KPop: Favors the Bold (Kris/Lay, NC-17) [1/3]

[maayacolabackup]

Title: Favors the Bold
Pairing: Kris/Lay (Wu Fan/Yixing)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Yixing is a mystery, and Wu Fan is a masochist. (canon, 22k)
Notes: alternating timelines, a smidgen of angst, Kris-trolling

#


“Tilt your head a little more to the right, Kris,” the photographer says, and Wu Fan obeys, turning his head slightly. “Can you give me a bit more of a smile?”

“No,” Jongdae says under his breath, in Korean, and Minseok laughs. Wu Fan slants cool eyes at them until their faces straighten, and then glares back at the photographer.

“Sure,” Wu Fan says, and he puts something on his face he thinks is probably a smile. Wu Fan has never been the best at smiling on command, and it usually comes out more like a grimace than an expression of mirth. Especially when there’s a camera.

“Never mind,” the photographer says, disquieted, patting at his forehead with a towel and refusing to meet Wu Fan’s eyes. “Let’s just… go with what we had before.”

Wu Fan lets his face relax, and ignores Lu Han’s elbow, which pushes with amusement into his side. Lu Han thinks it’s funny the way he freezes up when put on the spot.

The photographer takes a few more shots, and then releases them, muttering as he walks back to his computer screen as they all collapse from their carefully held positions.

Zitao immediately takes off his jacket, because it is hot; summer in China is always too damn hot, and August is the worst, and Wu Fan would take off his jacket, too, except he’s sure he’s sweated through his dress shirt and he doesn’t want anyone to see.

Lu Han, who Wu Fan is pretty sure doesn’t do most human things, including sweat, peels out of his coat, and offers Wu Fan a cheerful smile. “Hot, leader?”

“Not really,” Wu Fan says, as a pearl of perspiration makes its way down the side of his face. He turns away from Lu Han to look at Zitao, who is stretching in the corner and looking adorable, as usual. Lu Han goes over to join him, hooking his arm with Minseok’s and dragging him too. Jongdae looks unruffled at the loss of his conversation partner, following Minseok and Lu Han with his eyes as they stand next to Zitao, who is talking animatedly about something, gesticulating wildly.

Hands come to rest on his shoulders, and Wu Fan knows it’s Yixing not just by process of elimination, but by the scent of eucalyptus that seems to cling to him. “You’d have to lie less if you took off the jacket.”

“I said it’s fine,” Wu Fan says, shrugging the hands off and ignoring the flush that climbs up his neck at the way Yixing’s fingers drag down his shoulders as they fall. It didn’t used to bother him, when Yixing touched him, but now… He turns around. “You’re still wearing your jacket, too,” Wu Fan says, and Yixing nods.

“Well, I didn’t want duizhang to suffer all on his own,” Yixing says, and then he smiles, wide, eyes glinting with whatever mischievous thought is flitting through his head at the moment.

“I’m not suffering,” Wu Fan says, even though he is. “But if it’ll make you stop bugging me…” He shrugs his jacket down and off, leaving it hanging from one of his arms.

“You should take the shirt off, too,” Yixing says, low, and Wu Fan can feel his pulse speed up at the way Yixing’s voice caresses the words, silky and warm.

“What?” Wu Fan says, after a suspicious beat of time. He knows Yixing is looking for a reaction, so he keeps his face as straight as he can.

“If you’re so worried about the sweat, I mean,” Yixing responds smoothly, and Wu Fan knows he’s not imagining the twinkle in Yixing’s eye.

It’s kind of miserable, Wu Fan thinks, to be this confused. “August is too hot,” Wu Fan says, to fill the silence, and Yixing hums his agreement.

After they’ve changed, completely finished, Zitao sidles up to him and gets his attention with a shoulder bump. “Okay?” he asks, and Wu Fan blinks at him, and nods. “Didn’t get your ten hours of sleep?”

“I don’t know where this imaginary ten hours of sleep thing came from,” Wu Fan says. “I haven’t slept ten hours all at once since I met Yixing.”

“Ah well,” Zitao says. “I hope you feel better, anyway. You look sad.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Wu Fan says, forcing his voice to come out strong. “I just need some sleep.”

Zitao offers him a small, curious smile, and Wu Fan wonders if he looks as transparent as he feels. “All right,” he says, scuffing the toe of his converse on the concrete as they wait for their manager to pull the van up. “If you say so.”

Wu Fan sighs, and massages his temples, and Yixing pokes him in the side. Yixing looks at him, and then he blinks, three times, slow, like he’s waiting for Wu Fan to spill all of his problems. He’s got a snack in his other hand, as usual; it’s one of the Korean red-bean paste snacks that Baekhyun had sent them, with a letter that had said We miss you in Kyungsoo’s unmistakable round and orderly handwriting.

