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There’s an itch under Baekhyun’s skin.
He can’t pinpoint at which moment it’d started, like accidentally stepping on gum and not realizing until it’s sticking to the floor and it’s too late to get it out in one piece. He hadn’t known until he’d known, confronted by the consequences of getting more restless than usual.
His feet, tapping involuntary when at rest. His tongue repeatedly going over his lips, even to the point of carrying multiple tubes of chapstick in different pockets and bags to counteract it. The bore of logging into his social media accounts and typing the stupidest combination of words next to his name, to check what’d turn up. The need to keysmash useless text after text into the EXO group chat until someone—most likely Junmyeon—told him to stop, because he’s the only one along with Chanyeol who hadn’t muted the notifications after the first three months of its existence.
In building a timeline, he knows it’s been there since before their tour started; he remembers the distinctive anxious energy from two group schedules and individual ones piling up on him, three sets of different activities with a whirlwind of choreographies and songs to go through, and not enough time, for everything and for himself, let alone others.
But he’s always known his own efficiency when busy. Has long lived by the philosophy of pressure turning coal to diamond, so despite his near-overwhelming, constantly exhausting routine he’s always been self-aware enough to recognize when too much is too much.
So that’s not what’s been making him stare off more than usual, get lost in thought until Jongin has to snap his fingers in front of his face and repeat himself when talking. It’s not what has been making him sing and do practice runs at a mostly unacceptable volume—something that’s gotten him into trouble with both group members and staff alike—just for the hell of it.
For what it’s worth, there are two things Baekhyun actually knows:
One, he desperately wants something.
Two, he doesn’t know what that something is — or rather, the realization hasn’t come to him just yet, evading him expertly any time he feels on the brink of enlightenment.
And so the itch remains, an unwelcome guest in his body, living rent free in his psyche like a parasitic entity burrowing deep into his sense of self and making him three to five times more obnoxious and unbearable to everyone else around him. Something that acquaintances and friends alike tend to disregard, swayed or discouraged altogether when faced with Baekhyun’s grand collection of metaphorical get out of jail free cards, his personality front and center of them all.
Through those times, Baekhyun has learned to make peace with himself: he’s completely self-aware in the knowledge he could probably get away with almost murder, all thanks to his near supernatural ability to weave ridicule into anything.
Such is a perfectly crafted skill, leaving people at its receiving end baffled, endeared, or a good combination of the two. That’s the sweet spot, in all of Baekhyun’s performative glory, jester as he is king in a court of his own making, a delicate balance adorned with melting smiles, more than a few white lies, and seemingly endless charm to hide anything else unsightly.
To his own detriment, only a select few people know to see and cut through his bullshit, and one of them stares at him right in the face as he tries to carry on with his act.
“What’s gotten into you lately?”
Well, fuck. So much for stagecraft.
“Nothing,” He answers, with his sweet small smile, the one insincere enough to fool strangers into cooing at him, right on the satisfactory edge of bare minimum that his own mother lets him get away with it.
“Bullshit,” Jongdae replies, immediately, with his eyebrows up and arms crossed; all signs of amused disbelief that Baekhyun would even try this with him. It’s that easiness with which Jongdae handles him that sometimes makes Baekhyun fear his groupmate and friend even more than the woman who gave birth to him.
“Well, it’s probably nothing,” He shrugs back, because it’s true enough that he doesn’t know, that there’s a lack of clarity, self-imposed or otherwise. Almost comedic, when he considers it objectively, not even having the perspective to realize what narrative is trying to come alive in his mind, just metaphorically being stuck in the dvd player pause screen with the logo bouncing around in the corners of his brain for the time being.
“It will pass,” He adds, like it helps anything. Jongdae is kind enough, as a tried and true Virgo, to just snort at him.
“That’s not how you work and you know it.” Jongdae gives him that look that makes him want to squirm; not quite pitying nor accusing, but sitting somewhere in between. I know you well enough to expose you to that which you pretend not to see, if worded out loud.
Revolting notion, that. He is but a Taurus man.
“You don’t know anything, little man, or you’d know I’m sleeping with your future wife. Now drink your soju and let’s avoid the therapy session,” he parrots back, and dodges the bottle cap thrown at his head with the ease of someone who’s had years of practice.
“You know you can tell me if something’s up, yeah?” Jongdae offers, bumping his shoulder, softer in tone, once they’re outside with their jackets on. Masks and caps accompany their looks as they make their way back to the car, a parody of inconspicuousness even when they both gave autographs to the waitress while inside.
Baekhyun pauses at the driver’s door, nods his head. Takes the peace offering for what it is, because for all his idiosyncrasies, he still likes himself mostly functional, and he’s pretty sure that on a good day Jongdae makes up about forty percent of the support system that guarantees that.
“Yeah.”
*
The idea of gaming to de-stress sounds stupid to him, because he doesn’t do it to get rid of stress - he does it for catharsis.
The world of pixels that can beat each other up is as amusing as it is maddening in itself: he doesn’t feel more relaxed while typing insults at useless fifteen year olds that don’t know how to follow a basic attack strategy.
Even less so when they just troll him back in the chat window with kkkkkkks and lmao why r u so bothered loser, after letting his jungler know just how fucking pathetic they were being at ganking bot lane.
yr mum shoulda swallowed to keep u out of bronze, he fires back, fingers flying over his keyboard with the heated rush of a frustrating loss. He could say much more, and much worse, but decides against it by pushing his laptop closed — a reminder that the anonymity of screen names can be both a blessing and a curse. If it didn’t mean a major set-up for a PR disaster, it’s his headset he’d use to give people a piece of his mind.
But as things are, insults are forever confined to his room’s walls, and maybe the walls of the rooms adjacent to his. With said rooms having been vacated, one more recently than the other, he’s been safe. In the past, he’s bought Kyungsoo and Minseok nice enough gifts to make up for it.
It’s all contributed to him being caught up in an unfamiliar routine. An itch, suddenly present, irksome and pushing him on the side of irritability rather than just charmingly annoying. It’s one of his good qualities – that he doesn’t take it out on others (besides maybe the fifteen year olds online), and that the effects of it only actively reflect on his gaming season ranking and the amount of swearing he does, rather than his professional endeavors or personal relationships.
For the most part.
There’s just nothing he can do to change events that don’t personally involve him. And irritability is the kind of emotion to send him into lethargy either way; a slowdown in his regular fixed stream of memes in the EXO group chat and shortened versions of his every day chatter, which should count as positives for everyone else.
As negatives, there’s torturing any and all of his managers with more coffee runs than necessary, bouts of over-sleeping if his schedule even allows it, and the olympic-level attempt at avoidance of going outside if he can absolutely help it.
