"you deserve better"
you deserve better ; pg-13 ; kris/lay ; one-shot.
based on the verbal jint video. au. kris has his worries about lay's relationship.
→ ☆ ☆ ☆
It's noon, and Yixing's just come back from the bakery. I can tell, because there's the warm smell of bread in his bag--something spicy, certainly, and then some sweet milk rolls, bread for sandwiches. Usually he picks me up a small little something, but just looking at the bag as it comes inside, I can tell there's nothing in there for me, and I make a disappointed face at him. He starts to grin.
"Duizhang," he says, chiding. It's not my real name; sometimes I'm not even sure he knows it anymore. If there's one thing that anyone learns about Zhang Yixing right off the bat, it's that he's a forgetful one. He'd forget his own name if it hadn't been repeated to him so often. Sometimes when I get lonely waiting for him to come home, I like to imagine what he must have been like when he was a kid. Was he just as forgetful then? Or did something happen? Get knocked on the head during baseball? Tumble over himself playing soccer? Just the idea makes me smile. Even small, even young, I think that Zhang Yixing was probably a gracious person. Kind-hearted. A bit of an odd sense of humor, sometimes dry, sometimes blunt. That's part of his humor, calling me duizhang--I'm a leader of none but myself, although I'm sure that Yixing sometimes thinks I'm the reason he does things, and maybe, in my heart, I'd like that to be true. Zhang Yixing, sweet soul, space case--sometimes he doesn't know what's best for him, but I do. I just wish he knew how to listen to me.
"Duizhang," Yixing says again, to get my attention. I'm sitting near the chair at the kitchen table; part of me wants to sit on the table proper, but I've got long legs and I think that I'd be scolded. From the pocket of his jacket, a soft black velvet, pea-coat style, done up with buttons, he produces a croissant, wrapped up in plastic. Immediately I shoot him a lazy grin, as though I'm trying hard not to be interested. With the bag of bread set on the kitchen counter, Yixing's fingers, long and calloused from playing the guitar, start to unwrap the treat. He leaves it for me on the edge of the table before he goes to start putting things up again.
"How was your day?" I ask him, but I don't think he's listening. Somehow he's gotten lost in his head again; he's humming the song he's been writing for the past two weeks, trying to get past the first verse and chorus. I've been sitting up with him at night to try to knead the inspiration out of him, but so far, it hasn't worked. So whenever he comes home, he's humming, singing, tracing note patterns in his head, and rather than interrupt, I let him continue. I think he has a nice voice. It's not low, like mine, or rough, too husky; Yixing's voice is soft, light, pleasant to hear, and so I just listen, while I devour the croissant he's brought for me.
My tongue is following the tips of my fingers when he stops. Perplexed, I watch the back of his head. His hair is wavy, tangled from the hood of his sweatshirt. It must have been windy, raining outside, and concerned, I push up from where I've been sitting and walk over to him by the kitchen sink. I want to brush the bangs away from his face. Noticing me, Yixing turns, flashes me a smile. "She'll be coming by today," he announces, and almost immediately, it's like I can feel my mood start to deflate, getting rough around the edges.
I don't like her. Yixing knows I don't like her. I don't want to start an argument, so I bite my tongue. Out of the open kitchen, I find my way to Yixing's bed instead, a couple of pillows thrown on the floor in front of the television where we'd been watching it last night. Collapsing down on top of them, I can see my reflection in the black, glossy screen. I look angry, and I can't seem to control myself, so I bow my head, hoping that Yixing doesn't follow me, or ask me what's wrong. Much to my relief, he seems contented to be in the kitchen alone, or maybe he just doesn't want to argue, either. The sink turns on, and I can hear him start to wash vegetables. He always cooks for her when she's over. It's like a bad habit.
Her name--her name isn't important, because if I had my way, she'd be a non-entity. They met at work, or so Yixing has told me; I've never seen her outside of the times she comes to his apartment, and I prefer it that way. Out on the street, I'm not sure I would be able to behave myself the way I do when Yixing is here, tempering my irritation. She's an elementary school teacher; Yixing teaches the music classes at her school. Sometimes I wonder if she's as rough with her children as she is with him, or if she simply bottles up her frustrations, saving them, letting them thicken, spoil, until she can pour them all over him. If her attitude was a liquid, it would be scalding broth. Yixing would be covered in third degree burns. I think he is, somewhere, deep down at the pit of his heart. I wouldn't know, because I've never been allowed there.
