[oneshot] Suspicious (or: Huang Zitao's Week Of Misfortune)
Title: Suspicious (or: Huang Zitao's Week Of Misfortune)
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Lay/Tao
Length: 648 words
Summary: Zitao is just trying to protect the people of the mall against the evils of bad personal grooming and excessively distracted facial expressions.
Warnings: no actual knowledge of how malls work was used in this fic.
The salespeople make fun of Zitao a lot. He knows that. He doesn’t need to turn around to see them pointing at the back of his suit and snickering, only to barely straighten their faces as he loudly clears his throat. He has a metaphorical third eye on the back of his neck for that kind of thing. It’s exactly what makes him such a good security guard, after all.
The thing is, Zitao takes his job seriously. Way too seriously, some of the salespeople would say in a mocking voice, but, in Zitao’s opinion, if you have a job, you must execute it with all your heart. “Unlike people who get hired just because they’re pretty,” he snarls under his breath, darkly looking around for any suspicious activity.
“Oh yes, Zitao, they hired you because you’re a highly trained security guard,” says one of the nastiest clerks, a short thing named Lu Han who works at a nearby jeans store and greets all customers with the greasiest, fakest smile Zitao has ever seen.
“I’m a local wushu champion!” Zitao objects, voice cracking. “I’m a black belt in Krav Maga! I take classes with a licensed stuntman! So yes, Lu Han, I am a highly trained security guard, thank you!”
“I’m joking, Tao. Chill. No need to get your panties in a twist.” Lu Han wiggles his brows and gives Tao’s ass a quick slap. He’s disgusting. Tao briefly considers breaking both his hands and then strangling him, but he manages to calm himself down by taking a deep breath and imagining himself saving the mall from a horde of masked terrorists. Ah, that mental image always helps him to attain inner peace. He always looks so cool in it.
Hundreds of people visit the mall every day. Teenagers in large groups, loudly slurping their bubble teas while chatting about the movie that’s about to come out; families with their adorable young children, who always bring a smile to Zitao’s face as they run around the stores, amazed at everything; calm elderly couples that walk slowly along the aisles, talking about mundane subjects while admiring what every store has to offer… it’s like all those people are there to balance the evil and bitterness of the mall staff. When Zitao thinks of those people, he’s overwhelmed by an impulse to protect them, to maintain order at any cost. He even gets a little teary-eyed at it. And so, he doubles his amount of attention.
It’s usually then that he notices someone suspicious. Today, it happens again.
Among the masses that move back and forward constantly, it’s easy to spot stagnate people at the aisle. From where Zitao stands, right on the division between a cosmetics parlor and a jewelry store, his eyes immediately lock with a figure standing across him, completely still, admiring the window of a shoe store. It’s a guy; a complete slacker, at that, and, even though that’s not unseen in malls anywhere in the world, it still makes Zitao cringe internally. The guy’s t-shirt is of a dirty shade of light grey, as if it had been white once upon a time, and his jeans are horribly battered. Also, he’s wearing sandals (whoever first thought jeans and sandals go well together should issue a public apology, Zitao thinks) and carrying the oldest, saddest black backpack Zitao has ever seen.
What matters is, the aforementioned man isn’t just standing still in the middle of the aisle, offending Zitao with his appearance: he’s also staring fixatedly at the high heels section of a very expensive, very posh shoe store.
Suspicious, right? Zitao thinks so too.
He sets his most analytic stare on the guy, watching his every movement, which means he doesn’t have much to observe since the guy… isn’t moving. That makes him even more suspicious, and his thumb hovers over the button of his radio communicator. But no; it’s too early to report anything. There’s no need to startle his co-worker Yifan with small things like this; he can handle it alone. Straightening his work suit, Zitao walks over to the suspicious figure to use his prized, psychologically approved approach - playing dumb with an obvious criminal-to-be.
