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caressingflames2013-03-18 10:15 pm
.livejournal.com) wrote in caressingflames2013-03-18 10:15 pm
antidote.
antidote. [Taoris; g; au]
Because Wufan has been gone for far too long, and all Zitao wants is for him to come home.
‘Hey Taozi, I think you might want to see this,’
‘I’m pretty sure I don’t.’
‘Yeah but - c’mon Taozi, it’s his face, don’t you -‘
‘I said no.’
‘Miss him? Even a little? At all? There are fantakens and fanaccs and things and -‘
‘I said leave me the frick alone ge, I don’t want to know.’
Luhan’s words catch in his throat as his lips purse together in a straight line, and Zitao immediately regrets his words. As he struggles to formulate the syllables of an apology, Luhan gently shuts his laptop and walks over to the younger, sitting down next to him and gently patting him on the back. Zitao’s eyes begin to water, moisture blurring his (second) favourite ge’s face. ‘I’m… Ge, I’m sorr -’ Zitao sputters, trying to fight back the sob forming in the back of his throat, but Luhan cuts him off with a gentle shake of his head and hugs Zitao to his chest. He feels twin wet spots blooming on his shirt, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t ask Zitao to stop, because well, love and pain are inseperable. And Zitao is plenty in love, which is why he’s in so much pain. Luhan quietly rakes his hands through the younger’s hair, suddenly aware that Zitao is, after all, the baby of their group, but with his intimidating eyes and formidable wushu skills - well, people tend to overlook that. And babies need taking care of, Luhan knows, so he decides that from now on he (and the rest of this boyband they’re all a part of) will do his very best to help keep Zitao’s heart from completely breaking apart.
(But he forgets that when you hold something so fragile too tightly, it doesn’t outright break - it crumbles to pieces. And there’s only one absent man in the world right now who knows how to handle Zitao with just the right amount of care.)
There are parts of his job that Zitao absolutely adores. He loves performing for the sheer rush of adrenaline in his veins, the sounds of cheers for him and his bandmates, the stopping of his heart just before he has to do his signature flip. And then there are the calmer pleasantries that he gets - the well wishes, the smaller, more thoughtful gifts and just occasionally the letters, the letters that tell him he’s the reason someone’s still alive, that he’s the thing that stopped someone halfway across the world from ending their life. It’s things like those that keep him going when times are tough and he misses his family - the knowledge that somewhere out there, someone is wishing him well, that someone wants him to be happy just because he is their happiness. And Zitao loves it - he loves that he has the ability to give people hope, he loves that he can bring people happiness.
But right now, even as he is poring through the contents of the box of things he has that makes him happy, right now he can’t find anything in there to bring a smile to his lips. He pulls out memento after memento - the ‘Tao’ label he’d stolen from their debut showcase, a tassel Victoria had pulled from the costume he wore at one of their SM Town dance stages, plushie keyrings he made Minseok buy - but still, nothing seems to bring him a smile, nothing seems to get him out of his funk. That is, of course, until he digs down to the very bottom and finds a particularly good fantaken photo a hardcore shipper had sent him months ago, one from a variety show him and his M bandmates were on. Zitao pulls the photo out of the box, eyes never leaving it. He observes the look of sheer glee on his face as the him in the photo clutches tightly to his favourite ge, grin spread from ear to ear even though he’d been tricked into playing the girl for their onstage ballroom dance lesson. His eyes start to prickle again as he remembers the pretend sulk he had after they had gotten back to the dorm, only to be met with stern eyes and an all too serious ‘You know you can never stay mad at me for long, Zitao,’ murmured into his ears several times well into the night, in all four tongues the whispering man spoke, and the soft, firm kisses that dotted his cheek and jaw.
Zitao puts the photo back into the bottom of the box, burying it with other memories because he doesn’t need this right now, doesn’t want the pain in his chest to remain a moment longer. He doesn’t - can’t - let himself remember large hands and long arms wrapped around him, because they aren’t here right now, and they don’t look like they’ll be returning any time soon. Zitao knows he’s alone, and it reminds him exactly how much he misses inhaling everything Wufan exhales, and he cries a little harder than he did the week before, buried in Luhan’s chest.
