Chapter 1: You Set Me On Fire; I'm Burning Alive
Notes:
This fic is super loosely based on Boys Planet, but hopefully makes sense to everyone who hasn’t watched the show. Tbh it’s so canon divergent it basically functions as a generic survival show AU 😅
Chapter 1 has the most BP references—everything else is just Haobin flirting~
Chapters 4 and 11 are/will be the smut chapters, for anyone who wants to skip to those directly lol
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Zhang Hao’s worked in showbiz for three years by now, so he knows a thing or two about dealing with flower boys.
It’s even been said, on occasion, that he’s something of a flower boy himself—the campus crush of Fujian University, who famously rejected every Douyin celebrity in the acting department by pretending to be gay for a year.
(He actually is gay, but Yuehua made him fake-date a D-list influencer for six months to rehabilitate his image, so for all intents and purposes he’s back in the closet now. Indefinitely.)
All of which is to say: Zhang Hao knows a thing or two about dealing with flower boys—but the guy sitting next to him on the shuttle bus to Boys Planet is so hot Zhang Hao’s brain cells are about to permanently denature.
The bus is full of attractive men with poreless skin and perfect hair. That’s to be expected; they’re all idol trainees cast in Korea’s latest reality TV survival program, competing to land a debut spot in the Next Big Boy Band.
But—sheesh, the guy next to Zhang Hao is just. Like. Really, really ridiculously good looking. It’s kind of offensive, honestly. Zhang Hao is offended.
“Hi,” says his seatmate, flashing him a smile that could probably power South Korea’s eastern seaboard for a week. “I’m Sung Hanbin.”
Zhang Hao resists the urge to shield his eyes. Looking at Hanbin is like looking at the sun—he needs to put on sunglasses before his retinas get permanently tattooed with an afterimage of Hanbin's face.
He clears his throat and says, smoothly, “Hey. I’m Zhang Hao. Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.” Hanbin leafs his hands through his hair, rings flashing on his long fingers, and throws a glance at the window. There’s nothing to see—just the swell of matted farmland broken up by an occasional grain silo.
“Nervous?” Hanbin asks. He grins sheepishly, looking up at Hao through a fan of lush eyelashes even though they’re both sitting down. (Come on, there’s no reason for a guy to have eyelashes that long.) “Me too.”
Zhang Hao jolts. “What?”
“Your leg. It keeps shaking.”
Zhang Hao glances down at his lap; fuck, Hanbin’s right. “Force of habit,” he mutters, flushing. “I’m not nervous.”
“Yeah?” Hanbin blows out a laugh, cheeks puffing. “I’m terrified.”
Zhang Hao cocks an eyebrow at him. “Really,” he deadpans. Hanbin shouldn’t be—he could probably make it into the Top Nine on the basis of face value alone.
Hanbin nods seriously. “Shh, don’t tell anyone. It’s our secret.”
“Sure.”
Zhang Hao fidgets with his sleeves, trying not to stare at the smudge of chapstick on Hanbin’s mouth. Hanbin’s looking at him expectantly, eyes bright under the fringe of his bangs, and Zhang Hao doesn’t know why his throat suddenly goes dry.
“Look,” he says, finally, picking at the folds of his jeans. “If you’re really worried about auditions, you don’t need to be. We’ve already done, like, 95% of the work, right? Training, dieting, image control—whatever. Auditions are just your chance to show everyone how far you’ve come.”
He clears his throat, trying to piece together the right words. “It’s like…the farms outside. We’ve planted the seeds and watered the crops, or whatever, and now it’s time to harvest everything. And, uh, eat it. Or sell it, and make money, I don’t know. I’m not an agriculture major.”
Hanbin blinks at him, surprised. “Wow, I never thought of it that way. You’re pretty good with words, Zhang Hao-hyung,” he says.
Zhang Hao scrunches his nose. “Hyung? How do you know I’m your hyung? Do I look like an old man to you?”
“No!” Hanbin yelps. He waves a hand at Zhang Hao’s face, flustered. “Just, you know. Hyung vibes.”
“Hyung vibes,” Zhang Hao repeats, unimpressed. “You mean old man vibes.”
Hanbin covers his eyes with his fingers. “No,” he groans again, dragging out the word so it sounds like ‘nooo.’ “I just, um. Thanks. I needed to hear that. The pressure’s been getting to me. Being an individual trainee—you know how it is. Not that I’m even an individual trainee, technically, but my company’s pretty messed up, so. Not a ton of opportunities lying around.”
Zhang Hao winces. “I’m not an individual trainee.”
“...But this is the individual trainee bus.”
“I’m with Yuehua. I just couldn’t ride with the other kids from my company ‘cause of, uh, some family stuff. So, here I am.”
Hanbin’s lips quirk into a tentative smile. “Well, I’m happy you’re here,” he says, quietly.
Zhang Hao grins back at him. “Me too.”
And, okay—he knows a thing or two about dealing with flower boys—but he’s never met anyone like Sung Hanbin before. Something warm and unfamiliar curls in his chest.
It feels a lot like love.
(But the problem is…there’s a fine line between love and hate, and Zhang Hao’s never had a good sense of balance. So maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that in the end, he trips and lands on the other side.)
***
Auditions go as well as can be expected. Which is to say: Zhang Hao loses.
Zhang Hao loses, but honestly, that’s par for the course, because this is Korea and there’s no way the show-runners are going to let the international G-Group trainees win their technically-not-rigged but definitely-100%-rigged group battle against the Korean K-Group trainees. Korea is for Koreans, his parents had warned him before he left Fujian to chase after high hopes and big dreams in a country where he could barely speak the language.
But the producers must like him, for now, because Zhang Hao manages to nab an All-Star ranking. Perfect scores all around, just like school. Because he’s awesome like that.
He tries not to show it—pride is easy to edit into arrogance—but the praise makes his heart swell. He’s always been like this, chasing after validation anywhere he can get it. There’s probably a case to be made for narcissistic personality disorder somewhere in there. (Sue him; he’s an idol trainee. Aren’t they all narcissists at heart?)
“Crushed it,” Ricky mutters next to him, offering up a fist bump. “Hao-ge’s the best.”
Zhang Hao smirks. “You know it.”
The auditions drone on, a brain-numbing succession of off-key singing and awkward dance routines. Zhang Hao’s tired as hell and there’s a migraine budding between his temples, but he resists the temptation to doze off like the Japanese guy behind him. Yuehua should give him an employee-of-the-month award for Trying Too Hard.
Because he does—all the time—so much so that it hurts. He’s near-sighted and face-blind, but he makes a point of remembering every trainee who objectively kills it on stage. There’s Park Gunwook from Jellyfish, who’s built like a really buff mountain. Kim Jiwoong, who Zhang Hao recognizes from his guilty pleasure BL dramas. Hui from Pentagon, who’s…well, Hui from Pentagon.
And there’s Sung Hanbin. Hanbin from the shuttle bus, who’s even more gorgeous with spotlights gilding his face. Hanbin, who’s impossibly good-looking and even more impossibly good at everything else, too. Zhang Hao definitely isn’t biased, or anything—the guy is literally a professional dancer with perfect pitch and a smile that puts the stage lights to shame.
Come on, Zhang Hao thinks—there’s no way he’s real. MNet must’ve cooked him up in a secret lab to single-handedly haul K-pop into its fifth generation. And Zhang Hao is a pretty confident guy, usually, but knowing that he’s competing against Hanbin makes a questionable thrill skitter down his spine.
(Also of note: Hanbin’s dance specialties are wacking and tutting. So…maybe Zhang Hao isn’t completely delusional for hoping that, well. You know.)
The heat pooling in his stomach suddenly feels like desire.
It’s a good feeling.
***
Hanbin catches up to him after the auditions, crinkly-eyed and smiling. He’s always smiling, which is fair enough, because if Zhang Hao had teeth that nice he’d smile all the time too.
“Congrats,” Hanbin says, nodding at the All-Star sticker on Zhang Hao’s nametag. God, he’s hot. It hits Zhang Hao like a truck every time he sees Hanbin—he’s so hot the UN should quarantine him for speeding up global warming.
Zhang Hao nods, suavely. Cool as a cucumber, because that’s him: Zhang Hao, Certified Cool Guy.
“You too,” he says. “No idea what you were worried about. You’re really good.”
A blush spills over Hanbin’s high cheekbones. He looks taken aback, which Zhang Hao doesn’t understand, because Hanbin probably gets compliments all the time.
“Thanks,” he says. “I appreciate it.” He coughs nervously, fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt. “Hey, um, look. This is kind of out of nowhere, but I was wondering…if you’d want to keep in touch? Maybe. No pressure.”
Zhang Hao raises his eyebrows. “We’re going to be on set together for the next eight months,” he says, purposefully obtuse. Because he’s not an idiot—he knows where this is going.
Hanbin’s face goes even redder. “Ah, hyung,” he says, ducking his head. “I’m asking for your number.”
He sounds so flustered—it’s cute, even if Zhang Hao doesn’t get it, because there’s no chance a guy like Hanbin has ever been rejected by a guy like Zhang Hao. Forget about his phone number; Zhang Hao would hand over his social security number if Hanbin asked nicely enough.
The thing is…Zhang Hao also can’t give Hanbin his number. Not yet, even though he wants to.
“I don’t have my phone on me,” he mumbles, mentally cursing seven generations of his own ancestors. He’s an idiot for leaving his crappy Oppo in the dorms.
Hanbin deflates, looking like a kicked puppy, and Zhang Hao doesn’t support animal abuse, so he quickly adds, “My room number’s 312. Swing by later and I’ll give you my contact info.”
Hanbin beams at him. It’s the most devastating expression Zhang Hao has ever seen on a human face.
“Sounds good,” he says.
They spend the next ten seconds staring at each other, rooted in place, until Ricky flounces over to haul Zhang Hao away by the nape of his neck. And bless Ricky’s heart for saving him, because he probably would have passed out on the spot—in front of the whole production crew—if he’d stared at Hanbin any longer.
***
After they get back to the dorms, Zhang Hao tries to debrief the other Yuehua trainees in Yujin’s room. “Tries” being the nominal word, because halfway through the meeting Gyuvin whips out a bag of shrimp crackers and starts chucking chips into Yujin’s mouth. (Yujin doesn’t catch any of them. Whatever—his room, his mess to deal with.)
Zhang Hao pulls on a pair of noise-canceling headphones and goes to sleep on the floor. Because his room is fifty meters away, and he just survived eight hours of emotional water-boarding, and god, he really, really needs a nap.
By the time he blinks awake, two hours later, the rest of his label-mates are gone. He heaves himself upright, shaking shrimp crackers out of his hair, and squints at Yujin’s alarm clock. It’s almost midnight already.
Pins and needles prickle his calves as he shuffles outside, trying not to wake Yujin up. The hallway is punishingly bright; he squints against the glare of the ceiling lights, lurching from door to door like he’s wasted.
There’s a brutal headache throbbing behind his eyes, so it takes a while for him to notice the voices filtering out through the papery walls of the laundry room down the hallway. He ignores the white noise, instinctively; he has his priorities straight and all of them involve finding a bed to lie down on.
But then he hears his name. Unmistakable against the midnight silence. And he’s only human, so he staggers over and flattens his cheek against the laundry room door to eavesdrop.
“Hiroto says the show’s setting you up as rivals,” someone says in American-accented Korean. Or maybe the accent’s Canadian; Zhang Hao can’t tell the difference.
“Really? Me and Zhang Hao?”
The timbre of the second voice is familiar; it’s Hanbin’s. There’s a distinctive cadence to the way he talks, feathery and musical. Hao wipes his palms on his sweatpants, shivering. Something about the note of skepticism in Hanbin’s voice puts him on edge.
“Do you think he has a chance at winning? For real?” the American-Canadian asks.
Zhang Hao sucks in a breath. Hanbin’s going to say yes, obviously; Zhang Hao scored full marks at auditions; Zhang Hao is as talented and as desperate as anyone else on set; Zhang Hao is good enough to win.
(He is. Isn’t he?)
Hanbin doesn’t say yes. Hanbin laughs.
It’s a jarring sound, hard-edged and dismissive. Zhang Hao’s blood runs cold.
“No,” Hanbin says. “I don’t think so. He’s Chinese, right? It’s a shame.”
Nausea swells in Zhang Hao’s throat. His lungs clench; he can’t breathe. He backs away from the door, tripping over his own feet.
What the hell, he thinks. What the hell.
The epiphany feels like lightning when it strikes: blistering skin, boiling blood. Sung Hanbin—golden boy Sung Hanbin, sweet, perfect Sung Hanbin, Zhang Hao’s first love Sung Hanbin—
Sung Hanbin is a fucking asshole.
***
It takes time for the rage to settle in. Zhang Hao’s just numb at first, dizzy and disoriented. His brain doesn’t catch up to his body until he’s halfway down the hallway, doubled over and breathing hard.
Immediately, he regrets leaving. It’s better to know more than to know less, because even when knowledge isn’t power, knowledge is blackmail material. But humiliation burns like ice water down the back of his t-shirt, and he’s only human, so there’s only so much he can take.
Forget it. He can’t turn around now. There’s a camera jammed into the corner of the ceiling, recording his choices for posterity, and he can’t look more suspicious than he already does. So he digs his nails into his palms until his knuckles go white and stalks back to his own room, schooling his face into apathy.
It’s pitch black outside, midnight curling around the sliver of a crescent moon and pinprick stars. His roommates are potato-sack heaps in their bunks. Hanbin’s voice rings between his ears as he climbs into bed, bouncing off the walls of his skull.
He doesn’t stand a chance. He’s Chinese, isn’t he? What a shame. Shameful—shameful—shameful.
Zhang Hao grits his teeth, shaking his head like it’s enough to shake off the memory. The memory sticks, but his headache gets worse.
He drags his blanket over his head, sweltering under the heavy cotton. The heat incubates his resentment; his resentment swells into rage, ballooning in his chest until his ribs splay open from the pressure. He can’t stop sweating. It feels like he’s suffocating.
To tell the truth, he’s used to living on the outside, always looking in. Nationalism is old news. He’s spent the last three years stuck in the shadow of his passport and his accent, and he’s survived.
What he isn’t used to is the burn of betrayal in his gut. What he isn’t used to is Hanbin, stabbing him in the back, one more asshole telling him to give up and go home because he isn’t good enough to make it.
Screw Hanbin—Zhang Hao’s here to stay.
He’d filled out his pre-show questionnaire three weeks ago without thinking much of it. Question #1: What’s your dream for Boys Planet?
“Third place,” he’d conceded, with a heart yearning for first and the world’s warnings echoing in his ears. Don’t aim too high. Don’t expect too much. Don’t take what isn’t yours.
Fuck that, Zhang Hao thinks. He didn’t come this far to be second best. There’s only one goal worthy of every bruise and blister and sleepless night.
First place. He’s going to win, even if no one else thinks he can.
He’s going to win, even if no one else wants him to.
He’s going to win—and he’s going to crush Sung Hanbin while he’s at it.
Notes:
It’s a misunderstanding! Hanbin really isn’t being an asshole 😭
Chapter Text
A day passes, and then another, and Hanbin doesn’t visit Zhang Hao’s room.
Well—technically, he does; once after lunch, arm-in-arm with Seok Matthew, a second time to drop off vitamin C for Keita (apparently Hanbin hoards a pharmacy’s worth of supplements in his cabinet, and there’s a virus going around the dorms).
Hanbin doesn’t visit Zhang Hao’s room to see Zhang Hao.
Zhang Hao’s surprised by how much the rejection stings, even though his expectations are already in the gutter. In his defense—he’s allowed to be disappointed, because everyone knows Sun Tzu’s first rule of war: know your enemy like you know yourself.
He swishes his chopsticks around his naengmyeon soup, pushing the noodles in circles. Hanbin’s sitting four tables over, in the middle of the cafeteria, surrounded by the posse of friends he’s picked up within two days of filming. Even after five hours of dance practice, with sweat stains under his armpits, he’s disgustingly charming. Zhang Hao wonders what it’s like, to wake up every morning knowing that there’s enough space in the world for you—fitting in and standing out at the same time.
