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A binary star or binary star system is a system of two stars that are gravitationally bound to and in orbit around each other. Binary stars in the night sky that are seen as a single object to the naked eye are often resolved as separate stars using a telescope, in which case they are called visual binaries.
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"Hey, hyung, did you know? People like us together," Anxin says, as if it were the most mundane, matter-of-fact statement in the world: the sky is blue, the sun shines for half the day, people like us together. Sangwon could almost laugh if it weren't for the small sting he feels as the words register then rest in the air, the comfortable silence they had now mired with something else.
From the corner of his eye he can see Anxin on the bed across from him, scrolling and tapping away on his phone, no different than before. Unaffected, unknowing. Of this: the gulp Sangwon has to take, the rapid blinking of his eyes, once focused on word after word from the book in front of him, but now thrown off focus.
Anxin's posture is a near-perfect mirror to his own—both hunched over themselves, one forearm on each knee while their hands are busy with something to take the edge off from the day. Well, hands that used to be busy, in Sangwon's case. They had stilled the moment the other boy started to speak, thumbs pressing into rough pages as though searching for a pulse, a lifeline.
He has a faint thought that he should probably loosen his grip, lest he make a dent in the paper.
With eyes still stuck on the same sentence he's been circling over and over since Anxin spoke, he musters up a noncommittal sound, then, some bravery:
"Do you?" The two words quietly bubble up before he can wrangle them into something lighter or less loaded, something more teasing rather than cutting.
It's the time getting to him, Sangwon reasons. Time: the alarm clock on the bedside table to his left reads 1:37 A.M and they've only just come back from five hours of nonstop practice—dance, sing, monitor, repeat, repeat, repeat. He doesn't think he's slept more than five hours a night in the past week. Time: the semi-final performance recording is in two days. After that comes the cycle they've all grown familiar with. More eliminations, more see you later, I'm sorry, you did so well, let's meet on stage soon, more endless practice. The last practices, he reminds himself. Time: the final round is only weeks away now.
Anxin's eyebrows furrow for a second, head jerking to the right ever so slightly. Just like a cat, thinks Sangwon. Cute.
"Do I know?" Anxin lets out a thoughtful hum. "Well, I do now, though I guess Hao-ge has also mentioned something to me before, something about—"
"Ah, no—sorry, what I meant was—," he starts to clarify a beat too late, gaze flicking towards Anxin, then to the identical alarm clock sitting beside the boy's bed, before finally settling to meet curious eyes. He can feel the heat rising up his neck like a warning alarm system, every atom in his body telling him to stop this now, to laugh it off and read the next damned sentence of the book laying in his palms instead of opening his mouth again. But he thinks of time, of how far they've come, how far they still have to go, and most of all, he thinks of how fickle this can be. He wants to at least try. So, letting out a measured exhale, he steadies himself.
"Do you like us together?"
It comes out more shaky than he wanted. A moment passes, then—
An airy, high-pitched giggle fills the room. This is one tune Sangwon's grown irrevocably fond of over the last three months.
Despite this, he must look startled, because Anxin softens his gaze just as fast as he had fallen back against the wall in laughter seconds ago. He sits upright before he replies easily, the corners of his lips upturned and dimple in full bloom. "Of course I like us together, hyung."
A teasing glint returns to his eyes and Sangwon is helpless to it, unable to look away while he morphs his expression into a small matching smile. He hopes it's enough to mask what the rapid thumping in his chest betrays.
"But you shouldn't ask silly questions," Anxin continues, tutting as he shakes his head faux-dramatically with a grin, "You really had me scared there for a second, looking so serious, only to ask that!"
So bright, Sangwon thinks. So, so bright.
It isn't a new thought—far from it. If anything, it could count as the first thought he ever had about the boy he saw from across the seemingly endless rows of heads and twin grey uniforms, on a summer's day months ago now. The sun had been beaming down on them, and yet Anxin was the one who seemed to shine brighter. As if magnetised, Sangwon couldn't look away, not then and certainly not now.
He never stood much of a chance to begin with.
