[EXO] Negative Nine Point Eight Meters Per Second Squared
Title: Negative Nine Point Eight Meters Per Second Squared (or Gravity)
Word Count: 7531
Pairing(s): Yixing-centric; Kray, Taohun, Kailu
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Summary: In between a boyfriend that's never home, a best friend with pedo problems, and two neighbors that won't stop hitting on him, Zhang Yixing has enough on his plate. The last thing he needs is some guy in a suit trying to sign him to his label. AU
Notes: Shamelessly based off this.
(
Kris opens his eyes and palms are hot on his chest, Yixing’s perfect little hips working in tight circles down on Kris’s cock. Heat pools in the pit of his stomach as he swallows Yixing’s moans in a tangle of tongues and saliva. The moans turn to screams every time Yixing slams back down on that one sweet spot, and the sound has Kris fucking his hips up harder and faster.
“Shit, you’re perfect,” Kris groans as he trails kisses over a heaving chest and runs palms over thighs slick with sweat.
The tempo of skin slapping skin falls apart as Kris presses bruises onto protruding hips and Yixing scrapes long red lines down muscled arms. They’re both so close, he can almost--
Kris opens his eyes and finds the front of his boxers wet. Slivers of moonlight disturb the pitch black of the bedroom, and he’s strangely cold.
“Yixing?” he’s about to call, but then he hears it.
It’s the faintest of sounds, the low thrum of a baritone guitar that deludes you into thinking it’s just another rhythm of the earth, a primeval thing older than us all. Kris relaxes when he hears it, but he knows he won’t be able to sleep until it’s completely dark again.
He slides open the door to the balcony, mouth ready to ask Yixing what he’s doing up at this hour of the morning.
Instead he listens to the melody being plucked almost lovingly from thin air, the music swelling as if with Kris’s breathing itself (or is it the other way around?). Yixing had been begging him for a new guitar for weeks, but they only got around to picking it up yesterday. Kris guesses Yixing couldn’t wait. He sits down silently next to him and listens until he’s finished.
Kris finds his mind, floating lazily amidst curls of song, wandering to his upcoming business trip. He’ll be gone for over a week, but Yixing will be better off in the apartment rather than cooped up in a hotel in a foreign city all day, so Kris has decided. He just hopes nothing happens while he’s gone. There’s something about Yixing that makes everyone fall in love with him, from the tiniest baby wailing in its mother’s arms to the frailest old woman enjoying the warmth of a summer’s morning. And Yixing is just the kind of person to get caught up in something way over both of their heads. It’s only a matter of time, in Kris’s opinion.
He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice the music breaking off until he finds himself with a lapful of Yixing. The other gives him a light peck on the nose and a dimpled smile.
“You better go back to sleep, or you’ll be yawning through that important meeting you have today,” he teases, sliding closer for warmth in the chilly night air.
Kris opens his eyes, and he knows he’s lost.
)
“Ah, ah!”
Yixing turns over in bed and rubs the sleep from his eyes with drowsy fingertips. He’s still bleary as he paws through the sheets and pillows, so it takes him a full minute to realize where the breathy screaming is coming from.
“Go to sleep, Luhan,” he groans, chucking a pillow at his best friend’s face.
The other only throws a pillow back in Yixing’s direction and resumes his noises. Yixing rolls his eyes and covers his head with the pillow. He should be used to Luhan’s sleeping habits by now, but he isn’t. He can’t help wishing for a taller body pressed against his, one whose arms wrap around him with something a bit more than simple affection. Of course, the king-size bed feels too empty with Kris away, so Yixing always makes some excuse to invite Luhan over. The older boy has probably caught on by now, now that Yixing thinks about it.
He frowns and goes back to sleep, though he only drifts between lucid dreams and disoriented tossing and turning.
…
When he wakes up two hours past his usual time, Luhan is already making breakfast in the kitchen. Yixing grabs some chopsticks and begins shoveling rice porridge into his mouth, groaning as the food hits his stomach.
“Did you forget to eat again?” Luhan laughs as he slides Yixing a plate of eggs.
“I was fiddling around with ‘Gravity’,” Yixing defends. “I’ve almost got it, I swear.”
“You said that last week.” Luhan sits down next to Yixing and takes a bite of his own eggs. “Well, I may not know how to make much food, but the food I do know how to make is damn good.”
Yixing chews contemplatively, turning the rubbery texture over with his tongue. “Sure,” he agrees.
Luhan happily inhales the rest of his food, and then sighs as he looks at the clock.
“Must be nice to not have a schedule,” he remarks. “Sure don’t need one when you got a sugar daddy floating any expenses.”
It comes out biting but Yixing knows Luhan better than that. He shrugs half-apologetically, half-smugly while Luhan grabs his bag and heads out the door for class, waving good-bye. Yixing is left in the apartment, the hum of the refrigerator suddenly too loud. He glances at the calendar on his phone.
Four more days.
He leaves a note for the cleaning lady, refills Baozi’s bowl, and slings his guitar over his back, heading out the door.
…
“Good morning, Xing-xing,” a familiar voice greets as Yixing waits for the elevator.
“Good morning, Zitao,” he replies, not taking his eyes from the door. It’s like dealing with Medusa, he tells himself, look it in the eyes and you’re dead.
“How are you this morning?” Zitao asks. Yixing can feel the other boy’s breath on his neck.
“Good.” They step into the elevator and Yixing catches a glimpse of muscled arms and artfully styled locks of bright red.
Zitao lives next door with his boyfriend and fellow model Sehun. Both of them have been trying to get into Yixing’s pants as long as he can remember, which is actually not that long. But Kris seems pissed off enough about it, so Yixing figures it must be a pretty long-term thing.
Yixing doesn’t know why he’s never taken the two up on their offer. He’s never given it much thought, to be honest. He just doesn’t talk to either of them for longer than necessary, and even that’s a bit too much for his taste.
The elevator arrives at the ground floor, and their steps echo off the marble floors. Yixing smiles at the doorman and then they emerge onto the streets of Seoul, shading their eyes in the sudden sunshine. Yixing checks his watch and realizes that he can catch the next train if he hurries.
“See you around,” Tao calls after his retreating back.
Yixing waves and scurries down the steps to the nearest subway station, popping a stick of peppermint gum to distract himself from the smell of urine.
…
The sugary coffee leaves a bad taste in the back of his mouth, but he takes another sip because he already paid for it. Besides, he knows what a nice image he makes, outlined against the cafe window with his feet propped up, guitar at his side and coffee steaming in his hand.
He picks at some of the coffee rings on the table with one fingernail, gazing listlessly out the window. He’s so bored he could kill a small animal, but somehow he doesn’t think that’s the right analogy. Or is it metaphor? He can’t be assed.
“Here’s your croissant, sir,” one of the waiters says as he slides a plate in front of Yixing.
“I didn’t order any croissant,” Yixing replies, pushing the plate back. “You must have the wrong table.”
“No,” the waiter insists. “The guy over there ordered it for you.”
He points to a figure on the opposite side of the cafe with perfectly gelled brown spikes and a smile that gleams a shade too bright. He’s even wearing a suit, for God’s sake. Yixing rolls his eyes and gets up from the table, grabbing his guitar.
“Actually, I was just leaving,” he says, shoving a few crumpled bills into the man’s hands. “That’s for the croissant.”
It’s raining when he gets onto the street, but Joonmyeon isn’t deterred.
“Come on!” he calls after Yixing. “Let me just give you my card!”
“No!” Yixing yells back, his temper flaring. “You’ve given it to me three times already!”
“But you threw it away all three times!” Joonmyeon almost whines.
“You never said anything about keeping it,” Yixing points out as they wait for the light to change.
“It was implied,” Joonmyeon sniffs. “Come on, buddy. I’ll make you a star, promise.”
He holds out the rectangle of cardstock in between two fingers, his expression almost hopeful.
“Taxi!” Yixing calls as he spots an uninhabited one passing nearby.
…
When Luhan asks Yixing to meet him at his apartment with six exclamation points, he knows something is wrong. Luhan usually only uses four, and his apartment is almost unfit for human habitation given his unfortunate occupation as a poor university student. They both prefer to loaf around in Kris’s mansion of an apartment instead.
“Who’s dying?” Yixing demands as he bursts in the door, wielding his phone like a bludgeon.
“No one,” Luhan snaps. “Shut the door.”
He’s cleared a spot on the couch to sit on and he shoves an empty pizza box aside to make room for Yixing.
“Well, what’s wrong then?” Yixing asks, confused.
“Jongin texted me back.”
Luhan shoves his phone into Yixing’s face, all 58.6 by 123.8 mm of iPhone 5 glory bedecked in a case at least two sizes too unnecessary. Yixing squints to read the text, his Korean halting.
“Hey...with six tildes. I’d love to go.” He frowns before switching back to their customary Chinese. “So he agreed?”
“Yes!” Luhan exclaims. He pauses before asking, “what’s a tilde?”
“You would know if you were planning on being a philosophy major,” Yixing informs him gravely.
Luhan flaps a hand at him. “That’s not the point. The point is, Kim fucking Jongin texted me back and he wants to go see the Super Junior concert with me and this can only mean one thing.”
“That I wasn’t invited?” Yixing offers. Luhan looks like he wants to smack something.
“No. There are only two reasons that a perfectly attractive and well-endowed young man like himself would agree to be smothered in fangirls for a few hours to see Eunhyuk rip his shirt off. He’s either there for the man boobs and bulges glistening in the stage lights, or he’s there because he’s interested in me. Either way, I have a chance with the kid.”
