Archive of Our Own

Working in the entertainment industry is… working in the entertainment industry. Dealing with critiques and scrutiny from every aspect of the job, on and off it, that it makes him wonder if he is doing something that he wanted or he just internalised the mindset that he has to do it. Practice is gruelling, the soul is wearied, the body is decaying - the self is solitary. He was offered a spot in several groups, but trainees hated him so actual group members won't be much different. 

Mobei-Jun flags him down from his attempt of trying to ruin ankles, unimpressed face on. He wears a lot of those nowadays, since Binghe is spiralling into the burnt out periods that artists inevitably fall into. However, he's a true brat about it and not only had he scrubbed out the makeup Sha Hualing meticulously drawn on his eyes and lips, he also had been giving Zhuzi absolute hell. Mobei-Jun, as the last bastion to the trio of people that he can bother until he is executed summarily or kicked out of the company, whichever comes first. 

"Luo," his manager and babysitter sighs. "Don't be difficult."

He pretends like the finer nuances of speech and tone had flown right above his head and he is simply going to be a brat and spin until he breaks. Mobei hasn't stopped him yet because they both know there are few things that the unruly Luo Binghe abide by and ingrained ballet techniques from a time when he was a boy are the few things he actually respects and upholds. 

"Don't tell me what to do," he mutters back, a bit mutinously, but staggers to a stop anyways, sweat trickling, gross and cold, down the back of his neck. 

"I can't. It's my job to nag you. I am paid to nag you," Mobei looks down at him with an exasperated eye, the other lazily flicking at his phone. "Done with your hourly tantrum?"

Just to be difficult, Binghe huffs, foot stomping on the floor of the dance studio, teeth set in the shape of a growl. His ability to be annoying knows no bounds. How dare his manager questioned it? He will be even more annoying, just watch him -

The manager doesn't let him start another tirade, ploughing ahead. "Your choreography teacher is out of commission so we'll be getting a sub today, someone who is a friend of Qinghua's."

He sputtered in indignance, because he wasn't informed of this news, at all! He barely respected the current dance teacher, Xie Lian, who at least can whip him into shape and not be a dick about it. Now he's not here? How is Binghe meant to cope? He's bad with sudden changes where he should be informed of the relevant changes pertaining to him. He hates being left in the dark, a habit transferred to him by a teacher long ago, something he never quite been able to shake off. Teeth now set in a feral snarl, about to wrangle Mobei where he stands, he rears back, about to spring forward -

"That is all. Be nice to him, or else I will have Xie-laoshi kick you into shape and Sha Hualing pulling out your nails from your hands."

Mobei puts up a hand, apparently done with the conversation, walking away. 

Lou Binghe is baffled! Shocked into silence! Is this any way to treat your artist, Mobei? That's downright harassment! Let him have some room to make executive decisions pertaining to his job?!

He tromps to the other dance studio, the more exclusive one that trainers and artists practice in, in opposition to the public one that he's been kicking off a storm here. It's all part of a scheme to make life harder for anyone sent to extract him back to the dorm or the collection van, since he refused to be anywhere near the studio. The director of Demonio had announced his indefinite hiatus since his Big and Destructive Tantrum two weeks ago, almost shattering his elbow and knee on the meeting table after over-practicing. Tianlang-Jun called off all scheduled activities for Binghe and advised that he only focus on relaxing activities for his recovery. The team had been hard on him to enforce this wish from the Big Man and the leash around his neck had only been tightened in his break, so it's why he's been acting out. Free-spirited, that's his brand, which had been stripped off with the supervision of all his actions and the policing of his music to follow a certain trajectory the company wants to aim at, to make it to the market, to put him out there to compete with fellow artists, as if he wasn't great already with his unique sounds.

Mobei can frankly go suck Shang Qinghua's dick, because Binghe isn't going to be amenable to any of his threats. 

---

He is spinning like a dwarf in space, rapidly burning off the excessive energy given his chemical structures, aggression packed tight in his dancing's form. Ugly snarl on his mouth, he whirls around when the glass door is eased open, with meek and mousy Shang entering and almost scrambling when he takes off his shoe and lobbing at the bastard's head.

"Nike Air huh," an eerily familiar voice muses as the shoe is picked up. "I see you are well off."

"Fuck off," he grits his teeth, regional accent barely kept in check. "While I'm using nice words." 

A small thing with dainty eyebrows and a mole on his nose lifts both brows in an exaggerated show of fear, both arms raised in faux surrender. 

"I'm so scared, Mister I-almost-broke-my-ankle-doing-a-step-sequence," the substitute smirks, uneven teeth sitting uncomfortably in his little mouth. "What a brat."

He scowls, hobbling over to where his shoe had landed, nudging it back with his socked foot, still lazily assessing the bastard who just hijacked his routine. No matter. He'll run like the rest of the company staff had anyways. Binghe earned the honourable badge of being most troublesome artist in Demonio by sheer tenacity and thick-faced shamelessness, so he will continue this regime of his, until Father Dearest frees him from the burdens of being an idol molded from his ideals. He's tired. Let him be free.

He doesn't really acknowledge the men lounging about like they work here most days, with the newcomer glancing about the studio and also toeing off his shoes, stretching until his joints crack. Binghe tracks the movements with a sort of disinterested assessment of form and techniques, finding no flaws in them, which, annoying. He's the standard pretty boy that the industry fawns over. Father would probably approve of him if he expresses interest in joining the company. Good. Maybe he can just offer this guy in exchange of him or something. Solid plan, Luo.

