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Kai / Xiumin - fortune-telling 

 

Lu Han is the one who comes up with the idea of using fortune ladders to allot roommate assignments during one of their overseas trips, but as Minseok follows the inked trails down, it's Jongin's name -- nice, quiet Jongin who sleeps like a log and doesn't wake up at ungodly hours of the night to start pillow fights or pinch his cheeks -- he finds at the other end of the line marked with his own name.

 

 

 

 

Minseok pulls Jongin aside after one of their dance lessons because whatever the other trainees are planning for the top candidate for the position of SM's next golden boy is most likely going to be petty and immature; while the rest of them may be children, Minseok -- despite his tiny stature and his rather inconspicuous presence -- is a grown man and like hell is he going to let this happen under his watch.

 

 

 

 

"Another one from China," someone whispers into Junmyeon's ear, voice dripping with condescension as they watch one of the new guys introduce himself -- but rather than his dark eyes or heavy accent, Junmyeon notices the strong set of the kid's jaw and the overflowing confidence in the kid's stance and remembers a time when he used to be able to recognize those qualities in himself.

 

It's a pity that Jongdae's pretty skin is fang-shatteringly difficult to pierce, and even moreso that his cold blood is stale compared to the fresh tang of actual human blood -- but he lets out these delicious little moans that have Lu Han nibbling his neck anyway, hungry in a way that won't destroy Jongdae like all of his other nightly treats. 

 

 

 

 

Lu Han gets picked for the dance-off of course -- the program is being recorded in Beijing and the MCs are obsessed with showing him off like some sort of hometown hero -- but it's both surprising yet, in retrospect, expected when Jongdae's arm shoots up like a rocket after the MCs ask for one of the others to go up against him, all too eager to soak in the limelight.

 

 

 

It's only after their youngest have been given their obligatory coming-of-age presents that Junmyeon whips out a bottle of expensive bokbunja that shines a deep ruby red under the living room lights, pouring each of them a glass with experienced fingers and watching them down it with excited giggles, all while pretending he doesn't notice the way the wine's rich red color stains Jongin's lips.

 

Luhan / Sehun - wilted roses 

 

Lu Han constantly, loudly reminds everyone he doesn't like people on his bed, but that doesn't stop Sehun from sitting down on it anyway so he can pull the blankets up over Lu Han's sleeping body -- Lu Han may be the hyung, but as Sehun looks down at how the faded red dye of Lu Han's hair draws out the pallor of his skin, he figures that hyungs deserve just as much care as maknaes sometimes.

 

 

 

 

"My grandmother would make this for me when I was growing up. Good for the body," Zitao announces as he switches out Jongin's water bottle for a thermos of tea smelling strongly of peaches and ginger, and when Jongin looks up at him -- tired and sore from a long day of rehearsals -- Zitao mimes drinking it and smiles when Jongin obediently copies him with an endearingly grumpy expression.

 

06/22/13 responses: 

 

 

Minseo is so tiny in Seyeon's arms as they hug each other good-bye that it's hard to remember that she's the unnie, although after EXO-M's plane to China takes off Seyeon can't imagine how she'd ever forget Minseo's quiet, strong, reassuring presence during the years they spent walking down the corridors of SM together, their hands mere centimeters apart but never quite touching.

 

 

 

 

Their first CF as twelve members is for some fizzy juice brand Baekhee finds too tangy to really enjoy, but then Zitao spills a can of it all over herself in-between takes and Baekhee spends the ten minutes the production staff gives them for clean-up with Zitao's sticky fingers in her mouth, savoring the sweet taste as she sucks each digit clean and Zitao dirties her free hand under Baekhee's mini-skirt, rubbing her thumb against Baekhee's clit and curling her fingers in Baekhee’s pussy until Baekhee comes all over her with a muffled moan.

 

 

 

Baekhyun / Tao - karaoke room 

 

The best thing about all of their maknaes now being of drinking age is that when they celebrate their comeback, there's no excuse why everyone can't get ridiculously drunk at one of SM's high security noraebangs -- so drunk that all Baekhee has to do is sit back and enjoy the show, pretending that her panties aren't already soaking wet from watching Zitao alternate between obnoxiously grinding up against Chanmi and shamelessly making-out with Minseo.

