Adagio cantabile
Adagio cantabile // jongdae/yixing; pg-13; ~4,000 words; angst
Everything that falls from Jongdae’s lips can be related to music, in Yixing’s world.
originally posted here for sncj_santa. (Title taken from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 8 in C minor, Op. 13 Sonata Pathétique, Mov. II.)
It’s always at the most random times that Yixing recognizes just how attuned he is to Jongdae’s voice-during encores of 365 or sometimes at a radio show recording, in the back of the van on the way to the dorms or occasionally when he’s simply huddled under blankets with Jongdae on the couch. It’s then that the thought will rise up to the forefront of his mind, and it’s not even a conscious thing, really; Yixing has never considered himself to be eloquent, but if he had to put it to words, he’d relate the concept to breathing.
There’s something comforting about Jongdae’s loud enthusiasm, and even when it’s not him Jongdae’s talking to, even when he’s just chattering nonsensically of anything and everything to anybody who wants to listen, pelting Junmyeon with snide comments and joining in with Baekhyun’s mischief, Yixing finds a strange reassurance in the flitting excitement of the words that fly by.
Of course, its best when the words are directed at him; whether Jongdae is spouting nonsense or musing about life late into the night or whispering promises that follow small, teasing touches, Yixing loves it all. It’s just so easy to get caught up in Jongdae’s stories, to wrap himself in the sentences and exclamations until he’s got his own cocoon of Jongdae to keep him safe on the nights when the world doesn’t seem so friendly.
And Jongdae will sometimes pause, on nights like those, and watch him with soft, curious eyes. Are you listening? He’ll ask, his fingers still absently tracing patterns on Yixing’s chest and an amused smile dancing on his lips because he already knows the answer. And Yixing will nod, because he’s always listening. Even if sometimes he listens too much and forgets to actually understand the words that fly by, he does his best.
Yixing will yawn and lean closer, his forehead resting on Jongdae’s, and he’ll grin lazily and watch Jongdae’s hand reach for his. Yeah, he’ll answer, because he’s always listening. Yeah, I am.
⭐✰⭐
Yixing’s never really understood the awe in the others’ voices when they talk about his music. It’s a silly notion, he thinks, to call him a ‘musical genius’: aren’t they all talented in their own way? And it’s not like it’s anything to brag about, really-playing piano by ear because you have no idea how to read sheet music doesn’t exactly cut it in the industry.
That doesn’t stop him from messing around way past midnight on the small keyboard he has set up in the corner of the dorm, though, when he should be sleeping because their schedule starts at six a.m. again. But he’s never been that good at sleeping, anyways. Sometimes he wonders if there are just too many melodies in his head, all waiting for their turn to escape.
Jongdae usually wakes up to come visit. He likes to complain jokingly that it’s almost an automatic response, the way he always manages to find Yixing in the middle of the night, but they both know that even if Yixing didn’t feel the need to write songs at two in the morning they’d still somehow end up in each other’s presence.
He’ll shuffle into the main room with a sleep-dulled gaze and a glass of water in his hands and his sweatshirt always one size too large because he’s always been just a little too thin. What’s this one called? he’ll mumble out, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, and he’ll join Yixing on the small piano bench, resting his weight against Yixing’s side and watching his fingers draw out soft sounds from the cheap, plastic keys.
I’m not sure yet, Yixing will answer, and sometimes Jongdae will suggest a name for him; or sometimes he’ll just fall asleep right where he’s sitting, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones and his chest rising gently, almost in time with the gentle flow of Yixing’s music. And Yixing will wonder if Jongdae realizes that most of the melodies he spins up are based on Jongdae himself.
⭐✰⭐
Everything that falls from Jongdae’s lips can be related to music, in Yixing’s world. Soft sighs become the whispers of chimes-his laughter, the scatter of a major scale. His excited commentary is the orchestra behind the musical that is Yixing’s daily life. Day after day, and Jongdae is always there in a whirlwind of sounds, sometimes staying in the background but always growing stronger when Yixing needs him the most, when everything goes wrong and it’s all he can do to curl himself into the spirals of notes and let Jongdae catch him when he falls.
Sometimes the others joke about his innocence. The fans call him cute-naive, even-and maybe he is. And maybe he’s okay with that, as long as Jongdae is there to pull him in suddenly by the shoulders and envelop him in a hug, or tell him an important secret that usually turns out to be not so important after all. And maybe thinking like that is a little bit naive, a little too innocent for someone of his age, but Yixing thinks that’s all right. Because didn’t Jongdae say he liked him already, just the way he was?
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae’s moans are dulcet tones to Yixing’s ears, and though he does feel a little bad about kicking Luhan out more often than not because of the new rooming arrangements, he’s pretty sure Luhan kind of knows what they get up to already and is probably more than happy to leave them alone.
On these kinds of nights, Yixing loves strumming his fingers down the faint lines of Jongdae’s rib cage, loves the way Jongdae’s nails press into his back, loves the unsteady rise and fall of Jongdae’s chest and the trembling kisses they use to smother the sounds that threaten to give them away. And though the need for secrecy remains in the back of Yixing’s mind, he can’t help but revel in the breathless sound of his name when it lingers on Jongdae’s lips, when he sighs the syllables into the heavy air between them.