“Sir?” he greets in his most amiable voice, hands behind his back to demonstrate harmlessness, shoulders curved forward to inspire vulnerability and interest. “May I help you with anything?”
The man turns around slowly, eyes slightly unfocused. What if he’s drunk? Zitao can’t smell alcohol on him, though, and his nose is fairly good for that kind of thing, so maybe the man is just playing dumb like he is.
“I’m sorry?” the man blinks, suddenly getting a grip of what’s happening. Zitao’s smile strains at the corners.
“You see, I work at this mall as a security guard,” Zitao says, flashing the name plate pinned to his chest pocket. “I saw you standing here, and thought you could perhaps be a little lost. Do you need any help?”
The man blinks again, very slowly. What if he’s high?, thinks Zitao, trying to maintain a relaxed posture. He knows the smell of alcohol, but he has never smelled drugs. Do drugs have a smell?
“Oh,” the man says simply, staring at a point some centimeters above Zitao’s shoulder. Zitao briefly turns his head; nothing. “So you’re a security guard from here,” is what comes next, and the man changes his posture, crossing his arms and shifting his weight from one side of his hip to another. Zitao doesn’t like it. It seems insolent. “Huang… Huang Zitao?”
“That’d be me,” it comes out a little too sharp. He coughs, and applies another layer of sugar coating. “So? May I help?”
“Is there… a bookshop nearby?” The guy cluelessly glances around, and Zitao spares himself of answering, because he knows that if he looks just a bit to the left… “Oh, there it is. Thank you, Mr. Huang.”
“You’re welcome!” Zitao smiles, even though he didn’t do anything. He was still suspicious, only waiting for the man to enter the bookstore so he could stand outside, ready to catch him in case he tried to steal-and-run or something.
“My name is Zhang Yixing,” the man offered a hand for Zitao to shake. Somehow, that amiable gesture only made the security guard more suspicious; what kind of criminal gives away his name? Is he planting false hints towards his true identity? Zitao shakes his hand. “Thank you for helping me. Goodbye.”
Zhang Yixing goes into the bookstore. Zitao stands near the entrance, semi-hidden by a cardboard cut-out of some celebrity, until the time he leaves, three hours later.
He steals nothing, and hurts no one.
Zitao is even more suspicious of him.
Usually, Zitao has a lot to busy his mind with. Thousands of people visit the mall every day, and Zitao has enough work during the day to wear him out, so he hardly keeps anything in his mind in the end of the day, unless it’s really important.
He’d probably have forgotten Zhang Yixing, the stoned criminal, if he didn’t show up once again the very next day.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
On the fifth day, Zitao thinks he’s seeing things. It’s not possible. Five days; five days of spotting this man wearing the same sleazy clothes and the same lost, clueless glance; five days of discreetly following him around, never approaching him, only watching; two days of aimless window shopping, two days of browsing random gadgets shops without buying anything, and one day of leisurely enjoying a meal at the mall’s resident vegan organic hippie-as-fuck snackbar; and not once, not once did Zitao manage to catch him in the act.
This man’s hands must be lighter than air.
“He’s here again,” Zitao hisses in terror when he spots Zhang Yixing, his personal living nightmare, walking into the mall with his usual contemplative expression on.
“Who’s here again?”
To Zitao’s misfortune, the one who hears him is Lu Han. Lu Han, on top of being greasy and extremely annoying, is also very nosy. Zitao scowls. “A suspicious element. You see that guy over there?” Zitao signals Yixing with a gesture of his eyebrow. Miraculous, Lu Han seems to follow. “Don’t let him in. He’s been here all week, walks around, never buys anything.”
Lu Han raises a brow at him. “Maybe he just likes window shopping?”
“For six days straight?!” Zitao growls. “He’s planning something. Or maybe he’s just high all the time. Either way, don’t let him in. I need to get him banned from here.”
