«­-(¯`·´¯)-««

Movies aren’t something he usually does with the rest of the guys, instead reserved for pretty girls with short skirts and smooth legs and wandering hands. The older girls are even nice enough to pay for him if he butters them up with enough compliments and blatant flattery.

That’s probably why he feels so awkward, sitting on the floor of Hyunsoo’s bedroom as the six of them are watching a rented movie together. Hyunsoo and Jihyuk have claimed the bed, fighting over Hyunsoo’s blankets and occasionally hitting each other with one of his pillows, while Wookyung has — predictably — claimed the tiny space on the bed next to Jihyuk. Doil’s leaning against her knees, glancing up at her now and then like he thinks no one notices. Too bad for him Hajin’s an expert at all things involving girls and romance-driven desperation.

“Hey, isn’t that actor so cool?”

Kyungjong is sitting next to him, leaning against the bed and into his shoulder at the same time. It’s hard to imagine that they had just been upset with each other just a couple of hours ago, ignoring each other’s presence and biting back cruel words they wouldn’t have really meant.

Well, Hajin wouldn’t have meant most of it. He’s never quite sure about Kyungjong, who’s more complicated than any girl he’s ever dated. Kyungjong’s the one who sprouts all of that Busan manliness nonsense in the same breath as his sentimental declarations of affection and Hajin knows there’s a lot Kyungjong leaves unsaid. He just doesn’t know what.

“What,” he finally replies, and he fights back the urge to wrap an arm around Kyungjong’s shoulders, “you like him or something?” He keeps his tone light as he glances at the actor on Hyunsoo’s tiny television screen with his rippling abs and chiseled features and his sweat-drenched hair. He’s as alien to him as the rest of Jungsang’s student body and Hajin’s left wondering where his appeal is when he finally glances back at Kyungjong.

Even in the darkness of the room, he can tell Kyungjong is biting the inside of his cheek, biting his lower lip until it becomes slightly plumper than normal. It’s harder to keep from moving. Hajin wonders if it’s as hard for Kyungjong to keep silent.

“He’s not exactly my type,” Kyungjong laughs. He looks away, but Hajin still sees a hint of teeth on his lip.

His resolve breaks and he leans in closer, until he can comfortably rest his chin on Kyungjong’s shoulder. It’s a little unnerving how right it feels to be so close, although that’s probably from days of high tensions and voluntary separations and none of their friendly little love taps. Hajin would have considered it some sort of withdrawal if only that didn’t mean there was some sort of addiction in the first place. Who becomes addicted to slaps and hugs and another boy’s light fingers trailing down the small of his back?

“Our Kyungjong has a type now?” he asks — breathes, really — and he feels the sudden shiver of Kyungjong’s body. His body is so small and the shivers are too, but everything’s so warm and Hajin’s suddenly completely draped over Kyungjong like old times.

Kyungjong turns until their cheeks are practically touching, just staring and staring and biting his lip again. Hajin wonders what it is Kyungjong sees — in that actor, in himself — but suddenly, all he can see is a flash of pink as Kyungjong’s tongue quickly runs over his swollen lower lip.

“Something like that,” Kyungjong chuckles, almost inaudible underneath the laughter of the others at the hero’s cheesy speech. The chuckles are a little awkward and stilted, but feelings are like that too, Hajin guesses.

His are a little like that too.

Jongdae slides his arm around Minseok, nice and easy and unhampered by Luhan's almost constant presence for once. There's no one else to monopolize Minseok, no manager to order them around, no cameras to stare endlessly at the two of them as they attempt to carve a place for themselves amongst the millions, billions of people in China.

No, the only carving going on is that of Jongdae's ass into the dorm's worn-out couch. Minseok's ass too, but that's a topic Jongdae avoids thinking about too often.

"What's on?"

He leans closer, close enough that he can nudge the sides of their heads together. It's nice being this close to another person out of his own volition rather than because the crowds are pressing against him too tight or because the cameras can only fit so many people on screen at once. The angle is still uncomfortable, but it's the only thing that is for once.

Minseok's initial reply is just a simple humming noise, the tone clearer than any of his lines in their songs so far. No Mandarin to stumble over, no words period. Jongdae closes his eyes and imagines this smooth, careless confidence replacing all of Minseok's hesistant pauses during their recordings.

But then he opens them; he knows better than to want too much, too soon.

"A comedy?" Minseok finally guesses. He squints at the television screen, tapping his index finger on one of his cheeks to a steady rhythm Jongdae probably wouldn't be able to pick up even if he could hear it. "Or maybe a drama. One lady just poured her drink on the other."

Jongdae laughs anyway as he watches the pretty Chinese actress scream until her face turns purple, as he watches Minseok imitate the movement of her lips, mouthing words he doesn't even understand.

"Is someone going to have to practice their Mandarin a bit more?" he teases, although it's not like he gets what the program is about either. They might as well be watching a silent film in his opinion.

He hears a tiny huff, made louder only be their proximity but mollified by Minseok rolling his eyes. Annoyance tempered by amusement, or maybe amusement masquerading as annoyance? There are as many ways for Jongdae to read Minseok's actions as there are for him to inflect a tone in his shoddy Mandarin even after spending months studying both, but strangely enough only one of the two actually frustrates him.

Jongdae doesn't get a chance to take in much else though, not when Minseok starts trying to shove him off the couch in retaliation. Even the sight of Minseok's somewhat gummy grin as he pushes Jongdae's face back with the palm of his hand is no match for pure arm muscle and determination though -- Jongdae stays latched on, burying his face into the older boy's shoulder.

"Get off me! Jongdae!"

Minseok doesn't mean it though. Minseok never means it, not when Jongdae drapes himself over him during the middle of a recording or when he crawls into Minseok's bed late at night, burrowing into the one other place other than his own lonely sheets that make him think of a lonely little peninsula across the Yellow Sea.

"I'm sorry, hyung," Jongdae chuckles anyway, letting the familiar honorific linger on his tongue. Here in China, Jongdae only really has one after all. After a lifetime of wasting it in more ways than he can bother to remember, the word has become a far more precious commodity here.

It's not just because of all of the Mandarin he's had to cram through his eyes, into his brain, and out his mouth though, or the ge's he's had to dole out since first stepping foot in Beijing all those months ago. It can't be, not when Jongdae feels his arm tingle so often it's as if he really does control lightning, when in reality it's just Minseok leaning into his arms and creating a warm buzz throughout his body.

Minseok exhales, so deeply his shoulders rise and fall and take Jongdae with them.

There's something precious about that too.

"Hyung," Jongdae whines again before Minseok can make any indication of accepting his lackluster apology. He wonders how much of his feelings can fit into that one syllable, wonders if Minseok will understand it any better than the lyrics of their songs.

"Jongdae," Minseok replies, his voice airy and light and soft. He turns his eyes away from the screen, focusing instead on Jongdae as he raises an eyebrow. The upward tilt of the corner of his lips tells Jongdae everything he needs to know though, and his tone would be no less clear in Seoul, his message neither.