 

 

 

 

"You didn't see anything," Baekhee sternly tells Kyungri, scooting away from Chanmi's drawer of padded bras and concealing the bottle of itching powder behind her back; she can't be sure Kyungri with her unfairly huge eyes noticed the latest shot fired in the cold war between Baekhee and Chanmi, but that doesn't stop the guilty flush in Baekhee's cheeks or the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

 

 


06/25/13 responses: 

(a/n: Kai coming out of his shell both literally and figuratively lol /rimshot)

 

The two of them don't work together often if only because it feels like overkill on the off-chance that they are partnered up; between Baekhyun bending light around them like an invisibility cloak and Lu Han's ability to lift ridiculously valuable trinkets from their pretty, little pedestals without raising a finger, all the fun gets taken out of the very act of burglary and the whole thing starts to feel like an actual job rather than the petty dalliances of bored meta-humans.

 

 

 

"Does the pain ever go away?" Baekhyun asks despondently as they watch yet another media outlet speculate about SNSD's slow, messy disbandment due to conflicting interests between the girls and complaints against apparent company favoritism, and while Lu Han wishes he could answer that time heals all wounds, he still can't face his Mirotic-era poster of DBSK and not sigh over better times and his still-broken heart.

(a/n: Set in the future. Fans can get emotionally scarred for life because of disbandments, just saying u__u, This may or may not be based on reality lol)
 

 

 

"That's pretty special, that you were already famous in China before all of this," Kyungsoo tells him while they're washing dishes together one night after Lu Han pulls out online clips of Yixing's child star days, but Yixing honestly doesn't feel special at all and hasn't felt so since the last time he performed on a stage for an audience screaming his name, rather than merely blending into a faceless crowd with nothing to show for years besides a heavy heart and his chest filled with longing as he watches others race towards the stars.

 

Junmyeon kisses two strangers before breakfast and Sehun over his morning coffee. Sehun's lips are always warmer than anyone else's, even when leaving his own that much cooler -- but never quite enough to chase away the memory of a real spark, of another pair that've been seven years gone. He's long since acquainted himself with this familiar bitterness, but that doesn't stop him from trying to wash away the taste of Sehun's lips with copious amounts of coffee.

"I'm insulted, hyung," Sehun deadpans as he pulls back into a pair of patiently waiting arms, missing how Youngho rolls his eyes.

"If anyone should be insulted, it should be Youngho," Junmyeon laughs as he watches them. He pours another packet of sweetener into his mug, stirring until every last granule dissolves. "People don't typically take well to their partners kissing others."

Youngho smiles, lips drawn tight. Junmyeon understands all too well, recognizes the insincerity when Youngho jokes, "You should just take Sehun hyung off my hands." His arm tightens around Sehun's shoulders and Junmyeon aches. His own shoulders sag under the phantom weight of a boy with lanky limbs and horrible morning breath, pressing down and kissing him underneath doorways until Junmyeon barely had the energy to stand, let alone kiss back.

He takes another sip of his coffee. It still isn't sweet enough, but he smiles anyway.




Hospital visits are routine for Junmyeon, who drops by multiple times a day to help out with lethargic patients in-between his shifts at the neighboring research facility. Zitao once called him 'kind', Jongdae fondly adding 'saintly'. It's nothing like that though; all Junmyeon does is graze some stranger's lips with his own, praying there aren't side effects.

"Junmyeon," the receptionist greets when he follows Sehun into the lobby, a proxy while Youngho's in class. She looks surprised -- probably is surprised -- to see him. He'd dropped by two hours prior and usually didn't have enough energy to make it back for another three, feeling sick and stiff with unreleased tension.

"I'm just here as a visitor," he assures her. Sehun holds up a gaudy get-well card, sprinkling glitter everywhere. Junmyeon had offered to buy a professional one, but Sehun had laughed in his face and spent the money on snacks instead.

Junmyeon doesn't know the story of the guy they're visiting, barely recognizes his name from Sehun's ramblings. People end up here for several reasons, some Junmyeon is more familiar with than others.

