2。{ 080313 } | [ silence. ] exo
2。| [ prompt: silent. ] exo
➡ pg // tao-centric. (slight tao/lu han & tao/exo-m.) 699 words.
for his group mates, for his family, he doesn't need words. (aka, when will olivia remember to capitalize her letters)
2。TWO; silence.
zitao likes his quiet. if there's anything he's learned over the years, it's the value of silence. he likes music, likes the voices of his group mates (family, he calls them now. because that's what they are. family.) loves the croon of his mother's singing & the bustle of the country with the language that rolls off his tongue in strange syllables, foreign on his tongue. but sometimes he likes to get away from chanyeol's booming baritone & lu han's hysterical laugh & jongdae's loud jokes, likes to go where the only sound is his breathing & the pounding of his feet against pavement or grass or sand. he hasn't walked on sand in a long time. (he tries not to think about what that means.) the quiet is his sanctuary, the eye of a storm that rages on, always without care. zitao has never really been into escapism, has always treasured his hometown & his family, but he admits, sometimes, that the idea of getting away-from here, from the suffocating pressures of a poisonous & cutthroat business-is very attractive. that taking a break is good-nice, even. & the warmth of lu han next to him is comforting. (not that, you know, he'll admit it. because lu han will tease him about it for who knows how long, that damn crazy frog-)
the hard thing about being an idol (other than, you know, the grueling hours & the sasaengs & the non-stop travel &- well, he could go on) is that you have to, you know, talk. be charming, charismatic, kind, winning, whatever. & on shows-well. it's times like this that zitao wishes he was as eloquent as yixing, who chooses his words as carefully as a surgeon with his scalpel, words that drag across his skin, cut to the quick & induce emotion like a drug injected into his veins. in a way, zitao thinks lazily, yixing's presence, his words, can be a drug. comforting, soothing the hurt & the pain when he lifts zitao on his back to take him to the hospital, or just as quickly inflaming him, teasing & light & playful when he talks about zitao's interesting habits on shows. zitao is better than lu han when it comes to words, but, then again, lu han & eloquence go together like kris & artistic talent go together, which is to say that they do not. sometimes, zitao thinks, words are too hard. talking is too hard. the meaning of words he wants to get across are too hard. why can't i walk on the beach by myself, he asks when the happy camp hosts ask him what one person he'd take with him to the beach. why can't i take them all with me, he means. there are things i can't tell you yet, but you mean a lot to me, he says to the fans. i am not perfect, he means. but i love you all for appreciating me, flaws & all.
he rises every morning with hopes locked tight in his heart, dreams weaved across his knuckles like the threads of the clothes his grandmother used to sew for him, back in qingdao. he thinks about being on stage, the pump of bass that aligns with his heartbeat, the scream of fans echoing across stadiums, the static whisper of stage crew over his headset like a cool breeze on his sweaty skin like the beam of cameras & led lights. about the time, the sacrifice it took him to come here, about the siren's call of the sea of his home. when the host asks him about his dreams, he stutters & then purses his lips, smiles shyly. silence, his grandfather once told him, can speak louder than words. he knows the value of the soft smiles lu han passes to him across the table whether they're eating in the dorm or acting as idols on tv. he understands the glances kris sends him, the lingering touches across his arm, back, neck. he knows the value of the comforting arm yixing drapes around his waist, the punches on his arm from jongdae, the hugs from minseok. lu han reaches over to squeeze his hand lightly, & zitao understands.
for his group mates, for his family, he doesn't need words.
➡ pg // tao-centric. (slight tao/lu han & tao/exo-m.) 699 words.
for his group mates, for his family, he doesn't need words. (aka, when will olivia remember to capitalize her letters)
2。TWO; silence.
zitao likes his quiet. if there's anything he's learned over the years, it's the value of silence. he likes music, likes the voices of his group mates (family, he calls them now. because that's what they are. family.) loves the croon of his mother's singing & the bustle of the country with the language that rolls off his tongue in strange syllables, foreign on his tongue. but sometimes he likes to get away from chanyeol's booming baritone & lu han's hysterical laugh & jongdae's loud jokes, likes to go where the only sound is his breathing & the pounding of his feet against pavement or grass or sand. he hasn't walked on sand in a long time. (he tries not to think about what that means.) the quiet is his sanctuary, the eye of a storm that rages on, always without care. zitao has never really been into escapism, has always treasured his hometown & his family, but he admits, sometimes, that the idea of getting away-from here, from the suffocating pressures of a poisonous & cutthroat business-is very attractive. that taking a break is good-nice, even. & the warmth of lu han next to him is comforting. (not that, you know, he'll admit it. because lu han will tease him about it for who knows how long, that damn crazy frog-)
the hard thing about being an idol (other than, you know, the grueling hours & the sasaengs & the non-stop travel &- well, he could go on) is that you have to, you know, talk. be charming, charismatic, kind, winning, whatever. & on shows-well. it's times like this that zitao wishes he was as eloquent as yixing, who chooses his words as carefully as a surgeon with his scalpel, words that drag across his skin, cut to the quick & induce emotion like a drug injected into his veins. in a way, zitao thinks lazily, yixing's presence, his words, can be a drug. comforting, soothing the hurt & the pain when he lifts zitao on his back to take him to the hospital, or just as quickly inflaming him, teasing & light & playful when he talks about zitao's interesting habits on shows. zitao is better than lu han when it comes to words, but, then again, lu han & eloquence go together like kris & artistic talent go together, which is to say that they do not. sometimes, zitao thinks, words are too hard. talking is too hard. the meaning of words he wants to get across are too hard. why can't i walk on the beach by myself, he asks when the happy camp hosts ask him what one person he'd take with him to the beach. why can't i take them all with me, he means. there are things i can't tell you yet, but you mean a lot to me, he says to the fans. i am not perfect, he means. but i love you all for appreciating me, flaws & all.
he rises every morning with hopes locked tight in his heart, dreams weaved across his knuckles like the threads of the clothes his grandmother used to sew for him, back in qingdao. he thinks about being on stage, the pump of bass that aligns with his heartbeat, the scream of fans echoing across stadiums, the static whisper of stage crew over his headset like a cool breeze on his sweaty skin like the beam of cameras & led lights. about the time, the sacrifice it took him to come here, about the siren's call of the sea of his home. when the host asks him about his dreams, he stutters & then purses his lips, smiles shyly. silence, his grandfather once told him, can speak louder than words. he knows the value of the soft smiles lu han passes to him across the table whether they're eating in the dorm or acting as idols on tv. he understands the glances kris sends him, the lingering touches across his arm, back, neck. he knows the value of the comforting arm yixing drapes around his waist, the punches on his arm from jongdae, the hugs from minseok. lu han reaches over to squeeze his hand lightly, & zitao understands.
for his group mates, for his family, he doesn't need words.