Again, Yixing will whisper against Jongdae’s ear. Again. And he sounds desperate, he knows, but Jongdae will laugh easily and comply, every time.
Yixing.
And the corners of Jongdae’s mouth will pull into a contented smile. Yixing, Yixing, Yixing.
He’ll repeat it, over and over and laughing brightly and kissing Yixing’s nose-his eyes, his ears, his forehead, his lips.
And maybe it’s selfish, but it’s then that Yixing loves Jongdae’s voice most of all.
⭐✰⭐
As much as Yixing gravitates towards the song that is Jongdae, he shies from the ringing chill of foreign noises, dissonant chords that leave Yixing dizzy and reaching out blindly for any sound he can recognize, any sign of Jongdae’s familiar melody.
And Jongdae never fails to appear by his side, warm hands immediately cupping his face, feeling his forehead, his neck, his back; and the voice that Yixing loves so much blocks out the terrible ringing in his ears.
What is it? Yixing, can you hear me?
Of course I can, don’t be silly, Jongdae-ah.
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae asks him that a lot, for a reason Yixing understands all too well, even if neither of them want to say it. He knows it’s mostly teasing, mostly just Jongdae being adorably obnoxious and finding strange enjoyment in curling into Yixing’s lap and pretending to reprimand him for not listening more closely. What if I ran out of things to say, one day, he’ll giggle, breathing soft air on Yixing’s neck in the way he knows makes Yixing squirm. Would you still pay attention?
Yixing will laugh with him because they both know better, both know that Yixing could never space out on Jongdae and that Jongdae could never run out of things to say; because as much as Yixing depends on Jongdae’s voice, Jongdae depends on Yixing to listen, to understand, to willingly wrap Jongdae in his arms when he needs to pour out his words in a jumbled mess of tears and broken hiccups. I’m sorry, he’ll stutter out sometimes. I just- I don’t know what to do, Yixing.
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae likes to tell him stories. About his family, about his old friends, about himself; anything he thinks Yixing ought to know. I want you to meet them one day, he sometimes adds, after a stretch of silence, after they’ve squeezed themselves onto Yixing’s bed because Jongdae likes to bury his face in Yixing’s pillow. My family, that is. I think they’d like you.
Yixing will smile sadly and card his fingers through Jongdae’s hair, pulling the other’s head closer until there’s but a centimeter between them. Maybe you can take me to see them, when the schedule isn't so busy. He’ll say, pressing a light kiss to Jongdae’s lips, and they’ll both leave it at that, because that’s about as close to reality they’re willing to get.
⭐✰⭐
Sometimes Yixing wonders what the others are thinking, when they see Jongdae and him side by side on the couch and all but lost in their own world. Jongdae and he have never explained it to them, but they don't really try to hide much either, and he's pretty sure that at least some of the others can understand, in a way.
⭐✰⭐
Even though they’ve officially stopped promoting Growl, there still seems to be countless performances lined up, and it’s the same every time but sometimes the audio seems off-just a little too distant. He can always hear Jongdae in the final chorus, his lines ripping through the strange fog that settles in Yixing’s head but sometimes it’s not enough, sometimes the ringing comes back and it stays long after the performance is over and long after they’ve escaped hordes of screaming fans and piled into the vans.
Maybe it has something to do with how receptive he is to Jongdae’s sound, maybe that somehow translates into how aware Jongdae is of Yixing’s silences, because it’ll be days like these and they’ll have barely reached the dorms and he’s already latched himself to Yixing’s side and begun to speak, soft and enthusiastic as they follow the rest through the entrance way. And it’ll wash over Yixing like a lullaby-wonderfully crystal clear in his eardrums, merging seamlessly into a wordless song that has him breathing easier and smiling faintly.
They’ll sit down on the couch; Junmyeon sometimes hesitantly offers them tea and Jongdae will pull Yixing’s head down until it’s settled against his shoulder. Soft, unintelligible words blend into a literal melody-one of their own songs, some obscure English ballad, an old Chinese children’s song Yixing vaguely remembers teaching him long ago-and he’ll hum it quietly against Yixing’s ear, making sure the tune registers in Yixing’s exhausted mind.
How are you, he’ll ask when he’s finished three verses and lost track somewhere in the fourth, distracted by the action of gliding his fingers through Yixing’s bangs.
Cold, he’ll reply cheekily, yawning and making a show of curling up against Jongdae’s side, lowering his head to rest comfortably on the other’s thigh. There’s a blanket they leave tossed over the back of the couch, and Jongdae will pull it down and tuck it around Yixing’s body, but Yixing’s usually already drifting off by then, drowsily reaching for Jongdae’s hand to entwine with his.
⭐✰⭐
S.M. gives them a heads up about working on another mini album sometime in the near future, but they’re still finishing up the last few bits and pieces of their Growl agenda, so it’s shoved to the backburner, for the time being. Not that Yixing minds too much, because he’s always enjoyed dancing to their song: there’s something comforting and familiar about being able to perform so well and so often that the movements happen almost unconsciously.