"What choreo are you planning to teach me," he demands instead of asks, scowl on his eyebrows. "I've got one half in the work with Xie-laoshi."

"He already showed me the demo," the substitute smoothly bypasses the animosity in his demand, gently smiling at him with almost an amused look in his eyes and he sizes Binghe up. "We can go off that since I would hate to disrupt something already in the work."

Binghe doesn't know what he's planning, but he doesn't like it. "Fine," he huffs, stomping over. "You better not suck."

"I'll try to the best of my abilities," the smiling bastards bows, humbled and all manners, meanwhile holding that same look in his eyes, like he knows something Binghe doesn't.

He hates not knowing. He's going to pry the reason out with iron brands if he has to.

"I'll be leaving," Shang Qinghua announces suddenly, coughing very loudly. The teacher waves a lazy goodbye, flicking an elegant middle finger as Shang swears at him in his native Hokkien dialect as he beats a retreat, eyes still on Binghe and any offending objects he might fling at him. 

The minute they are alone, the teacher shucks off his shoes, pulling both his arms in an arc over his head, toned muscles stretching in a fluid motion, like a rolling river current. Binghe spends too long staring at the bumps and ridges of muscles that he doesn't see the amused smirk sitting on his teacher's mouth, only jerking back to the presence as a loud throat clearing jolts him from his reverie.

"What," he scowls, by default because he wants to make things difficult. 

The Stranger doesn't look even one bit deterred. Even worse, he looks infinitely more amused. 

"I asked for your name," he repeats, tone patient.

Binghe frowns. "Don't you know who I am?" The tone is still demanding, like a brat used to getting his ways and the people who associate with him must defer to him and his whims on the basis of his presence alone.

The teacher lifts the dainty eyebrows, a ripple of a smile flitting through his face. "Do you know my name?" 

He stares, like the man is being difficult on purpose, but his tone for once was completely devoid of jokes or weird innuendos. Just a question, lightly demanding, mirroring what Binghe inflicted onto him.

How silly. He's not that famous yet. He can't just assume everyone knows who he is. What a vain, arrogant ideology to hold. 

"No," he admits, mumbling. "That was arrogant of me," which loosely translates to I'm sorry in normal people tongue. "This one's name is Luo Binghe. Soloist."

He doesn't tack on the polite I'll be in your care or I am grateful for your guidance, which is to be expected, as the teacher doesn't once flinch at the lack of respect given. In fact, he delights in being able to parry back and forth with Binghe like this, unhinged, freed from social constraints of what a teacher-student dynamic  ought to be. 

"Luo...Binghe," the man repeats, voice light and skipping over the syllables of his name.

It must be the aircon. That has to be why the errant shiver slithers up his spine.

"Shen Yuan," Teacher Shen smiles, pleasant without any teasing or demeaning. "I'll be in your care, Young Master Luo."

That's definitely a dig at his lack of polite address. But he's not going to rise to the bait.

"When are you teaching me the rest of the choreo, or are you here just to chat?" He demands, shouldering a path to the speakers aggressively, like he has a personal vendetta to prove by doing what is essentially a threatening walk, gorilla style. 

"My apologies," the teasing tone is back, Teacher Shen chuckling, as he meets Binghe's gaze in the mirrors. "Show me what you've learnt so far, Master Luo."

Dancing had always come hard for him, due to him always flaking out on dance lessons and not really trying as hard at dancing as music and performing. He can give the illusion of being able to dance, using techniques from his previous stint of ballet lessons, dropping out after two lessons because the teacher hated him and his favourite mentor slash classmate advanced to a higher level and the boy was 99% of him attending Cang Qiong Ballet Studio. It comes back to bite him in the ass now that he's always under pressure to be able to dance and sing - he knows of the memes his fans made due to the constant disparity between his dancing and singing. Obviously he's better at one and it's clearly not dancing. But it's not really something so clear cut as him being outright clearly, since he can pretend so well. His dancing looks like what the demo and what the dance lessons ordain it to look like, but it would always feel off, since he's so stiff and so mechanical in his movements. No soul. No matter how well he performed, it would feel off somehow. He fares better when the finer details are stressed and where details are demonstrated - a more ballet-based, contemporary feel. 

Unfortunately, since Father pushed for more of a Bad Boy concept, with the chains and leather and Lynx perfume, the dance has to be hip-hop. So many times he raised a fit to change concepts and none of those concerns fall through. The staff who stuck by him eventually stopped supporting his advocates since he would take his frustration out on them and they sit on the same spectrum of stress, so they would lash back and at the end of the day, there would be a rift between him and the team. He would be lonely in his struggles, with no support network, and it would be what it is.

Shen Yuan watches him with no expression on his face - not a speck of ridicule or pity on his stupidly pretty asymmetrical face. Just contemplation on what he is observing. It almost throws Binghe off a few times. What does that look mean? Why is he saying nothing? He stopped for like a whole minute, but Teacher is just staring, point blank, zero expression.

"Oi," he seethes. "Say something."

That jolts the guy into life, the default smirk sliding back onto his face. "That you suck? Why would I hurt you like that?"

Binghe is no mind reader, but even he can tell that's not what the guy wanted to say. Point blank insults don't do jack shit to him at this point in his career. He just shrugs them off and goes on his day. 

