is that a caribou? [prompt #3]
Title: is that a caribou?
Prompt: #3
Length: 2,179 words
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: none
Summary: In which Lu Han is a patriot, Zitao is a public threat, and Yixing just really really needs a sleigh.
Notes: what is comedy?! i know not. anyway, this was a delight to write. i hope you enjoy, lovely prompter! ♥
Yixing has made several bad decisions in his life. Getting an international business degree is one of them. Agreeing to a networking trip to Toronto the week of Valentine’s Day is another. The worst of them all, though, is becoming friends with a certain Huang Zitao.
Yixing realizes this when his carry-on bag beeps hysterically while going through security at Toronto Pearson International Airport, and he thinks, Oh shit. Zitao has the same bag as I do (knock-off Gucci; Zitao squealed when Yixing presented it to him last Christmas). Zitao shared a hotel room with me. Zitao’s flight isn’t for another few hours. Zitao probably hasn’t packed his bags properly yet, or noticed that anything’s missing.
Zitao carries a Swiss Army knife, nunchucks, and 120-proof baijiu on all business trips. You know, just in case.
“Sir, please step aside. I need to see your identification,” an approximately two-ton officer rumbles in a tremulous voice. Yixing gapes at the outline of what looks like a fold-up staff on the x-ray screen.
Oh shit, he mourns.
And that’s how Zhang Yixing finds himself locked in a pseudo jail cell in the middle of a Toronto airport the day before Valentine’s Day. Yifan is going to kill him. Or cry. Crying, from Yifan, is more likely.
“Listen,” Yixing simpers at the officer, pressing his cheek to the bars of his cell, “I forgot to take that stuff out of my carry-on before I went through security. You can get rid of it all, I don’t need it! So can’t I be on my merry way? My husband is waiting for me at home, sir, and it’s the day before Valentine’s Day.”
“We need to do a full background check on you, Mr. Zhang,” Two-Ton Officer replies, typing idly at his computer; there’s a game of Solitaire running in the corner of the screen. “Protocol, you know.”
“I am not part of a terrorist organization and I am not trying to build a bomb!” Yixing shouts.
“Yeah, yeah. Keep at it and I can charge you with resisting arrest.”
Yixing bangs his head against the bars, and it eases the pressure building behind his eyes just a bit. “At least let me have a phone call.”
The officer eventually agrees after some cajoling, and Yixing dials frantically at the offered payphone, praying quietly to himself. It’s only mid-afternoon in Beijing.
“Hello?”
“Yifan,” Yixing sighs in relief. “Thank god.”
“Xing?” says the tinny voice on the other end of the line. “Is that you? Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane in a few hours? What’s going on?”
“Yifan-ah, I’m - ah… There’s a - there’s a storm, here in Toronto.” Yixing leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes against the lie. “I won’t be able to leave right away.”
“Wha - is there anything I can do? Any arrangements I can make, or…?” Yifan sounds at a loss. “Yixing… it’s the thirteenth.”
Yixing sighs, and feels it deep within his chest. Yifan’s never been a straightforward man, but Yixing can hear the disappointment seeping into his voice.
“I know, baobei,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’ll get out of here as soon as I can.”
“Your time is up,” the officer chirps over Yixing’s shoulder.
“Fuck off, you asshat,” Yixing bites back in his most articulate English possible, and then turns back to the receiver. “I have to go, baobei. I’m sorry. I love you.”
The officer snatches the phone and slams it back on the receiver before Yixing can hear Yifan’s reply. He’s shoved back into his cell, and he stumbles into the corner, his back hitting the metal bars with a loud clang. Yixing buries his head in his hands, feeling lead in his stomach, and he waits. He waits.
--
Two-Ton Officer can’t seem to dig up any dirt on Yixing, it seems, because he calls in another guard after an hour of searching - maybe even five for all Yixing knows, seeing as they’ve confiscated his watch to see if he could’ve made a mini bomb out of that, as well. He’s going to strangle Zitao when he gets home.
The new officer, at least, seems friendly - young, tiny, with enormous, innocent eyes and a crooked grin. Lu Han, his name badge reads. Chinese. Yixing scrambles to grasp the bars of his cell when the officer comes close.
“Officer,” he whispers in Mandarin, so low that only Lu Han can hear. “Officer, you have to help me. I’m not a terrorist. My idiot friend decided to put baijiu in his carry-on bag, and I accidentally took it. I’m not trying to blow up a plane, I swear. I need to get back home to my husband for Valentine’s Day, officer, please.”
The officer, Lu Han, squints at Yixing good-naturedly. Then, he gives a grin so wide that it seems to unhinge his jaw, and he shuffles forward so that he can peek over Two-Ton Officer’s shoulder to see what’s on the computer screen. He skims for a few seconds, and scoots back.