“You already don’t go outside,” Chanyeol points out, when Baekhyun rambles in his general direction over the current lack of his favorite cereal in their dorm supplies. How it’s only common decency and adequate roommate etiquette to restock, after all, and he shouldn’t be the one going out to replace it if someone else’s eaten it, even if he’s never done that himself through eight plus years of shared cohabitation.
“Besides, it’s 2 AM,” he continues, and Baekhyun’s already poised to argue back at the reproach, since Chanyeol’s just as awake as he is at this ungodly hour, hypocritical point to raise when he has no business—“so the stores are closed.”
“Oh,” he drums his fingers on the counter, deflating at being shut down before he could even begin. “That’s right," he hums, and Chanyeol blinks at him before he starts pulling different things, foodstuff and cutlery alike, from their pantry.
Not a moment later, Baekhyun watches in perplexed silence as a carton of eggs and a bowl are placed in front of him. “Whisk four of those,” the taller one commands, moving around their kitchen with his usual Chanyeol flurry.
“Why,” he says, even as he starts cracking the eggs and tries his best not to drop shell pieces inside. He’s terrible at cooking, which is why he abuses microwaveable store bought ready-made meals, food delivery apps, and generally never bothers to try.
There was also Kyungsoo, for that.
“Cereal might be a good late night snack, but crepés are even better.” Chanyeol finger guns at him with a wink, and the delighted laugh that bubbles up from his chest in response is so genuine it catches Baekhyun by surprise.
“Since when do you know how to make creps?” He tries imitating Chanyeol’s dramatic french pronunciation, but most definitely tanks it. If nothing else, it’ll count for humor—what’s usually expected from him—even if he’s struggled with it lately.
“Since I watched that Netflix cooking documentary show, and have friends who need cheering up when there’s no cereal at two a.m.” Chanyeol doesn’t look at him while he answers, neatly arranging everything on the counter and setting himself up next to him as a mini two-person cooking station. Baekhyun takes out the slight embarrassment he feels at having been perceived on his eggs, whisking faster, but offers a ‘oh, what a considerate sous chef, Kyungsoo would be proud he’s left you in charge’ in return.
They burn a batch before anything comes out edible and not raw on any side. He tells Chanyeol it’s not really 'cheering up' if he’s just gonna give him salmonella, fingers sticky with the crepés’ sugary remains and belly full of comfort carbs, while feeling the best he’s felt in weeks.
*
There’s merit in ignoring people and situations developing in the periphery of his existence, but there’s also merit in trained situational awareness to not miss a single thing, unknowing of what knowledge he might need to file away for a rainy day.
Just based on that possibility, Baekhyun keeps everyone around him wrapped up in the lull of pointless small chatter at all given times. It’s not so much being observant as it is an illusion of it, useful both for the sake of niceties and the resourcefulness of being the most seemingly likeable person in a room.
He’s always learning small tidbits about the lives of their personal team, his hair girl shyly letting him know about her new cat, hypoallergenic, because she’s allergic and has always wanted one, and Baekhyun “ohhh”s and “ahh”s at all the right intervals, adds ‘so your kitten is a mutant?’ in a dramatically surprised tone to make her laugh. Inwardly, he revels in his success when she does, staring up as his make-up artist instructs before sweeping a neutral eyeshadow under his lash line.
He eyes Jongin and Sehun in the corner, tapping away at their phones and focusing on the ignoring everyone tactic, opposite to his openly sociable one. As it sometimes happens, he finds himself envying both the complete detachment quality of other introverts, lost and found in their own heads — in Jongin’s case; and the unapologetic flare of exemplary millennial behavior — in Sehun’s.
The rest of what currently makes up EXO is scattered around the place. Chanyeol missing, out the door the moment the stylists were done with him to most likely bother a Super Junior member about their joint performance. Jongdae and Junmyeon, wrapped up in conversation with their managers and what sounds like a few fellow SM artists, in the hallway right outside their assigned dressing room.
With no warning to prepare him, in enters Lee Taemin: delightfully styled in all his bare-faced, cherubic, black leather wearing glory, made to sit in the empty make-up station next over to his as he smiles politely at everyone around the room, him included.
Baekhyun instinctively licks his lips to taste the artificial flavor of the lip stain they put on him. It’s not all bad, the taste, but he does get told off to stop lest the color fade too quickly before their set even begins, to which he sheepishly nods, feeling the weight of someone else’s gaze on him, distracting him from his make-up artist’s words and the blond wonder on his right.
“Hello”, he says at Jongin, who stares at him somewhat unsettlingly, phone momentarily forgotten in his thumbs. “Do I have something on my face, besides all this natural beauty?” Both his stylists laugh, and he throws a wink for good measure, at Jongin, at the staff, at no-one, as he’s nothing but dedicated to the charade.
But Jongin doesn’t crack, just keeps his eyes on him, blinks slowly like a cat would, despite all the bear comparisons, and Sehun joins in to level him with a similar look, making him feel like he should be defensive about something.
Yet he hasn’t done anything to them, not today. So the double-teaming is, at minimum, rude. And overall most certainly uncalled for.
“Sometimes,” Sehun starts, with too much an edge to feel casual, “you’re so dense, hyung.” And closes with a bang, with no regard for his feelings.
Baekhyun’s mouth takes a second to catch up with his brain as he gapes at him, giving him no time to retort as Jongin double-ripostes with “You’re like a child, hyung. I don’t think he’s noticed.”
The nerve on the actual children, to treat him as one.
“You should be kinder to your seniors,” an amused voice pipes up from the side, and Baekhyun suddenly remembers that oh, yes, blond, about his same height, blinky eyes and soft cheeks and the stage presence of a jungle cat, sitting cross-legged and pretty not a few feet away, sharing EXO space at the current lack of his own members to share with.
“I don’t wanna hear that from you,” Jongin snorts back at him, with the fondness and familiarity of a lifetime together. Witnessing the exchange makes Baekhyun feel momentarily alien in his own body: the itch suddenly rampant, everywhere, bubbling up to the surface of his skin.
Until he hears Sehun whisper 'I think we broke him', which is entirely unacceptable, and forces Baekhyun to snap out of his momentary daze to click his tongue at them in return.
“Yah, Junmyeon raised you better than this, ungrateful kids! You know what I got Sehun for his birthday? A vacation! How does he pay me back? In suffering—“ And it’s back to usual, gesturing with his hands as he goes, another one of his bits that makes their female staff giggle and Sehun whine about factual inaccuracies while Jongin laughs at him.
