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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.

2009's a momentous year: DBSK cracks into two, Super Junior chips into fragments, SM debuts their last group for three years. Joonmyun watches with ridiculously misplaced hopes as his contract changes, most of the terms just prettily, precisely reworded.

It's not for the last time. By 2011 he's well-versed enough to comb through twelve contracts with Yifan one night, armed with pens and dictionaries -- Korean, Chinese, English, legal. The smallest differences are circled, cross-analyzed, counted. He doesn't know what numbers to look for, just that they should be the same. Numbers determine debuts and disbandments.

"Is it really important?" Yifan asks, rubbing his eyes with ink-smeared fingers. Joonmyun stares at them despairingly. A group split down the middle -- strained by distance, differences, dreams -- is a bad enough start. How can they protect Exo if the odds are already against them?

But then, that's his job. Being leader's more than a label, and "I'm Exo's Guardian" actually means something.

A nightlight's batteries die out eventually though, dream-catchers dry up over time -- Joonmyun is just as aware of his own limits. He'd like to be an Eric, but it'd be a miracle if he could just be Suho.

Jongin breathes in the steam rising around him. He rests his head against smooth glass, letting the spray of hot water wash away all signs of the day and watching as the droplets race down the paths forged by his hard-earned sweat. When he's like this -- hidden away behind a frosted door, shut off from the world of cameras and fans and never-ending dance practices -- it's easy to forget everything.

All it takes to break the illusion is one word.

"Jongin?"

He groans at the interruption, at the shadowy figure approaching from beyond the door. Eventually, he can see the dull orange of Joonmyun's stupid sweater through the glass. The faint outline of hands appear, cupped around a pair of eyes Jongin doesn't bother meeting.

"Is your back okay? You're supposed to take it easy."

Jongin holds back the growl in his throat, but not the scowl on his face. The glass can only hide so much from someone who's known him for five years.

"I'm fine. I'm done."

Even the running shower can't drown out the sounds of resignation, of a retreat. Jongin watches the last of the water slip through his fingers and into the drain.