But Manager-hyung still brings the new album up occasionally to Yixing, separately, and Yixing learns to dread it whenever he approaches. They need some sort of confirmation, he’ll always say, though not unkindly. Yixing doesn’t want to give one.
I’ll be fine, he’ll insist, I have time.
And he’ll think of what a new album could mean for him, for the others, for Jongdae-and he’ll see the light in Jongdae’s eyes that matches the elated tone of his voice whenever he gets to spend a whole day in the recording room.
Please give me time.
⭐✰⭐
It turns out to be a Christmas album, interestingly enough. They begin running through their new songs, and no one says it but everyone sees how close Yixing stands to Jongdae, singing softer than he should be and hiding his own voice in Jongdae’s powerful register. His accent feels thicker on his tongue these days but no one says anything about that, either-and Yixing can’t decide whether he’s grateful for their silence or just burdened by it even more.
Jongdae, too, is reluctant, despite his inherent ability to form words for just about everything. They’ll stumble back to the dorms after a long day of practicing and he’ll be chattering, about coffee or dogs or strange western traditions, but never about the hours they spent in the main building running over lyrics that had to be repeated just a few too many times.
⭐✰⭐
Yixing knows they’re only trying to help, only trying to make things work out, but when Yifan pulls him aside, with Junmyeon’s troubled face right behind him, Yixing can’t help but be snippy because he doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to hear it from someone else’s mouth; doesn’t want to hear it at all.
Yixing, Yifan will begin, and he’ll try to turn away-he can hear Jongdae’s laughter, cracking up at some stunt Baekhyun has pulled in the other room-but Junmyeon will place a hand on his arm, the touch light and yet impossible to misinterpret.
You can’t hide from this forever, Yifan will remind him, his eyes calm and worried-Yixing can tell that the two leaders are not the only members behind these confrontations. Neither of you can. It will only hurt you more, in the end.
Yixing wonders if they tell Jongdae the same thing.
⭐✰⭐
Sometimes Jongdae falls asleep on the couch, burrowed in the blankets and hugging the pillow between his arms instead of placing it under his head like he’s supposed to, and Yixing will kiss his forehead and kiss his temples, tracing his thumb down Jongdae’s cheek. And he’ll lean in to listen to the slow rhythm of Jongdae’s breathing, the barely audible rush of air with each exhale.
Sometimes the silence is too much, on nights like this-when Jongdae has long drifted off and the only thing left to comfort Yixing is the cold pressure of silence, commanding and destructive in its wake, filling Yixing’s ears with cotton and strangling him with an aching grip that has him hyperventilating and clutching the couch’s armrest for support. His knuckles pale and shaking; his palms sweaty.
And he’ll find himself at the keyboard, almost feverishly fumbling across the keys to form strings of countless, unheard songs-after all, he sometimes wonders if there’s just too many melodies in his head, all waiting for their turn to escape.
But his compositions are always faster paced now, more urgent-and they’ll usually wake Jongdae from his sleep, once Yixing’s fingers clatter awkwardly against one too many accidental notes and create an awful clash of dissonance that brings the music to a stumbling, dissatisfying halt.
Jongdae will yawn and rise from the couch, coming over to Yixing with slow, tired steps to pull gently on Yixing’s sleeve. Let’s go to bed, Yixing, he’ll say, It’ll be all right in the morning. And there’s a fuzziness at the edges of the words that makes Yixing want to cry.
⭐✰⭐
The recording work doesn’t get any better-Jongdae stomps around for days when the recording team cuts some of Yixing’s lines, his face sullen and pulled tight into a threatening frown that only softens when it’s Yixing he’s with. The sting of the wound only becomes worse when their trainer reassigns the same lines to Jongdae himself.
When they pack up after practices, Yixing has taken to staying after again, taking refuge in one of the dance rooms and running over old moves he’s already mastered, letting his brain go numb and relying on the throb of the rhythm that vibrates from the speakers-because he can still feel that, can sense it in his chest even though the words are indistinguishable through the blood pounding in his ears.
And when the music stops and he crouches down to catch his breath and clear out the fog in his head, his eyes will train in on the thin lines of the wooden paneling on the floor and he’ll watch them, staring down at nothing and waiting for the terrible ringing in his head to go away. And he knows Jongdae will be standing there in the doorway, watching him with that new mixture of expressions in his eyes that Yixing doesn’t like to think about.
They’re dumb, Jongdae will blurt out-even his empty words of encouragement are a welcome intrusion to the thick, hostile silence that fills the empty room. You don’t deserve this.
Yixing will laugh weakly at that, still sweaty from dancing himself to exhaustion.
Jongdae will crouch down next to him, his arms wrapped tight around his knees and his shoulder leaning into Yixing’s, providing a warm structure of support for Yixing to fall against-and so he’ll fall, letting all the energy leave his body until he’s nothing but an empty shell folded against Jongdae’s side, his breathing shallow and silent, burning tears staining his cheeks.