I know that tonight is going to go just as every night has gone, so I lay my head down, growing quiet. The sounds of Yixing in the kitchen are soothing to me; in my sleepy haze, I pretend that the person he's really cooking for is me, that he's preparing some sort of celebratory meal for us, something that he knows we'd both like. Maybe some of his home cooking from Changsha, or an exotic dish from outside of Asia. Something Italian? Or maybe he'd want to make it easier, whip up something simple, relaxed, burgers from America or some sort of breakfast-for-dinner combination of pancakes and toast. If Yixing were cooking for me, I would wrap my arms around him, hug him close, brush my nose along the soft ridge of his neck. That's where he's most ticklish. I only learned it by mistake; ever since then, if I even get close to it, he pushes my face aside with a grin. Does she know that? Does she know how to give him goosebumps? Do her fingers trace the subtle dip of his cheekbones, the indent where his dimple is? Does she even care enough to?
Hours go by, and I finally decide to get up off the pillows. Dusk comes early nowadays, and so it looks already dark as I make my way into the kitchen, where Yixing is humming his song again. I try to finish it for him, but he looks at me, laughs, and embarrassed, I grin sheepishly at him before I go to look at the food he's prepared. It looks easy; some sort of pasta, topped with cheese and tomatoes and some other things I don't recognize. There's a salad, too, and bread from the bakery. He's dressing up the table; furtively, I knock one of the knives onto the ground as I pass it. "Duizhang," Yixing scolds me, but I give him another grin and he just sighs at me, trying to hide a smile.
I don't know when it's happened, but apparently, she has her own set of keys, because the sound of the door startles me and I'm already stalking down the hall to check it out. The lock turns; I stand poised. In through the door, bringing in the smell of cold leaves, dreary puddles, she comes, and as if not noticing me there at all, starts to shake her umbrella out. I clear my throat. She doesn't seem to even care, and once she dumps her bag and her wet coat and everything else at the door in a pile, she starts to move through the apartment, pushing past me as if I don't exist. I follow after her in silence.
"It smells like you're cooking again," she says lightly, in that playful little voice that I hate. Of course he's cooking, I want to say. He'll do anything to make you happy, and you don't even deserve it. But Yixing is smiling, and that makes my heart hurt. I hover in the doorway of the kitchen. She finally seems to acknowledge me, turning on her heels.
"You didn't get rid of him," she scolds, jerking her thumb back towards me. My eyes lock with Yixing's, and he shakes his head. "If I kick him out, where else could he go?" Yixing answers with a laugh, before he gestures towards the table. He's pulling out the chair for her as she flounces around the edge and drops down into it. Without even waiting for him, as though she's that deserving, she picks up her fork, murmurs a blessing, and starts into the food.
Just like any other night, I decline to eat with them. Instead I hover between the kitchen and the bedroom, listening, watching the way the lights from the street spray in through the blinds and cast shadows on the walls. They talk about work; Yixing tries to talk about his music, but she won't listen. Every conversation is directed back to her, and Yixing just takes it. Sometimes, in anger, I wonder if he's just weak willed and not kind-hearted at all, but that's unspeakable. I shouldn't feel that way about him, and it makes me mad that she's the reason I doubt his good nature.
They finish dinner. Yixing does the dishes. She sits at the table reapplying her lip gloss and talking, and he keeps listening, interjecting, gently guiding her along in conversation. Eventually they'll retire to the bedroom and then I'll sit in the kitchen and look at the newspaper or try to do the puzzles from them in my head. I don't want to think about what goes on when I'm not there because I don't want to know. Every sound, every creak of the mattress, I tune it out, and eventually the effort to ignore it all is so great that I end up falling asleep at the kitchen table. I rarely dream, but when I do, it's of a different life. One where I'm more than this.
