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──── “people come and go sometimes” ────
Hao knew that leaving would be tough, and he knew from the start that it would happen, too. Training under a company constantly on the verge of going bankrupt, he understands that YueHua would take any possible chance to drag in more money under their greedy claws. Understanding and knowing is different from agreeing.
When the nine of them had been discussing what would happen with their contracts, he wanted to shout and kick and argue. He wanted to pour out his heart, to bite and draw blood if it meant getting his way. Instead, he quietly sat in a chair in a room too bright and too expecting, head nodding in understanding. It felt like he was being eaten alive.
The entertainment representatives came to the conclusion so easily, shaking hands and smiling at the end of it all. Hao felt as though they were ripping his heart from his chest and watching it beat until it stopped. How could they be so comfortable surrounded by their grief? Have they no pity, no regret? No apologies to relay to them for splitting them apart with so much joy?
Hao’s mouth twitched. He did not dare to open it.
Returning to the dorms that night lacked the warmth it did before. They had all been so hopeful—Jiwoong and Hanbin had been fighting for them all to stick together, but realistically, they all knew their hope was making them think too fast and too emotionally. Upon opening the door, their shoes were still scattered in the way. There were still blankets wrinkling on their couch from a movie night they had weeks ago. There were still pillows on the floor from a pillow fight Yujin and Gunwook had gotten into in an attempt to cheer their youngest up from the inevitable. There were still dirty dishes on the stovetop, piling up from nights of instant ramen.
It still looked like home, but it felt far from it.
It was quiet. Nobody wanted to speak; it was either they spoke about what they were all dreading, or somebody would make a dry joke nobody would laugh at anyway. They can’t avoid it forever, but god knows they want to. So they let time pass in silence, uninterrupted and undisturbed.
Hao lays in bed with his back facing the door. He feels weight dip in next to him, and he doesn’t have to turn around to know that it’s Hanbin. He doesn’t want to turn around. He doesn’t want to face the person he knows he’ll end up losing. He lifts his head, letting the younger boy slip his arm under as always.
Always, not forever.
He lets his eyes shut and Hanbin’s trembling breaths lull him to sleep for one of the last times. Treasure it as he may, he can’t cling to it forever, and that’s what hurts the most.
──── “call me your favorite one last time” ────
Hao remembers telling fans that he and Hanbin were more intimate than anybody could think. He thinks of that now, as they tangle together in their sheets, sharing the same breaths and pressing as much skin to skin as they can. It’s gentle, albeit desperate. They pour all the words they can’t say into every touch, every kiss. They taste every inch of skin and mark it in their wake—not for all to see, but for them to remember.
Every so often, they whispered rushed promises against one another’s lips, saying they’ll stay the same. It was nothing more than hope, though. Staying the same would mean staying here, staying in the warmth of their shared bed and shared dorm and shared life.
“You’ll always be my favorite, you know?” Hanbin laughed against his skin when they both collapsed against the sheets. Hao couldn’t find it in himself to laugh back. He knows he means it well, but the underlying implication—no, the knowledge that there will likely be another burns in the worst way possible.
Always, not forever.
──── “so i have swallowed all my pride, accepted the end of you and i” ────
In a stadium full of people, Hao only has his eyes on Hanbin. He’s had days to prepare for this—to prepare to say goodbye—but it still hurts just the same. For the past three days, they’ve been clinging off of one another for every concert, every morning of, and every night after, desperate to soak up as much of the other as possible before they have to split. Today, Hao had spent at least 80% of the concert just sobbing into Hanbin’s arms.
Now, he’s stuck standing to the side, watching as Hanbin pours his heart out in a goodbye speech and waves goodbye to the fans as if he’s the one leaving the group. If he weren’t so heartbroken, Hao would have laughed at the thought. Instead, he’s rooted to his spot, falling apart as Hanbin steps up to that door that’ll separate them. He wishes he could do it all now, but there are cameras and limited time stopping him. Damned fame.
Whose idea was it to have them leave one by one? If he had more time, Hao would have had a lengthy argument with whichever creative director thought it would be nice to maximize their pain for the sake of content. He would have the courage to argue, now, because what will they do? Kick him out of the group? Suspend his contract? Whatever they could do to him is already being done.
They only make eye contact for a split second before Hanbin is turning around and leaving, but it’s enough to have Hao falling to his knees and gasping for air as he sobs.
So, this is it. This is really it. They won’t be singing the same songs together anymore. They won’t share a stage. They won’t be “Hanbin and Zhanghao from ZEROBASEONE”. They won’t sleep in the same bed. They won’t share the same breaths. They will become their own people, leaving only a piece of themselves behind in the other.
Hao can’t remember whatever he says to the audience. He can’t remember if he says anything at all. He doesn’t remember the steps he takes towards the door, unsupported, and he doesn’t remember it shutting in his face. He doesn’t remember the tissues urgently dabbed against his face by staff members determined to ‘make him pretty’ 24/7. He doesn’t remember being led to a separate van than Hanbin, bags already packed into the back. He doesn’t remember Ricky and Gyuvin laughing through tears as they start on bleaching the former’s hair in the car, the chemical smell burning at his lungs.
All he can remember is the feeling of his heart falling apart, excruciatingly, bit by bit, until he’s left with nothing behind.
──── “but what if i miss you for the rest of my life?” ────
Hao is greedy. He wants Hanbin all for himself. He wants no cameras, no fans, nobody else—just him and Hanbin, always and forever. Seeing a glimpse of him during music shows and special events isn’t enough. He got used to always having him by his side, only ever having to split apart for a few days at most and not forever. He got used to his warmth, to his skin being pressed against his, not small moments of eye contact or winks and blown kisses when they think nobody is watching. He wants him. All of him. Every inch, every centimeter, every cell, every atom. Everything there is to Hanbin, he wants it, and he misses it, because once, he did have it all.
Their fans are happy with their small interactions, with the smiles and the nods of acknowledgement. Hao wishes that he could find it in himself to be okay with that, but he can’t. Nothing will ever be enough. Nothing can compare to the feeling of Hanbin’s arms around him as they sleep, or the feeling of his lips beneath his eye, on the tip of his nose, on his chin—anywhere. Everywhere.
They still try to meet whenever they can. They still go out to eat, they still go to see the cherry blossom trees when they bloom. It just isn’t as often or as soon as it used to be.
For a moment, Hao considers that he might be spoiled by all the time he was given before. He wishes that he could turn back time just to cherish it more than what he already had. He would hug him more, kiss him more, cry into his arms more—anything he hadn’t done before, he would do then.
Now, though, he sits in his too cold bed. He still has the pillowcases they used to share, and he still has pictures of them hanging from every corner and propped up on every desk, but it doesn’t make the room any warmer.
Hao still manages to smile for the cameras, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. As grateful as he is for getting to stay with Ricky, Yujin, and Gyuvin as well as being reunited with Seungeon, it simply isn’t the same as having Hanbin by his side. Nothing could replace him. It just wasn’t possible.
He feels as though he is drowning, and there’s only one pair of hands that can drag him out. Those hands—those warm, familiar hands—are now long gone, though. What is he meant to do now? Close his eyes and wait for it all to be over?
Hao lays in bed, staring up at his ceiling. It’s supposed to be his, but it doesn’t quite feel like it. It feels like a jail cell, trapping him there until he can be released into his daily, monotonous schedule. He’s slipping—he knows it. And perhaps he had gotten too attached, too obsessive in his love, but it’s too late to turn back now.
So all he can do is wait.