“You know he’s underage, right? And you’re one misdemeanor away from deportation, after that party at Chanyeol’s place.” Spotting the container on the table, Yixing pops a sesame covered mochi into his mouth and chews loudly.
Luhan winces at the memory. “I’m not going to fuck him right away. His birthday is in January. I’ll bide my time until then.”
Yixing groans, planting his forehead on Luhan’s shoulder. “But if you date him, Sehun will find some excuse to come around the apartment,” he complains. “They’re best friends.”
He sits back up, looking at Luhan mournfully.
“Oh, can’t you just stick it out? For me? After all we’ve been through?” Luhan bats his doe eyes at Yixing, feathery lashes glistening.
Yixing pinches one of Luhan’s cheeks, hard. “That might work on your mother, but it won’t work on me. I have my dignity.”
“You’d be surprised, actually,” Luhan grins.
Yixing swallows his mochi, licking around his mouth for any sesame seed stragglers.
“So will you do it?” Luhan asks hopefully.
Yixing tackles him to the ground and smushes his face in a pair of dirty soccer cleats.
“Yes.”
…
Baozi (who was named by Luhan after the guy that used to live next door) purrs when Yixing enters the dark apartment. He rubs against Yixing’s calf, almost making him trip.
“Watch out,” he chides gently, nudging the cat’s stomach with one toe.
He tosses his jacket on the couch and stumbles out onto the balcony. His phone has no new messages and he doesn’t think he’ll be sleeping tonight. Luhan is cramming for a test tomorrow, now that he’s recovered his senses, and Baozi is a ruthless motherfucker that has no compassion for lonely Changsha boys far from home.
The best thing about having the penthouse is that, sixty floors up, he can’t hear anything except for the faint whistling of the wind and the barely perceptible drone of the city below. He takes his guitar out of its case for the first time all day and plucks one string, fiddling with the tuning. When he’s satisfied with that he attaches the finger picks to his right hand and leans back against the wall, one foot dangling over the edge.
“Mom, can you hear me?” he asks the night sky.
His bracelets slide down on his arm as he picks out a first few hesitant notes. The ones afterward come easier until the music comes rolling off of his fingers, his eyes closing as his fingers find the familiar path over the guitar by themselves. The melody is simple enough, and he follows it again and again, worrying it with his fingers until it has taken on half a hundred different shapes.
Everything is so much simpler, he thinks, so much simpler when there aren’t any voices or words to cloud it. Just the singular melody of the guitar, unadorned and unassuming. He wonders why life can’t be more like this, plain instead of pretentious, hopeful instead of cynical.
Below, windows in the apartments below open and his playing grows louder, but his fingers never get tired. He doesn’t pause in his playing, continuously reworking the same piece over and over. He tries different keys and ornaments, he tries jumping octaves and he tries changing the melody itself but nothing sounds right. In the end he breaks off, frustrated and entirely not sleepy.
He puts his guitar away and paws around the fridge for something to eat. He’s a better cook than Luhan, for sure, but he doesn’t feel like cooking right now. The cleaning lady restocked the pantry recently, so he pops some ramen into the microwave and takes it to the couch. The TV is still on the news channel, the one that Kris likes to watch at night after work. Yixing leaves it on, and falls asleep sometime between oceans of fire and island disputes.
…
The girl recognizes him even without his guitar. He thanks God that it wasn’t a pack; they’re more prone to shrieks when they’re not alone.
“OmoareyouZhangYixing?” comes the high-pitched squeak, or near enough. Yixing has trouble understanding her rapid-fire Korean.
“Annyeonghaseyo,” he says, bowing. It’s a universal language, he’s found.
He rushes away before she can ask for something he doesn’t have to give, bowing the whole way.
It’s no surprise that the entertainment companies are crawling all over him, he supposes. Joonmyeon is only the most vocal of many casting agents and producers, all itching to sign a contract with the YouTube guitar sensation. It’s like signing an underground rap big-shot--it lends credibility to the group, and the fans that come attached certainly don’t hurt.
But Yixing doesn’t want the spotlight. He’d started posting his compositions to YouTube back before college, but he soon attracted a following that continues to demand more and more of him, albums and tours and public appearances. He doesn’t want to disappoint them, even more than he wants to be left alone.
He makes it to the bus stop just in time to catch the bus downtown. On the drive there a girl’s phone blares the latest hit from Big Bang. He’s already racing through the melody and harmony lines, puzzling out which fingerings would work best. It’s nice to be able to do that, to translate from voices to the twang of guitar strings with perfect accuracy. It makes sense, a lot more sense than other things, and he almost forgets about ‘Gravity’, a persistent itch in between his shoulderblades.
He gets off two blocks away from the bank and has to walk the rest of the way. Kris’s assistant has the money wired to his account every three months. Yixing simply transfers enough cash to his parents’ account every other Friday, when they think he receives his paycheck for teaching Chinese at a city elementary school. They know about his guitar hobby, of course, and they’re always encouraging him to set aside more money for that, instead of for his mother’s treatments. It’s ironic, of course, because Kris pays for both and doesn’t bat an eye. Sometimes Yixing wonders what he would do without his keeper.
As he steps out of the bank his phone rings and he ducks into an alley to take the call.
It must be Kris, he thinks. He finished his meeting and he’s calling to check on me.
But when he finally fishes his phone out of his pocket the picture on the screen isn’t the one of Kris’s tattoo, taken at three in the morning while Yixing was still too sleepy to think rationally. Instead, Luhan’s Ahn Naesang impersonation greets him.
“Hello?”
“Well don’t sound so cheerful,” Luhan sniffs. “We’re coming over. What time will you be home?”
…
They enter in an explosion of laughter and Yixing cringes.
“Wow, I’ve never seen the inside of this place before!” Tao exclaims loudly, running a finger over a scented wood carving. Yixing winces, remembering Kris saying something about body oils dissolving the wood. Or maybe it was the same thing about the artwork on the antique vase from like, the Song dynasty.
“Xingie’s got it good, doesn’t he?” Luhan replies, giving Yixing a smirk. “Did you see the TV and surround sound system yet?”
Sehun strolls in like he owns the place, Jongin on his heels like a lost puppy. They disappear after Tao into the TV room and Yixing shuts the door.
“I already have a headache,” he complains to Luhan. “Can’t I just leave and come back in a few hours?”
Luhan rolls his eyes. “You’re so awkward. Just pretend that you’re at a TVXQ concert or something.”
“But you’re the one that likes Dong Bang Shin Ki...”
Luhan pauses. Then he swats Yixing on the shoulder. “What’s your point?”
…
“Gege, I miss you.” Yixing pokes Luhan’s back with one toe experimentally. Nothing happens.
“I’ll be back Sunday night,” Kris yawns, and Yixing pictures him kneading his forehead after a long day. Kris has a lot of long days; right now he’s the hottest young thing in the commercial flying industry, effectively controlling sixty-two percent of the Korean market share.
“Do you have work on Monday?” Yixing asks, rolling over onto his stomach.
“You know the answer to that.”
Yixing pouts and changes his voice to a whine. Kris loves it when he plays coy like this. “But you haven’t fucked me in so long. Can’t you come back just one day early?”
Kris hesitates. Yixing can imagine the feel of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “I--might be able to catch an earlier flight.”
“Tha--”
“It’s just a maybe though,” Kris warns.
Yixing smiles to himself, because when Kris says maybe, it means yes.
“Gege, tell me what you’re going to do to me when you get back,” he says, reaching into the worn fabric of his sweatpants and starting to head to the bedroom. Maybe he’ll finally be able to sleep.
Kris groans, and Yixing knows he’s doing the same. “First, I’ll--”
The doorbell rings, resounding throughout the apartment. Luhan stirs from his position on the ground.
“Hold on,” Yixing mutters, disappointed.
“Ignore it,” Kris says, his voice impatient.
The doorbell rings again, this time accompanied by loud banging and shouting.
“He’s going to wake the neighbors,” Yixing says. “I’ll call you back.”
“No, I have to get up early anyway,” Kris replies. “See you.”
“See you,” Yixing says to a disconnected call. He leans back on the couch and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s too late for this, whoever it is. It’s probably only a poor drunk banging on the wrong door, but Yixing will be getting a complaint from the landlord if he doesn’t stop.
“I know you’re in there!” comes the muffled voice.
Yixing heaves himself off the couch and pads over to the front door. When he wrenches it open, the person on the other side almost falls inside.
“How did you find out where I live?” Yixing demands, pushing Joonmyeon off of him.
The casting agent grins, as if satisfied with himself. “One day when you took the subway instead of a taxi, I followed you back here. I’ve been checking three floors a day, but I didn’t think you lived on the top floor. No wonder you don’t want to sign a contract, huh? You’re loaded!”
Yixing rolls his eyes. “I’m going to call security if you don’t leave.”
Joonmyeon’s already waving happily. “Don’t worry, I’ve done my work for today.”
That doesn’t sound too good to Yixing, but it’s too late for him to care. “Bye,” he calls as he closes the door. By the time he falls back onto the couch Luhan has made it to the bathroom. Yixing can hear the groans.
“I told you you shouldn’t have played that idol group drinking game,” he shouts. “Tao and Sehun left a long time ago, and Jongin left after you completely passed out.”