Most importantly, it makes the corners of Taemin’s lips go up in a full-faced grin until there’s two perfectly round mounds high up on his cheekbones and his eyes turn into little crescents. It’s a mental snapshot moment, and with it the unsettling feeling under Baekhyun’s skin is all but evaporated.
There’s a hand on his shoulder, later — when they’re backstage and waiting for their cue, all dressed up and sharp in full uniformed idol splendour. Baekhyun turns to catch that same blond hair, each strand perfectly in place, tastefully accompanied by the sparkly reflection from the glitter all over Taemin’s eyelids, looking as dreamy as the idea of small fairy lights hanging over his eyes.
“Break a leg,” Taemin offers with a friendly smile, squeezing his arm.
“For you, both,” comes out in reply, with no brain-to-mouth filter or coherent intent behind it.
But Baekhyun knows anything he says always sounds better saying it with his whole chest and a grin, which he does, possible flirtatious notions completely up to the interpretation of the ones at the receiving end of his nonsense, built-in like a default factory setting after years of pavlovian fanservice responses.
It also makes him feel like an accomplished magician that’s pulled his best act yet when Taemin laughs, an endearing combination of wheezing noises and a gummy smile. It’s a sight he’s seen before, as Taemin’s done a handful of other times around him, each instance as wonderful as the last and snuggly filed away in Baekhyun’s memory for savoring.
Baekhyun would even dare say Taemin laughs like he has been long-time partial to the belief that he's a genuinely funny guy, would even possibly find enjoyment in whatever Baekhyun said, low-hanging comedic fruit or otherwise, but that might also be a gratuitous, narcissistic delusion of his own conjuring.
Just like that, the knowledge that they’ll soon be sharing more than in-between stages and passing moments together fills him with the inherent need to outperform, out-jester, become the entire comedy troupe and circus to be rewarded with nothing but more of these reactions, every future moment an unbidden opportunity to constantly relive this scenario as he sees fit.
It doesn’t have to mean anything, that it’s Taemin — he’s just what makes a good audience, handing out validation like candy, and Baekhyun’s both greedy and over-indulgent.
“It’s never a dull time with you,” Taemin drops on him, smile on, tone fond – shy – both? Baekhyun can’t tell, because Taemin doesn’t give him the time to discern or process. His lingering touch is gone as fast as it’d come, pulled away by PDs just as the cue for EXO to go on stage happens.
He follows the blond head for two, three more seconds as it disappears backstage, then turns to take places, only to find himself facing the same contemplating stare Jongin had given him earlier.
“I’m innocent,” he feels like he needs to say.
“No, you aren’t,” Jongin chimes at him, pinching his side until Baekhyun wiggles away from it, “But you’re cute and that seems to work for you, and he’s kind of like that, too. You have that in common, so you'll make for a good match.”
For his own sake, he makes the executive choice to take Jongin’s words at face value and not look into it too deep. He throws himself into the depths of performance, catches Taemin’s set from the screens backstage with everyone else (after a lot of sweat wiping), and copies the dance moves he remembers for the free entertainment of some NCT juniors who gladly cheer him on. Tokyo Dome roars for Taemin just like they did for EXO, and Baekhyun deeply sympathizes with the feeling.
When they’re all changed and color-coordinated in their white shirts and jeans for the final SMtown runway, he runs into Taemin while waving to fans. Taemin gives him an easy smile, holding onto his arms as he usually would: a showcase of company unity, SM Family displays of skinship, everyone is nice and likes each other, and whatever else is plastered on the shiny plastic package of brand image.
“You were great”, he half-yells over the crowd and the music, because it’s the truth. Being genuine comes easy around Taemin, and so does the praise.
“I slipped,” Taemin starts, self-deprecating smile edging on a pout, leaning close to his ear to be heard through all the eager screaming around them. “But you were great,” and both his forearms are squeezed to add intent.
Baekhyun could say a million things: ‘it happens’, ‘everything else was amazing anyway’, ‘I didn’t even notice’, and all other kinds of standard pleasantries. He’s also aware not a single one would have real reassuring impact because for the most part, they’re all workaholic perfectionists with a tendency to chastise themselves over the smallest mishaps, and their brains are hardwired to not just run the fine-tooth comb, but draw blood with it.
“And you looked beautiful doing it,” he settles, again with the truth, and perhaps the extra ridiculousness and cheesiness of the statement will give him a pass on his feelings, part of the perfect act being knowing when to conceal with feigned coyness and when to weaponize the things he actually means.
Baekhyun receives a slap to the arm for a reward, not at all painful from years of being used to his members doing to him much worse in play time with the savagery of siblings. He still pretends to hold it in terrible pain, as the artiste in him comes with no off button.
All in all, the exchange doesn’t last more than a minute. They break away with a wave and keep walking in opposite directions. Baekhyun faces forward and doesn’t look back at Taemin, because he won’t ever be caught breaking character if he can help it.
Yet what he takes away as his personal win and trophy is the way Taemin’s eyes had lit up, mood and demeanor immediately changed, over-blinking with an embarrassed smile at being completely caught off-guard.
*
The first time he meets Lee Taemin, it’s entirely by both coincidence and design. He doesn’t count their first introduction as their actual meeting, because he’s pretty sure Taemin didn’t even remember who he was for a good few months, besides that new trainee kid with the awkward handshake who entered SM about a minute before EXO’s final line-up was assembled and thrown to the metaphorical idol industry wolves.
Both him and Jongdae had been unceremoniously shoved into an established rookie pool and therefore gravitated towards one another, sticking out like sore thumbs amongst a group of people who were already friends or knew each other through more than a few years of trainee sweat and tears.
As a result, there’d been a major imperative hanging over Baekhyun’s head to be liked and well-received, to be the cool guy whom it was all easy with, to prove his worth and value in a way that used to weigh much heavier on him than singing for his SM audition ever did. Because singing came naturally, like breathing, but everything else about idol making proved to be rough, sharp, and took with it little pieces of himself that were to be patched over through time with the aid of exuberant outfits, more hair colors than a human scalp should be able to handle, and the name “Byun Baekhyun from EXO”.
With onwards and headfirst as rule of thumb, he’d aimed to get on the same level of familiarity with the others by bulldozing his way through hesitant conversations and the awkwardness of young adult interactions armed with humor, an easy-going manner, and pure blinding stubbornness.
Even if his agency ultimately claimed his spot was guaranteed, it was not what in his eyes made him deserve it, choosing instead to single-handedly carve his own spot amongst them. In some cases, it’d meant spending their free time at the internet café, gaming together. In others, it’d been surprise naked shower jumping. Anything to solidify the proverbial bonds of brotherhood.