I never wanted this, he’ll say, and sometimes he’ll accidentally slip back into his native tongue because he can’t even understand his own words anymore when it’s Korean. But maybe that’s okay-because they don’t really need a common language to understand each other.
I know, Jongdae will say, in Korean-or maybe in Mandarin-or maybe he won’t say it at all, but Yixing can hear Jongdae’s words in the way he kisses Yixing lightly and threads his fingers in the hair at the base of Yixing’s neck and wraps his arms tight around Yixing’s shoulders.
He’ll pull Yixing close to his chest, letting him hide his face in Jongdae’s T-shirt, and though he can’t see the other’s face, Yixing can tell that Jongdae is crying too.
There’s still time, Jongdae will say, his eyes squeezed shut and his nose pressed against Yixing’s hair-and he’ll say it over and over, as if that will make the words true.
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae will wake up to see him bent low over the keyboard, methodically pressing down the same few keys over and over: whole notes, eighth notes, strings of basic rhythms and variations of the chords.
What are you doing?
Yixing will catch the question faintly through his haze of concentration towards the piano; he can’t hear the other’s footsteps anymore and tries not to show surprise when Jongdae’s weight leans in next to him.
I’m memorizing them all, he’ll say, pointing out the diminished chord he’s got in place beneath delicate, shaking fingers-trembling just enough give him away.
⭐✰⭐
Everything that falls from Jongdae’s lips can be related to music, in Yixing’s world. Soft sighs become the whispers of chimes-his laughter, the scatter of a major scale.
Jongdae always stays with him at night now, lying half on top of Yixing so that his lips are close against the shell of Yixing’s ear.
Jongdae likes to tell him stories. About his family, about his old friends, about himself; anything he thinks Yixing ought to know.
Sometimes, Jongdae will pause and watch him with soft eyes. Are you listening? He’ll ask, his fingers still absently tracing patterns on Yixing’s chest and a sad little smile dancing on his lips because he already knows the answer.
And Yixing will nod, because he’s always listening, and he always will be-even after he’s lost track of the music completely.
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae’s words blend together these days, still beautiful and soothing, but unless he’s pressed up close to Yixing’s side, his voice sounds muted, blocked from Yixing’s ears by a strange, invisible barrier.
Everything is distant: He forgets some of their new songs because he can’t remember the melodies, and even when they’re dancing-he can only go by the vibrations-he just can’t seem to get it right anymore. The choreographer yells at him a lot, his mouth forming harsh, sharp words that Yixing can’t hear, and all he can do is watch dumbly, frozen, as the teacher’s face contorts angrily and then there will be hands on his shoulders and everyone will stare as Jongdae hugs him tightly from behind, clutching at Yixing like a lifeline and murmuring quietly against Yixing’s ear. Or maybe it’s not quiet, but Yixing can barely decipher what he says.
Yixing, can you hear me?
Yixing will turn to search Jongdae’s face, his heart pounding in his head as he tries to find something, anything to tell him it’s okay, that there’s still time-but Jongdae’s expression is just as desperate and hopeless as he feels.
What did you say?
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae?
⭐✰⭐
Words are meaningless now.
They’ll distort and twist themselves before Yixing’s very eyes, falling from lips that form syllables he cannot make out; getting lost in the cobwebs that have been knitted into his eardrums.
⭐✰⭐
His contract is still on probation. From what he’s learned through confusing conversations jotted down on paper to help him, Jongdae’s been pushing let him stay as a dancer, insisting that he can still do it as long as the vibrations of the song’s bass line is loud enough. Yixing thinks he probably could, too, but he doesn’t want to cause trouble-the company would have to go through a lot to keep a secret that the public is bound to find out sooner or later anyways, and he’d most likely be more of a burden for the group than a needed addition.
⭐✰⭐
Every evening Jongdae will lie next to him and cry, oblivious to the puffy circles beneath his eyes and how each tear that trickles down his face and neck makes Yixing heart break even more-because it’s fault that Jongdae’s like this; his fault that Jongdae loses to himself when the hours of night creep in on them. He’ll cry until there’s no more tears, until his sobs are nothing more that watery hiccups and then he’ll cry until those, too, dissolve into small, helpless sniffles.
Yixing wants to say something, anything, to tell Jongdae it’s all right, but he’s afraid to speak because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to hear his own voice. Don’t give up, he wants to tell him. Don’t give up for me.
And he wants to thank Jongdae, for selflessly giving his voice to Yixing, for protecting him and believing in him and always being there when everything went wrong. He wants to tell Jongdae everything he should have said when he was too busy listening, too busy clinging to the music he’d known he would soon lose forever.
But Yixing has never considered himself to be eloquent.
Thank you, he’ll try to say, but it probably sounds defective: horse and raw and barely there. And Jongdae will glance up, looking like he might cry again: his eyes shining too bright and his mouth trembling with words he wants to say but knows won’t make a difference.
With tears still wet on his eyelashes, Jongdae will opt instead to press a kiss to Yixing’s forehead-his nose, his eyes, his lips-just like he always did, and Yixing will imagine he can hear Jongdae murmuring his name with each one.