“A shot every time a member makes an awkward hand gesture,” Luhan recalls mournfully as he stumbles back into the living room, holding his head.
“You always were a lightweight,” Yixing reminds him cheerfully.
…
Yixing had big plans when he left Changsha with kindergarten-level Korean and little more than the clothes on his back. He attended an average university with a major in philosophy and a nebulous idea in his head that involved those charming street musicians in Hongdae and lazy afternoons in the countryside. An easy life, he thought, with plenty of time for assing around. Assing around was one of the things he did best, he thought.
Get past college, get fluent in Korean, and his dreams wouldn’t be far off. Dreams of modest success, mild renown, of music.
Well, in the middle of his sophomore year he was called back to China because his mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The news didn’t hit him like a wrecking ball, though he wishes it did. If it did he wouldn’t be still standing, struggling under the weight on his shoulders. If it had been a wrecking ball, he would have crumpled, not shrank under the sudden realization of what a fool he had been. Of how naive he must have been to think that it would be a smooth climb towards his dreams while the world clawed at his ankles, trying to pull him back down.
He dropped out of university so he could send his meager paycheck back for the expensive treatments. China may claim to be communist -- it may claim to spread the shit of borrowed wealth around the country -- but it’s just a claim.
Kris found him not long after, at the party of a friend of a friend whom neither of them can remember anymore. It’s been downhill ever since.
“Come on,” Tao whines. “I left my bag in there. It’s Gucci, for God’s sake!”
“I’ll get it for you,” Yixing offers. “Where did you leave it?”
Tao taps his foot impatiently. “I think it’s in the kitchen. But that’s not--”
Yixing slams the door in his face and comes back a few minutes later with a bag disproportionately heavy for its size.
“Is this it?” he asks as he tosses it into Tao’s outstretched arms.
Tao examines it like he’s afraid Yixing stole something, and then looks at Yixing where he’s leaning against the doorjamb.
“I can’t figure you out,” he says finally.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just--what do you want? You could be a star, if you’d listen to that Joonmyeon guy. You could have thousands of fans screaming your name, you could--” He breaks off. “Or, if that’s not what you want, you could have anything money can buy. Just ask Kris and he’ll get it for you; it’s obvious you have the guy eating from the palm of your hand. If you’re sick of him, you could move in with someone else, or buy your own apartment.”
He pauses, his eyes flickering over to his own apartment door. “But you just wander around, like you’re missing something and everyone that walks by could be the one to give it to you.”
“It’s more than that,” Yixing says, and then he slams the door and he watches the news channel until his stomach starts growling loud enough for him to hear it.
…
“Why’d you ask him to come back so early?” Luhan pouts, sucking on his spoon as he watches Yixing upside-down from his perch on the couch.
“Why not?” Yixing asks in reply as he reaches for the carton of ice cream.
“Well, don’t you get bored of him eventually?”
“No,” Yixing shrugs, “I miss him.”
Luhan chews his lip and sits up, looking like he has to confront something he hoped would go away. Luhan tolerates Kris and Kris tolerates Luhan, but only for Yixing’s sake.
“Do you really love him?”
Yixing shrugs and busies himself with scraping the rest of the ice cream from the bottom of the carton.
“I dunno,” he mumbles around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie dough.
“It’s just--what if he gets tired of you?”
“I don’t want to think about it, okay?” Yixing snaps before he realizes that he’s already given Luhan the answer to his first question.
Yixing finishes the last of the ice cream and plunks his spoon into the carton, reaching out for Luhan’s and padding to the kitchen to throw it all in the sink.
“Come down to the studio with me,” Luhan suggests. “You haven’t been there for so long.”
“You know I don’t feel like dancing.”
“Just talk then. People haven’t seen you, you know? They’re always asking for you.”
“That’s okay. I’m heading out, so just lock up after yourself.” He slings his guitar over his back and slips out the door, leaving Luhan still on the couch with a frown.
…
“Just let me find you someone to record with. It can even be a girl, if you want. You must know about SNSD even in China, right? Take your pick. Taeyeon? Or Seohyun’s closer to you in age.”
Joonmyeon’s so happy to not be ignored that he’s willing to make exceptions.
“I don’t sing.”
“No problem. It’s called autotune,” Joonmyeon replies, not the least bit concerned.
They duck into the train together, just as the doors slide shut behind them.
“I didn’t say I couldn’t sing,” Yixing corrects. “I said that I didn’t sing.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Joonmyeon asks, stumbling when the train starts moving.
“I’m against the principle of it.” He runs a hand unconsciously over the smooth surface of his guitar case. “It ruins the music.”
“How?” Joonmyeon demands, incredulous.
Yixing shrugs in response. He didn’t expect the other to understand anyway. Silence falls for a moment and Yixing picks up a conversation from across the car. A father and a daughter, playful banter that has Yixing’s jaw tightening.
“Where are we going anyway?” Joonmyeon asks, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “And why do you always carry your guitar with you?”
“Why do you always ask so many questions?”
Joonmyeon hmmphs to himself and seems to resolve himself to the fact that his expectations for this encounter were much too high. “At least we’re making progress,” he mutters to himself. “He’s not running away from me anymore.”
They get off in the business district, and Joonmyeon whistles as Yixing makes his way towards one of the tallest buildings.
“Do you work here?” he asks. “I’ve always wondered what you did when you weren’t playing.”
“You might want to wait outside, actually,” Yixing says. “I won’t be long. I just forgot something inside.”
Joonmyeon is skeptical. “You’re not abandoning me, are you?”
Yixing shrugs. “Nothing you can do about it if I am.”
A sigh and Joonmyeon plops himself down on the nearest bench. “I guess I have no choice then.”
Yixing smiles his dimpled smile and pats Joonmyeon on the head as he walks inside. The receptionist recognizes him and waves him on up to the top floor, which is deserted on a Saturday. People are allowed to come in and work, of course, but no one does, much less on the executive floor. Yixing weaves his way easily through the winding hallways and lets himself into Kris’s office. The skyline of Seoul is familiar through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the television is still playing the news. Yixing shakes his head at the extravagance and makes his way to the desk.
“Where did you go?” he mutters to himself as he rummages through drawers and slides papers around. He finally turns up with it after five minutes of searching, a battered notebook wedged under several heavy tomes about the annual stock market fluctuations of the Far East. He flips open the first page and he can already hear the memories.
…
Luhan is gone by the time Yixing gets back but there is a note on the fridge:
Call me or I will tell Sehun where to find your spare key.
Yixing laughs but crumples the paper in his fist as Joonmyeon approaches. He tosses it into the trashcan and leans on the counter.
“What was that?” Joonmyeon asks, cocking his head to the side. He’s not wearing a tie today but he still has that ridiculously formal suit on, the white shirt inside open to the third button.
“Nothing,” Yixing shrugs, glancing off-handedly at Joonmyeon while he examines his notebook.
Joonmyeon shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. “Let’s talk business. How about that prologue single? Do you have anything written, or would you prefer to play something that’s already been written for you?”
Yixing frowns and crosses his arms. “I never said anything about--”
“Come on. We both know you’re going to accept.” Joonmyeon smirks, and the easy arrogance makes Yixing swallow.
“I have to think about it,” he says stubbornly, flipping open the notebook.
The first page is covered with writing in a childish hand, eighth notes and quarter carefully penciled onto the ledger lines. He doesn’t remember the song and his nine years old self must have forgotten to add the title.
Joonmyeon slides over to look at the notebook and laughs. “Pirates of the Caribbean?”
Yixing hums to himself and realizes it’s true. “I modified the music slightly so I could play it. My hands were too small to play the actual thing.”
The next page is some Chinese song he doesn’t remember, and as he flips he notices a rapid change. The music becomes more and more familiar, the transposing becomes more precise, and the handwriting is sloppier, as if he can’t wait to actually play the music instead of simply writing it down. (On some pages, there is just the title and the key, the rest unnecessary when the notes are engraven in his heart.) The volume of music rapidly increases until about fifteen years old, where it suddenly cuts off. The last song in the notebook is “My Heart Will Go On”, from Titanic.
“Fifteen was when I realized I was gay,” he finds himself saying. “I couldn’t write anything down, even if I wanted to. It felt so final, like I was trapping myself. The only way I could stop it was by recording the music instead of copying it. I didn’t want to forget, but I didn’t want to commit either.”
Joonmyeon doesn’t respond, just sits, and Yixing is almost grateful for the warmth pressed against his side. After Joonmyeon leaves, he sits and alternates between staring at the clock and the door, his shoulders drooping farther with each hour that passes. Eventually, he shuts off all the lights in the apartment and collapses onto the bed, his back aching.
…
Luhan wasn’t lying, apparently, because Yixing wakes up at seven in the evening to a hand on his shoulder, Sehun staring at him.
“Get up,” he says. “Luhan says you’re getting some fresh air, whether you like it or not.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Yixing groans in response, turning over in bed. His face sinks into a pillow and his senses are flooded with Kris’s familiar scent. “Only Luhan can do that.”
“Come on,” Sehun complains. “I’m just trying to be a good friend, okay? The only way Jongin got Luhan to leave is by promising that I would check on you.”
Yixing groans again low in his chest and then he throws the covers off, sliding out of bed. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t care, man. You just need to get your ass out of bed.” He pauses. “I mean, do you want to get something to eat?”
“Not really.” Yixing shuffles to the kitchen and looks through the fridge for a carton of milk, which he drinks while Sehun watches. He’s finished the whole thing by the time he remembers his manners. “You want anything?”