“Hey,” says Ricky, leaning over the dining table to wave a hand across Zhang Hao’s eyes. “Sung Hanbin’s going to combust if you keep glaring at him like that.”
Chen Kuanjui snickers into his pickled vegetables. “Leave him alone. Our Zhang Hao is in love.” Zhang Hao’s been friends with Kuanjui since they met at dance practice three years ago, but every once in a while that feels like a bad decision. This is one of those times.
He rolls his eyes and says around a mouthful of noodles, “Stop it. I don’t care about Sung Hanbin. Seriously. I care about Kim Min-seoung’s dirty gym socks more than I care about Sung Hanbin.”
“Who’s Kim Min-seoung?” Ricky asks, forehead wrinkling.
Zhang Hao shrugs. “No idea. Someone who matters more to me than Sung Hanbin.”
The universe has a personal grudge against Zhang Hao’s mental health, so his friends don’t buy it.
“You know what they say, ge,” Ricky drawls.
Kuanjui chimes in, gamely: “Denial isn’t a river in Egypt. There’s a fine line between love and hate. Enemies to lovers is the top-selling romance manhwa trope for a reason.”
Zhang Hao groans. “If you keep talking nonsense, I’m going to jump off a bridge, I swear.”
“Don’t worry, Hanbin will catch you.”
“Yeah, have you seen his arms? He could definitely catch you. He could probably deadlift you. Waacking biceps are no joke.”
Kuanjui and Ricky flash him identical smirks, like a pair of demon twins.
Zhang Hao grinds his teeth.
Seriously—he has the self-restraint of a monk for getting through this conversation without blowing a fuse. If he’s axed from Boys Planet, he could probably shave himself bald and collect alms to make ends meet.
He’s trying to figure out how to excuse himself from lunch when, across the cafeteria, Hanbin finally gets up with his empty tray. His friends are still eating—Hanbin’s charming, but not as charming as jajangmyeon on an empty stomach—which gives Zhang Hao a rare window of opportunity to strike.
“All right,” he says, “I’m out of here. I need to go, um, practice.”
Ricky snorts. “Practice what? Staring tenderly into Sung Hanbin’s eyes?”
“It’s called competitive research,” Zhang Hao snaps, glaring at him.
“It’s called love. Go get your man!”
Zhang Hao rolls his eyes and stands up. It’s going to be a medical miracle if he survives Boys Planet without getting a heart attack, but at least Ricky’s rich enough to cover his hospital bills.
***
Hanbin makes a beeline for the practice rooms. Zhang Hao tails him from a distance, like they’re coincidentally heading in the same direction, at the same time. He’s watched every season of Produce by this point, so he’s pretty sure there’s no such thing as a stalker-edit, but he’s not counting on the producers to show any mercy. They’re cutting-edge when it comes to creative take-downs.
At the end of the hallway, Hanbin ducks into a training room tucked against the stairwell, disappearing behind an open door. The room’s small enough to look like a utility closet, so the other trainees forget it exists most of the time. Zhang Hao sucks in a deep breath and tries to smile.
This is it—phase one. Reconnaissance.
His heart really shouldn’t be pounding as hard as it is.
By the time he makes it into the practice room five minutes later, shoulders relaxed with false confidence, Hanbin is already halfway through the dance routine to Boys Planet’s theme song. In three weeks, they’re getting re-evaluated on their Signal Song performances, and the choreo is harder than it looks—even after two days of training, Zhang Hao can’t finish the routine without running out of breath.
Hanbin doesn’t have the same problem. He hits every beat like there’s a metronome hard-wired into his brain—like it’s easy for him, because he’s Sung Hanbin, and everything’s easy for him. Zhang Hao’s pulse throbs in his throat, fluttering like butterfly wings. His palms are clammy and his throat is dry, but he can do this.
So what if Hanbin’s good at dancing? So what if Hanbin’s handsome and popular and media-trained within an inch of his life?
Zhang Hao’s going to kick his ass anyways.
Hanbin sees his reflection in the mirror and turns around. His smile still makes Zhang Hao’s heart skip a beat—like a Pavlovian reaction he can’t unlearn. His eyes gleam under the ceiling lights, long lashes dusting feathery shadows over his cheekbones. Zhang Hao scours his face for deceit and comes up empty. He’s a good actor, which scares Zhang Hao more than he wants to admit—the way Hanbin can laugh with him now, then laugh at him later.
…Whatever, he thinks. Bring it on. Hanbin doesn’t have a monopoly on lies.
“Hao-hyung,” Hanbin says softly, switching off the music. His grin turns sheepish. “Hey, I was going to look for you, but you found me first.”
Zhang Hao huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets so his fists don’t give him away. “I got tired of waiting.”
“Really? What if I was playing hard to get?” Hanbin teases. He rakes his fingers through his hair, eyes dancing. Zhang Hao’s stomach does a backflip at how good he looks with his bangs pushed back.
Hanbin’s doing this on purpose—messing with his head, psychological warfare.
Two can play at that game.
“I take it back,” Zhang Hao says, loftily. “I’m just here to practice. No other reasons, none whatsoever.”
“Really. Of all the training rooms in all the world....”
“Is that a Casablanca reference?”
“It’s a good movie.” Hanbin laughs, a little breathlessly. “So romantic, hyung.”
Zhang Hao shrugs, deliberately nonchalant. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen it. I’m not big on romance.”
He’s lying to make a point—Hanbin doesn’t need to know about the BL dramas on his laptop.
“Ah,” murmurs Hanbin. Zhang Hao stares at him, fascinated by the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. Hanbin stares back.
The air between them feels supercharged; every breath he takes sends electricity crackling down his lungs. He wonders if Hanbin notices it too. The tension pinning them down like bugs in amber. The tingle of goosebumps on the back of his neck.
“Hey,” he says, to break the silence. “I owe you, right?”
“You do?” asks Hanbin, sounding a little strangled.
Zhang Hao smirks. “My number. You asked, didn’t you?”
“I…I think I remember that, yeah.”
Hanbin grins at him, tentatively. The smile washes over the icy planes of his face like sunlight in July, softening the angles of his straight nose and sharp cheekbones. His eyes crinkle.
It’s fake, Zhang Hao reminds himself. He’s fake. I’m fake. We’re faking it.
Out loud, he says, “Give me your phone.”
“Yeah,” Hanbin breathes. He pulls a battered Samsung out of his pocket. Their fingers brush when it changes hands.
Hao taps in his number quickly, ignoring the phantom tingle of Hanbin’s skin grazing his own. He snaps a tasteful selfie for the contact photo, fingers cocked in a V (for victory, not peace, obviously).
“Here,” he says, handing the phone back. They don’t touch again this time; he makes sure of it. “All yours.”
Hanbin’s eyes shine. “Mine, huh?” he asks. He looks a little lost, like he can’t believe it.
Heat pools in Zhang Hao’s stomach. He doesn’t know what to say. It’s a dangerous feeling, so he clears his throat and changes the topic. He’s always been good at running away.
“Hey, Hanbin-ah. I was thinking—now that you have my number, you owe me one, right? Since we’re here already, be a good dongsaeng and help your hyung out with dance practice. Everyone knows you’re the best on the show.”
(He sends a silent apology to Chen Kuanjui.)
Hanbin jolts out of his daze, nodding enthusiastically. “Sure, I’d love to, hyung.”
Zhang Hao’s sure he would—there’s a camera in the corner of the room, and Hanbin needs more footage for his angel-edit. He doesn’t see Zhang Hao as a real threat, anyways.
But his loss is Zhang Hao’s gain, because Zhang Hao needs all the help he can get. Even if it’s from his rival.
And hey—if, as they run through the choreography together, his eyes linger a little too long on the slope of Hanbin’s profile, the cut of his collarbones, the curve of his perfect mouth….
…No one but Zhang Hao needs to know.
***
Sung Hanbin
Hi, it’s me!
Zhang Hao
who
Sung Hanbin
Sorry, I meant, it’s Hanbin haha
Oops
Zhang Hao
loll i know
how many people do u think i give my # to
come on
Sung Hanbin
Hopefully not that many
Zhang Hao
jealous? ;)
Sung Hanbin
:0
Zhang Hao
jk
btw, why are u texting me in the middle of the night
kinda giving the wrong impression here
Sung Hanbin
Omg
It’s not like that!
Zhang Hao
not like what
Sung Hanbin
Hyung…
Zhang Hao
lol
well if u don’t need a booty call, u should go to sleep
long day ahead tmrw
im passing out now, bye
Sung Hanbin
Ok, good night!
Zhang Hao
gngn
Sung Hanbin
It was nice practicing with you today
We should do it again soon :)
Zhang Hao
Read at 12:48am
***
The weeks before the second round of evaluations pass by in a blur of bruised feet and sore throats. Whoever gets the highest score wins the Killing Part in the first performance, so Zhang Hao needs to be the best. Obsession festers like a wound; the rot spreads from skin to muscle to bone.
His vocal chords rearrange themselves around the shapes of the lyrics. He wakes up humming his lines under his breath: “Na bit-na, na bit-na, na bit-na.” Shining, shining, shining.
Sometimes, he dreams about long eyelashes and whisker dimples, and lyrics start to sound like “Hanbin-ah, Hanbin-ah, Hanbin-ah” instead. Pressure frays his nerves; hunger hollows his stomach; exhaustion whittles his patience away, inch by inch by inch. His bitterness hones him like a blade, and that gives him the edge he needs to win, so he leans into it. Loses himself to insanity—because isn’t that all daring to dream really is, anyways?
He tries to forget about Hanbin, but that’s impossible, so he ignores Hanbin instead. He’s running out of time, and he has a competition to win, a point to prove.
Distance blurs his memory, and somewhere along the way, Hanbin, the person, fades into Hanbin, the symbol. Larger than life: an effigy for Zhang Hao to burn. Every Korean who’s told Zhang Hao to go home—every insult about his accent—every voice telling him he’ll never make it.
He doesn’t know if he’s angry at Hanbin or angry at the world anymore. Does it matter?
He’ll never win, rings the echo of Hanbin’s voice. It’s such a shame. He’s a shame—such a shame—he’s a shame.
Zhang Hao remembers everything. Everything makes him seethe, and he practices until his toes bleed and his lungs ache. More bruises fester in more ways than one.
He promises himself that this time, he’ll win. He’s good enough; he has to be. The Killing Part is his to take.
The training room clocks count down the seconds until the final evaluation: tick, tick, tick.
Tick, tick, tick.
And just like that, it’s time.
***
Spoiler alert: Zhang Hao loses.
Notes:
Smh, the denial is strong
Chapter Text
Hanbin wins, and for some reason, it feels like the beginning of the end.
He’s happy; of course he is. The spotlight is his dream; the stage is his home. His future swims behind his eyelids when he sleeps: the heat of the stadium lights on his face, the crowd chanting his name.
(He’s a bit of an attention whore, he’ll admit to Zhang Hao later with wry self-deprecation. He’s an idol trainee; aren’t they all?)
He’s used to tempering his expectations. His competition is every inch as hungry as he is. They’ve sold their souls to the same cruel god, and there’s a comfort in that, a sense of post-traumatic solidarity.
But Hanbin wins—Hanbin gets chosen—and no one else does, and just like that, everything changes. The other contestants look at him with new eyes. He’s no longer Hanbin, who runs a bootleg pharmacy out of his bathroom and crushes iced Americanos like water, but Sung Hanbin, K-Group Center, born to win.
Hanbin’s waited for this moment for years. But he never expected it to feel so lonely, and his joy curdles in his mouth like soured milk, until all he tastes is bitterness.
But then—then there’s Zhang Hao. Zhang Hao, the G-Group sub-Center. Zhang Hao, who understands.
Hanbin remembers the first time he met Zhang Hao like it was yesterday. The olive green of his jacket. The sunlight gilding his hair. The way he’d squared his shoulders like he was going to war.
Zhang Hao had felt solid. Steady, even with his knees shaking. Offering comfort to a stranger—and even though Hanbin’s used to shouldering everyone else’s burdens, no one's ever returned the favor. Until Zhang Hao.
Hundreds of trainees had applied for Boys Planet; 96 had made the cut. Most of them, in the end, would scatter back into obscurity like dandelion fluff. Not Zhang Hao. Even before Hanbin had known Zhang Hao, he’d known Zhang Hao was going to make it.
In the interest of not sounding like a creepy stalker, he doesn’t verbalize any of that to Zhang Hao the second time they meet. He just smiles and lies and hopes for the best, because that’s what he always does.
But maybe, this time around, that’s not enough. Because here’s the thing: ever since the second round of evaluations, Zhang Hao has been missing.
Hanbin still runs into him from time to time. In the cafeteria: laughing with Ricky and Chen Kuanjui. In the training rooms: sweat soaking the back of his t-shirt. In the hallways: walking around in a sheet-mask.
But Zhang Hao ignores his texts and avoids his eyes, and Hanbin can take a hint.
He keeps wanting Zhang Hao anyways.
So—when the producers tell him that they’re going to spend the day together, as the show’s Centers, filming the music video for “Here I Am,” his heart swells with stubborn hope.
(Later, Matthew catches him grinning like an idiot and tells him he’s so fucked, hyung. Hanbin definitely agrees with that assessment.)
The morning of the shoot is crisp and cloudless. The air smells like dead leaves and new beginnings. Hanbin arrives at the curb where the production van is supposed to pick them up first. He’s suffocating in his turtleneck and long coat, courtesy of MNet’s stylist, but it’s fine. He looks good. He needs to look good all the time (because that’s what people like him for, isn’t it?), but he really needs to look good today.
Zhang Hao shows up a few minutes later. He’s wearing glasses, eyes swimming behind thick wire-rimmed frames. They suit him.
“Sorry I’m late,” Zhang Hao says, pushing his glasses up his nose. He has a nice nose, narrow and curved with a high nose bridge. “Did I keep you waiting?”
“Nope, not at all. The van isn’t even here yet.” Hanbin smiles, reaching up to smooth his bangs into place. The wind keeps ruffling his hair.
Zhang Hao doesn’t smile back, so they stand there awkwardly for a while, Zhang Hao’s hands shoved into his pockets, Hanbin’s fingers drumming against his thighs.
“Congrats, by the way,” Zhang Hao says, finally. He knocks his shoulder against Hanbin’s, and it makes his heart pound even though there are four layers of wool between them. “On Center. Everyone was expecting it.”
“You too, hyung. Congrats on sub-Center.” Hanbin winces before he finishes his sentence; it sounds like he’s rubbing it in.
Zhang Hao shrugs, unfazed. “Thanks,” he says. “Surprised?”
Hanbin stares at him. “What? Why would I be?”
Zhang Hao snorts and shakes his head. “No reason. Forget it.”
“Um, okay.”
Hanbin scuffs his foot against the curb, shivering under his coat. Something’s wrong today. Their chemistry’s off, leached away like color fading into sepia.
“Hyung,” he says, fumbling for the right words, “We probably should get to know each other, right? The producers want us to. Since we have a dance break together, and it’s a good chance to, uh….”
“To titillate the fans with homo-erotic subtext?” Zhang Hao asks, smirking.
Hanbin’s jaw drops. “Hyung. That’s not what I was going to say.”
“The choreographers literally told us our concept is ‘star-crossed lovers.’”
“But, like, platonic, public-friendly star-crossed lovers.” Hanbin rolls his eyes a little, fidgeting with the hem of his sweater.
Zhang Hao’s smirk widens. “Yeah, two bros, chilling on stage, zero feet apart ‘cause they’re star-crossed lovers.”
Hanbin chokes on a laugh. It’s loud and startled—not the one he usually forces in public, but an unattractive snort that folds his eyes into slits.
“Is that what we are now?” he asks, once he recovers, giving Zhang Hao a guileless look through his eyelashes. “Two bros?”
Zhang Hao punches him in the shoulder. “For sure, bro.”
“What if I don’t want to be your bro?”
Zhang Hao’s eyes widen. “What do you want, then?” he asks, a little hoarsely.
Hanbin grins at him. “Breakfast.”
Zhang Hao punches him again.
Leaves swirl around them, helicoptering down from the trees, and they’re smirking at each other now, skin chafing against the cold.
