diluculum
exo ; luhan/lay ; pg-13 ; ~7,200 words. ; written for sncj-reverse big bang.
Beijing definitely isn't what Yixing is expecting. It's different, from it's paced city streets and rushed humdrum. He has never seen so many people in one place, all passing by each other like ghosts - like shadows, unaware of another's presence in the street. Beijing is loud and raucous at times and soft, easy, in others. It's like the city is literally alive, and holds its' breath with every step he takes.
Yixing isn't used to places like Beijing, so different from his home. Changsha is like a little slice of cake, sweet and fulfilling, and yet if you didn't have enough you craved more - and when you did fill yourself enough, sometimes you didn't want to look at it ever again. But then the next day, of course, you'd want it all over. Changsha is his home, comprised of summery nights and matching footsteps, his father's study room door locked shut and his own aspirations kept secret.
In the daytime, Beijing is a scoreboard of buildings and cars and lights, coffee shops and restaurants piled one on top of another. Yixing walked through the streets, backpack on one shoulder and guitar case slung over another, with his mouth half open and his heart worn on his sleeve. Everything is new, wonderful, different; people spoke a different language almost, slurred their words and stretched the ends until it become a long daze. Strokes of sloppy Chinese paints walls, sides of alleys and railings, messages of hope and messages of despair once held in the hands of a person, breathing, on a silver-sunshine sort of day. Yixing runs his fingers over them, wishing that his skin could soak up ink, wishing that he could forever print them in his mind.
It isn't like he had come unprepared. Yixing took his little belongings and then took all that mattered to him and stuffed it in his bag, left the rest to be committed to memory. All that waited for him in Beijing is a promise of a meet-up of who would be his future roommate and a whole lot of dreams, scattered across the pavement, but it doesn't mean that Yixing is any less willing to try.
On the small slip of paper that contained his own scrawled writing, it said, "Starbucks on the south side of Qianhai Lake. Kris Wu. number: xxx-xxx-xxxx for any questions." It had been the exact same thing that Kris had sent him in an email.
The Starbucks that's on the south side of Qianhai Lake is exactly how Yixing had pictured it; a small-ish store with green folds to keep away the sun, the slowly-spreading logo of Starbucks plastered across the glass window. There were a few patio chairs and tables left outside for people to sit on and linger, stare at the glittering blue water and chat mindlessly.
Yixing doesn't know what to do from there. It occurred to him that this isn't probably the best idea; to go and ask if a boarding room was free from a complete stranger that agreed and gave him their address willingly sounded sort of stupid when he thought it over. Really stupid. What if the guy is really a forty eight year old geezer who's obsessed with dolls or something? Or a mass murderer in the disguise of a university student? (Absentmindedly, he chastised himself for that. There was no mention of chain murders that he checked online in Beijing papers.)
A giant of a guy, probably about more centimetres than Yixing can count, stands up and meets his eyes. He's handsome, Yixing supposes, with that sort of scruffy cleanliness that one doesn't really know how to explain. The most remarkable thing about him had to be his hair, which is a dirty golden blonde, dark right at the roots.
"Guy with the guitar," he calls out lazily. "Over here."
"Kris Wu?" Yixing concludes that he doesn't look like a mass murderer. Definitely not a forty eight year old. Thank god the personal information was true, then. (But knowing Yixing's luck, there's going to be something remotely wrong with the guy.)
"Same one. Zhang Yixing, right?" Kris stands up and holds out a professional hand, face expectant. Yixing shakes it timidly, almost unsure of what he's supposed to do. Kris takes it in stride. "Thanks for dealing with the impromptu meeting."
"No problem," Yixing replies. "I'm the one that's troubling you."
Kris stares at him for a second. It's enough to make Yixing feel uncomfortable, but not so much. "I probably won't be around that much so most of the flat will be free. As long as you pay the rent we'll have no trouble. I'll deal with stray family members, animals, even the occasional affair knocking on the door, but nothing too serious or I'll find another roommate." He slides an envelope across the table. "Here's the calculations for on average what the bills and rent are. There's a key inside and the address of the place." Kris stands up, and Yixing finally notices that he's dressed nicer than just a casual meeting. "My time here is over, unfortunately, so I'll see you later."
