[exo] the steps in between (and the lessons learnt); yixing-centric; yixing/lu han; pg; [1/2]
Title: The Steps In Between (and the Lessons Learnt)
Pairing: Yixing-centric, friends!Yixing/Lu Han and Yixing/Kris (and therefore Yixing/Lu Han/Kris)
Rating: PG
Summary: Every story has a beginning and an ending. Strictly speaking, this story begins with a meeting, and ends on a stage. Zhang Yixing's story, though, doesn't. Set in pre-debut canon.
Warning: Slight mention of ED
Word Count: ~12,000
the steps in between (and the lessons learnt);;-
// never mind about point As and point Bs; it's the experience that counts. //
(开始) beginnings.
In a story, there’s always a beginning. There’s a start at point A, a finish at point B, and usually, things happens between them. Sometimes it’s happy. Sometimes it’s sad. Sometimes there are losses. Sometimes there are gains. But no matter what, the story always begins somewhere.
The problem is finding where.
A beginning is difficult to find. It’s difficult, because life itself is a series of short stories, a collection of quaint little snippets that join together to make a bigger story-and then these bigger stories interweave to create a web, a collection, a history, an anthology. So really, anything has the potential to be a beginning.
Strictly speaking, this story begins here:
There’s little circumstance when Yixing first meets Lu Han.
There are new trainees entering the company constantly, almost as fast as there are trainees leaving, so Yixing isn’t really paying attention when a boy he’s never seen around before comes into the dance practise room and bows, muttering a quiet ‘annyeonghaseyo’.
It’s only later that he finds out the boy is from China, the same as him, and an entire year older. “Oh,” Yixing says, scratching his head, “you’d be my hyung here then.” The single Korean honorific jars amidst Mandarin that sounds almost foreign to Yixing from disuse.
The boy laughs. “I guess. But we’re Chinese, so you can just call me Lu Han.”
“Lu Han,” Yixing repeats. Lu Han smiles at him, and Yixing cracks a grin back. Lu Han has a very nice smile. “I’m Yixing.”
(一) pride.
The first time Yixing had stepped through the doors of SM Entertainment had been two years ago.
At that time, he’d only had two Korean phrases in his vocabulary: hello and thank you. The buildings had seemed so fresh and new and foreign compared to the rundown Changsha studio he was used to, and walking down to the practise rooms ignited a strange excitement inside him; a burning, bubbling excitement peppered with a dash of uncertainty.
“Do you want to see the dorms? Meet the other trainees?” the representative had asked. Yixing had shaken his head and taken refuge in an empty dance room instead. The dorms could wait. Here, he had a practise space all to himself-something that he’d longed for for years-and he wanted to be here for a while, just to let it sink in that it was real, that he was here, child star Zhang Yixing was here as a trainee, and nothing was going to stand in his way.
“Okay. Remember there are vocal lessons in room 205 at two,” the representative had continued, “and dance lessons in the basement at four.”
The first lesson Yixing learnt that day was how to let go of his pride.
Because no matter how well known he might be back in his hometown, a plain-sounding Chinese name meant nothing here in Korea.
It’s different with Lu Han than it is with Wu Fan.
With Lu Han, Yixing finds him relaxing for the first time in a while. It’s not that he can’t relax around Wu Fan or the other trainees-it’s just that Wu Fan’s can be a bit of a wet blanket sometimes and doesn’t quite see eye to eye with Yixing. Yixing’s still clinging on to that fading childhood, that uncertain, easily excitable childhood, but Wu Fan’s desperately trying to grow up, and maybe a little too fast. He has no choice though, he says. Yixing understands. After all, the Korean idol industry’s not for children.
The other thing is that Wu Fan’s not exactly a mainlander. He’s from Canada, which means that he’s lived very differently from Yixing. Even with his Guangzhou roots, Wu Fan’s been in Canada for long enough that his Chinese mannerisms have been all but been erased. Westernised. Yixing doesn’t fail to notice how much easier it is for Wu Fan to break out into English with Amber and Henry. They speak Mandarin when Yixing’s there, but neither Amber nor Henry are fluent, and Yixing feels out of place.
So it’s easier, much easier with Lu Han. Lu Han makes it easy. It takes a total of four days from their first meeting to Lu Han’s running around the corridors of the underground practise rooms, brandishing Yixing’s black cap in his hand with a wicked smile.
“You can keep it,” Yixing puffs after five minutes of giving chase. Lu Han stops in his tracks and turns around, pulling the cap on himself.
“Really?”
Yixing nods, grinning. He’s glad to have someone here with him, someone that reminds him of home. “Welcome to the company, I guess.”
(二) korea.
To be honest, Yixing had never particularly been interested in Korea. He knew nothing about it, save for the geographic location-attached to northern China, divided into North and South-and the tidbits of information about Korean idol groups his female classmates would be gushing about. Korea was just another country on the map, and he couldn’t care less about what went on there.
Yixing was content in Changsha. He was content performing Chinese opera on the stage of his high school, acting in comedy shows and fooling around with his friends, even holding the occasional classroom popping battle-but an SM representative had come up to him after a concert he’d sang in, handed him a card, and he’d taken it without thinking.
There’s an audition. He goes for the heck of it. His voice had broken, and he didn’t sound as sharp singing Chinese opera anymore, so he might as well give other things a try. He wasn’t expecting to pass.
He passes.
SM’s a big company. It’s a golden opportunity. If he becomes a trainee, if he debuts in a group, he’s guaranteed almost instantaneous success. Making it big. Being able to perform onstage in front of thousands of people.
Yixing learns about Korea. He learns about the busy metropolitan cities, the multimillion dollar music industry, the strange, fluid language. Something tugs inside him, willing him to take the chance, take a leap, believe in himself and go to that foreign country he’s never really cared about.
And then, Yixing’s on a plane.
Yixing and Lu Han are very alike, but they’re also very different. The differences start to reveal themselves as each day passes, slowly but surely. For one, Lu Han’s not only good at singing and decent at dancing, he’s also smart.
“Korean’s not that hard,” Lu Han says easily. Yixing eyeballs Lu Han. They’re in the study rooms going over their Korean homework, and Yixing feels a migraine coming on, the kind that happens when too many words are thrown at him at once and his brain can no longer differentiate annyeong from ni hao.
“It’s not hard for you, you mean,” he mutters. He traces the characters. 민족. 사회. 사실. 결과.. The vocabulary lists are never-ending to the extent it feels like he’s taking a double major in Korean. Yixing grimaces. Studying had never been his forte. That was the reason he’d had such an affinity for the stage-because onstage, there was no rote learning to be had, just him, the lights, the exhilaration, and the beat of the drums.
Unfortunately, it seems like he still can’t escape.
“Isn’t it interesting, though?” Lu Han says, rolling over to Yixing. He points to a word. “결과. Gyeolgwa.. Result. Same as the Chinese 结果. 민족. 民族. A lot of these words have Chinese roots.”
Yixing rubs his temples. He knows that, but it doesn’t make the task much easier. “How come you’re so good at this?”
Lu Han grins and pulls his iPod out for Yixing to see. Yixing gapes. He has to physically stop himself from running back to the dorms and shoving the entire contents of his own music collection at Lu Han. Lu Han’s music is sorted under playlists-少女时代，东方神起，Super Junior-and one meagre playlist of Chinese songs.
“This is how you learnt?”