“So,” Hanbin says, decisively. “Back on topic. We should get to know each other better. I have so many questions, hyung. You’re a total mystery.”
“Am I?” Zhang Hao asks, looking amused.
“Yeah. I’ve heard so many rumors about you. Your pre-debut history and stuff.”
Zhang Hao slants him a sharp, sudden look, brows lowering over dark eyes. “You mean the rumors that I’m gay?”
Hanbin chokes on his own breath. “Wait, what? No, crap, sorry. Not that, I wouldn’t ask about….I mean, even if you are, it’s fine, obviously, but—”
Zhang Hao rolls his eyes and says, “I am.”
Hanbin’s throat closes up. “Me too.”
“Nice.”
Hanbin swallows, hard. They’re off track—they’re so far off track the train is in America already—and he’s still trying to figure out how to steer the conversation into safer territory when the production van finally skids around the curb.
Great timing, he thinks, sagging with relief.
The van is massive and tar-black with tinted windows. Climbing inside makes him feel like a real celebrity. Zhang Hao follows behind him; they slide into the back row together, closer than they need to, thighs pressed against each other.
It feels dangerous. Hanbin’s eyes flutter shut; he lets himself bask in it.
The van rumbles into motion. The sun blazes higher and hotter outside. They leave the Boys Planet campus behind, fields fading into forests fading into fields on both sides of the road.
“I was talking about other stuff, earlier,” Hanbin says quietly, because he needs to explain himself. “Your life in China. Getting into the best geosciences university in China, going into showbiz instead—how Yuehua scouted you for, what, four years? You know, normal life stuff.”
He’s giving himself away—his stupid crush; how much he knows about Zhang Hao; the gossip he’s hoarded like dragon’s gold, trying to separate hyperbole from truth.
Some of the tension eases from Zhang Hao’s shoulders. His leg is warm against Hanbin’s.
“Three years,” he drawls. He nudges Hanbin with one foot, eyes gleaming.
“What?”
“Yuehua scouted me for three years, not four. I was busy with college, beforehand. Getting my music teacher certification, working part-time jobs, all the boring practical stuff.”
Hanbin nods. “It’s not boring. It’s smart, having a backup in case you don’t make it in the industry. I did the same thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Mm. Not as impressive, but the same idea. College, side jobs, teaching dance classes. I almost enlisted, too, actually. And then Boys Planet called, and I figured I’d give the idol life one last shot.”
“Last?” Zhang Hao echoes, frowning. “You almost gave up?”
“Something like that. At my old company, things got pretty messy…I mean, things are still messy at my new company, too, but I’m making it work. Trying to, at least.”
“Me too. I’m trying. Haven’t gotten that far yet, but I’m trying.”
They exhale at the same time, faces warm under the sun. The silence is comfortable this time. They both understand—what it’s like, to bare their souls to the world and be found unworthy.
Zhang Hao lets out an exaggerated yawn, tipping his face up so Hanbin can’t read his expression anymore. “Hey,” he says. “Look, I’m pretty tired, actually. It’s been a long morning, and I didn’t get a ton of sleep last night. I’m going to take a nap—wake me up when we’re almost there, okay?”
“Sounds good,” Hanbin says, ignoring the pang of disappointment in his chest.
Zhang Hao’s foot drags a lazy line up Hanbin’s shin. Hanbin jumps; lightning sparks between them. He twists in his seat, heart pounding, but Zhang Hao’s eyes are already closed.
“Asleep so fast?” Hanbin asks, quietly.
Zhang Hao’s eyes twitch under his lids. He doesn’t say anything.
Hanbin sighs. “Sleep well.”
His only answer is the swell of Zhang Hao’s chest.
Up and down.
Up and down.
***
When they arrive at the film site, there’s no time to talk before the crew relocates them to different sets. Zhang Hao gets ushered away first, towards the sparse forest bordering the abandoned warehouse where Hanbin’s filming his half of the music video.
Make-up artists and hairstylists swoop in for a final round of touch-ups, adjusting Hanbin’s fringe and tapping setting powder onto his face. The set is sparse and desolate, shadows draping over faded slate-gray concrete, but that’s the mood the producers are going for. Apparently.
“Look sad,” the director calls out, helpfully. Hanbin sighs and schools his face into a familiar mask of pensive longing. He’s practiced this expression in the mirror a million times already, but he shouldn’t have—he’s barely acting, anyways.
The cameraman shoots him staring moodily out the window, staring moodily at a wall, staring moodily into space. He sketches out a rudimentary freestyle, because the director tells him to. Filming wraps up ahead of schedule—”Good job, kid,” the cinematographer says gruffly. “Lots of one-takes, great work for an amateur.”
Hanbin smiles politely at him. “Thanks,” he says. The compliment stings—he hopes the footage doesn’t come out amateurish, too. Maybe the whole crew could tell he spent most of the shoot thinking about Zhang Hao.
An assistant producer swoops in and walks Hanbin back outside. It’s chilly now, the setting sun carving a virulent streak of red into the sky, like a fresh wound bleeding into the clouds. Zhang Hao’s hair is red, too, but a different shade. Burgundy, instead of crimson.
“The other kid is still filming,” the producer says, steering Hanbin back towards the van. “Why don’t you wait in the car until he wraps up? Take a break; you look tired.”
Hanbin flashes her his best doe-eyed smile. “Can I go watch Zhang Hao?”
The producer hesitates. “Are you going to distract him? We’re only renting the set until eight, so we can’t have you interrupting any shots.”
Hanbin shakes his head. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“Trying to scope out the competition?”
“...Right. Yes. That’s what I’m doing.” It’s a lie, but it’s a better reason than the truth, so he rolls with it.
“Keep your distance, okay?” the producer says, shrugging. “It’s my head on a plate if you screw things up.”
“I won’t,” Hanbin says, virtuously.
The darkening sky gives him enough cover to slink through the tangle of trees unnoticed. There’s a clearing in the middle of the forest, where Hanbin can pick out the tell-tale silhouettes of the cameramen and crew members.
He stops a few feet away from the film site, peeking out from behind a tree. Zhang Hao is standing in the middle of the clearing, violin tucked under his chin, teasing out the last strains of a Tchaikovsky concerto. His eyes are closed and his expression is wistful. Sad—no, lonely.
Hanbin recognizes the look on his face. Sees it on his own, sometimes, in the mirror at night when everyone else is sleeping.
The concerto tapers into its last note. The music whistles through the trees like it’s reaching for him.
He wants to reach back, with everything he has, but the timing’s all wrong.
He keeps waiting, instead.
Notes:
Hanbin’s POV is so hard to write! But I tried to make it distinct from Hao’s 🫠
Chapter 4: You Have What I Want (You’d Give It To Me If I Asked)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Zhang Hao spends the next week practicing “Here I Am,” and it feels like death by a thousand cuts.
They’re two days shy of the official performance, and the stadium is aglow with panels of LED lights for the dress rehearsal. The other contestants are in position already: zero-star trainees on the ground level, All-Stars fifty feet above them on a platform so steep Zhang Hao could probably touch the ceiling with one hand if he reached up.
The round three-tiered stage reminds him of a wedding cake. He’s stationed next to Hanbin in the middle of the highest platform like a cake topper, and looking down from the top gives him an unnerving sense of vertigo—he’s always been scared of heights.
“Crouch down and try not to fall over,” the stage manager says, surveying the two of them with a critical eye. “We’re testing the stage lift now. We’re going to lower you into the under-stage compartment, and when the music starts, you come back up again. Got it?”
“Great, sounds good,” says Hanbin, all smiles. Hao nods along with a fraction of the enthusiasm.
They barely have time to drop into crouches before the lift jerks down with a screech. The shift knocks Zhang Hao off balance, and he rocks sideways into Hanbin, head cracking against Hanbin’s knee.
“Ow, fuck,” he mutters, groaning.
Hanbin grabs his shoulders, steadying him. “Crap, hyung, are you okay?”
Zhang Hao shrugs off Hanbin’s grip with a scowl. “I’m fine. I’m okay, god, your knees are so hard.”
“Calcium supplements,” Hanbin says, wincing. “I’m sorry. You’re sure you’re okay?”
Zhang Hao isn’t. It doesn’t have anything to do with his migraine.
He’s glad they’re down here alone, tucked out of sight. There’s something disconcerting about the intensity of Hanbin’s eyes, and Zhang Hao doesn’t have the emotional capacity to deal with…whatever’s making his stomach spasm like a dying animal.
He clears his throat, gruffly. “We should get back into position.”
“Right, yeah, of course.”
Hanbin backs off. The lift grinds into motion. They go up again, squinting against the stadium lights as the world closes in around them.
“Perfect,” the stage manager says. “You got it, just like that.” She sticks her pen behind her ear and looks down at her clipboard. “All right, now we’re going to test moving the lift up.”
She grabs Hao by the crook of his elbow and drags him off the platform. He stumbles sideways, lurching towards the edge of the stage. “You, don’t forget to get out of the way when we transition to this part, yeah?”
Get out of the way. Make room for the real Center. We don’t need you anymore.
Sure, fine, okay. If Zhang Hao had a nickel for every time he heard those words, he’d be rich enough to buy a controlling stake in MNet by now.
Three years of media training keep his smile anchored on his face, even as envy crests in his chest. “Yup, got it,” he says evenly, trying not to glare over the stage manager’s shoulder at Hanbin. Hanbin, silhouetted mid-stage, everyone’s first choice. Korea’s darling, shining brighter without Zhang Hao around to dim his glow.
He wants the world to look at him the same way. He wants it so badly his bones ache. Maybe he’s finally falling apart, the weight of his own impossible expectations grinding him into stardust.
The thing is: what really hurts isn’t the futility of his own efforts, the hours and hours of practice gone to waste. It’s wondering if he’s good enough—and knowing that Hanbin is.
It’s asking himself if, maybe, Hanbin was right all along: Zhang Hao doesn’t deserve to be his rival. Zhang Hao doesn’t deserve to win.
Because Hanbin is perfect. And Zhang Hao….
Zhang Hao isn’t.
He clenches his jaw as the lift climbs higher, carrying Hanbin to the peak of the stage like a god. Less than ten feet away and a million miles out of reach at the same time.
Zhang Hao hates him. No, Zhang Hao hates himself.
What’s the difference, anyways?
Up on the lift, Hanbin turns around and looks straight at Zhang Hao—gloating.
Because that’s how it always ends between them: with Hanbin on top, looking down. Never equals, not really. Hanbin always wins; Zhang Hao always loses; as sure as the sun sets and the seasons change.
It sucks. God, it fucking sucks.
“Okay, looks good. Bring him down,” the stage manager tells the crew. The lift retracts; Hanbin looks as perfect coming down as he did going up.
Zhang Hao wants to ruin him.
“So far so good,” shouts the director from his booth on the ground level. Static crackles through the loudspeakers. “Mechanics all set, right?”
“Good to go,” the stage manager confirms.
“All right. Let’s run through the routine then, top to bottom. Everyone back in position.”
Zhang Hao joins Hanbin on the lift again, anchoring himself against the slick plexiglass. They plunge understage. The music starts.
The routine is familiar enough to be mundane, after four weeks of brutal practice. The choreography lives in Zhang Hao’s DNA by now; he nails every beat and angle on autopilot. He isn’t as good as Hanbin, but…he’s adequate.
He’s adequate, and that’s enough, until they get to the dance break—his duet with Hanbin, where they’re supposed to spin around each other like ballerinas on a music box. Hanbin’s eyes blaze under the stadium lights, and Zhang Hao can see his own face reflected in them. His pinched forehead and pale cheeks; the unhappy twist of his mouth.
It feels like he’s looking at himself through Hanbin’s eyes.
It feels like he’s looking at a ghost.
He can’t stand it; he looks away.
“Cut!” yells the director. “Cut, cut! G-Center, fix your expression, please.”
Fuck.
Zhang Hao flinches, face burning. Everyone’s looking at him. He wants to run away—he wants to disappear—but there’s nowhere to hide, not under the harsh glare of the stadium lights setting him on fire for the world to see.
So he gets back into position instead. Takes a deep breath, steadies his nerves even though they’re fraying. The music swells through the speakers again, crescendoing into the bridge. The weight of Hanbin’s stare makes Zhang Hao’s skin prickle.
Whoever said that the eyes are the windows to the soul was full of crap. Hanbin’s eyes aren’t windows; they’re mirrors—and he can’t see Hanbin’s soul in them, but…he can see his own.
“Cut!” the director snarls. “G-Center, get it together. What’s wrong with you? Where’s your focus? Stop staring into space and start staring at Sung Hanbin, for Christ’s sake.”
Zhang Hao grits his teeth, balling up his fists in his pockets. His heart hammers in his chest. He needs to get it together; his career’s over if the director’s rant airs on national TV.
“I’m sorry,” he says, folding into a textbook bow. His voice cracks. “I’ll do better next time, I promise. It’s my fault.”
Hanbin sketches out a bow, too. “No, it’s my fault. I wasn’t cooperating well with Zhang Hao-ssi.”
Zhang Hao clenches his jaw, glaring at the floor instead of Hanbin because everyone’s watching. Hanbin’s doing this on purpose, isn’t he? Martyring himself to make Zhang Hao look worse—as if Zhang Hao can’t take responsibility for his own inadequacies.
“You two, practice more,” the director snaps. “No more excuses; this is unacceptable. You have a long way to go before you’re stage-ready. At this rate, you’re going to end up embarrassing yourselves, your fellow trainees, and everyone involved in the shoot, including me. Is that what you want?”
Zhang Hao shrinks back. “No,” he mutters.
“Definitely not,” Hanbin echoes.
Zhang Hao slants Hanbin a narrow-eyed look. Hanbin’s face is almost as white as Zhang Hao’s own, bloodless under the sheen of tinted moisturizer on his cheeks.
“Hyung, do you have time tonight?” Hanbin asks under his breath. “We should meet up and practice together. We’re running out of time.”
Zhang Hao grits his teeth. “Sure, I have all night. As long as it takes.”
“Great, sounds good. Don’t worry, hyung, we’re going to get through this. We’re going to figure it out. Trust me, okay?”
Zhang Hao doesn’t.
He doesn’t trust himself anymore, either.
***
After the dress rehearsal, they meet up in the private training room by the stairwell. It’s midnight, and the halls are empty. Everyone’s asleep, except for them.
“Catch,” Zhang Hao says, lobbing a can of Zero Cola at Hanbin. They’re both addicts—it’s an easy hit of caffeine, soda without the empty calories. “Thanks for staying up late to practice with me. You didn’t need to.”
He can’t help the hard edge of resentment in his voice, even though he’s trying to sound sincere. It’s his fault that they’re stuck here, stewing in their own shortcomings. They have two days left until they go on stage, and time keeps slipping away like sand between their fingers.
“Hyung, you don’t need to thank me,” Hanbin says, gently. “We’re a team. You and me, we’ve got this.”
Zhang Hao scowls. He doesn’t need Hanbin’s pity. He needs Hanbin’s rage, so he can rage right back instead of raging at himself.
“Cool,” he says, instead. “Thanks.”
“Let’s start with verse three and transition into the bridge?”
“Sounds good.”
Hanbin turns up music. They run through the dance break again, and it’s all wrong; Zhang Hao can see it in the mirror. He’s stiff where he needs to be fluid, sharp where he needs to be soft.
He glares at his reflection. His reflection glares back at him.
“Hey, it’s okay. Relax and look at me,” Hanbin says, with an easy smile that grates on Zhang Hao’s nerves. Zhang Hao doesn’t want to look at him. He forces himself to, anyways.
The music switches back on. They retrace the same steps; Zhang Hao makes the same mistakes. The music stops.
Hanbin chews on his lower lip, forehead creasing. “Something’s off,” he says. “We’re hitting the right beats, but….”
“I’m looking at you,” Zhang Hao bites out. “What else do you want from me?”
Hanbin laughs, but it sounds forced—a crack in his composure, finally. “You’re not looking at me, hyung, you’re glaring at me.” He swallows, pushing his fingers through his hair. “Did I do something wrong?”
“You’re fine,” Zhang Hao snaps. “There’s nothing wrong with you; you’re perfect. I’m the problem, okay? I get it.”