Sometimes, it's easier not to know.

"I'll stand out here," he says once outside the door. He spends enough time in these rooms already, still recalls the prickle of starched bedsheets against his fingertips, more tangible than the feeling of loss. The sterility of the hallway is more to his tastes, despite the chill. "I don't even know him."

"Jongin's the shy one, not you, hyung," Sehun laughs, eyes crinkled. He tugs Junmyeon's wrist with all the energy he'd swiped from him earlier and storms into the room. "Jongin! What's u--uh."

The boy leaning over the bed jerks away, as startled as Sehun's bedridden friend. They look embarrassed, the way they're both shrinking into themselves with twin expressions of shock. Junmyeon can't blame either of them really -- it's happened to him several times.

"Kyungsoo," he calls out, recognizing his fellow volunteer, "sorry for interrupting."

Kyungsoo coughs into his hand, an awkward chuckle slipping out. "It's fine, Junmyeon hyung. Jongin and I weren't as compatible as the doctors hoped anyway." Jongin looks down at his sheets miserably, still flustered, much to Sehun's amusement.

"Always said Jongin was too picky," Sehun laughs, "I don't know how Moongyu hyung put up with him for so long."

Another name Junmyeon doesn't remember, but it's not hard to connect the dots. "Your partner?"

"Not anymore."

Junmyeon recognizes that tone. The slump of Jongin's shoulders, the hurt on his face. Most patients wind up here because of temporary separations from their partners, whether out of necessity like business trips or due to petty arguments, stubborn pride. This is not the case.

This is more like his case.

"How about letting me try then?" he finds himself saying. He grabs the clipboard at the foot of Jongin's bed, flipping through the pages to find Jongin's particular wavelengh. He finds a series of graphs and spikes suggesting Jongin's an extremely fastidious receiver. "Sehun wasn't kidding about you being picky, but my energy's pretty indiscriminate. It's worth a shot?"

Jongin looks mutinous at the suggestion, folding into himself.

"Hyung's right," Kyungsoo says, "He's a pretty compatible guy. It could work." There's a gleam in his eyes as he glances between them. He then proceeds to drag Sehun out, catching Junmyeon's eye once more before shutting the door.

"We don't have to do this," Junmyeon immediately offers, meaning it. Rejection's routine, practically tasteless nowadays -- yet his heart pounds when Jongin bites his lip, deliberating.

"But you think it'll help." More than defeated, Jongin sounds cautious. He exhales and closes his eyes. "Fine."

He tenses, barely flinching as Junmyeon settles on the bed and cups his cheek. It's not until Junmyeon's close enough to kiss him that Jongin shudders, his lips parted as Junmyeon presses down feather-light -- the bare minimum for transferring energy.

But there's more. A spark that doesn't come just from the transfer.

A hand grasps his sleeve, tightening as Jongin kisses back with sweet lips. Junmyeon doesn't resist his pull, doesn't break away until Jongin's moan cuts through the haze because for the first time since Cho Kyuhyun had kissed him good-bye years ago, bitterness doesn't linger on his lips, in his heart. He'd almost forgotten the taste of anything else.

He wants seconds.

"Does this mean I can't kiss hyung anymore?" Sehun asks sullenly from outside. The smack of Kyungsoo's hand against his arm echoes, but all Junmyeon registers is Jongin pressing thin fingers against his lips and the familiar, unparalleled warmth of belonging to someone again pulsing in his own.

Lu Han likes the way Korean sounds on his tongue, his voice carrying each syllable past his lips and into Minseok's ear. Hours of classes and years of practice have weathered away his accent, and the lack of mistakes nowadays has little to do with promoting in China. While Mandarin still slips out easily even after years away from what once was home -- as easily as sliding into place next to Minseok on-stage -- it's Korean he speaks behind closed doors, sings under his breath when the cameras aren't around.

But even under bright lights and the scrutiny of thousands of eyes, as the MCs chatter with the others and the audience roars appreciatively, Lu Han will place a hand on Minseok's shoulder and whisper Korean too low for anyone else to hear. Stray comments missed by the translator, exaggerated imitations of Yifan's scripted responses and Tao's sickeningly adorable ones, unprompted answers to questions Minseok doesn't even have time to convert into elementary Mandarin.