Sehun shakes his head. “It’s cool. This is okay, I guess. You’re out of bed and everything.”
Yixing nods. “Want to come out on the balcony? It’s too loud in here.” He glances at the fridge with its incessant hum.
Outside the wind whistles around them and Sehun pulls his hood over his ears, wrapping his arms around himself. Yixing closes his eyes and listens for the sounds of the city, honking and shouting and clanging and underneath it all a drone of voices, but he’s so high above it all it just becomes white noise. There aren’t many buildings in the area taller than this one, so above is just sky and below is just air, hung with pollution. He takes a deep breath and the corruption stings his lungs.
Sehun’s voice cuts through the smog and Yixing opens his eyes.
“We’re all going out tonight -- Tao, Luhan, Jongin, and me. You should come. It’s Saturday night and all. They’ll probably be here in a couple of hours.”
“Maybe I will,” Yixing responds, chewing on his lip.
“Alright, well we’ll knock. I gotta go shower, so see you around.” Sehun pats Yixing on the shoulder and scurries back inside, teeth chattering. A moment later, Yixing hears the front door open and close as Sehun heads back to his own apartment. He sighs and leans against the railing, gazing down at the ground, and the inexorable pull of gravity, of falling, is suffocating. He takes two steps back and closes his eyes again, because somehow looking at it is worse than knowing that the fall is there. He just doesn’t know anymore, because he’s lost. He’s alone, wandering in circles with the thread of his dreams--of his what-could-have-been--too tangled to follow anymore. He just wants someone to tell him what to do.
He rubs his hands together because it really is chilly and then he takes a deep breath. He wonders what he should wear.
…
“Wow,” Luhan comments when Yixing gets the door. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”
Yixing swats his best friend on the shoulder. “I’m seriously reconsidering it.”
Luhan laughs and seizes Yixing’s arm. “Too bad. I’ve already got you now.”
Yixing grins and thinks that’s not so bad.
“Come on,” Sehun urges as he stumbles out of his own apartment, ruffling his hair self-consciously. “Tao and Jongin are waiting in the lobby.”
The ride to the club passes in a blur because Yixing’s too busy staring out the window and fiddling with Luhan’s hand as his best friend chatters the ear off of his newest obsession, Jongin looking like he’s not sure whether to be flattered or uncomfortable.
Emerging onto the street, Yixing feels the thump of the bass and the hum of voices before he hears the drunken shouts and obnoxious dubstep. As they make their way up the line and into the club, the door is like a black hole swallowing up the light from outside and spitting out music that churns the stagnant air. Yixing glances at the people around him and he wonders if their eyes are black holes as well, in a way. They are the empty eyes of those without purpose, sucking in hope and spitting out despair.
The city always attracts them, the promise of greatness too much to resist. They come seeking fame, power, glamor. But the pull of gravity always pulls them back, and the tension of push and pull breaks them eventually. Seoul is full of the fragile young, carrying around too many shards of broken dreams and splinters of snapped promises. They tread carefully, wincing with every step because every breath they draw reminds them of the things they couldn’t do, either because they were scared, or because they just didn’t know how.
“Come on, Xing,” Luhan chirps when he’s got a drink or two in his system, grabbing his wrist and pulling him towards the dance floor.
Yixing scowls as he sees that he’s lost his spot. “I worked hard for that spot!” he complained.
“Boo hoo,” Luhan says carelessly. “Come on and dance with me; I have to study for finals starting tomorrow and I might just kill myself. You will be questioned when they find my body, so pay attention.”
Yixing laughs and lets himself be pulled into the crowd. And somewhere amidst the other lost souls, the push and pull of hopelessness and the clamor of voices crying out for help, he decides.
At the end of the night, Yixing climbs into bed with leaden limbs and hears the door slam behind Tao and Sehun. As he drifts off to sleep, he thinks about artistic integrity and playing the truth instead of a deceit, making music instead of hiding behind a facade of words. Lyrics that screen the true meaning, pretty lies that aren’t even written by the artist. What does he want?
…
“Good morning,” Yixing says to Joonmyeon’s smiling face when he opens the door the next morning. “Come in?”
Joonmyeon walks inside the apartment, shaking his head in disbelief. “So you’ll do the single?”
“Yes,” Yixing replies, “but there’s one condition.”
Joonmyeon shrugs. “At this point, anything’s plausible.”
Yixing grins. “I thought you’d say that.”
(
There’s a driver waiting for him at the airport, and Kris thankfully closes his eyes once he’s out of the bright glare of the sunlight. The drive to his apartment is longer than usual because of traffic, heavy even on a Sunday morning. His back is killing him from the plane ride and he’s looking forward to seeing Yixing again. He feels kind of guilty for all but promising that he’d be back on Saturday and then coming back on Sunday, but he knows Yixing isn’t the type to hold a grudge.
When the elevator door in the apartment building opens, someone’s already inside. He wears a white button-up with the first few buttons undone, underneath a crisp black suit. Kris wonders what he’s dressed like that for on a Sunday morning, and going up too. But then his phone buzzes with a text from Yixing and he forgets all about the stranger.
lol, it reads, punctuated by two emoticons too many. Kris doesn’t even remember what the conversation was about because he deleted his messages but he smiles anyway and taps his foot impatiently as he waits for the elevator to stop on the top floor.
Surprisingly, the stranger also gets off on the top floor, which is strange because Kris knows all the tenants there by face if not by name. He even turns into the section of hallway that Kris turns into, and Kris figures that he’s one of the models’ managers or something like that. His suspicions are confirmed when the stranger lets himself into their apartment.
Kris opens the door to his own apartment and shuts it behind him, slipping off his shoes. There’s guitar music flooding through the apartment, a melody that’s vaguely familiar, but somehow not. Kris sets his bag down on the ground with an audible thump.
“Hello?” The music cuts off and Yixing’s voice comes from somewhere else in the apartment.
“It’s me!” Kris calls back, poking his head into the living room to look for Yixing.
“Kris!” Yixing comes stumbling out of their bedroom, a tie not quite fastened around his neck and a sock halfway on his foot. “You said you would be back yesterday!”
Kris considers making an excuse but he’s too busy inhaling the scent of Yixing’s shampoo to think of one. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Won’t happen again.”
He thinks back to before and asks, “What song was it that you were playing? It sounds kind of familiar.”
“Oh, it was the one I was having trouble with, but I fixed it. I was in the middle of getting dressed when it just came to me and I figured out how I wanted to--”
Kris interrupts him by giving him a long kiss on the mouth. Yixing laughs and then breaks away, pulling his sock up on his ankle. Kris frowns as he watches Yixing fix his tie.
“What’s the occasion?” he asks, and his mind flickers absurdly back to the man in the elevator, the one in a suit.
Yixing bites his lip. “I might’ve done a thing.”
“What?” Kris demands, already thinking the worst. “Do I need to get a lawyer?”
Yixing laughs, a nostalgic sound. “No, it’s not that bad. I--” He pauses, fiddling with his cufflinks. “I signed a contract with this agent for this entertainment company. He’s going over the details with Tao and Sehun right now.”
Everything hits Kris at the same time and he is rendered speechless. When he finally regains his senses, he can only ask, in a small voice, “You’re leaving?” (The me tacked on the end is swallowed before it can break through his lips.)
Yixing shrugs sheepishly. “Well, yeah. I’ll still be in Seoul, but with training and recording and promotions--”
“Look,” Kris interrupts. “I know I haven’t been around much lately, but I can definitely take more days off. Now that the merger’s signed, I can spend a lot more time at home, and--”
Yixing looks stricken. “No,” he says quickly. “It’s not about you, or us. I mean, I’d want us to still have this, whatever it is, but this is about finally moving on. From everything that happened. I know that debut in an idol group is a lot far off from what I originally dreamt of doing, but I figured that you just have to take dreams as they come, even if they don’t look like what you thought they would.”
The apartment falls into silence when Yixing finishes and Kris contemplates what has been said. He remembers how Yixing was when they had first met, broken and crushed under the weight of a world that had been as merciless to him as it had been generous to Kris. Forced to give up his dreams, and uncertain of how to pick them back up again when he could, afraid, alone. Kris remembers how it was to feel that way, though he never felt as Yixing did. Some people are made to withstand a lot of shit, but others are not. They’re not weak, per se, because everyone has their own battles, and for each person those battles are a war for survival.
And then Kris realizes that he’s glad. He’s glad that Yixing has decided this.
Finally, he asks, “Really, Yixing? You can’t even remember what the company’s name is?”
Yixing laughs and swats Kris in the shoulder. “Stop being mean to me!”
)
“What do you think of the name EXO?” Joonmyeon asks as they ride the elevator up to the top floor of the building to meet the chairman.
“EXO?” Sehun asks, wrinkling his nose. “Isn’t that a deodorant?”
Joonmyeon is offended. “I think it has style.”
“Me too,” Luhan says, already trying to ingratiate himself.
“What does it mean?” Jongin asks.
Joonmyeon clears his throat, as if this is a speech he has memorized. “EXO comes from the word exoplanet, which refers to planets outside the solar system. It represents the--”
“Okay, I think that’s enough,” Tao interrupts, and everyone laughs except for Joonmyeon.
“Laugh all you want now,” he says, frowning. “Just wait to see what the chairman says.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Yixing says.
Joonmyeon nods. “Besides, five member groups are always a success.”
Yixing smiles. EXO.