Hanbin flinches. “I’m not perfect. And you’re not the problem.”
Bullshit.
Zhang Hao groans, clamping his hands over his eyelids. His palms are clammy with sweat, cold against the flush of his cheeks. “It’s my fault. I keep screwing up. I don’t know how to fix this—I’m trying, I swear, I just—”
I’m not good enough.
I’m not you.
The words stick in his throat; he chokes on them. The sympathy in Hanbin’s eyes makes him want to scream.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Hanbin says, softly. He gives Zhang Hao a long, thoughtful look, and then his mouth curves into a shadow of a grin. “We should probably talk, shouldn’t we?” he asks. He pads over to the tripod in the corner of the room and turns off the camera. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
Zhang Hao gapes at him. “You’re not supposed to do that. The producers are going to be pissed.”
“It’s fine, I can deal with them.” Hanbin shrugs, and Zhang Hao wonders if it’s just bravado or if he’s always been hiding a rebellious streak under his class-president smile. “We’re going to get into even more trouble if we can’t fix this, right? And it’s easier to work things out if no one’s listening.”
He reaches for Zhang Hao’s hands, threading their fingers together. His palms are warm and dry, rough with old calluses. Zhang Hao can feel the hummingbird flutter of his pulse at his wrists.
“Talk to me, hyung,” Hanbin says. “Tell me what’s wrong. How can I help?”
Hanbin’s face is so close that Hao can pick out each eyelash brushing his skin, the glittering slashes of amber in his irises. He smells like sunshine instead of sweat.
“There’s nothing you can do,” Zhang Hao says, stubbornly. The truth hurts, cutting his lips open on its way out. “It’s me—I’m sick of looking up at you. You don’t know what it’s like—”
“I do,” Hanbin breathes, squeezing Zhang Hao’s fingers. “I do understand. Of course I understand—”
Like hell you do, Zhang Hao thinks.
He shoves him. They stumble backwards, slamming into the training room mirror, and Zhang Hao can’t see his own reflection anymore because Hanbin’s body is blocking it. The cages of their hands bracket Hanbin’s head against the glass.
“Don’t tell me you understand,” he hisses, lip curling. “How could you understand? I’m me, and you’re….”
You’re wanted, he thinks, bitterly. You’re Sung Hanbin.
He whispers instead, breath hitching, “You’ve always looked down on me. I hate it.”
Their bodies slot together, sternum to sternum. Zhang Hao can’t tell if it’s Hanbin’s heartbeat pounding in his ears or his own.
Hanbin laughs. Zhang Hao can taste the air that ghosts out of his lips as he says, “That’s all? Hyung, come on.”
His voice is light with disbelief—it makes Zhang Hao see red. Hanbin’s mocking him again, trampling on the confession he wrenched from Zhang Hao’s guts with sharp nails and bloody fingers.
Zhang Hao hates him.
Zhang Hao wants to have what he has.
Zhang wants to have him.
The world blurs into a kaleidoscope of colors around them. Hanbin looks at him with eyes blown wide, pupils dilating until they swallow the umber of his irises. His skin catches fire against Zhang Hao’s. Zhang Hao wants to burn.
Their mouths slam into each other at the same time.
It’s a brutal kiss, teeth clattering against teeth, tongues sliding against tongues. Hanbin tastes like poison. Zhang Hao can’t get enough of it.
Hanbin moans against his lips, a desperate noise that Zhang Hao teases out of him with vicious satisfaction.
“Hyung,” Hanbin pants against Zhang Hao’s mouth, pulling away. “Hyung, I swear, I’ve never looked down on you.”
Liar, Zhang Hao thinks.
Hanbin leans in again and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Zhang Hao’s lips. No teeth this time—it’s almost sweet. Zhang Hao doesn’t want sweet. Not from Hanbin.
He bites down hard enough to draw blood. Hanbin gasps, eyes darkening with something that looks a lot like hunger.
“I can prove it to you,” he whispers. “Let me help you. Trust me.”
“Fine,” Zhang Hao says, against his better judgment. “I trust you.”
Hanbin untangles his fingers from Zhang Hao’s, gently, like he’s calming down a rabid animal. He runs a tentative thumb along Zhang Hao’s jaw.
Then he flips them around so Zhang Hao is the one with his back to the mirror, caged in. Of course this is what Hanbin wants, he thinks dully. This is who Hanbin is, with his pretensions stripped away: an apex predator to the core, a taker.
Fine. Let him take Zhang Hao. Zhang Hao is tired, and starving, and so full of want he thinks he’d spill desperation instead of blood if Hanbin cut into him with a knife.
Hanbin’s swollen lips curl into a smile, blood beading at the corner of his mouth where Zhang Hao bit down too hard earlier.
He drops to his knees.
Holy shit, Zhang Hao thinks.
His brain shuts down.
Hanbin skims his fingers over the nylon of Zhang Hao’s training sweats, tracing the outline of his crotch where the fabric is already starting to tent. Zhang Hao groans, light-headed. There’s no way this is real. He feels unmoored from his body, dizzy and unbalanced.
Hanbin palms the bulge straining against Zhang Hao’s sweatpants, looking up at Zhang Hao through his lashes. Zhang Hao lets out a shuddering breath. His teeth click shut as he bites back a moan.
“Is this okay?” Hanbin asks softly. He runs his hands down Zhang Hao’s thighs with a tenderness that Zhang Hao can’t understand.
“Yes,” Zhang Hao grits out. “Keep going.”
Hanbin laughs softly. “Okay, hyung.” He traces the outline of Zhang Hao’s dick with careful fingers, working the head until a wet patch blooms over Zhang Hao’s crotch and slicks down his thighs. Zhang Hao bucks into his hand, writhing.
“You’re so impatient,” Hanbin says. There’s a smile in his voice. He slides his fingers under the waistband of Zhang Hao’s boxers. “Can I…”
Zhang Hao grunts. “Ah, Hanbin-ah, you talk too much. If you’re gonna suck my dick, just do it.”
Hanbin’s eyes widen; Zhang Hao hears his breath catch in his throat. “Okay,” he says, looking away, his eyelashes fanning over his cheekbones. “If you want me to.” He sucks in a shaky breath and tugs down Zhang Hao’s boxers. Zhang Hao’s dick slaps against his stomach, shiny with pre-cum. Zhang Hao imagines Hanbin taking it into his mouth and gasps at the electric full-body shudder that travels straight to his crotch.
He reaches down and tucks two fingers under Hanbin’s chin, propping his head up.
“Look at me while you do it,” he says.
Hanbin blinks up at him, insufferably sweet for someone who’s been groping Zhang Hao’s dick through his pants for the last few minutes.
Zhang Hao clears his throat and adds, awkwardly, “Only if you want to, I mean.” He ignores the urge to reach down and swipe a finger over the bruised curve of Hanbin’s mouth. “I don’t think this is what the director meant when he said we should work on our chemistry.”
“Oh, I want to,” Hanbin says. He takes Zhang Hao’s dick in his hand and smooths a palm down the shaft, almost reverently. “I want to.”
Zhang Hao relaxes. “Okay, then. Get on with it.”
“You’re so romantic, hyung,” Hanbin scoffs. He lowers his mouth to Zhang Hao’s crotch and licks a slow stripe down. His lips hover over the head of Zhang Hao’s dick. Zhang Hao shudders at the warm, wet flutter of his breath.
And then his dick is in Hanbin’s mouth—his dick is down Hanbin’s throat—and, wow, holy shit. Game over.
He groans, head lolling, fireworks exploding behind his eyelids.
Hanbin sucks harder, head bobbing. He takes more of Zhang Hao into his mouth, swirling circles around Zhang Hao’s shaft with the tip of his tongue. His eyes stay locked on Zhang Hao’s the whole time: half-lidded and shiny with tears. Looking up, the way Zhang Hao’s always wanted him to.
Goddamn. Zhang Hao’s hips rock against Hanbin’s face. He buries a hand in Hanbin’s hair, shuddering at the spasms of Hanbin’s throat around his dick.
“Fuck,” he hisses, a half-assed warning. “Fuck, Hanbin-ah, I’m—”
His hips buck before he finishes. Every sun in the universe flashes behind his eyes. He empties himself into Hanbin’s mouth, and it feels like finding nirvana.
Hanbin gulps down his release, staring up at Zhang Hao with tears tracking down his cheeks. He doesn’t spit Zhang Hao out until he’s done. Then he drags the back of his hand over his mouth, blinking hard. His knees wobble as he stands up; he clutches at Zhang Hao’s shirt, holding on like he’ll disappear if he lets go.
“Good boy,” Zhang Hao says, smudging leftover cum over Hanbin’s check with his thumb. It mixes with the tears there, thinning into a gossamer sheen.
Hanbin offers him a shaky smile. “So,” he says. “You wanna try running through the dance break again, hyung?”
***
[BOYS PLANET] '난 빛나 (Here I Am)' Performance]
23,653,771 views 2 days ago #보이즈플래닛 #boysplanet #Mnet
69,591 Comments
Top Comments
virida 1 day ago (edited)
Okay but can we talk about how the 2 centers literally look like they want to fk each other??? Are my eyes allowed to see this????? 😳
▾ 84 replies
roze228 2 hours ago
They’re actually insane for this LOL wtf
Dovvv_0205 2 hours ago
that chemistry, jesus christ (no room left for jesus in the choreo though 🔥🔥🔥)
Chicken King 1 hour ago
The BL fangirls are at it again. Not everyone needs to be Homosexual
VJ Mei 13 minutes ago
But I see where OP is coming from, [4:37] cannot be platonic y’all
Joo_ 5 minutes ago
Friendly reminder not to speculate about people’s sexualities
sushi3334 2 days ago
Sung Hanbin is fking hot
▾ 3 replies
ku_shi 2 days ago
Zhang Hao is fking hot
allegra09 1 day ago
Kim Min-seoung is fking hot
wheatgrass_ 1 days ago
Who the fk is Kim Min-seoung
myshushu 1 day ago
Protect the children y’all
yx gjn 1 day ago
▾ 1 reply
Guys this season is going to be so good! Best centers we’ve seen in a long time and the Signal Song is actually decent haha. Can’t wait for episode 1 to drop soon!!
brown_sugar_boba 2 minutes ago
respectfully MY BODY IS READY
View more comments ▾
Notes:
A smutty appetizer before the smutty main course :D
Chapter Text
So, plot twist: Zhang Hao goes viral for ogling Hanbin on national television.
One plus one apparently equals 30 million, because that’s how many views their dance break racks up on Youtube over the next four weeks: 30 million. According to the internet, there’s no higher power like the power of homoerotic subtext.
Zhang Hao is a masochist, so by the end of the month, he has every frame of the video committed to memory:
Hanbin, reaching for him with a tender smile and naked adoration. Zhang Hao, spinning into his arms with parted lips and stars in his eyes.
The music video director’s probably cackling into his pillow every night.
The problem is—he can’t look at real-life Hanbin anymore without remembering music-video-Hanbin. Their dance break plays on repeat in his head every night, taunting him with could-have-beens.
It doesn’t help that everyone on the show thinks they’re an item now, and their relationship gets forty minutes of screen-time in the early screening of the first episode. #Haobin trends on Twitter.
So: Zhang Hao does what he does best. He runs away.
It isn’t the first time he’s ghosted Hanbin. They’ll both survive.
Winter light slashes through the half-open dormitory blinds, harsh and bright enough to make Zhang Hao’s eyes water. The room is freezing—the official verdict from the dorm manager is that the heater is broken, but Zhang Hao is pretty sure the show-runners are just trying to cut costs. Teeth chattering, he hauls his oversized suitcase out of the closet and slams it open.
They’re taking a break from filming for the next few weeks, until the holiday season ends, and it feels like purgatory. Most of the independent trainees have left campus already, trading in training rooms for picket fences. Even Yuehua is giving his label-mates time to unwind; Ricky’s parents stopped by yesterday to whisk him off to Bora Bora for winter break, and Yujin has, like, twenty thousand years of high school coursework to catch up on.
Zhang Hao’s going home to empty dorms and his manager’s scowl.
He’s halfway through shoving the rest of his clothes and skin care and Gyuvin’s spicy fish chips into his suitcase when his phone chimes, loud against the silence of the empty room.
Zhang Hao flinches instinctively. In a stroke of paranoia, he’d set up a Google alert for his name after the music video dropped. He’s read every Youtube comment and Douban thread by now, so he should be numb to the digs at his old history—homophobia masquerading as concern—but he isn’t. He’ll never be.
With the enthusiasm of a death-row inmate, he checks the message.
It isn’t a Pann post exposing his (alleged) history of heterophobic Weibo posts, for once.
It’s worse.
It’s Hanbin.
Zhang Hao takes one look at the contact name and chucks his phone away like a live grenade.
Hanbin—his unintentional one night stand, the so-called Romeo to his shitty Juliet. The reason he’s spent the last month with a growing pit in his stomach and the worst morning wood of his life. Hanbin, and his wet lips, and his eyes blown wide, and the glint of tears on his eyelashes.
Shit, Zhang Hao thinks. He needs to get his hands on a vat of industrial-grade brain bleach before he goes crazy.
He finishes packing, unpacks his sweaters and repacks them folded instead of scrunched up, unpacks a random face mask and slaps it on his face because moisturization is chicken soup for the soul, unpacks Gyuvin’s fish chips and crushes half a bag before guiltily cutting himself off. He doesn’t check Hanbin’s text. He wants to check Hanbin’s text.
He caves in, a casual two hours, 18 minutes later, and checks Hanbin’s text.
Sung Hanbin
Today 9:46am
Hi!
Do you have a sec to talk before winter break?
Today 10:16am
No pressure
Just wondering
Zhang Hao
Today at 12:34pm
hey
im free in two hours, packing rn
Sung Hanbin
Ok sounds good!
Meet me at the cafe downtown?
It’s next to the bus stop so you can catch a ride back to Seoul afterwards
If you want to
Zhang Hao
cool
see you soon
Sung Hanbin
Great
Text me when you’re almost there! I’m downtown already :)
Here’s the address:
Screenshot sent at 12:45pm
***
Zhang Hao takes the 2pm shuttle bus from the Boys Planet campus to downtown Bucheon, and spends all 26 minutes of the ride slouched down in the back row watching remixes of his dance break with Hanbin on Douyin.
The cafe Hanbin recommended is a block away from the shuttle bus drop-off point, a squat pistachio green building with floor-to-ceiling windows and pots of fake flowers flanking the door. Hanbin’s inside already, nursing an iced coffee in one of the corner booths. Zhang Hao grimaces. Americanos taste like Satan’s dirty toilet water—he doesn’t get the hype.
Hanbin apparently has eyes in the back of his head, because he looks up as soon as Zhang Hao walks in and waves him over with a grin so sunny Zhang Hao sees spots. Zhang Hao rolls up to the booth, suitcase screeching across the linoleum tiles, and plunks down next to Hanbin. The cafe is empty, so neither of them are wearing masks. It’s a shame, Zhang Hao thinks; Hanbin needs to put that face away before he hurts someone with it.
“Hey, you made it,” Hanbin says, propping up his chin on one hand. He’s overdressed for a Wednesday, in a tailored coat and maroon crewneck that make him look like the male lead in Netflix’s latest K-drama.
“Sure,” Zhang Hao drawls, casually. “Couldn’t pass up a chance to hang out with my favorite dongsaeng.”
Hanbin scrunches up his face, peering at Zhang Hao over the rim of his Americano. “Really? I thought you forgot about me already.” There’s a grin playing around his mouth, but Zhang Hao catches the twinge of doubt in his voice and winces.
So. Fucking. Awkward.
“I’ve just been busy,” he says, lamely.
Hanbin raises an eyebrow at him. “For the last five weeks.”
“Yeah, super busy, non-stop. Can’t help it.”
Hanbin snorts and echoes, “Me too. Super busy.”
Zhang Hao wonders if it’s too late to get back on the shuttle bus and catch a ride to Seoul. He can’t handle this conversation on four hours of sleep.
“Wanna order something?” Hanbin asks, sliding a menu across the table. “The coffee here’s pretty decent.”
