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When the cameras are rolled away, Xukun is quiet. Chengcheng watches Xukun’s reflection against the mirrored wall of the practice room. Considers the sharp, steady set of Xukun’s shoulders, and how that same sharpness slips into something softer when Chengcheng glances at Xukun’s face, instead: younger without makeup, tired as anyone else.
Chengcheng might’ve missed him, if Xukun were anyone else. Except Xukun isn’t just anyone else, and everyone sees that, even if not everyone approaches him because of it. Everyone wants the spotlight, but not everyone wants who the spotlight follows when it’s not around. Chengcheng thinks he might understand.
An arm around Chengcheng’s shoulder. Zhengting.
“Nope,” Zhengting says. “He’s not really like that, that Xukun.”
Chengcheng plays along. “Like what.”
“Like he’s somewhere else. Something else.” Zhengting is smiling, Chengcheng is sure of it.
Zhengting continues, “He’ll say hi back if you greet him, so take care of him, Chengcheng.”
“I’m not his mother,” Chengcheng points out.
“Shy,” Zhengting sings, curling the arm around Chengcheng’s shoulders up to ruffle Chengcheng’s hair. Chengcheng leans into it and huffs, pretending to hate it, not missing when Justin catches his eye from across the room, Justin’s eyes crinkling as he makes kissy faces at the two of them. Chengcheng looks away and pretends he hates that, too.
“Kids are calling,” Chengcheng says instead, sidestepping out of Zhengting’s hold.
Zhengting tuts, ready to give chase when Zeren lunges for Justin with a yell. Justin yelps, knocking them both into Quanzhe, who lets out an eep as the three of them tumble to the floor, a blurry mess of limbs and laughter.
“The kids,” Zhengting agrees, hurrying over. He glances back at Chengcheng just before he reaches them, and Chengcheng waves him on. Duty awaits, leader.
“You’re not joining them?”
Xukun isn’t looking at Chengcheng when he asks, but Chengcheng isn’t looking at him either. Wenjun’s started pelting gummy candies at the pile on the floor, roaring with satisfaction when Zhengting tips his head back and emerges victorious, a piece of candy caught between rows of teeth.
“You’re more than welcome to,” Chengcheng says. “Cai Xukun.”
“I don’t know the others as well as Zhengting and Justin.”
Chengcheng turns to Xukun. “You’re not saying no.”
“Fan Chengcheng.” Xukun bites his lip. “You’re different from how you look.”
“Ha.” Chengcheng says it more than he laughs it.
He passes Xukun a bottle of vitamin water from the box beside him. Xukun hums his thanks.
“I’m not Zhengting,” Chengcheng begins. He doesn’t add or Justin, because that’s just obvious. Justin’s way too loud to be like Chengcheng, but he knows Chengcheng likes that about him, too, which is only a little unfortunate.
“No,” Xukun agrees. He’s not smiling, but he sounds like he is. Chengcheng is thinking of Zhengting again, but he doesn’t voice it.
“I’m not Zhengting,” Chengcheng continues, “and now you know me. So, next time, you join too.”
“Play happy family with Yuehua?” The question turns to compliment in Xukun’s voice.
“Ha,” Chengcheng says, and it isn’t meant to be a laugh but it sounds like it. “Yes and no.”
Xukun raises his eyebrows. Chengcheng sips at his vitamin water. He taps Xukun’s shoulder with the bottle cap.
“It’s a hierarchy over here, you know,” Chengcheng says, lofty, not meaning it at all.
“You’re the boss, then,” Xukun corrects himself.
From the floor, Zhengting is brandishing his glasses in one hand like a blade, the last candy in his other hand as the others back him towards the wall.
“I said: You know me, now. You can be boss, too. It’s easier than it looks.”
Quanzhe tackles Zhengting’s legs, but Zhengting holds strong. Zeren grins. Wenjun and Justin say, “One arm each?” before dashing at him, and Zhengting whines, affectionate and resigned, trying to shake them off.
“If you say so,” Xukun says. He doesn’t say no.
(Something is always breaking in Chengcheng’s dreams. Around him, noise, deafening to the point of something close to silence, and when Chengcheng breathes a sweeping, echoing sense of emptiness floods inside instead, and he’s falling, drowning, maybe he’s been drowned from the very beginning–)
Zhengting brushes his teeth in the bathroom at Chengcheng’s room. The first time it happened was out of necessity–”Ziyi,” Zhengting solemnly explained, “takes the fastest, foulest smelling crap I’d never hoped to smell”–and Chengcheng, stunned, had held the door open long enough for Zhengting to head into the bathroom and steal Chengcheng’s toothpaste.