“This is why I learnt.” Yixing arches an eyebrow. Lu Han shrugs. “I liked the music. I wanted to understand what they were singing. Listening to songs in Korean helps, I swear.”
Yixing takes the iPod from Lu Han. He’s been around to actually see his sunbae groups release some of these songs, and it’s so strange that this is the source of Lu Han’s inspiration. Lu Han kind of reminds him of his classmates, crowding around the table gushing about TVXQ’s newest album, or staying back after classes to learn the steps to Wonder Girls’ new song. Many of them had joked about joining Korean entertainment companies to be close to their idols, but of course, it was all just talk.
“I bet it feels pretty good, huh? Being in the same company as your idols.”
Lu Han stretches. “Yeah. I used to listen to their music. Now I’m their hubae.” A small smile spreads on his lips. “I still can’t really believe it myself.”
(三) music.
The first time Yixing had started enjoying music was when he’d heard his father playing a Jimmy Lin CD during the second grade. Piano lessons had been a drag, but Yixing had no problems belting out pop songs at the top of his lungs, dancing along and making his grandmother and grandfather clap along happily to the beat.
Hunan TV were looking for Jimmy Lin fans for a special program. His parents had thought it was cute to put Yixing in leopard print and show off his Jimmy Lin impressions to the whole world. He’d gone on TV dressed like a little casanova, and stole the audience’s and the crew’s hearts.
Today I won an autographed CD! he’d scribbled into his diary when he’d gotten back from the program. They liked me, I think. Singing is so fun. I could do this forever.
He discovered his passion for music that day.
Yixing still keeps a diary.
Before he goes to bed every day, he writes in it. Some days, the entries are long, thoughtful, and filled with hope and determination. Most days, he writes a simple daily recount and a little message to himself to keep going and keep fighting. Other days, he’s so tired and disillusioned that he can’t manage more than two scribbled lines of “what’s the point, what am I working for?” and cramming the diary under his pillow.
There are times when Yixing honestly wants to give it up. Give being a trainee up. Ten hours of dancing and singing practise, two hours of language lessons, one meagre meal a day-he wants to run away from it all. These times don’t come often, because performing is what Yixing really loves, and the only thing he knows, but when it does, it hits, and it hits hard.
Today is one of these days.
It’s three in the morning. Both Wu Fan and Lu Han are asleep. Dance practise hadn’t gone well, and Yixing feels a kind of uncomfortable homesick pressure constricting his chest, constricting his breathing, and he can’t fall asleep. He sneaks out of the room into the dimly lit corridor, a pen in one hand and his diary in the other.
Do you remember, Yixing? he writes. The first time you went on TV? Do you remember your parents’ faces, your grandparents’ faces, while you were up on that stage? That’s what you’re working for.
Yixing bites his lip. He leans against the brick walls, closing his eyes. He misses home. He’d gone back to Changsha just two months ago, as a special guest for his high school’s 105th anniversary, but it had only been for a total of three days. The company wanted him back ASAP to resume training. He didn’t even get to have a proper meal with his family. Yixing grips his pen.
When you went back this year, you promised that you’d work harder. Everyone here is so strong. You can’t afford to slack off. You’ll lag even further behind if you don’t practise harder. Self-control. Come on, Yixing, you can do it. Don’t spend every minute wonder why you’re still here, still struggling every day, stuck in one spot, not improving, not going anywhere, when you could be spending that time practising. You can think about your hometown after you debut. It won’t do you any good to quit now.
“You okay?” The voice startles Yixing, and he jumps, closing his diary in fright. Lu Han’s sleepy face peers at him. Yixing scrambles to get up, feeling guilty for waking Lu Han up.
“Yeah, I’m-I’m fine,” he says.
Lu Han scratches his head and squints some more. “And this is why you’re out here in the dark at three in the morning.” Yixing shrugs. Lu Han yawns. “You can tell me, you know, if there’s anything bothering you.”
Yixing gives a small smile. It’s nice of Lu Han to offer, but Yixing doesn’t want to be a burden. To his family, to Wu Fan, or to Lu Han. He has to bear it alone. Yixing gets up and goes back into the dorm, heart heavy. “Maybe after we both get some sleep.”
(四) dreams.
His grandmother had taught him how important it was for a person to have a dream.
“You need to work towards something,” she’d said to Yixing. Yixing had rested his chin in his hands and watched as she mixed cabbage and pork mince together to make the filling for her steamed buns. He’d wondered what kind of dreams she’d had as a child. “Life’s more interesting when you dream big. You have talent, precious child. Why be normal when you could be exceptional?”
So Yixing dreams of flying. He dreams of flying, high in the blue sky, above the clouds, where no one can touch him. He dreams of growing wings and soaring above oceans, deserts, canyons.
And he dreams of falling.
“Did you sleep well?” Lu han asks in the morning. Yixing rolls over and presses his arm over his eyes. What his grandmother hadn’t mentioned was that dreaming big is frightening, because there’s a long, long way down.
“I was on top of the world,” he answers slowly, and it’s not completely a lie.
There’s another difference between Yixing and Lu Han. A superficial one, one that neither of them can control, but it’s a difference nonetheless.
Yixing’s one of those people that gains weight by smelling food. Lu Han’s one of those people who can eat a horse and its cart and stay thin. He’s always lounging around in the dorms or in the practise rooms with a bag of snacks, munching on them without a care in the world. Yixing can only look on longingly and grit his teeth.
“Want some?” Lu Han offers, holding out an unopened chip packet to Yixing. “These are pretty nice.”
Yixing suppresses a gulp. It had taken him a year and a half to get down to this weight, and he still had a round jawline and too much mass around his waist. It might’ve been okay for his fourteen year old self, because he’d sold cute back them, but at nineteen, he can’t do that anymore. He’s supposed to be an adult, not a boy, and being grown up meant sharp jawlines and muscle definition and seriousness, like Wu Fan.
“I’m okay,” he says. “I already had lunch.”
Lu Han rolls his eyes. “That's what you always say. Half a bowl of rice and some steamed broccoli? That’s what my pet rabbit would eat for breakfast. Not that I have a rabbit.” He chucks the packet into Yixing’s lap. “Here. Just have some.”
Yixing gives in. Just one or two, he thinks, pulling open the packet-but he has one, and two, and three, and before he knows it he’s finished the whole packet and he’s licking crumbs off his fingers.
His steps feel slow and sluggish and heavy for the rest of the day.
To make up, Yixing doesn’t eat anything the next day. He shakes his head when Lu Han and Wu Fan ask him if he wants to grab lunch, because he’d “had a big breakfast, it’s okay, go on without me.” Wu Fan frowns, knowing that it’s a lie, but leaves Yixing alone in the dance room anyway. He comes back with Lu Han an hour later and silently pushes a chocolate bar into Yixing’s hands. Yixing throws it into the garbage.
He ends up washing the bar wrapper off and wolfing it down at midnight, when his hunger pangs are giving him stomach cramps.
“Here you are-what are you eating?” Lu Han asks when he sees Yixing in the kitchen. He spots the wrapper and makes a disgusted face. “Yixing, oh my god, that was in the-if you’re hungry, there’s food back in our room.”
Yixing shrugs, mouth crammed full. He feels a bit sick, but mostly like a failure. “My grandma taught me never to waste food,” he mumbles half-heartedly.
Lu Han sigh, takes the wrapper away from Yixing, and throws it in the bin.