"Just like that?" Yixing feels a little lost, left behind in the dust as the conversation runs on without him.
Kris smooths down the lapels of his coat. He has this sort of no nonsense face that makes Yixing wonder if he's ever cracked a smile in his life. Kris is as stiff as a board and as tall as one too, which becomes even more evident when he pushes his shoulders back and gives Yixing a stare that he can't quite comprehend.
"You don't know that much about Beijing, do you?" Kris asks rhetorically. "There's no time to wait here. I'll see you later, Zhang Yixing." Kris nods his way in a polite way and then takes off, his phone halfway to his ear. Upon watching him leave, Yixing realizes that he was right about something being wrong with his roommate; Kris is a sandstorm, fast enough to make Yixing blink and wonder if he was ever there at all.
/
He spends most of his day with papers stuffed in his pocket. They're not just the address of his new home, but filled with receipts of market vendors and suggestions from some of the locals (that actually stopped their grumbling to fulfill his starry-eyed requests) of where to go for food, entertainment; what places to stay away from, what places to keep an eye out for. Yixing jots them down in his notebook as each page is ripped out and stuffed in his pocket so he doesn't forget. Yixing promises to himself that he'll fill up a new notebook later with songs inspired by the city and it's click-clack of heels against pavement and starless sky, but somewhere inside him he knows that the real notes will be jotted down on the back of napkins, on his palm, on the sleeve of his shirt or already written on his fingers, pressed against the styrofoam of a coffee cup.
By the time it gets dark Yixing has just enough to grab a taxi and go home, but instead as the sun starts to dip over the horizon he picks this little place in between a newspaper stand and the traffic light, sets his things down so that they're crowded around his legs, and brings out his guitar.
First strum, first note, and Yixing thinks that he's already in heaven.
Kris isn't home when Yixing gets to his new flat, which is fine with him. He's still high on happiness and song, stuck in his throat like a bad cough that he doesn't want to get rid of. The place is sort of nice, he supposes, with it's cream-coloured walls and tastefully decorated furniture. Yixing is glad that he had enough thought to plan everything out for months - years - before he had made the decision to disappear from his family. Without it, he would be lost in such a spindling city.
Quietly, Yixing opens the door past the hallway that has a side table waiting outside the edge, his name on a single standing paper sitting on it. His room is nice and sparse as well, with a queen-sized bed that smells of lavender and sheer white curtains, a carpet, a desk, a bookshelf, and a drawer. It's almost like he's in college, Yixing laughs, and sets his things down beside his bedside. He dumps his papers on top of the desk, which all clutter around in one big cloud. Then, with the envelope that Kris gave him, Yixing makes a little paper box - stores the yuan and coins he collected from performing in the street.
It doesn't take him long to fall asleep - he's waited for this all his life. Dreams cover him like a warm blanket, and there's a smile fixed permanently on his face even after he's long gone.
/
Yixing wakes up in a different place than usual - with something settling heavily on his mind, sort of like a layer as he brushes off the last nodes of sleep. It takes a while for Yixing to realize where he is; in Beijing, away from Changsha. Away from home. But in a place where, like the walls around him, everything is a clean slate - ready for him to paint on.
He has no idea for a second what to do. It's that slow pang that you get when you're not sure of what exactly you're doing but you do it anyway because hey - maybe you can figure it out that way. Yixing puts on jeans and a t-shirt from his backpack of little possessions, folds his clothes into the dresser and sets the rest of his material stuff around the room, and then sits on the mattress and wonder if he should start writing or something.
But he doesn't feel like writing, but rather exploring. So much to do and it all takes him by the edge of his seat. Yixing doesn't want to get up yet.
He takes a few of those papers he wrote on yesterday and stuffs them in his pocket, gives himself a quick once-over and leaves his guitar lying against the bed. Maybe when he came back, he could pick it up and just begin to strum, the words coming to him on their own. Maybe. Maybe he just wants to feel like he's got control of his own life for once (and maybe even forever more).
Beijing welcomes him again, pushes him towards the current and he doesn't fight it. Yixing feels strangely enlightened, as if someone's pushing him from behind to do everything - look at all the stops, listen to all the chatter skimming underneath the surface of his ear.