Every time after that, however, remained unexplained. Mostly because Chengcheng never questioned it, too used to Zhengting’s presence to even consider it. They brush their teeth together, Chengcheng swiping the toothpaste after Zhengting before Zhengting can try pilfering it again, and Chengcheng doesn’t bother hiding his laughter when Zhengting applies an overnight face mask messy and minutes from falling asleep where he stands.
“Suits you,” Chengcheng says when Zhengting narrows his eyes at him. Zhengting can’t see very well without glasses, though, so he’s probably still looking because Chengcheng is speaking, and Zhengting is considerate like that.
Zhengting pats at his cheeks gently. He unsuccessfully stifles a yawn.
“Chengcheng,” he mumbles, “you’re pretty no jam, aren’t you? Can’t remember if I ever told you.”
“...What.”
Zhengting waves a hand around, vague. “Like, you’re fun, but you’re not really funny? Or you’re funny because you aren’t–”
“Are you insulting me in my own bathroom,” Chengcheng interrupts.
“I appreciate you very much, though,” Zhengting says. He sounds confused, and if Chengcheng didn’t know him that well he might believe it.
Chengcheng sighs. “I’ll kick you out, Zhengzheng.”
Zhengting knows Chengcheng won’t, and he beams.
“It’s alright, I have a friend who’s like that, too. No jam, I mean. I’d say you remind me of him but you’re much cuter–you don’t call me Jung Jung-ah while you talk with your mouth full.”
Jung Jung-ah. From Korea, then. Chengcheng didn’t socialise much beyond the other Yuehua trainees, not the way Zhengting did, before and after he was sent to Produce 101. Despite what he just said, Zhengting still looks happy, and Chengcheng never asked Zhengting enough after he returned from the show–sooner than he should have, later than Chengcheng’s hyperawareness of Zhengting’s absence would’ve liked–to know whether it was a fellow trainee.
Chengcheng frowns, covering his mouth with his hand like he’s muffling a yawn, instead.
“They’re keeping our phones,” Chengcheng mumbles, “so you can’t talk to them that often, then. Sorry.”
Zhengting’s response is immediate. “Not your fault. Hey, Chengcheng, walk me back to my room.”
Chengcheng blinks, says “Alright,” even though Zhengting already has a hold on Chengcheng’s sleeve, Chengcheng trailing along after him.
It’s late, and they don’t really run into anyone else aside from Bu Fan, who smiles at them as they pass. Zhengting doesn’t say anything until they reach his room.
“This show,” Zhengting says, quiet, “is a really great chance for us, okay? And I’m glad I’m taking it with you.”
Chengcheng feels suddenly guilty. “That’s not what I meant to imply...”
Zhengting rests a hand at the top of Chengcheng’s head.
“I know. I just wanted to say it. You don’t have to feel bad for it, for any of it.”
“Alright.” Chengcheng moves a hand over Zhengting’s, still on his head, and squeezes.
Zhengting hums. “Besides, that friend doesn’t mind quiet. I can’t text back often, and his schedules are even busier than ours, but there are still many messages when I check for them, before mailing my family.”
“Sounds like a kind friend,” Chengcheng says. He doesn’t say, We’ll debut soon, too.
“Nosy,” Zhengting laughs, but agrees. “I hope he keeps doing well.”
Chengcheng doesn’t have anything to say to that, but he squeezes Zhengting’s hand one more time before Zhengting steps inside his room. He catches sight of Justin beyond the door, and a bit further than that, Xukun. He waves once, twice, in case either of them look up, before continuing back to his room alone.
(–hands, or the force of something resembling hands, tight around his throat, pressing against his chest, over his lungs. In Chengcheng’s early trainee days was a person that taught them meditation, breathing exercises, rational methods of soothing irrationality within the body, inside the brain. But a dream is not a rational or irrational thing, and Chengcheng is weightless and anchored down all at once, tripping constantly over seemingly nothing at all–)
They’re given back their phones to contact loved ones, once a week. The routine leaves Chengcheng relieved and disappointed in equal parts. Being able to reassure his parents and sister he’s still alive and more or less well is something Chengcheng wants, but even more than that, Chengcheng wants more than just his health to give back to them.
Xukun said, during the first elimination filming, Having the support of so many is a pressure and a blessing, and I’ll work hard to continue earning that support. And that makes sense, really.
Still.
Chengcheng hasn’t proven himself worthy of any earned support, yet.
“Look after yourself, keep an eye on the others,” his mother tells him, over the phone.
“Jiayou,” his sister texts.