In those moments, Taemin had only been someone who existed around him, near him, not next to him but always at the edge of his vision: a member of his company and SHINee, really good friends with Jongin, partial to hanging out with Sehun or Kyungsoo if the opportunity arose. Most hierarchically confusing of all, the only one who despite being an industry senior was still younger than a bunch of them, had trained for years with most, and therefore had hyungs like Junmyeon and Minseok doting on him indiscriminately.
And so besides the here’s and there’s of other people, he’d never talked to the guy for more than a few minutes at the time, which is why it’d been surprising to find his name constantly written all over the booking schedule for the one shitty practice singing booth SM had available to them, as seniors would just use the recording studio.
“I woke up really early and his name was already in,” he complains to Jongdae over suspiciously cheap tteokbokki from the food cart a couple streets away, all they can currently afford as sustenance even after days of saving up, like all broke trainees on the verge of debut. “At what time does he even wake up? It was seven a.m! Does he sleep? Is he an insomniac? Is he a vampire? Or worse, is he,” he pauses, leaning closer with wide eyes, like he’s about to mention something unspeakable—“a morning person?”
It works as intended because Jongdae laughs, high and melodic, much like Baekhyun’s favorite tone of the other’s voice when he sings.
“You might as well camp and sleep outside the booth, catch him in the act.” Jongdae raises his eyebrows a couple times for added mischievousness, then moves onto some other pointless company gossip while they finish their food, meal entirely unhealthy and unfilling but ultimately soul-soothing.
Jongdae is, of course, joking. Baekhyun thinks he’s a genius.
*
While the perfect plan in theory, intercepting the other boy proves rather difficult — Lee Taemin is elusive, mysterious, and slippery.
Or rather, he just clearly stays out really late or wakes up way too early, and Baekhyun is too tired after hours upon hours of dance and vocal practice playing catch-up to everyone else to successfully intercept him. Even when he swears he’ll find a way to be sneaky and get one up over on Taemin, he can’t seem to help but crash immediately after his head rests on any soft enough surface.
Mission momentarily forgotten in favor of sleep, it all becomes clear the day he wakes up to a small household commotion: Jongin is apparently missing from the dorm room, Junmyeon looking on the verge of a small fit while Kris just sits, having his breakfast.
“I’m sure he’s fine.” “He’s not picking up his phone, the brat—“ “He probably ran out of battery” “But what if—“ he hears someone clearing their throat, and Kyungsoo comes out from the hallway into their dining space, annoyed expression completely null at intimidating anyone around by the picture of his hair imitating a small birds' nest.
“Some of us are still trying to sleep.” He deadpans, and Baekhyun would agree, but there’s nothing like the thrill of drama brewing in the horizon, especially when he has nothing to do with it. Kris says nothing, but Junmyeon sighs, apologizes, doesn’t finish mentioning their second youngest seems to have vanished into thin air when the boy himself walks through the door, takes his shoes off, and strolls into their tiny kitchen like it's just a regular Tuesday.
“What,” Jongin blinks, seemingly confused as to why everyone’s staring at him. “Oh my god, same clothes from last night?” whispers Luhan, hands on Kyungsoo’s shoulders, showing up with Minseok in tow. “What’s happening,” Sehun clears in, followed by everyone else until it’s just eleven pairs of eyes on a rapidly flustering Kim Jongin.
“What are you saying, I didn’t—I wasn’t! Stop it!” Jongin sputters at him, over the perfectly timed and situationally appropriate wolf-whistle he lets out. Baekhyun thinks he’s cute when he’s overly embarrassed like that, all six feet of him becoming the emotional equivalent of a twelve year old school girl.
“Jongin, if you’re gonna stay out with a girl...friend—“ Junmyeon opens, and Baekhyun’s already grinning at Jongin’s mortified expression, Chanyeol and Yixing mirroring him from where they’re leaning against their poor excuse for a couch.
“I was with Taemin!” Jongin exclaims, arms out, lips drawn into a pout even when he’s telling them all off.
Junmyeon spares him a single look, then corrects: “Jongin, if you’re gonna stay out with a boy...friend—”
And Baekhyun can’t help it, he snorts loud enough it sets the others off like dominoes, Chanyeol’s knees hitting the ground as they do when he laughs, only a couple of them kind enough to grin instead of joining in the snickering. “Practicing! We stayed in the practice room dancing! You’re all terrible!”
After it’s all calmed down, and Jongin’s walked off into his room to nap the embarrassment away with a final “...and if he was, it’d be none of your business!”, two mysteries have been solved:
Jongin’s been found, or rather, he’d never been lost.
And Lee Taemin is a bad influence, a cheater, a liar, a thief, a criminal who breaks SM Entertainment rules just to over-practice and over-tire his already overworked body while striving for whatever the hell perfection is.
Baekhyun distractedly traces patterns over a tingling patch of skin on his arm and considers that, if the circumstances allowed it, they would probably make great friends.
*
The day he finally catches Taemin, it’s without even meaning to.
He’d stayed behind four extra hours off-schedule going over choreography, left to his own devices as the others filed out one by one and staff purposely looked away from the overstay, the wording in their contracts deliberately vague for their company’s benefit when it came to the regulation of their self-managed time and extra practice.
There was no point in pretending they didn’t also encourage it, as per the inherent ruthlessness of their weekly performance reviews, and the systemic competitiveness they implied.
From them, Baekhyun had witnessed breakdowns, company exits, people giving up on the idol prospect altogether; not for lack of anything in comparison to anyone else, talent or skill-wise, but simply failing the test of resilience in withstanding the process over time, near-inhumane practices and constant dismantling of their self-esteem included.
To Baekhyun's surprise, it’d been dance, from all possible things and initial shortcomings, to become his unexpected main struggle.
Years of martial arts training had seen to his reflexes, balance and physical prowess — the agility to make movement flow and look clean. But as fast a learner he may be, he’s never been like Jongin and Minseok, who seem to absorb choreography and become it, like it’s always been part of them. Nor does he learn like Junmyeon, going through steps over and over again like he’s memorizing formulas for a physics test until he can recite them.
In his mind, movement’s always needed to be put apart with scalpel-sharp precision before his limbs could put it back together, making the ability for him to immediately retain choreography on the spot through just following steps and counting tempos near virtually impossible.
The first few times, their dancing instructor had singled him out constantly, as Baekhyun would pause mid-choreoraphy just to watch them, to try and grasp how his body was supposed to be moving. He’d gotten scolded, like a child, and his ability to dance at all had been questioned repeatedly.
To add insult to injury, he’d even been compared to the others, with years of training under their belt that he was missing. And it hadn’t been the unfairness of that statement in itself that got to him, as most of the expectations resting on him had been laid out clear since joining, but the judgement of his skill before he could even actually gain it.
