Chapter Text
At first, there were strawberries.
And then, in the horizon, past the white, pillow-like, strawberry-strewn bushes that are actually clouds, he sees something move. It’s a little too far away to recognize, even with light as bright as this, but he knows that it’s a creature of some sort, and it is galloping, flying, even. It gets closer, closer, closer, and closer, until he can make out the unmistakable form of a majestic equine with a single tusk on its forehead, one that closely resembles that of a narwhal’s.
Unicorn.
And it gallops—no, flies, closer, his eyes sparkle with a mixture of wonder and confusion. Only then does he realize the speed it’s approaching with, what with the mixture of dust and cloud and glitter it leaves in its wake; his eyes widen, and he instinctively shields his face with his arms (as if it’ll do anything to protect him from a horse running, or flying, towards him at infinity miles an hour).
But, merely inches away from his lanky form, it stops. He hears it whinny, and its hooves scratch against the pavement; which is weird, because the last time he checked, there are only clouds, and clouds didn’t really make much sound.
Suddenly, he removes his hands from his face, looks down, and screams. I’m standing on clouds! Reflexively, he jumps, arms quickly wrapping around any sort of anchorage—which happens to be the unicorn—that could save him from falling. Naturally, the unicorn whinnies, but it’s not the type that earns him a kick afterwards. The sound is closer to something like approval, as if the creature appreciated the odd embrace they are in.
Reluctantly, he looks up at the unicorn, face slightly twisted in a grimace as he pulls away. He sees it smile at him, impossibly pink lips pulling up to reveal anthropomorphic pearly-whites. That could’ve sent him fainting, but it’s its speaking that almost gives him cardiac arrest.
“Ride me,” it says, tuft of unusual, chocolate brown hair flying in the wind. His eyebrows subconsciously crease, and his hold on the creature slightly wavers.
All of a sudden, the unicorn begins to seem farther away, and he realizes that it’s begun galloping—no, flying again. His scrawny arms struggle to keep ahold of the unicorn’s muscular neck, legs helplessly scrambling beneath him.
“Ride me, daddy.”
-
Zhang Yixing wakes up to the smell of strawberries.
A strangled sound builds up in his throat, interrupting the steady rhythm of snores erupting from his mouth and sailing through the cold morning air. He snorts, body soon gaining mobility as he slowly becomes conscious. Blinking away the last traces of sleep, his still-glassy eyes dazedly stare up at the ceiling—a wide expanse of white, textured permatex slightly chipping away to reveal ugly brown paint underneath; a faux crystal chandelier, one that looked a little too grimy to even be considered an effective artificial lighting, serves as its sole embellishment. Yixing’s eyebrows furrow, and his eyes narrow. He’s pretty sure he’s never had one installed. He’s also sure he’ll never choose such a tacky model, even if his life depended on it.
He means to sit up in order to make sense of his surroundings, but the bed barely creaks under him as he is practically pinned down, torso deemed immobile by a weight on his chest, which is apparently caused by a figure sleeping next to him. His immediate response is a sharp intake of breath, and once more, the distinct smell of strawberries hits him, followed by something else, something far more physical, hitting him on the head.
He groans, shifting uncomfortably. Hangover.
Memories of the night before begin to flash in Yixing’s mind, but they are all too quick and muddled to make sense to him; nothing but microsecond previews, meaningless imageries, bursts of color that dance in time with the merciless pounding in his head.
Ah, yes, dancing!
He remembers dancing!
He’s not exactly a genius, but it doesn’t take much for him to put two and two together: this stranger must be the beautiful girl he remembers dancing with last night. A light flush comes across his cheeks when he considers the only possible reason why they’re sleeping on the same bed, then a smirk that’s bordering a little too close to perversion to be considered sane. Did King Zhang Yixing just get laid last night?
He absentmindedly runs a hand through the girl’s chocolate brown hair, smirk reaching a point of permanence. Uhh, yeah. He just did.
Minutes roll by with Yixing grinning at nothing, petting the girl’s hair with one veiny hand. He only pauses when the first greeting of sunlight finally pours in through the windows, landing right on his dazed face and causing him to squint. He doesn’t intend to stop with the caressing, but his ring gets caught in some of the brown strands, and as he attempts to tug it away, a guttural sound emits from the stranger.
Yixing’s eyes widen. Is it just him, or did her voice sound a little too… manly?