Everything that falls from Jongdae’s lips can be related to music, in Yixing’s world.
originally posted here for sncj_santa. (Title taken from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 8 in C minor, Op. 13 Sonata Pathétique, Mov. II.)
It’s always at the most random times that Yixing recognizes just how attuned he is to Jongdae’s voice-during encores of 365 or sometimes at a radio show recording, in the back of the van on the way to the dorms or occasionally when he’s simply huddled under blankets with Jongdae on the couch. It’s then that the thought will rise up to the forefront of his mind, and it’s not even a conscious thing, really; Yixing has never considered himself to be eloquent, but if he had to put it to words, he’d relate the concept to breathing.
There’s something comforting about Jongdae’s loud enthusiasm, and even when it’s not him Jongdae’s talking to, even when he’s just chattering nonsensically of anything and everything to anybody who wants to listen, pelting Junmyeon with snide comments and joining in with Baekhyun’s mischief, Yixing finds a strange reassurance in the flitting excitement of the words that fly by.
Of course, its best when the words are directed at him; whether Jongdae is spouting nonsense or musing about life late into the night or whispering promises that follow small, teasing touches, Yixing loves it all. It’s just so easy to get caught up in Jongdae’s stories, to wrap himself in the sentences and exclamations until he’s got his own cocoon of Jongdae to keep him safe on the nights when the world doesn’t seem so friendly.
And Jongdae will sometimes pause, on nights like those, and watch him with soft, curious eyes. Are you listening? He’ll ask, his fingers still absently tracing patterns on Yixing’s chest and an amused smile dancing on his lips because he already knows the answer. And Yixing will nod, because he’s always listening. Even if sometimes he listens too much and forgets to actually understand the words that fly by, he does his best.
Yixing will yawn and lean closer, his forehead resting on Jongdae’s, and he’ll grin lazily and watch Jongdae’s hand reach for his. Yeah, he’ll answer, because he’s always listening. Yeah, I am.
⭐✰⭐
Yixing’s never really understood the awe in the others’ voices when they talk about his music. It’s a silly notion, he thinks, to call him a ‘musical genius’: aren’t they all talented in their own way? And it’s not like it’s anything to brag about, really-playing piano by ear because you have no idea how to read sheet music doesn’t exactly cut it in the industry.
That doesn’t stop him from messing around way past midnight on the small keyboard he has set up in the corner of the dorm, though, when he should be sleeping because their schedule starts at six a.m. again. But he’s never been that good at sleeping, anyways. Sometimes he wonders if there are just too many melodies in his head, all waiting for their turn to escape.
Jongdae usually wakes up to come visit. He likes to complain jokingly that it’s almost an automatic response, the way he always manages to find Yixing in the middle of the night, but they both know that even if Yixing didn’t feel the need to write songs at two in the morning they’d still somehow end up in each other’s presence.
He’ll shuffle into the main room with a sleep-dulled gaze and a glass of water in his hands and his sweatshirt always one size too large because he’s always been just a little too thin. What’s this one called? he’ll mumble out, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, and he’ll join Yixing on the small piano bench, resting his weight against Yixing’s side and watching his fingers draw out soft sounds from the cheap, plastic keys.
I’m not sure yet, Yixing will answer, and sometimes Jongdae will suggest a name for him; or sometimes he’ll just fall asleep right where he’s sitting, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones and his chest rising gently, almost in time with the gentle flow of Yixing’s music. And Yixing will wonder if Jongdae realizes that most of the melodies he spins up are based on Jongdae himself.
⭐✰⭐
Everything that falls from Jongdae’s lips can be related to music, in Yixing’s world. Soft sighs become the whispers of chimes-his laughter, the scatter of a major scale. His excited commentary is the orchestra behind the musical that is Yixing’s daily life. Day after day, and Jongdae is always there in a whirlwind of sounds, sometimes staying in the background but always growing stronger when Yixing needs him the most, when everything goes wrong and it’s all he can do to curl himself into the spirals of notes and let Jongdae catch him when he falls.
Sometimes the others joke about his innocence. The fans call him cute-naive, even-and maybe he is. And maybe he’s okay with that, as long as Jongdae is there to pull him in suddenly by the shoulders and envelop him in a hug, or tell him an important secret that usually turns out to be not so important after all. And maybe thinking like that is a little bit naive, a little too innocent for someone of his age, but Yixing thinks that’s all right. Because didn’t Jongdae say he liked him already, just the way he was?
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae’s moans are dulcet tones to Yixing’s ears, and though he does feel a little bad about kicking Luhan out more often than not because of the new rooming arrangements, he’s pretty sure Luhan kind of knows what they get up to already and is probably more than happy to leave them alone.
On these kinds of nights, Yixing loves strumming his fingers down the faint lines of Jongdae’s rib cage, loves the way Jongdae’s nails press into his back, loves the unsteady rise and fall of Jongdae’s chest and the trembling kisses they use to smother the sounds that threaten to give them away. And though the need for secrecy remains in the back of Yixing’s mind, he can’t help but revel in the breathless sound of his name when it lingers on Jongdae’s lips, when he sighs the syllables into the heavy air between them.
