[oneshot] making history (the awards season remix)
Title: making history (the awards season remix)
Pairing: chen/lay
Rating: pg13
Genre: au, slice-of-life
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: jongdae wins a grammy. when he ducks into the pressroom, yixing is still standing at the podium cradling his. a remix of swabluu's nothing's impossible, written for the 2014 cycle of kpop_ficmix. originally posted here. 2,149 words.
Jongdae nearly knocks himself out tripping over the footstool in his haste to snatch his bowtie off the back of the couch. Yixing stares at him from the hallway, cheek creased with his smile. "You okay?"
"Just fine," Jongdae grumbles. He loops the fabric around his neck and knots it. Starts digging through the pile of clothing on the sofa for sheer socks. Fuck. The last pair he'd seen was in Yixing's dresser, but that was weeks ago. At the time, he'd been a little too preoccupied looking for lube.
"It's your fault for leaving all this till the last minute," Yixing supplies helpfully, leaning his hip against the frame.
"I had no idea hair and make-up would take so long," Jongdae mutters. "Sehun was really thorough." He sticks his hand between two of the couch cushions and finally comes up with one sock. A cotton sock, not a silk one, with a cute soccer ball pattern on it. Jongdae deflates against the sofa, defeated. "Look, it's just an awards show, right? It doesn't matter how I look when I do turn up. If I do turn up."
Yixing cocks his head to the side. "Except it does. And not only because Kyungsoo said he would kill you if you came down the red carpet in a t-shirt and skinny jeans."
"That was one time," Jongdae snaps, tossing his hands in the air. "It was the VMAs! God. I could've worn a pink tutu and people still would've been talking about Lady Gaga's meat dress. Kyungsoo can suck my dick."
Yixing snorts quietly. He steps forward and tugs Jongdae away from the couch. One of his hands comes up from behind his back. "Looking for these?" he says, holding a clean pair of silk socks aloft.
"Give 'em here," Jongdae says. "Why didn't you tell me you had them earlier?" He looks up in a vain attempt to stare at his bangs. "Now my hair's all messed up. Kyungsoo is going to kill me."
Yixing, to his credit, only rolls his eyes. He, of course, looks perfect-Givenchy had sponsored his outfit today, a tailored three-piece suit, all the way down to the sleek leather shoes on his feet. His hair's coiffed up out of his face, the volume perfectly sculpted. He slides his hands in the pockets of his slacks and watches with vague interest as Jongdae hops around trying to pull his socks on while standing up.
He gets half of one onto his left foot and straightens up with a huff-only to be forced back down onto the footstool, tailbone smacking painfully against the hard cushion. "Hey-what are you doing?"
"Calm down," Yixing says, blinking. His hands squeeze Jongdae's shoulders. "I know you're nervous."
Jongdae stiffens. "I'm not-"
"Yes," Yixing interrupts, serene as ever. "You are." His fingers dig into the bunched muscles at the slope of Jongdae's neck, firm and relentless, and Jongdae relaxes despite himself. Yixing smiles again, the crease in his cheek going deep the way Jongdae loves most, laugh lines around his eyes scrunching up. "But you shouldn't be. You're going to be great tonight."
Jongdae's been to so many events like this over the years that it should be old hat by now, but every time feels like the first time: the new car smell of the inside of the limousine, the flashing lights as they pull up to the curb, the roar of the crowd behind the barricades. His first awards show as a contributing artist had been the VMAs two years out of high school, trotted out as one of Kyungsoo's newly minted pop icons. A bunch of One Direction fans had nearly ruptured Jongdae's eardrums during his red carpet walk. He spent the rest of the evening drinking sugary punch, staring at the back of Taylor Swift's head, and tossing crumpled napkin notes into Yixing's lap. The last part had been the night's only saving grace. Jongdae's pretty sure he still has the Pikachu Yixing had doodled stuck in some drawer in their shared apartment.
Across from him in the limousine, Yixing's as calm as a fortress. Jongdae's eyes follow the slope of Yixing's nose down to the soft red of his mouth, the crisp fold of his collar. Not a single hair out of place. Of course. It's only to be expected; Yixing grew up like most Disney Channel actor/singer types, whose parents charted their children's trajectory of success by how many times they appeared in the tabloids every month. Even when all Jongdae did was admire him through a computer screen, Yixing seemed like an anchor in the storm, face schooled into a benign smile. Immaculate poise must be second nature to him already.
Jondae doesn't look away fast enough to avoid Yixing's gaze when he turns his head. "What?" Yixing asks, tongue flicking against his lips.