(五) hunger.
There was a time Yixing didn’t care so much about how many calories were in a chocolate bar.
Food was food, and was to be enjoyed. There was a time Yixing would come home from school, red backpack fitting snugly on his shoulders, and run into the kitchen to see what his grandmother was cooking for their family dinner that night. There was a time that he’d stuff his face with Yuanxiao on Lantern Festival, or with Zongzi on Dragon Boat Festival, or with cake on his birthday, and that was that.
“Eat up,” his grandmother would say as she lifted steamed buns out of the pot. “You’re a growing boy, and you need the energy.” Yixing loved her cooking the most, because it was warm and delicious and filled with her love and care, and he’d finish every bite.
His grandmother showed him what it meant to treasure food.
Star Academy showed him what it meant to be ridiculed behind his back for his weight.
SM showed him what it meant to be hungry every hour of the day.
Yixing sets his mind on a system: whenever he's hungry, he'll drink a bottle of water, run to the practise rooms and dance for half an hour. Dancing distracts him and reminds him that he has to exercise self-control and resist temptation. It was a test made by himself for himself.
“Please don't overdo it,” Lu Han says, slipping into the practise rooms and planting himself on the sofa. Yixing feels Lu Han's eyes on him as he moves to the music, head light, concentration faltering. “Come on, sit down and eat a banana or something. You'll burn out if you keep this up.”
Yixing does burn out. Lu Han ends up cramming half a banana into Yixing's mouth. This happens once, twice, three times, and by the third time Yixing almost faints and has to be rescued by Lu Han's magical bananas, he realises it's a stupid thing to be doing to himself.
“Now promise me you won't skip meals from now on,” Lu Han says, tossing a prawn cracker at Yixing's face. It falls into Yixing's lap. Lu Han tosses another one at Yixing's nose. Yixing narrows his eyes at Lu Han. Lu Han grins and pokes a third cracker between Yixing's lips. “Mm. Prawny.”
Yixing crinkles his nose and snatches the packet away from Lu Han, throwing handfuls of crackers at Lu Han's back as Lu Han runs, cackling, out of the practise room.
Unfortunately, Yixing and Lu Han are caught during their food fight by a company official, and sent to the directing manager’s office to be lectured. It just had to be today of all days, Yixing thinks, that the official was patrolling the studios.
It’s the first time Lu Han’s been reprimanded, and the guilty upset that paints itself across his face doubles Yixing’s own guilt. Lu Han had gotten into trouble for caring for him, and he couldn't even help comfort Lu Han about this little thing.
“Don’t worry,” Yixing reassures uncertainly when they’re let out of the office and sent back to the dorms. Lu Han’s silent, biting his lower lip. “They'll forget about it. This happens to people all the time...I think.”
“Okay,” Lu Han says, looking down at his feet, and Yixing’s not sure what else to say.
“I heard you two got in trouble,” Wu Fan says to both of them when they come back to the dorms, faces drawn. “What did I say about mucking around in the company rooms? This isn’t a playground, and you’re not children.”
“We’ve been told,” Yixing says tersely. The directing manager had said none too nicely that if they wanted to spend their rehearsal time running around like kids and flinging food over the expensive studio equipment, they were by all means free to, but first they’d have to leave the company. “The manager wasn’t nice about it either.”
“You should listen to him.”
“We did. For half an hour.” Lu Han’s voice is wavering.
Yixing sighs, taking off his shoes. He knows Wu Fan is saying this for their own good, but he's feeling bad enough without Wu Fan’s disapproving remands today, and he’s sure Lu Han could use without them too. Yixing balls up his right sock and throws it at Wu Fan half-heartedly. Wu Fan dodges. Yixing takes off his other sock and throws that one too, aiming for Wu Fan’s face this time, and it hits the target.
Lu Han cracks a weak smile at Wu Fan’s disgusted expression when the sock slides off the side of Wu Fan’s face and finds a spot on his shoulder, and Yixing feels like he’s achieved something.
Wu Fan chucks the offending sock back at Yixing, rolling his eyes. “Ugh. Rooming with you two makes me feel like I’m babysitting twelve-year-olds sometimes. I should start charging the company.”
“Then you’ve obviously never babysat before,” Lu Han says softly, grinning. Yixing smiles too, feeling slightly better that Lu Han seemed to be getting over it. “Trust me, twelve-year-olds can be much much worse than us.”
(六) singing.
When Yixing was twelve, he’d wake up every morning to the sound of his father’s deep baritone, and he’d join in and cause a ruckus and drive his mother up the wall. He remembers practising for the annual arts festival with his seventh grade class, earnestly rehearsing their set songs during lunch breaks and in the hall after school; remembers the ecstatic feeling that had sent his heart flying and head dizzy up in the clouds when they’d been announced the winner.
Maybe it started because of his father’s singing, or that one TV appearance, but Yixing grew up loving the thrill of performing, loving the stage, loving the music, and loving the proud looks on his parents’ and grandparents’ faces when he broke out into song and dance. His parents were busy with work, but they always found time to attend every single one of his performances.
Yixing never got the best grades for school, but that was okay, with him, and surprisingly, with his parents.
“It doesn’t matter. Everyone has their strengths, and my son’s is performing,” his father had said proudly. “You have a sharp voice, very piercing, very strong. It carries very far. Perfect for Chinese opera, you know-would you like to learn?” and that was what Yixing started spending his free time on.
It was fun, because he needed no books. He just needed himself and music, and in the blink of an eye, the sun which had just been rising would be setting, and the day would be over.
Yixing’s mother’s fiftieth birthday celebration takes place in July. The company won’t let Yixing fly back. Booking plane tickets are a hassle, not to mention unnecessarily expensive, and really, it’s not like it’s a funeral or anything-surely a simple phone call would do.
Yixing distracts himself from the stabbing disappointment by holing himself up in the practise room. Lu Han stays with him when the other trainees leave for the dorms, done for the night, and Yixing is grateful for his silent support.
They dance. They sweat. They move to the music, mindlessly going through the steps of the choreography they’d learnt the hour before. By one in the morning, though, dance is no longer a distraction.
“I miss home,” Yixing says dejectedly. He slumps against the mirror, feeling his shirt damp and sticky on his back. He usually keeps it to himself, but he’s more than a little emotional today. It’s his mother’s birthday, after all, and he can’t help but feel down as the homesickness hits him in a colossal, gut-churning wave. “I want to tell her happy birthday face to face. I hate not being able to see my family. I miss China.”
“I don’t.” Lu Han sits down next to Yixing, taking a long drink from his bottle. His voice is soft and slightly melancholic in the still quiet of the dance studio. Yixing shoots him an inquisitive look.
“You don’t?”
Lu Han half-smiles. “Okay. I lied. I do miss it, but I shouldn’t. If I think too much, I’ll want to go home-and that would be admitting defeat, wouldn’t it?”
Defeat. Yixing clenches his fist. He wonders why he’s still here, in this foreign country with no connections and no family, when he could’ve easily gone on Super Boy in China. Maybe it was because he had something to prove-that no, he wasn’t going to ride on the coattails of childhood fame; that he could make it without relying on a name.
Lu Han’s right. Returning home with nothing would be like admitting defeat.
“And I’d never be able to face my parents,” Lu Han finishes off, barely audible.
(七) family.