"Was I meant to be hurt?" He demands, one part offended to three parts unimpressed. "Stuff like that's old news. Try harder. Now be honest. What's your problem now."

Shen Yuan's smile flickers on his mouth, before the contemplative look slips back, as he leans back heavily on his heels, arms crossed loosely, fingertips meeting elbows.

"You do dance," he purses his lips, "rather mechanically. Very manufactured idol dancing, which isn't bad. The thing is though, I can see that you've got foundations for dance, you're just, well, being difficult. You're refusing to dance well."

Binghe offers nothing but a challenge in his eyes. Shen Yuan laughs, gentle and not at all mocking, which is new. 

"I'm not saying I'm surprised anymore at this point, but, hm, how can I say this, you are also dancing in the wrong genre?" The look comes back to his eyes, the faraway nostalgic look, like Binghe should know what that means. 

"I've only ever danced hip-hop," he states. "Literally ever since debut, that's all I've done -"

"Ballet," Shen Yuan forces out. "You have the solid foundation techniques for ballet. It's hard for you to switch concepts in terms of dance, so this whole time your company had been forcing you to dance a genre you can't acclimate to."

Well then. Shit. 

"What do you want me to say," he sighs, ragged. "I've been saying this for as long as I've been a trainee - change my concept and dance, but do you think they listen? No."

Shen Yuan doesn't spend too long on the intricacies of bureaucratic hierarchies because who would want that, and just pulls up the choreo demo that Xie Lian did for Binghe, scrutinising the killing parts. 

"What are you doing," he tentatively asks, when the silence is deafening even him. 

"Making this work for you and me," is the distracted reply, as a shoulder rolls out in a sinuous copy of the move shown on the iPad. Binghe spends too long being distracted at the distracted move, wondering how a person can move like water does, fluid and elegant like that, while maintaining a core strength in it.

Then he realises. Oh. That's what a good dancer would be able to do. Of course.

"Luo," Shen Yuan looks up, eyes suddenly bright. Binghe can see green flecks in the brown. He can physically feel his brain cells being eradicated in number.

"Yeah what," he scowls back, if only weakly.

"Don't be like that," the other man laughs, eyes crinkled up in a smile, like a sliver of the moon on turbulent water, shifting and staggering, bright and elusive.

Binghe wades in, eyes always on the money.

---

That night, he goes back home and writes, in frantic, my inspiration just bashed me over the head and said do it style - about five songs worth of lyrics, melody already filed and ready to bang out on the keyboard, keyed up and still shaking both from the brutal beatdown session that Shen-laoshi dared to call a dance lesson and from all the times the older man smiled at him, eyes like moonlight. 

"Ahh," he groans, slamming his forehead on the desk with an audible 'thwunk!'

A head pokes in. It's Meiyin.

"You dying in here or something, Luo?" She asks around a mouth of celery.

"Yes," he grunts back from the desk. 

"Eh. Good for you," she replies, backing out. Normally he would yell, as scheduled after all dance sessions. But he was so thoroughly dragged through the mud physically and also put to the test emotionally that he doesn't think the flesh and and mind are at odds anymore. Everything is in shutdown mode. Everyone is sleeping, all the emoting and existing can be done tomorrow onwards. 

Mobei-Jun drags him out of bed at the ass crack of dawn, not because he is being a dick or that Binghe suddenly has a schedule, but because he found the lyrics and bare bones of the songs, and demands that they have a Talk. Right now. 

Binghe is falling asleep over his third cup of espresso machiato mocha latte supreme vodka shot whatever since he just took what Mobei gave him, chugging the caffeine down to keep his body on standby to receive the tongue lashing that is to come. His manager and tentative friend confiscated his donut with a cringe on his nose, before clearing his throat, leaning over the table to whisper to him.

"Not stuck anymore?"

Tired, he shrugs, because he also spent just as much time creating as well as wondering yeah what the fuck am I doing, so really, they are on the same boat here. 

"If I know what the hell I'm doing, you'll be on board too," he grumbles, chin tucked in on his collarbone. "But I really don't know what spurred this on."

Mobei opens his mouth to say something, but closes it at the last moment. He lifts tired eyes up at the bastard, who's known him since he was a runt ten years ago and probably won't go anywhere else now, wondering why he isn't saying the prerequisite line. The capitalist line.

"Is this making you more tired?" Mobei-Jun asks instead, jostling Binghe into sitting up properly and smacking his knee under the table. 

"Is it making me what," he chokes out, no brattiness or spite to be as annoying as he humanly can get away with. 

"Tired," Mobei repeats, slowly and deliberately. "Exhaustion. When you just collapse onto your dorm bed and cry while passing out."

"I know what tired is, you lump of rock, I don't know why you're asking me if I'm tired," he grits back out, slumping onto his seat. "That's unusual. Almost caring. Isn't this against the policies set out by the job description?"

Mobei, on a good day, has about 12% visibility of emotion on his face, ranging from I'm killing you in the next 5 minutes or okay nobody touch me now, with a dash of I tolerate you. Predicting his moods becomes a sort of game that he delights in, since he's at the sole receiving end of the Murder Stare a good 8 out of 7 days week. He prides himself on that, on being able to annoy someone so much that they contemplate murder in front of his face, out loud.

"My job is to care for you," Manager Mobei intones, eyes boring into you. 