“I can learn it—just let me do so,” he’d refuted, frustration and shame building up in waves on the inside, perfect mannerisms and tone on the outside.
No matter how much it'd bothered him, said treatment had only given him reason to stay back, accompanied at first by the likes of Sehun and Jongin to hold his hand through it. Eventually, he'd managed on his own, repeating the basics taught to him to lay down his foundation and build upon it with the assigned choreographies, until his body simply knew what to do, like getting on the bike and riding it, too.
It’s on one of those nights he stays way past sundown, lost in time and dancing, one-track mind demanding he get it down perfectly because he refuses to be baggage to anyone, that the thought strikes — perfect timing, for him to finally secure the training booth away from Taemin’s hands.
This late, there’s only security staff left in the building: two older men who barely acknowledge him with a nod when he bows at them in passing, used to his presence by now. He almost sprints the last of the way through the hallway, the ‘no running’ heard behind him giving him pause, making him bow again in apology.
It’s just the barely contained excitement. The very idea that has him wired even through bone-deep exhaustion, biting his lips to keep a grin off his face at the thought that he’ll finally, finally get to put his name all over that reservation sheet for the week first.
And then he turns the corner and the recording booth is occupied, light coming from the inside, visible enough through its thin plastic door.
But that can’t be.
He rubs the frown off his brow with the pad of his finger, as logic would dictate it’s likely the cleaning staff inside, going through their rounds and leaving the place ready for the next day.
Either way, he’s not giving up now that he’s here, resoluting to sit and wait until they’re done. His back lazily slides down the wall until his body meets the ground, uncaring in looking dignified as there’s no one else around.
There’s an eerie atmosphere to the building when it’s empty, harsh fluorescent lighting bouncing off the tiles, quiet enough the rustling of his clothes could pass for asmr. It’s a little creepy and bordering on horror movie setting, but he’s too elated about the notion of Taemin finally being in his position for once to care about SM being possibly haunted.
In both waiting and life, it’s boredom that always gets to him first, impatience close behind. Even when he's left only to his thoughts, he has to be doing something, reflected in action as he pulls his knees to his chest, wraps his arms around them tight and bends forward to rest his head on top to rock himself on the spot.
As he is, Baekhyun’s never taken up much space, physically or emotionally.
But maybe that’s why he was given his voice, to fill up space with everything that’s inside of himself that is big. Maybe that’s why there’s a restlessness in him, a desire to grow, to go beyond walls and ceilings. Like a vine, that wants to reach just because there’s room to.
He gets caught up in his introspective musings enough that he doesn’t realize he’s dozing off, lost somewhere between a state of drowsiness and wakefulness. He imagines there’s a voice coming from behind the door, melodic and sweet, pushing him further into the lull of sleep with its cadence.
While he listens, Baekhyun notices a pattern through its song: the voice holds itself consistent and strong until it breaks off, struggling with holding the notes properly as it goes up, falling off-pitch and shaky at the end of its runs. There’s a pause, and then it’s not singing he hears, but rather the jarring sound of muffled yelling, frustration and anger clear despite its faintness.
It cycles through both states, each time rougher than the last. You have the voice, he wants to say, to the disembodied, imaginary person on the other side – but you aren’t being nice to it.
It’s a strange dream to have; the scenario reminding him of himself when he was younger, over-eager to improve and struggling to fit into his own voice. The days of running home from vocal lessons and crying in his mother’s lap, disappointment building at not being able to achieve things he knew his voice should be able to, that he wanted it to, yet stuck and straining without immediate gratification to cushion him.
‘Ease comes with practice’, his mother had told him, running her fingers through his hair, ‘and if you’re kinder to yourself, practice will come with ease’. He hadn’t understood what she meant at first, soaking up the comfort for what it was, her wisdom lost on a child’s mind.
At her request, he’d promised to give himself time.
It’d been so boring and dull, to run through the same breathing exercises and vocalizations every day, to settle for basic runs and scales when he’d wanted to belt, as the singers his mother loved and played for him would, everything within the act of learning so painfully repetitive he’d sometimes considered giving up altogether.
Until he’d actually noticed his improvements: mistakes easily fixed, everything in his range becoming comfortably achievable, and then beyond.
Only a handful years later, he’d sung his mother’s favorite ballad for his last end of the year school recital. Through every high note he’d previously feared, his voice had held, reached, grown. For once, the roles had also been reversed, as his mom had been the one crying proud tears by the end.
“Ease comes with practice,” he repeats, to no one.
And then the door of the booth bangs open, startling him awake, momentarily disoriented as he’s met with Lee Taemin himself and his seemingly horrified expression at finding someone else there.
No cleaning staff, and no dream. Not the comforting warmth of his mother, and no sneaky, rule-breaking evil caricature of a boy stealing his practice booth time. Instead, there’s just Taemin; wide, red-rimmed brown eyes with noticeable bags under them, hair up in a messy ponytail, lips pursed into a pout and confusedly staring at Baekhyun as if he’s grown a second head.
“Are you crying,” Baekhyun blurts out before he can help himself, neurons overwhelmed and barely grasping the concept of waking consciousness, still struggling to register taemin as a real person that’s in front of him.
“Are you stupid,” Taemin answers, with no real venom behind it, rasp in his voice evident. He wipes at his eyes with his sleeves, as if to check he actually isn’t. The action gives Baekhyun the unexplainable urge to pet his head, like one would a small animal — a kitten, a puppy, maybe even a duckling.
“I mean,” he starts, like he’s genuinely considering it, “I kind of am, sometimes, for leisure. The people need to be entertained.” His hands follow his explanation, open palms moving for emphasis to his words. “Plus, do you know how hard being smart is? My head’s already big for my body, imagine it got any bigger, I would just tip over!” He pauses for effect, exaggerating a tilt to his head while looking up at Taemin. “Horribly angle, look at my ears, wouldn’t this be awful, if I had to say hello like this to everyone all the time, because my brain is too big?”
Taemin blinks.
Baekhyun blinks back, with an expectant smile.
“What even—“ Taemin covers his face with his hands, and for a horrifying moment, Baekhyun thinks he’s somehow made the other boy cry, again, as he surely had been before.
There’s an apology at the tip of his tongue, brain now fully cognizant at the imminent need of damage control, ready to black out this interaction as one of the worst he’s ever had with a esteemed company senior, and brought on by his own hand no less.
Then comes a chuckle, two, three, followed by unrestrained, wheezing laughter. A sound he’s never heard before, funny in its own right, with the way Taemin chokes up as he goes and his shoulders shake with it.