”You’re the problem,” Wu Fan wants to say, but instead he just shrugs, and doesn’t say anything at all.

“Oh, you’ve got your dragon-face on,” Yixing murmurs, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “Leader is so scary.”

“Hush,” Wu Fan says, and Yixing pokes him again, just for good measure. “Don’t antagonize your leader.”

A leader, Yunho had told him once, is someone who puts the group before everything else. That had been years ago, when Wu Fan had only been a trainee for a year, and hadn’t been sure if he’d even debut, let alone as a leader. But he still remembers it now, maybe because this is the hardest Wu Fan’s ever had to try to not be selfish.


#


The first time Wu Fan meets Yixing, he thinks Yixing is a normal seventeen-year-old boy. Yixing is polite and courteous and soft-spoken and nods slowly when spoken to.

“I’m Wu Fan,” he says, testing out the new name on his tongue, and he thinks it feels pretty good. It’s a name that fits him, even if it’s not the one he was born with.

“Zhang Yixing,” the other boy replies, a bit robotically, like there are a million things going on in his head that Wu Fan will never be privy to, and he’d much rather spend his time with those.

Wu Fan actually thinks he’s just a tad bit boring.

But then Yixing wakes him up the first morning they spend in the dorm together by singing ‘Peking Opera’ style at the top of his lungs to the tune of the rice cooker at the ungodly hour of six in the morning, and Wu Fan thinks he may have made a terrible error in judgment.

“What are you doing?” Wu Fan asks, stumbling into the kitchen, long hair hanging into his face and sticking up in all directions because he’d fallen asleep with it wet. “Don’t you realize we went to bed at two?”

Wu Fan had been in the dance studio, practicing, because his limbs are too long for precision or elegance, and his moves are never as sharp as the other trainees. He thinks Yixing had been practicing piano, although Wu Fan isn’t sure because getting information out of Yixing, it turns out, is harder than getting Junmyeon to shut up about the sad state of South Korean golf during the PGA tour; Wu Fan has never been so happy to speak limited Korean.

Yixing, whose hair is pulled away from his face with a ponytail holder, and whose shoulder is smooth and white under the florescent kitchen light where it’s bared by his loose-necked shirt, starts beat boxing, puffing out his cheeks as he serves himself a bowl of rice, and looks up at Wu Fan with a dangerous smile.

“Well,” Yixing says, “since we’re going to be living together, I figured I’d start with the worst.”

“The worst?”

“Yes,” Yixing says, opening the fridge and pulling out side dishes, setting them on the kitchen table as Wu Fan watches him blearily from the doorway. “As in, I’m just going to do all the horrible things I usually do, and then when I don’t do them, it’ll be a pleasant surprise.” He makes the sound of a cymbal, like a triumphant finish to his beat boxing routine. “Horrible fact number one: I wake up really early and am never quiet about it.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Wu Fan says, voice like gravel. His head hurts, and the day hasn’t even really started yet, even if the traitorous sun is up and Yixing is staring at him cheerfully like he isn’t an awful person for dragging Wu Fan out of bed with all his noise. “Like, actually the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

It’s not, because he has understood some of Junmyeon’s theories on the state of golf in Korea, despite the language barrier, (and those are really dumb, because Wu Fan’s lived in Canada and he knows the only Korean golfer anyone knows anything about is K.J. Choi, who played in a tournament with Tiger Woods once or something, because no one outside of Korea gives a damn about Korean golf) but it’s close enough to being the dumbest thing Wu Fan’s ever heard that he has to blink and replay the conversation in his mind just to make sure he’d heard Yixing correctly.

Yixing reaches out and grabs Wu Fan’s wrist, and Wu Fan is tired enough that he lets him. Yixing has small hands, like a child almost, and they’re pretty, with long, thin fingers, nails cut short and square.

Wu Fan looks up from Yixing’s hand to his face, and Yixing is giving him a weird look that he quickly turns into a smile when he realizes Wu Fan is staring at him. He tugs, pulling Wu Fan forward to a chair, and then reaches up and pushes down on Wu Fan’s shoulders until Wu Fan is sitting at the table. He sets the bowl of rice in front of Wu Fan, who can still feel the tingle of Yixing’s fingers on the skin of his wrist, and then opens the rice cooker and serves a second bowl for himself. “Also, I made breakfast,” Yixing says. “Because if I’m going to be horrible, I have to occasionally do nice things too, so you won’t hate me.”

“You’re confusing,” Wu Fan says, and takes a bite of rice. It’s warm and sticky on his tongue. It tastes a little like home.

Wu Fan should be sleeping, but for some reason, he’s starting to feel okay about the fact that he isn’t.