He goes places. Coffee shops, pet stores, CD stores. Bakeries, shoe shops, fish markets. It's like he's trying to plan out a map all in his head, dot down the locations, make it his future. Make it his present.
It's nearing three in the afternoon when he takes a break and goes to a small cafe on the corner of the street, at an intersection. It's not on his list, but hey - he can make his own memorable spot. It's this little drone of a cafe, with cutely printed words and a bright colour scheme of beige, brown, light pink, blue, reds and greens. Once he enters he sees that it's one of those themed places; there are pictures of animals on the wall, with bendy straws in milkshakes and pattern printed tablecloths.
Yixing stops short for a second; no one turns to look at him; there's a mom with her kid on one table, reading a newspaper while the little boy is eating a sandwich, and there's also a college student typing away furiously at her laptop. Other than that, it's pretty empty, save for the quiet tinkling music that comes out of nowhere. He considers leaving for a second, but a server comes up to him, pen in his hair, a dishrag slung over one shoulder and tray in one hand, and says, "You sitting, or?"
"Um," Yixing glances at the table and decides that it's actually kind of cute, and he needed something anyway in his stomach before touring again. "Yeah, sure."
The server nods. "Alright, I'll send someone over." And he walks away. Yixing blinks for a second, perturbed, but takes a seat nearby and checks his wallet inconspicuously, hoping that there's enough yuan there from the morning to get him something substantial. Thankfully, according to the laminated mat-menu combo, the stuff is pretty cheap.
Not even five minutes later (well, he supposes it makes sense - business does look slow) a blonde haired guy (guy?) comes over. a bored expression painted across his face. Yixing thinks that he looks kind of good, with his almond-shaped eyes and mussed hair. It's only on second glance does Yixing notice that the waiter has a reindeer headband on his head, complete with the horns and everything. He's sure that he just stares for the longest time before the waiter snaps. "You gonna stare or order something?"
"Um," Yixing looks down quickly at his menu. "I'll take the black tea and a plate of egg rolls."
Blondie's eyebrows almost reach his hairline. "That's it?"
Yixing nods. "Pretty much." He's actually rather hungry, but Yixing knows it's the kind of wanderlust hunger that's eating at him rather than the type that can be satisfied with food. Blondie shrugs and doesn't even bother to write it down, instead turning around and walking back behind the counter, Yixing's eyes unwillingly following the drag in his step.
Briefly, his mind turns to his money problems. Although he has enough to pay his share of the bills and rent saved up in his bank account, Yixing knows that he needed to find a job quickly. And opportunities. He wants to be discovered, to be heard, and no one would know who he is if he's wasting away inside a room or a ramen shop.
His thoughts are interrupted as Blondie returned, this time with a plate of egg rolls and a cup of steaming black liquid just as promised. Yixing's only interested in the food at first, and doesn't wait to blow them off before he pops a roll in his mouth, but Blondie seats himself across from Yixing and rests his head on a propped up arm, still looking as bored as ever.
Yixing, a bit uncomfortable and awkward with people in general, pauses.
"Oh, don't stop on my account," Blondie motions with a flick of his hand, "Go on. Hope you don't mind company, though; business is slow and I'd be here than listen to Tao go on and on about how his life sucks."
Yixing blinks. "I guess it's fine."
Blondie smirks as Yixing takes a bite of his food, suddenly not that eager to finish it all at once. He eats slowly, thinking of the suddenly awkward silence that befalls over his head, when Blondie sighs and leans back. "You're new, aren't you?"
"Excuse me?"
"To Beijing," he clarifies. "You're definitely not a tourist. Or else you'd be in and out in a snap, fawning over all the crappy shit on the street. So either you've got amnesia or something or you're new to the city. You wouldn't look like such a fucking lost puppy otherwise."
Yixing almost chokes on his food. He certainly doesn't expect Blondie to speak crudely, yet here he is, spouting out foul words from a pretty mouth. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he supposed that everyone spoke like Kris; cool and slick, fast paced like the speed of light.
"Yeah," he swallows thickly. "Uh, yeah, I am."