Immediately relieved, Baekhyun lets out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. With ease, his smile turns to wide grin, the kind he knows will make his cheeks hurt if held for too long. The kind he’s tried to force, with lukewarm success, through the past few draining weeks. The kind he’s been missing, and has only noticed now that Taemin’s brought it back.
There’s silence after Taemin’s stopped; comfortable, rather than constrictive or looming. “You’ve been hogging up all the booth time,” he complains, easing familiarity into it. It's not really shying away from or meant to prompt a real conversation, just consciously leaving the open space for it.
“They suggested giving some of my lines to the others again.” Taemin shrugs back at him, as if that’s all the explanation needed, like he’s not a senior from a debuted group for some years now, having this conversation with a trainee weeks away from his own debut.
“They told me once in the beginning, that my voice only works if it’s merged with everyone else’s,” Taemin slides down next to him as he speaks, imitating Baekhyun’s own pose by folding onto himself.
“Almost made me believe it, too.” There’s a restrained bitterness in his tone, of an old pain best not brought back in full. “So I come here every day, unless we have a schedule, or my voice is gone.”
Taemin rests his cheek on his knees when he seems done. “I don’t want to be a merged track,” he adds, quiet enough he’d miss it were they not the only ones left around, building as deserted and cold as they’re made to feel by what its legacy holds over their heads. “Again, or ever.”
Baekhyun takes a look now that he can, follows the lines of the other’s back — much leaner as they go down, despite the wide set frame of his shoulders, swallowed up by his hoodie at every end, hands hidden by its too-long sleeves.
Much like himself, not the kind to take up space.
He wouldn’t say Taemin’s a vine, though. More a boy like the sea: the apparent stillness of calm water, choppy waves when not, endless currents flowing underneath. Big and vast like the potential in him for things he could do.
Also reaching, he thinks, like foam meeting the bay at shore.
“I haven’t slept in a couple days,” Taemin admits to him, closing his eyes.
A loose strand of hair from Taemin’s ponytail falls over his face; his eyelashes are long, features soft, most traces of adulthood evading him still, evident by the line of his jaw retaining a slight roundness and the plumpness of his skin. Baekhyun wouldn’t call him girly, as he’s heard others do, because that’s not the right word. Angelic, his brain provides, from the superficial innocence in his visage. Pretty, but he’d be foolish to peg Taemin down to that descriptor alone.
“I have slept like three hours in three days.” Baekhyun offers back, following suit by shutting his eyes. It’s better, to trace the spots of light behind his eyelids, than to be caught indulging his own sleep-deprivation fueled Taemin-shaped curiosity.
“I’ll wake you up in 20 if you wake me up in 15,” he hears, mumbled to his left.
“That makes no sense,” he snorts, bumping Taemin’s shoulder, who immediately bumps it back. Even without looking, he can hear the smile in Taemin’s voice when he says “Of course it does. You’re just stupid, didn’t you tell me that?”
When he wakes up, he’s on his own. The hallway’s still quiet, only a half hour later since he’d last checked his phone. He’d feel betrayed that Taemin left without waking him, but the other boy doesn’t really owe Baekhyun anything. Taemin isn’t his friend, and they don’t have a connection beyond the company name they’re both contracted to or the shared spaces that implies. At most, if he's being lawful, Taemin is his co-worker. If he's being chaotic, then temporal nap partner.
Still pondering on their dynamic as he stands and stretches, he notices the booth’s reservation sheet, hanging by the handle of the left-open door. He squints as he moves closer to check, and sees his name written, alternate to Taemin’s, for the rest of the week.
At the bottom corner of the paper there’s a phone number, signed with a little star. Baekhyun rips the piece out without pause, turns to make his way towards the exit, and saves it into his contacts.
Maybe the friends thing could be revised, preferably sooner than later.
*
He stares at the new addition to his personal space. It can’t stare back at him as it is - small, quiet, potted, and most definitely radiating a vaguely threatening aura of judgement for Baekhyun as an owner, if he’s to go by the fresh prickles on his skin, tiny little red dots blooming where blood has risen up through his epidermis.
It’s a separate feeling to the itch still living within him, but momentarily distracting, a different brand of unpleasant to the one he’s now gotten accustomed to. By force of habit, he sucks the tiny specks of blood out and rubs the pads of his fingers together, chasing the phantom sting away.
He’d felt the space lacked something, and spent days staring around his room trying to put together what it was, if a more decorative touch or to simply move his furniture around, something about searching for a better structure, the restlessness within projecting inside out.
It’d led him to an unnecessary online shopping spree that concluded with three extras of his favorite scented candle, a fuzzy blanket that promised ‘unbelievable softness’, a couple cute dog sweaters to send over for Mongryong, and indirectly, his now aching fingers thanks to the relatively small cactus that had made it into his cart, because why the hell not.
It’s with those same fingers he dials Kyungsoo’s number hours after, as Baekhyun clearly can’t be trusted with his phone, insomnia or impulse control. He even tries hanging up after the second ring as an exercise in self-restraint, apologetic text about an accidental butt dial already drafted in his mind’s eye, when the call connects.
“Before you get mad at me,” he starts, but just as easily gives up at the clipped ‘It's 2 a.m., Baekhyun-ah' that cuts him off. Which is the objective truth, as the decorative clock on his wall would tell him, and a wholly inappropriate time to be calling most people.
He bites his lips, to keep a laugh in at the fond annoyance he hears in the way his name is said. “I could be dying,” he offers, throwing himself back on his bed.
“Are you dying?” He hears back, skeptic and dry.
But Kyungsoo isn’t most people, because for some reason he chooses to entertain him even at his most insufferable, always receptive even if unaware of what goes on in Baekhyun’s mind, or why the hamster in his brain wheel is running at full speed at any given time.
It’s what makes Kyungsoo so inherently refreshing as an existence, unquestioning as he comes, yet steady and present in the face of Baekhyun’s tumultuous habits.
Even if he’s not currently physically around, for Baekhyun to bother at whim. Modern methods of communication just enable him. That’s not on him.
“I bought a plant,” he replies instead, eyes moving to the white pot sitting on the small desk by his window. “I don’t think it likes me,” the pout is not seen, but Kyungsoo must hear it in his voice, from the quiet snort on the other end of the line.
“It’s a plant. The most it’d want out of you is water and sunlight,” Baekhyun hears shuffling as he pauses, imagines Kyungsoo’s putting his glasses on as he sits up on the bed, as he’s seen him do countless of times when waking up, “And maybe for you not to yell through the night, when you game.”
“Then maybe I should name it after you.” He switches Kyungsoo to speaker as he opens up Kakaotalk to send the picture he’d snapped earlier on the day, when his new plant—enemy—had been delivered.
He adds knife and explosion emojis around it, to properly reflect its character.