And, of course, because Lu Han is pro-everything that causes Zitao anguish and anti-any possibilities of Zitao having some peace of mind, he rolls his eyes in disbelief. “Pissy is not your color, Zitao, so just pull that wedgie out of your ass. Now shoo; he’s coming this way, and I want to sell him some jeans. Your ugly face is on the way.”
Unfortunately, he’s right. Yixing seems to be wandering in their direction, eyes browsing the surroundings as if he had never been in a mall in his life. Lu Han ditches Zitao in order to stand in front of the store and look pretty. Zitao is livid.
Not sparing the maybe-soon-to-be-criminal another look, Zitao stomps away, fuming.
“We can’t ban a person from the mall, Taozi,” is what the manager tells him, and Zitao huffs.
“But boss!” Zitao whines, slamming his hands on the nearest surface - the manager’s desk. “He’s dangerous! He could be scanning the structure so he can plant a bomb or something!”
Near the wall, Zitao’s co-worker, Yifan, snorts, and Zitao pouts angrily at him. The manager, Zhou Mi, is filing his nails in an unaffected manner. “Well, if you’re this suspicious, search into him. Delicately. Inquire him about his intentions in this mall.”
Zitao huffs again, louder this time. Questioning. As if questioning did any good, specially when done delicately. Pointless task. “Can’t we just ban him? He’s obviously not up to any good!”
“How can you know? Maybe he’s just really careful about his shopping,” Zhou Mi grins. “My kind of guy, of course. Do you have any pictures of him? I'm suddenly curious.”
“Of course I don’t,” Zitao mumbles. “Am I the only one actually concerned about our customer’s safety here?! This is no time for pictures!”
“Relax,” Yifan suddenly speaks up, and his face says indifference, but his voice is artificially melodic. “We’re not making little of your stuff. We just want to know.”
“We just want to know,” reinforces Zhou Mi, grin even wider. “Since it seems like a guy caught our baby’s eye. Won't you introduce your terrorist to us, Taozi?”
Zitao doesn’t answer. Instead, he groans, and stomps away for the second time in the last few minutes, slamming the door on his way out to drown his workmates’ laughter. However, the sound is not loud enough for him to miss the mocking, “Aw, he’s blushing!”
When the mall finally blows up, Zitao is gonna let them burn.
Yixing buys nothing from Lu Han’s posh jeans store, of course, nor from the bookstore, or from the gadget store, or from the cosmetics store. Zitao tails him the entire time, follows every step, watches every move, listens to every conversation. When, at the bookstore, he puts on the headphones to hear to those sound samples in the music section, Zitao wonders what he’s listening to. Whatever it is, it makes him close his eyes and smile, bobbing his head slightly to a rhythm Zitao can’t hear. It’s an strangely peaceful sight. Zitao does snap some pictures, only to vow never to show it to Zhou Mi, ever. Ah, the sweet taste of revenge.
He has noticed that, apparently, Yixing is really interested in music. In the gadget store, he always goes straight to the headphones section, studying each one of them carefully, only to move to the next sound-related section, rarely paying the other sections any attention. He always browses the entire music section of the bookstore, looking at every shelf with the same interest, and Zitao wonders if he has any genres he prefers or if he just listens to everything and anything. Once - in the second day, perhaps, or the third - he caught Yixing chatting with some random guy about the differences between ska and reggae. Zitao has no idea of what ‘ska’ is.
Must be some terrorist’s code for ‘bomb’. Zitao keeps an eye on the random guy, and ends up accidentally scaring him away from the mall.
So now, Zitao is at the food court. He’s standing about five meters away from Yixing, who’s standing in line of a nearby snack place, buying a cup of carrot sticks. Apparently, he just eats rabbit food all the time. Zitao is both disgusted and endeared at the brand of hipster trash his terrorist is.
‘His’ terrorist. Okay, Zitao. Okay.