"I'm just happy you're here with me," Jongdae blurts out. He ducks his head when the corners of Yixing's mouth creep up. "Don't laugh."
"I'm not laughing," Yixing says, and reaches over to grab his hand.
The red carpet is packed when they get there. Someone sticks a microphone in Jongdae's face two seconds after he steps out of the limousine and asks him who he's wearing tonight. "Fuck if I know," he says, staring down at the lapels of his suit, and Yixing's warm chuckle fills his ears.
Somehow they make it past the throng of reporters and into the actual arena. Kyungsoo sees them coming in and waves them over, looking Jongdae up and down with a critical eye. On a good day, Jongdae's agent is easily irritated at best. Right now, dressed in a smart tux with a bright red cummerbund, Jongdae can feel the stress coming off him in waves.
"Satisfied?" Jongdae asks, arms akimbo.
"Good to see you too," Kyungsoo says, rolling his eyes. "Your seats are over here."
Not all of Kyungsoo's clients have arrived, and he can't sit until he's finished his roll call. The rest are no doubt still out on the red carpet, posing for pictures and signing posters for the audience gathered outside. Jongdae pinches the bridge of his nose as he slides into his chair. "I'm getting a headache already," he mutters.
Yixing touches his arm, a steady downward brush that seems to root Jongdae more firmly to the floor. "It'll be fine," he says, soothing. "You'll be fine."
The award that Yixing's up for is pretty big. Grammy for Best Score Soundtrack for Visual Media, to complement the Academy Award for Best Original Score. One of Yixing's director friends, some Hollywood guy who went by the initials WYF, had asked him to write all the music for his latest movie. The film had been a box office success but critically panned. The score, though, garnered a swell of positive response, especially after Pitchfork published a glowing review in the fall. There's a very real chance Yixing will be taking home a trophy. By all rights, he should be the nervous one.
Yixing chuckles when Jongdae tells him so. "I'm not the one performing," he points out. "Come on, I love your pop wonder status." His grin takes on a sharp tinge. "You should be happy. Now I get to be the super embarrassing fanboy."
"I wasn't embarrassing," Jongdae hisses, even as his neck grows hot beneath his collar. He was totally embarrassing.
"You were totally embarrassing," Yixing confirms. The lights in the arena dim, and loud music comes on. Jongdae remembers running his mouth the first time they'd met backstage at a concert, blathering on about the eventuality of their marriage and trying to commit to memory the way the light refracted off Yixing's eyes. Ridiculous. "You're lucky I thought you were cute."
"I'm lucky you didn't file a restraining order," Jongdae mutters.
"That too," Yixing says agreeably. His elbow bumps against Jongdae's. "Hey, I think that's your cue."
Jongdae looks up and squints. Kyungsoo's flapping his hand from a side door, a harried look on his face. There's a bounce in Jongdae's step as he leaps to his feet.
"Break a leg," Yixing mouths. He squeezes Jongdae's knee for good luck.
Jongdae cracks a smile and goes.
After he's cleared away all the bells and whistles, the drinking and the parties, the nosy journalists and nosier paparazzi-all Jongdae is left with is this: performing. Some people go into a strange adrenaline-induced fugue state when they're on stage, let the minutiae melt into a blurry mess of sight and sound. Jongdae remembers everything: the sticky, sweaty cling of shirt to skin, the echo of his voice booming out over the Staples Center, the way the microphone slides in his slick palm. How his mouth closes around every vowel. He slaps hands with the back-up dancers after his set and jogs off the stage in a cloud of heat, hair hopelessly mussed. The first thing he sees on his phone is a text from Minseok (Awesome perf! ^^) and three missed calls from Lu Han. The voicemail is clearly a buttdial, but Jongdae can hear reverberations of his own voice through the fuzzy feedback. They'd both been watching, then. Something warm settles in his chest.
The costume people change him back into his rumpled suit backstage. Thirty minutes after he left his seat, he's sliding back into it-only this time, Yixing's nowhere to be found. He leans over as Ryan Seacrest comes out to the podium to present the next award, taps the shoulder of the closest person sitting in their area, some teenage kid with a lot of eyeliner caked on. "Hey," he whispers. "Do you happen to know where Yixing went?"
The teenager sends him a nonplussed look. "Yixing Zhang?"
"Yeah, we were sitting together over here-"
Teenager jerks his thumb toward stage left. "He just won a Grammy, dude."
Jongdae barely has the time to process that bit of information before his name is being called, a bastardized pronunciation of JONGDAE KIM ringing out over the polite applause. A perfunctory smile rises on Jongdae's face as he realizes they're announcing him as a nominee for Best Pop Album. There's no time to be nervous. On stage, Ryan Seacrest smiles with teeth and slides the card out of the envelope in his hand. "The Grammy goes to-" he takes a measured breath, here, for effect, "Jongdae Kim, for Best Luck!"