“It is also round at the top, prickly, hairless, rejects my love—”
Kyungsoo clicks his tongue at him. “You’re not naming a cactus after me. And they’re wonderful plants to have. You’ll have to water it once every—”
“Yeah, yeah, only once a week. I know. The lady at the plant shop explained it all through e-mail, even attached printed instructions. And I remember how you took care of yours at the dorm. Plus, stingy as it is, I don’t want it to die," Kyungsoo might not be there to see it, but Baekhyun hopes his dramatics are properly embodied by voice alone, hand over his chest like it'd be terrible to even think of, "And I’m not giving you reasons to tell me off.”
Kyungsoo hums, as agreement. “I would indeed be sad. And you’d deserve all the prickling it’s done.”
Baekhyun huffs. He’s never done anything wrong in his life. “I take it back, Prick is way nicer than you.”
“So instead of my name, it’s Prick now?” Kyungsoo's offended disbelief comes through, so Baekhyun adds ‘Y'know, synonyms’ for good measure.
“I’m hanging up now.” Baekhyun knows Kyungsoo would, but he’s also dealing with him, not Chanyeol, which makes the threat virtually meaningless and devoid of any real consequence.
“I’ll just call you again,” Baekhyun says petulantly, “and then everyone in your squad will be asking you about your girlfriend that keeps calling you at two a.m., and your pointlessly honest ass would be like, actually, it’s Byun Baekhyun calling, and then you’d have to explain your way out of that one—”
“Baekhyun.” It’s the tone he wanted to avoid, the one that’s concerned behind the momentary amused exasperation.
Yet deflection is his art long mastered, and Kyungsoo should know him better by now.
“Unless you do want to run with that as a story, which I don’t think they could even comment on if you did. I don’t know how military secrecy works, but I’m like, ninety percent sure it wouldn’t be a scandal.” There’s no hand on the back of his neck as there would usually be when Kyungsoo tsks at him, but the familiarity of the sound tricks his senses into picturing the warm weight of the other’s palm as if it was there.
“I’m not telling my squad you’re my girlfriend, boyfriend or partner of any kind, Baekhyun-ah,” Kyungsoo sighs, with a sense of finality.
“That’s offensive, I’d make a delightful girlfriend.”
“I’ve seen you in a wig, It’s not all that.” Not even the static makes it less of a burn.
“Rude,” he complains, turning his back on the cactus by the window — they’re both betrayers in his eyes, one that prickles him physically, and the other who does so over 5g connection.
“You know who looks good in a wig though,” Baekhyun ventures, recalling one of his favorite sights.
‘Junmyeon’ is dropped in perfect unison, and the laughing fit that follows takes them a while to snap out of; open and loud, on Baekhyun’s end, purposely muffled against his pillow, on Kyungsoo’s.
“You’re gonna get me in trouble,” Kyungsoo reprimands, like he’s not mirroring Baekhyun’s own smile into the receiver.
“If I get you kicked out you can just come back here, the dorm feels empty for this comeback. I’ll even take responsibility, so you don’t have to face national shame. I offered the same deal to Minseok-hyung.” He’s always disliked change, despite his natural adaptability. There’s no need to fix things that aren’t broken, unless he’s replacing them for bigger and better.
Improvement is a need, to prove things to himself. To prove someone else wrong.
What’s out of his control — well, that’s just unacceptable travesty.
“Hyung’s smarter than me, he wouldn’t pick up the phone. Now are you gonna tell me what I picked up for, that’s got you buying cacti and not sleeping?”
Kyungsoo is right — by the missed call Minseok’s gonna see tomorrow, which will prompt a text conversation he already regrets being a conduit to. Baekhyun scrunches his eyes closed, pulling the fuzzy blanket over his head to hide under. Not even its appropriately marketed softness can help him, when Kyungsoo decides he’s overextended his patience for him beating around the bush.
He thinks of glitter and bright eyes. Of gummy smiles and a chatty, curious mind. A sense of artistry he personally admires and a sultry voice he now gets to harmonize with in studio because SM Entertainment decided it’d make for a marketable business venture: more work on Baekhyun's plate, but also more shared Taemin time than he'd ever dared hope for outside of casual exposure.
“I want—“ he bites his lip, considering his wording. Previous goings in matters like these had only ever blown up in his face, with videos of a younger, more naive and inexperienced version of himself crying on stage as the worst and most publicized example, and the occasional private break-up or relationship he couldn’t afford to pursue as the better end of it.
“—something I can’t have. Someone I can’t have.” He settles, as that’s the issue, in essence, and ultimately easier than explaining in detail rather than opening the tightly locked trunk in his mind where his feelings go so he can otherwise function.
There’s silence on the other end of the line, then a resigned sigh. Baekhyun braces himself mentally in preparation for a truth he’s not gonna like; words that he’s probably heard once before, from a past denial that’s led them to the friendship they have today.
“Can’t or won’t, Baekhyun?”
He may not be made of glass, but a brick is still a brick when swung his way.
He'd whine, but he's grown enough to accept when it's deserved.
*
Minseok’s first text reads: do you wanna be the guy that settles?????????
He sends back a TT to make him feel bad.
He gets left on read for half a day, a regular occurrence even if Minseok weren't at war, before his phone chimes with a notification for his second text:
stop being a pussy 🐱
*
Junmyeon has always been the one Baekhyun goes to for the solid, life-changing advice — he’s the kind of person to try and listen to someone else, even when he has so much going on he can barely keep up with it himself. It’s an admirable, open kindness, and something they’ve all grown dependent on as the years have gone by.
In just a couple months Baekhyun will only have that in limited quantities for the next two years, and growing up—growing through it is a necessary evil he knows he can't do anything about.
It doesn’t mean he has to like it.
In fact, he hates it. Which is why he puts together all his favorite things the one free night they have to themselves at the dorm: home-bodying, more comfort food than they could ever eat, enough pillows to possibly build a fort and enough alcohol to hopefully make them forget why they’re making extra time to hang out in the first place.
“They picked me as the leader,” Baekhyun points his chopsticks at himself with all the actorly flair he can possibly muster. It's a lot, even in pajamas and sitting next to Junmyeon on the floor with a handful of food delivery boxes and soju bottles all around them. “Can you believe that?”
“I can,” He nods sagely, or maybe it’s just the delayed reaction from the fourth bottle Junmyeon is currently sipping on, “You’re reliable, even if you can be a pain in the ass. You’ll finally know what it’s like to be in my shoes.”
“How hard can it be? All you wear is fancy sneakers.” Baekhyun complains around his noodles, uncaring about manners or speaking with his mouth full with how much he’s already drank.