I don't like that she spends her days relieving herself of her dramas and piling them onto Yixing instead. I don't like that when he cooks something she doesn't like, she refuses to eat it until he's forced to return to the kitchen and make something else. I don't like that she hates his style, doesn't understand his music, wrinkles her nose when his hair takes on more of a curl than usual. Most of all, I come to realize that I don't like the fact that he trusts her enough to give her a key to his place. I feel it's a grave misuse and even if I told him such, I don't think he would listen. He'd thread his fingers through my hair and shake his head a little and tell me, 'I know what I'm doing.'
He doesn't, though. Because when she's coming home to his place when he's out at a school concert with some other something-something guy that isn't like Yixing at all, I know it's not with my best friend's blessing. I want to kick her out but I don't have the authority. This isn't my house. I don't own it. Yixing owns me. I spit some insults at her, and she kicks me. I've never been kicked by a girl before. I've never even been kicked. Yixing will nudge me with his feet sometimes, but that's only to make me take up less room in the bed. Stunned, and unable to do anything in response, I sit there, waiting, and this time, the sounds from the bedroom don't make me ache. I'm mad, frustrated, angry, and every passing second that Yixing isn't there makes me consider end-game scenarios where the both of them, in his apartment, in his bed, meet some sort of end that would have me in too much trouble to consider. I can practically smell the booze on her breath from out in the kitchen. I can hear the sound of the clock, seconds ticking by, as if it were right next to my ears. And when Yixing finally comes home, I almost regret wishing he'd been there earlier.
I've never seen that look on his face before. His eyes drop like glass, shattering into a thousand little pieces that prick at his skin, but even so, his expression is like porcelain, smooth and hard to decipher. They're tumbling out of his bed and I can hear her wailing apologies through tears that are fake, and I intimidate the guy as he's fumbling his clothes and barreling down the hall. Once I'm sure he's out the door, I head back into the bedroom. I hear the sound of the lamp breaking. She's thrown it at Yixing; the pieces shatter all over near his feet, but he doesn't move. I'm afraid that she's going to hurt him. He's silent, and she's yelling at him, blaming him, saying it's his fault that she's had to do this, that he doesn't give her what she needs. With his shoulders squared, Yixing doesn't move. She pushes him, and only then does his balance waver, and he almost steps on a piece of glass. Clearly frustrated by him, she starts pounding into his chest, and when he tells her to calm down, she's furious. The bed sheets come off the mattress; the pillows scatter. Yixing's composition books are swept off the nightstand; she's throwing a tantrum, and when he tries to stop her again, she pushes him until he backs into the end of the bed and hisses in pain. I can't sit back and watch anymore, but she's kicking at me again as I try to intervene and I want to grab her, snap at her, but she's yanking her keys off the desk and throwing them in Yixing's face.
I'm not sure how long it takes after she leaves for him to get up again. I know he's going to have a bruise. I don't know what to do. If I say something, is he going to be mad? Should I try to clean up? What does he want from me? When I tug at the bed sheets, he bats at my nose with one hand. "Stop," Yixing says, and his voice is rough and hoarse and I hate it that way. We sit for a long time in silence. Then he gets up, walks around the bedroom, and gets the broom and dustpan from the kitchen. When he crouches down to start to sweep up the glass, I crouch down behind him, pushing at his back gently with both of my hands. I wait, but there's no scolding. Instead, he starts to laugh. Pleased with myself, careful of what's left on the floor, I inch around him, but the laughter isn't all genuine. His face is still that porcelain mask, but it's been repainted, and parts of it glimmer and glisten, especially around his eyes, on his lashes. When he finally looks at me, really looks at me, my heart is breaking and I don't know what to say.
"I'll save you," I finally declare, boldly. He's staring at me blankly and god, can he just listen? For once, can he just understand me?
"You won't have to live like this anymore," I continue. He starts to sweep up the little pieces again, but I stop him with a hand on his thigh. We must look ridiculous, crouched there, but I don't care where we are as long as he's still looking at me.
"We'll run away." Is he finally listening? Yixing's eyes cast down, and he finally sinks down onto the floor proper. Most of the mess is kept neatly in his dustpan, which he sets aside. Taking my head with both hands, he ruffles up my hair.
"Good boy," Yixing says, but his voice cracks. I can't do anything at all.