“Yes,” Yixing says. “I was a child star. I have a lot of complexes.”

“Okay,” Wu Fan says, stirring at the cold green beans and cashew dish in a plastic container in front of him. “Did you cook this stuff?”

“Yes,” Yixing says. “And it tastes good. Stop picking at it.” Yixing sits across from him, watching him with lifted eyebrows that look a little judging.

“I’m sleepy,” Wu Fan whines, stretching out his legs under the table until they hit Yixing’s.

“We have the day off tomorrow,” Yixing says, like Wu Fan isn’t sitting across from him with his mouth full of half chewed rice and legs splayed under the table like a seven year old, hair sticking up at all angles because it’s too early to be not-in-his-bed. “I heard you’re good at basketball.”

“Who did you hear that from?”

“I like basketball too,” Yixing says. “Let’s play tomorrow.”

“What if I have plans tomorrow?”

“Now you definitely do,” Yixing says.

Yixing is bewildering, and clearly crazy, and Wu Fan should get up from the table and go back to bed, and pull the covers up as high as they’ll go so he can pretend the sun hasn’t risen yet.

But something about Yixing is bizarrely charming, and Wu Fan finds himself swallowing the rice, and tasting the green beans. They are good. “Okay,” Wu Fan says, and Yixing, who’s taking a bite of broccoli, smiles at him, hair falling into his eyes, and Wu Fan thinks he’s a little bit beautiful.

Wu Fan is only eighteen, but he knows enough about what that thought means to bury it as deep as it’ll go.


#


Wu Fan takes Jongdae out to explore the street-food vendors despite the August heat. “The worst part is,” Jongdae says, “it’s not going to be any better in Seoul.”

In Seoul, there will be twelve of them. It will be easier to avoid Yixing, and all the things that come along with him; the sweaty palms, the quickening pulse, and the fluttering in his belly that he’s managed to avoid thinking about for four whole years, before it suddenly became undeniable.

“You never know,” Wu Fan says. “Maybe there will be a surprise cold front.” Wu Fan had read the chapter in his Korean book on advanced weather this morning. He hadn’t thought any of the vocabulary was useful, but Wu Fan knows better, after learning three other languages, than to think even the strangest words won’t come in handy.

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Jongdae says. “You have to know, after four years, that Korea’s spring and autumn are only about two weeks each.”

“False advertising on that four seasons thing,” Wu Fan says, and people turn to stare, because they’re speaking Korean, and Wu Fan just hopes no one recognizes them. They’re both wearing sunglasses and have their hair under ball-caps, but fans have seen through heavier disguises.

It’s safer here than in Korea, though. Less dangerous to go out for lunch, if you know where to go.

“We should eat that,” Jongdae says, and Wu Fan shrugs.

“Order it, then.”

“You’re the Chinese person,” Jongdae says. “You order it.”

“Practice makes perfect,” Wu Fan says, and bats his lashes, and Jongdae chokes on a laugh.

“That was terrifying,” Jongdae says. “That’s why no one ever asks you for your ‘aegyo’.” Jongdae pulls on the brim of his cap. “Is this revenge for the smiling joke at the photo shoot yesterday?”

“Absolutely,” Wu Fan says. “I can so smile.”

“Not in front of cameras,” Jongdae replies. “Unless Yixing does something humiliating, in which case you’re laughing, but it’s the sad laugh of a man who’s not sure what he has to live for anymore.”

“The way you describe me is so flattering,” Wu Fan replies. “I’m so honored by it that you can order the take-out tonight, too.”

“We’ll all go hungry before I order take-out over the phone in Mandarin,” Jongdae says. “Who knows where that poor delivery person would end up driving food to? He’d be on his bike halfway to Taiwan with the completely wrong order if you left that task up to me.”

“You can’t drive to Taiwan from here,” Wu Fan says. “And I don’t think he’d accept a Taiwanese address for delivery.”

“It was an exaggeration,” Jongdae says, and then he digs into his pocket for his money and wanders up to the stall-vendor.

Wu Fan lets him struggle for a whole three minutes before he steps in, staunchly not laughing at Jongdae’s mutinous face as he collects the food, handing one of the paper wrapped buns to Jongdae and taking a bite of his own.

“Wow, epic fail,” Wu Fan says, and Jongdae sticks his tongue out at him, before he starts closing his eyes.

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you; I was looking at your face and accidentally fell asleep.”

“I get nervous,” Wu Fan says, and Jongdae snickers around a mouthful of meat pastry.

“You almost gave our photographer a stroke yesterday,” Jongdae says. “He looked like he might leave the shoot with a fear of going dark places alone.”

Wu Fan scrunches his face. “Do I really look that scary? I keep thinking they can smell the terror.”