It's the wave of sound that propels him to his feet, ears ringing. He'd just been on this stage not fifteen minutes ago, singing his heart out into a microphone, and now he was accepting a trophy from Ryan fucking Seacrest. His sweat hasn't even dried. Same place, different situation, and Jongdae suddenly finds himself bent over the podium, at a loss for words. If he squints into the audience, he can just make out the bob of Kyungsoo's red cummerbund.
He opens his mouth and begins to speak. It isn't like performing. Afterwards, he doesn't remember anything he says in his speech. When he stumbles off stage and into the back to greet the press, Grammy hanging from his nerveless fingers, he catches the tail end of Yixing's interview. This was always his ballpark. Something about watching him there, fielding questions with calm assurance, seems to draw all of Jongdae's attention. Yixing turns to gaze at him, then. Like dowsing rods orienting themselves in perfect synchrony. His face breaks out into the biggest grin that Jongdae's seen from him all night
"Catch my set?" Jongdae asks casually, hefting his Grammy like a barbell.
"I did," says Yixing.
"What did you think?"
"You were very good," he says, indulgent, eyes so insistent on being part of his smile that they've all but disappeared. "The best."
"Thank you," Jongdae returns, gratified.
A camera goes off right in his face. A reporter pushes forward and asks, "Mr. Kim, how are you feeling now that you've won a Grammy? Do you realize what this means for the Asian American community, not only for musicians but also at large-"
"Hold on," Jongdae interrupts. His free hand comes up to wrap around Yixing's limp wrist, fingers feeling for his pulse. "I'll get to you."
Yixing's mouth opens willingly under his, tongue sliding along Jongdae's bottom lip. Jongdae shuts out the furious snapping of the pap's cameras and focuses instead on tracing the curve of Yixing's megawatt smile. His teeth still taste like mint.
For a moment, Yixing tightens his fingers around Jongdae's lapel. They break apart a minute later, Jongdae sucking in a long breath. Yixing's eyes are dark with promise. Jongdae wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and straightens up. He feels much more like himself. "Alright," he says, propping an elbow on the podium and flashing a grin at the sea of agog reporters. "I'll take questions now."
fin
Pairing: chen/lay
Rating: pg13
Genre: au, slice-of-life
Author: gdgdbaby
Notes: jongdae wins a grammy. when he ducks into the pressroom, yixing is still standing at the podium cradling his. a remix of swabluu's nothing's impossible, written for the 2014 cycle of kpop_ficmix. originally posted here. 2,149 words.
Jongdae nearly knocks himself out tripping over the footstool in his haste to snatch his bowtie off the back of the couch. Yixing stares at him from the hallway, cheek creased with his smile. "You okay?"
"Just fine," Jongdae grumbles. He loops the fabric around his neck and knots it. Starts digging through the pile of clothing on the sofa for sheer socks. Fuck. The last pair he'd seen was in Yixing's dresser, but that was weeks ago. At the time, he'd been a little too preoccupied looking for lube.
"It's your fault for leaving all this till the last minute," Yixing supplies helpfully, leaning his hip against the frame.
"I had no idea hair and make-up would take so long," Jongdae mutters. "Sehun was really thorough." He sticks his hand between two of the couch cushions and finally comes up with one sock. A cotton sock, not a silk one, with a cute soccer ball pattern on it. Jongdae deflates against the sofa, defeated. "Look, it's just an awards show, right? It doesn't matter how I look when I do turn up. If I do turn up."
Yixing cocks his head to the side. "Except it does. And not only because Kyungsoo said he would kill you if you came down the red carpet in a t-shirt and skinny jeans."
"That was one time," Jongdae snaps, tossing his hands in the air. "It was the VMAs! God. I could've worn a pink tutu and people still would've been talking about Lady Gaga's meat dress. Kyungsoo can suck my dick."
Yixing snorts quietly. He steps forward and tugs Jongdae away from the couch. One of his hands comes up from behind his back. "Looking for these?" he says, holding a clean pair of silk socks aloft.
"Give 'em here," Jongdae says. "Why didn't you tell me you had them earlier?" He looks up in a vain attempt to stare at his bangs. "Now my hair's all messed up. Kyungsoo is going to kill me."
Yixing, to his credit, only rolls his eyes. He, of course, looks perfect-Givenchy had sponsored his outfit today, a tailored three-piece suit, all the way down to the sleek leather shoes on his feet. His hair's coiffed up out of his face, the volume perfectly sculpted. He slides his hands in the pockets of his slacks and watches with vague interest as Jongdae hops around trying to pull his socks on while standing up.