“Want some?” the voice comes out of nowhere, and Zitao jumps, startled, almost punching through the nearest wall. Holy shit, no one has been able to surprise him during work since… since ever, probably. He glances, distraught, at the source of the sound, and finds Yixing standing next to him. Looking at him. Smiling at him. Offering him carrot sticks.
Zitao clears his throat, attempting to mentally surprise the red flush that colours his cheeks and ears. “I’m on duty,” he retorts, browsing the surroundings with his best I’m-a-tough-security-guard-don’t-mess-with-me face.
“I see.” Even though Zitao isn’t looking directly at Yixing, he can clearly visualize his grin as he slowly, (deliberately slowly), pops an entire carrot stick into his mouth. He’s about to enter ninja mode. His nape feels cold. “I’ve seen you around a lot these days.”
… Zitao cannot believe Yixing’s nerve. He turns to face him with a stare that could cut through stone. “What a coincidence! So have I. In fact, I had never seen someone come to the mall for six days in a row.” At this point, Yixing is just casually munching on the tip of another carrot stick, face tranquil and mildly curious, as if he was listening to some boring bedtime story. “You must’ve been bored at home. Or maybe you’re just really, really careful with your shopping, huh?”
At that, Yixing smiles. Oh no. He’s smiling. Zitao is about to lose it. He’s smiling around the carrot stick, at that, and stuff starts making sense, but Zitao is too busy with other feelings to actually connect the dots.
“I like it here,” the terrorist says simply, cocking his hip to the side while looking down rather coyly. His eyelashes are enraging. “It’s a nice mall. It has nice staff,” the last bit of the carrot stick goes in. Yixing looks up - straight into Zitao’s eyes. “Like you, Mr. Huang Zitao.”
Enough.
Zitao has had enough of this. Of carrots, of terrorism, of second-hand window shopping and guys who walk around in horrible sleazy clothing and look like they’re on some good stuff and still manage to look kinda cute. Zitao is absolutely done, done with Yixing, so he grabs Yixing by the arm, almost making him drop the carrots, and physically drags him to the staff room.
“It’s about time I search into you,” Zitao growls, slamming the door shut behind them.
Zitao finally sobers up a little when he feels Yixing shove a hand down his pants. He does a quick scan of his surroundings and current situation; locked door, swollen lips, a trinket box lying broken on the floor, Yixing sitting atop the desk, hair tousled, skin flushed. Hand down Zitao’s pants. Um. Okay.
The thing is, when Yixing’s fingers brush against Zitao’s underwear, he lets out a gasp. “Lace!” He cheers gleefully, hastily pulling Zitao’s jeans down so he can take a better look at what he’s touching. Which would be Zitao’s milky-white lace boyshorts. Shit. He had forgotten about that detail. “So he was right, after all.”
Zitao groans indignantly. “I can’t believe Lu Han told you.” In order not to think about murdering Lu Han in some creative ways, Zitao buses himself with taking Yixing’s old, ugly tank top off for him.
“I guess that’d be my fault,” Yixing smiles candidly, lightly tracing patterns over the lace with his fingernail. “I asked him to tell me about you. So he did.”
Did he really need to go into detail, is what Zitao would’ve said next, but he’s feeling smug that Yixing was asking around about him, so he just leans forward to kiss Yixing’s neck and enjoy the moment. Yixing keens. Zitao is living a moment of glory.
“Don’t-don’t bite,” comes the request as Yixing’s hands come up to rest on Zitao’s shoulders. “I bruise easily. And I-ah, I have work tomorrow.”
“You have a job?” Zitao snorts. The idea of having Yixing skipping work for a week just to stalk him around the mall (yes, stalk him, Zitao was getting passive-aggressively stalked, shut up) makes his head even bigger. He’s on cloud nine of smugness right now. Nothing can bring him down. “Where do you work at, Mr. Zhang? Answer my questions.”
For emphasis, he flicks Yixing’s nipples, and Yixing sighs contently. “Jeans store,” he answers, sounding quite light-headed. “Got hired today. I guess Mr. Lu Han liked me.”