Word Count: 7531
Pairing(s): Yixing-centric; Kray, Taohun, Kailu
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Summary: In between a boyfriend that's never home, a best friend with pedo problems, and two neighbors that won't stop hitting on him, Zhang Yixing has enough on his plate. The last thing he needs is some guy in a suit trying to sign him to his label. AU
Notes: Shamelessly based off this.
(
Kris opens his eyes and palms are hot on his chest, Yixing’s perfect little hips working in tight circles down on Kris’s cock. Heat pools in the pit of his stomach as he swallows Yixing’s moans in a tangle of tongues and saliva. The moans turn to screams every time Yixing slams back down on that one sweet spot, and the sound has Kris fucking his hips up harder and faster.
“Shit, you’re perfect,” Kris groans as he trails kisses over a heaving chest and runs palms over thighs slick with sweat.
The tempo of skin slapping skin falls apart as Kris presses bruises onto protruding hips and Yixing scrapes long red lines down muscled arms. They’re both so close, he can almost--
Kris opens his eyes and finds the front of his boxers wet. Slivers of moonlight disturb the pitch black of the bedroom, and he’s strangely cold.
“Yixing?” he’s about to call, but then he hears it.
It’s the faintest of sounds, the low thrum of a baritone guitar that deludes you into thinking it’s just another rhythm of the earth, a primeval thing older than us all. Kris relaxes when he hears it, but he knows he won’t be able to sleep until it’s completely dark again.
He slides open the door to the balcony, mouth ready to ask Yixing what he’s doing up at this hour of the morning.
Instead he listens to the melody being plucked almost lovingly from thin air, the music swelling as if with Kris’s breathing itself (or is it the other way around?). Yixing had been begging him for a new guitar for weeks, but they only got around to picking it up yesterday. Kris guesses Yixing couldn’t wait. He sits down silently next to him and listens until he’s finished.
Kris finds his mind, floating lazily amidst curls of song, wandering to his upcoming business trip. He’ll be gone for over a week, but Yixing will be better off in the apartment rather than cooped up in a hotel in a foreign city all day, so Kris has decided. He just hopes nothing happens while he’s gone. There’s something about Yixing that makes everyone fall in love with him, from the tiniest baby wailing in its mother’s arms to the frailest old woman enjoying the warmth of a summer’s morning. And Yixing is just the kind of person to get caught up in something way over both of their heads. It’s only a matter of time, in Kris’s opinion.
He’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t notice the music breaking off until he finds himself with a lapful of Yixing. The other gives him a light peck on the nose and a dimpled smile.
“You better go back to sleep, or you’ll be yawning through that important meeting you have today,” he teases, sliding closer for warmth in the chilly night air.
Kris opens his eyes, and he knows he’s lost.
)
“Ah, ah!”
Yixing turns over in bed and rubs the sleep from his eyes with drowsy fingertips. He’s still bleary as he paws through the sheets and pillows, so it takes him a full minute to realize where the breathy screaming is coming from.
“Go to sleep, Luhan,” he groans, chucking a pillow at his best friend’s face.
The other only throws a pillow back in Yixing’s direction and resumes his noises. Yixing rolls his eyes and covers his head with the pillow. He should be used to Luhan’s sleeping habits by now, but he isn’t. He can’t help wishing for a taller body pressed against his, one whose arms wrap around him with something a bit more than simple affection. Of course, the king-size bed feels too empty with Kris away, so Yixing always makes some excuse to invite Luhan over. The older boy has probably caught on by now, now that Yixing thinks about it.
He frowns and goes back to sleep, though he only drifts between lucid dreams and disoriented tossing and turning.
…
When he wakes up two hours past his usual time, Luhan is already making breakfast in the kitchen. Yixing grabs some chopsticks and begins shoveling rice porridge into his mouth, groaning as the food hits his stomach.
“Did you forget to eat again?” Luhan laughs as he slides Yixing a plate of eggs.
“I was fiddling around with ‘Gravity’,” Yixing defends. “I’ve almost got it, I swear.”
“You said that last week.” Luhan sits down next to Yixing and takes a bite of his own eggs. “Well, I may not know how to make much food, but the food I do know how to make is damn good.”
Yixing chews contemplatively, turning the rubbery texture over with his tongue. “Sure,” he agrees.
Luhan happily inhales the rest of his food, and then sighs as he looks at the clock.
“Must be nice to not have a schedule,” he remarks. “Sure don’t need one when you got a sugar daddy floating any expenses.”
It comes out biting but Yixing knows Luhan better than that. He shrugs half-apologetically, half-smugly while Luhan grabs his bag and heads out the door for class, waving good-bye. Yixing is left in the apartment, the hum of the refrigerator suddenly too loud. He glances at the calendar on his phone.
Four more days.
He leaves a note for the cleaning lady, refills Baozi’s bowl, and slings his guitar over his back, heading out the door.
…
“Good morning, Xing-xing,” a familiar voice greets as Yixing waits for the elevator.
“Good morning, Zitao,” he replies, not taking his eyes from the door. It’s like dealing with Medusa, he tells himself, look it in the eyes and you’re dead.
“How are you this morning?” Zitao asks. Yixing can feel the other boy’s breath on his neck.
“Good.” They step into the elevator and Yixing catches a glimpse of muscled arms and artfully styled locks of bright red.
Zitao lives next door with his boyfriend and fellow model Sehun. Both of them have been trying to get into Yixing’s pants as long as he can remember, which is actually not that long. But Kris seems pissed off enough about it, so Yixing figures it must be a pretty long-term thing.
Yixing doesn’t know why he’s never taken the two up on their offer. He’s never given it much thought, to be honest. He just doesn’t talk to either of them for longer than necessary, and even that’s a bit too much for his taste.
The elevator arrives at the ground floor, and their steps echo off the marble floors. Yixing smiles at the doorman and then they emerge onto the streets of Seoul, shading their eyes in the sudden sunshine. Yixing checks his watch and realizes that he can catch the next train if he hurries.
“See you around,” Tao calls after his retreating back.
Yixing waves and scurries down the steps to the nearest subway station, popping a stick of peppermint gum to distract himself from the smell of urine.
…
The sugary coffee leaves a bad taste in the back of his mouth, but he takes another sip because he already paid for it. Besides, he knows what a nice image he makes, outlined against the cafe window with his feet propped up, guitar at his side and coffee steaming in his hand.
He picks at some of the coffee rings on the table with one fingernail, gazing listlessly out the window. He’s so bored he could kill a small animal, but somehow he doesn’t think that’s the right analogy. Or is it metaphor? He can’t be assed.
“Here’s your croissant, sir,” one of the waiters says as he slides a plate in front of Yixing.
“I didn’t order any croissant,” Yixing replies, pushing the plate back. “You must have the wrong table.”
“No,” the waiter insists. “The guy over there ordered it for you.”
He points to a figure on the opposite side of the cafe with perfectly gelled brown spikes and a smile that gleams a shade too bright. He’s even wearing a suit, for God’s sake. Yixing rolls his eyes and gets up from the table, grabbing his guitar.
“Actually, I was just leaving,” he says, shoving a few crumpled bills into the man’s hands. “That’s for the croissant.”
It’s raining when he gets onto the street, but Joonmyeon isn’t deterred.
“Come on!” he calls after Yixing. “Let me just give you my card!”
“No!” Yixing yells back, his temper flaring. “You’ve given it to me three times already!”
“But you threw it away all three times!” Joonmyeon almost whines.
“You never said anything about keeping it,” Yixing points out as they wait for the light to change.
“It was implied,” Joonmyeon sniffs. “Come on, buddy. I’ll make you a star, promise.”
He holds out the rectangle of cardstock in between two fingers, his expression almost hopeful.
“Taxi!” Yixing calls as he spots an uninhabited one passing nearby.
…
When Luhan asks Yixing to meet him at his apartment with six exclamation points, he knows something is wrong. Luhan usually only uses four, and his apartment is almost unfit for human habitation given his unfortunate occupation as a poor university student. They both prefer to loaf around in Kris’s mansion of an apartment instead.
“Who’s dying?” Yixing demands as he bursts in the door, wielding his phone like a bludgeon.
“No one,” Luhan snaps. “Shut the door.”
He’s cleared a spot on the couch to sit on and he shoves an empty pizza box aside to make room for Yixing.
“Well, what’s wrong then?” Yixing asks, confused.
“Jongin texted me back.”
Luhan shoves his phone into Yixing’s face, all 58.6 by 123.8 mm of iPhone 5 glory bedecked in a case at least two sizes too unnecessary. Yixing squints to read the text, his Korean halting.
“Hey...with six tildes. I’d love to go.” He frowns before switching back to their customary Chinese. “So he agreed?”
“Yes!” Luhan exclaims. He pauses before asking, “what’s a tilde?”
“You would know if you were planning on being a philosophy major,” Yixing informs him gravely.
Luhan flaps a hand at him. “That’s not the point. The point is, Kim fucking Jongin texted me back and he wants to go see the Super Junior concert with me and this can only mean one thing.”
“That I wasn’t invited?” Yixing offers. Luhan looks like he wants to smack something.
“No. There are only two reasons that a perfectly attractive and well-endowed young man like himself would agree to be smothered in fangirls for a few hours to see Eunhyuk rip his shirt off. He’s either there for the man boobs and bulges glistening in the stage lights, or he’s there because he’s interested in me. Either way, I have a chance with the kid.”