He gets half of one onto his left foot and straightens up with a huff-only to be forced back down onto the footstool, tailbone smacking painfully against the hard cushion. "Hey-what are you doing?"
"Calm down," Yixing says, blinking. His hands squeeze Jongdae's shoulders. "I know you're nervous."
Jongdae stiffens. "I'm not-"
"Yes," Yixing interrupts, serene as ever. "You are." His fingers dig into the bunched muscles at the slope of Jongdae's neck, firm and relentless, and Jongdae relaxes despite himself. Yixing smiles again, the crease in his cheek going deep the way Jongdae loves most, laugh lines around his eyes scrunching up. "But you shouldn't be. You're going to be great tonight."
Jongdae's been to so many events like this over the years that it should be old hat by now, but every time feels like the first time: the new car smell of the inside of the limousine, the flashing lights as they pull up to the curb, the roar of the crowd behind the barricades. His first awards show as a contributing artist had been the VMAs two years out of high school, trotted out as one of Kyungsoo's newly minted pop icons. A bunch of One Direction fans had nearly ruptured Jongdae's eardrums during his red carpet walk. He spent the rest of the evening drinking sugary punch, staring at the back of Taylor Swift's head, and tossing crumpled napkin notes into Yixing's lap. The last part had been the night's only saving grace. Jongdae's pretty sure he still has the Pikachu Yixing had doodled stuck in some drawer in their shared apartment.
Across from him in the limousine, Yixing's as calm as a fortress. Jongdae's eyes follow the slope of Yixing's nose down to the soft red of his mouth, the crisp fold of his collar. Not a single hair out of place. Of course. It's only to be expected; Yixing grew up like most Disney Channel actor/singer types, whose parents charted their children's trajectory of success by how many times they appeared in the tabloids every month. Even when all Jongdae did was admire him through a computer screen, Yixing seemed like an anchor in the storm, face schooled into a benign smile. Immaculate poise must be second nature to him already.
Jondae doesn't look away fast enough to avoid Yixing's gaze when he turns his head. "What?" Yixing asks, tongue flicking against his lips.
"I'm just happy you're here with me," Jongdae blurts out. He ducks his head when the corners of Yixing's mouth creep up. "Don't laugh."
"I'm not laughing," Yixing says, and reaches over to grab his hand.
The red carpet is packed when they get there. Someone sticks a microphone in Jongdae's face two seconds after he steps out of the limousine and asks him who he's wearing tonight. "Fuck if I know," he says, staring down at the lapels of his suit, and Yixing's warm chuckle fills his ears.
Somehow they make it past the throng of reporters and into the actual arena. Kyungsoo sees them coming in and waves them over, looking Jongdae up and down with a critical eye. On a good day, Jongdae's agent is easily irritated at best. Right now, dressed in a smart tux with a bright red cummerbund, Jongdae can feel the stress coming off him in waves.
"Satisfied?" Jongdae asks, arms akimbo.
"Good to see you too," Kyungsoo says, rolling his eyes. "Your seats are over here."
Not all of Kyungsoo's clients have arrived, and he can't sit until he's finished his roll call. The rest are no doubt still out on the red carpet, posing for pictures and signing posters for the audience gathered outside. Jongdae pinches the bridge of his nose as he slides into his chair. "I'm getting a headache already," he mutters.
Yixing touches his arm, a steady downward brush that seems to root Jongdae more firmly to the floor. "It'll be fine," he says, soothing. "You'll be fine."
The award that Yixing's up for is pretty big. Grammy for Best Score Soundtrack for Visual Media, to complement the Academy Award for Best Original Score. One of Yixing's director friends, some Hollywood guy who went by the initials WYF, had asked him to write all the music for his latest movie. The film had been a box office success but critically panned. The score, though, garnered a swell of positive response, especially after Pitchfork published a glowing review in the fall. There's a very real chance Yixing will be taking home a trophy. By all rights, he should be the nervous one.
Yixing chuckles when Jongdae tells him so. "I'm not the one performing," he points out. "Come on, I love your pop wonder status." His grin takes on a sharp tinge. "You should be happy. Now I get to be the super embarrassing fanboy."
"I wasn't embarrassing," Jongdae hisses, even as his neck grows hot beneath his collar. He was totally embarrassing.
"You were totally embarrassing," Yixing confirms. The lights in the arena dim, and loud music comes on. Jongdae remembers running his mouth the first time they'd met backstage at a concert, blathering on about the eventuality of their marriage and trying to commit to memory the way the light refracted off Yixing's eyes. Ridiculous. "You're lucky I thought you were cute."