Zitao comes down crashing.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Lay/Tao
Length: 648 words
Summary: Zitao is just trying to protect the people of the mall against the evils of bad personal grooming and excessively distracted facial expressions.
Warnings: no actual knowledge of how malls work was used in this fic.
The salespeople make fun of Zitao a lot. He knows that. He doesn’t need to turn around to see them pointing at the back of his suit and snickering, only to barely straighten their faces as he loudly clears his throat. He has a metaphorical third eye on the back of his neck for that kind of thing. It’s exactly what makes him such a good security guard, after all.
The thing is, Zitao takes his job seriously. Way too seriously, some of the salespeople would say in a mocking voice, but, in Zitao’s opinion, if you have a job, you must execute it with all your heart. “Unlike people who get hired just because they’re pretty,” he snarls under his breath, darkly looking around for any suspicious activity.
“Oh yes, Zitao, they hired you because you’re a highly trained security guard,” says one of the nastiest clerks, a short thing named Lu Han who works at a nearby jeans store and greets all customers with the greasiest, fakest smile Zitao has ever seen.
“I’m a local wushu champion!” Zitao objects, voice cracking. “I’m a black belt in Krav Maga! I take classes with a licensed stuntman! So yes, Lu Han, I am a highly trained security guard, thank you!”
“I’m joking, Tao. Chill. No need to get your panties in a twist.” Lu Han wiggles his brows and gives Tao’s ass a quick slap. He’s disgusting. Tao briefly considers breaking both his hands and then strangling him, but he manages to calm himself down by taking a deep breath and imagining himself saving the mall from a horde of masked terrorists. Ah, that mental image always helps him to attain inner peace. He always looks so cool in it.
Hundreds of people visit the mall every day. Teenagers in large groups, loudly slurping their bubble teas while chatting about the movie that’s about to come out; families with their adorable young children, who always bring a smile to Zitao’s face as they run around the stores, amazed at everything; calm elderly couples that walk slowly along the aisles, talking about mundane subjects while admiring what every store has to offer… it’s like all those people are there to balance the evil and bitterness of the mall staff. When Zitao thinks of those people, he’s overwhelmed by an impulse to protect them, to maintain order at any cost. He even gets a little teary-eyed at it. And so, he doubles his amount of attention.
It’s usually then that he notices someone suspicious. Today, it happens again.
Among the masses that move back and forward constantly, it’s easy to spot stagnate people at the aisle. From where Zitao stands, right on the division between a cosmetics parlor and a jewelry store, his eyes immediately lock with a figure standing across him, completely still, admiring the window of a shoe store. It’s a guy; a complete slacker, at that, and, even though that’s not unseen in malls anywhere in the world, it still makes Zitao cringe internally. The guy’s t-shirt is of a dirty shade of light grey, as if it had been white once upon a time, and his jeans are horribly battered. Also, he’s wearing sandals (whoever first thought jeans and sandals go well together should issue a public apology, Zitao thinks) and carrying the oldest, saddest black backpack Zitao has ever seen.
What matters is, the aforementioned man isn’t just standing still in the middle of the aisle, offending Zitao with his appearance: he’s also staring fixatedly at the high heels section of a very expensive, very posh shoe store.
Suspicious, right? Zitao thinks so too.
He sets his most analytic stare on the guy, watching his every movement, which means he doesn’t have much to observe since the guy… isn’t moving. That makes him even more suspicious, and his thumb hovers over the button of his radio communicator. But no; it’s too early to report anything. There’s no need to startle his co-worker Yifan with small things like this; he can handle it alone. Straightening his work suit, Zitao walks over to the suspicious figure to use his prized, psychologically approved approach - playing dumb with an obvious criminal-to-be.
“Sir?” he greets in his most amiable voice, hands behind his back to demonstrate harmlessness, shoulders curved forward to inspire vulnerability and interest. “May I help you with anything?”