"Thank you," Minseok says each time, the phrase too simple for him to trip over but more than enough for Lu Han. He smiles widely at Lu Han, gums showing and teeth gleaming under the spotlight.

Sometimes, Lu Han is bold enough to grab Minseok's hand instead. Sometimes in addition to Minseok's smile, Lu Han is rewarded with the squeeze of small fingers, tightening around his heart. Minseok's hold is firm and strong in a way people probably don't expect from someone with such soft features, but Lu Han doesn't mind shackles like this.




"I didn't catch that," Minseok whispers behind his hand one day, an observation rather than a complaint. He laughs a beat too slow, his lips curled up into a confused smile, so Lu Han scoots over and eagerly explains the joke the MC made about Yixing's face. It's a pretty poor one and Lu Han doesn't properly insert the MC's trademark comedic pauses, but when it elicits a genuine laugh from Minseok, he knows it's worth it.

That's how it starts.

Languages only come easy to some people -- Lu Han simply has to look within his own group to confirm this, watching as Zitao and Jongdae take turns stumbling in each other's mother tongue while Yifan easily corrects one or the other with a fond smile on his face. Thus, Lu Han is happy to pick up where the translator and Minseok's understanding leave him lacking.

Initially, Lu Han only translates a word here or there, ones that Minseok couldn't have possibly picked up no matter how many lessons he's been assigned. Minseok's thanks is always satisfying in an understated sort of way, the crinkling of his eyes, a relieved sigh, the way he turns to Lu Han with unmistakable gratitude on his face.

It gets easier for Lu Han to read Minseok, how his shoulders tense when he can't keep up with the scripted banter or how his eyes dart from one side of the stage to the other to monitor the others' reactions. Yet very rarely will Minseok even glance at him despite standing side-by-side, no matter how ready Lu Han is to help.

"Feel free to ask anytime," Lu Han assures him backstage as they're getting fitted for their mics, throwing his arms around Minseok's neck from behind, "I don't want you feeling left out."

Minseok pats one of his arms, rolling his eyes. "I'm a big boy, Lu Han, I can take care of myself."

And he probably can -- Minseok's more capable than anyone gives him credit for -- but Lu Han likes how his eyes light up when Lu Han explains something to him in familiar Korean, that silly smile that spreads on his face. It's not a problem if Minseok's progress with Mandarin starts to slip, if his initiative happens to falter whenever Lu Han offers him easy comprehension on a silver platter.

It's not a problem.




Only it is, seeing as Yifan and Yixing corner Lu Han after he's spent one too many days coaxing Minseok out of Mandarin practice with Zitao. It had only been a matter of time; Minseok's workbook pages have been neglected for weeks now, his accent noticeably worse.

"I get it, okay?" Yifan says with all the self-assurance of someone who actually doesn't, "but you can't keep using Minseok as an excuse to practice your Korean when he's supposed to be learning Mandarin."

"It's not like that. I'm helping him," Lu Han tries to argue, his fists tightening at his sides in sync with his chest. He wants to punch Yifan.

Yifan's glare pierces straight through his words, both the truth and the lie. "You're hindering him. He's barely spoken ten complete sentences in Mandarin on the past three shows we've been on. Barely even tried. You think no one's noticed you whispering in his ear all of the time?"

Slender hands -- Yixing's, the traitor -- settle on Lu Han's shoulders, holding him back from further regrets.

"We're worried too, and we know you're just trying to help," Yixing reasons, his voice steady and even. Yet with every word, Lu Han feels his heart sinking heavily. "Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime, remember? This isn't fair to Minseok."

Even if they're right, even if Yixing's his best friend and Yifan's his leader, Lu Han can't stop. Won't stop.




"I don't know what I'd do without you," Minseok tells him, sitting so close that Lu Han can feel his warm breath. The last of a translation has just barely left Lu Han's lips when Minseok's hand reaches for his, giving it a small squeeze. He feels Yifan's disapproving stare directed at the back of his head, yet all he can think of is Minseok's gaze -- so tender that he could mistake it for more than mere gratefulness, can pretend it's something deeper.