The more groans escape, the more Yixing panics. His ring doesn’t seem to want to cooperate, only gathering more strands with every attempt of pulling away. He only now notices how the girl’s head of hair collectively move with every tug of his hand; it gives him goose bumps. The stranger continues to stir, then freezes. Yixing freezes.
French tips reluctantly dance across Yixing’s skinny, clothed torso, testing, searching. He watches with careful eyes, goose bumps now popping everywhere the surprisingly warm hand travels. Eventually, it reaches the low collar of Yixing’s tank top, fingertips ghosting over the man’s collarbones before reaching into the material. Reflexively, Yixing reaches out to stop the hand, but since his own is still stuck in the stranger’s hair, instead of pulling away empty, he tugs the whole thing along.
The whole thing.
Both he and the stranger freezes. The latter looks up at him with absolute terror.
Yixing screams, pushing back the cross-dressed man with one hand and attempting to shake off the chocolate brown wig with the other. Unfortunately, he only makes matters worse, pulling the man along as they both discover the chain that linked them. Silence takes over the room. They stare at the handcuffs. They make eye contact.
A battle cry pierces through the air, and the pair begins their tug of war. Yixing looks determined, but it doesn’t even take a second for the man in the red dress to bring him down, twisting his arm in one quick maneuver and slamming the former down on the mattress.
Yixing groans. He thinks he broke something.
-
Hopeless minutes are spent as far away from each other as possible.
The two men sit on opposite sides of the bed, eyes bid to never land anywhere near each other. Yixing has been mumbling to himself that it’s all just a dream. He’s just asleep. Soon, he’ll wake up in his cozy bed, and all of this will be gone. The man in the red dress, on the other hand, has been hacking hopelessly at the handcuffs with some wooden decoration he found on the bedside table. He would’ve worried about paying for it if it breaks—as if it hasn’t already—but it’s the least of his concerns. Right now, what he truly needs is to get away.
Yixing is the first to break their unspoken truce. He gloomily looks over, eyes glazed with misery and hangover. “Listen,” he sighs, and immediately, the other stops hacking away at the chain, looking up at him with timid eyes. “I don’t remember anything about last night. So please… please help me on this.” He gestures towards their handcuffed hands. “Did you… do this?”
A clearing of the throat, then a sigh. “I-I don’t remember anything either.” He quickly adds, “b-but I didn’t–I didn’t do this! I swear!”
Yixing chews on his lip, thinking. “What’s your name?”
“Junmyeon,” the man says with a bit of reluctance.
“Mhm,” Yixing nods, eyes directed towards the floor. “That your real name?”
“Uh, yes?”
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Really really?”
“Really really. What are you on about?”
“Just making sure you’re not a prostitute.”
“Hey! I’m more honorable than that!”
Instead of a reply, Yixing lifts off the bed, tugging Junmyeon with him as he picks up something from the floor. Pinched between his two fingers is a pair of lacy, black thongs. He holds them up towards Junmyeon, nose crinkled teasingly. “You sure these don’t belong to you?”
An agonizingly long pause; Junmyeon only then realizes the odd coolness he’s been feeling between his legs. He blushes. “G-give me that.” He reaches over to grab the thongs, but Yixing draws his hand back.
“Why lace?” He asks. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“It’s none of your busine—ah!”
Junmyeon reaches out to grab the thongs again, but Yixing only draws his hand back farther and farther, until he manages to knock them both down, the former pressed on top of him. A breathless chuckle escapes Yixing, their sudden proximity showing his amusement towards Junmyeon’s tomato-red cheeks. The latter successfully steals back the lacy underwear, pushing himself off Yixing, and hastily attempting to put it back on with one hand and without having to lift the hem of his dress.
Yixing’s quiet again, all that’s left a faraway look on his face. Junmyeon rolls his eyes, meaning to hook the underwear over another leg, but the next thing he knows, he’s being dragged off the bed into an unknown direction. “Hey!” He calls out in surprise, attempting to grab the thongs pooling at his ankles. His protests go unheard, Yixing dazedly leading him towards one corner of the trashy motel room until they reach a door that’s slightly ajar; the barely-enough-for-two space, the grimy walls, and the cracked tiles are enough to tell Junmyeon that it’s the motel’s excuse for a bathroom.