It was on the day of his departure that Yixing learnt exactly how lucky he was to have his family. The airport had been crowded. Yixing had protested that there was no need for his aging grandparents to come along to see him off too, worried for their health, but they’d insisted.
“Good luck,” his mother had said. “Make sure you eat properly. Don’t push yourself too hard.”
“Believe in yourself,” his father had said. “You’re my son, and I’ll be proud of you, whatever you do.”
“Don’t forget us,” his grandfather had said. “And I’ll try not to forget my precious grandson...” He taps his head with a twinkling smile. “But alas, my memory has been going these days!”
“He’s just joking,” his grandmother had said. “Oh, my little Yixing, what will grandma do without your voice around the house? Quickly debut, so we can see your face on the big screen, hm?”
“I will,” Yixing had said. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”
Yixing wonders when he’ll be able to keep that promise.
The third thing that sets them apart is that Lu Han never had his parents’ approval.
Stop chasing after those Korean superstars and stay in your home country, they’d apparently told Lu Han, and Yixing could see instantly that they were mainlander Chinese. Structured and logical and overly nationalistic. Yixing feels incredibly lucky, because at least his family had always, unconditionally, given him their support, with his singing, his dancing, and even with Korea.
Evidently, Lu Han’s family was different.
For someone who seemed so carefree, Yixing learns that his parents were surprisingly strict. They didn’t like chances. They wanted happiness and a stable career for their only child-and running off to another country to become a singer was not their idea of stable.
“They let you stay here on exchange though,” Yixing protests, “and they must’ve signed the paperwork. That shows their support, right? Surely they can’t be that against this? Against Korea?”
Lu Han grins. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve told you this, but I worked part-time for a year and paid my own airfare here. My parents were close to cutting off contact with me. I think they let me stay when they realised I wasn’t going to change my mind, and this-being a singer-wasn’t just some kind of stupid childhood delusion. It might’ve started off from me watching a Super Junior video, but my dream is mine. And it’s real, you know,” Lu Han finishes softly.
Yixing nods. He knows, and he understands. Even though it’s only been three, four months since he’s met Lu Han, he knows Lu Han’s the type of person to pretend that everything is fine and dandy on the outside and lock his insecurities up inside and suffer with them alone, with a bright smile.
Yixing knows, because even with their differences, they’re alike in this little way. “You’ll make it,” he reassures. He’s not sure if the reassurance is completely for Lu Han, but it feels like the right thing to say. “And your parents will be proud.”
Lu Han smiles uncertainly. Yixing’s struck by an urge to reach over and wipe the uncertainty off Lu Han’s face. Lu Han looked more beautiful without that fearful hesitation tugging the corners of his lips down.
So he does.
(八) trust.
Yixing’s a caring person by nature.
He’s not sure if it’s something that was trained into him from when he was a little kid, seeing his father help elderly people cross the streets, seeing his mother give out free fruits at the Saturday morning market stalls, but caring for others is just something that comes easily to him. He remembers himself aged ten, buying fairy floss for a younger girl at an amusement park because she couldn’t reach the cart; aged thirteen, writing encouraging messages for those in his class that hadn’t done well in their end-of-year test; aged fifteen, giving up the girl he liked to his best friend because he liked her more. There was no meaning in him being happy if the people around him weren’t happy.
Even in Korea, he tries.
When Wu Fan runs out of the dorms after a nightmare, shaken and unlike his usual collected self, Yixing follows him to the Han River and sits by his side for the night. Wu Fan doesn’t have it easy either, with all the divorce paperwork being thrown at him. He puts on a strong front, because that’s what it means to be grown up. When Lu Han’s parents call to interrogate him on why there’s been no debut, to tell him to come back to Beijing and continue with university or they’ll cut off his bank account, Yixing hugs Lu Han silently and buys him snacks and changes his laptop wallpaper to a particularly tragic looking picture of Wu Fan to cheer Lu Han up.
Yixing tries to be caring, but there are days where Yixing can’t commiserate with anyone else, not Wu Fan, not Lu Han, because he’s just too tired to care. He remembers momentarily that they’re competitors, rivals, fighting for a chance to debut, and he shouldn’t get too close to them. Competition is fierce. Everyone wants to debut. They could stab him in the back anytime.
He might not be able to understand everything here in Korea, but at least he’s learnt trainee politics. Being so kind was going to be his downfall, he’d heard.
Because rule number one as a trainee: never trust anyone.
Yixing finds Lu Han watching unexpected videos one evening in their dorm.
“Hey!” he shouts, lunging for the laptop. “Stop, stop, stop!” Lu Han cackles and pulls the laptop out of reach. Yixing swipes at Lu Han one more time, then proceeds to flop onto his bed with a groan.
“How…did you find those…” Yixing asks, as he hears his nine-year-old self bellowing Jimmy Lin songs from Lu Han’s laptop speakers. Lu Han grins, the sides of his eyes crinkling. The video stops and the next one, a clip of him performing on Star Academy, starts playing.
“How come you never told me you were a little superstar? Look at you,” Lu Han says, holding back his laughter. “Adorable.”
Yixing groans again. “Because these are embarrassing. I didn't even sing well. I couldn't even dance. Oh my god, please stop laughing at me,” he says helplessly, as Lu Han rewinds the video and replays it, crowing with laughter. “Seriously, how the hell did you even find these?”
“Wu Fan,” Lu Han says through bouts of laughter, and Yixing makes a vicious mental note to himself to replace Wu Fan's toothpaste with laundry detergent. “Why are you so embarrassed? These are really cute. I wish I had something like this to remind myself of how...uh, lively I was as a child.”
Yixing gives Lu Han a sour look. Lu Han smiles back and bats his eyelashes, trying to keep a straight face, but Yixing can see the sides of his lips twitching upwards. Yixing throws a pillow at Lu Han, and Lu Han immediately bursts out into another bout of guffawing laughter.
“I hate you, and I hate Wu Fan,” Yixing mutters gloomily. Lu Han pats him on the back reassuringly. Yixing frowns and makes a face at him. “If I go to the practise rooms tomorrow and I find out everybody knows about this, I will make your life painful.”
(九) childhood.
Yixing’s watched those videos of himself more often than he'd like to admit.
As embarrassing as they may be, they’re important to him. After his voice broke, and he didn’t sound as pure or clear or bright, he’d just sit in the living room of his house and rummage through the VCR tape recordings of all his Star Academy appearances, reliving his short stint on TV.
The first video: ‘Astrology’ by Wang Lee Hom.
His first duet song. He didn’t remember anything after he got off the stage, puffing and sweating and shaking. He can almost feel the scratchy, uncomfortable silver stage outfit chafing against his chest now as he watches and rewinds and watches and rewinds the performance clip.
Yixing goes through them all. He finds a shaky recording of the first time he'd been inside a professional vocal recording studio, and watches that too. He and the other cast members of Star Academy had been told off that day for mucking around in the studio piano lesson rooms while waiting to record their parts for the ensemble song. It was alright for Yixing though; he was forgiven because he was the youngest, the baby of the group. He was a child. Children got concessions.
The last video: ‘Love You’ by Cyndi Wang.
“You need more tonal variation in your voice. We have higher expectations of you now. You have to treat yourself as an adult, because you’re at that age where your voice is breaking-and once it does, you won’t be able to rely on your innocent image anymore. Zhang Yixing, I hope you can grow up, and show us your professional side.”
Yixing had been eliminated that week.