“The only terror they smell is their own. I think the interviewer actually believed Yixing when he implied that we’re all afraid of you.” Jongdae hooks a thumb through his belt-loop. “Although you can be legitimately scary in rehearsal, I suppose.”

“Well, yes, I have to exercise my leadership skills-“

“I meant your dancing,” Jongdae says, and by the time Wu Fan recognizes the insult, Jongdae has already skipped ahead, weaving through the crowd, and as Wu Fan chases him, trying not to trip over the tiny old ladies with their baskets full of produce, Wu Fan thinks that maybe the reason he tries to be cool on TV is that he never gets to be cool in real life.

“Come back here, ‘Dancing Machine Chen’!” Wu Fan shouts after him, and he can hear Jongdae’s cackle.

When they get back to their dorm, Jongdae bursting through the door, and Wu Fan hot on his heels, Yixing is standing there with a glass of water, face expressionless.

“Hi,” Wu Fan says, and Jongdae collapses on the sofa, sticking out his legs and balling up the paper from his bun.

“Did you have fun?” Yixing asks Jongdae, but he’s looking at Wu Fan as he speaks, eyes slowly roving over Wu Fan’s sweaty face and probably crazy hair, and Wu Fan wants to hide away, or fix himself, or something. He can feel the ease of the past half an hour being replaced with the weird tension he’s been feeling around Yixing lately, that makes Wu Fan feel on edge and nervous and sort of like he’s about to give a very important speech in front of hundreds of people in a language he doesn’t know without having brushed his teeth.

“Yeah,” Jongdae says. “Except for duizhang trying to make me speak Mandarin.”

Yixing steps closer to Wu Fan, and Wu Fan ‘s lunch sits heavy in his stomach. “Leader, why are you so mean?”

“Don’t call me that,” Wu Fan says, as Yixing’s shoulder rubs against his arm. It’s like electricity, and he turns to look at Jongdae instead, and hopes the redness in his face can still be passed off as exertion.

Yixing is too close.

“Mean, or leader?” Yixing asks, and Wu Fan balls his hands up into fists at the teasing in Yixing’s voice, because Yixing knows the answer.

“I’m tired. I’m going to take a nap,” he says, and Jongdae looks between Wu Fan and Yixing curiously, and Wu Fan promptly ignores he questioning look on his face and steps away from Yixing.

He walks into his room and shuts the door. He doesn’t turn on the light. His arm still tingles where Yixing had touched him, and Wu Fan doesn’t know how to make it stop.

Wu Fan just keeps replaying, in his head, the way Yixing had rested his hands on his shoulders at the photo shoot, and dragged them down his back, and wonders when this feeling became so much harder to bear.


#


Wu Fan can’t say he’d been prepared for fame. If you’d asked him what it would mean, to debut with EXO and have his face plastered across train stations in two different countries, he’d have told you it meant they were doing a good job.

He would not have told you it meant eyes watching his every move, cameras shoved up into his face as fans tried to trample him in airports, and being afraid to breathe wrong lest it create an anti-fan who could, and would, write terrible things about him on the internet that will make his mother cry, and make Wu Fan’s heart ache, just a little, even if he refuses to let it show.

But the one thing Wu Fan can count on is coming home, taking the steps instead of the elevator up to their dorm in Korea, or their dorm in China, where there are five other people, or eleven, who know exactly what he’s feeling waiting for him, and closing the door, and being safe.

Behind the front door, EXO-M’s Kris can tear off his shirt, muss his hair, and just be Wu Fan again. Sometimes he calls his Canadian friends on Skype, or Kakao, and for them, he’s Kevin, but either way, no one is taking pictures of him, and no one is looking at him, and Wu Fan can close his eyes and exhale.

But Wu Fan’s sanctuary is becoming dangerous in new ways.

It’s not like he wakes up one day, and all of a sudden realizes that the weight of his eyes are falling on Yixing a little heavier than they used to, or that Yixing is so deeply entrenched in Wu Fan’s personal space that when Yixing isn’t around, Wu Fan misses the smell of the other man’s eucalyptus scented shampoo.

It’s more of a gradual thing; Wu Fan can feel Yixing watching him as he fixes his hair in the bathroom mirror, and it makes him nervous, and when he feels Yixing’s fingers ghost along the skin of his forearm because he wants Wu Fan to turn toward him, it makes Wu Fan’s throat go dry because he doesn’t know if that means the same thing to Yixing as it means to him.

Yixing is unpredictable and impossible to read, so Wu Fan doesn’t know what Yixing wants.

Wu Fan thinks he might, sort of, know what he, himself, wants, but no one ever knows what Yixing wants. Yixing is too good at prevaricating; his mask is better than Wu Fan’s has ever been, because Yixing has built up an entire persona for dealing with people that he’s been using for years, and not even Wu Fan’s careful eyes can compete with it’s efficacy.