“You know he’s underage, right? And you’re one misdemeanor away from deportation, after that party at Chanyeol’s place.” Spotting the container on the table, Yixing pops a sesame covered mochi into his mouth and chews loudly.
Luhan winces at the memory. “I’m not going to fuck him right away. His birthday is in January. I’ll bide my time until then.”
Yixing groans, planting his forehead on Luhan’s shoulder. “But if you date him, Sehun will find some excuse to come around the apartment,” he complains. “They’re best friends.”
He sits back up, looking at Luhan mournfully.
“Oh, can’t you just stick it out? For me? After all we’ve been through?” Luhan bats his doe eyes at Yixing, feathery lashes glistening.
Yixing pinches one of Luhan’s cheeks, hard. “That might work on your mother, but it won’t work on me. I have my dignity.”
“You’d be surprised, actually,” Luhan grins.
Yixing swallows his mochi, licking around his mouth for any sesame seed stragglers.
“So will you do it?” Luhan asks hopefully.
Yixing tackles him to the ground and smushes his face in a pair of dirty soccer cleats.
“Yes.”
…
Baozi (who was named by Luhan after the guy that used to live next door) purrs when Yixing enters the dark apartment. He rubs against Yixing’s calf, almost making him trip.
“Watch out,” he chides gently, nudging the cat’s stomach with one toe.
He tosses his jacket on the couch and stumbles out onto the balcony. His phone has no new messages and he doesn’t think he’ll be sleeping tonight. Luhan is cramming for a test tomorrow, now that he’s recovered his senses, and Baozi is a ruthless motherfucker that has no compassion for lonely Changsha boys far from home.
The best thing about having the penthouse is that, sixty floors up, he can’t hear anything except for the faint whistling of the wind and the barely perceptible drone of the city below. He takes his guitar out of its case for the first time all day and plucks one string, fiddling with the tuning. When he’s satisfied with that he attaches the finger picks to his right hand and leans back against the wall, one foot dangling over the edge.
“Mom, can you hear me?” he asks the night sky.
His bracelets slide down on his arm as he picks out a first few hesitant notes. The ones afterward come easier until the music comes rolling off of his fingers, his eyes closing as his fingers find the familiar path over the guitar by themselves. The melody is simple enough, and he follows it again and again, worrying it with his fingers until it has taken on half a hundred different shapes.
Everything is so much simpler, he thinks, so much simpler when there aren’t any voices or words to cloud it. Just the singular melody of the guitar, unadorned and unassuming. He wonders why life can’t be more like this, plain instead of pretentious, hopeful instead of cynical.
Below, windows in the apartments below open and his playing grows louder, but his fingers never get tired. He doesn’t pause in his playing, continuously reworking the same piece over and over. He tries different keys and ornaments, he tries jumping octaves and he tries changing the melody itself but nothing sounds right. In the end he breaks off, frustrated and entirely not sleepy.
He puts his guitar away and paws around the fridge for something to eat. He’s a better cook than Luhan, for sure, but he doesn’t feel like cooking right now. The cleaning lady restocked the pantry recently, so he pops some ramen into the microwave and takes it to the couch. The TV is still on the news channel, the one that Kris likes to watch at night after work. Yixing leaves it on, and falls asleep sometime between oceans of fire and island disputes.
…
The girl recognizes him even without his guitar. He thanks God that it wasn’t a pack; they’re more prone to shrieks when they’re not alone.
“OmoareyouZhangYixing?” comes the high-pitched squeak, or near enough. Yixing has trouble understanding her rapid-fire Korean.
“Annyeonghaseyo,” he says, bowing. It’s a universal language, he’s found.
He rushes away before she can ask for something he doesn’t have to give, bowing the whole way.
It’s no surprise that the entertainment companies are crawling all over him, he supposes. Joonmyeon is only the most vocal of many casting agents and producers, all itching to sign a contract with the YouTube guitar sensation. It’s like signing an underground rap big-shot--it lends credibility to the group, and the fans that come attached certainly don’t hurt.
But Yixing doesn’t want the spotlight. He’d started posting his compositions to YouTube back before college, but he soon attracted a following that continues to demand more and more of him, albums and tours and public appearances. He doesn’t want to disappoint them, even more than he wants to be left alone.
He makes it to the bus stop just in time to catch the bus downtown. On the drive there a girl’s phone blares the latest hit from Big Bang. He’s already racing through the melody and harmony lines, puzzling out which fingerings would work best. It’s nice to be able to do that, to translate from voices to the twang of guitar strings with perfect accuracy. It makes sense, a lot more sense than other things, and he almost forgets about ‘Gravity’, a persistent itch in between his shoulderblades.
He gets off two blocks away from the bank and has to walk the rest of the way. Kris’s assistant has the money wired to his account every three months. Yixing simply transfers enough cash to his parents’ account every other Friday, when they think he receives his paycheck for teaching Chinese at a city elementary school. They know about his guitar hobby, of course, and they’re always encouraging him to set aside more money for that, instead of for his mother’s treatments. It’s ironic, of course, because Kris pays for both and doesn’t bat an eye. Sometimes Yixing wonders what he would do without his keeper.
As he steps out of the bank his phone rings and he ducks into an alley to take the call.
It must be Kris, he thinks. He finished his meeting and he’s calling to check on me.
But when he finally fishes his phone out of his pocket the picture on the screen isn’t the one of Kris’s tattoo, taken at three in the morning while Yixing was still too sleepy to think rationally. Instead, Luhan’s Ahn Naesang impersonation greets him.
“Hello?”
“Well don’t sound so cheerful,” Luhan sniffs. “We’re coming over. What time will you be home?”
…
They enter in an explosion of laughter and Yixing cringes.
“Wow, I’ve never seen the inside of this place before!” Tao exclaims loudly, running a finger over a scented wood carving. Yixing winces, remembering Kris saying something about body oils dissolving the wood. Or maybe it was the same thing about the artwork on the antique vase from like, the Song dynasty.
“Xingie’s got it good, doesn’t he?” Luhan replies, giving Yixing a smirk. “Did you see the TV and surround sound system yet?”
Sehun strolls in like he owns the place, Jongin on his heels like a lost puppy. They disappear after Tao into the TV room and Yixing shuts the door.
“I already have a headache,” he complains to Luhan. “Can’t I just leave and come back in a few hours?”
Luhan rolls his eyes. “You’re so awkward. Just pretend that you’re at a TVXQ concert or something.”
“But you’re the one that likes Dong Bang Shin Ki...”
Luhan pauses. Then he swats Yixing on the shoulder. “What’s your point?”
…
“Gege, I miss you.” Yixing pokes Luhan’s back with one toe experimentally. Nothing happens.
“I’ll be back Sunday night,” Kris yawns, and Yixing pictures him kneading his forehead after a long day. Kris has a lot of long days; right now he’s the hottest young thing in the commercial flying industry, effectively controlling sixty-two percent of the Korean market share.
“Do you have work on Monday?” Yixing asks, rolling over onto his stomach.
“You know the answer to that.”
Yixing pouts and changes his voice to a whine. Kris loves it when he plays coy like this. “But you haven’t fucked me in so long. Can’t you come back just one day early?”
Kris hesitates. Yixing can imagine the feel of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “I--might be able to catch an earlier flight.”
“Tha--”
“It’s just a maybe though,” Kris warns.
Yixing smiles to himself, because when Kris says maybe, it means yes.
“Gege, tell me what you’re going to do to me when you get back,” he says, reaching into the worn fabric of his sweatpants and starting to head to the bedroom. Maybe he’ll finally be able to sleep.
Kris groans, and Yixing knows he’s doing the same. “First, I’ll--”
The doorbell rings, resounding throughout the apartment. Luhan stirs from his position on the ground.
“Hold on,” Yixing mutters, disappointed.
“Ignore it,” Kris says, his voice impatient.
The doorbell rings again, this time accompanied by loud banging and shouting.
“He’s going to wake the neighbors,” Yixing says. “I’ll call you back.”
“No, I have to get up early anyway,” Kris replies. “See you.”
“See you,” Yixing says to a disconnected call. He leans back on the couch and pinches the bridge of his nose. It’s too late for this, whoever it is. It’s probably only a poor drunk banging on the wrong door, but Yixing will be getting a complaint from the landlord if he doesn’t stop.
“I know you’re in there!” comes the muffled voice.
Yixing heaves himself off the couch and pads over to the front door. When he wrenches it open, the person on the other side almost falls inside.
“How did you find out where I live?” Yixing demands, pushing Joonmyeon off of him.
The casting agent grins, as if satisfied with himself. “One day when you took the subway instead of a taxi, I followed you back here. I’ve been checking three floors a day, but I didn’t think you lived on the top floor. No wonder you don’t want to sign a contract, huh? You’re loaded!”
Yixing rolls his eyes. “I’m going to call security if you don’t leave.”
Joonmyeon’s already waving happily. “Don’t worry, I’ve done my work for today.”
That doesn’t sound too good to Yixing, but it’s too late for him to care. “Bye,” he calls as he closes the door. By the time he falls back onto the couch Luhan has made it to the bathroom. Yixing can hear the groans.
“I told you you shouldn’t have played that idol group drinking game,” he shouts. “Tao and Sehun left a long time ago, and Jongin left after you completely passed out.”
“A shot every time a member makes an awkward hand gesture,” Luhan recalls mournfully as he stumbles back into the living room, holding his head.
“You always were a lightweight,” Yixing reminds him cheerfully.