Zhang Hao makes a face and says, “I don’t drink coffee. It’s too bitter. No one really likes coffee, right? People just pretend to like it—it’s a total scam.”
Hanbin looks offended. “Hey, take that back! Coffee is the best. You’ve probably just had the wrong kind of coffee, like Starbucks, or something.”
“I’m okay with Starbucks, actually. Fraps are solid. Double chocolaty chip with extra whipped cream, yum.”
Hanbin huffs. “Hyung, that isn’t coffee. That’s a heart attack in a cup.” He swishes his straw around his Americano and adds, reluctantly, “If you’re into sweet drinks, the hojicha corn latte here is really popular on SNS.”
Zhang Hao perks up. “That actually sounds pretty decent.”
“Told you. I have the best food recs.”
“Says the guy drinking an iced Americano.”
“I’m on a diet! Don’t judge me.”
“Why are you on a diet? Your body’s—”
Zhang Hao grimaces and cuts himself off before he says something embarrassing, like:
Your body’s so hot. Your proportions are so good. Your ass is amazing, oh my god.
His face blazes. Hanbin grins at him.
“What’s that about my body?” he asks, looking more pleased with himself than he has any right to be. Zhang Hao wants to choke him. (In an antagonistic way, obviously. Not, um…the other way.)
Screw it, he thinks, and doubles down, because he’s never been a quitter. “You know exactly how I feel about your body,” he coos, looking Hanbin up and down with shameless elevator eyes.
Hanbin’s cheeks go beet red.
Ha, Zhang Hao thinks, turnabout’s fair play.
He smirks, savoring the hitch of Hanbin’s breath in his throat—the way his pupils dilate and his knuckles go white around his coffee.
Heat pools in his stomach. Hanbin’s pretty easy to tease, for a grade A asshole; Zhang Hao should do it more often.
Across the table, Hanbin looks like he’s about to asphyxiate on his own tongue—and Zhang Hao is too young to go to jail for murder, so he sighs and puts him out of his misery with a twinge of regret.
“I’m going to go grab my latte,” he says, getting up. “Don’t choke and die or anything while I’m gone.”
“I’m good,” Hanbin says weakly. “I’m great.”
Zhang Hao snickers.
Liar.
Grinning to himself, he walks over to the counter and rattles off his order to the aggressively permed ajumma staffing the cash register. She stops smiling at him as soon as he butchers the “o” sound in “corn,” and slides his latte across the countertop at him hard enough to slosh foam over the rim of the cup.
Typical, Zhang Hao thinks. Whatever. He’s used to it already.
Steam curls against his face as he makes his way back to Hanbin with his mug cupped between his hands, hot against the winter chill.
“Wow,” Hanbin says, eyeing Zhang Hao’s objectively superior drink with something like envy. “That smells really good.”
“Yeah, I have great taste.” Zhang Hao takes a sip of his latte and smirks at Hanbin, licking milk froth from his lips.
Hanbin’s eyes track the slow drag of his tongue over his mouth. His throat bobs, once. He blushes.
“Want some?” Zhang Hao asks, innocently.
Hanbin gapes at the innuendo. Zhang Hao tries not to snicker. His foot finds Hanbin’s calf under the table and draws a slow line up.
“Hyung,” Hanbin whispers, shivering. His leg jerks against Zhang Hao’s. “You know, you’re evil. You’re the worst.”
Zhang Hao shrugs. “What? I was just offering to share my drink with you, ‘cause you looked thirsty. You’re so ungrateful, Hanbin-ah.”
Hanbin drops his face into his arms and lets out a muffled groan. “Hyung,” he whines.
Zhang Hao cracks up—he can’t help it. Screwing with Hanbin feels like walking on sunshine.
He’s about to keep teasing Hanbin, when it suddenly hits him like a truck: crap, he’s smiling at Sung Hanbin, certified scumbag. Sung Hanbin, who’s never seen him as an equal. Guilt swells in his throat. It tastes like bile; he chokes on his own laugh.
Get it together, he tells himself, viciously.
His nails bite into his palms. The pain grounds him—reminds him who is. Reminds him who Hanbin is.
Hanbin blinks at him, confused. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Zhang Hao lies through his teeth.
Hanbin frowns and sucks in a breath, looking skeptical. His fingers tap a jerky beat against the tabletop. Zhang Hao glares at the quicksilver flash of his rings and clenches his jaw.
“Hyung,” Hanbin says, quietly. Thoughtfully. “Look. I, uh—I was going to wait to ask, but there’s actually a reason I wanted to meet up with you today, before we go on break. Something I wanted to talk to you about.”
Zhang Hao quirks an eyebrow at him. Unless Hanbin’s finally ready to admit that he’s a closet nationalist with a superiority complex, Zhang Hao doesn’t particularly care what he has to say.
“What?” he bites out, unimpressed.
Hanbin clears his throat. “Okay. So, no pressure, obviously—it’s fine if you aren’t interested. I don’t want to push you into doing anything you don’t want to do. Like, no hard feelings if you say no.”
Apprehension flutters in Zhang Hao’s stomach, wings in a butterfly migration. He swallows, uncomfortably, and looks away.
Maybe he’s just delusional, but…for some reason, it kind of sounds like Hanbin’s trying to ask him out. On a date. Or something. Which, now that Zhang Hao thinks about it, wouldn’t be the craziest idea in the world. Even the internet thinks they have good chemistry.
…Maybe Hanbin gets off on dating down.
…Maybe Zhang Hao’s okay with it.
“Hyung,” Hanbin says quietly, long eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks as he stares at the wood grain on the tabletop. “Everyone thinks we’d be good together, right? We have good synergy—the fans like us together.”
“I guess,” Zhang Hao hedges, waiting for Hanbin to cut to the chase.
Hanbin exhales softly and looks up at him—the way he looks at Zhang Hao on stage, slow and sweet, with the sun and the stars and the moon in his eyes. Zhang Hao’s breath catches.
“Let’s pretend to be together,” Hanbin says. “A fake relationship, for the show.”
Zhang Hao’s heart stops.
Hanbin keeps talking, pushing the words out like he’s running out of time. “Nothing crazy. Just, you know, skinship and fanservice and, uh, spending more time together. For the fans, obviously. To make the fans happy.”
His cheeks are pink. Zhang Hao suddenly wants to slap him.
“Fanservice,” he repeats, flatly.
Hanbin lets out an awkward cough. “Yup. But if you don’t want to—”
Zhang Hao’s toes curl in his shoes. Hanbin’s right—fanservice is a good idea, a surefire way to capitalize on their traction from the music video.
So why does Zhang Hao’s heart feel like it’s cracking open?
“Fine,” he says, and he hears himself like he’s underwater. “Sure. Why not? I’m in.”
Hanbin leans in, eagerly, covering the backs of Zhang Hao’s hands with his palms. “You are?”
“Yeah, okay. Anything for the fans,” Zhang Hao says.
Anything it takes to win, he means.
Hanbin beams at him. “Great. You won’t regret it. This is going to be good for us,” he says, shining with conviction, because he’s used to always winning.
“I know,” Zhang Hao agrees, burning with spite, because he’s sick of always losing.
Hanbin wets his lips, fingers sliding between Zhang Hao’s. He smiles like he’s going in for the kill. “There’s just one thing. I’ve never taken an acting class before, so I might need some practice. You know, so I can be convincing. If you’re up for it…we could spend some time together, maybe, over winter break?”
Zhang Hao grits his teeth. “Like a fake date?” he asks, slowly.
Hanbin nods. “Yeah. Exactly.”
Zhang Hao narrows his eyes at him. Their faces are so close together he can almost taste the lies on Hanbin’s lips.
“Why not?” he says, with a vicious grin.
He frees one hand and pats Hanbin’s cheek, a little condescendingly.
“Let’s do it.”
Notes:
Thusly begins the Fake Dating Disaster
Smh, dummies in love
Chapter 6: I’d Bleed Dry For You (You Don’t Need Me To)
Chapter Text
It takes Hanbin twenty minutes to pick a jacket, half an hour to style his hair, and most of the day to figure out what the first thing he says to Zhang Hao should be (it’s a tough call between “Hi! What’s up?” and “Hey, what’s up?”).
It takes him the entire morning to settle on a restaurant—popular, but not overrated; good, but not overpriced—twelve minutes to walk to the bus station, and one hour to reach Gwangjang Market, where the beginnings of the early-dinner crowd are starting to gather. He isn’t worried about getting recognized. It’s easy to disappear into the tangle of food stalls and shopping booths, and if he ends up debuting with Zhang Hao, they won’t have any more chances to explore Seoul outside the scrutiny of a camera.
He gets to the street market 16 minutes early—he knows the exact number because he’s been watching the seconds tick down on his watch for the better part of an hour—and waits for Zhang Hao at one of the wooden tables in the dining tent.
The air is thick with the tang of charcoal and burnt frying oil. There’s a vendor gridding hotteok nearby; the smell of cinnamon and caramelized sugar wrenches his stomach into a familiar knot of hunger. He hasn’t eaten anything in 32 hours: no breakfast, because he’s saving room for dinner. Because he needs to be the perfect date—and the perfect date is fun and spontaneous and charming; the perfect date inhales street food and slams back cocktails without thinking twice; the perfect date is always game, low-maintenance, down for anything—and that’s not Hanbin, that’s never been Hanbin, but Hanbin can pretend.
Two minutes before he’s supposed to meet up with Zhang Hao (early enough to show that he’s trying, not so early that he seems desperate), he types out a quick text: Just got here!
Three dots blink back at him on screen. He stares at his phone, wondering if he’s hallucinating.
The dots disappear. Disappointment churns in his stomach; he checks his watch again.
“Liar,” a familiar voice breathes against the shell of his ear. Hanbin jolts and turns around, fumbling with his phone.
Zhang Hao smirks at him, hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. His eyes gleam like inkwells under the market lights.
He’s early. They’re both early. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?
“Hey,” Hanbin chokes out, heart hammering against his ribcage. “Hi. You’re here.”
Zhang Hao raises an eyebrow at him, looking amused. “Yeah, so are you. Waiting for me?”
“No,” Hanbin lies.
Zhang Hao snorts and says, flatly, “You’ve been sitting here for the last five minutes.”
“You were watching me? When did you get here?”
“A while ago.” Zhang Hao shrugs, pointing at the hotteok stand. “I was over there, grabbing food. Didn’t see you until I was in the middle of the line already.”
Hanbin grins at him. “So you came early, too.”
“It’s our first date. I wanted to make a good impression.”
“So did I. Mission accomplished?”
“Sure.” Zhang Hao rakes an appreciative look down Hanbin’s body. Back up again. The corners of his mouth tug into a cold half-smile. “You’ve always been good at first impressions.”
Hanbin blushes, fidgeting with the loop of his scarf. “My eyes are up here, hyung.”
“I know. I’m just taking my time.”
“Ah.” Hanbin laughs, a little breathlessly. “Okay. Take as much time as you need.”
“You sure?” Zhang Hao asks. He leans in; his skin smells like peppermint and sugar. “We might be stuck here all night.”
“Fine by me,” Hanbin whispers, honestly. His skin burns under the slow sweep of Zhang Hao’s eyes.
Zhang Hao might be the most shameless person he’s ever met. Hanbin might be falling in love with him.
The market lights paint Zhang Hao’s face gold. Hanbin tries not to gawk at the cut of his jaw and the bow of his mouth, the way he glows like stars live under his skin. He’s always been gorgeous, but when he looks at Hanbin like this, eyes half-lidded and a little hungry….
Hanbin’s in trouble. He can’t look away
“You’re staring,” Zhang Hao murmurs.
Hanbin smiles at him. “So are you.”
Zhang Hao’s teeth flash as he laughs. His arm curls around Hanbin’s waist, almost possessively. Their hips slot together under their clothes, and it feels like how they were made to be—like they shared a body before the universe was born, and their pieces are finally coming back together again.
It’s…wow.
It’s a lot to process.
Hanbin swallows hard, fumbling for something to say. “Hyung….”
“What’s up?” Zhang Hao asks.
“We should probably go get food or something, right? I’m starving.”
“Oh yeah?” Zhang Hao flashes him an amused smirk, pulling a paper bag from his pocket. “Starving?”
He rips the bag open and pushes a squashed hotteok—sticky with honey and still warm—against Hanbin’s lips. “Say ahh,” he says. “It tastes good, trust me. Give it a try.”
Hanbin flushes at the double entendre. A wave of vertigo makes his head spin; he can’t tell if it’s coming from his empty stomach or a different kind of hunger.
Zhang Hao’s looking at him expectantly, so Hanbin caves in and takes a careful bite. Syrup coats his tongue. He chews slowly, savoring the crunch of fried dough and caramelized peanuts. He can’t remember the last time he tasted honey—it feels wrong, like a sample of something he isn’t allowed to buy.
“Thanks,” he says, pulling away a little guiltily. “I’m good. You can have the rest.”
Zhang Hao frowns. “You sure?”
“Yup! You should save room for everything else too, though. We have tons of food to try. I know all the best places around here.”
At least—he had, four years ago. Hanbin hopes the market hasn’t changed as much as he has.
He wets his lips nervously and continues, “If you’re into spicy stuff, there’s a stall around here that does really good cheesy fire tteokbokki—seriously, the best tteokbokki I’ve ever had. They put ghost peppers or something in there, but the cheese helps cut the heat.”
Zhang Hao shrugs and says around a mouthful of hotteok, “Sounds good.” His lips are shiny with syrup. Hanbin wonders what they’d taste like.
He takes a bracing breath and hooks his arm through the crook of Zhang Hao’s elbow, tucking Zhang Hao against his side.
“Let’s go,” he says, smiling.
Zhang Hao’s hand slides into his hip pocket. He squeezes Hanbin’s thigh through the fabric of his khakis with cold fingers; Hanbin jerks against his touch. “After you.”
“Right,” Hanbin yelps. “This way.”
They shove through the dense crowd, brushing up against the strangers around them. Zhang Hao moves like a bulldozer—all sharp shoulders and jutting elbows, a force of nature carrying Hanbin along in the swell of his storm.
The tteokbokki stand sits at the end of a packed alleyway, tangled in yellow fairy lights that illuminate posters of the menu options: cheese, rose, carbonara. Steam rises from the boiling vats of tteokbokki behind the counter, dense with sesame oil and anchovy stock. Hanbin’s stomach rumbles.
The ajussi behind the cash register squints at him, suspiciously. His face is blotchy under his hairnet, slick with perspiration.
“Hey, Sung Hanbin. Is that you?”
Hanbin musters up a grin. “Yeah. It’s been a while, huh?”
For some reason, the glint in the vendor’s eyes makes him feel like a bug under a microscope. He shivers, fingers tightening around Zhang Hao’s arm.
“When was the last time you dropped by?” the vendor asks. “Three years ago? Four? You look completely different now—I can barely recognize you.” The vendor leans in for a closer look; he smells like gochujang and grease and sweat. Hanbin suddenly wishes they’d gone for soondae or bulgogi instead.
The vendor’s lip curls. “Jeez, everyone's starving themselves these days, huh? Bad for business, but I can’t say I blame you. Life’s probably a lot easier without all that extra weight to carry around.”
Hanbin fidgets with the folds of his coat and admits, “I guess.” The din of the crowd swallows his voice. His cheeks ache with the effort of keeping his smile in place. “I’m doing okay, these days.”
The vendor laughs. “Yeah, you’re a regular flower boy now, aren’t you?”
Hanbin flinches. It doesn’t sound like a compliment.
“Hey,” Zhang Hao cuts in abruptly, shouldering forward. His dark brows slash down over his eyes; he’s scowling, jaw clenched. “We’re ready to order now.” He slants a sharp look at Hanbin. “What do you want? Cheese, right?”
Hanbin blinks at him, startled. Zhang Hao…Zhang Hao looks pissed.
“Yeah, that’s fine,” he says, awkwardly. He swivels back to the vendor with an apologetic smile. “Can we get an order of cheese tteokbokki, no spam, please?”
“Yeah, cheese tteokbokki, got it. That’ll be 10,000 won, cash only. You know the drill.” The vendor scoops a clump of rice cakes into a plastic tub and slides it over the counter. “Come back if you ever drop the diet, okay? The ajummas here miss Sung Fatty.”