It’s the not knowing that makes Wu Fan the most uneasy, because Wu Fan is a man who likes to be in control. Being leader of EXO-M helps, but not with Yixing, who is so capricious even Lu Han doesn’t know what the hell he’ll do or say, in any given moment.

Yixing’s thoughts are hidden, and Wu Fan wishes he could have a hint as to what Yixing wants from him, because Yixing has been the most confusing person in Wu Fan’s life since Wu Fan met him, and things get a little more tangled up (Wu Fan gets a little more tangled up) every day.

“You seem tense,” Yixing murmurs to him one afternoon, the week before their showcase in Korea, as they both stand out on the balcony with cans of sweetened black tea, letting the summer air cling to sweaty skin and watching the evening sun sink behind the tall mountains that ring the city of Seoul.

“What do you want?” Wu Fan asks him, and Yixing doesn’t turn to look at him.

“That’s a big question,” Yixing says, and he reaches up and scratches at the side of his cheek. “One that has a lot of different answers.”

“I really don’t get you,” Wu Fan says, and Yixing grins.

“I know,” he says, and then he takes another sip of his drink.


#


Wu Fan is replying to fan board messages when Yixing sits next to him on the sofa. “What are you up to?” Yixing’s t-shirt has a low ‘v’ neck, and reveals more of his chest than it hides, Wu Fan thinks, before he reminds himself that he’s not supposed to notice that sort of thing.

“Fan questions,” Wu Fan says, licking his lips and returning his eyes to the screen, trying to figure out which question he left off on. “I’ll never get through enough of them. I don’t know what to say.”

“Let me help,” Yixing says, scooting closer. “I’m pretty good with these.”

“No, you’re not,” Wu Fan says, but he pushes the laptop a little towards Yixing, so he doesn’t have to strain his eyes to see. “You smell like crackers.”

“I was hungry.”

“You’re always hungry.”

At first, Wu Fan doesn’t notice that Yixing’s too close, because as trainees they’d lived on top of each other, but after a moment, Wu Fan starts to feel the heat of Yixing’s thigh through the denim of both their jeans, and the brush of Yixing’s lightly curled hair along his jaw.

He licks his lips again, and Yixing’s eyes flick up to glance at him, and they catch the movement. A tiny smile tugs at the corners of Yixing’s mouth, and Wu Fan’s gut clenches. “I’m better than you, though,” Yixing says, and he leans just a bit nearer, and now the bare skin of his arm is sliding across Wu Fan’s, and it’s… distracting. There’s a glint of amusement in Yixing’s eyes. “After all, I’ve had fans for years.”

Wu Fan swallows, and looks back at the screen of his laptop, instead of at the way Yixing is looking at him like he has a secret. “All right then,” Wu Fan says. “Teach me.”

“You should ask more nicely,” Yixing replies, and his fingers skate briefly across Wu Fan’s thigh before they find the keyboard, and Wu Fan can’t seem to focus on the text.

“This is cozy,” Lu Han says, sitting down in the armchair across from them. He looks entertained as Wu Fan shifts uncomfortably, trying and failing to create space between himself and Yixing.

“Fan board messages,” Wu Fan says, but it sounds more like croaking than like words, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Yixing is helping me reply to them.”

“Well, you certainly look productive,” Lu Han says dubiously, and Wu Fan is conscious of the way it must look to Lu Han, Yixing draped across him, curling into his space and leaving Wu Fan feeling tense and flushed. Then Lu Han is standing up again, the cold glass of barley tea in his right hand glistening with condensation. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“You don’t have to leave,” Wu Fan says, and he doesn’t think he sounds like he’s begging, but he can’t be sure, because Yixing has just slid a little closer, and the smell of eucalyptus is overpowering.

Lu Han looks like he’s suppressing a smile. Wu Fan doesn’t get what’s funny about the slow denigration of his sanity. “I was going to call Sehun, anyway,” Lu Han says. “See how our other half is doing.”

Lu Han slips away, and Yixing looks up at Wu Fan, through lashes that seem darker than usual, and Wu Fan can’t look away. There’s a flash of something in Yixing’s eyes, that Wu Fan still can’t pinpoint, but it’s jarring and dangerous and Wu Fan can’t help but wonder what it is, even though he knows better than to wonder about what Yixing is thinking.

“Well, aren’t you going to type?” Yixing says, and Wu Fan thinks he might be losing his mind.

“Yeah,” Wu Fan says, blinking twice. “Yeah.”

When he goes to bed that night, questionable replies to fan messages posted and complicated face care routine completed, Wu Fan tries to fall asleep, but behind his eyelids is Yixing, and Wu Fan feels so guilty and stupid he can’t manage to fall asleep.