“Hey! D-don’t tell me you’re—“ He’s cut off by the sound of piss sailing into the air, hitting the toilet’s surface with loud drips. It reminds him of rain pitter-pattering against the roof, except the daydream quickly morphs into the drops turning yellow, and he has to scrunch his eyes closed before the image of dick-shaped clouds could even make an entrance. It’s not the best time to think about Yixing’s dick.
Said person seems to take centuries to relieve himself. “Hey man,” Junmyeon tries, back turned as far away as possible in order to avoid further mental scarring. It’s not like his right hand forced to press against Yixing’s jeans isn’t enough. “Can you um, I don’t know, finish quicker?”
Yixing wordlessly complies, but pissing quicker meant pissing louder, and Junmyeon’s not sure if he’d rather stand there for longer than hear for louder. He tilts his head upwards, mumbling quiet wishes of euthanasia to anyone that could hear.
Junmyeon’s attention is caught by a piece of paper messily tucked in the corner of the mirror on the wall, and he walks towards it thoughtlessly. Yixing yells something about almost slashing Yixing Jr. with his zipper, but his companion pays him no mind, snatching the paper with one manicured hand and waving it in the air in order to quickly let it unfold. A small object tumbles out right next to Yixing’s feet. He reaches down to pick it up while Junmyeon tries to examine every corner of the paper, coming up with nothing.
“You think there’s something we can play this?” Yixing inquires, waving the tape marked ‘X’ in front of Junmyeon’s face.
Junmyeon snaps his fingers together. “Yeah! I think I remember a cassette player back in there.”
“The moon was dyed red,
And the sun and moon grew
Distant from each other.
You and I were
No longer able
To be together. Until
The day we pass countless
Nights and stars, and are
Able to meet again.”
The tape ends with a sudden booming sound, something akin to something getting dropped or someone getting punched in the ear. After that, nothing follows, just long lines of scratches and static. Junmyeon and Yixing look up at the player, at each other, then the floor. What does any of that mean?
“I got it,” Junmyeon says after a while. “I got it, I got it. I think I got it.”
“What?” Yixing looks hopeful.
“You have a phone with you?”
He scratches the back of his head. “Um, no. I haven’t seen it since I woke up.”
“Dang it,” Junmyeon hisses, looking around the mostly empty motel room. He spots something on the bedside table, scrambles towards it—a certainly confused Yixing dragged behind—and goes back to their place at the foot of the bed. He positions the pencil over the yellow paper, nodding at Yixing and at the cassette player. “Rewind it.”
All the while, Junmyeon is quiet, carefully listening to the cryptic poem, and making sure to write everything down. Once more, the boom punctuates the message, not failing to make them jump the second time; again, nothing but static follows. He looks at Yixing.
“See, I wrote the poem in English,” he explains, underlining certain parts of the poem. He moves so that his side is pressed against Yixing’s, allowing him to see what he’s been working at. “You know how in the movies the message is always hidden at the beginning of every line of the poem?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say always—“
“—I underlined every letter at every beginning, so when we read it, it says…” Junmyeon quickly scribbles down the letters, reading them with an air of mystery. “TADYNTTNA…”
Yixing frowns. “That doesn’t―”
”―wait, no. That can’t be right.”
“I don’t… I don’t think that’s it.”
“Wait, wait! What about we use the words? Maybe that could work!”
“Junmyeon, I don’t—“
“The and distant you no to the nights able… hmm, that’s not it.”
“Junmyeon.”
As Junmyeon continues to mumble nonsense and Yixing tries to reject his theories, they fail to hear movement, footsteps echoing in the recording. They jump apart when a harsh “YOU FUCKING IDIOT.” barks out from the cassette.
“What the…” Junmyeon clears his throat in attempt to cover up the certainly un-manly scream he emitted. Yixing holds an index finger up towards him.
“You fucking idiot,” the voice repeats, now sounding closer. “You could’ve broken it. This was my grandma’s.”
“I could’ve, but it’s fine. There’s no use crying about it.”
There’s shuffling and more scratching, and another voice joins the first two. “You’re both fucking idiots. You ruined my poem. Now I have to record it again.”
“Your poem sucks, Jongdae. It doesn’t even make any sense.”
Junmyeon and Yixing share a look.
“It does! You’re just jealous I came up with something so good!”
“Tell me what it means, then.”
“…”
“See, see! It doesn’t make any sense! And you thought it was such a good idea to make it a clue.”
“Let me see you come up with something better.”