“Chengcheng,” Xukun says. Chengcheng looks up, startled that he’s no longer alone in the hallway.
“Cai Xukun,” Chengcheng says, faintly.
Xukun huffs. “Again with the full name.”
Neither of them mention what Chengcheng might be doing, in a hallway far away from the practice rooms or the interview rooms where they take their calls and check their messages. Chengcheng definitely doesn’t mention what Xukun was doing in exactly the same hallway, as if he’d noticed Chengcheng slipping away, as if he’d wanted to find–
“Justin’s a pretty funny guy,” Xukun says, apropos of nothing.
Chengcheng stares at him.
“Zhengting’s probably done by now,” Xukun continues, “And I bet Justin’s already found him.”
“Ah,” Chengcheng says. Xukun smiles, offers a hand to pull Chengcheng up.
Chengcheng takes it. They start walking.
“What should I call you then, if you don’t prefer the full name,” Chengcheng begins.
Xukun, apparently, really is more clueless than he looks.
“What do you mean–”
“Xukun, Xiao Cai, Kunkun, Boss,” Chengcheng hums.
“–do not–”
“Of course,” Chengcheng nods. Then: “Big boss.”
Xukun makes a noise. “You really...You’re really something else, aren’t you.”
Chengcheng looks at him. Xukun is staring straight ahead.
“So are you, aren’t you?”
Xukun nudges Chengcheng’s shoulder. He still won’t look at him.
Serious, Chengcheng says, “Oh. Right now. This is cute.”
Xukun nudges Chengcheng’s shoulder, more forcefully, before tucking his head between Chengcheng’s shoulder and neck. Chengcheng laughs, and his voice sounds rough, heavy, but somewhere in his chest is a weight, lessening, lifting.
The hallway steadily picks up in volume the closer they get back to the more commonly frequented areas of the set. Qin Fin’s distinctive, booming shout resounds behind one of the doors, followed by a thump, then waves of laughter, reaching Chengcheng’s ears through a gap where the door wasn’t properly closed.
“Seems like everyone else is done, too,” Xukun says.
Chengcheng stops at one door in particular, pressing his cheek to listen in, catching slips of Xinchun’s voice between others from inside.
Stepping back, Chengcheng nods. “Jiayou.”
“Jiayou,” Xukun agrees.
Xukun opens the door, and they step inside.
(–and, at the very heart of this dream, is a voice. Or a touch. Chengcheng thinks it’s warm, imagines it sounds the way gentleness feels. Not kindness, but a feeling close to it, the pause between insult and apology, the space between a question and an answer. Chengcheng breathes into it, and when he wakes up, he remembers nothing at all, only that he feels less tired than he was before. Like he’s ready to walk as far as there is to go. Like maybe he’s already started, moved one foot forward, one step at a time.)
Early in the morning, Chengcheng hides away outside before filming starts. Everyone is either sleeping or waking up or practicing, the circadian clock of the building re-wired from time to on-screen and off-screen, instead.
But outside the sunlight is weak but bright, and Xukun is dancing: wide, sweeping movements taking advantage of the space without scraping his knees against the pavement.
At the foot of the stairs to the building is Zhengting, bent forward so his arms touch his toes, body a perfect V reflected in the silhouette of his shadow, a stark contrast against the pale fabric of Zhengting’s sweater, Zhengting’s sneakers.
Without looking up, Zhengting asks, “Not going to sleep some more?”
Between the two of them, Zhengting is the heavy sleeper, last to rest and difficult to wake. They both know this.
“What should I do if I can’t,” Chengcheng says.
“This,” Xukun answers. Chengcheng looks up, finding Xukun mid-pose, choreography that should seem ridiculous when still but doesn’t, and Zhengting laughs.
“No thank you,” Chengcheng says, but bends down and begins to stretch anyway.
“Morning exercise,” Xukun continues, “is an important start to the day.”
Zhengting explains, “This is what he says when he plans to miss breakfast and make us all practice with him.”
“You don’t look very forced to me,” Chengcheng says, grinning.
“He’s always like this,” Xukun says, gesturing at Zhengting, sprawled out on the pavement, arms reaching up to the sky.
“I’m more motivated than Zhengting in the mornings,” Chengcheng offers.
Zhengting turns to look at him. Xukun nods, looking impressed.
“Really?”
“No,” Chengcheng says. “But I’m here, so I may as well.”
Xukun smiles and runs at him, tugging Chengcheng over to where he was dancing before. Even Zhengting has stood up, draping himself over both of them, their combined weight bearing down on Chengcheng. But it’s a welcome pressure, and when Chengcheng leans into it, he feels comfortable in their movements together, steady in his own skin.