"Because I bring profits to the company?" He jeers, the sound of it ugly to his ears.

Strangely enough, Mobei scowls, as if what he said wasn't cold hard fact. "Luo Binghe."

"Mobei-Jun," he returns evenly.

"I care for you, not only because it's my job, but because we are friends and I worry about you," what would be the most heartfelt thing he had ever heard leaving this guy's mouth is punctuated with the usual let me die cringe. Ah. That's his buddy. Adorable. He's trying to care!

"Don't hurt yourself," he says, placatingly but also in full mockery. "We don't have to talk about how much we love each other if it gives you hives." 

There is a beat of silence where his friend and manager and general babysitter looks to be contemplating whether it is ethical to punt him through the window of the cafe. Or how many years he can stave off his prison sentence by pleading that provocation was a legitimate defence given Luo Binghe. That trial must be wild.

"You're not the easiest person to care for," Mobei-Jun states, cold hard facts on the table, metaphorically.

He grins, lounging even harder and attempting to ruin his lower back in the process.

"But that doesn't mean nobody cares about you," his friend continues, because in these instances he speaks as a friend, not as a co-worker or as someone legally responsible for Luo Binghe's misdeeds. "I, at the very least, care for you. Regardless of what the company wants, I don't want you to hurt yourself and producing."

What he wanted to say: some witty comeback lines.

What he ended up saying -

"I've been sleeping for 7 hours or more every night so." And Mobei-Jun's face shutters into that Murder Look and they are back to their usual dynamic.

"Why don't you just die then," Mobei scoffs at him and draws out a card. Binghe realises too late that it isn't the company's but his, and by then all expenses had been paid for.

"You're a thief, Momo," he whines, collapsing into the unsuspecting arms of the first body he spotted. 

"Momo?" Meiyin's voice titters, like she has a lot of things to say to Momo. Mobei-Jun who looms above their heads scowls and stalks off, long coat whipping like harsh winds on metal roofing, and Meiyin dumps him to the ground, smile lipstick red.

"What now," he squints at her, since anything the woman said, historically, had never been good.

"Been reading your lyrics," she whistles, eyes sharp. "Been listenin' to the instrumental tracks too. So now I'm just waiting to hear the finished products."

If he was younger, he would have screamed in mortification at the fact that all of his staff and close friends had probably read and listened to his...dubious lyrics. They saw the words with their own eyes. They heard samples. There were demos. 

But living in a communal space does things to you and eventually there is no sense of privacy anymore. There is no my thing - there is only everyone's thing. These lyrics are standard for a Luo Binghe on a mission to ruin lives and people, so it's understandable that nobody even batted an eyelash his way. Freaky with a side feeling of thirst are a well-seasoned combination to send nosy co-workers and snooping housemates sprinting to the hill. Meanwhile he is only doing his job. Why are people yelling.

"Good for you," he settles on, and if possible, Meiyin's smile gets even sharper. 

"Bye bye, Luo. Write more music," she croons, like she knows something he doesn't, nail tapping the side of her nose, the same place where the teacher's mole had been. 

Wait. Hang on. What.

"Meiyin-" he calls for her, but she already ran off, tearing down the corridor and disappearing. 

---

Upon reevaluating the lyrics, he starts to see why people have been impishly smiling at him for the past week.

I like it when we get closer, when it gets risky, reads one line. Oh gods. Oh gods he wrote that while reminiscing about the flex of someone's arm. 

Ah. Ahhh. AH .

Xie Lian, for most of this session, hasn't commented anything that was less than professional, bless him and his husband. They've been trying to match the lyrics to the choreography, since his music is roundabout and always emerges last. Xie Lian even praised him for churning out so many versatile lyrics at the same pace the dances are in the works, not once mentioning the undercurrent of thirst or as Zhuzhi secretly hissed at him the other day, the horny factor, spelled with two ‘e’ instead of ‘y’ because that’s the vocabulary the kids trade nowadays. 

Some of the words are nice enough to not be straight up banned in broadcasting stations - The front of my eyes are glittering - you are an exploding starlight. The light that will swallow my heart, oh no. 

But then. They’ve also got - Play play play I'll play in the Paris. Stay clay sketch dirt dough I'm gonna knead your body. 

Yeah. Yeah that is the thing.

“It’s as if you’ve found a muse of sorts,” Xie Lian murmurs, leafing through the iPad of incriminating lyrics and isolating his limbs to the rhythm of the snappy words. 

“Not by choice, laoshi,” he groans, head on the meeting table.

Shang Qinghua, because he is everywhere now and under the full protection of Mobei-Jun, snorts, loud and ugly. “I mean - okay, listen - My focus, my control, it’s all you - and, and - Whether it’s the right or wrong answer, you decide for me.” 

He lifts up his head, hissing. “We don’t need a verbal demonstration in your voice, Shang. And this is your fault!”

Xie Lian steps in between them, troubled smile in place. “Now, now, boys, let’s split up and do our jobs, yeah? Shang Qinghua, go and find Zhuzhi Lang. Binghe and I will have to go through these in details.”

Shang Qinghua, cursed hamster mind working at the worst possible time (now) squawks in protest as he is forcibly ejected from the meeting room even though there was no real reason for his removal, before his eyebrows knit together in understanding and he giggles, creepily, and not cutely, back to Binghe. A growl at the back of his throat, he glares at the freak crabwalks out, waving, a finger tapping the side of his nose, where a distinctive facial mark sits.