“At least I don’t pretend to be a poet.”
“Hey, shush you two! Someone’s coming!”
The tape ends with a click. After that, there’s only silence, and both need not speak to know that nothing else will follow. Neither speaks for a long time, eyebrows furrowing and hearts beating in the quiet stillness of the morning.
“Who’s Jongdae?” They say at the same time, looking at each other.
They scratch their heads, gasp, and narrow their eyes at each other all at the same time. Yixing tries to raise his right hand and begin some sort of choreography. Oddly, Junmyeon does the same thing, only snapping out of it when he realizes how ridiculous he looks.
“Okay, okay. This is weird.” Junmyeon closes his eyes, waving his hands about as if to clear away the awkwardness. Yixing watches in fascination as his left arm wiggles along. “Who the hell is Jongdae?”
Yixing shrugs. “I might know a Jongdae. But I’m not sure.”
Junmyeon’s face lights up. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Yixing nods, vision getting out of focus as he looks ahead. He looks like a pensive lead character having a flashback. “Could be a friend, could be someone I owe. Could be anyone.”
Junmyeon hums, forehead creasing in thought. He looks down at the ugly carpet, then up at Yixing—who is dazedly watching the cassette player lazily eject the tape―and then, slowly but suddenly, he gasps, holding a free hand up to his mouth. His eyes run over Yixing’s worn-out wife beater, seemingly oversized jacket, baggy pants, and tattered sneakers. It never occurred to him how it all seems to fit the man’s lanky frame so perfectly despite the outdated fashion sense, but now. Now it all makes sense.
“Could be a friend…”
Yixing leans forward to retrieve the tape.
“…could be someone I owe.”
Junmyeon swallows.
“Could be anyone.”
He’s a gangster.
Said man remains oblivious to Junmyeon’s train of thought, attention towards the voice tape. While he turns it in his palms, Junmyeon’s face slowly contorts as if someone just called him ugly. At the same time he decides to let out a slasher film scream, Yixing decides to ask what a B-side is. The latter suddenly looks like he wants to actually chainsaw someone.
Yixing rubs his left ear. “…what the fuck, Junmyeon.”
“S-sorry, sorry. What did you say?”
“I asked,” he grumbles, “if you know what a B-side is. Because this thing says to ‘flip over to play B-side’.”
When he looks up upon examining the tape, Junmyeon’s leaned over him, curiosity seeming to make him forget the concept of personal space. At this proximity, he could practically count the eyelashes currently fluttering up and down Yixing’s flawless face in a stare of intense judgment that could place sinners in eternal damnation. Said person clears his throat sternly. Junmyeon backs away with timid eyes, grimacing when the handcuffs tug painfully at their wrists.
“I–uh, I think we also have to play the other side,” Junmyeon answers carefully, senses now more vigilant. “Th-the other side. I-it’s called the B-side. Th-there must be something else on it.” He watches as Yixing looks at him weirdly, before shrugging, nodding and crawling over to the player. With this newfound information, he ought to be smarter; if he wants to stay alive at the end of the day, he has to be cautious. Yixing may be scrawny, but he’s strong. He may seem constantly distracted, but he may be smarter than he lets on. Junmyeon can never be too sure. Gangsters can be tricky.
There’s about five seconds of static before a sharp exhale emits from the player.
“A’ight. Listen, you two.”
Junmyeon turns to share a look with Yixing, but the latter’s staring at the player with intense concentration. No? Just me? Okay. He looks away embarrassedly.
“You’re probably confused as fuck right now because of Jongdae’s stupid poem. I honestly can’t blame you, because even the greatest of intellectuals wouldn’t understand that alien garbage.”
“Hey! What are you saying? That poem was geni―”
Cough. “Anyway, I suppose there’s no point going through the formalities because we’re running out of time, so blah-blah-blah, you can call me Mr. X, something about impending doom and meeting your end, yada-yada-yada, ask the receptionist for the next clue so you can remove the handcuffs, aaand that’s it. Good luck.”
There’s another static silence, but the pair knew better than to turn it off. They’re right.
“See, idiots? That’s how it’s done.”
“Wah, you’re good at this.”
“Obviously. Better than that bullshit poem.”
“Well, since you’re such a whiz, why don’t you tell me why you forgot to turn off the recorder?”
“What do you… oh shit.”
The player cuts off with a final click, and once more, Junmyeon and Yixing sit in silence.