"Good dog. It's okay."
** ( video can be found here )
based on the verbal jint video. au. kris has his worries about lay's relationship.
→ ☆ ☆ ☆
It's noon, and Yixing's just come back from the bakery. I can tell, because there's the warm smell of bread in his bag--something spicy, certainly, and then some sweet milk rolls, bread for sandwiches. Usually he picks me up a small little something, but just looking at the bag as it comes inside, I can tell there's nothing in there for me, and I make a disappointed face at him. He starts to grin.
"Duizhang," he says, chiding. It's not my real name; sometimes I'm not even sure he knows it anymore. If there's one thing that anyone learns about Zhang Yixing right off the bat, it's that he's a forgetful one. He'd forget his own name if it hadn't been repeated to him so often. Sometimes when I get lonely waiting for him to come home, I like to imagine what he must have been like when he was a kid. Was he just as forgetful then? Or did something happen? Get knocked on the head during baseball? Tumble over himself playing soccer? Just the idea makes me smile. Even small, even young, I think that Zhang Yixing was probably a gracious person. Kind-hearted. A bit of an odd sense of humor, sometimes dry, sometimes blunt. That's part of his humor, calling me duizhang--I'm a leader of none but myself, although I'm sure that Yixing sometimes thinks I'm the reason he does things, and maybe, in my heart, I'd like that to be true. Zhang Yixing, sweet soul, space case--sometimes he doesn't know what's best for him, but I do. I just wish he knew how to listen to me.
"Duizhang," Yixing says again, to get my attention. I'm sitting near the chair at the kitchen table; part of me wants to sit on the table proper, but I've got long legs and I think that I'd be scolded. From the pocket of his jacket, a soft black velvet, pea-coat style, done up with buttons, he produces a croissant, wrapped up in plastic. Immediately I shoot him a lazy grin, as though I'm trying hard not to be interested. With the bag of bread set on the kitchen counter, Yixing's fingers, long and calloused from playing the guitar, start to unwrap the treat. He leaves it for me on the edge of the table before he goes to start putting things up again.
"How was your day?" I ask him, but I don't think he's listening. Somehow he's gotten lost in his head again; he's humming the song he's been writing for the past two weeks, trying to get past the first verse and chorus. I've been sitting up with him at night to try to knead the inspiration out of him, but so far, it hasn't worked. So whenever he comes home, he's humming, singing, tracing note patterns in his head, and rather than interrupt, I let him continue. I think he has a nice voice. It's not low, like mine, or rough, too husky; Yixing's voice is soft, light, pleasant to hear, and so I just listen, while I devour the croissant he's brought for me.
My tongue is following the tips of my fingers when he stops. Perplexed, I watch the back of his head. His hair is wavy, tangled from the hood of his sweatshirt. It must have been windy, raining outside, and concerned, I push up from where I've been sitting and walk over to him by the kitchen sink. I want to brush the bangs away from his face. Noticing me, Yixing turns, flashes me a smile. "She'll be coming by today," he announces, and almost immediately, it's like I can feel my mood start to deflate, getting rough around the edges.
I don't like her. Yixing knows I don't like her. I don't want to start an argument, so I bite my tongue. Out of the open kitchen, I find my way to Yixing's bed instead, a couple of pillows thrown on the floor in front of the television where we'd been watching it last night. Collapsing down on top of them, I can see my reflection in the black, glossy screen. I look angry, and I can't seem to control myself, so I bow my head, hoping that Yixing doesn't follow me, or ask me what's wrong. Much to my relief, he seems contented to be in the kitchen alone, or maybe he just doesn't want to argue, either. The sink turns on, and I can hear him start to wash vegetables. He always cooks for her when she's over. It's like a bad habit.
Her name--her name isn't important, because if I had my way, she'd be a non-entity. They met at work, or so Yixing has told me; I've never seen her outside of the times she comes to his apartment, and I prefer it that way. Out on the street, I'm not sure I would be able to behave myself the way I do when Yixing is here, tempering my irritation. She's an elementary school teacher; Yixing teaches the music classes at her school. Sometimes I wonder if she's as rough with her children as she is with him, or if she simply bottles up her frustrations, saving them, letting them thicken, spoil, until she can pour them all over him. If her attitude was a liquid, it would be scalding broth. Yixing would be covered in third degree burns. I think he is, somewhere, deep down at the pit of his heart. I wouldn't know, because I've never been allowed there.
