exo; highway to the danger zone
kaitao. pg-13. 525 words. originally posted at seoulfulness for the prompt Okay, if you're sure, I'll pierce it.
“Aren’t you supposed to be past this already?” Zitao says finally, weighing a big apple in his left hand and Jongin’s eyes are already snugly narrowed. He knows the mechanics of Zitao’s face. Knows the meaning of these inconspicuous, vaguely amused glances from behind gigantic sunglasses, knows the meaning of that small curl of Zitao’s lips that always makes him want to punch Zitao in the face, and he recognizes it all from Zitao’s last seven-or-so failed attempts to spill whatever ingenious observation this is he has made. The hesitation sort of pisses Jongin off more than being patronized because fuck Zitao for trying to be all considerate of his feelings but still not being able to keep it in, that big-mouthed asshat.
“What do you mean?” he grunts, picking at something spikey and expensive in the center of the fruit stand and sort of regretting he didn’t ask Sehun instead but then again Zitao has experience and Sehun would just fuck up anyway.
“I mean,” Zitao says, mouth curling up in a scarcely apologetic smirk of some sorts. He shifts over to his other foot and squeezes the apple (the importance of which Zitao after digging out needles and candles and antiseptic wash had stressed by slipping on his shoes and informing Jongin that they’re gonna have to go out and pick up some fruit, which, when questioned by Jongin, only received a pair of raised eyebrows and a Have you even seeeeen The Parent trap? as explanation) a little bit. “This revolting against the authorities business. Aren’t you a little too old for that? Did you never talk back to your mom when you were fourteen? Never cut class? Never got this out of your system?”
“Fuck you,” Jongin says and puckers his mouth. “I have the lips for it, you know.”
“You know how this is gonna go down, right?” Zitao cocks his hip out.
“It’ll be fucking hot.”
“It’ll hurt and you’ll whine and it’ll be fun for like two hours and tomorrow when the managers see you they will make you take it out, and then it’ll take two weeks for it to heal and hopefully it won’t get infected from the make-up and you will feel fucking stupid and that’s the end of it.”
“Fucking hot,” Jongin repeats. He pulls his lips up until the upper meets his nose.
Zitao snorts. He puts down the apple and picks up another one instead.
“I can do this myself,” Jongin remarks. “If you’re afraid of getting in trouble.”
“Yeah, yeah, no,” Zitao mutters, eyes rolling. “If you’re sure, I’ll do it.” He grabs a plastic bag and starts tossing down apples. “Upper or lower?”
“What?” Jongin says, recoiling on instinct from Zitao’s extended hand popping up in his face but Zitao follows him - “Lower.” - just enough to nip Jongin’s bottom lip between his thumb and folded pointer. It splits from the other with a small noise and Zitao’s thumbnail scrapes softly against the wet inside.
One of Zitao’s shoulders jerk upwards. “You’re right,” he says. There is a small curl at his mouth again. “You do have the lips for it.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be past this already?” Zitao says finally, weighing a big apple in his left hand and Jongin’s eyes are already snugly narrowed. He knows the mechanics of Zitao’s face. Knows the meaning of these inconspicuous, vaguely amused glances from behind gigantic sunglasses, knows the meaning of that small curl of Zitao’s lips that always makes him want to punch Zitao in the face, and he recognizes it all from Zitao’s last seven-or-so failed attempts to spill whatever ingenious observation this is he has made. The hesitation sort of pisses Jongin off more than being patronized because fuck Zitao for trying to be all considerate of his feelings but still not being able to keep it in, that big-mouthed asshat.
“What do you mean?” he grunts, picking at something spikey and expensive in the center of the fruit stand and sort of regretting he didn’t ask Sehun instead but then again Zitao has experience and Sehun would just fuck up anyway.
“I mean,” Zitao says, mouth curling up in a scarcely apologetic smirk of some sorts. He shifts over to his other foot and squeezes the apple (the importance of which Zitao after digging out needles and candles and antiseptic wash had stressed by slipping on his shoes and informing Jongin that they’re gonna have to go out and pick up some fruit, which, when questioned by Jongin, only received a pair of raised eyebrows and a Have you even seeeeen The Parent trap? as explanation) a little bit. “This revolting against the authorities business. Aren’t you a little too old for that? Did you never talk back to your mom when you were fourteen? Never cut class? Never got this out of your system?”
“Fuck you,” Jongin says and puckers his mouth. “I have the lips for it, you know.”
“You know how this is gonna go down, right?” Zitao cocks his hip out.
“It’ll be fucking hot.”
“It’ll hurt and you’ll whine and it’ll be fun for like two hours and tomorrow when the managers see you they will make you take it out, and then it’ll take two weeks for it to heal and hopefully it won’t get infected from the make-up and you will feel fucking stupid and that’s the end of it.”
“Fucking hot,” Jongin repeats. He pulls his lips up until the upper meets his nose.
Zitao snorts. He puts down the apple and picks up another one instead.
“I can do this myself,” Jongin remarks. “If you’re afraid of getting in trouble.”
“Yeah, yeah, no,” Zitao mutters, eyes rolling. “If you’re sure, I’ll do it.” He grabs a plastic bag and starts tossing down apples. “Upper or lower?”
“What?” Jongin says, recoiling on instinct from Zitao’s extended hand popping up in his face but Zitao follows him - “Lower.” - just enough to nip Jongin’s bottom lip between his thumb and folded pointer. It splits from the other with a small noise and Zitao’s thumbnail scrapes softly against the wet inside.
One of Zitao’s shoulders jerk upwards. “You’re right,” he says. There is a small curl at his mouth again. “You do have the lips for it.”