Blondie grins, and his teeth are perfectly white and even. "So what's a handsome guy like you doing in a crappy city like this?"
"I don't think it's crappy," Yixing murmurs under his breath, surprised.
"Oh, everyone who lives here thinks it's crappy alright. Because it is." Blondie shrugs. "You don't see the shitty stuff that goes on, but plenty of us do. Mostly because no one outside who absolutely have to spend their time here give a damn long enough to open their eyes." He cocks his head, and the reindeer headband shifts. "You didn't answer my question, by the way."
"I'm here because I want to be."
Blondie chuckles. "Nice answer. Not a good reason why." He taps his fingers on the desk, a slow pattern with every tap on the table, steady like his heartbeat. "My name is Luhan."
"Luhan," Yixing repeats the name and it rolls easily off his tongue. "Just Luhan?" He glances up at the reindeer headband and cracks a smile, which doesn't escape Blondie - Luhan's notice.
"Yeah yeah, laugh if you want. But this here is a part of my uniform, and if I don't want to get yelled at by my boss, I have to stick with it." He sounds just slightly bitter, but more amused than anything, really.
"I wasn't going to laugh," Yixing says, but the smile is still on his face. There are only four egg rolls left on his plate, and his tea looks like it's starting to get cold, so he takes a sip of that too. Blondie's - Luhan's - eyes follow his movement, ceramic touching his lips and then hot liquid seeping down his throat. Yixing feels warmer already.
"So what about you?" Blondie leans forward and looks interested in whatever Yixing is doing. "I told you my name, I don't want to have to call you Stranger in my head forever."
Yixing snorts for a second, then says in a split second decision, "Lay. My name is Lay." He doesn't say that he calls Luhan Blondie in his head - mostly because it just fits so well. A blonde stranger, with mischievously dark eyes, fingers tapping out a rhythm on the marble.
"Just Lay, huh?" Blondie - Lu - alright he's going to be Blondie from now on. Blondie repeats his own words back at him with a smile. "Alright, Lay. You should eat before your food gets cold. I have a bill to collect after all."
Yixing raises an eyebrow and without thinking, replies, "I should be able to stay here for as long as I want, shouldn't I, Blondie?"
"Blondie?" Luhan's scoffs, but he looks more taken aback than anything. Yixing realizes that he's caught Luhan off guard. "Rude much, Stranger?"
Yixing shrugs. He nods his head toward Luhan's mop of blonde locks. "If the shoe fits. Besides, we're not exactly strangers anymore."
"Hmm, you're right. We're on a name-knowing basis. Damn, I need a snappy nickname." Luhan leans back and Yixing finds that he's actually enjoying their conversation, waiting for the strange waiter to come up with a new nickname for him. "You know what, I've got nothing. Fuck, where did my wit go?"
"You have wit?"
"Oh, Egg Roll has a sense of humour, does he? Ah, there it is! Egg Roll. Lay, you are Egg Roll from now on. Though Lay isn't probably your real name, am I right?" Yixing opens his mouth to answer, but Luhan stops him before he can. "Nah, that's alright. I get it, not wanting to let other people know you as you really are."
Yixing is sort of offset by the sudden use of informal speak (though Luhan doesn't seem like one to use it for anyone anyway) and the flippant insight, but manages to squeak out, "Egg Roll still isn't as good as Blondie, though."
"It so is."
"Isn't."
Luhan, in response, scrunches up his nose and points toward the food. "Just finish it, asshole."
And Yixing, even though he probably should be insulted, isn't. And ends up paying for another dish. And another. By the time he leaves, he knows more about Luhan than he does about the city itself and he has to walk back to the flat.
/
The next morning he finds himself doing the same thing as yesterday; leaving his guitar behind, taking another piece of paper for his "to-go-to" list today, and a quick check of his phone - which he's been trying to avoid. Which worked fine until a few seconds ago.
Ten missed calls. Twelve unanswered texts. Six voice messages. Yixing stares at them for a second, just looking at the numbers and words printed cleanly across the crisp screen, then presses delete all.
Kris still isn't anywhere to be seen. Yixing feels sort of bad - he should try, at least, to be friendly with his roommate, right? But he can't do that when said roommate is nowhere to be seen. And Yixing's got enough sense of personal space then to knock of Kris's door and introduce himself better (though, he supposes Kris would treat it just like their first meeting) and besides, when the time comes, it'll come, right?