It was then that Yixing learnt: childhood isn’t forever.
part two;;-
Pairing: Yixing-centric, friends!Yixing/Lu Han and Yixing/Kris (and therefore Yixing/Lu Han/Kris)
Rating: PG
Summary: Every story has a beginning and an ending. Strictly speaking, this story begins with a meeting, and ends on a stage. Zhang Yixing's story, though, doesn't. Set in pre-debut canon.
Warning: Slight mention of ED
Word Count: ~12,000
the steps in between (and the lessons learnt);;-
// never mind about point As and point Bs; it's the experience that counts. //
(开始) beginnings.
In a story, there’s always a beginning. There’s a start at point A, a finish at point B, and usually, things happens between them. Sometimes it’s happy. Sometimes it’s sad. Sometimes there are losses. Sometimes there are gains. But no matter what, the story always begins somewhere.
The problem is finding where.
A beginning is difficult to find. It’s difficult, because life itself is a series of short stories, a collection of quaint little snippets that join together to make a bigger story-and then these bigger stories interweave to create a web, a collection, a history, an anthology. So really, anything has the potential to be a beginning.
Strictly speaking, this story begins here:
There’s little circumstance when Yixing first meets Lu Han.
There are new trainees entering the company constantly, almost as fast as there are trainees leaving, so Yixing isn’t really paying attention when a boy he’s never seen around before comes into the dance practise room and bows, muttering a quiet ‘annyeonghaseyo’.
It’s only later that he finds out the boy is from China, the same as him, and an entire year older. “Oh,” Yixing says, scratching his head, “you’d be my hyung here then.” The single Korean honorific jars amidst Mandarin that sounds almost foreign to Yixing from disuse.
The boy laughs. “I guess. But we’re Chinese, so you can just call me Lu Han.”
“Lu Han,” Yixing repeats. Lu Han smiles at him, and Yixing cracks a grin back. Lu Han has a very nice smile. “I’m Yixing.”
(一) pride.
The first time Yixing had stepped through the doors of SM Entertainment had been two years ago.
At that time, he’d only had two Korean phrases in his vocabulary: hello and thank you. The buildings had seemed so fresh and new and foreign compared to the rundown Changsha studio he was used to, and walking down to the practise rooms ignited a strange excitement inside him; a burning, bubbling excitement peppered with a dash of uncertainty.
“Do you want to see the dorms? Meet the other trainees?” the representative had asked. Yixing had shaken his head and taken refuge in an empty dance room instead. The dorms could wait. Here, he had a practise space all to himself-something that he’d longed for for years-and he wanted to be here for a while, just to let it sink in that it was real, that he was here, child star Zhang Yixing was here as a trainee, and nothing was going to stand in his way.
“Okay. Remember there are vocal lessons in room 205 at two,” the representative had continued, “and dance lessons in the basement at four.”
The first lesson Yixing learnt that day was how to let go of his pride.
Because no matter how well known he might be back in his hometown, a plain-sounding Chinese name meant nothing here in Korea.
It’s different with Lu Han than it is with Wu Fan.
With Lu Han, Yixing finds him relaxing for the first time in a while. It’s not that he can’t relax around Wu Fan or the other trainees-it’s just that Wu Fan’s can be a bit of a wet blanket sometimes and doesn’t quite see eye to eye with Yixing. Yixing’s still clinging on to that fading childhood, that uncertain, easily excitable childhood, but Wu Fan’s desperately trying to grow up, and maybe a little too fast. He has no choice though, he says. Yixing understands. After all, the Korean idol industry’s not for children.
The other thing is that Wu Fan’s not exactly a mainlander. He’s from Canada, which means that he’s lived very differently from Yixing. Even with his Guangzhou roots, Wu Fan’s been in Canada for long enough that his Chinese mannerisms have been all but been erased. Westernised. Yixing doesn’t fail to notice how much easier it is for Wu Fan to break out into English with Amber and Henry. They speak Mandarin when Yixing’s there, but neither Amber nor Henry are fluent, and Yixing feels out of place.
So it’s easier, much easier with Lu Han. Lu Han makes it easy. It takes a total of four days from their first meeting to Lu Han’s running around the corridors of the underground practise rooms, brandishing Yixing’s black cap in his hand with a wicked smile.
“You can keep it,” Yixing puffs after five minutes of giving chase. Lu Han stops in his tracks and turns around, pulling the cap on himself.
“Really?”
Yixing nods, grinning. He’s glad to have someone here with him, someone that reminds him of home. “Welcome to the company, I guess.”
(二) korea.
To be honest, Yixing had never particularly been interested in Korea. He knew nothing about it, save for the geographic location-attached to northern China, divided into North and South-and the tidbits of information about Korean idol groups his female classmates would be gushing about. Korea was just another country on the map, and he couldn’t care less about what went on there.
Yixing was content in Changsha. He was content performing Chinese opera on the stage of his high school, acting in comedy shows and fooling around with his friends, even holding the occasional classroom popping battle-but an SM representative had come up to him after a concert he’d sang in, handed him a card, and he’d taken it without thinking.
There’s an audition. He goes for the heck of it. His voice had broken, and he didn’t sound as sharp singing Chinese opera anymore, so he might as well give other things a try. He wasn’t expecting to pass.
He passes.
SM’s a big company. It’s a golden opportunity. If he becomes a trainee, if he debuts in a group, he’s guaranteed almost instantaneous success. Making it big. Being able to perform onstage in front of thousands of people.
Yixing learns about Korea. He learns about the busy metropolitan cities, the multimillion dollar music industry, the strange, fluid language. Something tugs inside him, willing him to take the chance, take a leap, believe in himself and go to that foreign country he’s never really cared about.
And then, Yixing’s on a plane.
Yixing and Lu Han are very alike, but they’re also very different. The differences start to reveal themselves as each day passes, slowly but surely. For one, Lu Han’s not only good at singing and decent at dancing, he’s also smart.
“Korean’s not that hard,” Lu Han says easily. Yixing eyeballs Lu Han. They’re in the study rooms going over their Korean homework, and Yixing feels a migraine coming on, the kind that happens when too many words are thrown at him at once and his brain can no longer differentiate annyeong from ni hao.
“It’s not hard for you, you mean,” he mutters. He traces the characters. 민족. 사회. 사실. 결과.. The vocabulary lists are never-ending to the extent it feels like he’s taking a double major in Korean. Yixing grimaces. Studying had never been his forte. That was the reason he’d had such an affinity for the stage-because onstage, there was no rote learning to be had, just him, the lights, the exhilaration, and the beat of the drums.
Unfortunately, it seems like he still can’t escape.
“Isn’t it interesting, though?” Lu Han says, rolling over to Yixing. He points to a word. “결과. Gyeolgwa.. Result. Same as the Chinese 结果. 민족. 民族. A lot of these words have Chinese roots.”
Yixing rubs his temples. He knows that, but it doesn’t make the task much easier. “How come you’re so good at this?”
Lu Han grins and pulls his iPod out for Yixing to see. Yixing gapes. He has to physically stop himself from running back to the dorms and shoving the entire contents of his own music collection at Lu Han. Lu Han’s music is sorted under playlists-少女时代，东方神起，Super Junior-and one meagre playlist of Chinese songs.
“This is how you learnt?”
“This is why I learnt.” Yixing arches an eyebrow. Lu Han shrugs. “I liked the music. I wanted to understand what they were singing. Listening to songs in Korean helps, I swear.”