Again, Yixing will whisper against Jongdae’s ear. Again. And he sounds desperate, he knows, but Jongdae will laugh easily and comply, every time.
Yixing.
And the corners of Jongdae’s mouth will pull into a contented smile. Yixing, Yixing, Yixing.
He’ll repeat it, over and over and laughing brightly and kissing Yixing’s nose-his eyes, his ears, his forehead, his lips.
And maybe it’s selfish, but it’s then that Yixing loves Jongdae’s voice most of all.
⭐✰⭐
As much as Yixing gravitates towards the song that is Jongdae, he shies from the ringing chill of foreign noises, dissonant chords that leave Yixing dizzy and reaching out blindly for any sound he can recognize, any sign of Jongdae’s familiar melody.
And Jongdae never fails to appear by his side, warm hands immediately cupping his face, feeling his forehead, his neck, his back; and the voice that Yixing loves so much blocks out the terrible ringing in his ears.
What is it? Yixing, can you hear me?
Of course I can, don’t be silly, Jongdae-ah.
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae asks him that a lot, for a reason Yixing understands all too well, even if neither of them want to say it. He knows it’s mostly teasing, mostly just Jongdae being adorably obnoxious and finding strange enjoyment in curling into Yixing’s lap and pretending to reprimand him for not listening more closely. What if I ran out of things to say, one day, he’ll giggle, breathing soft air on Yixing’s neck in the way he knows makes Yixing squirm. Would you still pay attention?
Yixing will laugh with him because they both know better, both know that Yixing could never space out on Jongdae and that Jongdae could never run out of things to say; because as much as Yixing depends on Jongdae’s voice, Jongdae depends on Yixing to listen, to understand, to willingly wrap Jongdae in his arms when he needs to pour out his words in a jumbled mess of tears and broken hiccups. I’m sorry, he’ll stutter out sometimes. I just- I don’t know what to do, Yixing.
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae likes to tell him stories. About his family, about his old friends, about himself; anything he thinks Yixing ought to know. I want you to meet them one day, he sometimes adds, after a stretch of silence, after they’ve squeezed themselves onto Yixing’s bed because Jongdae likes to bury his face in Yixing’s pillow. My family, that is. I think they’d like you.
Yixing will smile sadly and card his fingers through Jongdae’s hair, pulling the other’s head closer until there’s but a centimeter between them. Maybe you can take me to see them, when the schedule isn't so busy. He’ll say, pressing a light kiss to Jongdae’s lips, and they’ll both leave it at that, because that’s about as close to reality they’re willing to get.
⭐✰⭐
Sometimes Yixing wonders what the others are thinking, when they see Jongdae and him side by side on the couch and all but lost in their own world. Jongdae and he have never explained it to them, but they don't really try to hide much either, and he's pretty sure that at least some of the others can understand, in a way.
⭐✰⭐
Even though they’ve officially stopped promoting Growl, there still seems to be countless performances lined up, and it’s the same every time but sometimes the audio seems off-just a little too distant. He can always hear Jongdae in the final chorus, his lines ripping through the strange fog that settles in Yixing’s head but sometimes it’s not enough, sometimes the ringing comes back and it stays long after the performance is over and long after they’ve escaped hordes of screaming fans and piled into the vans.
Maybe it has something to do with how receptive he is to Jongdae’s sound, maybe that somehow translates into how aware Jongdae is of Yixing’s silences, because it’ll be days like these and they’ll have barely reached the dorms and he’s already latched himself to Yixing’s side and begun to speak, soft and enthusiastic as they follow the rest through the entrance way. And it’ll wash over Yixing like a lullaby-wonderfully crystal clear in his eardrums, merging seamlessly into a wordless song that has him breathing easier and smiling faintly.
They’ll sit down on the couch; Junmyeon sometimes hesitantly offers them tea and Jongdae will pull Yixing’s head down until it’s settled against his shoulder. Soft, unintelligible words blend into a literal melody-one of their own songs, some obscure English ballad, an old Chinese children’s song Yixing vaguely remembers teaching him long ago-and he’ll hum it quietly against Yixing’s ear, making sure the tune registers in Yixing’s exhausted mind.
How are you, he’ll ask when he’s finished three verses and lost track somewhere in the fourth, distracted by the action of gliding his fingers through Yixing’s bangs.
Cold, he’ll reply cheekily, yawning and making a show of curling up against Jongdae’s side, lowering his head to rest comfortably on the other’s thigh. There’s a blanket they leave tossed over the back of the couch, and Jongdae will pull it down and tuck it around Yixing’s body, but Yixing’s usually already drifting off by then, drowsily reaching for Jongdae’s hand to entwine with his.
⭐✰⭐
S.M. gives them a heads up about working on another mini album sometime in the near future, but they’re still finishing up the last few bits and pieces of their Growl agenda, so it’s shoved to the backburner, for the time being. Not that Yixing minds too much, because he’s always enjoyed dancing to their song: there’s something comforting and familiar about being able to perform so well and so often that the movements happen almost unconsciously.