“When I give you the signal,” he whispers to Yixing, “get out of here and run towards the ticket booths. You want desk C34. I’ll catch up and help you buy a ticket from there.” And then Lu Han slips something between the bars of the cell: a key.
Yixing gapes and can’t believe his luck. “You’re actually helping me?”
“Anything for a fellow countryman.” Lu Han winks, and Yixing just stares.
For the next few minutes Lu Han chats with Two-Ton Officer, about the weather, about the latest soccer match, about airport politics. He glances over his shoulder every so often at the cell and sees Yixing anxiously turning the wedding band on his ring finger, sees the key lying glittering on the ground.
Two-Ton Officer is complaining about their chief’s favoritism when Lu Han suddenly points in a random direction and yells in a high, clear voice: “IS THAT A CARIBOU?!”
They’re in a tiny, closed room and Lu Han’s pointing in the corner opposite of Yixing’s cell. Two-Ton Officer looks away for just a second. It’s as much of a signal as any.
Yixing runs.
He runs across the airport, weaving between luggage carts and indignant travelers, runs until he reaches ticket desk C34. The attendant, Yixing notices wildly, has a horrendous blonde dye job and a bored look on his face. He’s serving a young couple, arms locked, probably headed for a romantic vacation for Valentine’s Day. Yixing’s heart clenches.
“I need a ticket,” he gasps, throwing his hands on the desk and panting his lungs out of his chest once the couple gets out of the way. “The next ticket out of Toronto. Please.”
The attendant scrunches his face into an ugly grimace. “Your accent sucks, sir,” he deadpans. “Please try again.”
Yixing’s about to resort to some precise and rather colorful English when he hears pounding footsteps behind him. It’s Lu Han, huffing and clutching his hand to his chest.
“Sehun!” he admonishes, and he hits the attendant upside the head with his baton. “Apologize right now! And get Yixing here a ticket, stat. Do your favorite coworker a favor and there’ll be ramen for you later.”
Sehun scowls at Lu Han, but types furiously at his monitor anyway. “I can get you a ticket,” he finally says to Yixing, “but the flight’s delayed. A snowstorm’s whipped up around the destination. You won’t be able to leave for another couple of hours.”
Yixing’s been waiting in captivity for almost half a day; it’s already edging towards the late hours of the night in China.
“Lu Han-ge,” Yixing says in a trembling voice, turning his back to Sehun and knotting his fingers in his hair. Lu Han’s eyes grow wide at his panic. “Lu Han-ge, I think you’re going to have to get me a sleigh.”
--
It turns out that the sleigh isn’t necessary. The flight’s only delayed half an hour, because the snowstorm dissipates faster than expected. Yixing’s exhausted. He hasn’t eaten in twelve hours, and he probably looks like a nervous wreck, his hair tousled into a bird’s nest and his clothes rigid with sweat. When they finally call his flight name and number, he almost faints in relief.
“Thank you, Lu Han-ge,” Yixing says, clasping Lu Han’s hand in his own. Lu Han grins at him, and gives a quick salute.
“Let me know if you get into any trouble in the Toronto area again,” he calls back as Yixing walks toward the gate. “Keep in touch, Yixing.”
Yixing gives Lu Han one last wave before the attendant scans his ticket in and gestures towards the plane’s entrance. He almost runs down the walkway in his haste.
“Welcome, sir,” a woman greets him with a brochure and a cheerful bow as she ushers him to his seat. “We hope you enjoy your flight to Vancouver!” And Yixing, he beams.
--
It’s nearing ten in the evening Beijing time, February 14th. Yifan’s in his and Yixing’s apartment, watching the second hand inch around the face of his watch, tick tick tick. He’s laid dinner on the table, candles, trails of rose petals to the bedroom and bathroom. Yifan has one of those petals between his fingers now, tearing it to shreds, and the red stands stark against the white of the tablecloth. He sighs at his watch. The candles are melted down to the last nubs of wax. The shreds of flower are beginning to wilt and turn black.
But then Yifan hears a key turn in the handle of the front door in the living room. He stands, heart thudding painfully in his chest.
“Xing?” he calls hesitatingly.
“Fanfan,” comes the ragged sigh, and Yifan sprints into the other room before he can even catch his breath.
Yixing stands in the living room, his face wan, dark circles weighing down his eyes and hair standing on end. There’s a nervous twitch in his right temple. He looks like a wreck, and all Yifan wants to do is hold him in his arms.
So Yifan does, collecting Yixing and tucking him under his chin, pressing him tighttighttight to his chest.