Yixing takes the iPod from Lu Han. He’s been around to actually see his sunbae groups release some of these songs, and it’s so strange that this is the source of Lu Han’s inspiration. Lu Han kind of reminds him of his classmates, crowding around the table gushing about TVXQ’s newest album, or staying back after classes to learn the steps to Wonder Girls’ new song. Many of them had joked about joining Korean entertainment companies to be close to their idols, but of course, it was all just talk.
“I bet it feels pretty good, huh? Being in the same company as your idols.”
Lu Han stretches. “Yeah. I used to listen to their music. Now I’m their hubae.” A small smile spreads on his lips. “I still can’t really believe it myself.”
(三) music.
The first time Yixing had started enjoying music was when he’d heard his father playing a Jimmy Lin CD during the second grade. Piano lessons had been a drag, but Yixing had no problems belting out pop songs at the top of his lungs, dancing along and making his grandmother and grandfather clap along happily to the beat.
Hunan TV were looking for Jimmy Lin fans for a special program. His parents had thought it was cute to put Yixing in leopard print and show off his Jimmy Lin impressions to the whole world. He’d gone on TV dressed like a little casanova, and stole the audience’s and the crew’s hearts.
Today I won an autographed CD! he’d scribbled into his diary when he’d gotten back from the program. They liked me, I think. Singing is so fun. I could do this forever.
He discovered his passion for music that day.
Yixing still keeps a diary.
Before he goes to bed every day, he writes in it. Some days, the entries are long, thoughtful, and filled with hope and determination. Most days, he writes a simple daily recount and a little message to himself to keep going and keep fighting. Other days, he’s so tired and disillusioned that he can’t manage more than two scribbled lines of “what’s the point, what am I working for?” and cramming the diary under his pillow.
There are times when Yixing honestly wants to give it up. Give being a trainee up. Ten hours of dancing and singing practise, two hours of language lessons, one meagre meal a day-he wants to run away from it all. These times don’t come often, because performing is what Yixing really loves, and the only thing he knows, but when it does, it hits, and it hits hard.
Today is one of these days.
It’s three in the morning. Both Wu Fan and Lu Han are asleep. Dance practise hadn’t gone well, and Yixing feels a kind of uncomfortable homesick pressure constricting his chest, constricting his breathing, and he can’t fall asleep. He sneaks out of the room into the dimly lit corridor, a pen in one hand and his diary in the other.
Do you remember, Yixing? he writes. The first time you went on TV? Do you remember your parents’ faces, your grandparents’ faces, while you were up on that stage? That’s what you’re working for.
Yixing bites his lip. He leans against the brick walls, closing his eyes. He misses home. He’d gone back to Changsha just two months ago, as a special guest for his high school’s 105th anniversary, but it had only been for a total of three days. The company wanted him back ASAP to resume training. He didn’t even get to have a proper meal with his family. Yixing grips his pen.
When you went back this year, you promised that you’d work harder. Everyone here is so strong. You can’t afford to slack off. You’ll lag even further behind if you don’t practise harder. Self-control. Come on, Yixing, you can do it. Don’t spend every minute wonder why you’re still here, still struggling every day, stuck in one spot, not improving, not going anywhere, when you could be spending that time practising. You can think about your hometown after you debut. It won’t do you any good to quit now.
“You okay?” The voice startles Yixing, and he jumps, closing his diary in fright. Lu Han’s sleepy face peers at him. Yixing scrambles to get up, feeling guilty for waking Lu Han up.
“Yeah, I’m-I’m fine,” he says.
Lu Han scratches his head and squints some more. “And this is why you’re out here in the dark at three in the morning.” Yixing shrugs. Lu Han yawns. “You can tell me, you know, if there’s anything bothering you.”
Yixing gives a small smile. It’s nice of Lu Han to offer, but Yixing doesn’t want to be a burden. To his family, to Wu Fan, or to Lu Han. He has to bear it alone. Yixing gets up and goes back into the dorm, heart heavy. “Maybe after we both get some sleep.”
(四) dreams.
His grandmother had taught him how important it was for a person to have a dream.
“You need to work towards something,” she’d said to Yixing. Yixing had rested his chin in his hands and watched as she mixed cabbage and pork mince together to make the filling for her steamed buns. He’d wondered what kind of dreams she’d had as a child. “Life’s more interesting when you dream big. You have talent, precious child. Why be normal when you could be exceptional?”
So Yixing dreams of flying. He dreams of flying, high in the blue sky, above the clouds, where no one can touch him. He dreams of growing wings and soaring above oceans, deserts, canyons.
And he dreams of falling.
“Did you sleep well?” Lu han asks in the morning. Yixing rolls over and presses his arm over his eyes. What his grandmother hadn’t mentioned was that dreaming big is frightening, because there’s a long, long way down.
“I was on top of the world,” he answers slowly, and it’s not completely a lie.
There’s another difference between Yixing and Lu Han. A superficial one, one that neither of them can control, but it’s a difference nonetheless.
Yixing’s one of those people that gains weight by smelling food. Lu Han’s one of those people who can eat a horse and its cart and stay thin. He’s always lounging around in the dorms or in the practise rooms with a bag of snacks, munching on them without a care in the world. Yixing can only look on longingly and grit his teeth.
“Want some?” Lu Han offers, holding out an unopened chip packet to Yixing. “These are pretty nice.”
Yixing suppresses a gulp. It had taken him a year and a half to get down to this weight, and he still had a round jawline and too much mass around his waist. It might’ve been okay for his fourteen year old self, because he’d sold cute back them, but at nineteen, he can’t do that anymore. He’s supposed to be an adult, not a boy, and being grown up meant sharp jawlines and muscle definition and seriousness, like Wu Fan.
“I’m okay,” he says. “I already had lunch.”
Lu Han rolls his eyes. “That's what you always say. Half a bowl of rice and some steamed broccoli? That’s what my pet rabbit would eat for breakfast. Not that I have a rabbit.” He chucks the packet into Yixing’s lap. “Here. Just have some.”
Yixing gives in. Just one or two, he thinks, pulling open the packet-but he has one, and two, and three, and before he knows it he’s finished the whole packet and he’s licking crumbs off his fingers.
His steps feel slow and sluggish and heavy for the rest of the day.
To make up, Yixing doesn’t eat anything the next day. He shakes his head when Lu Han and Wu Fan ask him if he wants to grab lunch, because he’d “had a big breakfast, it’s okay, go on without me.” Wu Fan frowns, knowing that it’s a lie, but leaves Yixing alone in the dance room anyway. He comes back with Lu Han an hour later and silently pushes a chocolate bar into Yixing’s hands. Yixing throws it into the garbage.
He ends up washing the bar wrapper off and wolfing it down at midnight, when his hunger pangs are giving him stomach cramps.
“Here you are-what are you eating?” Lu Han asks when he sees Yixing in the kitchen. He spots the wrapper and makes a disgusted face. “Yixing, oh my god, that was in the-if you’re hungry, there’s food back in our room.”
Yixing shrugs, mouth crammed full. He feels a bit sick, but mostly like a failure. “My grandma taught me never to waste food,” he mumbles half-heartedly.
Lu Han sigh, takes the wrapper away from Yixing, and throws it in the bin.
(五) hunger.
There was a time Yixing didn’t care so much about how many calories were in a chocolate bar.