What he's more worried about is finding a job. It may have hit him a little late, but he realizes that if he wants to keep it up with his existence in Beijing, he needs money - more money than he has as of current, to support himself. And his blooming dream. Can't forget that. (Plus food. He checked the fridge and there was - surprisingly - nothing there. You'd think a spic-and-span guy like Kris would keep some, but - )
Yixing doubts that there'll be any open spots for jobs today, but as he walks out into the crowd again, he at least attempts to look for 'help wanted' signs or anything that might hint that extra employees would be helpful.
But, as he's slowly learning, Beijing is a city that's filled to the brim, and it's hard to find a decent place where it isn't the same. Spots are taken and then added when those poor souls - more worse off than him - beg with their hollow eyes, for a chance to work, eat, live - so Yixing backs off and slowly exits, like he's never been there at all.
It's nearly six in the evening when he decides to take a break and rest for a while. It's been on his mind for the last hour and a half, but Yixing's feet walk to the same cafe as yesterday - still lit up like yesterday, with a soft, almost nostalgic vibe as he enters. No one comes to him immediately, so Yixing takes a seat in the same spot as he did before, and in an effort not to look like a total idiot, checks his phone again - messages, calls, unanswered. One from a friend back home. One from an ex-girlfriend. One from a study buddy -
"Oh, Egg Roll! Are you going to become a regular?"
Luhan, with his apathetic smile and jingling reindeer headband, gives Yixing an appreciative look. "If you are, then I expect extra pay. I don't do regulars."
Yixing smiles out of his own accord. "Guess I won't be a regular then. Can't afford such expensive prices."
Luhan's eyes widen comically for a second before he looks around. "Er, listen. Don't tell my boss that, okay?"
"Afraid you'll get fired?"
"No. Afraid he'll figure out that his only regular customer is an asshole."
A laugh. "It's not a regular customer unless they come in for more than one week. Or is it different here?" It seemed as though everything is different here, from the way people walk to the way people talk to the way the language is written, all a mess of foreign familiarity.
"A regular customer is a regular customer when I say they are," Luhan tells him. "Do you want the same thing as yesterday?" When Yixing nods absentmindedly, Luhan continues, "Well there you go. You're a regular customer. No one orders the same thing twice two days in a row. There'll be a third day, a fourth, and so on."
"How do you know?" Yixing thinks that Luhan is pretty sure of everything - especially that his own opinions include everyone.
Luhan shrugs. "It's just not how people work. You're thinking of changing it right now, probably planning to come back tomorrow and ordering our soup or whatever. But thing is, if I never told you, you'd probably come every day and order the same thing, Egg Roll. Not necessarily at the same times, but still."
"You sure think highly of this place, don't you?"
"Please, it's the people in it that's the real magic." Yixing snorts as Luhan gives him a cheeky grin. "Now, what do you want? My legs are falling asleep."
"Your fault for talking too long," the musician hums. "Just water is fine."
Luhan's face falls to unimpressed in a blink of an eye. "Seriously? Just water? I give you that fucking speech and all you ask for is water?" Yixing wants to sort of say that he should probably start cutting down on the outside food due to funds and other fun things, but Luhan walks off behind the counter and Yixing feels just the tiniest bit guilty, though he's not sure why.
He redirects his attention back to his phone, and wonders if he should find an internet cafe to look up some jobs. Also absentmindedly, he wonders about Kris's job - the flat is nice and lavish, and last time he saw his roommate, he was donned in an expensive looking suit, thinking back on it. Yixing sighs and broods for a second, wondering if the happiness high has worn off yet.
His thoughts are interrupted as a plate noisily clatters on his table, followed by a mug of something steaming. Yixing looks up, surprised, as Luhan sits himself on the opposite side of the table again.
"I didn't ask for this. I'm not going to pay for it."
Luhan snorts. "Of course you won't, cheap ass. It's on the house. This place would get a bad rep if someone saw that you were just drinking water. I mean, come on."
