(no subject)
homesick | pg | 782 | xiutao
for brittany as part of the many kisses meme.
The hotel room is dark, Minseok squinting against the dimness, the moonlight streaming in wan through the curtains the only source by which to watch Zitao's incessant pacing, back and forth, back and forth. Minseok's worried that the boy might walk a hole into the floor with his movements, might chew a hole through his lip the way he's biting it, might just collapse into a heap of misery, leaving Minseok to pick up the pieces.
It's not as if he minds, mind you, he just hates that Zitao gets like this, that their business is one that requires the occasional mental breakdown. Especially considering the fact that Zitao's having a mental breakdown almost every day.
Promotion is hard work, harder when you're young and spoiled and accustomed to being able to talk to your family, your friends whenever you want. Minseok understands, doesn't fault Zitao for the way he feels all the time, how close he is to crying at any given moment. He has less-than-fond memories of his own, after all, and tries his best to be sympathetic whenever he can.
Over the course of their time together, rooming together, living together, he's learned ways to calm Zitao when he gets like this, but the most crucial step is to wait until he decides to stop moving on his own. He sits up, shoulders against the headboard of an unfamiliar bed, head tilted, tongue prodding from the corner of his mouth in determination as he observes the fervor before him.
At long last Zitao stops his pacing with a sigh that seems to drain every ounce of energy from his slight but trim frame. "I'm sorry," he whispers, barely heard, "I hope I didn't wake you."
"You didn't," Minseok lies, hoping to bring him a touch of comfort. It's bad enough feeling the part of the most wretched person alive, no need to bring him more gloom and doom. "I wasn't sleeping, I promise. I'm more worried about you." He speaks slowly, knowing that Zitao has issues understanding, that they haven't gotten enough practice speaking Korean to one another, and peppers his speech with little bits of Mandarin as well. "Tell me what's wrong." He climbs from bed, stretching out his legs, socked feet scraping the ground.
That lack of practice shows through by far when Zitao launches into his hurried speech, not even bothering to speak Korean, aware that he doesn't have anywhere near the skill to express himself. Minseok catches about half of it, enough to interpret that Zitao's just homesick, missing his father, missing his friends, missing his old life. This is a dream come true, but that doesn't mean it's a happy sort of dream.
Minseok's crossing the space between them, arms outstretched shyly, still unsure of himself despite the fact that he's been doing this almost every night since promotions began. "Come here," he murmurs, no authority to his voice, and Zitao nods, lip firm between his teeth and eyes downcast as he does as he's told. He folds into Minseok's arms easily, hunching just so, chin atop the elder's crown. "It's okay, Zitao, it's okay. You're going to make it through this. You're the strongest person I know." And Minseok knows every way to make Zitao calm down, to break him just enough that he can be built up again by morning. He gives Zitao's waist a squeeze, then trails ghosting fingers down the length of Zitao's arm, taking him by the hand, fingers pressed gently into his palm.
He leads the two of them to bed, lies down first, scooting so that Zitao has room to climb in after and curl up into Minseok's side. "Sh, sh, cry if you need to," Minseok hums, snuggling up without hesitation, abandoning reservation for the sake of Zitao's preservation. The younger's body is warm to the touch, and Minseok touches, comforting, a tap of fingertips at the crook of Zitao's elbow, a slide of a palm along the curve of his shoulder.
Zitao does as instructed, as always, his deep admiration for his hyungs his only guiding force at a point like this, when he's so broken he seems like he might not function again. "I'm sorry," he says again, and Minseok grumbles in dissent, leaning in to chastely touch his lips to the very point of Zitao's shoulder. The gesture sends Zitao trembling, a heap of tears and nerves as he fits his arms snugly around Minseok's middle, drawing him closer.
"Don't be sorry," he says quietly, words muted by Zitao's skin under his lips. "Don't be sorry, it's okay, you're okay. Tomorrow is a different day. Tomorrow you can worry about having to smile. Tonight you just be this if you have to."
for brittany as part of the many kisses meme.