Back then, he had been content to admire from the distance he was granted. It was enough to bear witness: to see Anxin, impossibly beautiful and utterly out of reach. Until one day, that entire gap collapsed in on itself and suddenly he was hearing a honeyed voice too—Hello, nice to meet you all, I'm Zhou Anxin. I look forward to working with you.
Hook, line, and sinker.
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Sangwon has always been a romantic.
These days, he wouldn't bet on soulmates and love at first sight and fate with a gun to his head, swears he's old enough to not fall into fairytale naiveté, but he thinks this might be close enough. He knows he's fallen, one way or another, be it due to the machinations of something like fate or just the simple machinery of his heart.
Zhou Anxin made it easy. He was all radiant smiles, banter dealt out like they had known each other for years—not mere months—words of comfort floating seamlessly across a language barrier practically nonexistent now.
Anxin makes it easy to fall, but hard to be someone that's fallen. Hard, because his smiles, banter, and words of comfort are all far from being directed soley at him. Certainly not when there's Hao-ge, Xinlong-ge, Kaiwen-ge, Suren-ge, Zihao-ge, and counting. C-trainees aside, he knows there's also Kangmin-hyung, Junseo-hyung, Leo-hyung, Gyehyeon-hyung. Sometimes, it feels as if Anxin is close with every trainee, all 48 of them.
Ironically, it's one of the things Sangwon admires most about him, even if it simultaneously makes his heart clench: how effusive he is with his affection, like the human embodiment of kindness without reservation, as if an angel came down to Earth. He thanks his God he can even be on the receiving end at all.
And he can't fault Anxin for any of it. How could he? It's stupid, especially when he knows that he himself is close with half the trainees Anxin is, and isn't afraid to show them affection too. So why the ache?
He feels like there's a malfunction in his heart.
Sangwon just wishes he could throw up the rest of his wants. It's unfair, ridiculous of him to hold on to them. It should be enough: to be able to reach out a hand and have it held in return, to be able to swing an arm over a shoulder and have the same weight on one of his own. He should make it enough: the intense rush of giddiness he feels whenever their eyes lock across a room, the surge of wonder he's filled with at any given moment, the way he's laughed more in the past weeks than he has in months, like he's 12 again, chest-deep in puppy love.
But for all that the heart grows thick and heavy with affection and adoration, it also squeezes and atrophies. He's aware enough to admit that it is getting to him—the time, the pressure, the eyes on them, the incoming and inevitable ending.
He wants and he wants and he wants so much he thinks his heart might rupture, that maybe, it already has.
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The night before the second elimination filming, Sangwon had sat in Leo's room, the latter's roommate out somewhere neither of them had bothered learning. The only thing they had cared about was being left alone, shoulder-to-shoulder on the floor with their backs against one of the beds, knees tucked in close to their chests. A deep indigo washed over their room, pouring in from the window they'd left open because at least we can watch the stars from here. Yes, they were restless with anticipation of what the next day would bring, so much so that it made sleep a faraway fantasy, but at least they were there together. Sangwon thinks—no, knows—he would have called it quits long ago if not for the enduring condition of their togetherness. It was an anchor, a mooring point.
Now, feeling the most untethered he has in weeks, he recalls what his best friend had said that night. Seriously though, I don't think you have anything to worry about, Sangwon-ah, like—c'mon man, you've basically got the entire country rooting for you now. I reckon it'd take more of a miracle for you to not make it in, ya-know?
It hasn't been set in stone though, and that's the sliver of a difference where doubt makes its home, rooting itself firmly no matter how cramped the space.
Of all people, he thinks Leo should know better than to take a probably as a definitely, to take a good thing for granted just because it seems within reach, or worse, because it practically is.
Anything can be gained. Anything can be taken away. At any moment, without warning. Anything can be wanted—and then it is gained, or, it is taken away. He knows this to be true, and part of him doesn't want to know which way the pendulum will swing this time. Not only for himself, but for Leo, for Junseo, Kangmin, Junmin too. Harry June, Sanghyeon, Xinlong, Hao—the list could go on. And of course, for Anxin: he's yet to think about the ending in which they're not on a stage together, hand in hand.
