they just get all the right breaks
Title: some hearts
Recipient: teastallpanda
Pairing: Gen, Kris-centric, implied Kris/Lay
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2700
Summary: five times Wufan held it all in and one time he let go
i.
Apathetic. Adjective. Showing or feeling no interest, enthusiasm or concern.
Wufan is in grade 8 when he learns this word. Ricky Munchel nudges him playfully. “Hey, it’s you, you cold-hearted son of a bitch,” he says with the breathlessness that all adolescents have when swear words are as exhilarating as sneaking a joint underneath the bleachers during lunch.
Wufan frowns. No, he wants to say. Because even at thirteen, he’s more self-aware than anyone his age. And no, it doesn’t come from being uprooted from his home and transplanted into the North Americas where the sun seemingly never sets in the summers and hibernates all winter. It stems from being realistic, from knowing that any given moment, your world can change, and you’ll have to change with it. It comes from an acceptance of the fact that he will never be in control his surroundings, that science and logic are all good and well in theory, but things change in practice. There’s variability and errors and chance, and he knows this.
He knows this with the same certainty that he knows himself. That he is not apathetic. That setting aside your emotions is not the equivalent of not having any. Because when his mother asks him how his day was, he can answer one of two ways: truthfully (“It sucked. I’m never going to fit in here. They will never stop making fun of the way I talk. The only reason I don’t get punched in the face is because they know I’ll punch back just as hard and with better aim.”) or simply (“Fine.”)
Wufan learned early on that there was a time and place for everything. Emotions were secondary to grades or being a good son.
So when Mike Farley decides to foul him severely during a practice scrimmage and yells at him to get his fobby ass back on a boat to China, Wufan does not cry. He chokes through the physical pain, pushes himself upright, and throws the basketball with a little too much force.
He has to sit out three games and run laps for the rest of the week, but Mike Farley’s broken nose takes much longer to heal.
ii.
He’s 17 when he auditions for SM. He’s done his research. Wufan does not do things by halves. He knows what he’s getting into. He’s heard all the rumors. He knows that the only way for him to get out of Canada is if someone takes him away.
He pieces his audition together logically. He studies pictures of DBSK and sits in front of his camera, imitating the same fierce, intimidating expressions on their album covers until he’s satisfied that he can copy them with looking too stupid. He can’t dance, or at least, he’s never tried and now’s not the time to start. He can sing, sort of, if mumbling through church hymns counts as singing. So he raps. He picks Sean Paul’s temperature because it’s fast enough that it’s expected to be incomprehensible, and if he lowers his voice just slightly, it’s just nerves.
The audition is on a Saturday, and his mom drops him off at the hotel and tells him to call her whenever he’s done. She kisses him stiffly, no doubt replaying their arguments of the last few weeks over and over in her mind.
This is not what a good son does, after all. A good son does not waste his time on frivolous dreams. A good son studies hard and goes to a good college and becomes a doctor or dentist or gets a PhD.
No, Wufan thinks as he shuts the car door and heads inside. A good son is one who proves his worth.
He’s unsurprised by the number of people who show up. He is, however, taken aback by how all of them are as talented as they say. The vocalists and dancers practicing as they wait their turn are all very talented. He’d expected talent, but he hadn’t expected that everyone who’d show up would be even better than the last.
He tries not to think about that as he enters the audition room, bowing politely to the scouts sitting at a table. They ask for his name, age, and talent, plus a quick self-introduction.
He gives whatever he’s asked and at the end of it they thank him for his time, and they’ll call him if they decide to accept him.
He waits for his mom in the lobby. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a girl of about twelve sobbing into her father’s arms.
“How did it go?” his mother asks.
“Fine,” he answers, leaning against the window, watching as the hotel in the rearview mirror until it disappears from sight.
iii.
He’d known what he was getting into. Had researched it when he was applying, and researched even more once he’d been accepted. He knew there would be hazing. Nothing extreme of course, but he’d known to expect the bullying, whether play or mean-spirited, and he’d known that as a brand new trainee, there wasn’t really anything he could do except take it. He knew his inexperience would play into it. He knew his nationality would, too.
What he hadn’t counted on was how much it would matter. He can’t even understand what’s being said most of the time, but it doesn’t take a genius to read the mocking glances and the laughter that follows.