I know that tonight is going to go just as every night has gone, so I lay my head down, growing quiet. The sounds of Yixing in the kitchen are soothing to me; in my sleepy haze, I pretend that the person he's really cooking for is me, that he's preparing some sort of celebratory meal for us, something that he knows we'd both like. Maybe some of his home cooking from Changsha, or an exotic dish from outside of Asia. Something Italian? Or maybe he'd want to make it easier, whip up something simple, relaxed, burgers from America or some sort of breakfast-for-dinner combination of pancakes and toast. If Yixing were cooking for me, I would wrap my arms around him, hug him close, brush my nose along the soft ridge of his neck. That's where he's most ticklish. I only learned it by mistake; ever since then, if I even get close to it, he pushes my face aside with a grin. Does she know that? Does she know how to give him goosebumps? Do her fingers trace the subtle dip of his cheekbones, the indent where his dimple is? Does she even care enough to?
Hours go by, and I finally decide to get up off the pillows. Dusk comes early nowadays, and so it looks already dark as I make my way into the kitchen, where Yixing is humming his song again. I try to finish it for him, but he looks at me, laughs, and embarrassed, I grin sheepishly at him before I go to look at the food he's prepared. It looks easy; some sort of pasta, topped with cheese and tomatoes and some other things I don't recognize. There's a salad, too, and bread from the bakery. He's dressing up the table; furtively, I knock one of the knives onto the ground as I pass it. "Duizhang," Yixing scolds me, but I give him another grin and he just sighs at me, trying to hide a smile.
I don't know when it's happened, but apparently, she has her own set of keys, because the sound of the door startles me and I'm already stalking down the hall to check it out. The lock turns; I stand poised. In through the door, bringing in the smell of cold leaves, dreary puddles, she comes, and as if not noticing me there at all, starts to shake her umbrella out. I clear my throat. She doesn't seem to even care, and once she dumps her bag and her wet coat and everything else at the door in a pile, she starts to move through the apartment, pushing past me as if I don't exist. I follow after her in silence.
"It smells like you're cooking again," she says lightly, in that playful little voice that I hate. Of course he's cooking, I want to say. He'll do anything to make you happy, and you don't even deserve it. But Yixing is smiling, and that makes my heart hurt. I hover in the doorway of the kitchen. She finally seems to acknowledge me, turning on her heels.
"You didn't get rid of him," she scolds, jerking her thumb back towards me. My eyes lock with Yixing's, and he shakes his head. "If I kick him out, where else could he go?" Yixing answers with a laugh, before he gestures towards the table. He's pulling out the chair for her as she flounces around the edge and drops down into it. Without even waiting for him, as though she's that deserving, she picks up her fork, murmurs a blessing, and starts into the food.
Just like any other night, I decline to eat with them. Instead I hover between the kitchen and the bedroom, listening, watching the way the lights from the street spray in through the blinds and cast shadows on the walls. They talk about work; Yixing tries to talk about his music, but she won't listen. Every conversation is directed back to her, and Yixing just takes it. Sometimes, in anger, I wonder if he's just weak willed and not kind-hearted at all, but that's unspeakable. I shouldn't feel that way about him, and it makes me mad that she's the reason I doubt his good nature.
They finish dinner. Yixing does the dishes. She sits at the table reapplying her lip gloss and talking, and he keeps listening, interjecting, gently guiding her along in conversation. Eventually they'll retire to the bedroom and then I'll sit in the kitchen and look at the newspaper or try to do the puzzles from them in my head. I don't want to think about what goes on when I'm not there because I don't want to know. Every sound, every creak of the mattress, I tune it out, and eventually the effort to ignore it all is so great that I end up falling asleep at the kitchen table. I rarely dream, but when I do, it's of a different life. One where I'm more than this.