Sometimes, he thinks he'd rather stay right here where he is, in this perpetual limbo. It wouldn't be so bad. No one stays, but no one leaves either. He'll take what he can get.
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maybe i should have wanted less.
maybe i should have ignored the bowl in me
burning to be filled.
maybe i should have wanted less.
LUCILLE CLIFTON, THE BOOK OF LIGHT; "CLIMBING"
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"Hyung," A familiar sweet voice seems to say. He can vaguely register a dip in the mattress beside his hip, then a gentle hand enveloping his right shoulder, warmth radiating onto the bare skin there, palpable even to his sleep-addled mind. "Sangwon-hyungie, it's 5 A.M now, we have to get up for practice, remember?"
Right. Practice. Their conversation from last night ebbs back to him now, albeit in fragments; a series of vignettes masquerading as dream before his brain can fully catch up.
—aybe it's all the practice messing with your head, it's got you so serious you've turned silly!
The same sweet voice continues.
Speaking of practice, I can't believe the guys want to practise again so early tomorro—no—today, I swear sometimes I think they're crazy—
We should probably sleep then. Need all the hours we can get.
Mm, yeah, good idea. Sweet dreams, hyung.
Night, Anxin-ie. Sleep well.
The lights cut. His vision goes dark.
He thinks the dream is over. Then—
Sangwon-hyung.
Hm? He hears himself respond.
You know I do mean it, right? When I say I like us together? 'Cause I do, and even though I do also think your question was a bit stupid—sorry—I don't want you thinking I wasn't sincere in saying that. I really am. I'm glad we're in this together, hyung. I'm glad I met you.
The warmth on his shoulder starts to migrate, the hand moving slowly but firmly in circles before squeezing softly. Once, then twice. His eyes blink open in time. "Good morning hyung, are you finally awake now?"
Woken up by an angel, Sangwon thinks. Satisfied, he lets his eyes shut once again, a hint of a smile dancing across his lips. The boy hovering over him catches it.
"Hyung! What are you smiling about? It's time to get up, not go back to sleep, silly!" whines Anxin, but unbeknownst to the half-asleep boy, his eyes are crinkled into crescent moons, pushed up by the grin on his face. The hand gripping Sangwon's shoulder starts to shake with purpose now. The warmth remains.
Sangwon turns away from the voice, frowning slightly at the loss of contact on his shoulder as a result—still not fully lucid, he's torn between wanting the disturbance to stop and wanting the warmth to stay. However, there's one thing he knows he wants for sure in this moment:
"Five more minutes."
"Hey—"
Two things he knows he wants, actually. The sleep fog acts as liquid courage.
"C'mere."
"Come where exactly? I'm already right here, hyung, if you just open your eyes you'll see—"
The bed lets out a sharp creak under his shifting weight. With eyes still closed, he shuffles forward until he's almost got his front pressed against the wall. He's left enough space to fit another person.
A beat passes. Then—
"Alright, five more minutes it is," Anxin agrees, his voice sounding closer with each syllable. There's a momentary chill that blows across Sangwon's back, then a weight on the mattress, and finally—heat, spreading all across his back. An arm swings over his torso, hand coming to lay right atop his chest. Beneath it, the machinery keeping him alive, his heart, the stupid wanting thing, is beating steadily. It thrums solid and full—of want, of hope, of loss, of anticipation, and above all else, of love. In all its forms and intensities.
He peels the hand off his heart and interlaces it with one of his own.
The sweet, sweet voice comes right by Sangwon's ear this time, softer than before. "But then we really do need to get up, no more excuses, okay?"
Although he can't see, he thinks he can feel the outline of a smile against his nape. There's a matching one that hasn't left his own face.
Sooner rather than later, they'll gather themselves up and walk out the door to brave another day. Then another, and another, and another. With each one, the countdown will strike closer to zero.
But for now, he's held and he's warm and he has this: five more minutes.