Food was food, and was to be enjoyed. There was a time Yixing would come home from school, red backpack fitting snugly on his shoulders, and run into the kitchen to see what his grandmother was cooking for their family dinner that night. There was a time that he’d stuff his face with Yuanxiao on Lantern Festival, or with Zongzi on Dragon Boat Festival, or with cake on his birthday, and that was that.
“Eat up,” his grandmother would say as she lifted steamed buns out of the pot. “You’re a growing boy, and you need the energy.” Yixing loved her cooking the most, because it was warm and delicious and filled with her love and care, and he’d finish every bite.
His grandmother showed him what it meant to treasure food.
Star Academy showed him what it meant to be ridiculed behind his back for his weight.
SM showed him what it meant to be hungry every hour of the day.
Yixing sets his mind on a system: whenever he's hungry, he'll drink a bottle of water, run to the practise rooms and dance for half an hour. Dancing distracts him and reminds him that he has to exercise self-control and resist temptation. It was a test made by himself for himself.
“Please don't overdo it,” Lu Han says, slipping into the practise rooms and planting himself on the sofa. Yixing feels Lu Han's eyes on him as he moves to the music, head light, concentration faltering. “Come on, sit down and eat a banana or something. You'll burn out if you keep this up.”
Yixing does burn out. Lu Han ends up cramming half a banana into Yixing's mouth. This happens once, twice, three times, and by the third time Yixing almost faints and has to be rescued by Lu Han's magical bananas, he realises it's a stupid thing to be doing to himself.
“Now promise me you won't skip meals from now on,” Lu Han says, tossing a prawn cracker at Yixing's face. It falls into Yixing's lap. Lu Han tosses another one at Yixing's nose. Yixing narrows his eyes at Lu Han. Lu Han grins and pokes a third cracker between Yixing's lips. “Mm. Prawny.”
Yixing crinkles his nose and snatches the packet away from Lu Han, throwing handfuls of crackers at Lu Han's back as Lu Han runs, cackling, out of the practise room.
Unfortunately, Yixing and Lu Han are caught during their food fight by a company official, and sent to the directing manager’s office to be lectured. It just had to be today of all days, Yixing thinks, that the official was patrolling the studios.
It’s the first time Lu Han’s been reprimanded, and the guilty upset that paints itself across his face doubles Yixing’s own guilt. Lu Han had gotten into trouble for caring for him, and he couldn't even help comfort Lu Han about this little thing.
“Don’t worry,” Yixing reassures uncertainly when they’re let out of the office and sent back to the dorms. Lu Han’s silent, biting his lower lip. “They'll forget about it. This happens to people all the time...I think.”
“Okay,” Lu Han says, looking down at his feet, and Yixing’s not sure what else to say.
“I heard you two got in trouble,” Wu Fan says to both of them when they come back to the dorms, faces drawn. “What did I say about mucking around in the company rooms? This isn’t a playground, and you’re not children.”
“We’ve been told,” Yixing says tersely. The directing manager had said none too nicely that if they wanted to spend their rehearsal time running around like kids and flinging food over the expensive studio equipment, they were by all means free to, but first they’d have to leave the company. “The manager wasn’t nice about it either.”
“You should listen to him.”
“We did. For half an hour.” Lu Han’s voice is wavering.
Yixing sighs, taking off his shoes. He knows Wu Fan is saying this for their own good, but he's feeling bad enough without Wu Fan’s disapproving remands today, and he’s sure Lu Han could use without them too. Yixing balls up his right sock and throws it at Wu Fan half-heartedly. Wu Fan dodges. Yixing takes off his other sock and throws that one too, aiming for Wu Fan’s face this time, and it hits the target.
Lu Han cracks a weak smile at Wu Fan’s disgusted expression when the sock slides off the side of Wu Fan’s face and finds a spot on his shoulder, and Yixing feels like he’s achieved something.
Wu Fan chucks the offending sock back at Yixing, rolling his eyes. “Ugh. Rooming with you two makes me feel like I’m babysitting twelve-year-olds sometimes. I should start charging the company.”
“Then you’ve obviously never babysat before,” Lu Han says softly, grinning. Yixing smiles too, feeling slightly better that Lu Han seemed to be getting over it. “Trust me, twelve-year-olds can be much much worse than us.”
(六) singing.
When Yixing was twelve, he’d wake up every morning to the sound of his father’s deep baritone, and he’d join in and cause a ruckus and drive his mother up the wall. He remembers practising for the annual arts festival with his seventh grade class, earnestly rehearsing their set songs during lunch breaks and in the hall after school; remembers the ecstatic feeling that had sent his heart flying and head dizzy up in the clouds when they’d been announced the winner.
Maybe it started because of his father’s singing, or that one TV appearance, but Yixing grew up loving the thrill of performing, loving the stage, loving the music, and loving the proud looks on his parents’ and grandparents’ faces when he broke out into song and dance. His parents were busy with work, but they always found time to attend every single one of his performances.
Yixing never got the best grades for school, but that was okay, with him, and surprisingly, with his parents.
“It doesn’t matter. Everyone has their strengths, and my son’s is performing,” his father had said proudly. “You have a sharp voice, very piercing, very strong. It carries very far. Perfect for Chinese opera, you know-would you like to learn?” and that was what Yixing started spending his free time on.
It was fun, because he needed no books. He just needed himself and music, and in the blink of an eye, the sun which had just been rising would be setting, and the day would be over.
Yixing’s mother’s fiftieth birthday celebration takes place in July. The company won’t let Yixing fly back. Booking plane tickets are a hassle, not to mention unnecessarily expensive, and really, it’s not like it’s a funeral or anything-surely a simple phone call would do.
Yixing distracts himself from the stabbing disappointment by holing himself up in the practise room. Lu Han stays with him when the other trainees leave for the dorms, done for the night, and Yixing is grateful for his silent support.
They dance. They sweat. They move to the music, mindlessly going through the steps of the choreography they’d learnt the hour before. By one in the morning, though, dance is no longer a distraction.
“I miss home,” Yixing says dejectedly. He slumps against the mirror, feeling his shirt damp and sticky on his back. He usually keeps it to himself, but he’s more than a little emotional today. It’s his mother’s birthday, after all, and he can’t help but feel down as the homesickness hits him in a colossal, gut-churning wave. “I want to tell her happy birthday face to face. I hate not being able to see my family. I miss China.”
“I don’t.” Lu Han sits down next to Yixing, taking a long drink from his bottle. His voice is soft and slightly melancholic in the still quiet of the dance studio. Yixing shoots him an inquisitive look.
“You don’t?”
Lu Han half-smiles. “Okay. I lied. I do miss it, but I shouldn’t. If I think too much, I’ll want to go home-and that would be admitting defeat, wouldn’t it?”
Defeat. Yixing clenches his fist. He wonders why he’s still here, in this foreign country with no connections and no family, when he could’ve easily gone on Super Boy in China. Maybe it was because he had something to prove-that no, he wasn’t going to ride on the coattails of childhood fame; that he could make it without relying on a name.
Lu Han’s right. Returning home with nothing would be like admitting defeat.
“And I’d never be able to face my parents,” Lu Han finishes off, barely audible.
(七) family.
It was on the day of his departure that Yixing learnt exactly how lucky he was to have his family. The airport had been crowded. Yixing had protested that there was no need for his aging grandparents to come along to see him off too, worried for their health, but they’d insisted.