(Which is maybe worse because he truly is alone in an empty dorm with nobody to comfort him. Least of all, the body he longs for most.)
Zitao decides he likes the colour red. He likes how it makes him look just a little bit more grown up, how it gives his image an edge the fans know is fake (yes, he reads their weibo updates) but they adore him for trying anyway. Zitao lies quietly in bed and twirls a few strands of hair just above his right ear and wonders if the dye job - the first one he’s ever had - will fry his hair as badly as it did Luhan’s. He shakes the thought away and stares at the empty ceiling. He suddenly remembers the scenario back at the building a few hours ago. He remembers Chanyeol beckoning him to join in on their teasing of the fans against the entrance door, and as badly as Zitao felt for declining, he knew he wouldn’t be able to put up a good show for the fans who cared so much. He didn’t want to have to put on a mask they could all so easily pick away at - his fans were just so good at reading his true emotions - so he told them to go ahead, he had some rapping he wanted to practice. The hyungs had all hung their heads in disappointment and shuffled off without him, but Sehun - Sehun who had no business left in the building, who was whining the whole day about wanting to go home - decided to stay and wait for Zitao.
(And when they finally climbed into the van to return to the dorms two hours later, and Zitao had checked his phone a dozen times over, Sehun whispers something barely audible, but Zitao catches it anyway - ‘You know how bad his homesickness is,’ - and Zitao suddenly remembers days spent with Wufan in the hallways of the trainee’s practice rooms, trying to calm the older’s breathing as his phone sits in his hand, blinking the words ‘Mom - home,’ at them both in bright white letters.)
‘I sense… I sense something of a disturbance in the force.’
‘Do you, Sehuna? That’s curious.’
‘Curious indeed, Luhan hyung. Do you have any idea what it could be?’
‘But indeed I don’t, Sehuna! What on earth could be causing this strange phenomena?’
Luhan and Sehun both have their faces pressed up against the windows of their dorm’s living room, and Zitao wonders what it is that has gotten their attention so early in the morning because the infamous Hunhan are a lot of things - questionably close, idiocy personified, heartbreakingly dashing - but morning people they are not. Zitao himself isn’t, either, and his eyes are a little swollen from all the crying he’d done last night, and he’s too tired to deal with either of them right now, so he tries his best to pad off unnoticed into the kitchen because he needs his coffee first thing in the morning, but - ‘Taozi! So nice to see our kungfu panda has been aroused,’ Sehun says, whirling around and clasping both hands. ‘You mean roused, dear sweet Sehuna,’ Luhan corrects, shaking his head. ‘You simply must come and behold the spectacle downstairs,’ Sehun says, yanking Zitao toward the window and Zitao sees it - there’s a small following of fangirls at the entrance of their dorm, and Zitao can’t fathom why, because today they’ve all been put under an unexplained house arrest. But then the door swings open and their manager comes through it, heaving bags and bags and even more bags, and Zitao’s breath catches in his throat because no, it can’t be that, why on earth would it be that - but there it is, a man tall enough to awe basketballers into silence, whose hair is a little longer and whose eyes are just a little happier and Zitao hears the familiar low growl of the voice he’s missed so much.
‘Guess who’s home, Taozi! Missed me?’ Wufan teases and he holds his arms out to an overjoyed and sleep deprived Zitao, who leaps at him and knocks the wind out of his lungs and possibly peppers a few kisses on Wufan’s cold face, and he swears he can’t remember the last time he thought Wufan’s laugh was this beautiful. And Zitao stares at the man he’s missed the past few weeks, at the man he’d dreamt of holding just like this and really, if he could, he’d stuff this moment into his happy box forever because nothing beats this moment, and, as Wufan gives him a long, drawn out kiss when they’re finally left alone together, Zitao thinks - knows - that nothing measures up to this love.