Hanbin winces, instinctively. No one’s called him that in years.
Zhang Hao wraps cold fingers around his wrist and hisses, low and angry, “Let’s get going.” Hanbin barely has time to pay for their food before Zhang Hao’s dragging him away, shouldering through the crowd like a wrecking ball.
“You must be really hungry,” Hanbin teases, half-heartedly. Zhang Hao ignores him.
They make their way back to the dining tent and find an empty booth nestled against the wall. Hanbin nudges the tteokbokki over the table towards Zhang Hao.
“Here, hyung. You should eat up while it’s hot, before the cheese gets hard,” he says.
Zhang Hao stares at him. Hanbin squirms under the heat of glare.
“What the fuck was that?” Zhang Hao asks, harshly. A muscle feathers in his jaw. “Are you kidding me?”
Hanbin cringes. “Sorry. I should’ve picked a different stall. That kind of killed the mood, right?”
“The mood? Seriously? That’s what you’re—” Zhang Hao cuts himself off, shaking his head. “How are you okay with what just happened? That asshole—come on, who says that kind of crap to random people?”
Hanbin chokes out a nervous laugh. “It’s fine. I’m used to it, honestly. I…I’ve changed a lot, I guess. Over the last couple of years, since I joined the industry. You probably wouldn’t have recognized me four years ago—I used to be pretty ugly. Not that I’m anything special now, but…you know I mean.”
Zhang Hao snorts. “Stop it. Everyone knows you’re too good-looking for your own good. Who cares what you used to look like before?” He glowers mutinously at the tteokbokki on the table. “Damn, we should have kicked that guy’s ass. Douchebag made me lose my appetite. You can go ahead and eat, if you’re hungry.”
“I’m not,” Hanbin says quickly. The idea of finishing the tteokbokki by himself—1,500 calories’ worth of cheese and carbs and grease—makes him queasy. “I’m good.”
His stomach growls. Zhang Hao flashes him a skeptical look.
Crap, Hanbin thinks.
He sighs and picks up a rice cake with his skewer. “Well, I guess I can have a bit. We shouldn’t waste food.”
The rice cake is a lurid shade of red. Hanbin wonders how much gym time he’ll need to burn it off.
Zhang Hao grabs his wrist before he can open his mouth. Something about the way Zhang Hao’s looking at him makes his skin feel too tight for his body—like it’s splitting open, and his soul’s bleeding out through the cracks.
“Hey,” Zhang Hao says. “You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to.” His eyes narrow. “Do you even want to be here?”
Hanbin blanches. “What? Of course I do. I love spending time with you.”
“Here, at the night market,” Zhang Hao repeats, rolling his eyes a little. “Are you even into street food? You never eat snacks on the show—it’s always, like, kimchi and chicken breast and boiled sweet potatoes every time I see you at lunch.”
Hanbin laughs weakly. “Sure, but I’m not going to take you out for boiled sweet potatoes, hyung. Everyone says Gwangjang Market is the best place in Seoul for a date.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Um. Naver Search.”
Zhang Hao snorts. “You’re overthinking things. It doesn’t matter what we do, as long as we spend time together.”
Hanbin’s heart does a somersault in his chest. Yeah, that’s the goal, he thinks, ducking his head guiltily. He’s conning Zhang Hao into it—with his stupid, messy plan to play up their relationship for the cameras. He doesn’t give a damn about fan service. It’s just an excuse to spend time with Zhang Hao, because….
Because. He’d sucked Zhang Hao’s dick, and Zhang Hao had probably hated it. Because Zhang Hao had ignored his texts for a month, and that had hurt. Because he likes Zhang Hao, and Zhang Hao doesn’t like him back, but maybe if they spend more time together—
He shouldn’t get his hopes up. He does, anyways.
Zhang Hao squeezes Hanbin’s fingers, gently. “Hey, Hanbin-ah,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“Now that I think about it, I’m pretty bloated today, actually. Let’s go get something light. Like, I don’t know, that chicken soup they have in the cafeteria sometimes. What’s it called again? Samgyetang?”
Hanbin stares at him. “Samgyetang? Seriously?” he asks.
Samgyetang is boring. Samgyetang is healthy. Samgyetang is…one of his favorite foods.
He frowns down at their tteokbokki. The cheese is hard now, congealing under a pool of grease.
Zhang Hao smiles at him. “I’m sure,” he says. His thumb traces circles over Hanbin’s wrist. He doesn’t look disappointed.
Hanbin blows out the breath he’s been holding and smiles back, slowly. “Okay then,” he says. “My favorite place is three streets over. Let’s go?”
Zhang Hao nods. His eyes are softer than Hanbin’s ever seen them before, fairy lights reflected in his irises like the constellations Hanbin used to pick out when he was ten.
Hanbin is used to people looking up to him. He’s used to people looking down on him, too. But Zhang Hao is different; Zhang Hao just—looks at him, and sees him, and suddenly…it feels like someone else in the world understands.
It feels like coming home.
They walk away from the market, leaving the tteokbokki on the table behind them.
They keep holding hands.
Notes:
The irony is that HB is alone bc he’s terrified of revealing his flaws to other people, thinking they won’t like him anymore if they realize he isn’t perfect. Poor bb puts SO much effort into maintaining his image. But! ZH doesn’t start to fall for HB until he sees how hard HB tries—that it isn’t effortless—bc ZH is also someone who tries so hard it hurts. So, in the end ZH ends up loving the real person instead of the mask <3
Chapter 7: You Have Scars Where I Have Them Too
Chapter Text
The samgyetang shop is tucked out of sight down a narrow flight of stairs, in an alley half-lit by a flickering street lamp. Zhang Hao regrets not bringing pepper spray—in a slasher movie, this is where the serial killer would jump out and try to scalp him with a machete.
He drops Hanbin’s hand, embarrassed by how clammy his palms are. “Hey, you aren’t bringing me here to murder me, are you?”
Hanbin laughs and says, “Please, I have manners. I’d wait until after we ate, at least—I’m not a monster.”
“You’re joking, right?” Zhang Hao pokes the dimple in Hanbin’s cheek. “So scary, Hanbin-ah.”
Hanbin laughs again and picks up Zhang Hao’s hand, winding their fingers together as they push through the door. “Yeah, that’s me. Super scary.”
The inside of the restaurant smells like ginger and sesame oil and scallions—it reminds Zhang Hao of his grandma’s kitchen. There’s no one behind the host stand and only one customer, a middle-aged man who’s slurping his soup so aggressively Zhang Hao is impressed it doesn’t go down the wrong hole.
A little old woman bustles out from the kitchen with a smile that disappears into the wrinkles on her face. “Sung Hanbin! You’re back again.” Her eyes catch on Zhang Hao, and she smiles wider. “Oh, look, you brought along such a handsome friend this time.”
Hanbin ducks his head and flashes her his signature grin, the one that’ll steal every heart in Korea after the show airs. “Yeah, he really is, isn’t he?”
Zhang Hao’s heart skips a beat. It feels like he’s going into cardiac arrest—he hates it.
“Come, come, sit,” the old woman says, steering them over to a table tucked against the kitchen. “Here’s the menu. Call me over when you’re ready to order.”
Hanbin pulls out Zhang Hao’s chair for him. Zhang Hao’s reluctantly impressed at how committed Hanbin is to pretending to care about him.
“So, there aren’t a ton of choices,” Hanbin says, sliding over the menu. “It’s basically regular samgyetang and extra-premium samgyetang. They have ginseng shakes, too, if you’re interested. Oh, and all the standard side dishes, obviously—the tofu curd is really good.”
Zhang Hao shrugs. “You’re the expert. I’m okay with whatever you want.” He cocks his head, thoughtfully, and adds, “Hey, do they have soju, by any chance? I could use a drink right now.”
Hanbin gapes at him, eyes wide and scandalized under the fringe of his lashes. It’s cute. “You? Soju? Really?”
“What, do you think I’m a wet blanket or something?”
“No! You’re just…so responsible all the time, you know? On the show, around everyone else from your company.”
Zhang Hao rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re not exactly everyone else, are you?”
“Good point.”
Hanbin grins, a little smugly, and flips over the menu to the beverage section. Zhang Hao’s jaw drops—the list of drinks is…actually really long. He scans the options with raised eyebrows, suddenly re-evaluating his opinion of the old grandma running the restaurant.
“Is this a soju bar or a samgyetang shop?” he asks, impressed.
Hanbin laughs sheepishly. “Apparently, Mrs. Kim had some wild times, back in the day. Her alcohol tolerance is pretty crazy.”
“And you know that, how?”
Hanbin leans in with a mischievous grin. There’s a smudge of honey at the corner of his mouth—Zhang Hao wants to lick it off. “It’s a long story,” Hanbin says.
Zhang Hao narrows his eyes at him. “Tell me.”
“Okay, okay.”
Hanbin smirks and takes a sip of water, wetting his lips with his tongue. “So,” he says, “when we were all trainees at Cube together, I took Matthew and Park Hanbin and some other guys to this place after evaluations. And we were celebrating, right, so obviously, we had to have a drinking competition.”
“You? Sung Hanbin? A drinking competition?”
“Yeah, I’m not a wet blanket either, hyung. I was even on track to beat Matthew and Park Hanbin—until, um…Mrs. Kim joined in.”
Zhang Hao throws him a horrified look. “Don’t tell me you let an 80-year-old grandma drink you under the table.”
Hanbin groans. “Yup, an 80-year-old grandma drank all of us under the table. We were completely wasted—we could barely make it back to the Cube dorms,” he says. “And…when we finally did—okay, well, so. We’re going up the building stairs, holding onto each other for dear life—and suddenly the door opens, and guess who’s standing in front of us?”
Zhang Hao hides his grin behind his glass of water and asks, “Who?”
Hanbin covers his eyes with his hands, red-cheeked under his fingers. “The freaking CEO of Cube. And his whole entourage—board members, managers, everyone. Just—staring at us, like we’re animals.”
Zhang Hao laughs; he can’t help it. “No way. Are you kidding me?”
“I wish, hyung.” Hanbin groans. "But it gets worse, because Matthew…Matthew’s still pretty new at this point, right? And he’s terrified of the CEO, so he starts bowing. Over and over, like a robot glitching out.”
Zhang Hao snickers. “Yikes.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m a responsible hyung, obviously, so I go over and try to calm him down.”
“That sounds like a mistake.”
“It was. A huge mistake.” Hanbin shakes his head, bangs swooping over his eyes. “Because—ugh, god, as soon as Matthew comes up from his bow, he grabs my shoulders, and throws up. All over me. Chunks of chicken and rice on my shirt, in front of every member of Cube’s board of directors.”
Zhang Hao pictures Hanbin’s horrified face in his head and doubles over, laughing so hard his stomach hurts.
“Hyung,” Hanbin says, seriously. “I swear, my life flashed before my eyes. It was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“I can’t believe you’re still friends with Seok Matthew,” Zhang Hao snorts.
“Yeah, me neither. He owes me apology drinks for the rest of my life.” Hanbin runs his fingers through his hair, grinning. “So yeah. Now you know. That’s the true story of how we all got kicked out from Cube.”
“Wait, for real?” Zhang Hao asks, gaping.
“Nope, just kidding. There were other things going on, too. But I’m pretty sure we didn’t leave a great impression on anyone that night.”
Zhang Hao giggles. “Sung Hanbin, you’re freaking crazy.”
Hanbin presses a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone. You’re the only one who knows.”
“Deal,” says Zhang Hao. They grin at each other, secretively, and it feels wrong—they’re rivals; they’re supposed to hate each other—but…it also feels good.
It feels good, and Hanbin’s eyes are warm and happy, and Hanbin’s smile is the brightest thing Zhang Hao’s ever seen, and Zhang Hao…Zhang Hao is losing his mind, fuck.
He clears his throat uncomfortably and looks away. Hanbin’s smile dims a little; they’re in safe territory again. Zhang Hao can’t figure out if that makes him feel relieved or disappointed.
“Right,” he says, awkwardly. “Um, we should probably order soon. Lemme pick a drink—don’t worry, I’m not Seok Matthew. I won’t throw up on you.”
Hanbin winces. “Please don’t.”
“Cross my heart,” Zhang Hao says. He blows out a breath and goes back to scanning the menu, mostly so he doesn’t need to look at Hanbin. The restaurant stocks so many types of soju it makes his head spin: barley soju, peach soju, rice soju. But…god, it’s hard to make a choice when every brain cell he has is focused on the glug of Hanbin’s throat as he takes a sip of water, the quiet huff of his breathing, the smell of bergamot in his hair.
Fuck, Zhang Hao thinks, get it together.
He pushes the menu away and groans, “Forget it, I give up. Let’s just get regular soju. Whatever’s the cheapest. Oh, and a ginseng milkshake, too.”
Hanbin nods. “Sounds good.” He waves Mrs. Kim over and rattles off their order: a bowl of regular samgyetang, a bowl of premium samgyetang, a ginseng shake, and some chamisul soju. “Premium samgyetang has extra ginseng,” he explains after Mrs. Kim leaves. “It’s pretty strong—you can try both and pick whichever one you prefer.”
The gesture is surprisingly thoughtful. “Thanks,” Zhang Hao mutters, swallowing the lump in his throat. Hanbin’s messing with his head again. It’s impossible to reconcile the person across from him—who makes him laugh and orders him every dish on the menu so he can pick a favorite—with the conceited asshole from the laundry room three months ago.
Zhang Hao shivers. There are too many shades of gray for him to keep track of, and the truth feels like water slipping between his fingers.
He studies the tabletop like his answer’s hiding in the grain of the wood. Maybe what’s right and what’s wrong doesn’t matter—not when, in the end, there’s only enough room at the top for one of them.
Zhang Hao looks up again. Hanbin's still smiling at him, tentatively. Zhang Hao smiles back, even though it feels like a lie.
He’s relieved when Mrs. Kim finally brings out the side dishes, a few minutes later—two trays of kimchi, fermented tofu, cucumber salad, steamed eggplant, and pan-fried chive pancakes, along with two bowls of steamed black rice. Zhang Hao’s stomach grumbles. Mrs. Kim has good timing—he needs a distraction, and food is a safe one.
He tears his chopsticks apart and digs in, going for the chive pancakes first. Across from him, Hanbin picks at his cucumbers, taking bites so stingy it looks a little ridiculous.
Hanbin notices him staring and blushes, pushing his rice away. “Just saving space for the chicken.”
Zhang Hao reaches over and snags Hanbin’s bowls of rice and chive pancakes. “Let’s trade. I want your carbs,” he says, setting down his own dish of eggplant on Hanbin’s tray. “Have more veggies, Hanbin-ah. You’re gonna get wrinkles if you don’t eat enough vitamins.”
“I take supplements,” Hanbin says, mutinously. Zhang Hao glares at him. Hanbin rolls his eyes and shoves a cube of radish into his mouth, chewing slowly.
They eat without talking for a while, heads bent close. Out of the corner of his eye, Zhang Hao watches Hanbin poke at his food, pushing pieces of tofu back and forth instead of picking them up. It makes his heart ache, for some reason. Hanbin is… Hanbin. The last person in the world who should be carving off pieces of himself to fit into a perfect mold, because he’s perfect enough already.
But maybe…being perfect isn’t that easy. Maybe being perfect isn’t even possible.
“Hey,” Zhang Hao says, quietly. Hanbin looks up, startled. “Listen, I know you’re an adult. You can do whatever you want, and it’s not my place to say anything about it. But…you shouldn’t go to extremes, okay? There’s no point. You don’t need to hurt yourself to make other people like you.”
Hanbin laughs, sharply. “Hyung, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Neither do I,” Zhang Hao says. He grabs Hanbin’s hand, smoothing a thumb over the calluses on Hanbin’s knuckles. “Wanna tell me?”
Hanbin’s eyes dart away; for a second, he looks lost. Confused. He opens his mouth—
Mrs. Kim comes over and slaps two bowls of samgyetang down in front of them. Zhang Hao jolts at the clang of the clay pots against the tabletop. The soup smells amazing—fragrant with herbs and chicken fat, heat curling against Zhang Hao’s face—and he’s hungry enough to eat a horse, but frustration swirls in his gut. Their moment’s broken now, whatever Hanbin had been about to say carried away on a gust of steam.