#


It’s getting closer to the release of the first teaser. Wu Fan’s not sure how they’ve edited them, but he knows the first one will be the one with Jongin in a top-hat.

Wu Fan’s not sure what it’ll be like when they debut; when it’ll be six instead of twelve, and friends and companions will be separated by oceans.

Wu Fan likes everyone in EXO, and even the members that joined later seemed to fall into sync with them so easily, fitting right in as if they belonged. He likes the way they’re all so different from each other that the things that might have polarized them seem insignificant. He likes everyone, so when there will be only six of them, he thinks he’ll miss the feeling of twelve.

If he has to pick one thing he’ll miss the most, though, he thinks he’ll miss sitting around in his underwear with Chanyeol talking about nothing, with his passable Korean and Chanyeol’s hopeless Mandarin getting them through music exchanges and conversations about soccer and whatever else they talk about.

Sometimes they just hang out and don’t say much at all, Chanyeol surfing the web as Wu Fan looks up scores from NBA games and writes emails to Amber about how much he craves french fries that haven’t been cooked in sesame oil because she totally gets it.

Chanyeol knows his way around the internet. Most of the time he’s just downloading lesbian porn or listening to weird mix tapes, but sometimes he finds real gems when he gets bored enough to cruise Naver for mentions of his friends’ names.

“I found all these videos of Yixing from years ago, on Chinese television,” Chanyeol says, and Wu Fan squeezes onto the chair with him. Chanyeol makes a whining noise of complaint, but scoots over just enough that Wu Fan isn’t falling off as they both look at the screen.

Chanyeol eats potato chips as they watch, and every time Yixing talks, or his voice cracks on a high note, Chanyeol spits chip fragments onto the screen, which Wu Fan thinks is gross, and he would never do it unless he was sure he was completely alone. Wu Fan sort of likes that Chanyeol is shameless, though, because in some ways he can live vicariously through him.

“Oh my god,” Chanyeol says, as Yixing, in the video, sits on the floor and starts singing a song about goldfish. “Oh my god, he really is an alien. Maybe EXOplanet is real and he’s actually from there.”

“There are a million things that would surprise me more than Yixing being from another planet,” Wu Fan replies dryly, and he draws his eyebrows together. “I am going to be in trouble, aren’t I?”

“Yeah,” Chanyeol says, and he starts speaking too quickly and too carelessly, and Wu Fan struggles to keep up with him. “He’s going to be deadly on variety shows. I can see it now. Yixing, face set in that empty, vacant expression, talking all about that time when Zitao found Lu Han’s underwear balled up in the coffee-maker, and it turned out that Junmyeon had been- ”

“I never want to think about that again,” Wu Fan says. “Ever.”

“Anyway, he’s going to be a nightmare; nothing will be sacred-“

“Who?” says a softer, sweeter voice, and Baekhyun has come in, looking sleepy, and he walks over to the bed, collapsing on it dramatically.

“Yixing,” Wu Fan says, and Baekhyun nods at him in greeting from his prone position. Baekhyun’s newer, but he’s got a way about him that means Wu Fan doesn’t really remember the dynamics before Baekhyun joined them. Chanyeol gets up immediately and walks over to the bed, sprawling next to Baekhyun and looking down at him with his head balancing his hand, weight on his elbow.

The way Baekhyun’s fingers slide up Chanyeol’s forearm… it reminds Wu Fan of Yixing, and the way his childlike hands always find their way into Wu Fan’s personal space, and the way Chanyeol doesn’t protest reminds him of the brief moments when he allows that touch, before he rolls his eyes and pushes Yixing away. Yixing always laughs and never learns, and Wu Fan isn’t sure he wants him to.

Baekhyun and Chanyeol are caught up in conversation now, and Wu Fan catches maybe a quarter of it but it’s too hushed. “I’m going back to the other dorm,” Wu Fan says, and Chanyeol looks up.

“But we have more videos to watch,” Chanyeol says. “For blackmailing purposes.” His eyes go wide. “You can never have too much blackmail on Yixing. He’s wily.”

“We can watch them later,” Wu Fan says with a shrug, and Chanyeol raises an eyebrow as Baekhyun frowns down at a nail he must have chipped. “I’ve got things to do.”

“All right, man, but try not to wash your face too many times tonight,” Chanyeol says. “I hear other idols can smell ‘overkill’, and you don’t want them to know you’re easy prey.”

“Shut up,” Wu Fan says, and Chanyeol laughs way too loud at his response, and Wu Fan wonders why no one ever takes him seriously.

Yixing gets home really late. He’s got a towel around his neck, and he’s wearing only a tank shirt underneath his winter coat. Strands of hair escape his ponytail, and fall into his face, dark against pale skin.