Love.

Need.

Lu Han doesn't mind shackles like these, not when they suit Minseok so perfectly.

When they had checked into the hotel that night, the beds had looked as soft and plush as any of the others Tao had become acquainted with. Big, fluffy pillows and soft, thick comforters -- he'd been all too eager to just bury himself in them and never emerge, regardless of their schedules. But when he flops down, arms spread in anticipation of sinking into the mattress, he finds himself disappointed.

Despite its deceptively cushiony appearance, his bed is surprisingly stiff. He feels a little like Goldilocks and tentatively wonders if he should test out Kris's.

Glancing at the closed bathroom door -- Kris had wasted no time in claiming it first, as if Tao would honestly challenge him for it -- Tao rolls over and stretches his leg across the space between their beds. Kicking the blankets aside, he bounces the heel of his foot down onto the surface once, twice, three times before deciding that a bed switch would be pointless.

"Duizhang," he calls out, careful to keep his voice low, "Duizhang, the beds suck."

Tao knows he shouldn't complain -- at least he's not stuck sleeping on a hardwood floor next to a flailing Chen again -- but that doesn't mean he has to like it. He kicks at Kris's bed as if it'll magically soften beneath the force of his blows, but no luck.

"Just go to sleep, Tao. Long day tomorrow."

Tao rolls his eyes, even if Kris isn't there to see him do it. "I'll sleep when you do."

There's a quiet scoff muffled by distance and a closed door, but no argument. Tao takes it as silent assent -- not quite as good as Kris's approval, but surely he's getting too old to be constantly seeking that.

The problem with waiting for Kris is that there's not much to do in their hotel room other than sleep. Tao doesn't dare raise his voice anymore, let alone practice his singing or language skills even if Kris is the least likely to tease him about it. There's no room for him to practice wushu or their new choreography either. He can already feel his eyelids drooping out of utter boredom.

Tao definitely doesn't want to sleep though, not before Kris does, not after what he just said.

"What are you doing in there anyway?" he asks after a few close calls. He reaches for his luggage and pulls out his laptop as he waits for Kris to answer. It takes just as long for his laptop to boot up.

"Getting ready for bed."

Tao frowns at the screen -- Kris's idea of getting ready for bed was far more elaborate than his own. There'd be no telling how long they'd be staying up tonight. "Just the three-step today?" he asks hopefully, trying to keep out any hints of childish petulance.

He looks up when he hears a click, just in time to see Kris poking his head out of the bathroom. His blond hair is tied up and his fingers are rubbing small, hypnotic circles into his skin. Tao's eyes linger seconds too long, but he can't help how Kris and his strict skincare routine fascinate him.

Kris takes a second to wiggle five foam-covered fingers at him, his eyebrows narrowed in concentration as he continues applying the product with his other hand. Tao stifles a impulsive groan and silently hopes that his leader is at least in the midst of using his toner -- and not just because it's the third step out of five. He knows from experience that it stings like a bitch, no matter how straight Kris's face stays.

With that, Kris returns to work. He doesn't bother shutting the door this time so Tao can see him hovering over the sink out of the corner of his eye, his profile as sharp and striking as ever as he splashes warm water on his face.

"Was that the toner?" Tao asks, turning back to his laptop. A slew of fantaken photos and videos from the group's latest outing have just been posted onto their Baidu Bar. He clicks on one in which his name is featured prominently, only to exit once an unflattering, unfiltered close-up of his pores load. Kris never has that problem he thinks glumly, clicking through other links.

"Exfoliant," Kris corrects. "It's important to scrub everything off."

Not everything needs to be scrubbed off in Tao's opinion, cleansed and toned and buffed until it shines like gold. There's no use telling that to Kris though, whose entire concept revolves around coming off as effortlessly flawless. There's a reason all of Kris's candids look like photoshoots and Tao's don't.

He continues searching through the site, his mouse hovering anxiously over certain links. Each click is a game of chance. The compliments may outweigh the insults tonight, but that doesn't keep the bitter sting of humiliation away every time he finds someone insulting his looks, his personality, his existence.