He does make one friend though. Henry is the only one who doesn’t tease or bully him when they’re first introduced, and while Wufan bristles at the evident pity in Henry’s expression, he won’t deny that having someone here--even if it is just one person--who understands his position, who speaks his language is comforting in the strange way that little things are.
They play basketball sometimes, on the rare days that they have some time off. Henry’s rather miserable at it, but it means a lot that he tries.
But then, Super Junior-M becomes a thing that happens, and Henry isn’t really around anymore, or at least, not enough for them to do more other than exchange a rushed greeting, and Wufan goes back to keeping to himself. His Korean’s improved, at least. And with the general success of the SJM, SM decides that it could do with a few extra multilingual talents, so there are at least a few more foreigners around.
He meets Yixing entirely by accident in that he literally nearly runs over the poor kid one day when he’s almost late for practice. Yixing merely blinks at him, unconcerned, and bows a little bow of apology before murmuring a stilted “Mianhamnida.”
Wufan stares at him because this kid absolutely looks Chinese, and while it’s not like he’s looking for someone to replace Henry, it would be nice to have someone else he could relate to. So he tries. “对不起,” he says, “是我没看到你.”
Yixing smiles a little at that. “Zhang Yixing,” he says.
“Wufan.”
He ends up apologizing again, but he really is going to be late at this point, so he runs off in the direction of the practice rooms, Yixing waving after him absentmindedly.
They’re not friends after that, but Wufan thinks they could be. Maybe if their training schedules ever matched up, or if he runs into Yixing after hours while doing chores. It’s gotten to the point where Wufan can’t remember the last time he’d gotten a full night’s sleep. His days are filled with language tutoring, vocal training, dance practice, and chores. Between studying, practice, and cleaning up after basically everyone, he’s lucky if he can rest his eyes for more than four hours at a time.
The calling card his mother had given him when he’d left remains unused.
iv.
It’s clear that the only reason Wufan is still here is because one of the creative directors has taken a liking to him. She keeps referring to him as “the dragon." It's both a blessing and a curse. He's grateful they don't cut him, but the bitterness of the other trainees is not subtle. They still don't care for him much, and outside the small circle of friends he's got, there really isn’t anyone he’d want to be alone with for more than a few minutes.
He’s not afraid, per say, but the never-ending rumor mill--his mother is off-limits why the fuck don’t they understand--takes its toll. He’s strong, but he’s not impenetrable. He’s only human, and it’s two years he’s been in a country that won’t accept him, no matter how hard he tries to fit in.
A soft echo of laughter reaches his ears, and Wufan knows without looking who that belongs to. Lu Han is a new recruit from China whose talents include but are not limited to singing, dancing, and generally being the most charming being in existence on this side of the Atlantic. Even his stilted Korean doesn’t deter his sea of admirers who trip over themselves in their haste to fulfill his latest whims.
Perhaps the most infuriating part of it all is how Wufan can’t bring himself to hate him. Under the warm, albeit mischievous, exterior, Lu Han suffers in his own quiet way. He avoids the subject of his family with the same determination Wufan does, though with much more finesse. Wufan feels a special kinship to him, even if they’ve only ever exchanged words in passing.
He resolves not to break until unless Lu Han does, because if Lu Han can bear the rejection of his own blood, Wufan can bear the insults of a stranger.
I chose this, he reminds himself. And perhaps he stays on out of sheer stubbornness and adolescent pride. Perhaps he knows that determination and sheer will can only take him so far. Perhaps he knows that being favored is not the same as being pitied, that talent can be overlooked but not dismissed.
“Hey, Dragon,” someone yells from across the practice room. “We’re short a player for soccer, come join us.”
v.
Debut is not any easier than training. Being a leader does not erase the hardships of having been a trainee.
He never asks to be leader of EXO-M. He is chosen because of his looks, because he gives off a “commanding presence,” whatever that means. He supposes he should be grateful. Being in M means being with the rest of the Chinese members. There’s also Minseok, but Minseok is as easygoing as they come, and with Lu Han helping him mellow out the mood, Wufan foresees little trouble on their part.
Jongdae is the one who worries him. Jongdae worries him because he is everything that Wufan has spent years learning to tamp down. He is young and willful and talented, and he shows remarkable leadership qualities that could, if applied correctly, bring EXO-K to stardom in Korea.
But Jongdae is with them in China, turned about from an unprecedented order up top. Jongdae is young and stubborn and scared, and he is in a country he doesn’t speak the language of, with the added pressure of being the main vocals for songs he can’t understand.