“Where have you been?” Wu Fan asks, as he sits at the table with his tea and tries to memorize the huge list of Korean proverbs Kyungsoo wrote out for him.

“Gym,” Yixing says. “Were you waiting up for me?” The lilt in his voice is unusual, and Wu Fan looks up, but Yixing isn’t looking at him; Yixing is untying his shoes, and maybe Wu Fan had imagined it.

“No,” Wu Fan says, because Wu Fan doesn’t want Yixing to get any ideas, especially when he’s still not sure why… “I’m studying proverbs.”

“You were!” Yixing says. “Leader, I’ve known you four years, now. That constipated face will never fool me.” Yixing takes the towel and fluffs his hair with it, and Wu Fan purposefully ignores the way some strands stick to the side of his face. “Stop trying to be cool.”

“Why do you call me that?” Wu Fan wets his upper lip with his tongue. His lips are chapped. “Like you said, we’ve know each other for four years, now.”

“Why do I call you ‘leader’?”

“Yes. I haven’t always been leader. There hasn’t always been EXO.”

“Because you like it,” Yixing says, walking over to Wu Fan. He stands behind him, and rests his hands on Wu Fan’s biceps. His hands are hot, even through the thermal of Wu Fan’s long sleeved nightshirt. “Leader,” he says again, leaning forward and whispering it into Wu Fan’s ear. Wu Fan shivers and Yixing laughs. “See?”

Hammering. His heart is hammering. “When we go on variety shows,” Wu Fan says, “don’t be too much.”

“What’s that mean?”

“You know what it means,” Wu Fan snaps, because his ear still tingles, and Yixing saying ‘leader’ is still echoing in his head, and Wu Fan hates it, mostly because he likes more than he should. It’s confusing, like everything about Yixing is confusing.

“Sure,” Yixing says, and he backs away, leaving Wu Fan missing the heat of him against his back. But then Yixing does that thing, where his fingers graze the skin on the inside of Wu Fan’s elbow, and it sort of burns. “I’ll be good,” he says, and Wu Fan feels like there’s something caught in his throat.

“You’re so weird,” Wu Fan says, jerking his arm away and looking down at his homework. Yixing clicks his tongue.

“You like me anyway,” Yixing says, and Wu Fan can feel himself blushing, and it’s humiliating, but he can’t stop it.

“How are you so sure?” Wu Fan says, and he’s gripping his mechanical pencil so tight he’s afraid it’ll snap in his hand.

“Just hoping, I guess,” Yixing says, and Wu Fan stares down at his paper and sees nothing at all but a blur. “We have this one in Chinese.” Wu Fan blinks and looks at where Yixing is pointing. “Two birds, one stone.”

il seok i jo. One stone, two birds.

It’s fine, Wu Fan tells himself. It’ll go away. The feeling will go away. He pushes it down, down, down, and focuses on his work. Wu Fan’s will power is the stone, and he stars the proverb because he won’t forget it.


#


Yixing, Wu Fan pessimistically notes, takes the way Wu Fan shies from his touch like a challenge. Every time Wu Fan tries to move away, Yixing approaches it as an invitation to move closer, casual hands finding their way onto Wu Fan’s stomach, shoulder, thigh, ankle, arm—anywhere Yixing can reach, really, and Wu Fan’s not sure if it’s always been this way or if he’s just noticing because his senses, where Yixing is concerned, are irrevocably heightened.

Either way, it’s a slow, simmering torture, and Wu Fan doesn’t know what to do about it.

Their manager sends them stills from the photo shoot, so they can see how they turned out, and Wu Fan thinks they look good as he clicks through them, seated at the kitchen table. They photoshopped the circles from underneath Wu Fan’s eyes, at least.

“You look dashing,” Yixing says, standing behind him, peering over his shoulder. “And no matter how much milk I drink, I’ll never be as tall as you.” It’s just like he’d said during an interview, a few months ago.

Wu Fan, despite everything else on his mind, can’t help but laugh. “You say the weirdest stuff on television, Yixing.”

“It’s because of the look of panic you get on your face right before they hand me the microphone,” Yixing replies. “It’s delicious.”

“You’re wicked,” Wu Fan says. “If it’s just that look you want, after I make it, you don’t have to keep talking.”

“Yes I do,” Yixing says. “Otherwise, you’ll start to get comfortable, thinking that I’m not really going to say something embarrassing, and you’ll stop making the look.”

“Is it really that good of a look?” Wu Fan blows his bangs out of his face, and clicks to the next shot. It’s a solo shot of Lu Han, who looks adorable as usual. Wu Fan bets there’s hardly any photoshop on his pictures, the bastard.

