” Hanbin muttered. At least someone found this entertaining.
But maintaining his composure became increasingly impossible as the tour continued and Matthew and Gunwook seemed determined to showcase their connection at every available opportunity. They flirted – because that’s what it was, regardless of what anyone wanted to call it. Shameless and confident and comfortable in a way that suggested this was just how they were together when cameras weren’t rolling.
The rational part of Hanbin’s brain pointed out that he was architecting his own torture, somehow always positioning himself where he’d have front-row seats to these moments. He watched when he could have looked away, checking if it still hurt.
It always hurt. He kept watching anyway.
Because the louder, less rational part insisted this was necessary. If he wasn’t there, who would notice all the ways Matthew came alive around Gunwook? Who would document the mounting evidence of their connection? Who would keep score?
If he stopped watching, would it hurt less? Or would not knowing be worse than knowing?
He never figured out the answer because he couldn’t stop watching long enough to find out.
To compound his misery, his brain had started a masochistic hobby of collecting Matthew’s casual declarations about Gunwook. Not intentionally – he’d have preferred to forget them – but his memory was too good and the words too significant.
“Gunwook is the only one I need,” Matthew said to the camera while they were filming behind-the-scenes content.
“I only have Gunwook,” Matthew smirked at said subject matter backstage, and Hanbin forced himself to smile like this was amusing.
“Gunwook is my anchor.” This one was delivered during a live broadcast, and Hanbin damn near threw his phone across the room.
Because he’d thought that he was Matthew’s anchor. Had thought he provided stability and grounding and all those things anchors were supposed to do. What about me? Don’t I count?
“Gunwook and I have each other forever. He says we’re going to elope,” Matthew declared with an incredulous laugh, like the idea was absurd but also kind of wonderful.
Forever huh.
Hanbin knew they were probably jokes. Half-jokes, at least. Matthew collected people like this – called them his, made grand declarations that were exaggerated yet undoubtedly genuine. It was part of his charm.
But knowing that didn’t make hearing them any easier. Each declaration felt like another paper cut, adding to the low-level pain that coloured everything else these days.
Death by a thousand paper cuts. That’s what this was.
The Blue music video shoot was supposed to be fun.
He’d been looking forward to the fighting scene with Matthew. The sequence was straightforward – threatening posturing, a moment of tension where their characters’ conflict came to a head.
“And Hanbin,” the director started to explain what he needed to see, “you’re someone who’s usually in control, but you’re losing that control here. You’re desperate to make Matthew understand something, but you don’t know how. You’re angry, maybe a little scared of what happens if you can’t get through to him.”
Perfect, Hanbin thought. Method acting at its finest.
That’s where the fun ended.
Because when the cameras rolled, when Matthew stood there with that slightly defiant expression as he sank into character, Hanbin broke almost immediately.
He didn’t advance slowly like they’d rehearsed. He closed the distance fast, shoving Matthew back against the wall with real force. His hand slammed against the concrete beside Matthew’s head – not quite caging him in, but close. Too close.
Matthew’s eyes widened slightly, dropping character for a fraction of a second.
Hanbin leaned in, using his body to pin Matthew in place. Every frustration, everything he couldn’t say, every sleepless night, every time he’d watched Matthew laugh at something Gunwook said – it rolled off him in waves.
“Cut!” the director called, delighted. “Perfect! You’ve got yourselves a quick wrap. That was exactly the energy we needed.”
Hanbin stepped back immediately, snapping out of his momentary fugue state. His heart was racing and the heat hadn’t left his skin.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, helping Matthew straighten his shirt. His hands were shaking slightly. “Got a bit too into it.”
“No, it was great!” Matthew just laughed it off and hugged him. Of course he did. “Really felt the intensity, hyung. Maybe you should consider acting.”
Then Hanbin spent the rest of the day watching Matthew and Gunwook hang off each other between takes, touchy and comfortable and completely at ease, and wondered if he should’ve pushed harder against that wall. Made the desperation unmistakable.
At some point during a lengthy break, he found them on a corner staircase, tucked away from the main bustle of the shoot. Sitting on the steps, heads bent together in conversation. Still being filmed by a camera at the side.
Hanbin should’ve left. Should’ve turned around and found literally anything else to occupy his attention. He could watch this later in whatever behind-the-scenes content the company released, could subject himself to it in the privacy of his own room where no one would see his face.
But he found himself frozen just out of frame, but close enough to hear.
“When all this is over,” Matthew was saying, voice gone soft and dreamy in a way that made Hanbin’s stomach drop, “we should live next to each other. Like, actual neighbours. Or maybe roommates – that way we could still see each other every day.”