Because Wufan has been gone for far too long, and all Zitao wants is for him to come home.
‘Hey Taozi, I think you might want to see this,’
‘I’m pretty sure I don’t.’
‘Yeah but - c’mon Taozi, it’s his face, don’t you -‘
‘I said no.’
‘Miss him? Even a little? At all? There are fantakens and fanaccs and things and -‘
‘I said leave me the frick alone ge, I don’t want to know.’
Luhan’s words catch in his throat as his lips purse together in a straight line, and Zitao immediately regrets his words. As he struggles to formulate the syllables of an apology, Luhan gently shuts his laptop and walks over to the younger, sitting down next to him and gently patting him on the back. Zitao’s eyes begin to water, moisture blurring his (second) favourite ge’s face. ‘I’m… Ge, I’m sorr -’ Zitao sputters, trying to fight back the sob forming in the back of his throat, but Luhan cuts him off with a gentle shake of his head and hugs Zitao to his chest. He feels twin wet spots blooming on his shirt, but he doesn’t let go, doesn’t ask Zitao to stop, because well, love and pain are inseperable. And Zitao is plenty in love, which is why he’s in so much pain. Luhan quietly rakes his hands through the younger’s hair, suddenly aware that Zitao is, after all, the baby of their group, but with his intimidating eyes and formidable wushu skills - well, people tend to overlook that. And babies need taking care of, Luhan knows, so he decides that from now on he (and the rest of this boyband they’re all a part of) will do his very best to help keep Zitao’s heart from completely breaking apart.
(But he forgets that when you hold something so fragile too tightly, it doesn’t outright break - it crumbles to pieces. And there’s only one absent man in the world right now who knows how to handle Zitao with just the right amount of care.)
There are parts of his job that Zitao absolutely adores. He loves performing for the sheer rush of adrenaline in his veins, the sounds of cheers for him and his bandmates, the stopping of his heart just before he has to do his signature flip. And then there are the calmer pleasantries that he gets - the well wishes, the smaller, more thoughtful gifts and just occasionally the letters, the letters that tell him he’s the reason someone’s still alive, that he’s the thing that stopped someone halfway across the world from ending their life. It’s things like those that keep him going when times are tough and he misses his family - the knowledge that somewhere out there, someone is wishing him well, that someone wants him to be happy just because he is their happiness. And Zitao loves it - he loves that he has the ability to give people hope, he loves that he can bring people happiness.
But right now, even as he is poring through the contents of the box of things he has that makes him happy, right now he can’t find anything in there to bring a smile to his lips. He pulls out memento after memento - the ‘Tao’ label he’d stolen from their debut showcase, a tassel Victoria had pulled from the costume he wore at one of their SM Town dance stages, plushie keyrings he made Minseok buy - but still, nothing seems to bring him a smile, nothing seems to get him out of his funk. That is, of course, until he digs down to the very bottom and finds a particularly good fantaken photo a hardcore shipper had sent him months ago, one from a variety show him and his M bandmates were on. Zitao pulls the photo out of the box, eyes never leaving it. He observes the look of sheer glee on his face as the him in the photo clutches tightly to his favourite ge, grin spread from ear to ear even though he’d been tricked into playing the girl for their onstage ballroom dance lesson. His eyes start to prickle again as he remembers the pretend sulk he had after they had gotten back to the dorm, only to be met with stern eyes and an all too serious ‘You know you can never stay mad at me for long, Zitao,’ murmured into his ears several times well into the night, in all four tongues the whispering man spoke, and the soft, firm kisses that dotted his cheek and jaw.
Zitao puts the photo back into the bottom of the box, burying it with other memories because he doesn’t need this right now, doesn’t want the pain in his chest to remain a moment longer. He doesn’t - can’t - let himself remember large hands and long arms wrapped around him, because they aren’t here right now, and they don’t look like they’ll be returning any time soon. Zitao knows he’s alone, and it reminds him exactly how much he misses inhaling everything Wufan exhales, and he cries a little harder than he did the week before, buried in Luhan’s chest.