There's a plate of egg rolls which makes Yixing want to laugh (sort of) and the mug is what he recognizes as the same type of tea from yesterday, black and strong just how he likes it. He thinks that Luhan's just actually the really caring type on the inside, but not one to admit it. Slowly, he takes a bite of the food as Luhan watches, seemingly uninterested, but Yixing thinks that he knows better.
"So, what's your problem?" Luhan says, stretching the strings of his apron so that they thin out and become longer. When Yixing gives him a questioning look, Luhan shrugs. "I mean, you've got this whole kicked kitten feel about you. Like you're waiting for someone to fix your problems."
Yixing sighs. "If only."
Luhan hums, a sweet little tune that doesn't take much breath. Yixing blinks, surprised at the pleasant tone, but Luhan speaks before he can hear more of it. "So what? Broke up with your girlfriend? Someone die? Lost your wallet? Actually the third one is a good guess, it would explain your lousy order."
Yixing sighs and his eyes follow the curve of light on Luhan's hair, turning his flat blonde into an almost pearlesque gold. The sun is setting outside and he feels like he should leave, as it's almost night time soon, but then he realizes that no one is in charge of him now - not his mother, not his father, not the burden of their expectations tied at his throat. He can do what he want, make the choices that he's always wanted to. And while it makes him happy to know that, it makes his sort of scared too.
There's nothing stopping him from telling Luhan, so he does. "I need a job. And I can't find one."
"That's it?" Luhan snorts, sitting up straight. "That's all? Seriously now, Egg Roll. It took me a month to find this job. I lived off ramen and soup from the nearest church. Fuck, I'm not even Christian or whatever. Don't get all sad just because you haven't found a source of income yet; there's a ton of other people who're searching like hawks throughout the day. You don't deserve to be sad."
Yixing doesn't really know how to respond to that, so instead he says, "You'd know, huh?"
Luhan's face softens. "Damn right I do."
"But I have a place to go," Yixing pipes up suddenly, his food forgotten. His appetite disappears as he remembers his dream, remembers the feeling of singing on stage, remembers the a spotlight saved just for him. "I have this ambition, this dream that I have to reach. And I want it so much. I'd do anything to get there, take any risk." He stares at his lined palms, which once strummed against the strings of a guitar, pressed on the black and white keys of a piano. Made music that sung from underneath his skin, was created with the very core of his soul.
And Luhan, Luhan with his golden hair and soft eyes, just says, "Don't we all."
/
Yixing visits everyday. It doesn't matter when or how, he just visits. Maybe most of the time he doesn't order anything - at first it was a bit awkward, but now Luhan doesn't even need to come to his table before going to the kitchen to get a plate of egg rolls and some tea. And most of the time, Luhan's the one eating the whole plate anyways. Yixing doesn't mind much - he's only here for the magic.
He counts the days, the memories. Writes them down in his little black book of supposed-to-be-music-lyrics. It's been about three weeks and four days since he came to Beijing, a total whopping of one hundred and twenty one calls and forty text messages from his family, fifteen half-finished songs written down on napkins or his shirt sleeve or on his wrist.
August twenty fourth. Yixing got his first job; a waiter in a classy sort of restaurant, wearing a white short-sleeved t-shirt and suspenders, comes home with windblown hair and free food, sometimes gets to sing there when the usual act doesn't show up and he gets extra pay. It's perfect, sort of, and he wonders how he ever managed to find it.
"It happens after a while," Luhan shrugs when Yixing tells him about his job after his shift ends. They're standing outside the cafe, encompassed in their own little bubble, Luhan leaning back against the cafe's window and sipping a bubble tea. "You search and you search and you search. You work in a laundromat or a crappy bar and you think, "fuck this I'm getting another job" and suddenly there's this great opportunity that pops up. And you don't ever want to let it go." Sip. Sigh. "Beijing's like that. It knows you inside out." It's alive that way, is what he doesn't say, but Yixing feels like he's getting the hang of it by now.