But Manager-hyung still brings the new album up occasionally to Yixing, separately, and Yixing learns to dread it whenever he approaches. They need some sort of confirmation, he’ll always say, though not unkindly. Yixing doesn’t want to give one.
I’ll be fine, he’ll insist, I have time.
And he’ll think of what a new album could mean for him, for the others, for Jongdae-and he’ll see the light in Jongdae’s eyes that matches the elated tone of his voice whenever he gets to spend a whole day in the recording room.
Please give me time.
⭐✰⭐
It turns out to be a Christmas album, interestingly enough. They begin running through their new songs, and no one says it but everyone sees how close Yixing stands to Jongdae, singing softer than he should be and hiding his own voice in Jongdae’s powerful register. His accent feels thicker on his tongue these days but no one says anything about that, either-and Yixing can’t decide whether he’s grateful for their silence or just burdened by it even more.
Jongdae, too, is reluctant, despite his inherent ability to form words for just about everything. They’ll stumble back to the dorms after a long day of practicing and he’ll be chattering, about coffee or dogs or strange western traditions, but never about the hours they spent in the main building running over lyrics that had to be repeated just a few too many times.
⭐✰⭐
Yixing knows they’re only trying to help, only trying to make things work out, but when Yifan pulls him aside, with Junmyeon’s troubled face right behind him, Yixing can’t help but be snippy because he doesn’t want to think. He doesn’t want to hear it from someone else’s mouth; doesn’t want to hear it at all.
Yixing, Yifan will begin, and he’ll try to turn away-he can hear Jongdae’s laughter, cracking up at some stunt Baekhyun has pulled in the other room-but Junmyeon will place a hand on his arm, the touch light and yet impossible to misinterpret.
You can’t hide from this forever, Yifan will remind him, his eyes calm and worried-Yixing can tell that the two leaders are not the only members behind these confrontations. Neither of you can. It will only hurt you more, in the end.
Yixing wonders if they tell Jongdae the same thing.
⭐✰⭐
Sometimes Jongdae falls asleep on the couch, burrowed in the blankets and hugging the pillow between his arms instead of placing it under his head like he’s supposed to, and Yixing will kiss his forehead and kiss his temples, tracing his thumb down Jongdae’s cheek. And he’ll lean in to listen to the slow rhythm of Jongdae’s breathing, the barely audible rush of air with each exhale.
Sometimes the silence is too much, on nights like this-when Jongdae has long drifted off and the only thing left to comfort Yixing is the cold pressure of silence, commanding and destructive in its wake, filling Yixing’s ears with cotton and strangling him with an aching grip that has him hyperventilating and clutching the couch’s armrest for support. His knuckles pale and shaking; his palms sweaty.
And he’ll find himself at the keyboard, almost feverishly fumbling across the keys to form strings of countless, unheard songs-after all, he sometimes wonders if there’s just too many melodies in his head, all waiting for their turn to escape.
But his compositions are always faster paced now, more urgent-and they’ll usually wake Jongdae from his sleep, once Yixing’s fingers clatter awkwardly against one too many accidental notes and create an awful clash of dissonance that brings the music to a stumbling, dissatisfying halt.
Jongdae will yawn and rise from the couch, coming over to Yixing with slow, tired steps to pull gently on Yixing’s sleeve. Let’s go to bed, Yixing, he’ll say, It’ll be all right in the morning. And there’s a fuzziness at the edges of the words that makes Yixing want to cry.
⭐✰⭐
The recording work doesn’t get any better-Jongdae stomps around for days when the recording team cuts some of Yixing’s lines, his face sullen and pulled tight into a threatening frown that only softens when it’s Yixing he’s with. The sting of the wound only becomes worse when their trainer reassigns the same lines to Jongdae himself.
When they pack up after practices, Yixing has taken to staying after again, taking refuge in one of the dance rooms and running over old moves he’s already mastered, letting his brain go numb and relying on the throb of the rhythm that vibrates from the speakers-because he can still feel that, can sense it in his chest even though the words are indistinguishable through the blood pounding in his ears.
And when the music stops and he crouches down to catch his breath and clear out the fog in his head, his eyes will train in on the thin lines of the wooden paneling on the floor and he’ll watch them, staring down at nothing and waiting for the terrible ringing in his head to go away. And he knows Jongdae will be standing there in the doorway, watching him with that new mixture of expressions in his eyes that Yixing doesn’t like to think about.
They’re dumb, Jongdae will blurt out-even his empty words of encouragement are a welcome intrusion to the thick, hostile silence that fills the empty room. You don’t deserve this.
Yixing will laugh weakly at that, still sweaty from dancing himself to exhaustion.
Jongdae will crouch down next to him, his arms wrapped tight around his knees and his shoulder leaning into Yixing’s, providing a warm structure of support for Yixing to fall against-and so he’ll fall, letting all the energy leave his body until he’s nothing but an empty shell folded against Jongdae’s side, his breathing shallow and silent, burning tears staining his cheeks.