(Which is maybe worse because he truly is alone in an empty dorm with nobody to comfort him. Least of all, the body he longs for most.)
Zitao decides he likes the colour red. He likes how it makes him look just a little bit more grown up, how it gives his image an edge the fans know is fake (yes, he reads their weibo updates) but they adore him for trying anyway. Zitao lies quietly in bed and twirls a few strands of hair just above his right ear and wonders if the dye job - the first one he’s ever had - will fry his hair as badly as it did Luhan’s. He shakes the thought away and stares at the empty ceiling. He suddenly remembers the scenario back at the building a few hours ago. He remembers Chanyeol beckoning him to join in on their teasing of the fans against the entrance door, and as badly as Zitao felt for declining, he knew he wouldn’t be able to put up a good show for the fans who cared so much. He didn’t want to have to put on a mask they could all so easily pick away at - his fans were just so good at reading his true emotions - so he told them to go ahead, he had some rapping he wanted to practice. The hyungs had all hung their heads in disappointment and shuffled off without him, but Sehun - Sehun who had no business left in the building, who was whining the whole day about wanting to go home - decided to stay and wait for Zitao.
(And when they finally climbed into the van to return to the dorms two hours later, and Zitao had checked his phone a dozen times over, Sehun whispers something barely audible, but Zitao catches it anyway - ‘You know how bad his homesickness is,’ - and Zitao suddenly remembers days spent with Wufan in the hallways of the trainee’s practice rooms, trying to calm the older’s breathing as his phone sits in his hand, blinking the words ‘Mom - home,’ at them both in bright white letters.)
‘I sense… I sense something of a disturbance in the force.’
‘Do you, Sehuna? That’s curious.’
‘Curious indeed, Luhan hyung. Do you have any idea what it could be?’
‘But indeed I don’t, Sehuna! What on earth could be causing this strange phenomena?’
Luhan and Sehun both have their faces pressed up against the windows of their dorm’s living room, and Zitao wonders what it is that has gotten their attention so early in the morning because the infamous Hunhan are a lot of things - questionably close, idiocy personified, heartbreakingly dashing - but morning people they are not. Zitao himself isn’t, either, and his eyes are a little swollen from all the crying he’d done last night, and he’s too tired to deal with either of them right now, so he tries his best to pad off unnoticed into the kitchen because he needs his coffee first thing in the morning, but - ‘Taozi! So nice to see our kungfu panda has been aroused,’ Sehun says, whirling around and clasping both hands. ‘You mean roused, dear sweet Sehuna,’ Luhan corrects, shaking his head. ‘You simply must come and behold the spectacle downstairs,’ Sehun says, yanking Zitao toward the window and Zitao sees it - there’s a small following of fangirls at the entrance of their dorm, and Zitao can’t fathom why, because today they’ve all been put under an unexplained house arrest. But then the door swings open and their manager comes through it, heaving bags and bags and even more bags, and Zitao’s breath catches in his throat because no, it can’t be that, why on earth would it be that - but there it is, a man tall enough to awe basketballers into silence, whose hair is a little longer and whose eyes are just a little happier and Zitao hears the familiar low growl of the voice he’s missed so much.
‘Guess who’s home, Taozi! Missed me?’ Wufan teases and he holds his arms out to an overjoyed and sleep deprived Zitao, who leaps at him and knocks the wind out of his lungs and possibly peppers a few kisses on Wufan’s cold face, and he swears he can’t remember the last time he thought Wufan’s laugh was this beautiful. And Zitao stares at the man he’s missed the past few weeks, at the man he’d dreamt of holding just like this and really, if he could, he’d stuff this moment into his happy box forever because nothing beats this moment, and, as Wufan gives him a long, drawn out kiss when they’re finally left alone together, Zitao thinks - knows - that nothing measures up to this love.