He doesn't even realize how long he keeps at it, not until a large hand closes his laptop for him. Obviously long enough for Kris to reach his last step: an overnight facial mask that whitens, tightens, cleanses. Creates an idol, an ideal.

"You shouldn't worry so much about what they say, Zitao."

Tao feels long fingers at the back of his neck, rubbing in those familiar, reassuring circles. He leans into the touch, tilting his head so he can look up at both of Kris's masks. Staring at Kris's mouth, he wonders whose words will come out -- the Kris he follows through airports or the one he first met back in Korea?

"You too, Duizhang."

Kris's lips barely twitch, a smile not worth ruining his mask. "That's different," he answers in his leader voice. So smooth, so sure, so authoritative. So wrong. But Tao can hear traces of Yifan in every pause, buried beneath sharp, shiny angles and fine details; he hopes Kris never manages to wear him away.

The estimated flight time is almost twelve hours. Minseok spends a majority of that time emulating their leader at his very best, curled up in his seat with one of the airplane's blankets draped over him. His beanie has long since fallen off due to a mix of tossing and turning and turbulence, so Jongdae holds tight to it for him. If his fingers cling a little too tightly to the fabric, it's only because it's one of Minseok's new favorites. He can't exactly go losing it.

Minseok shifts in his seat and nestles his head on Jongdae's shoulder.

"He looks comfortable," Tao whispers from Jongdae's other side in shoddy Korean, and even without looking, Jongdae can tell the younger boy has turned away from the window. There's nothing interesting to see out there anyway, just a load of blue whether he's looking above or below. They're still a few more hours before landing, before they even catch a glimpse of land. "And you do too."

"Of course, we're in first class," Jongdae answers back in Mandarin, keeping his eyes focused on the seams of Minseok's beanie and his mind on whether he's using the right inflections, "That not good enough for you?"

Tao makes a face at him, even managing to shove him with one of his bony elbows. "Not what I meant."

Jongdae knows what Tao means though, even with the language barrier. There's a reason why one of Jongdae's shoulders is awkwardly lowered, why he's half-draped over the armrest between him and Minseok, why he hasn't been able to focus on the in-flight movie even though it has one of the best OSTs he's ever heard.

"You're a brat," he laughs, "and your Korean is still bad. I was wrong -- Sehun's is better." His throat is hoarse from the rehearsals they had before they left, from their long, ongoing flight over the endless Pacific. He's too used to singing songs he doesn't understand; words he doesn't mean no longer affect him.

Tao rolls his eyes and turns back to the window, his pride obviously wounded. His shoulders are hunched and he presses his forehead against the glass, staring out at the endless blue. Jongdae wonders what else he sees.

"Loser," Tao mutters grumpily in Mandarin, almost too low for Jongdae to hear it.

He tightens his grip on Minseok's beanie, wishes that it was warm flesh underneath his fingers instead of just fabric. He hears liar instead.

Walking around alone isn't a luxury Joonmyun receives often for the same reason he has his hood pulled low, a scarf wrapped too tight around his neck. Even under the cover of darkness, he needs comfort, protection. Armor.

But then he hears them -- not the sounds of a busy crowd, the echoes of shadowing footsteps. Joonmyun's a Seoul boy, a people person.

It's the tell-tale clicks. Rapid-fire, never-ending, sounding closer with every step. Flashes go off in his periphery. He should be used to it, but as the shadows grow the pressure builds, weighing heavy on his chest. Squeezing him tight until a stale smile breaks out. Not Joonmyun's smile -- small, weary, chipping at the corners -- but Suho's.

The smile carves itself into Joonmyun's face, the mask pressing down until he can't breathe. But it can only take so much pressure before shattering to pieces, embedding into his skin and--



His eyes jolt open.

The bedroom is quiet, flooded with the morning's hues. A deep breath, a heavy sigh -- he almost relaxes until realizing they belong to a sleeping Sehun instead. A bitter reminder.

Inhaling the remains of Kim Joonmyun, Suho smiles complaisantly.

So it goes.