The man turns around slowly, eyes slightly unfocused. What if he’s drunk? Zitao can’t smell alcohol on him, though, and his nose is fairly good for that kind of thing, so maybe the man is just playing dumb like he is.
“I’m sorry?” the man blinks, suddenly getting a grip of what’s happening. Zitao’s smile strains at the corners.
“You see, I work at this mall as a security guard,” Zitao says, flashing the name plate pinned to his chest pocket. “I saw you standing here, and thought you could perhaps be a little lost. Do you need any help?”
The man blinks again, very slowly. What if he’s high?, thinks Zitao, trying to maintain a relaxed posture. He knows the smell of alcohol, but he has never smelled drugs. Do drugs have a smell?
“Oh,” the man says simply, staring at a point some centimeters above Zitao’s shoulder. Zitao briefly turns his head; nothing. “So you’re a security guard from here,” is what comes next, and the man changes his posture, crossing his arms and shifting his weight from one side of his hip to another. Zitao doesn’t like it. It seems insolent. “Huang… Huang Zitao?”
“That’d be me,” it comes out a little too sharp. He coughs, and applies another layer of sugar coating. “So? May I help?”
“Is there… a bookshop nearby?” The guy cluelessly glances around, and Zitao spares himself of answering, because he knows that if he looks just a bit to the left… “Oh, there it is. Thank you, Mr. Huang.”
“You’re welcome!” Zitao smiles, even though he didn’t do anything. He was still suspicious, only waiting for the man to enter the bookstore so he could stand outside, ready to catch him in case he tried to steal-and-run or something.
“My name is Zhang Yixing,” the man offered a hand for Zitao to shake. Somehow, that amiable gesture only made the security guard more suspicious; what kind of criminal gives away his name? Is he planting false hints towards his true identity? Zitao shakes his hand. “Thank you for helping me. Goodbye.”
Zhang Yixing goes into the bookstore. Zitao stands near the entrance, semi-hidden by a cardboard cut-out of some celebrity, until the time he leaves, three hours later.
He steals nothing, and hurts no one.
Zitao is even more suspicious of him.
Usually, Zitao has a lot to busy his mind with. Thousands of people visit the mall every day, and Zitao has enough work during the day to wear him out, so he hardly keeps anything in his mind in the end of the day, unless it’s really important.
He’d probably have forgotten Zhang Yixing, the stoned criminal, if he didn’t show up once again the very next day.
And the day after that.
And the day after that.
On the fifth day, Zitao thinks he’s seeing things. It’s not possible. Five days; five days of spotting this man wearing the same sleazy clothes and the same lost, clueless glance; five days of discreetly following him around, never approaching him, only watching; two days of aimless window shopping, two days of browsing random gadgets shops without buying anything, and one day of leisurely enjoying a meal at the mall’s resident vegan organic hippie-as-fuck snackbar; and not once, not once did Zitao manage to catch him in the act.
This man’s hands must be lighter than air.
“He’s here again,” Zitao hisses in terror when he spots Zhang Yixing, his personal living nightmare, walking into the mall with his usual contemplative expression on.
“Who’s here again?”
To Zitao’s misfortune, the one who hears him is Lu Han. Lu Han, on top of being greasy and extremely annoying, is also very nosy. Zitao scowls. “A suspicious element. You see that guy over there?” Zitao signals Yixing with a gesture of his eyebrow. Miraculous, Lu Han seems to follow. “Don’t let him in. He’s been here all week, walks around, never buys anything.”
Lu Han raises a brow at him. “Maybe he just likes window shopping?”
“For six days straight?!” Zitao growls. “He’s planning something. Or maybe he’s just high all the time. Either way, don’t let him in. I need to get him banned from here.”
And, of course, because Lu Han is pro-everything that causes Zitao anguish and anti-any possibilities of Zitao having some peace of mind, he rolls his eyes in disbelief. “Pissy is not your color, Zitao, so just pull that wedgie out of your ass. Now shoo; he’s coming this way, and I want to sell him some jeans. Your ugly face is on the way.”
