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The separation had been quiet in the way that endings often are, with announcements about four names leaving that read aloud like a poem losing its verses, then followed by the most hellish event of the last farewell concert that left everyone crying and breaking down. ZEROBASEONE, once nine voices braided into one, now stood at a fork that history had carved for them. Gyuvin, Yujin, Ricky, and Zhang Hao. Four boys who had once shared dorm rooms and dance practice runs and the particular terror of debut stages, now packing bags with trembling hands and promises they weren't sure they could keep.
The fans had wept. The fans had raged. The fans had written letters and trended hashtags and emotionally held candlelight vigils for a future that would never look the same. And then, because fandom is a creature of both ferocious loyalty and desperate hope, they had waited.
AND2BLE debuted on a Tuesday in late May, when the summer breeze was just beginning to greet them with the blazing heat of fun and sweat. Hao stood at the center of a new formation, his spine straight and his smile practiced, and felt the weight of a leader's title settle on his shoulders like a coat two sizes too large. He graced his new future with Yujin bounced with excitement that couldn't quite mask the fear in his eyes. Gyuvin laughed too loudly at Seungeon's terrible jokes. Ricky stood still beside him, being as beautiful and unreadable as ever, but actually felt the same way with him. They were five pieces of a broken mirror, trying to reflect something whole.
Meanwhile, ZEROBASEONE restructured. Hanbin looked around the practice room and saw ghosts in the corners where familiar bodies used to stretch and complain and steal each other's drinks. Matthew still talked too much, speaking out ideas and jokes and being the sunshine. Taerae hummed under his breath when he was anxious, still joking around but also practising harder than ever to improve himself. Gunwook had grown another centimeter and refused to admit he missed having his hyungs around. Jiwoong smiled with that gentle kind that meant he was thinking too hard about something. And Hanbin stood in front of them, counting heads like a habit he couldn't break then stopping at four before remembering.
The first time they performed as five, it was at KCON Japan. Hanbin remembered the moment the final note of Yura Yura dissolved into screaming, the way the stage lights burned hot against his skin, the way his knees felt weak just slightly when the realization hit him, oh. We did it. How the five could still sound like a choir and the empty spaces didn't necessarily mean silence. The fans had cheered until their throats went raw, and Hanbin had clung to that sound like a lifeline, wondering how many of them were still there out of loyalty and how many had already started to drift toward brighter shores.
Now, ZB1's comeback was out in the world, spinning on streaming platforms and hanging in the balance of music show rankings. The numbers were both decent and terrifying. Every refresh of the chart page felt like peeling back a bandage to check if a wound had healed or festered. The fans who stayed were louder than ever, but Hanbin couldn't stop himself from scanning the comments for the ones who had left, the empty spaces in the fandom that mirrored the empty spaces in their dorm.
Hao's day had ended at 11:52 PM, which was early by idol standards and yet felt like midnight in a body that had forgotten how to rest. The AND2BLE members had spent the day in back-to-back schedules and finally another two-hour dance practice for their next stage that left his thighs trembling and his shirt soaked through. He had showered, the water going lukewarm too fast, and emerged to check on Yujin who was already sprawled across his room's single bed, mouth open in the particular abandon of exhaustion sleep.
Hao toweled his hair dry while watching the rise and fall of Yujin's chest for a moment. The youngest had been energetic and mature lately, but also looked as exhausted as him, which made Hao always stay aware about whatever the kid would tell him later. Hao had taken to leaving the mini lamp beside the bed on, a small sun for Yujin to navigate by if he woke up afraid.
He padded to his own room. It was great and comfy, with a bed that still felt unfamiliar after two months, and collapsed onto the mattress with a groan that he immediately muffled against his pillow. The ceiling was boring. Hao stared at it and felt the day's performance smile slide off his face like a mask he was finally allowed to remove.
Then his phone buzzed and rang.
"Hey," he answered after knowing who called, pressing the phone close enough to feel its warmth against his cheek.
"Oh, hi hyung," Hanbin's voice came through, slightly tinny but unmistakable. "Still awake?"
"Barely," Hao admitted, rolling onto his side and pulling one of his plushies up toward his chest. "Just got back from practice. Yujin's already dead to the world."
Hanbin laughed, that soft huff that Hao could picture perfectly, how his eyes and cheeks crinkled and how he ducked down his head like he was shy by his own amusement.