…
Yixing had big plans when he left Changsha with kindergarten-level Korean and little more than the clothes on his back. He attended an average university with a major in philosophy and a nebulous idea in his head that involved those charming street musicians in Hongdae and lazy afternoons in the countryside. An easy life, he thought, with plenty of time for assing around. Assing around was one of the things he did best, he thought.
Get past college, get fluent in Korean, and his dreams wouldn’t be far off. Dreams of modest success, mild renown, of music.
Well, in the middle of his sophomore year he was called back to China because his mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The news didn’t hit him like a wrecking ball, though he wishes it did. If it did he wouldn’t be still standing, struggling under the weight on his shoulders. If it had been a wrecking ball, he would have crumpled, not shrank under the sudden realization of what a fool he had been. Of how naive he must have been to think that it would be a smooth climb towards his dreams while the world clawed at his ankles, trying to pull him back down.
He dropped out of university so he could send his meager paycheck back for the expensive treatments. China may claim to be communist -- it may claim to spread the shit of borrowed wealth around the country -- but it’s just a claim.
Kris found him not long after, at the party of a friend of a friend whom neither of them can remember anymore. It’s been downhill ever since.
“Come on,” Tao whines. “I left my bag in there. It’s Gucci, for God’s sake!”
“I’ll get it for you,” Yixing offers. “Where did you leave it?”
Tao taps his foot impatiently. “I think it’s in the kitchen. But that’s not--”
Yixing slams the door in his face and comes back a few minutes later with a bag disproportionately heavy for its size.
“Is this it?” he asks as he tosses it into Tao’s outstretched arms.
Tao examines it like he’s afraid Yixing stole something, and then looks at Yixing where he’s leaning against the doorjamb.
“I can’t figure you out,” he says finally.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just--what do you want? You could be a star, if you’d listen to that Joonmyeon guy. You could have thousands of fans screaming your name, you could--” He breaks off. “Or, if that’s not what you want, you could have anything money can buy. Just ask Kris and he’ll get it for you; it’s obvious you have the guy eating from the palm of your hand. If you’re sick of him, you could move in with someone else, or buy your own apartment.”
He pauses, his eyes flickering over to his own apartment door. “But you just wander around, like you’re missing something and everyone that walks by could be the one to give it to you.”
“It’s more than that,” Yixing says, and then he slams the door and he watches the news channel until his stomach starts growling loud enough for him to hear it.
…
“Why’d you ask him to come back so early?” Luhan pouts, sucking on his spoon as he watches Yixing upside-down from his perch on the couch.
“Why not?” Yixing asks in reply as he reaches for the carton of ice cream.
“Well, don’t you get bored of him eventually?”
“No,” Yixing shrugs, “I miss him.”
Luhan chews his lip and sits up, looking like he has to confront something he hoped would go away. Luhan tolerates Kris and Kris tolerates Luhan, but only for Yixing’s sake.
“Do you really love him?”
Yixing shrugs and busies himself with scraping the rest of the ice cream from the bottom of the carton.
“I dunno,” he mumbles around a mouthful of chocolate chip cookie dough.
“It’s just--what if he gets tired of you?”
“I don’t want to think about it, okay?” Yixing snaps before he realizes that he’s already given Luhan the answer to his first question.
Yixing finishes the last of the ice cream and plunks his spoon into the carton, reaching out for Luhan’s and padding to the kitchen to throw it all in the sink.
“Come down to the studio with me,” Luhan suggests. “You haven’t been there for so long.”
“You know I don’t feel like dancing.”
“Just talk then. People haven’t seen you, you know? They’re always asking for you.”
“That’s okay. I’m heading out, so just lock up after yourself.” He slings his guitar over his back and slips out the door, leaving Luhan still on the couch with a frown.
…
“Just let me find you someone to record with. It can even be a girl, if you want. You must know about SNSD even in China, right? Take your pick. Taeyeon? Or Seohyun’s closer to you in age.”
Joonmyeon’s so happy to not be ignored that he’s willing to make exceptions.
“I don’t sing.”
“No problem. It’s called autotune,” Joonmyeon replies, not the least bit concerned.
They duck into the train together, just as the doors slide shut behind them.
“I didn’t say I couldn’t sing,” Yixing corrects. “I said that I didn’t sing.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Joonmyeon asks, stumbling when the train starts moving.
“I’m against the principle of it.” He runs a hand unconsciously over the smooth surface of his guitar case. “It ruins the music.”
“How?” Joonmyeon demands, incredulous.
Yixing shrugs in response. He didn’t expect the other to understand anyway. Silence falls for a moment and Yixing picks up a conversation from across the car. A father and a daughter, playful banter that has Yixing’s jaw tightening.
“Where are we going anyway?” Joonmyeon asks, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. “And why do you always carry your guitar with you?”
“Why do you always ask so many questions?”
Joonmyeon hmmphs to himself and seems to resolve himself to the fact that his expectations for this encounter were much too high. “At least we’re making progress,” he mutters to himself. “He’s not running away from me anymore.”
They get off in the business district, and Joonmyeon whistles as Yixing makes his way towards one of the tallest buildings.
“Do you work here?” he asks. “I’ve always wondered what you did when you weren’t playing.”
“You might want to wait outside, actually,” Yixing says. “I won’t be long. I just forgot something inside.”
Joonmyeon is skeptical. “You’re not abandoning me, are you?”
Yixing shrugs. “Nothing you can do about it if I am.”
A sigh and Joonmyeon plops himself down on the nearest bench. “I guess I have no choice then.”
Yixing smiles his dimpled smile and pats Joonmyeon on the head as he walks inside. The receptionist recognizes him and waves him on up to the top floor, which is deserted on a Saturday. People are allowed to come in and work, of course, but no one does, much less on the executive floor. Yixing weaves his way easily through the winding hallways and lets himself into Kris’s office. The skyline of Seoul is familiar through the floor-to-ceiling windows and the television is still playing the news. Yixing shakes his head at the extravagance and makes his way to the desk.
“Where did you go?” he mutters to himself as he rummages through drawers and slides papers around. He finally turns up with it after five minutes of searching, a battered notebook wedged under several heavy tomes about the annual stock market fluctuations of the Far East. He flips open the first page and he can already hear the memories.
…
Luhan is gone by the time Yixing gets back but there is a note on the fridge:
Call me or I will tell Sehun where to find your spare key.
Yixing laughs but crumples the paper in his fist as Joonmyeon approaches. He tosses it into the trashcan and leans on the counter.
“What was that?” Joonmyeon asks, cocking his head to the side. He’s not wearing a tie today but he still has that ridiculously formal suit on, the white shirt inside open to the third button.
“Nothing,” Yixing shrugs, glancing off-handedly at Joonmyeon while he examines his notebook.
Joonmyeon shifts uneasily from one foot to the other. “Let’s talk business. How about that prologue single? Do you have anything written, or would you prefer to play something that’s already been written for you?”
Yixing frowns and crosses his arms. “I never said anything about--”
“Come on. We both know you’re going to accept.” Joonmyeon smirks, and the easy arrogance makes Yixing swallow.
“I have to think about it,” he says stubbornly, flipping open the notebook.
The first page is covered with writing in a childish hand, eighth notes and quarter carefully penciled onto the ledger lines. He doesn’t remember the song and his nine years old self must have forgotten to add the title.
Joonmyeon slides over to look at the notebook and laughs. “Pirates of the Caribbean?”
Yixing hums to himself and realizes it’s true. “I modified the music slightly so I could play it. My hands were too small to play the actual thing.”
The next page is some Chinese song he doesn’t remember, and as he flips he notices a rapid change. The music becomes more and more familiar, the transposing becomes more precise, and the handwriting is sloppier, as if he can’t wait to actually play the music instead of simply writing it down. (On some pages, there is just the title and the key, the rest unnecessary when the notes are engraven in his heart.) The volume of music rapidly increases until about fifteen years old, where it suddenly cuts off. The last song in the notebook is “My Heart Will Go On”, from Titanic.
“Fifteen was when I realized I was gay,” he finds himself saying. “I couldn’t write anything down, even if I wanted to. It felt so final, like I was trapping myself. The only way I could stop it was by recording the music instead of copying it. I didn’t want to forget, but I didn’t want to commit either.”
Joonmyeon doesn’t respond, just sits, and Yixing is almost grateful for the warmth pressed against his side. After Joonmyeon leaves, he sits and alternates between staring at the clock and the door, his shoulders drooping farther with each hour that passes. Eventually, he shuts off all the lights in the apartment and collapses onto the bed, his back aching.
…
Luhan wasn’t lying, apparently, because Yixing wakes up at seven in the evening to a hand on his shoulder, Sehun staring at him.
“Get up,” he says. “Luhan says you’re getting some fresh air, whether you like it or not.”
“You can’t tell me what to do,” Yixing groans in response, turning over in bed. His face sinks into a pillow and his senses are flooded with Kris’s familiar scent. “Only Luhan can do that.”
“Come on,” Sehun complains. “I’m just trying to be a good friend, okay? The only way Jongin got Luhan to leave is by promising that I would check on you.”
Yixing groans again low in his chest and then he throws the covers off, sliding out of bed. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t care, man. You just need to get your ass out of bed.” He pauses. “I mean, do you want to get something to eat?”
“Not really.” Yixing shuffles to the kitchen and looks through the fridge for a carton of milk, which he drinks while Sehun watches. He’s finished the whole thing by the time he remembers his manners. “You want anything?”