Wufan gets him alone, once, in a rare moment of quiet, and tries to talk to him. He tries to talk of when he first moved to Korea and how he couldn’t do anything without having someone there to translate. He tries, but he knows that the only thing keeping Jongdae from getting up and walking away is Jongdae’s inborn respect for his seniors. There is no comfort in Wufan’s words for him. As similar as their situations might be, Jongdae points out. Wufan was just a trainee. It didn’t matter if he fucked up.
Wufan says, a little desperately, “Talk to Minseok.” and Jongdae’s answering bark of laughter is not nearly as harsh as it should have been.
“‘Talk to Minseok,’” Jongdae echoes. “Why? Because we’re both Korean? Don’t give me that shit, hyung.”
It’s then that Wufan realizes just how young they all are, how inexperienced and naive and utterly lost. Tao is just eighteen, and even as the oldest, Minseok is just barely twenty-two. They should still be at home with their parents, worrying about exams and significant others.
Jongdae, Wufan counts, is just nineteen. And suddenly, Wufan feels exceptionally guilty. Of course he can’t know what Jongdae could be going through, just like no one could know what he went through.
“I’m sorry,” he offers, and it sounds as lame as it is.
Jongdae laughs again, a little kinder. “You didn’t choose for this to happen,” he says. “None of us did.”
They sit there, side by side, and Wufan finds it surprisingly comforting. No words pass between them, but it feels as though with each passing minute, the tension eases bit by bit.
+i.
They come together, slowly. They're well-trained on how to behave in front of the cameras, but once they get into the rhythm of living with each other, of sharing everything from food to soap bars, the familiarity becomes less and less forced and slowly transitions into an easy back-and-forth that is less of prepped interview and more of a conversation being picked back up after a slight interruption.
They aren't one just yet, but they're getting there. They're learning how to fit themselves in the shapes of each other, and Wufan can't ask for more. (It would be nice, though, if they could remember to pick their clothes off the floor, or wake up at first alarm instead of the fifth, but Wufan believes in tackling one issue at a time.) Yixing still daydreams during interviews; Jongdae still can't remember the dance steps for History, but one of these days, Minseok will be able to speak more than three words of Chinese that don't include his self-intro; Tao will stop being having complexes about his undereye circles, and Lu Han will no longer be the most beloved member of EXO-M.
They aren't perfect, but it doesn't mean they aren't trying. They're idols, but they're also just boys who want a little recognition, a little acknowledgement for their blood, sweat, and tears, so when they win at Mengniu, they can't be blamed if their emotions are running a little high. It's been two years of rehearsals and late-night dance practices and obsessive dieting. Two years of fan rankings and hushed talks of surgeries. Two years of living together, of pent-up frustration and too much testosterone. Two years of worrying they weren't good enough, of thinking they didn't work hard enough.
At Mengniu, these all come to a head, and if Wufan looks at his chengyuans and thinks of the reasons behind their tears, if Wufan vows to be a better duizhang, to never let them down, if Wufan has to stop and compose himself, he can't be blamed.
And if it takes a few hours for them to calm down, if Wufan needs a cuddle pile of Tao and Lu Han and Minseok, if he needs a watery smile from Jongdae and a quiet salute from Yixing, no one has to know.
They're all collapsed on Wufan's tiny bed, too exhausted to move. Tao is blinking sleepily with his head resting on Jongdae's chest, and Jongdae still looks stunned. Minseok and Lu Han are asleep at the foot of the bed, heads resting together. Wufan's legs are sprawled over theirs, his head in Yixing's lap as Yixing gently cards his hands through his hair, tugging gently at the ends.
"You don't always have to be strong for us," Yixing says. "Being leader doesn't mean you have to go it alone."
"I'm not," Wufan argues. "I don't."
"Bullshit," says Jongdae, quite fervently.
"You're supposed to let us help you," Tao agrees.
"We want to help," adds Yixing. "So stop being so stubborn and let us."
Wufan does not answer, but maybe he doesn't have to. Tao and Jongdae fall asleep at nearly the exact same moment, and Wufan can feel himself drifting, comforted by the proximity of his members friends.
"It's okay," he thinks he hears Yixing say. "You can let go."
So he does.
*a/n:
对不起 -- sorry
是我没看到你 -- I'm the one who didn't see you.