“I’d like that, hyung,” Gunwook replied, and Hanbin could hear the smile in his voice, could picture without seeing the way Gunwook’s whole face probably lit up. “We could have breakfast together every morning. You could complain about how loud my music is.”
“I wouldn’t complain. I like your music.”
“We could grow old together,” Gunwook continued, voice taking on that dreamy quality too. “Two old men still hanging out, still arguing about whatever old men argue about.”
“That sounds awesome,” Matthew said, and the contentment in his voice did the exact opposite for Hanbin. “Perfect actually.”
Hanbin’s hand found his pants, fingers bunching up in the fabric. He stood there, hidden in the shadows like the third wheel he’d become, listening to them plan a future that didn’t include him.
But he was Matthew’s first hyung in Korea. His supposed best friend. The person meant to occupy significant space in Matthew’s world, in Matthew’s plans, in Matthew’s future. He was the one with the matching ring – him, Sung Hanbin.
But in this carefully constructed vision of forever, in this dream of what came after ZB1, he wasn’t even an afterthought.
He left before they could notice him.
The questions only multiplied exponentially after the filming for their saju reading.
Hanbin had always been a believer in saju. Not fanatically, but enough that it mattered. In the face of all that could be measured and proved, there was something comforting about believing the universe still had patterns and plans.
But when the saju master looked at Matthew’s life chart and declared that he wasn’t compatible with people who led, Hanbin felt the earth shift beneath him.
If Matthew wasn’t compatible with people who took the lead, and Hanbin was literally his leader – was his leader in this group, tried to be his leader in life when Matthew needed him – then what the hell were they?
A cosmic mistake? A temporary alignment built on faulty fundamentals that was never meant to last?
The master continued, explaining that Matthew and Gyuvin were destined for each other, their energies complementing perfectly. Meant for harmony and understanding that would last a lifetime.
Hanbin sat there, smiling politely for the cameras while his brain screamed: What about us? Where do I fit in this divine plan?
Call him dramatic but the master had essentially given him a probability of zero.
Zero was what he was left with.
Hanbin seriously considered reaching out to the saju master privately afterward, started drafting an email asking if there was anything he could do to change providence. Some ritual or adjustment or karmic payment that could shift the cosmos in his favour.
There had to be a way. You couldn’t just tell someone they were fundamentally incompatible with the person they–
He deleted the draft. He was planning to fight fate over a show segment. Clearly he’d officially lost his mind.
But the seed of doubt had been planted, and it grew with frightening speed. If the universe itself was working against them, if the stars themselves had looked at Hanbin and Matthew and said “no, this doesn’t work,” then maybe whatever Hanbin had been feeling was just him fighting against the natural order of things.
Maybe Matthew was supposed to find his people elsewhere. Maybe Hanbin was the one holding him back from his destiny.
Maybe the kindest thing he could do was let go. If he knew how.
The shift from jealousy to something deeper and more corrosive happened gradually, then all at once when it really got into his head.
More questions.
What if Matthew didn’t need him as much anymore?
What if Hanbin wasn’t the person Matthew went to when he was upset, or excited, or needed advice?
Because he used to be Matthew’s first call for everything.
The questions became constant background interference. He caught himself monitoring Matthew’s reactions – every smile, every laugh. Second-guessing his own words. Trying to determine if he was truly being replaced, or if this was all in his head.
The math never came out in his favour.
He couldn’t even blame anyone for it. Gunwook was genuinely wonderful – gentle and funny and talented. Made it easy for him worm into your heart. If Matthew was choosing Gunwook over him, it wasn’t because Gunwook had stolen him away.
It was because Gunwook was simply better.
And what could he say to that? How could he compete with objectively better?
You couldn’t. So you didn’t.
But instead of handling his insecurity like the mature adult he was supposed to be, Hanbin pulled back.
Muted greetings. Less eye contact. Letting someone else take the seat beside Matthew in the van, at dinner, during filming. Responding to Matthew’s bright attempts at conversation with all the enthusiasm of someone reading terms and conditions.
He could see the confusion in Matthew’s eyes every time. Could see the moment Matthew registered the coolness, the distance, the careful neutrality where warmth used to be. Could see him trying to figure out what he’d done wrong, what had changed, why Hanbin was suddenly treating him like a colleague instead of–
Instead of whatever they used to be.
It felt safer this way. Preemptive. He was merely protecting himself from the inevitable.
Couldn’t break what you couldn’t touch.
That was the theory, anyway.
“You know I’m here if you want to talk,” Matthew said one evening, settling beside him on the couch with careful proximity – close enough to show he cared, far enough to give Hanbin space to refuse.