Sehun shakes his head. “It’s cool. This is okay, I guess. You’re out of bed and everything.”
Yixing nods. “Want to come out on the balcony? It’s too loud in here.” He glances at the fridge with its incessant hum.
Outside the wind whistles around them and Sehun pulls his hood over his ears, wrapping his arms around himself. Yixing closes his eyes and listens for the sounds of the city, honking and shouting and clanging and underneath it all a drone of voices, but he’s so high above it all it just becomes white noise. There aren’t many buildings in the area taller than this one, so above is just sky and below is just air, hung with pollution. He takes a deep breath and the corruption stings his lungs.
Sehun’s voice cuts through the smog and Yixing opens his eyes.
“We’re all going out tonight -- Tao, Luhan, Jongin, and me. You should come. It’s Saturday night and all. They’ll probably be here in a couple of hours.”
“Maybe I will,” Yixing responds, chewing on his lip.
“Alright, well we’ll knock. I gotta go shower, so see you around.” Sehun pats Yixing on the shoulder and scurries back inside, teeth chattering. A moment later, Yixing hears the front door open and close as Sehun heads back to his own apartment. He sighs and leans against the railing, gazing down at the ground, and the inexorable pull of gravity, of falling, is suffocating. He takes two steps back and closes his eyes again, because somehow looking at it is worse than knowing that the fall is there. He just doesn’t know anymore, because he’s lost. He’s alone, wandering in circles with the thread of his dreams--of his what-could-have-been--too tangled to follow anymore. He just wants someone to tell him what to do.
He rubs his hands together because it really is chilly and then he takes a deep breath. He wonders what he should wear.
…
“Wow,” Luhan comments when Yixing gets the door. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”
Yixing swats his best friend on the shoulder. “I’m seriously reconsidering it.”
Luhan laughs and seizes Yixing’s arm. “Too bad. I’ve already got you now.”
Yixing grins and thinks that’s not so bad.
“Come on,” Sehun urges as he stumbles out of his own apartment, ruffling his hair self-consciously. “Tao and Jongin are waiting in the lobby.”
The ride to the club passes in a blur because Yixing’s too busy staring out the window and fiddling with Luhan’s hand as his best friend chatters the ear off of his newest obsession, Jongin looking like he’s not sure whether to be flattered or uncomfortable.
Emerging onto the street, Yixing feels the thump of the bass and the hum of voices before he hears the drunken shouts and obnoxious dubstep. As they make their way up the line and into the club, the door is like a black hole swallowing up the light from outside and spitting out music that churns the stagnant air. Yixing glances at the people around him and he wonders if their eyes are black holes as well, in a way. They are the empty eyes of those without purpose, sucking in hope and spitting out despair.
The city always attracts them, the promise of greatness too much to resist. They come seeking fame, power, glamor. But the pull of gravity always pulls them back, and the tension of push and pull breaks them eventually. Seoul is full of the fragile young, carrying around too many shards of broken dreams and splinters of snapped promises. They tread carefully, wincing with every step because every breath they draw reminds them of the things they couldn’t do, either because they were scared, or because they just didn’t know how.
“Come on, Xing,” Luhan chirps when he’s got a drink or two in his system, grabbing his wrist and pulling him towards the dance floor.
Yixing scowls as he sees that he’s lost his spot. “I worked hard for that spot!” he complained.
“Boo hoo,” Luhan says carelessly. “Come on and dance with me; I have to study for finals starting tomorrow and I might just kill myself. You will be questioned when they find my body, so pay attention.”
Yixing laughs and lets himself be pulled into the crowd. And somewhere amidst the other lost souls, the push and pull of hopelessness and the clamor of voices crying out for help, he decides.
At the end of the night, Yixing climbs into bed with leaden limbs and hears the door slam behind Tao and Sehun. As he drifts off to sleep, he thinks about artistic integrity and playing the truth instead of a deceit, making music instead of hiding behind a facade of words. Lyrics that screen the true meaning, pretty lies that aren’t even written by the artist. What does he want?
…
“Good morning,” Yixing says to Joonmyeon’s smiling face when he opens the door the next morning. “Come in?”
Joonmyeon walks inside the apartment, shaking his head in disbelief. “So you’ll do the single?”
“Yes,” Yixing replies, “but there’s one condition.”
Joonmyeon shrugs. “At this point, anything’s plausible.”
Yixing grins. “I thought you’d say that.”
(
There’s a driver waiting for him at the airport, and Kris thankfully closes his eyes once he’s out of the bright glare of the sunlight. The drive to his apartment is longer than usual because of traffic, heavy even on a Sunday morning. His back is killing him from the plane ride and he’s looking forward to seeing Yixing again. He feels kind of guilty for all but promising that he’d be back on Saturday and then coming back on Sunday, but he knows Yixing isn’t the type to hold a grudge.
When the elevator door in the apartment building opens, someone’s already inside. He wears a white button-up with the first few buttons undone, underneath a crisp black suit. Kris wonders what he’s dressed like that for on a Sunday morning, and going up too. But then his phone buzzes with a text from Yixing and he forgets all about the stranger.
lol, it reads, punctuated by two emoticons too many. Kris doesn’t even remember what the conversation was about because he deleted his messages but he smiles anyway and taps his foot impatiently as he waits for the elevator to stop on the top floor.
Surprisingly, the stranger also gets off on the top floor, which is strange because Kris knows all the tenants there by face if not by name. He even turns into the section of hallway that Kris turns into, and Kris figures that he’s one of the models’ managers or something like that. His suspicions are confirmed when the stranger lets himself into their apartment.
Kris opens the door to his own apartment and shuts it behind him, slipping off his shoes. There’s guitar music flooding through the apartment, a melody that’s vaguely familiar, but somehow not. Kris sets his bag down on the ground with an audible thump.
“Hello?” The music cuts off and Yixing’s voice comes from somewhere else in the apartment.
“It’s me!” Kris calls back, poking his head into the living room to look for Yixing.
“Kris!” Yixing comes stumbling out of their bedroom, a tie not quite fastened around his neck and a sock halfway on his foot. “You said you would be back yesterday!”
Kris considers making an excuse but he’s too busy inhaling the scent of Yixing’s shampoo to think of one. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Won’t happen again.”
He thinks back to before and asks, “What song was it that you were playing? It sounds kind of familiar.”
“Oh, it was the one I was having trouble with, but I fixed it. I was in the middle of getting dressed when it just came to me and I figured out how I wanted to--”
Kris interrupts him by giving him a long kiss on the mouth. Yixing laughs and then breaks away, pulling his sock up on his ankle. Kris frowns as he watches Yixing fix his tie.
“What’s the occasion?” he asks, and his mind flickers absurdly back to the man in the elevator, the one in a suit.
Yixing bites his lip. “I might’ve done a thing.”
“What?” Kris demands, already thinking the worst. “Do I need to get a lawyer?”
Yixing laughs, a nostalgic sound. “No, it’s not that bad. I--” He pauses, fiddling with his cufflinks. “I signed a contract with this agent for this entertainment company. He’s going over the details with Tao and Sehun right now.”
Everything hits Kris at the same time and he is rendered speechless. When he finally regains his senses, he can only ask, in a small voice, “You’re leaving?” (The me tacked on the end is swallowed before it can break through his lips.)
Yixing shrugs sheepishly. “Well, yeah. I’ll still be in Seoul, but with training and recording and promotions--”
“Look,” Kris interrupts. “I know I haven’t been around much lately, but I can definitely take more days off. Now that the merger’s signed, I can spend a lot more time at home, and--”
Yixing looks stricken. “No,” he says quickly. “It’s not about you, or us. I mean, I’d want us to still have this, whatever it is, but this is about finally moving on. From everything that happened. I know that debut in an idol group is a lot far off from what I originally dreamt of doing, but I figured that you just have to take dreams as they come, even if they don’t look like what you thought they would.”
The apartment falls into silence when Yixing finishes and Kris contemplates what has been said. He remembers how Yixing was when they had first met, broken and crushed under the weight of a world that had been as merciless to him as it had been generous to Kris. Forced to give up his dreams, and uncertain of how to pick them back up again when he could, afraid, alone. Kris remembers how it was to feel that way, though he never felt as Yixing did. Some people are made to withstand a lot of shit, but others are not. They’re not weak, per se, because everyone has their own battles, and for each person those battles are a war for survival.
And then Kris realizes that he’s glad. He’s glad that Yixing has decided this.
Finally, he asks, “Really, Yixing? You can’t even remember what the company’s name is?”
Yixing laughs and swats Kris in the shoulder. “Stop being mean to me!”
)
“What do you think of the name EXO?” Joonmyeon asks as they ride the elevator up to the top floor of the building to meet the chairman.
“EXO?” Sehun asks, wrinkling his nose. “Isn’t that a deodorant?”
Joonmyeon is offended. “I think it has style.”
“Me too,” Luhan says, already trying to ingratiate himself.
“What does it mean?” Jongin asks.
Joonmyeon clears his throat, as if this is a speech he has memorized. “EXO comes from the word exoplanet, which refers to planets outside the solar system. It represents the--”
“Okay, I think that’s enough,” Tao interrupts, and everyone laughs except for Joonmyeon.
“Laugh all you want now,” he says, frowning. “Just wait to see what the chairman says.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” Yixing says.
Joonmyeon nods. “Besides, five member groups are always a success.”
Yixing smiles. EXO.