Oh fuck him sideways. 

“I’ll be a bit busy in the coming months, so I’ll have Teacher Shen come in more often to walk you through the amended choreography,” Xie Lian kindly places an understanding hand on his, even if his sympathy is going to produce more hornee and songs. 

Binghe gargles in thanks and tries to get up to walk the man to the door, but he waves him off, telling him to only show up at the private dance studio at around 5, he’ll be back then with a dance for one of the songs.

“See you then, laoshi,” he bows respectfully, but also with the distinct flavour of a student headed off to war.

“Teacher Shen isn’t that bad,” Xie Lian claps him on the shoulder once and leaves.

Teacher Shen isn’t that bad, but he showed up to the dance lesson in leggings, the borderline skin-like material wrapping like a second layer of very attractive skin around legs packed with lithe muscles, and Binghe spends about ten minutes staring at the ceiling and reciting the ethics sutra.

Xie Lian taught it to him, at the insistence of a coworker of his, Wei-something-or-whatever. Apparently it’s a funny joke between the two of them and he is seeing none of the humour as he respectfully keeps his eyes away from staring at the nicely toned legs. 

“Something bothering you?” Shen Yuan asks, about half an hour in, and he is not dancing to any genre to a degree that would be accepted for a trainee, let alone an already debuted idol. He doesn’t hang his head - just looks somewhere that isn’t at the dance teacher, who definitely notices his numerous attempts at trying to not make eye contact, and sighs, loudly and obviously, that Binghe has to turn to see what’s wrong with him now.

“Well,” he hedges, voice rough. “I’m botherin’ me.”

That coaxes a weary smile out of the teacher. “That’s cute, Luo, but am I making you uncomfortable?”

He’s only been trained to not flinch when journalists and TV show hosts barraged rude questions at him. He wasn’t trained to react when a staff member pointed out that he’s being strange. So he flinched, and Shen Yuan’s eyebrows knit together, a frown puckering his red lips.

“It’s really not -” he scrambles for an explanation, but really, there’s none. Might as well come clean now. “Have you seen the lyrics for my songs?” 

“Briefly,” Teacher Shen answers, terse and careful. “You wrote them.”

“Yes,” he stresses, with stress. “I was inspired. By someone.”

“Okay?” 

He stares, in the most significant way that can ever be conveyed by eyes alone. “Please. You have to know who it is. It’s literally so obvious.”

Shen Yuan lets out an offended noise. “It’s none of my business who you write your songs to. You can always mask it up as a songs for fans, it’s not a big problem. What’s a problem is how we’re going to interact from now on.” He gestures vaguely to the frigid space between the two of them, stiff with tension. “This needs to change. Pronto. Songs and professionalism aside, you’re a good kid, Binghe. I’d really like us to get along.”

Luo Binghe is two parts crying about how he’s chanting my desire whenever he sees this dance teacher to three parts ecstatic that he’s no longer associating with the demons who he work, live and bicker with. So this is a crucial moment. He must answer appropriately, communicate his intentions to mutually become good friends with this xuezhang - are they that close yet - but all he blurts out is -

“We can get along. You’ll have the next place under my fans.”

Might as well just throw him out now. Chuck him out like the trash. It’s where he belongs.

Shen Yuan doesn’t seem offended - in fact, he thought that was funny, full of wit and dry humour - and barks out a laugh, the sound like a braying donkey. Binghe is probably too taken with the Hornee and the ecstasy of not braving through idol life in the indefinite future by himself that he finds the laugh somewhat cute, paying too much attention to how close they’re standing and the hand that’s bracing on his forearm.

“Now that’s settled, do you want to go back to practicing?” And then it’s gone. It’s all boring business with this guy.

He’s too tired - emotionally and physically. Let him go. He wants to lie down and eat bad food then work it all off at the gym later. He doesn't want to dance in the same room, sweat and heat and sharp eyes, with a guy who seems to know too many things and nothing at all. It makes his head spins.

For once, he wishes to be alone. His thoughts are running rampant in his head and if left alone, he can just get them out and move on. With Teacher Shen, they will fester and bubble up in boils, until they erupt messily on the surface and Binghe won't be able to see Shen Yuan ever again once he knows.

Clearly something has to be done here. Something that plays the same game that Shen Yuan's mind can understand - or not understand, he's not fussed - so that he can drive the guy away and he can scream into the abyss - Mobei-Jun and the guys - in peace. Something over the top. Embarrassing. Guaranteed to make even the thickest person bolt for the hills.

Since he wanted to be friends so badly, let's see how he will deal with Baby Binghe.

He hunches his shoulders, pushing out his lips. There is a sheen of summoned tears over his eyes. A tremulous voice, called forth from the Depth, emerges, as he clutches at a sleeve, breathing out a small whine.

"I'm too tired," and this will do the trick, "gege. Can we reschedule to another day? We've practiced enough for today."

Immediately, it works like a charm. Like a terrible, no-good charm. Shen Yuan's composed demeanour crumbles like a Jenga tower carefully constructed from bottom to top and everything is splintering from the top back down, myriads of expressions storming through his picturesque face as he goes very, and Binghe must stress, extremely, red in the face. , like the blood decides to all migrate to his cheeks, clotting and cloying there. The intended effect is carried out - Teacher Shen is shoving him aside as he weaves rhapsodies about the gruelling practice sessions and how gege should treat him kindly as the last bastion of kindness left in this hellhole, with extra feelings in his voice. Extra feelings and extra whining. Shen Yuan folds like a house of badly constructed cards, batting him away and shoving a forearm across his face, refusing staunchly to meet his eyes. 