Unfortunately, he’s right. Yixing seems to be wandering in their direction, eyes browsing the surroundings as if he had never been in a mall in his life. Lu Han ditches Zitao in order to stand in front of the store and look pretty. Zitao is livid.
Not sparing the maybe-soon-to-be-criminal another look, Zitao stomps away, fuming.
“We can’t ban a person from the mall, Taozi,” is what the manager tells him, and Zitao huffs.
“But boss!” Zitao whines, slamming his hands on the nearest surface - the manager’s desk. “He’s dangerous! He could be scanning the structure so he can plant a bomb or something!”
Near the wall, Zitao’s co-worker, Yifan, snorts, and Zitao pouts angrily at him. The manager, Zhou Mi, is filing his nails in an unaffected manner. “Well, if you’re this suspicious, search into him. Delicately. Inquire him about his intentions in this mall.”
Zitao huffs again, louder this time. Questioning. As if questioning did any good, specially when done delicately. Pointless task. “Can’t we just ban him? He’s obviously not up to any good!”
“How can you know? Maybe he’s just really careful about his shopping,” Zhou Mi grins. “My kind of guy, of course. Do you have any pictures of him? I'm suddenly curious.”
“Of course I don’t,” Zitao mumbles. “Am I the only one actually concerned about our customer’s safety here?! This is no time for pictures!”
“Relax,” Yifan suddenly speaks up, and his face says indifference, but his voice is artificially melodic. “We’re not making little of your stuff. We just want to know.”
“We just want to know,” reinforces Zhou Mi, grin even wider. “Since it seems like a guy caught our baby’s eye. Won't you introduce your terrorist to us, Taozi?”
Zitao doesn’t answer. Instead, he groans, and stomps away for the second time in the last few minutes, slamming the door on his way out to drown his workmates’ laughter. However, the sound is not loud enough for him to miss the mocking, “Aw, he’s blushing!”
When the mall finally blows up, Zitao is gonna let them burn.
Yixing buys nothing from Lu Han’s posh jeans store, of course, nor from the bookstore, or from the gadget store, or from the cosmetics store. Zitao tails him the entire time, follows every step, watches every move, listens to every conversation. When, at the bookstore, he puts on the headphones to hear to those sound samples in the music section, Zitao wonders what he’s listening to. Whatever it is, it makes him close his eyes and smile, bobbing his head slightly to a rhythm Zitao can’t hear. It’s an strangely peaceful sight. Zitao does snap some pictures, only to vow never to show it to Zhou Mi, ever. Ah, the sweet taste of revenge.
He has noticed that, apparently, Yixing is really interested in music. In the gadget store, he always goes straight to the headphones section, studying each one of them carefully, only to move to the next sound-related section, rarely paying the other sections any attention. He always browses the entire music section of the bookstore, looking at every shelf with the same interest, and Zitao wonders if he has any genres he prefers or if he just listens to everything and anything. Once - in the second day, perhaps, or the third - he caught Yixing chatting with some random guy about the differences between ska and reggae. Zitao has no idea of what ‘ska’ is.
Must be some terrorist’s code for ‘bomb’. Zitao keeps an eye on the random guy, and ends up accidentally scaring him away from the mall.
So now, Zitao is at the food court. He’s standing about five meters away from Yixing, who’s standing in line of a nearby snack place, buying a cup of carrot sticks. Apparently, he just eats rabbit food all the time. Zitao is both disgusted and endeared at the brand of hipster trash his terrorist is.
‘His’ terrorist. Okay, Zitao. Okay.
“Want some?” the voice comes out of nowhere, and Zitao jumps, startled, almost punching through the nearest wall. Holy shit, no one has been able to surprise him during work since… since ever, probably. He glances, distraught, at the source of the sound, and finds Yixing standing next to him. Looking at him. Smiling at him. Offering him carrot sticks.