The hotel room is dark, Minseok squinting against the dimness, the moonlight streaming in wan through the curtains the only source by which to watch Zitao's incessant pacing, back and forth, back and forth. Minseok's worried that the boy might walk a hole into the floor with his movements, might chew a hole through his lip the way he's biting it, might just collapse into a heap of misery, leaving Minseok to pick up the pieces.
It's not as if he minds, mind you, he just hates that Zitao gets like this, that their business is one that requires the occasional mental breakdown. Especially considering the fact that Zitao's having a mental breakdown almost every day.
Promotion is hard work, harder when you're young and spoiled and accustomed to being able to talk to your family, your friends whenever you want. Minseok understands, doesn't fault Zitao for the way he feels all the time, how close he is to crying at any given moment. He has less-than-fond memories of his own, after all, and tries his best to be sympathetic whenever he can.
Over the course of their time together, rooming together, living together, he's learned ways to calm Zitao when he gets like this, but the most crucial step is to wait until he decides to stop moving on his own. He sits up, shoulders against the headboard of an unfamiliar bed, head tilted, tongue prodding from the corner of his mouth in determination as he observes the fervor before him.
At long last Zitao stops his pacing with a sigh that seems to drain every ounce of energy from his slight but trim frame. "I'm sorry," he whispers, barely heard, "I hope I didn't wake you."
"You didn't," Minseok lies, hoping to bring him a touch of comfort. It's bad enough feeling the part of the most wretched person alive, no need to bring him more gloom and doom. "I wasn't sleeping, I promise. I'm more worried about you." He speaks slowly, knowing that Zitao has issues understanding, that they haven't gotten enough practice speaking Korean to one another, and peppers his speech with little bits of Mandarin as well. "Tell me what's wrong." He climbs from bed, stretching out his legs, socked feet scraping the ground.
That lack of practice shows through by far when Zitao launches into his hurried speech, not even bothering to speak Korean, aware that he doesn't have anywhere near the skill to express himself. Minseok catches about half of it, enough to interpret that Zitao's just homesick, missing his father, missing his friends, missing his old life. This is a dream come true, but that doesn't mean it's a happy sort of dream.
Minseok's crossing the space between them, arms outstretched shyly, still unsure of himself despite the fact that he's been doing this almost every night since promotions began. "Come here," he murmurs, no authority to his voice, and Zitao nods, lip firm between his teeth and eyes downcast as he does as he's told. He folds into Minseok's arms easily, hunching just so, chin atop the elder's crown. "It's okay, Zitao, it's okay. You're going to make it through this. You're the strongest person I know." And Minseok knows every way to make Zitao calm down, to break him just enough that he can be built up again by morning. He gives Zitao's waist a squeeze, then trails ghosting fingers down the length of Zitao's arm, taking him by the hand, fingers pressed gently into his palm.
He leads the two of them to bed, lies down first, scooting so that Zitao has room to climb in after and curl up into Minseok's side. "Sh, sh, cry if you need to," Minseok hums, snuggling up without hesitation, abandoning reservation for the sake of Zitao's preservation. The younger's body is warm to the touch, and Minseok touches, comforting, a tap of fingertips at the crook of Zitao's elbow, a slide of a palm along the curve of his shoulder.
Zitao does as instructed, as always, his deep admiration for his hyungs his only guiding force at a point like this, when he's so broken he seems like he might not function again. "I'm sorry," he says again, and Minseok grumbles in dissent, leaning in to chastely touch his lips to the very point of Zitao's shoulder. The gesture sends Zitao trembling, a heap of tears and nerves as he fits his arms snugly around Minseok's middle, drawing him closer.
"Don't be sorry," he says quietly, words muted by Zitao's skin under his lips. "Don't be sorry, it's okay, you're okay. Tomorrow is a different day. Tomorrow you can worry about having to smile. Tonight you just be this if you have to."