Junmyeon laughs, wiggling his shoe-free toes inside his socks and pointing to the boxes of Air Jordans' he keeps by the door. “That’s true, but you have to make them look good, too. And leadership is about sacrifices.” He wipes at the corner of Baekhyun’s mouth with one of the napkins they’ve piled in the middle of all their food containers, and only manages to drag the sauce stain up higher on his cheek. Baekhyun can’t be bothered to paw him off.
“Would it be bad of a leader to,“ he licks his lips with something nervous, looking anywhere but at Junmyeon as he speaks, “like a particular member more than the others?”
“Ah, favoritism?” Junmyeon shakes his head disapprovingly, “You can’t do that. Even if you’re used to Jonginnie—“
“You’re so full of shit,” Baekhyun snorts, throwing a rolled up paper napkin at him, “You do it with Sehunnie all the time.”
“Okay, fair,” Junmyeon concedes with both his hands up in defeat. “We all kind of do, though.” The fond smile he speaks with easily transfers over to Baekhyun, an undeniable fact that they all spoil their youngest rotten, and will most likely still hold true years down the line when their hips are something they have to worry about when dancing.
“But hyung, I don’t mean like it like that,” Baekhyun pauses, putting his food down contemplatively, “It’s more a… currently blond problem, about my height. Probably would have made you suffer more than me, had you debuted with him. Very talented, and handsome. Likes to be spoiled, too.”
The ‘and I don’t mind one bit’ he keeps to himself. He hasn’t had that much liquid courage.
“Ohhh… ahhh,” Junmyeon’s eyes go big at Baekhyun’s admittance, o-shaped mouth remaining open longer than the comedic effect he’s going for would ever need for.
It makes him look stupid, so Baekhyun takes aim and throws another rolled-up napkin at him.
“Three-pointer!” He cheers loudly when it goes right in, and Junmyeon immediately spits it out while flipping him off. He even tries to laugh when coughing, which makes for a horrible choked sound, and Baekhyun’s already falling back into the cushions with tears in his eyes.
Once most of their buzz has passed and Baekhyun’s forced them to clean up enough that there’s room for them to, they lie together side by side on the living room floor, eyes glued to the ceiling.
“It’s gonna suck. It always sucks. If I want to bother you, I can just raid your dorm. I can’t raid the military.”
Junmyeon’s answering chuckle is soft with an edge of drowsiness, and he pulls one of Baekhyun’s hands to hold over his chest and pat with his own. “You can always raid my phone, like you do with Kyungsoo and Minseok.”
Baekhyun turns to him then, looking over the sleepy profile of someone whom he has relied on for so long for so many things, externally finding little to no difference in him since that day years ago he’d shaken Baekhyun’s hand and told him ‘If you need something, I’m your guy around here, please let hyung know.’
Internally, the differences since their pre-debut days are more than vast, abyss deep. They’re as much different people, in completely different circumstances, as they are those same kids with the big dreams.
Change is that Baekhyun hates most, yet beautiful things can’t happen without it.
“You should tell Taeminnie. I think you two would be great for one another—“ Junmyeon mumbles sleepily until his words fade out into nonsense, but Baekhyun appreciates that he tries.
He rolls over to use Junmyeon’s shoulder as a pillow and thinks there might be some warrant in listening to what his hyung has to say, for all the times he actually hasn't, before following him right into peaceful sleep.
*
Their last tour stop in London as SuperM is finally done and over with, and Baekhyun’s finishing up packing his bag when the knock to his hotel room door comes.
He thinks it may be Taeyong—who enjoys showing up and talking to him about everything and anything lately—or one of their managers, passing by as a reminder they’re supposed to be leaving soon.
As always, he's unprepared to meet Taemin’s playful eye smile on the other side, who just shuffles in through his door in slippers and shower-wet hair like Baekhyun’s room is an extension of his own.
“It’s so boring to wait around alone. Jonginnie was being stingy, too focused on his book. Ten was drawing something so I didn’t wanna bother him. I was gonna read some manga but I realized I didn’t bring my tablet.” He chats idly, like Baekhyun’s learned Taemin does when he’s comfortable enough around people, a category he’d found himself in more than a few years back, and that still catches him pleasantly by surprise to be counted as part of.
Said comfort extends to casually picking up Baekhyun’s things on the way, smiling at the small English dictionary Baekhyun’s taken to carrying as he flips through its pages and saying ‘Oh, that’s so nice, I want one of these’ after smelling the candle on the counter, which Baekhyun had gotten a couple of at the duty free as the scent reminded him of home.
“You can have it, I have another one packed,” he says, with a shrug. Taemin’s pleased smile in return shouldn’t make him feel like his heart is on the wrong side of his chest, and yet—
All at once, the itch under his skin resurfaces, begs to be scratched.
He closes his fists and presses hard; his nails will most definitely leave angry, red half-moon imprints on his palms, but it’ll serve as a good reminder that some self-indulgent roads are too dangerous a drive.
Disregarding his restless mind, he follows Taemin to stand by the big glass window the room has for a wall, shoulders barely apart. They’re high up enough that the city lights make for a picturesque night landscape, a garden of tiny distant stars on the ground rather than up in the sky.
“Really pretty, isn’t it? I took some pictures with my phone from mine,” Taemin says, pressing covered sweater paws against the glass and looking out.
It’s just one glance Baekhyun spares it, before his gaze naturally draws back to where it'd rather be.
“Yeah, I suppose you could say that,” He murmurs, eyes roaming from the pale v-dip of his sweater, up the curve of his adam’s apple, settling to examine the contrast between the sharpness of Taemin’s jaw and the roundness of his cheeks.
Cherubic, he’d thought once. Like angels in Renaissance paintings.
A whole Sistine Chapel, he thinks now, floored by everything Taemin is, has been, and will continue to be.
“But I’ve seen better.” It slips without meaning to, helplessly caught in the orbit of a star much closer and brighter than any of those outside.
Taemin turns his way to catch Baekhyun red-handed, openly staring as if he’s the only view around.
Baekhyun knows his words could easily be swept under the rug if he weren’t, but he’s purposely incriminated himself too much. He will never be the kind to settle, if the reward is more than worth the risk.
“Oh.”
Taemin’s gaze curiously slips from his eyes, to his lips and back. The single point of contact between their shoulders anchors them, and Baekhyun hears Taemin’s breath hitch when he leans forward.
As it is, Baekhyun couldn’t deny he’s long been compromised. It’s a sweet relief, to finally scratch his Taemin-shaped itch, feel plump lips tentatively press back against his own.
He’d much rather let go, place relaxed hands on the wheel. Face whatever’s on the road, self-indulgent in nature or not.
Especially if it’s Taemin he’ll find on the other side.