Hanbin kept his eyes fixed on his phone, scrolling through posts he wasn’t actually reading. “I know.”
Matthew sighed. “I just don’t like seeing you like this.”
“Then don’t look.” The words came out sharp and mean. Hanbin hadn’t even known he was capable of directing something like that at Matthew. He finally met Matthew’s eyes, and the shock there was immediate.
Good, some terrible part of him thought. Now you know how it feels.
His mouth kept moving anyway because clearly his brain-to-mouth filter had gone on vacation, letting him say things designed to hurt: “Maybe I just need someone else right now. And clearly, so do you. So go back to Gunwook.”
The silence that followed was the loudest thing Hanbin had ever heard. It rang in his ears like tinnitus.
Matthew stared at him for a long moment, features going carefully blank in that way he had when he was trying not to show he was affected. Hanbin had seen him use that expression with strangers, with some of their trainers, with reporters who asked invasive questions.
He’d never seen Matthew use it with him. And he felt like the worst person for putting it there. Felt sick.
“Okay,” Matthew said quietly, standing up. “If that’s what you want.”
He was gone before Hanbin could take it back.
Before he could choke past the apology lodged in his throat. Before he could explain that he didn’t mean it, that he was just terrified and stupid and so tired of feeling like this. making Hanbin feel like the worst person alive for putting it there.
Now he got to watch Matthew walk away, adding another item to his growing list of regrets.
They’d been avoiding each other for five days when Matthew finally cornered him.
Five days of Hanbin lying on his side at night staring at the wall. Five days of the other members tiptoeing around both of them. Five days of Matthew being professionally polite whenever their schedules forced them into the same room.
Five days of Hanbin replaying that conversation over and over, trying to figure out where exactly he’d chosen cruelty over honesty.
It was the longest they’d gone without really talking since they’d met.
So when Matthew appeared in by his room after everyone else had gone to bed, Hanbin’s first thought was: Finally.
But then: I can’t do this.
“Enough of whatever this is.” Matthew stood in the doorway, not quite entering. He looked exhausted, his usual brightness dimmed. “We need to talk.”
Hanbin’s throat went tight. “Okay.”
“Can I come in?”
The formality of it hurt more than it should have. Hanbin nodded, not trusting his voice.
Matthew closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms crossed. The distance between them felt deliberate. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”
“You didn’t.” Hanbin’s voice came out rough, like he’d been screaming. Maybe he had been, internally.
“Then why does it feel like you can’t stand being around me anymore?”
“It isn’t–”
“You won’t look at me during practice. You sit on the other side of the room. Yesterday you literally walked off before I even turned.” Matthew’s voice cracked slightly. “If you don’t want to be friends anymore, for God knows what reason, just tell me. Don’t make me guess.”
“No,” the word came out fast. “That’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want?”
Every possible answer felt like stepping off a cliff. His palms were already sweating. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“The truth would be nice.”
Matthew waited. But when Hanbin stayed silent, he moved to settle cross-legged on Hanbin’s bed like he was prepared to wait until sunrise if necessary. “You’re my best friend, hyung. That’s not changing anytime soon. So just... tell me.”
Best friend.
The words should have comforted him, but they stung instead. Because best friend felt like a consolation prize, like what you called someone when you couldn’t call them what you really wanted to.
Hanbin considered lying. It would be so easy to make this about something else entirely – to blame stress, fatigue, or any of the hundred small irritations that came with living in close quarters with eight other people. Anything other than the mortifying truth.
But Matthew was looking at him with such genuine concern, such stubborn care despite everything. Matthew was here.
“I just don’t know if you see me the way I see you anymore. And I can’t–” He stopped, chest heaving. The words were right there, crowding his throat, years of friendship teetering on what he chose to say next.
“You can’t what?”
Hanbin shook his head, mute.
“Hyung.” Matthew’s voice went softer, almost pleading.
“I don’t know if I can do this.” Hanbin’s voice came out hoarse. “Be your friend. Just your friend. When you– when I…” He pressed the heel of his hand against his sternum. “I can’t watch you with Gunwook. I can’t listen to you talk about him–”
“But why not? It’s not like I–”
“Because it’s supposed to be me.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Hanbin couldn’t look at Matthew’s face, couldn’t bear to see the confusion or pity or worse – the careful kindness of someone about to let you down gently.
“I wanted it to be me. I wanted to be the one you did all the aegyo to. The one you made future plans with. The one whose name you said like…” He gestured helplessly. “Like it mattered.”
“It does matter.”
“Not the way Gunwook’s does.”