“Gege ~!” He pitches his voice to as high as it can go to, to a falsetto note even, syrupy sweet and crooning into the recording microphone that is Shen Yuan’s ear. “Have mercy on this lowly one ~!”

It worked. It worked like a goddamn charm. Teacher Shen called off the lesson, left abruptly, and when Sha Hualing came to see if he’s mopping up his tears in the practice room, she found him staring at the floor, cross-legged, not moving.

“You dead or somethin’, Luo?” She nudged him with her phone, wrinkling her nose as he looked up at her vacantly.

“I think,” he told her, with all honesty, “that I’ve discovered a new kink I’m into.”

She started beating him so hard with her heels that it jostled him into running for refuge.

(“What,” Mobei-Jun stares, unimpressed but also mildly curious as Meiyin slips him a notebook. The Notebook of Words, as Binghe did not name it.

"Read it," she grins, all teeth on display. "Read it and think about it."

He's almost afraid to open the Notebook.

But he did anyways, because Shang Qinghua elected to make that choice for him.

"Holy shit!" The other man cackles, holding up the page. "You've really got no patience. I'm gonna harass you until you show me your honest wishes. Come and let me adore you. I'll be your painting  your artwork, I'm freaking honest -"

Mobei-Jun promptly removes himself from the room.)

---

Luo Binghe and Shen Yuan are engaged at the middle of a conflict. One is unaware that he is inspiring a plethora of dubious song lyrics out the other and one is deliberately provoking the other into being so flustered he has to resort to fleeing. It's the worst kind of conflict ever, and Binghe would genuinely stop his offences if he gets Xie Lian back, but he's on his Date Month and Hua Cheng is an actual mafia underground mogul and he will eat Binghe's liver for breakfast if he pulls his teacher away from Date Month, so he's here, stuck with the Horny Feelings. He doesn't want to have these feelings, but recently it's becoming very apparent that sometimes he can drive the flesh vessel but the mind belongs to another entity completely, and when the rabbit entity says Go, he can only comply. He gets songs and he can bullshit about how they are for his fans, true for about 40% of it, but the other 14670% it's definitely for someone he had tried to tell but who remained too dense to it that he simply gave up. 

He even entertained about seeking someone out from Cang Qiong, but knowing how petty he is and how much of a loner he truly is, he won't go back to old hurts. Horny aside, Shen Yuan and him work well together in tweaking the choreography into something not as exceedingly difficult for Binghe to pull off on stage. He is so infuriatingly gentle and accommodating that some days, the Horny is silent, letting room for the spawn of Affection, and the forbidden L word, to thrive and take up residence in the absence of Hornee.

"You used to study ballet nearby, Binghe?" Shen Yuan asked once.

He cringed so hard he forgot to make it cute.

"Let's not talk about that. Cang Qiong was a bad time of my life."

Then he got laughed at, but it was, in terms of recent events, devastatingly cute, and he knew he was fucked, emotionally, so he just went with the soft mushy feelings directing him to vomit his words out on paper to sublimate the deep dark desires of wining and dining Shen Yuan under the stars and walking him home and kissing him goodnight. Brutal stuff. The things of nightmares.

Sha Hualing, who once let him used her as a fake date, stared at him for so long that her eyes crossed over and she just left the room, not even bothering to swear at him.

"You could try and do a flip on stage," Shen Yuan suddenly suggests, like that's something he could pull off (he can, but he doesn't want to) at the command of a pretty dance teacher (close but not quite).

"Why~" he whines, plastering himself to an arm. He doesn't even try to hide the fact that he was feeling up the muscles, packed from years of lifting and supporting in musical numbers. "Gege, I'm weak and awkward. I'll fall over."

Clearly he struck where it hurts, because Shen Yuan flounders for a response that can both assuage and reprimand him for the too casual address. They had a talk about the gege. Binghe didn't really pay attention and Teacher Shen, if he insisted on calling himself, is equally terrible at discipline, so they are where they are. 

"It's Teacher," Shen Yuan sighs. "And I saw you pull off a butterfly jump before. What's stopping you from the flip?"

He stares up through his lashes, demuring like a perfect maiden. "The presence of a strong man to hold me up?"

There is a snort, and a smile hides at the corner of Shen Yuan's eye. Binghe almost keens over. Not fair! Not fair!

Shen Yuan leans closer to him, wisps of hair falling from behind his ears.

"Want me to lift you? I can."

Binghe, like a terrible, irredeemable gay, said yes. 

(Mobei-Jun refuses to read the lyrics, passing the Notebook back out to Zhuzhi who simply breathed.

"It's not that bad this time though," the boy notes. 

"Read me a line then," the stone-cold man demands, waiting for the worst.

"Uh, wait there's - in my eyes filled desire, in my heart filled desire, if I dreamed a dream enough to see - don't hit me I'm just reading - um, there's also, he said whisper, so -"

Zhuzhi is forcibly ejected from the manager dorm for his repeated whispering of stop, baby don't stop.)