Recipient: teastallpanda
Pairing: Gen, Kris-centric, implied Kris/Lay
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2700
Summary: five times Wufan held it all in and one time he let go
i.
Apathetic. Adjective. Showing or feeling no interest, enthusiasm or concern.
Wufan is in grade 8 when he learns this word. Ricky Munchel nudges him playfully. “Hey, it’s you, you cold-hearted son of a bitch,” he says with the breathlessness that all adolescents have when swear words are as exhilarating as sneaking a joint underneath the bleachers during lunch.
Wufan frowns. No, he wants to say. Because even at thirteen, he’s more self-aware than anyone his age. And no, it doesn’t come from being uprooted from his home and transplanted into the North Americas where the sun seemingly never sets in the summers and hibernates all winter. It stems from being realistic, from knowing that any given moment, your world can change, and you’ll have to change with it. It comes from an acceptance of the fact that he will never be in control his surroundings, that science and logic are all good and well in theory, but things change in practice. There’s variability and errors and chance, and he knows this.
He knows this with the same certainty that he knows himself. That he is not apathetic. That setting aside your emotions is not the equivalent of not having any. Because when his mother asks him how his day was, he can answer one of two ways: truthfully (“It sucked. I’m never going to fit in here. They will never stop making fun of the way I talk. The only reason I don’t get punched in the face is because they know I’ll punch back just as hard and with better aim.”) or simply (“Fine.”)
Wufan learned early on that there was a time and place for everything. Emotions were secondary to grades or being a good son.
So when Mike Farley decides to foul him severely during a practice scrimmage and yells at him to get his fobby ass back on a boat to China, Wufan does not cry. He chokes through the physical pain, pushes himself upright, and throws the basketball with a little too much force.
He has to sit out three games and run laps for the rest of the week, but Mike Farley’s broken nose takes much longer to heal.
ii.
He’s 17 when he auditions for SM. He’s done his research. Wufan does not do things by halves. He knows what he’s getting into. He’s heard all the rumors. He knows that the only way for him to get out of Canada is if someone takes him away.
He pieces his audition together logically. He studies pictures of DBSK and sits in front of his camera, imitating the same fierce, intimidating expressions on their album covers until he’s satisfied that he can copy them with looking too stupid. He can’t dance, or at least, he’s never tried and now’s not the time to start. He can sing, sort of, if mumbling through church hymns counts as singing. So he raps. He picks Sean Paul’s temperature because it’s fast enough that it’s expected to be incomprehensible, and if he lowers his voice just slightly, it’s just nerves.
The audition is on a Saturday, and his mom drops him off at the hotel and tells him to call her whenever he’s done. She kisses him stiffly, no doubt replaying their arguments of the last few weeks over and over in her mind.
This is not what a good son does, after all. A good son does not waste his time on frivolous dreams. A good son studies hard and goes to a good college and becomes a doctor or dentist or gets a PhD.
No, Wufan thinks as he shuts the car door and heads inside. A good son is one who proves his worth.
He’s unsurprised by the number of people who show up. He is, however, taken aback by how all of them are as talented as they say. The vocalists and dancers practicing as they wait their turn are all very talented. He’d expected talent, but he hadn’t expected that everyone who’d show up would be even better than the last.
He tries not to think about that as he enters the audition room, bowing politely to the scouts sitting at a table. They ask for his name, age, and talent, plus a quick self-introduction.
He gives whatever he’s asked and at the end of it they thank him for his time, and they’ll call him if they decide to accept him.
He waits for his mom in the lobby. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a girl of about twelve sobbing into her father’s arms.
“How did it go?” his mother asks.
“Fine,” he answers, leaning against the window, watching as the hotel in the rearview mirror until it disappears from sight.
iii.
He’d known what he was getting into. Had researched it when he was applying, and researched even more once he’d been accepted. He knew there would be hazing. Nothing extreme of course, but he’d known to expect the bullying, whether play or mean-spirited, and he’d known that as a brand new trainee, there wasn’t really anything he could do except take it. He knew his inexperience would play into it. He knew his nationality would, too.
What he hadn’t counted on was how much it would matter. He can’t even understand what’s being said most of the time, but it doesn’t take a genius to read the mocking glances and the laughter that follows.