“That’s–” Matthew made a frustrated sound. “Do you know how many photos and videos I have of you on my phone?”
The non-sequitur threw Hanbin. “What?”
“Four thousand, three hundred and twenty-seven. And I watch every piece of content you have. Every interview. Every dance challenge. Photos and selfies. Articles praising you. I save as many as I can. I have alerts set up so I don’t miss anything.” Then he turned sheepish. “Ricky caught me organizing them and said I had a problem. Which felt like a personal attack but he’s probably right.”
Hanbin stared at him. “You save them all?” His brain was struggling to process this information, to reconcile it with the narrative he’d constructed.
“Very systematically,” Matthew said, and there was even pride threading through the embarrassment now. “Chronologically sorted and tagged by how much they make me miss you. The video of you playing with Leo the dog is ranked number one this week.”
“Matthew.” Hanbin’s voice came out weak.
“I was always looking for a sign that you still wanted me around the way I wanted to be around you,” Matthew continued so quietly that Hanbin had to lean forward to hear. “You seem to find exactly what you need in everyone else – Hao when you want quiet company, Gyuvin for energy, Yujin when you need to baby someone. And I kept trying to figure out what else I could give you. What part of your life I got to have.”
“You get everything,” Hanbin whispered.
“Do I?” Matthew’s eyes were glassy. He picked at the comforter’s edge, not meeting Hanbin’s gaze. “Because from where I was standing, it felt like you were building these perfect relationships with everyone else, and I was just there. Just enough space for obligatory best-friend maintenance.”
“That’s exactly how I felt about you and Gunwook.” Hanbin let out a disbelieving breath. “I thought you were replacing me because he was easier to be around, more fun, more–”
“More what?”
“More whatever I’m not.”
The irony hit them simultaneously. They’d both been convinced they were being replaced. Both too scared to ask. Both suffering alone while the other person suffered alone right next to them.
They stared at each other, and then Hanbin was laughing. Even if it came out a choked and a little hysterical. Matthew joined in a second later.
“I keep a mental map of where you are, you know that?” Matthew chewed his lower lip, abashed. “In every room, during every shoot. I can’t help it. I pay attention to your schedules more than my own. I get genuinely excited when the company puts us together for anything, even if it’s just sitting next to each other during interviews. Doesn’t even need to be just the two of us – as long as we’re together somehow.”
“It’s exactly the same for me,” Hanbin said, wonder creeping into his expression. “I thought I was losing my mind. I have a spreadsheet–”
“You have a spreadsheet?”
“Um. We’re not talking about the spreadsheet,” Hanbin said quickly, ears burning. “The point is, I… I even hope fans ask about us during fansigns so I have an excuse to talk about you. About us.”
“Still?”
“Always.” Hanbin’s hands flexed at his sides, wanting to reach out but not knowing if he had the right. “Because I–”
Hanbin shifted, nervous. Their knees bumped together, and even that small point of contact felt electric.
“I’ve been trying to understand this for so long,” he continued. “Trying to make sense of all these weird feelings and the way I can’t seem to function properly when I think you’re slipping away from me. But I think it’s actually really simple.”
Matthew turned to face him fully, and the hope in his eyes made Hanbin’s breath catch.
“I– I love you.” His voice shook slightly. “I don’t need to overthink it or analyze it or figure out if it makes sense. It just is.”
Matthew’s smile started slow and then spread wide across his face, relieved and so bright it made Hanbin’s chest tighten in the best possible way.
“It is simple, isn’t it? We should’ve known from the start.”
“Terrifyingly simple.” Hanbin reached out and brushed his thumb across Matthew’s cheek. “I’m sorry I made you think I didn’t want you around.”
“I’m sorry I made you jealous enough to make spreadsheets.”
“Colour-coded spreadsheets.”
“That’s so embarrassing for you.”
“Says the person with four thousand photos and videos of one guy.”
“Yeah, and I’d do it again. I know a good thing when I see it.” Matthew’s grin was unrepentant. “You think four thousand is bad? I’m just getting started. Think of how many I’d have by the time we’re eighty! Which just means that the saju master was full of–”
He stopped, and some of the playfulness drained away.
“He was wrong by the way,” Matthew continued. “Whatever he implied about you being wrong for this, for me – he was completely wrong.”
“How did you–”
“I know you believe in stuff like that. Saw it bother you.” Matthew shrugged. “During the filming and after.”
“I didn’t think you noticed.”
“I always notice.”
“I guess… when the master said that thing about you and leaders,” Hanbin rubbed his neck in embarrassment. “It made me think maybe the universe was telling me to let you go.”
“I like following your lead, though,” Matthew said softly.