"I'm lucky you didn't file a restraining order," Jongdae mutters.
"That too," Yixing says agreeably. His elbow bumps against Jongdae's. "Hey, I think that's your cue."
Jongdae looks up and squints. Kyungsoo's flapping his hand from a side door, a harried look on his face. There's a bounce in Jongdae's step as he leaps to his feet.
"Break a leg," Yixing mouths. He squeezes Jongdae's knee for good luck.
Jongdae cracks a smile and goes.
After he's cleared away all the bells and whistles, the drinking and the parties, the nosy journalists and nosier paparazzi-all Jongdae is left with is this: performing. Some people go into a strange adrenaline-induced fugue state when they're on stage, let the minutiae melt into a blurry mess of sight and sound. Jongdae remembers everything: the sticky, sweaty cling of shirt to skin, the echo of his voice booming out over the Staples Center, the way the microphone slides in his slick palm. How his mouth closes around every vowel. He slaps hands with the back-up dancers after his set and jogs off the stage in a cloud of heat, hair hopelessly mussed. The first thing he sees on his phone is a text from Minseok (Awesome perf! ^^) and three missed calls from Lu Han. The voicemail is clearly a buttdial, but Jongdae can hear reverberations of his own voice through the fuzzy feedback. They'd both been watching, then. Something warm settles in his chest.
The costume people change him back into his rumpled suit backstage. Thirty minutes after he left his seat, he's sliding back into it-only this time, Yixing's nowhere to be found. He leans over as Ryan Seacrest comes out to the podium to present the next award, taps the shoulder of the closest person sitting in their area, some teenage kid with a lot of eyeliner caked on. "Hey," he whispers. "Do you happen to know where Yixing went?"
The teenager sends him a nonplussed look. "Yixing Zhang?"
"Yeah, we were sitting together over here-"
Teenager jerks his thumb toward stage left. "He just won a Grammy, dude."
Jongdae barely has the time to process that bit of information before his name is being called, a bastardized pronunciation of JONGDAE KIM ringing out over the polite applause. A perfunctory smile rises on Jongdae's face as he realizes they're announcing him as a nominee for Best Pop Album. There's no time to be nervous. On stage, Ryan Seacrest smiles with teeth and slides the card out of the envelope in his hand. "The Grammy goes to-" he takes a measured breath, here, for effect, "Jongdae Kim, for Best Luck!"
It's the wave of sound that propels him to his feet, ears ringing. He'd just been on this stage not fifteen minutes ago, singing his heart out into a microphone, and now he was accepting a trophy from Ryan fucking Seacrest. His sweat hasn't even dried. Same place, different situation, and Jongdae suddenly finds himself bent over the podium, at a loss for words. If he squints into the audience, he can just make out the bob of Kyungsoo's red cummerbund.
He opens his mouth and begins to speak. It isn't like performing. Afterwards, he doesn't remember anything he says in his speech. When he stumbles off stage and into the back to greet the press, Grammy hanging from his nerveless fingers, he catches the tail end of Yixing's interview. This was always his ballpark. Something about watching him there, fielding questions with calm assurance, seems to draw all of Jongdae's attention. Yixing turns to gaze at him, then. Like dowsing rods orienting themselves in perfect synchrony. His face breaks out into the biggest grin that Jongdae's seen from him all night
"Catch my set?" Jongdae asks casually, hefting his Grammy like a barbell.
"I did," says Yixing.
"What did you think?"
"You were very good," he says, indulgent, eyes so insistent on being part of his smile that they've all but disappeared. "The best."
"Thank you," Jongdae returns, gratified.
A camera goes off right in his face. A reporter pushes forward and asks, "Mr. Kim, how are you feeling now that you've won a Grammy? Do you realize what this means for the Asian American community, not only for musicians but also at large-"
"Hold on," Jongdae interrupts. His free hand comes up to wrap around Yixing's limp wrist, fingers feeling for his pulse. "I'll get to you."
Yixing's mouth opens willingly under his, tongue sliding along Jongdae's bottom lip. Jongdae shuts out the furious snapping of the pap's cameras and focuses instead on tracing the curve of Yixing's megawatt smile. His teeth still taste like mint.
For a moment, Yixing tightens his fingers around Jongdae's lapel. They break apart a minute later, Jongdae sucking in a long breath. Yixing's eyes are dark with promise. Jongdae wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and straightens up. He feels much more like himself. "Alright," he says, propping an elbow on the podium and flashing a grin at the sea of agog reporters. "I'll take questions now."
fin