“All of duizhang’s looks are good,” Yixing singsongs, and Wu Fan rolls his eyes. “Because duizhang is so handsome.”

“You’re such an alien,” Wu Fan says, and Yixing laughs, and they’re both laughing, and this… this is good.

“I missed talking with you, like this,” Yixing says, and Wu Fan freezes. “It’s been weird.”

“I’m sorry,” Wu Fan says, and there’s the guilt again, gnawing at his insides. “I’ve just been stressed.”

“Is it alright now?” Yixing asks, and Wu Fan swallows.

“It will be,” he says, because he means it. This is his problem, and he hadn’t meant to make things hard for Yixing. He hadn’t meant for anyone to notice, but Wu Fan’s not perfect, no matter how hard he tries. “I promise.”

And he looks at Yixing, whose head is over his shoulder, and Yixing is looking back, and he can feel Yixing’s tiny puffs of air on his nose. There’s that something in Yixing’s eyes again, and Wu Fan is lost, because he doesn’t know what it means, but it doesn’t stop Wu Fan from wanting to kiss him.

“Good night, Wu Fan,” Yixing says softly, into Wu Fan’s ear, and it’s a familiar gesture, but Wu Fan, who has been struggling with… everything, aches with the desire to touch and take. And then Yixing’s gone, leaving Wu Fan alone in the kitchen, disoriented and longing.

And it’s been a long time, Wu Fan thinks, since he heard his name on Yixing’s lips.


#


Sometimes, Wu Fan feels so close to Yixing.

Maybe it’s because Wu Fan has a way of coming across cold when really he’s just awkward and socially inept, and Yixing has this way of antagonizing him out of it; Yixing makes Wu Fan forget that other people are watching, and that allows him to be himself. With Yixing, it’s impossible to keep a straight face, despite the fact that Wu Fan kind of wants fans to think he’s not-lame, and works really hard not to embarrass himself. Yixing consciously tries to ruin that for him, and Wu Fan wants to be mad about it, but he can’t seem to hold on to the anger when Yixing gives him that dimpled smile that means he knows he’s been bad.

“Kris’s hobby is trying to be cool,” Yixing says, on television, and Wu Fan wants to slap his hand over Yixing’s mouth so words will just stop coming out of it. Later, when Wu Fan confronts him about it, Yixing just offers him a long, indecipherable stare.

“You’re much cooler when you’re just being yourself,” Yixing says. “The way you are with us. The way you look on television is creepy.” Yixing pauses. “Well, sometimes you look creepy at home, too, but usually it’s because someone, probably me, woke you up or-“

“Thanks,” Wu Fan says sarcastically, pushing his hands into his pockets and frowning at the floor.

“I just think our fans deserve to like you as much as we do,” Yixing says, and Wu Fan jerks his head up, mouth opening in a way that must be unattractive but… “Now see, that’s a much better face.” And then Yixing steps closer, taking his index finger and pushing Wu Fan’s chin up so his mouth closes, and Wu Fan can’t look away from him, because he’s gorgeous like this, eyes sparkling with barely contained mirth.

“I told you he’d be trouble,” Chanyeol says, when Wu Fan calls him that night to complain. “I’m watching the clip on Daum right now and you look like you want to die.”

“It’s that bad?”

“It’s not bad, so much as it looks kind of like someone unexpectedly shoved a whale up your as-“

“Stop talking,” Wu Fan says. “Before I reach my arms across the ocean to strangle you.”

But when Wu Fan watches the clip, and sees the dumb face he’s making and how everyone is laughing, he actually thinks it’s not that bad, and it’s probably the most natural he’s looked on screen since this whole whirlwind of promotions started.

“I’m a variety show veteran,” Yixing says, when Wu Fan tentatively brings it up the next day. “And you’re cute when you’re horrified.”

“I’m never cute,” Wu Fan says indignantly. “Zitao is cute. Minseok is cute. Lu Han is cute. I am not cute.”

“Sometimes duizhang is very cute,” Yixing says, pinching Wu Fan’s side and grinning up through his lashes, and Wu Fan forgets what they were arguing about because Yixing is pretty cute, too.

At other times, though, Wu Fan feels like he and Yixing aren’t very close at all.

Sometimes, they sit in the living room of the dorm as the sun sets, and say nothing and do nothing, which is a blessing in their frantic lives.

But Yixing pulls inside of himself then, just staring, at Wu Fan or maybe through him, pensive and melancholy and so far away.

“I can never tell what you’re thinking, when you do that,” Wu Fan says, and Yixing, who’s holding his guitar steady on his lap, absently strums F with his thumb, fingers on his left hand white at the tips from pressing down on the strings on the neck.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that,” Wu Fan says, and Yixing sighs, and doesn’t answer, and strums G.


PART TWO