I never wanted this, he’ll say, and sometimes he’ll accidentally slip back into his native tongue because he can’t even understand his own words anymore when it’s Korean. But maybe that’s okay-because they don’t really need a common language to understand each other.
I know, Jongdae will say, in Korean-or maybe in Mandarin-or maybe he won’t say it at all, but Yixing can hear Jongdae’s words in the way he kisses Yixing lightly and threads his fingers in the hair at the base of Yixing’s neck and wraps his arms tight around Yixing’s shoulders.
He’ll pull Yixing close to his chest, letting him hide his face in Jongdae’s T-shirt, and though he can’t see the other’s face, Yixing can tell that Jongdae is crying too.
There’s still time, Jongdae will say, his eyes squeezed shut and his nose pressed against Yixing’s hair-and he’ll say it over and over, as if that will make the words true.
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae will wake up to see him bent low over the keyboard, methodically pressing down the same few keys over and over: whole notes, eighth notes, strings of basic rhythms and variations of the chords.
What are you doing?
Yixing will catch the question faintly through his haze of concentration towards the piano; he can’t hear the other’s footsteps anymore and tries not to show surprise when Jongdae’s weight leans in next to him.
I’m memorizing them all, he’ll say, pointing out the diminished chord he’s got in place beneath delicate, shaking fingers-trembling just enough give him away.
⭐✰⭐
Everything that falls from Jongdae’s lips can be related to music, in Yixing’s world. Soft sighs become the whispers of chimes-his laughter, the scatter of a major scale.
Jongdae always stays with him at night now, lying half on top of Yixing so that his lips are close against the shell of Yixing’s ear.
Jongdae likes to tell him stories. About his family, about his old friends, about himself; anything he thinks Yixing ought to know.
Sometimes, Jongdae will pause and watch him with soft eyes. Are you listening? He’ll ask, his fingers still absently tracing patterns on Yixing’s chest and a sad little smile dancing on his lips because he already knows the answer.
And Yixing will nod, because he’s always listening, and he always will be-even after he’s lost track of the music completely.
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae’s words blend together these days, still beautiful and soothing, but unless he’s pressed up close to Yixing’s side, his voice sounds muted, blocked from Yixing’s ears by a strange, invisible barrier.
Everything is distant: He forgets some of their new songs because he can’t remember the melodies, and even when they’re dancing-he can only go by the vibrations-he just can’t seem to get it right anymore. The choreographer yells at him a lot, his mouth forming harsh, sharp words that Yixing can’t hear, and all he can do is watch dumbly, frozen, as the teacher’s face contorts angrily and then there will be hands on his shoulders and everyone will stare as Jongdae hugs him tightly from behind, clutching at Yixing like a lifeline and murmuring quietly against Yixing’s ear. Or maybe it’s not quiet, but Yixing can barely decipher what he says.
Yixing, can you hear me?
Yixing will turn to search Jongdae’s face, his heart pounding in his head as he tries to find something, anything to tell him it’s okay, that there’s still time-but Jongdae’s expression is just as desperate and hopeless as he feels.
What did you say?
⭐✰⭐
Jongdae?
⭐✰⭐
Words are meaningless now.
They’ll distort and twist themselves before Yixing’s very eyes, falling from lips that form syllables he cannot make out; getting lost in the cobwebs that have been knitted into his eardrums.
⭐✰⭐
His contract is still on probation. From what he’s learned through confusing conversations jotted down on paper to help him, Jongdae’s been pushing let him stay as a dancer, insisting that he can still do it as long as the vibrations of the song’s bass line is loud enough. Yixing thinks he probably could, too, but he doesn’t want to cause trouble-the company would have to go through a lot to keep a secret that the public is bound to find out sooner or later anyways, and he’d most likely be more of a burden for the group than a needed addition.
⭐✰⭐
Every evening Jongdae will lie next to him and cry, oblivious to the puffy circles beneath his eyes and how each tear that trickles down his face and neck makes Yixing heart break even more-because it’s fault that Jongdae’s like this; his fault that Jongdae loses to himself when the hours of night creep in on them. He’ll cry until there’s no more tears, until his sobs are nothing more that watery hiccups and then he’ll cry until those, too, dissolve into small, helpless sniffles.
Yixing wants to say something, anything, to tell Jongdae it’s all right, but he’s afraid to speak because he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to hear his own voice. Don’t give up, he wants to tell him. Don’t give up for me.
And he wants to thank Jongdae, for selflessly giving his voice to Yixing, for protecting him and believing in him and always being there when everything went wrong. He wants to tell Jongdae everything he should have said when he was too busy listening, too busy clinging to the music he’d known he would soon lose forever.
But Yixing has never considered himself to be eloquent.
Thank you, he’ll try to say, but it probably sounds defective: horse and raw and barely there. And Jongdae will glance up, looking like he might cry again: his eyes shining too bright and his mouth trembling with words he wants to say but knows won’t make a difference.
With tears still wet on his eyelashes, Jongdae will opt instead to press a kiss to Yixing’s forehead-his nose, his eyes, his lips-just like he always did, and Yixing will imagine he can hear Jongdae murmuring his name with each one.