"Poor kid. Tell him I said to sleep well and I hope he eats well too," he said.
"I will." Hao paused, listening to the ambient sounds of Hanbin's end. A refrigerator humming, and the distant beep of a microwave. "You just got home too?" he asked.
"Mm. We had a late fan call. It was fun." Hanbin's voice went careful. "You know, it's kinda… a lot, hyung. Seeing them keep showing up, realizing how many stayed."
"And how many left," Hao said quietly, because he could hear what Hanbin wasn't saying.
Hao heard Hanbin's breath. There's a silence that stretched between them just long enough to ache. "Yeah," Hanbin finally said. "That too."
They fell into the easy rhythm they had built over years of stolen moments. Updating about their days, complaints about choreography that was either too lame or physically impossible, the particular brand of gossip that existed only between people who had survived trainee hell together. They laughed, and for a while it felt like old times, like they were still sharing a dorm wall and sneaking into each other's rooms.
But the laughter faded, as it always did, into the spaces where worry lived.
"I keep thinking about our first stage later, as AND2BLE," Hao said, and his voice came out smaller than he intended, almost a whisper to himself. He lay back and stared at the ceiling and felt his throat tighten. "Do you remember how you used to hold my hand before we went on?"
Hanbin was quiet for a moment. "I remember," he said, and there was something raw in the words, something that made Hao's eyes start to burn. "You always had cold hands. I used to joke about how you were nervous, but really I just wanted an excuse to touch you."
Hao smiled despite himself, the expression wobbly and half-formed. "And your hands were always warm. I liked that, in case you didn't know."
"I knew," Hanbin said, fierce and sudden. "I always knew, Hao. Don't say that."
The silence that followed was different from before. It was charged, alive, and humming with all the things they couldn't say out loud in daylight. Hao pulled his blanket higher, suddenly cold despite the summer humidity pressing against his window.
"It's scary," he whispered again. "Bin, it's so scary. I stand in front of the members and I smile and I say the right things, but inside I was—I'm terrified. What if I'm not enough? What if I lead them wrong? We started from zero, literally zero, and every day I wake up wondering if today is the day the fans decide we're not worth it. If today is the day I look at the charts and see us falling and falling and—"
Hao’s breath hitched. He pressed his free hand against his watery eyes, hard enough to see stars.
"—and I miss you," he continued, the words tumbling out. "I miss you so much it feels like there's a hole in my chest where you used to be. We used to figure things out together. We used to be scared together. Now I'm scared alone, and we're both pretending we're fine because that's what leaders do, right? That's what we're supposed to do."
He expected Hanbin to offer solutions. That was what Hanbin always did. He listened, he absorbed, and then he built bridges out of logic and optimism, carrying people across whether they were ready or not. But instead, Hanbin made a sound that might have been a laugh or might have been a sob, choked and broken at the edges.
"You think I'm not scared too?" he asked. "Hao, I cried after our first stage as five. I realized we had done it, we had actually done it, and some of the fans were still there, and some weren't, and I didn't know if what we gave them was enough. If I was enough without you there to balance me."
Hao's breath caught. He knew, of course. He had seen the performance clips and sent them appreciation via their group chat of nine. Had watched Hanbin move through the choreography with his usual grace, had noted the way he adjusted his positioning to fill the spaces that used to belong to others. He looked strong and certain, just like his Hanbin like usual.
"I keep waiting for someone to tell me it's okay to not be okay," Hanbin continued, and now his voice was barely above a whisper. "The member tries, but they're dealing with their own stuff too. And people look at me like I have all the answers, and I just—I look at the rose rings in the crowd and I wonder how many of those lights belong to people who are only here out of obligation and how many are waiting for us to fail so they can say they were right to leave."
"Hanbin-ah," Hao breathed, the name of a prayer and an anchor, trying to calm the latter across the call.
"And the worst part," Hanbin said, and he was crying now, because Hao could hear it in the way his breath shuddered, "the worst part is that I can't even be properly sad about missing you because I'm supposed to be strong for them. I'm supposed to show them that five is enough. But five isn't nine, Hao. And I love them, I do, but I look at my empty bed and remember about Gyuvin's presence and I hear your voice in my head every time and I just—"
He broke off. The sound of him trying to compose himself was audible, the careful inhales and exhales that Hao had memorized over years of late-night phone calls and shared rooms.