“Thanks,” Hanbin says to Mrs. Kim. He flashes Zhang Hao an awkward smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Go ahead, try both and pick your favorite.”
Zhang Hao shrugs and takes the bowl closer to him—he’s too hungry to care. “It’s okay. I can just go with this one.”
“Sounds good,” says Hanbin. He sighs quietly and digs into his own bowl. There’s something mesmerizing about the way he eats, stripping skin and fat from his chicken like it’s surgery.
Zhang Hao shakes himself out of his daze and looks away. He’s going to freak Hanbin out if he keeps staring. He tears into his own food huffily, closing his eyes as he chews. The meat melts against his tongue; the broth is rich and salty and shiny with chicken fat that coats the inside of his mouth.
“So good,” he says, going in for another bite.
Hanbin stops picking his bone clean with his chopsticks and gives Zhang Hao a soft, pleased look. His eyelashes really are ridiculously long. His eyes really are ridiculously pretty.
“I know, right?” Hanbin says. “This place is the best. Good call, hyung.”
The kitchen door swings open. Mrs. Kim drops by with a bottle of soju and Zhang Hao’s ginseng slushie. He takes a quick gulp of the shake, savoring the way the crushed ice slides down his throat.
“Want some?” he asks, pushing the shake over to Hanbin.
“I’m good,” Hanbin says, but there’s a wistful glint in his eyes that makes Zhang Hao want to squeeze his hand again. Because, honestly, Zhang Hao gets it too—the pressure to break yourself so the world doesn’t break you instead. He thinks they might have fault lines in the same places.
Hanbin must be exhausted. Zhang Hao is exhausted, too.
But their food is warm and their drinks are cold, and just for the night, reality doesn’t need to exist outside the restaurant walls. In a week, the show will start filming again. For now, though…life is good.
Zhang Hao dumps a glug of soju into his ginseng milkshake, snickering at the scandalized face Hanbin makes.
Then he pours himself a shot. He pours Hanbin one too, just to be polite.
“Cheers,” he says, clinking their glasses together. “To us. Let’s fake it to the top. The world isn't ready for us, right?”
Hanbin gives him a half-smile that looks a little sad. “Right,” he says. “We’re both great liars, aren’t we?”
And, well—Zhang Hao doesn’t know what to say to that, because it’s true and the truth hurts, so he knocks down his shot instead, ignoring the way the burn down his throat feels like regret.
Notes:
Because it’s important to be able to laugh and lighten up with your soulmate~ Haobin make each other so relaxed and happy, even though ZH hates HB…allegedly…
Chapter Text
Celeb News: MNet’s “Boys Planet” Scores Massive Series Premiere, Topping List of Most Buzzworthy TV Shows This Week
By J. Mok
Keep your eyes peeled: MNet is back again and turning up the heat, with the series premiere of new idol audition show Boys Planet.
The successor to last year’s “Girls Planet 999,” which spawned global girl group Kep1er (watch Kep1er’s latest comeback stage here), Boys Planet shocked viewers by becoming the most-watched reality TV program in South Korea, according to ratings agency Nielsen Korea.
The first episode, which aired last Thursday, recorded a ground-breaking 1.32% viewership—making Boys Planet the first MNet survival show to gain widespread domestic attention since 2019’s Produce X 101. Boys Planet will follow the journey of 96 trainees as they compete to land one of nine coveted debut positions.
With the release of the program’s first-episode ratings, public discourse has turned to discussing what sets Boys Planet apart from its predecessors. The consensus has been that this season features the strongest cast of trainees yet. In particular, Center candidates Sung Hanbin of South Korea and Zhang Hao of China recently shot to viral fame for their interpersonal chemistry in the music video for Boys Planet theme song “Here I Am” (watch the official MV here). Netizens have begun to speculate that the relationship between the two boys may be more than purely professional…but we’ll leave that up to the discussion boards to decide.
In addition to the two Centers, Lee Hoetaek—better known as Hui of Cube Entertainment’s 2016 boy group Pentagon—will star this season, alongside TO1’s Cha Woongki, Ciipher’s Keita, and NINE.i’s Seowon. The program will be hosted by former WannaOne member Hwang Minhyun. Waacking legend Lip-J, Baek Koo-young and Choi Youngjoon of 1Million Dance Studio, main vocalist of idol group EXID Solji, and Korean-American rapper pH-1 will appear as Star Mentors.
With only one episode under its belt so far, it’s hard to predict whether Boys Planet will reach the heights of Produce 101 and Produce 48. All we can guarantee, for the time being, is this: with a cast so strong and a premiere so successful, all eyes will be firmly fixed on the 96 idol trainees competing this season.
I, for one, wish them the best of luck. They’ll certainly need it.
Comments
39 Comments
cheezecar · 2m ago
The show is so good so far! The centers are really something else haha
bbw99f_28 · 4m ago
Can’t wait to see how things develop—super excited, this season is going to be HUGE
Lady_Sung · 12m ago
What’s up with Zhang Hao? His face fking pisses me off so much lol
Haobinist_28 · 7m ago
Get lost hater, Sung Hanbin belongs to Zhang Hao
Lady_Sung · 1m ago
[Comment deleted]
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***
Zhang Hao should probably be scared that going back to Boys Planet feels like waking up from a dream.
He’s only been on campus a few hours, barely enough time to unpack his bags and grab a plate of kimchi toast from the cafeteria with Ricky and Kuanjui, but winter break is already a blur—21 days of training in Yuehua’s practice rooms, bleeding together like watercolors.
He remembers Hanbin, though. He remembers the amber of Hanbin’s eyes under the Gwangjang Market lights, the way their fingers fit against each other like puzzle pieces, the taste of soju and samgyetang on his tongue.
(It was competitive research, he tells himself.)
“Hey,” Ricky says, swatting at Zhang Hao’s arm. “Earth to Hao-ge. What’s wrong with you?” They’re holed up with Kuanjui in an empty training room, killing time before the producers herd them to the auditorium for roll call.
Zhang Hao bats Ricky’s hand away and says, peevishly, “What? Nothing’s wrong.”
Ricky snorts. “I just told you Kim Min-seoung won interim P01 and you nodded.”
“I was blinking dust out of my eyes,” Zhang Hao lies. “Interim rankings don’t come out until Wednesday.”
“Yeah, right, whatever. You think you stand a chance?”
“At what, P01?” Zhang Hao scrunches up his face. He dreams about winning every night and wakes up disappointed every morning—but now, three days before the producers release the interim rankings, first place feels further away than ever.
“No idea,” he says, glancing down at his nametag and trying not to imagine which number will end up there. “Probably not. Let’s be real, Sung Hanbin’s going to be P01.”
Kuanjui snickers. “Well, if it isn't him, it’s you. Which means, on the bright side, you’ll end up getting P01 one way or another, right?”
Zhang Hao throws him a suspicious look. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you don’t get P01, Hanbin will get P01, and you can get Hanbin. It’s a win-win situation, you silly egg!”
Zhang Hao glares at him. Kuanjui’s lucky that Zhang Hao’s sitting too far away from him to smack the grin off his face.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Zhang Hao grumbles, ignoring Ricky’s hoot of laughter.
“Hey,” Ricky butts in, smirking obnoxiously, “speaking of Sung Hanbin, how did you guys practice after the dress rehearsal, anyways? Like, what kind of extreme chemistry training made you look at each other like that on stage?”
“They had a super passionate make-out session in the bathroom, obviously,” Kuanjui says, cheerfully. Zhang Hao genuinely can’t tell if he’s kidding or delusional.
“Nope, even better—we snuck into the stadium in the middle of the night, and jerked each other off on stage, under the moonlight,” he says, because it’s funny to watch Ricky choke on his own spit and Kuanjui’s eyes go so wide there’s a medically concerning chance his eyeballs might fall out of his head.
Ricky cringes, shielding his face with his hands. “Ew, ge, I don’t need that image in my brain.”
“Homophobe,” Zhang Hao deadpans.
“Ricky, what are you talking about? The image is fantastic,” Kuanjui says, fanning his face aggressively with one hand. “Hanbin’s, like, the hottest guy on the show—get it, Zhang Hao, good job.” Zhang Hao still can’t tell if he’s kidding or delusional.
He sighs loudly and rolls his eyes hard enough to twist his optic nerves. “You guys are insane. Sung Hanbin’s just my rival. I don’t even like him. He’s such a— He’s so— Ugh, I don’t know, he’s just Sung Hanbin.”
“You’re a liar,” Kuanjui says, happily.
Ricky nods. “A total liar, ge.”
Zhang Hao shakes his head and stops denying it.
***
The auditorium feels smaller every time Zhang Hao comes back. He’s sitting in the second-to-last row of the G-Group bleachers, and even with 94 trainees crammed between them, he can’t see anyone except for Hanbin.
It’s impossible to look away. That isn’t Zhang Hao’s fault, obviously—Hanbin’s face is a narcotic, so perfect religious theorists could probably use it as proof for the existence of God.
Hanbin waves at him, dorkily.
Zhang Hao sends up a silent prayer to the Buddha statue in his grandma’s cabinet for strength and blows a kiss at Hanbin.
He can picture the Buddha statue’s plastic face glaring down at him, hissing, “Shameless!”
Yeah, Zhang Hao is. What’s anyone going to do about it?
Across the room, Hanbin’s cheeks go pink. He grins and sends Zhang Hao a flying heart. Zhang Hao smirks—Operation Fake Dating is a go.
“What the fuck is going on,” Ricky hisses into his ear.
Zhang Hao keeps smiling and says through clenched teeth, “Just some friendly networking.”
Kuanjui snickers. “Leave him alone. The Centers are doing their mating dance. Nature is so beautiful.”
Zhang Hao jams his shoulder into Kuanjui’s arm. “Shut it.”
“Never.”
He’s weighing the pros and cons of shoving Kuanjui off the bleachers when the auditorium doors swing open and Hwang Minhyun strides in, flanked by Lip-J on his right and a cameraman on his left.
Hwang Minhyun makes his way over to the podium in the middle of the auditorium and taps his mic twice. “Hello, hello! Welcome back to Boys Planet. It’s great to see your faces again—we missed you over winter break.”
Zhang Hao tries not to roll his eyes. According to his Instagram stories, Hwang Minhyun spent winter break shooting a music video in Italy, so Zhang Hao’s pretty sure Boys Planet was the last thing on his mind.
“Let’s kick things off with some good news,” Hwang Minhyun says. “As you might’ve heard, our first episode premiered last week with a Nielsen rating of….”
He pauses for a count of three, glancing down at his cue cards.
“...1.32%! Which officially makes Boys Planet the biggest reality program airing on domestic television right now. Give yourselves a round of applause, everyone. Congratulations!”
The trainees clap, obligingly. Zhang Hao wipes his hands on his training sweats and pushes down the nausea in his stomach. He’s heard the news already—he’s probably read every discussion thread twice by now—but hearing Hwang Minhyun say the number out loud—1.32%—makes it feel real. Concrete. Zhang Hao’s about to be famous, and the next person he runs into at the supermarket might know his face.
He peeks surreptitiously at Hanbin, trying to ground himself. Hanbin’s the star of the show—Zhang Hao’s sure he’s preening under the glow of the spotlight. But Hanbin isn’t looking at Hwang Minhyun. Hanbin’s looking at Zhang Hao, and goddamn, Hanbin needs to stop staring at random people so tenderly before he gives them the wrong idea. Zhang Hao wonders if he looks at pH1 with so many stars in his eyes, too.
Zhang Hao blushes. Hanbin blushes, too. They smile at each other guiltily, playing chicken; Zhang Hao breaks eye contact first.
Behind the podium, Hwang Minhyun flips over a new cue card. “All right. All of you know this already, but the show will be unveiling its first round of interim rankings in a few days. If you don’t find yourself ranked among the top 58 who’ll have the opportunity to compete in the second stage of Boys Planet, don’t worry…yet. We still have six weeks to go before the elimination episode.”
A wave of nervous whispers washes over the bleachers, petering into an uneasy silence. Anxiety crawls down Zhang Hao’s spine. Hwang Minhyun keeps smiling benevolently, oblivious to the tension.
“Now,” Minhyun continues, “with that small reminder out of the way, let’s move on to the real reason we’ve gathered here today.” He clears his throat, letting the anticipation build before he cuts to the chase.
“This afternoon, I’ll be announcing the terms of Boys Planet’s first stage mission: the K versus G team battle. K-Group, G-Group: get ready to compete against each other in the ultimate showdown—judged by the most discerning critics of all…a live audience.”
Someone in the K-Group bleachers whoops. Zhang Hao tries not to grimace.
Even though Hwang Minhyun’s hamming up the rivalry between the two groups, Zhang Hao’s pretty sure G-Group has a better chance of winning the Korean presidential elections than the first mission. Whatever; that’s fine—as long as Zhang Hao puts on a good performance, it doesn’t matter.
(He’s lying to himself. Obviously.)
Hwang Minhyun dives into the rules of the first challenge. Zhang Hao tries to pay attention, even though he’s dizzy with anticipation.
The trainees are getting split into fourteen teams, seven Korean and seven Global, who’ll be paired up to challenge seven songs. The fourteen team leaders pick which contestants they want in their teams. They have five weeks before the live stage performance.
There’s also a catch: most of the teams are getting paired off randomly, but the two leaders who pick six teammates instead of the default seven will automatically be assigned to cover the same song: Blackpink’s “Kill This Love.” In other words…picking six teammates means directly challenging another leader.
The rules of the group battle are pretty straightforward, as far as survival show missions go. The only question is—which two leaders will face off over “Kill This Love”?
Zhang Hao smirks. The answer’s obvious, isn’t it?
He looks across the room again and catches Hanbin’s eye with a grin. Hanbin smiles back at him. They don’t need words to know that they’re both thinking the same thing. The dramatic potential is too good to pass up.
“Listen up,” Hwang Minhyun says, over the chatter of the side conversations filling the bleachers. “Now that you’re familiar with the rules, I’m going to announce the fourteen trainees who’ll be leading the teams. We’ve ranked these contestants by their current popularity, as determined through polling thus far. The most popular leaders in K-Group and G-Group will get the first choice of teammates.”
Hwang Minhyun sweeps a slow look over the bleachers. “Leaders…please step forward when I call your names.”
Zhang Hao blows out a breath, trying not to stare too hard at Hanbin. Hanbin’s the obvious frontrunner for K-Group. The question is…who’ll place first in G-Group?
It needs to be Zhang Hao. Zhang Hao’s counting on it.
“Hey,” Ricky mutters, “When your name gets called, don’t forget about me, okay?”
Zhang Hao shrugs. “Who’s to say you won’t end up making team leader yourself?”
“You really think I have a chance?”
“Sure.”
Hwang Minhyun clears his throat, re-adjusting his mic. “Let’s start off with our seven K-Group leaders first. In seventh place for K-Group, congratulations Lee Myunbak! Please come out, Lee Myunbak—line up right here, next to me.”
Zhang Hao eyes the bulky trainee climbing down the K-Group bleachers with a twinge of trepidation. He remembers the guy from auditions—a rapper from Jellyfish who kept heckling the G-Group trainees. Zhang Hao makes a mental note to kick his ass.
Once Lee Myunbak’s planted in the middle of the auditorium, Hwang Minhyun goes back to calling out the K-Group leaders, one by one.
“Number six, Cha Woongki!” Followed by: Park Gunwook in fifth, Kim Jiwoong in fourth, Park Hanbin in third, and Lee Hoetaek in second. Then, finally—
“Last but not least, first place in K-Group…put your hands together for….
“…Our Signal Song Center, the one and only Sung Hanbin!”
Zhang Hao almost rolls his eyes. Of course it’s Hanbin—who else could it be?
Hanbin lines up alongside the other leaders, grinning with an easy confidence that Zhang Hao sees for the mask it is. There’s tension written into the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers drum against his thighs. Hanbin always smiles when he’s nervous.
Zhang Hao’s nervous, too.