“Zhang Yixing,” he breathes in relief. “Thank god. I was so worried! I’ve been checking the weather in Toronto, and apparently it’s been mild and sunny! I can’t imagine why they would have had to delay all of the flights - ”
“It wasn’t snowing in Toronto,” Yixing corrects wearily, pulling back to cup Yifan’s cheek in the palm of his hand, “but it was in Vancouver.”
“V-Vancouver?” Yifan says, eyes wide. “What were you doing in Vancouver?”
Yixing just smiles, and pulls fully away to amble clumsily towards the still-open door. Yifan remains where he is standing, stunned.
“You can come in now,” Yixing says softly into the hallway, and his smile grows wider when he glances behind him to see the question in Yifan’s eyes.
“Oh,” Yifan chokes out on a whimper, clasping a hand over his mouth in disbelief as a small woman steps into the doorway. “Oh, Mama.”
“Oh, my little rou rou,” the woman sobs as she stumbles into the apartment towards Yifan, arms open and eyes brimming with tears. She has Yifan’s nose, his forehead, his mouth. “Oh, my little Yifan.”
The two embrace with cries that sound almost wounded, and Yifan holds his mother so fiercely that he lifts her off of the floor and twirls her around in a circle. They begin to babble at each other in Cantonese, so fast that Yixing can’t follow, and Yifan’s mother kisses the tear tracks running down his face. Yixing leans against the loveseat, arms crossed, eyes soft. Yifan is such an ugly, but endearing crier. He hasn’t seen his mother since their wedding two years ago.
“Yixing brought me here all the way from Vancouver,” Yifan’s mother finally says in Mandarin when they gather their bearings again. “He wanted to surprise you, for Valentine’s Day.”
Yixing can see how hard it is for Yifan to step away from his mother, but he does, and totters forward to take Yixing’s face gently in his hands.
“Xing?” Yifan’s eyes are so wide, shining with tears.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, baobei,” Yixing murmurs back. Yifan makes a choked little noise in the back of his throat, like he wants to say something but just can’t, and leans down to press his lips so tenderly to Yixing’s, chaste but full of emotion, full of the things he can’t put into words.
“Thank you,” he whispers fervently, and Yixing curls his fingers around Yifan’s hips.
Yixing hasn’t eaten or slept in 36 hours. He’s lost all of his important documents in an airport in Vancouver, and is probably facing some sort of legal suit in Toronto. He’s exhausted to his very bones, but this, Yifan’s love, Yifan’s happiness, it’s worth it. Yixing nestles his head in the crook of Yifan’s neck, breathes in the scent of his cologne and the salt of his tears, and feels his heart very nearly beat right out of his chest.
Prompt: #3
Length: 2,179 words
Rating: pg-13
Warnings: none
Summary: In which Lu Han is a patriot, Zitao is a public threat, and Yixing just really really needs a sleigh.
Notes: what is comedy?! i know not. anyway, this was a delight to write. i hope you enjoy, lovely prompter! ♥
Yixing has made several bad decisions in his life. Getting an international business degree is one of them. Agreeing to a networking trip to Toronto the week of Valentine’s Day is another. The worst of them all, though, is becoming friends with a certain Huang Zitao.
Yixing realizes this when his carry-on bag beeps hysterically while going through security at Toronto Pearson International Airport, and he thinks, Oh shit. Zitao has the same bag as I do (knock-off Gucci; Zitao squealed when Yixing presented it to him last Christmas). Zitao shared a hotel room with me. Zitao’s flight isn’t for another few hours. Zitao probably hasn’t packed his bags properly yet, or noticed that anything’s missing.
Zitao carries a Swiss Army knife, nunchucks, and 120-proof baijiu on all business trips. You know, just in case.
“Sir, please step aside. I need to see your identification,” an approximately two-ton officer rumbles in a tremulous voice. Yixing gapes at the outline of what looks like a fold-up staff on the x-ray screen.
Oh shit, he mourns.
And that’s how Zhang Yixing finds himself locked in a pseudo jail cell in the middle of a Toronto airport the day before Valentine’s Day. Yifan is going to kill him. Or cry. Crying, from Yifan, is more likely.
“Listen,” Yixing simpers at the officer, pressing his cheek to the bars of his cell, “I forgot to take that stuff out of my carry-on before I went through security. You can get rid of it all, I don’t need it! So can’t I be on my merry way? My husband is waiting for me at home, sir, and it’s the day before Valentine’s Day.”
“We need to do a full background check on you, Mr. Zhang,” Two-Ton Officer replies, typing idly at his computer; there’s a game of Solitaire running in the corner of the screen. “Protocol, you know.”
“I am not part of a terrorist organization and I am not trying to build a bomb!” Yixing shouts.