No one seems to notice them. Yixing can stand outside in his dirty clothes, grease stained on his cuffs, suspenders slightly off, and no one will say a thing. Luhan can put on sunglasses or wear rainboots and fix the reindeer headband on his head, but no one will say anything different. One time, Yixing had put on one of their uniforms - just to see how it would feel like - and placed a unicorn's headband on his. Luhan had laughed about it all day, called him 'Egg Roll' nonstop, and even offered to give him his bubble tea once because he looked so pitiful. And Yixing - well, Yixing often wonders what it would be like to kiss that smile all day.
Luhan wipes the tables as Yixing lays back and strums his guitar, brought along with him when their entertainment cancelled out on them. The place is quiet and small and cosy, sort of empty. It's like their own personal little bubble against everyone else - sure, there are other people that work there, come in and out, but Yixing only ever sees Luhan.
"Want to go out one day?" he asks out of the blue, while Luhan is polishing salt shakers and rearranging them into neat little diamonds.
"What's that?" he mumbles back, distracted, antlers shaking.
"Let's go out."
"On a date?"
"If you want it to be."
That's when Luhan's eyes flicker up to him. Yixing hopes that he doesn't look too anxious. It's been on his mind for a while to ask - Luhan's hands cup around this little flame of warmth around him, somehow presses his fingers right against his heart and slows down it's beating until Yixing can't hear it anymore. Makes him sleepy, makes him dazed, makes him feel like he's floating somewhere up high and he never wants to get down.
But now it feels like his feet are strangely rooted to the ground, and the earth is shaking underneath his feet.
Luhan's eyes curve down into half-moon spirals, and Yixing can hear the pit-pat of raindrops on the window sill. He walks over, kneels down in front of Yixing until they're staring face to face, and suddenly Yixing can see the flecks of brown in his eyes, the lines of his nose, lips, cheekbones, face.
"Yixing," he says softly, and Yixing doesn't remember ever telling Luhan his name. "What do you know about me?"
It's an odd question, but he answers it anyway. "Your name is Luhan. You work in a cafe that makes you wear a deer hat on your head. You call me Egg Roll. I think I might love you."
Luhan makes a sort of choked sound. "You don't. No - no, Egg - Lay - you don't."
"How do you know?" Yixing shoots back, mood slowly worsening. "You can't tell me what I feel. You don't control that part of me." And Yixing, who has been controlled all his life, doesn't want to be controlled anymore. He's pretty sure for what he feels, for the little glow inside his chest - he's pretty sure that he doesn't care about anything else except for I think I might love you.
The blonde waiter, however, looks struck, and Yixing would laugh - laugh because he's never seen Luhan look his way, especially with antlers on his head - but laughing doesn't seem like such a good idea at the moment when he feels like he's going to throw up.
"You can't." he echoes emptily. "You can't. Wake up, Yixing."
"Blondie." No answer. "Luhan." No answer. Luhan stares him in the eye and refuses to look away, but Yixing sees the tightly drawn corner of his mouth, his pale face. He almost looks...scared. And then Yixing sets down his guitar beside him and presses his forehead toward Luhan's, sees the way that the other's breath fans across his face. Luhan's hands, on his knees, tighten, and Yixing takes this as an incentive to continue.
"I think I might love you," he repeats, "And you're not going to be the one to tell me otherwise." Yixing reaches up to cup Luhan's face and says, "Stop me, if you really want to."
"Your dream," Luhan manages to mumble out before Yixing presses their mouths together.
And - y'know - it's sort of wonderful.
Yixing doesn't know how to explain it. Luhan's soft and warm and tastes like cotton candy. Bright city lights explode behind his eyelids and it's slow and soft, warm piano music and guitars with too-taut strings, coffee slipping down your throat. Luhan doesn't do anything for a while. Yixing doesn't expect him to.
And then Luhan suddenly hangs on to him like they're drowning men, pressing his lips farther against Yixing's, entwining his fingers through his hair. Luhan, Luhan tastes like sunshine and happiness and sleep, drowsy days and Yixing's exhaled breath pressed against his lips.
And then, when Luhan pulls back, his eyes are just slightly regretful - slightly, but most of it still twinkles. Like little stars, mischievously chasing after one another. And he speaks, hoarse and raw. "Wake up, Yixing. Wake up."