“Now,” Hwang Minhyun says, “Moving on to the G-Group leaders. G-Group leaders, please stand across from your K-Group counterparts.”
Zhang Hao’s throat goes dry. It’s his turn now.
Hwang Minhyun kicks off the G-Group leader rankings, plowing through the names too fast and not fast enough at the same time. Zhang Hao’s hands bunch in his jacket.
Seventh place: Not Zhang Hao.
Sixth place: Not Zhang Hao.
Fifth place: still Not Zhang Hao.
So far so good, Zhang Hao thinks. His thighs drum an anxious beat against the bleachers. It’s fine that Hwang Minhyun hasn’t called his name yet. He doesn’t need to come in seventh place, or sixth, or fifth.
There’s only one spot he wants, and it isn’t fourth or third or second place, either. It’s across from Hanbin—first place.
The competition is stiff, so it’s a long shot. Zhang Hao’s gunning for it, anyways.
Hwang Minhyun’s down to his last three names. “Ricky, in third place for G-Group!” he calls.
Zhang Hao twists around with a grin—Ricky’s gaping at him, sheet-white under his fringe of platinum hair.
“See? Told you,” he says, squeezing Ricky’s shoulder. Ricky struts down the bleachers like a fashion model, even though Zhang Hao knows he’s just trying not to trip.
G-Group’s second place leader is up next. G-Group’s second place leader isn’t Zhang Hao.
And that leaves one more name for Hwang Minhyun to announce—one more chance for Zhang Hao to claw his way to the top. He scans the G-Group bleachers, looking for any trainees popular enough to beat him out. His odds are decent. He feels like he’s about to throw up, anyways.
Hwang Minhyun smiles down at his cue cards. “All right,” he says. “Now for the last leader in G-Group. Coming in first place, congratulations to none other than—”
Time stops.
Zhang Hao closes his eyes.
Hanbin is waiting for him.
“—Zhang Hao!” Minhyun says.
Zhang Hao.
Zhang Hao’s in first place.
He stands up, numbly. It feels like everyone’s staring at him. But he doesn’t need everyone to look at him; he just needs Hanbin to look at him, and…Hanbin is. Hanbin’s looking at him with the sun and the stars and the moon in his eyes, and even if it’s all a lie, Zhang Hao can pretend for a second that he’s Hanbin’s universe.
He takes his place across from Hanbin, breath quickening. They’re face to face again, six days after Gwangjang Market. It feels like a lifetime’s already passed.
“Long time no see, hyung,” Hanbin says under his breath, lips curving into a shy smile. He reaches for Zhang Hao’s hand. Their fingers slot together, and Zhang Hao shivers.
The auditorium shrinks again. Smaller and smaller, until it feels like Zhang Hao and Hanbin are the only two people in the room. Everything around them fades into white noise.
“It’s always you and me, isn’t it?” Zhang Hao asks.
Hanbin nods. “Always.”
And they both know they’ve been tangled together from the start, two mirrors facing each other with an infinity of inverse reflections stretching between them, so—
It’s only natural that Hanbin picks six members instead of seven for his team.
It’s only natural that Zhang Hao picks six, too.
[VIDEO] Boys Planet | Episode 3 | Korean Variety Show
8,392,102 views 1 day ago #보이즈플래닛 #boysplanet #Mnet
19,231 Comments
Top Comments
virida 1 day ago (edited)
OH MY GOD they’re performing the same song!!! #haobin
▾ 66 replies
chrissbear 16 hours ago
They’re married your honor #haobin
Lady_Sung 16 hours ago
Zhang Hao needs to back off
yx gjn 3 minutes ago
▾ 1 reply
So excited for the next episode!!
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Notes:
The re-write is finally done!! Hallelujah
The last time I posted this chapter I took a poll on who should top and who should bottom. Now that they've been (somewhat) re-characterized...have your minds changed lol
(There might be smut in like 3 more chapters so I need to know for Research)
Chapter 9: I Was Drowning; You Were Air
Notes:
i posted this for two mins on Sunday, took it down to tweak, and ended up changing like three words. Sorry 😭😭😭
Almost done drafting the last few chapters! Just have ~75% of C14 done, and then maybe an epilogue to tie up loose ends. Surprisingly, V2 isn't less angsty than V1...technically. The angst is just back-loaded hehe
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
[Boys Planet Newsboard] Boys Planet First Interim Ranking — Top 9
1. Sung Hanbin
2. Zhang Hao
3. Lee Hotaek
4. Kim Jiwoong
5. Park Gunwook
6. Seok Matthew
7. Han Yujin
8. Kim Gyuvin
9. Ricky
***
Hanbin places first in the first round of interim rankings. Zhang Hao places second.
It’s hard to celebrate when winning feels like treading water. Hanbin’s relieved, but not surprised, so when the producers stick “P01” on his nametag, his smile comes out a little too wide and a little too phony.
No one notices. No one ever notices—because he’s Sung Hanbin, and he’s fooled everyone into thinking he’s perfect.
Music blasts from his phone speakers. Muscle memory carries Hanbin through the routine to “Kill This Love” even though the training room is spinning around him and his stomach cramps every time he lurches into a body roll. He checks the clock hanging over the mirror. 11:26pm. He can probably make it to midnight without dry-heaving into the trash bin in the corner of the room.
He’s been coaching his teammates through 14 hours of practice a day, for the better part of a week. It isn’t enough time—Hanbin wants to push for 16 hours, but Han Yujin’s still in high school and Lee Jeonghyun’s on the verge of a mental breakdown. Lee Yedam keeps weaving right instead of left in verse two. Kim Taerae can’t keep up with the footwork. Kim Gyuvin is in the middle of a growth spurt, gawky where he used to be grateful.
In short—everything’s spinning out of control, and there’s nothing Hanbin can do about it, so he practices instead, until his throat blisters and his toes poke holes through his shoes.
Over the sound of “Kill This Love’s” chorus, Hanbin hears the squeak of the door swinging open on ungreased hinges. He turns around, expecting to see Taerae or Yedam.
It’s Zhang Hao.
Hanbin cringes. He’s happy to see Zhang Hao—he’s always happy to see Zhang Hao—but he doesn’t want Zhang Hao to see him like this. His face is a patchwork of dark circles and salt bloat. Sweat soaks the back of his t-shirt; he probably smells like dirty laundry.
“Hey, you,” Zhang Hao says, shuffling over with his hands in his pockets. “Burning the midnight oil?” He’s wearing baggy mismatched pajamas, and his bangs are pinned back with a poop emoji hair clip.
Hanbin laughs, a little helplessly. For someone who cares so much about everything, Zhang Hao also really doesn’t give a fuck.
“Nice hair clip,” Hanbin says, switching off the music.
“Nice face,” Zhang Hao deadpans.
Hanbin blinks at him, confused. “Um, thanks?”
Zhang Hao rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling: close-lipped and secretive. Hanbin doesn’t need to look in the mirror to know he’s blushing already. He blushes every time he sees Zhang Hao—it’s a Pavlovian reaction at this point.
“Why’re you up so late?” Zhang Hao asks, cocking an eyebrow at him. His hair is still damp, like he gave up halfway through blow-drying it.
“Practicing,” Hanbin says, a little stupidly.
Zhang Hao snorts. “Obviously. I mean—why aren’t you in bed yet? Yujin says you’ve slept, like, four hours this week. You’re going to give yourself a heart attack if you keep pulling all-nighters.”
Hanbin’s chest tightens. “You asked Yujin about me?”
“What? No, Yujin just talks about you all the time. For the record, he’s got a bad case of hero worship. For the last two years, it’s been ‘Hao-hyung this,’ ‘Hao-hyung that,’ but the second you show up— bam. He forgets all about me.”
Zhang Hao’s complaining, but there’s a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Hanbin could listen to Zhang Hao complain forever. Hanbin could free-style to Zhang Hao complaining.
“Forget about Yujin,” he teases, looping an arm around Zhang Hao’s shoulders. “You have me now.”
“Oh yeah?” Zhang Hao asks. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Mm-hm. You can be my hero. I’d worship you any day of the week.”
Hanbin might be a little delirious. He’s on his fourth double-shot Americano of the night, and exhaustion loosens his tongue like soju.
Zhang Hao snickers against Hanbin’s hair, tugging Hanbin closer. Their sides slot against each other. Hanbin shivers.
“I can think of a few ways for you to worship me,” Zhang Hao whispers against the shell of his ear.
Hanbin sucks in a sharp breath. He’d almost forgotten—the last time they’d spent midnight together in a training room, he’d been on his knees.
Zhang Hao chuckles like he’s reading Hanbin’s mind and lets go of his hip. Hanbin shoves his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t reach out to reel Zhang Hao back in.
“You’re so tense. You need to relax,” Zhang Hao says. “I miss you. You haven’t talked to me since Wednesday—don’t tell me you forgot about me already?”
Hanbin smiles at him. “Hyung, even when I’m not around you, I can’t forget about you. You’re on my mind all the time.”
Zhang Hao scrunches up his nose, looking a little flattered but mostly exasperated. “Sung Hanbin, you shameless liar.”
“I’m not lying,” Hanbin says, even though Zhang Hao’s right—he is a liar. But being around Zhang Hao shucks away the onion peel layers of his inhibitions, so Zhang Hao’s the only one who sees him.
Zhang Hao sees him, and he’s nothing worth sticking around for, but Zhang Hao sticks around anyway.
“God, Hanbin-ah,” Zhang Hao says, skimming cold fingers over Hanbin’s biceps. He lets out a low snick of laughter. “You’re actually kind of a mess, aren’t you?”
Hanbin laughs too, nervously, and says, “I’m fine.”
Zhang Hao flicks his nose. “Hey, you’re lying again.” He tilts his head sideways, smirking a little. “Want me to help you relax? I owe you one.”
Hanbin swallows. He knows a come-on when he hears one, and he knows Zhang Hao. But the thing is—he’s high on caffeine and self-flagellation, and he can’t stop thinking about Zhang Hao, but he also can’t stop thinking about the high notes he can’t belt without sounding like a broken fire alarm. No matter how hard he practices.
He smiles, purposefully obtuse. “Nope, not unless you want to help me suck less at singing,” he says, going for self-deprecation and landing on despair.
He winces. His voice comes out shaky—Zhang Hao’s going to laugh at him again.
Zhang Hao doesn’t. Zhang Hao just shrugs and says, easily, “Sure. Why not?”
Hanbin stares at him. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously. I’m a professional music teacher, remember? Board-certified to help people suck less.”
“Hyung, you’re a violin teacher.”
“Same difference.”
“Um, not…really?” Hanbin snorts, tugging his fingers through his sweaty hair. “Forget about it, I was just kidding. You don’t need to help me—we’re on different teams.”
“I know. I want to help you,” Zhang Hao says. “We should spend more time together, right? For…the plan.”
“...Right, the plan. Almost forgot about the plan.”
Zhang Hao punches him in the shoulder. “It was your plan.”
“I know it was.”
Zhang Hao smiles at him, bright-eyed and too knowing, and, well—Hanbin’s never been able to turn him down.
He tips up his chin and says, loftily, “Fine, hyung. You can teach me, I guess.”
Zhang Hao pokes Hanbin’s forehead. “Gee, thanks. What an honor.”
“It is,” Hanbin huffs. He’s grinning now, squinty-eyed and silly—he can’t help it. “Teach me how to sing, hyung.”
“You already know how to sing. You just need to relax.”
Zhang Hao clears his throat, studying him like a crossword puzzle. Hanbin usually enjoys the attention, but this time it feels unwarranted. He resists the urge to run a finger over the stress pimple on his chin.
“You’re subvocal one, right?” Zhang Hao says. “Your high notes are in verse four. Let’s start from the top. I hate being so weak / what should I do—you know, that line.”
Zhang Hao hits the high notes without missing a beat. Hanbin echoes, a little pathetically, “I hate being so weak.”
He’s starting to hate this song, too.
“See, you’re singing from here,” Zhang Hao says, tapping Hanbin’s Adam apple with callused fingers. His hand skims lower, tracing the throb of Hanbin’s pulse. Hanbin shivers. His skin is on fire, and Zhang Hao’s eyes are dark and a little hungry.
Zhang Hao presses the flat of his palm against Hanbin’s stomach. He’s so close Hanbin can smell strawberries in his hair—his shampoo, bubblegum-sweet and artificial.
“Sing from your diaphragm instead, okay? From here,” Zhang Hao says. He sounds like he’s underwater; Hanbin can barely hear him over the unsteady staccato of his own heartbeat.
…He’s pretty sure this isn’t a music lesson anymore.
“Right,” Hanbin says, shakily. “Okay, yeah, great.”
“Try again.”
“I can’t stand being so weak.”
Zhang Hao grins at him. “Better,” he bullshits. He drags his palm higher, drawing a line from Hanbin’s stomach to his sternum. “Hanbin-ah, you’re singing from your chest now. Remember to sing from here, your diaphragm, remember?”
Zhang Hao’s hand slides back down. Hanbin’s head spins—forget about singing; he can barely remember how to talk.
“Hyung,” he chokes out, breath hitching, “You’re just doing this to feel me up.” He angles his head so he’s looking up at Zhang Hao through his eyelashes, sweet and guileless—an old trick that always makes Zhang Hao’s pupils dilate a little.
Zhang Hao sees right through him. “I don’t work for free,” he says.
“Hyung,” Hanbin whines.
Zhang Hao pinches his cheek. “Stop slacking off, Sung Hanbin. Sing!”
“I can’t stand being so weak.”
“Again.”
“I can’t stand being so weak!”
Zhang Hao grins at him, smugly. “See, you’re making progress,” he says. He’s full of crap—Hanbin sounds like a chicken getting wrangled to the slaughterhouse.
“All right,” Zhang Hao says. “Now we can work on your mouth.”
“My mouth?” Hanbin asks, weakly. Zhang Hao’s trying to murder him—and god help him, he’s going to enjoy every second of it.
“Yeah, your mouth. Sing your lines again,” Zhang Hao presses.
“...I can’t stand being so weak,” Hanbin warbles suspiciously.
Zhang Hao cups Hanbin’s face, tracing the swollen curve of Hanbin’s lower lip with his thumb, corner to corner. Hanbin shivers and bites down on his tongue, trying to muffle the moan bubbling up his throat.
“Ah, look, your mouth’s all closed up,” Zhang Hao murmurs against Hanbin’s cheek. He’s so close Hanbin can hear the rhythm of his heartbeat through his ribcage.
“You need to open your mouth, like this,” Zhang Hao says. He catches Hanbin’s jaw with cold fingers and tugs down, hard. “Ahh. See?”
“Ahh,” Hanbin repeats plaintively. Zhang Hao is a demon in human skin. Hanbin would probably strip off his own skin and give it to Zhang Hao, if Zhang Hao asked.
“Better,” Zhang Hao lies, shamelessly. “See? Much better.”
He lets go of Hanbin’s face and grins. “That’s all there is to it. Sing from your diaphragm and open your mouth. You’ll get the hang of it eventually, trust me.”
Hanbin’s too dizzy to roll his eyes, even though that’s the most half-assed vocal advice he’s ever heard.
“I’m a great teacher, right?” Zhang Hao says, preening. “Solji has nothing on me. Come here, Hanbin-ah, give your hyung a thank-you hug.”
Hanbin makes a punched-out sound that’s halfway between a groan and a laugh and buries his face in the crook of Zhang Hao’s shoulder. “Hyung, I hate you,” he says.
Zhang Hao’s fingers wind through his hair. He wrenches Hanbin’s head back, and it hurts a little but Hanbin likes it.
“I hate you too,” Zhang Hao says, eyes bright.
They’re both smiling.
***
A week passes.
Hanbin places second in the second round of interim rankings.
Zhang Hao places first.
Notes:
Part of the reason I wanted to do a re-write was so I could give SHB a more valid reason to care about ZH besides just...superficial attraction. ZH is the one who keeps (unintentionally) digging SHB out of his rut when he starts to spiral, and even though SHB is a generally image-conscious person, he knows ZH doesn't give a crap about any of that. They're two v serious people who only really lighten up around each other <3
And then the angst hits and...oof yikes hahaha
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