---

Besides the constant whispering from every corner he turns into of stop baby don't stop, he now managed to wrangle down the Hornee, to leave only a puppy-like impression of Shen Yuan, who had accepted to Binghe yipping shizun to his ear. Shen Yuan is a terrible liar, because he clearly loves to have a cute, fluffy disciple following him around like a living tail, clutching onto his elbow and falling 'accidentally' onto him, giggling like he is a silly trainee who hasn't found his footing yet, and not a trained, debuted idol with dancing training. 

"We should go somewhere together," he suggests eagerly, as he allows Shen Yuan (only shizun!) to brush up his makeup and wiping the sweat off his neck. Sha Hualing happily acquiesced the duty of wrangling him over, almost too relieved to be freed of her Binghe-shaped burden, so now they sit in an empty project room, Shen Yuan with a hand cradling his jaw. 

"Only after you show me a thorough performance of one of the choreos we went through, Binghe," shizun murmurs, distracted by the colour palette. He whines, not a note of deliberation in it, and collapses bodily onto shizun, who only accommodates his bulk easily like he had lifted Binghe over his shoulders, musing over the eye shadows.

"But don't you want to have a break too~" he pokes the nearest shoulder within reach, pout in his words. "Gege. Gege. Yuan-gege." 

A twitch in the muscle, but nothing too drastic. Shizun had taken to holding someone a head taller than him, folding and rearranging limbs, so that Binghe is cuddled in his chest. Obviously he, who loves to be held, is very ecstatic. Shizun, who loves to be depended on, is equally content with the arrangement, even going so far as unconsciously drawing him closer and rubbing his chin over the top of Binghe’s head.

All the Horny Feelings have filtered out of him by this point. He only wants to stay in the bracket of warm ballet arms and be gently guided into more efficient, sharper arm movements, kind eyes still holding the same gravitas of amusement at him, like their owner knows something he doesn’t still, but he finds himself chasing after the eyes, the person - everything that is shizun’s. He yearns for an inexplicable concept - a sense, a bundle of nerves - that is out there. Notwithstanding the entire...Baby Don’t Stop incident that is ongoing - he is still writing songs, to the perplex of everyone and himself involved. They all thought he was only capable of weird whispering noises and chains and whips, but when Zhuzhi, bless his heart, dug deep enough through all the repeated chanting of stop, baby don’t stop, there are gems like - You are the flame reviving the flowers you have not seen and This tension between you and me, saturates the air to a sweetness that burns the lungs. He can be sweet! Sometimes even poetic! Which is where he is, right now, spouting out poetry and burying his nose deep within the cavern of a firm chest as Shen Yuan absently pets his hair. 

“I’ll get a break when you get things right,” is the typical answer.

He wants a break. He badly wants a break for gege, so that’s why he practices hard and actually cares about the mechanics of the dance. He even snuck in a three minute (exactly three, Hua Cheng won’t allow more) emergency call to Xie Lian who gave him pointers and cheered him on. Meiyin even volunteered to spot for him.

In the end, it paid off. The dance is solid. No more fumbling. No more crying over choreography and learning

Yes to the indulgent, proud smile that shizun wears when he watches Binghe moves, shoes and long limbs skidding across the wooden floor, eyes never leaving him.

Binghe thinks - allows himself the luxury of dreams - that for once, he has someone besides the fans backing him up and raising him higher than the stars.

( “Gege,” he starts, cradling the hot drink in one hand and Shen Yuan’s hand in the other, “why aren’t you a professional dancer?”

“Shizun,” Shen Yuan tells him, mostly out of habit. “And I’ve got an injury when I was in a dance troupe, so that’s why I mostly teach now.”

Binghe’s face must have shown something akin to true horror, because  his face is then gathered into the warm palms of a freak who doesn’t feel the chill of winter, fingertips grazing his chin. 

“Don’t make that face,” tuts shizun. “It was a long time ago.”

“You’re not even that old,” wails Binghe, tipping forward so that their foreheads bump. “Did lifting me hurt you? Oh my god, what if I made it worse -”

Shen Yuan actually, honest to gods, headbutted him to get him to shut up. He does, because somebody’s head is really thick and it hurts to even pretend to think after he got bashed across the forehead. 

“Stop looking like that,” shizun scolds him now, in earnest.

He frowns. “Like what?”

“Like you’re going to cry. I can’t stand it.”

“Aww, shizun, is that something you like? I can cry on command just to check ~ Oof, stop, stop, okay, don’t hit me - ahh, gege, why are you pinching my face,” he cries, batting fierce little fingers away as they try to crab walk to the bank of the river.

He’s only let free after he offered a semblance of apology to shizun’s ruined dignity, to which he holds no regrets over wrecking. Their hands are still entwined, swinging idly as their feet mindlessly meander, Shen Yuan slowly pressing against him and he against shizun, little by little, unaware of the concept of personal space between the two of them.

“What about you then,” shizun asks suddenly, when they’re on a bench. “Why are you an idol?”

The answer to this common query is practiced, the words a regular motion rolling off his tongue, dripping from his open maw. However, it’s only the two of them here. He doesn’t have to worry about company expectations or any image he must project. It’s just him, the boy who inspired his dubious lyrics and this bench they’re sitting on.

“Being loved, despite being conventionally regarded as atypical, was a dream of mine,” he muses. “I wanted to be surrounded by a crowd that love me, as I will love them back. It’s been...some bad years and an entire childhood not growing up. I wanted to pursue a career that will let me have some form of affection where I didn’t and won’t be getting anywhere else.”