"—I miss your cold hands," Hanbin finally said. "I miss you complaining about whatever I do. I miss knowing that even if everything else fell apart, I could look to my side and you'd be there."
Hao laughed, wet and messy, tears sliding down his temples and into his hair. "Me too, Hanbin. I miss your terrible pranks. I miss you stealing my snacks and pretending you didn't. I miss—" He swallowed hard. "I miss being scared with you. It was easier, somehow. Being scared together."
"It was," Hanbin agreed softly.
They breathed together for a moment, two hearts beating in imperfect sync across however many kilometers separated their dorms.
"You know what I think about sometimes?" Hanbin said, his voice steadier now, grounded by the act of sharing his fear. "That we're in a world being like a bed. Everyone lies in their own shape, holding onto dreams only they can see. And I used to think it was lonely, you know? But then I think about how beds can be big enough for two and how dreams can overlap if we let them."
Hao closed his eyes, picturing where he and Hanbin could lie side by side and plan futures that didn't require them to be apart.
"And?" he asked, a smile tugging at his lips despite everything.
"And I realized that my dream has always had space for you in it. Even now. When I imagine the future I want, you're there, and when I imagine the person I want to come home to after, it's you and always you," Hanbin replied, and his voice was as warm as summer.
The words settled over Hao like a blanket, heavy and comforting and real. He thought about the days ahead, how his team would face the debut promotions, the music shows, the endless cycle of practice and performance and praying that the numbers would be kind enough to let them have even just one trophy. He thought about leading them through the dark and the doubt, and for the first time in months, the thought didn't make him want to disappear.
"You're going to be an amazing leader," Hanbin said, as if reading his mind. "You already are, Hao. The way you take care of them, that's not something you can learn from a manual. That's just you and it's all from your heart."
"I don't feel amazing," Hao admitted. "I feel like I'm fumbling in the dark most days."
"Then fumble together," Hanbin replied simply. "That's all any of us are doing. We fumbled. I fumble. The difference is that you keep going even when you're scared. That's what makes you a leader. It's not that we have to be fearless, instead when we are afraid, we choose to stand up anyway."
Hao thought about the dance practice earlier, the way his legs had trembled and his lungs had burned, and how he had smiled through it all because the members needed to see him smile and because experiencing this kind of progress from scratch for the second time felt surreal and exciting.
"Mm. And you're going to be okay too," he told Hanbin, and he meant it with every fiber of his being. "ZB1 as five, you guys are going to find your sound. And you will find your people too, Bin-ah. The ones who stayed, they stayed for a reason. And the ones who come later, they'll come because they see what I see when I look at you. Someone who never gives up, who makes 'home' feel like a real place to come back to."
Hanbin made a soft sound, something between a laugh and a sigh. "You always know what to say."
"I learned from the best," Hao teased the younger man.
They talked until the early hours, until Hao's eyelids grew heavy and his voice dropped to a murmur, until Hanbin's end went quiet except for the soft rhythm of his breathing. They talked about everything and nothing. Also about the upcoming schedules where they will be able to meet, the songs they wanted to try, the restaurants they would visit when they finally had time off together again. They didn't solve anything, because there's nothing to be solved after all. It's just them embracing each other to seek the comfort and love they were craving these days. The world would still be terrifying in the morning, and the fans would still be watching, judging, leaving or staying. The distance between them would still be there, emotionally and physically aching.
But Hao fell asleep with the phone pressed to his ear with Hanbin's quiet breathing as his lullaby, and for the first time in weeks, he didn't dream of falling.
He dreamed of stars.
Then in the center of it all, warm and constant, was Hanbin. His Hanbin, with his whiskers smile and his warm hands and his unshakeable belief that they would be okay, even when okay felt impossible. They didn't say I love you out loud as they didn't need to. It already lived in every pause, every breath, and every promise made in the dark when the world was quiet enough to hear the truth.
Hao dreamed of a bed big enough for two dreams, two hearts, and two leaders learning that strength wasn't about standing alone. It was about knowing who would catch them when they fell, who would help them back up, who would be there when tomorrow came with all its terrifying and beautiful possibilities.
And in his dream, Hanbin held his hand.