He does make one friend though. Henry is the only one who doesn’t tease or bully him when they’re first introduced, and while Wufan bristles at the evident pity in Henry’s expression, he won’t deny that having someone here--even if it is just one person--who understands his position, who speaks his language is comforting in the strange way that little things are.
They play basketball sometimes, on the rare days that they have some time off. Henry’s rather miserable at it, but it means a lot that he tries.
But then, Super Junior-M becomes a thing that happens, and Henry isn’t really around anymore, or at least, not enough for them to do more other than exchange a rushed greeting, and Wufan goes back to keeping to himself. His Korean’s improved, at least. And with the general success of the SJM, SM decides that it could do with a few extra multilingual talents, so there are at least a few more foreigners around.
He meets Yixing entirely by accident in that he literally nearly runs over the poor kid one day when he’s almost late for practice. Yixing merely blinks at him, unconcerned, and bows a little bow of apology before murmuring a stilted “Mianhamnida.”
Wufan stares at him because this kid absolutely looks Chinese, and while it’s not like he’s looking for someone to replace Henry, it would be nice to have someone else he could relate to. So he tries. “对不起,” he says, “是我没看到你.”
Yixing smiles a little at that. “Zhang Yixing,” he says.
“Wufan.”
He ends up apologizing again, but he really is going to be late at this point, so he runs off in the direction of the practice rooms, Yixing waving after him absentmindedly.
They’re not friends after that, but Wufan thinks they could be. Maybe if their training schedules ever matched up, or if he runs into Yixing after hours while doing chores. It’s gotten to the point where Wufan can’t remember the last time he’d gotten a full night’s sleep. His days are filled with language tutoring, vocal training, dance practice, and chores. Between studying, practice, and cleaning up after basically everyone, he’s lucky if he can rest his eyes for more than four hours at a time.
The calling card his mother had given him when he’d left remains unused.
iv.
It’s clear that the only reason Wufan is still here is because one of the creative directors has taken a liking to him. She keeps referring to him as “the dragon." It's both a blessing and a curse. He's grateful they don't cut him, but the bitterness of the other trainees is not subtle. They still don't care for him much, and outside the small circle of friends he's got, there really isn’t anyone he’d want to be alone with for more than a few minutes.
He’s not afraid, per say, but the never-ending rumor mill--his mother is off-limits why the fuck don’t they understand--takes its toll. He’s strong, but he’s not impenetrable. He’s only human, and it’s two years he’s been in a country that won’t accept him, no matter how hard he tries to fit in.
A soft echo of laughter reaches his ears, and Wufan knows without looking who that belongs to. Lu Han is a new recruit from China whose talents include but are not limited to singing, dancing, and generally being the most charming being in existence on this side of the Atlantic. Even his stilted Korean doesn’t deter his sea of admirers who trip over themselves in their haste to fulfill his latest whims.
Perhaps the most infuriating part of it all is how Wufan can’t bring himself to hate him. Under the warm, albeit mischievous, exterior, Lu Han suffers in his own quiet way. He avoids the subject of his family with the same determination Wufan does, though with much more finesse. Wufan feels a special kinship to him, even if they’ve only ever exchanged words in passing.
He resolves not to break until unless Lu Han does, because if Lu Han can bear the rejection of his own blood, Wufan can bear the insults of a stranger.
I chose this, he reminds himself. And perhaps he stays on out of sheer stubbornness and adolescent pride. Perhaps he knows that determination and sheer will can only take him so far. Perhaps he knows that being favored is not the same as being pitied, that talent can be overlooked but not dismissed.
“Hey, Dragon,” someone yells from across the practice room. “We’re short a player for soccer, come join us.”
v.
Debut is not any easier than training. Being a leader does not erase the hardships of having been a trainee.
He never asks to be leader of EXO-M. He is chosen because of his looks, because he gives off a “commanding presence,” whatever that means. He supposes he should be grateful. Being in M means being with the rest of the Chinese members. There’s also Minseok, but Minseok is as easygoing as they come, and with Lu Han helping him mellow out the mood, Wufan foresees little trouble on their part.
Jongdae is the one who worries him. Jongdae worries him because he is everything that Wufan has spent years learning to tamp down. He is young and willful and talented, and he shows remarkable leadership qualities that could, if applied correctly, bring EXO-K to stardom in Korea.
But Jongdae is with them in China, turned about from an unprecedented order up top. Jongdae is young and stubborn and scared, and he is in a country he doesn’t speak the language of, with the added pressure of being the main vocals for songs he can’t understand.