Silence, to process. Then, a hand over his, fingers sliding through his hand.

“I think,” shizun says, carefully. “That it’s a perfectly valid reason to pursue a career as an entertainer. It’s good to be honest with yourself.”

He finds the rough palm, lines up heart line to heart line. “But?”

“But,” heart lines merge, pulse rushing from under skin to ribcage. “You should know that this path is hard, but you are not alone. You are loved, whether you become an idol or not. No person is unloved. You including and you especially.”

He remembers not the fireworks going off illegally above their heads, arching in streams of light and fire, but only the caramel brown of shizun’s - Shen Yuan’s eyes - as they dip into the same stream. 

“For all it’s worth, Luo Binghe, no matter where you go, this shizun will follow you, no questions asked. You’ll have me, even if there is nobody else.”)

---

“What’s this?” Tianlang-Jun asks as the menagerie of zoo animals he lovingly calls his staff as, Luo Binghe at the forefront of the grim faces. 

“I’m changing the terms of my contract,” he declares. “I’m not going to be a dancer anymore. The concept is mine to decide. I already make my own music. I only need about four backup dancers if we really need to dance. But. This path - it’s mine to walk. Thank you for your directions, but, I think I’m strong enough to be on my own now.”

Tianlang-Jun barely has time to breathe out anything before Binghe casts a look back at the crowd backing him up, even Mobei-Jun.

“Besides,” his wayward son grins, wolfish, so much like him, but so much not. “I’m not alone. They’ve got my back.”

Sha Hualing shakes a fist behind his son just to demonstrate the extent of how much of his son’s back she is having and he is struck with the realisation that this son of his - he is leaving, crafting his own shadow. The entertainment world is a cutthroat world where it is to abide by the mass and the corporations’ wishes or to fade into obscurity, but Luo Binghe had always been popular with a steady following. Perhaps this will be good for him. His musical talents have always been too good in comparison to his dancing. Perhaps this will be...good for him.

“Fine. Sure. Do what you want,” he acquiesces, before striking. “But you have to release one of those,” he clicks his tongue, pointing at his nephew, “whispering songs that he said are from you, then you do what you want.”

“My what,” Binghe pales significantly.

“Damn, gotta call in Shen-laoshi again,” Meiyin yawns, covering her mouth coquettishly. “What a shame. We thought he wouldn’t have to come over under the guise of business anymore.”

Before he can interrogate the PR girl on what that means, his son is already hustled out of the room, yelling in protest as his team crowds around him, ruffling his hair and head.

---

This fall season, Luo Binghe, the soloist signed under the up and coming, unconventional company, Demonio, sure is changing his style a lot. He has a song in his usual vibes - leather, unusual tempo and beats, fishnet, funky fancy footwork - but this time, he comes with a partner, the two of them swimming around one another onstage as Binghe sings and raps and especially whispers Stop, baby don’t stop to his audience.

The fans, in very simple words, ate that shit up and the title song itself is a commercial success.

But the b-side that people collectively, as Sha Hualing elegantly phrased it - lost their collective shit over - was one where Binghe sat on a chair and sang a set of falsetto notes to a song about his love (mostly to his fans) being his light.

Shen Yuan monitors every single one of his stage in dressing rooms and backstage, fixated on the way the singer sways and closes his eyes, a touch of vulnerability upon his brows here, a glow of glitter there, as he croons to the audience whose exhaustion at having to wait so long to get into the broadcasting station seemingly dissipates into the notes of the slow melody. A waltz, between two.

There, along the bright light that I head towards, we now two -

He opens his eyes and the decibels almost blast the ceiling into the stratosphere.

The moment we look at each other, the dark night is lifted, in there we shine.

A sailing banner goes airborne and slams onto his face. The security guards are horrified. They rush to remove the spectacle. Binghe performs as if this is part of the schedule, singing handsomely. However, that jostled something in his brain. Xie Lian could have danced with him. Heck, even Meiyin could have been an easier choice, but Shen Yuan stepped and wore fishnet to match with him. They've modified everything so that the fluidity of ballet and contemporary lyricism melt into the steps of the dance, as they glided on their toes across the shiny floor. None of this was necessary. Shen Yuan didn't have to do any of that. 

It's when it clicks. He keeps singing like a good sport anyways. 

Binghe rushes to backstage, almost ripping off his in ears. He beelines towards Shen Yuan, almost running him over. 

"You!" He gasps, eyes wide and wild. "It's been you all this time! The ballet, the dancing, the songs - all you -"

And Shen Yuan did not adequately prepare for when it all hit Binghe in the face like a flying banner would, because he started running away, breathless, as Binghe chases after him, arms closing around his shoulders and chest as he buries his face into the crook of a neck, afraid of breathing.

"Binghe -"

"You said you'll follow me where I go," he whispers, visibly shaken up with too much of the realisation. "You've been following me since forever. Let me follow you now."

"Where would I even go," sighs shizun - gege - Shen Yuan - all one person, all his beloved. "I only know one way. All roads lead back to Binghe."

"Good," he mumbles. "Stay with me."

"Wasn't plannin' on leaving, kiddo."

(“I’ll write about this - us - in twilight next.”

“I think you should calm down and rest up, then we can talk about whatever is to come, hey? You’ve done well today Binghe. Gege is proud of you.”)