Zitao clears his throat, attempting to mentally surprise the red flush that colours his cheeks and ears. “I’m on duty,” he retorts, browsing the surroundings with his best I’m-a-tough-security-guard-don’t-mess-with-me face.
“I see.” Even though Zitao isn’t looking directly at Yixing, he can clearly visualize his grin as he slowly, (deliberately slowly), pops an entire carrot stick into his mouth. He’s about to enter ninja mode. His nape feels cold. “I’ve seen you around a lot these days.”
… Zitao cannot believe Yixing’s nerve. He turns to face him with a stare that could cut through stone. “What a coincidence! So have I. In fact, I had never seen someone come to the mall for six days in a row.” At this point, Yixing is just casually munching on the tip of another carrot stick, face tranquil and mildly curious, as if he was listening to some boring bedtime story. “You must’ve been bored at home. Or maybe you’re just really, really careful with your shopping, huh?”
At that, Yixing smiles. Oh no. He’s smiling. Zitao is about to lose it. He’s smiling around the carrot stick, at that, and stuff starts making sense, but Zitao is too busy with other feelings to actually connect the dots.
“I like it here,” the terrorist says simply, cocking his hip to the side while looking down rather coyly. His eyelashes are enraging. “It’s a nice mall. It has nice staff,” the last bit of the carrot stick goes in. Yixing looks up - straight into Zitao’s eyes. “Like you, Mr. Huang Zitao.”
Enough.
Zitao has had enough of this. Of carrots, of terrorism, of second-hand window shopping and guys who walk around in horrible sleazy clothing and look like they’re on some good stuff and still manage to look kinda cute. Zitao is absolutely done, done with Yixing, so he grabs Yixing by the arm, almost making him drop the carrots, and physically drags him to the staff room.
“It’s about time I search into you,” Zitao growls, slamming the door shut behind them.
Zitao finally sobers up a little when he feels Yixing shove a hand down his pants. He does a quick scan of his surroundings and current situation; locked door, swollen lips, a trinket box lying broken on the floor, Yixing sitting atop the desk, hair tousled, skin flushed. Hand down Zitao’s pants. Um. Okay.
The thing is, when Yixing’s fingers brush against Zitao’s underwear, he lets out a gasp. “Lace!” He cheers gleefully, hastily pulling Zitao’s jeans down so he can take a better look at what he’s touching. Which would be Zitao’s milky-white lace boyshorts. Shit. He had forgotten about that detail. “So he was right, after all.”
Zitao groans indignantly. “I can’t believe Lu Han told you.” In order not to think about murdering Lu Han in some creative ways, Zitao buses himself with taking Yixing’s old, ugly tank top off for him.
“I guess that’d be my fault,” Yixing smiles candidly, lightly tracing patterns over the lace with his fingernail. “I asked him to tell me about you. So he did.”
Did he really need to go into detail, is what Zitao would’ve said next, but he’s feeling smug that Yixing was asking around about him, so he just leans forward to kiss Yixing’s neck and enjoy the moment. Yixing keens. Zitao is living a moment of glory.
“Don’t-don’t bite,” comes the request as Yixing’s hands come up to rest on Zitao’s shoulders. “I bruise easily. And I-ah, I have work tomorrow.”
“You have a job?” Zitao snorts. The idea of having Yixing skipping work for a week just to stalk him around the mall (yes, stalk him, Zitao was getting passive-aggressively stalked, shut up) makes his head even bigger. He’s on cloud nine of smugness right now. Nothing can bring him down. “Where do you work at, Mr. Zhang? Answer my questions.”
For emphasis, he flicks Yixing’s nipples, and Yixing sighs contently. “Jeans store,” he answers, sounding quite light-headed. “Got hired today. I guess Mr. Lu Han liked me.”
Zitao comes down crashing.