Hanbin met his eyes, touched. “Maybe the universe’s plan was for me to learn that sometimes if you try anyway, you could still win.”
“You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think the master was reading for entertainment value, not destiny. I know it probably doesn’t mean much coming from me since I don’t usually buy into fortune-telling, but if the universe really had a different plan for us…” He paused, considering. “It wouldn’t have put us in the same agency. Made us roommates. Got us on the same survival show. Let us debut in the same group. Given us matching rings.” He squeezed Hanbin’s hands with each point. “All that, just to tear us apart? No way. That’s the universe being really obvious about what it wants.”
Hanbin laughed, surprised. “You’ve thought about this.”
“I’ve thought about a lot of things when it comes to you, hyung.” Matthew admitted. “And I wanted you to know that I don’t care what some chart says. I don’t care if we’re supposedly incompatible according to some ancient system. I care what I know. And I know you.” Matthew threaded their fingers together with practiced ease. “Forget fate. Even if the universe had a different plan, I would’ve taken it into my own hands. Made it happen anyway. Made us work.”
“Really?” Hanbin breathed.
“You bet. And for what it’s worth, I would go through all of this again if it got me right here, right now. All of it. Because it brought us here.”
“Even me going–” fully unhinged “–a little overboard?”
“I don’t know, it’s kinda cute when I think about it.” Matthew shoved his shoulder lightly. “Though maybe next time we could skip to just… talking to each other?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Hanbin teased, but he was already nodding. “But yeah. Communication. I’ll work on it.”
“We’ll work on it,” Matthew corrected. “Together.”
“Together,” Hanbin echoed, testing the word. Liking how it sounded. “So, we’re actually going to be okay?”
“We’re going to be better than okay,” Matthew said, his thumb tracing patterns across Hanbin’s knuckles that made it hard to think straight. “We’re going to be us again.”
Matthew’s smile could have powered entire cities.
Hanbin leaned closer until their foreheads touched, breathing the same air. “I meant what I said. About loving you.”
Matthew’s smile grew impossibly softer. “I know.”
Hanbin waited. Counting the seconds.
One. Two. Three.
Ten.
Nothing.
“And?” he finally prompted, trying to keep his voice light despite the way his heart was hammering.
“And what?”
“And... do you maybe love me back? Or should I start preparing for the world’s most awkward rejection?”
Matthew’s laugh was pure sunshine, bright and completely shameless. “Oh, hyung. I’ve loved you since you first called me Seokmae. I thought that was obvious.”
“It was not obvious!” Hanbin protested, but he was laughing too – relief and exasperation and overwhelming affection all tangling together. “That was so long ago. You could have mentioned it!”
“Oops?” Matthew looked appropriately sheepish.
Hanbin groaned, burying his face in his hands. “We could’ve been disgustingly cute together so much earlier.”
Matthew gently pulled Hanbin’s hands away from his face, holding them captive. “I love you too. Present tense. Currently ongoing. In case that helps.”
“It helps, very much,” Hanbin mumbled. “Say it again.”
“I love you.” Matthew shook his head fondly and pressed a kiss to Hanbin’s temple that made his heart skip several beats. “I love you, I love you, I love you. There.”
“Tell me again tomorrow.”
“I’ll tell you every day.”
“And by the way, let’s get one more thing straight.” Hanbin glared half-heartedly. “If any eloping is happening, it better be with me.”
“What?”
“Gunwook can find another man. I’m keeping you.”
“Careful what you wish for, hyung.” There was a wicked gleam in Matthew’s eyes now. “I’ll have you know that many things are legal in Canada.”
Hanbin felt his ears heat up as a smirk appeared on Matthew’s face. He knew what he was doing… that menace.
Hanbin’s menace, though. Officially.
He could say that now.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” Hanbin muttered, but he was pulling Matthew closer, and Matthew came willingly.
“But what a way to go,” Matthew whispered against Hanbin’s shoulder, and Hanbin felt him smile.
The universe, he decided, could keep its cosmic plans and predetermined paths. It turned out, Matthew + Hanbin = Matthew + Hanbin.
Simple, just like that. No variables to solve for. No coefficients to balance.
It was already complete. Self-evident. Axiomatic.
Like how the square root of four would always be two, or how the sum of the angles in a triangle would always equal 180 degrees.
Like how Matthew plus Hanbin would always equal something that made sense, even when nothing else did.
And when Matthew blew him a kiss across the stage during their next performance, making fans scream and Hanbin’s heart do somersaults, he knew: this was better than anything the universe could have devised on its own.
Some problems solved themselves once you stopped trying to force the answer.
You just had to trust the math.