"Luhan - "
"Wake up." He presses his forehead against Yixing's again, and for a second, Yixing thinks that they'll kiss again. He remembers sparks. "Down the street is an audition for one of those big-ass entertainment companies," he starts, and Yixing blinks; what does that have to do with anything? "I should've told you so long ago, pushed you to go there, forced you to sign up."
"What are you - "
"God, I'm so fucking stupid. I'm selfish, Yixing. I'm so fucking selfish. And this wasn't supposed to happen." Luhan looks so frightened, so scared, and Yixing wants to help - he really does, but his head feels fuzzy and messed up. Colours blur and swirl. "What?"
"I'm sorry," he hears the other say remorsefully, sweet breath fanned across his face. "I'm sorry. Wake up."
"What are you talking about, Blondie - "
"I was supposed to help you. I was supposed to lead you to your dream."
Yixing blinks, but everything falls past his feet, his ears, and his mind - things start breaking, falling, dropping. He can't breathe.
Luhan laughs, and it's sadder than anything Yixing's ever heard. "Wake up."
/
" - wake up!"
Yixing coughs and splutters and cracks his eyes open, feels the wind knocking around in his lungs. He turns to see Kris standing beside him, wearing a suit and already pressed clean, ready for the day. He looks indifferent but slightly displeased, with Yixing doesn't get until the other hands him his phone, which rings shrilly in his ear.
"It's been going on for a minute or so," Kris informs him dispassionately. "I don't know what - "
"I'm sorry," Yixing breathes. "I just - I didn't hear it. It won't happen again."
"Make sure it doesn't," he says in the end. Kris nods at him and then stiffly walks out the door. Yixing wonders if he ever bent over. Kris is a straight line, unwilling to be shaped. Yixing feels like he's the opposite; as he's always trying his hardest to the what others want that it's scarred him to the point of no recognition.
His head hurts. There's a searing pain behind his eyes that he can't get rid of, a cough in his chest that refuses to go away. He walks out of the apartment dazed, not having changed yet even. The city suddenly seems too small, too familiar, too bleak. It's like in a day - hour - wait, week? - all the life has been sucked out of it.
Yixing doesn't know where he's going. He feels so lost.
And hungry. He stops at the nearest food place, rubs his aching temples, and sits down. There's barely anyone there and it's as quiet as a church.
"Hey, we haven't opened, so - " a halted breath, sucked in sharply. Yixing looks up to see a blonde guy, antlers perched on his head. It should surprise him, but it doesn't, and he doesn't really notice. The blonde stares at him like he's seen a ghost, though, and Yixing shifts in his seat.
Out of politeness, he says, "Sorry, do I know you?"
Blondie opens his mouth for a second and then closes it. In a flash his expression turns from wide-eyed and disbelieving to bored and apathetic. Yixing has to blink a few times to make sure it isn't a trick of the light.
"Not that I know of," he replies, sounding like it's too much of an effort to speak properly. "Listen, this place isn't opening up until the evening, so you have to leave."
"Oh, sorry." Yixing frowns and gets up. What had made him so sure that he would get something to eat here? "Ah, is there any other good, cheap place to get something to eat? I'm sorta new to Beijing."
Blondie assesses him for a second, and it's all just so...weird. Yixing feels something press against the back of his mind, like something's threatening to push forward, but Blondie speaks up. "There's this really good breakfast place near a big building with the words 'SME' on it. Check it out." And he turns around, walking back to the kitchen.
Yixing half-smiles. "Thank you!" And he leaves. He doesn't notice the blonde's eyes following him on the way out, empty of emotion.
He never gets breakfast that day.
Instead, as he makes his way to the aforementioned building, where someone notices him and asks him if he can sing - where Yixing goes on to reassure him that it's his life, his passion, his dream. And soon, in half a year, his name is the biggest thing on the market.
"Zhang Yixing, tell us - what is singing to you?" someone asks him on some reality show, one piled after another, until nothing seems like reality anymore.
Something flashes. Luhan. His chest aches, but he doesn't know why, and after a second it's like it had never been there at all. Like someone had pressed deep inside him, brushed against the side of his heart, and then just...left. And nothing was left. Nothing at all.
"It's my dream."
His mouth tastes like cotton candy and coffee, and Yixing can't help but go to sleep at the end of the day feeling like he's lost something.