“Good luck,” his mother had said. “Make sure you eat properly. Don’t push yourself too hard.”
“Believe in yourself,” his father had said. “You’re my son, and I’ll be proud of you, whatever you do.”
“Don’t forget us,” his grandfather had said. “And I’ll try not to forget my precious grandson...” He taps his head with a twinkling smile. “But alas, my memory has been going these days!”
“He’s just joking,” his grandmother had said. “Oh, my little Yixing, what will grandma do without your voice around the house? Quickly debut, so we can see your face on the big screen, hm?”
“I will,” Yixing had said. “I won’t let you down. I promise.”
Yixing wonders when he’ll be able to keep that promise.
The third thing that sets them apart is that Lu Han never had his parents’ approval.
Stop chasing after those Korean superstars and stay in your home country, they’d apparently told Lu Han, and Yixing could see instantly that they were mainlander Chinese. Structured and logical and overly nationalistic. Yixing feels incredibly lucky, because at least his family had always, unconditionally, given him their support, with his singing, his dancing, and even with Korea.
Evidently, Lu Han’s family was different.
For someone who seemed so carefree, Yixing learns that his parents were surprisingly strict. They didn’t like chances. They wanted happiness and a stable career for their only child-and running off to another country to become a singer was not their idea of stable.
“They let you stay here on exchange though,” Yixing protests, “and they must’ve signed the paperwork. That shows their support, right? Surely they can’t be that against this? Against Korea?”
Lu Han grins. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’ve told you this, but I worked part-time for a year and paid my own airfare here. My parents were close to cutting off contact with me. I think they let me stay when they realised I wasn’t going to change my mind, and this-being a singer-wasn’t just some kind of stupid childhood delusion. It might’ve started off from me watching a Super Junior video, but my dream is mine. And it’s real, you know,” Lu Han finishes softly.
Yixing nods. He knows, and he understands. Even though it’s only been three, four months since he’s met Lu Han, he knows Lu Han’s the type of person to pretend that everything is fine and dandy on the outside and lock his insecurities up inside and suffer with them alone, with a bright smile.
Yixing knows, because even with their differences, they’re alike in this little way. “You’ll make it,” he reassures. He’s not sure if the reassurance is completely for Lu Han, but it feels like the right thing to say. “And your parents will be proud.”
Lu Han smiles uncertainly. Yixing’s struck by an urge to reach over and wipe the uncertainty off Lu Han’s face. Lu Han looked more beautiful without that fearful hesitation tugging the corners of his lips down.
So he does.
(八) trust.
Yixing’s a caring person by nature.
He’s not sure if it’s something that was trained into him from when he was a little kid, seeing his father help elderly people cross the streets, seeing his mother give out free fruits at the Saturday morning market stalls, but caring for others is just something that comes easily to him. He remembers himself aged ten, buying fairy floss for a younger girl at an amusement park because she couldn’t reach the cart; aged thirteen, writing encouraging messages for those in his class that hadn’t done well in their end-of-year test; aged fifteen, giving up the girl he liked to his best friend because he liked her more. There was no meaning in him being happy if the people around him weren’t happy.
Even in Korea, he tries.
When Wu Fan runs out of the dorms after a nightmare, shaken and unlike his usual collected self, Yixing follows him to the Han River and sits by his side for the night. Wu Fan doesn’t have it easy either, with all the divorce paperwork being thrown at him. He puts on a strong front, because that’s what it means to be grown up. When Lu Han’s parents call to interrogate him on why there’s been no debut, to tell him to come back to Beijing and continue with university or they’ll cut off his bank account, Yixing hugs Lu Han silently and buys him snacks and changes his laptop wallpaper to a particularly tragic looking picture of Wu Fan to cheer Lu Han up.
Yixing tries to be caring, but there are days where Yixing can’t commiserate with anyone else, not Wu Fan, not Lu Han, because he’s just too tired to care. He remembers momentarily that they’re competitors, rivals, fighting for a chance to debut, and he shouldn’t get too close to them. Competition is fierce. Everyone wants to debut. They could stab him in the back anytime.
He might not be able to understand everything here in Korea, but at least he’s learnt trainee politics. Being so kind was going to be his downfall, he’d heard.
Because rule number one as a trainee: never trust anyone.
Yixing finds Lu Han watching unexpected videos one evening in their dorm.
“Hey!” he shouts, lunging for the laptop. “Stop, stop, stop!” Lu Han cackles and pulls the laptop out of reach. Yixing swipes at Lu Han one more time, then proceeds to flop onto his bed with a groan.
“How…did you find those…” Yixing asks, as he hears his nine-year-old self bellowing Jimmy Lin songs from Lu Han’s laptop speakers. Lu Han grins, the sides of his eyes crinkling. The video stops and the next one, a clip of him performing on Star Academy, starts playing.
“How come you never told me you were a little superstar? Look at you,” Lu Han says, holding back his laughter. “Adorable.”
Yixing groans again. “Because these are embarrassing. I didn't even sing well. I couldn't even dance. Oh my god, please stop laughing at me,” he says helplessly, as Lu Han rewinds the video and replays it, crowing with laughter. “Seriously, how the hell did you even find these?”
“Wu Fan,” Lu Han says through bouts of laughter, and Yixing makes a vicious mental note to himself to replace Wu Fan's toothpaste with laundry detergent. “Why are you so embarrassed? These are really cute. I wish I had something like this to remind myself of how...uh, lively I was as a child.”
Yixing gives Lu Han a sour look. Lu Han smiles back and bats his eyelashes, trying to keep a straight face, but Yixing can see the sides of his lips twitching upwards. Yixing throws a pillow at Lu Han, and Lu Han immediately bursts out into another bout of guffawing laughter.
“I hate you, and I hate Wu Fan,” Yixing mutters gloomily. Lu Han pats him on the back reassuringly. Yixing frowns and makes a face at him. “If I go to the practise rooms tomorrow and I find out everybody knows about this, I will make your life painful.”
(九) childhood.
Yixing’s watched those videos of himself more often than he'd like to admit.
As embarrassing as they may be, they’re important to him. After his voice broke, and he didn’t sound as pure or clear or bright, he’d just sit in the living room of his house and rummage through the VCR tape recordings of all his Star Academy appearances, reliving his short stint on TV.
The first video: ‘Astrology’ by Wang Lee Hom.
His first duet song. He didn’t remember anything after he got off the stage, puffing and sweating and shaking. He can almost feel the scratchy, uncomfortable silver stage outfit chafing against his chest now as he watches and rewinds and watches and rewinds the performance clip.
Yixing goes through them all. He finds a shaky recording of the first time he'd been inside a professional vocal recording studio, and watches that too. He and the other cast members of Star Academy had been told off that day for mucking around in the studio piano lesson rooms while waiting to record their parts for the ensemble song. It was alright for Yixing though; he was forgiven because he was the youngest, the baby of the group. He was a child. Children got concessions.
The last video: ‘Love You’ by Cyndi Wang.
“You need more tonal variation in your voice. We have higher expectations of you now. You have to treat yourself as an adult, because you’re at that age where your voice is breaking-and once it does, you won’t be able to rely on your innocent image anymore. Zhang Yixing, I hope you can grow up, and show us your professional side.”
Yixing had been eliminated that week.
It was then that Yixing learnt: childhood isn’t forever.
part two;;-