Wufan gets him alone, once, in a rare moment of quiet, and tries to talk to him. He tries to talk of when he first moved to Korea and how he couldn’t do anything without having someone there to translate. He tries, but he knows that the only thing keeping Jongdae from getting up and walking away is Jongdae’s inborn respect for his seniors. There is no comfort in Wufan’s words for him. As similar as their situations might be, Jongdae points out. Wufan was just a trainee. It didn’t matter if he fucked up.
Wufan says, a little desperately, “Talk to Minseok.” and Jongdae’s answering bark of laughter is not nearly as harsh as it should have been.
“‘Talk to Minseok,’” Jongdae echoes. “Why? Because we’re both Korean? Don’t give me that shit, hyung.”
It’s then that Wufan realizes just how young they all are, how inexperienced and naive and utterly lost. Tao is just eighteen, and even as the oldest, Minseok is just barely twenty-two. They should still be at home with their parents, worrying about exams and significant others.
Jongdae, Wufan counts, is just nineteen. And suddenly, Wufan feels exceptionally guilty. Of course he can’t know what Jongdae could be going through, just like no one could know what he went through.
“I’m sorry,” he offers, and it sounds as lame as it is.
Jongdae laughs again, a little kinder. “You didn’t choose for this to happen,” he says. “None of us did.”
They sit there, side by side, and Wufan finds it surprisingly comforting. No words pass between them, but it feels as though with each passing minute, the tension eases bit by bit.
+i.
They come together, slowly. They're well-trained on how to behave in front of the cameras, but once they get into the rhythm of living with each other, of sharing everything from food to soap bars, the familiarity becomes less and less forced and slowly transitions into an easy back-and-forth that is less of prepped interview and more of a conversation being picked back up after a slight interruption.
They aren't one just yet, but they're getting there. They're learning how to fit themselves in the shapes of each other, and Wufan can't ask for more. (It would be nice, though, if they could remember to pick their clothes off the floor, or wake up at first alarm instead of the fifth, but Wufan believes in tackling one issue at a time.) Yixing still daydreams during interviews; Jongdae still can't remember the dance steps for History, but one of these days, Minseok will be able to speak more than three words of Chinese that don't include his self-intro; Tao will stop being having complexes about his undereye circles, and Lu Han will no longer be the most beloved member of EXO-M.
They aren't perfect, but it doesn't mean they aren't trying. They're idols, but they're also just boys who want a little recognition, a little acknowledgement for their blood, sweat, and tears, so when they win at Mengniu, they can't be blamed if their emotions are running a little high. It's been two years of rehearsals and late-night dance practices and obsessive dieting. Two years of fan rankings and hushed talks of surgeries. Two years of living together, of pent-up frustration and too much testosterone. Two years of worrying they weren't good enough, of thinking they didn't work hard enough.
At Mengniu, these all come to a head, and if Wufan looks at his chengyuans and thinks of the reasons behind their tears, if Wufan vows to be a better duizhang, to never let them down, if Wufan has to stop and compose himself, he can't be blamed.
And if it takes a few hours for them to calm down, if Wufan needs a cuddle pile of Tao and Lu Han and Minseok, if he needs a watery smile from Jongdae and a quiet salute from Yixing, no one has to know.
They're all collapsed on Wufan's tiny bed, too exhausted to move. Tao is blinking sleepily with his head resting on Jongdae's chest, and Jongdae still looks stunned. Minseok and Lu Han are asleep at the foot of the bed, heads resting together. Wufan's legs are sprawled over theirs, his head in Yixing's lap as Yixing gently cards his hands through his hair, tugging gently at the ends.
"You don't always have to be strong for us," Yixing says. "Being leader doesn't mean you have to go it alone."
"I'm not," Wufan argues. "I don't."
"Bullshit," says Jongdae, quite fervently.
"You're supposed to let us help you," Tao agrees.
"We want to help," adds Yixing. "So stop being so stubborn and let us."
Wufan does not answer, but maybe he doesn't have to. Tao and Jongdae fall asleep at nearly the exact same moment, and Wufan can feel himself drifting, comforted by the proximity of his members friends.
"It's okay," he thinks he hears Yixing say. "You can let go."
So he does.
*a/n:
对不起 -- sorry
是我没看到你 -- I'm the one who didn't see you.