I don't like that she spends her days relieving herself of her dramas and piling them onto Yixing instead. I don't like that when he cooks something she doesn't like, she refuses to eat it until he's forced to return to the kitchen and make something else. I don't like that she hates his style, doesn't understand his music, wrinkles her nose when his hair takes on more of a curl than usual. Most of all, I come to realize that I don't like the fact that he trusts her enough to give her a key to his place. I feel it's a grave misuse and even if I told him such, I don't think he would listen. He'd thread his fingers through my hair and shake his head a little and tell me, 'I know what I'm doing.'
He doesn't, though. Because when she's coming home to his place when he's out at a school concert with some other something-something guy that isn't like Yixing at all, I know it's not with my best friend's blessing. I want to kick her out but I don't have the authority. This isn't my house. I don't own it. Yixing owns me. I spit some insults at her, and she kicks me. I've never been kicked by a girl before. I've never even been kicked. Yixing will nudge me with his feet sometimes, but that's only to make me take up less room in the bed. Stunned, and unable to do anything in response, I sit there, waiting, and this time, the sounds from the bedroom don't make me ache. I'm mad, frustrated, angry, and every passing second that Yixing isn't there makes me consider end-game scenarios where the both of them, in his apartment, in his bed, meet some sort of end that would have me in too much trouble to consider. I can practically smell the booze on her breath from out in the kitchen. I can hear the sound of the clock, seconds ticking by, as if it were right next to my ears. And when Yixing finally comes home, I almost regret wishing he'd been there earlier.
I've never seen that look on his face before. His eyes drop like glass, shattering into a thousand little pieces that prick at his skin, but even so, his expression is like porcelain, smooth and hard to decipher. They're tumbling out of his bed and I can hear her wailing apologies through tears that are fake, and I intimidate the guy as he's fumbling his clothes and barreling down the hall. Once I'm sure he's out the door, I head back into the bedroom. I hear the sound of the lamp breaking. She's thrown it at Yixing; the pieces shatter all over near his feet, but he doesn't move. I'm afraid that she's going to hurt him. He's silent, and she's yelling at him, blaming him, saying it's his fault that she's had to do this, that he doesn't give her what she needs. With his shoulders squared, Yixing doesn't move. She pushes him, and only then does his balance waver, and he almost steps on a piece of glass. Clearly frustrated by him, she starts pounding into his chest, and when he tells her to calm down, she's furious. The bed sheets come off the mattress; the pillows scatter. Yixing's composition books are swept off the nightstand; she's throwing a tantrum, and when he tries to stop her again, she pushes him until he backs into the end of the bed and hisses in pain. I can't sit back and watch anymore, but she's kicking at me again as I try to intervene and I want to grab her, snap at her, but she's yanking her keys off the desk and throwing them in Yixing's face.
I'm not sure how long it takes after she leaves for him to get up again. I know he's going to have a bruise. I don't know what to do. If I say something, is he going to be mad? Should I try to clean up? What does he want from me? When I tug at the bed sheets, he bats at my nose with one hand. "Stop," Yixing says, and his voice is rough and hoarse and I hate it that way. We sit for a long time in silence. Then he gets up, walks around the bedroom, and gets the broom and dustpan from the kitchen. When he crouches down to start to sweep up the glass, I crouch down behind him, pushing at his back gently with both of my hands. I wait, but there's no scolding. Instead, he starts to laugh. Pleased with myself, careful of what's left on the floor, I inch around him, but the laughter isn't all genuine. His face is still that porcelain mask, but it's been repainted, and parts of it glimmer and glisten, especially around his eyes, on his lashes. When he finally looks at me, really looks at me, my heart is breaking and I don't know what to say.
"I'll save you," I finally declare, boldly. He's staring at me blankly and god, can he just listen? For once, can he just understand me?
"You won't have to live like this anymore," I continue. He starts to sweep up the little pieces again, but I stop him with a hand on his thigh. We must look ridiculous, crouched there, but I don't care where we are as long as he's still looking at me.
"We'll run away." Is he finally listening? Yixing's eyes cast down, and he finally sinks down onto the floor proper. Most of the mess is kept neatly in his dustpan, which he sets aside. Taking my head with both hands, he ruffles up my hair.
"Good boy," Yixing says, but his voice cracks. I can't do anything at all.
"Good dog. It's okay."
** ( video can be found here )