“Yeah, yeah. Keep at it and I can charge you with resisting arrest.”
Yixing bangs his head against the bars, and it eases the pressure building behind his eyes just a bit. “At least let me have a phone call.”
The officer eventually agrees after some cajoling, and Yixing dials frantically at the offered payphone, praying quietly to himself. It’s only mid-afternoon in Beijing.
“Hello?”
“Yifan,” Yixing sighs in relief. “Thank god.”
“Xing?” says the tinny voice on the other end of the line. “Is that you? Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane in a few hours? What’s going on?”
“Yifan-ah, I’m - ah… There’s a - there’s a storm, here in Toronto.” Yixing leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes against the lie. “I won’t be able to leave right away.”
“Wha - is there anything I can do? Any arrangements I can make, or…?” Yifan sounds at a loss. “Yixing… it’s the thirteenth.”
Yixing sighs, and feels it deep within his chest. Yifan’s never been a straightforward man, but Yixing can hear the disappointment seeping into his voice.
“I know, baobei,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I’ll get out of here as soon as I can.”
“Your time is up,” the officer chirps over Yixing’s shoulder.
“Fuck off, you asshat,” Yixing bites back in his most articulate English possible, and then turns back to the receiver. “I have to go, baobei. I’m sorry. I love you.”
The officer snatches the phone and slams it back on the receiver before Yixing can hear Yifan’s reply. He’s shoved back into his cell, and he stumbles into the corner, his back hitting the metal bars with a loud clang. Yixing buries his head in his hands, feeling lead in his stomach, and he waits. He waits.
--
Two-Ton Officer can’t seem to dig up any dirt on Yixing, it seems, because he calls in another guard after an hour of searching - maybe even five for all Yixing knows, seeing as they’ve confiscated his watch to see if he could’ve made a mini bomb out of that, as well. He’s going to strangle Zitao when he gets home.
The new officer, at least, seems friendly - young, tiny, with enormous, innocent eyes and a crooked grin. Lu Han, his name badge reads. Chinese. Yixing scrambles to grasp the bars of his cell when the officer comes close.
“Officer,” he whispers in Mandarin, so low that only Lu Han can hear. “Officer, you have to help me. I’m not a terrorist. My idiot friend decided to put baijiu in his carry-on bag, and I accidentally took it. I’m not trying to blow up a plane, I swear. I need to get back home to my husband for Valentine’s Day, officer, please.”
The officer, Lu Han, squints at Yixing good-naturedly. Then, he gives a grin so wide that it seems to unhinge his jaw, and he shuffles forward so that he can peek over Two-Ton Officer’s shoulder to see what’s on the computer screen. He skims for a few seconds, and scoots back.
“When I give you the signal,” he whispers to Yixing, “get out of here and run towards the ticket booths. You want desk C34. I’ll catch up and help you buy a ticket from there.” And then Lu Han slips something between the bars of the cell: a key.
Yixing gapes and can’t believe his luck. “You’re actually helping me?”
“Anything for a fellow countryman.” Lu Han winks, and Yixing just stares.
For the next few minutes Lu Han chats with Two-Ton Officer, about the weather, about the latest soccer match, about airport politics. He glances over his shoulder every so often at the cell and sees Yixing anxiously turning the wedding band on his ring finger, sees the key lying glittering on the ground.
Two-Ton Officer is complaining about their chief’s favoritism when Lu Han suddenly points in a random direction and yells in a high, clear voice: “IS THAT A CARIBOU?!”
They’re in a tiny, closed room and Lu Han’s pointing in the corner opposite of Yixing’s cell. Two-Ton Officer looks away for just a second. It’s as much of a signal as any.
Yixing runs.
He runs across the airport, weaving between luggage carts and indignant travelers, runs until he reaches ticket desk C34. The attendant, Yixing notices wildly, has a horrendous blonde dye job and a bored look on his face. He’s serving a young couple, arms locked, probably headed for a romantic vacation for Valentine’s Day. Yixing’s heart clenches.
“I need a ticket,” he gasps, throwing his hands on the desk and panting his lungs out of his chest once the couple gets out of the way. “The next ticket out of Toronto. Please.”
The attendant scrunches his face into an ugly grimace. “Your accent sucks, sir,” he deadpans. “Please try again.”
Yixing’s about to resort to some precise and rather colorful English when he hears pounding footsteps behind him. It’s Lu Han, huffing and clutching his hand to his chest.
“Sehun!” he admonishes, and he hits the attendant upside the head with his baton. “Apologize right now! And get Yixing here a ticket, stat. Do your favorite coworker a favor and there’ll be ramen for you later.”
Sehun scowls at Lu Han, but types furiously at his monitor anyway. “I can get you a ticket,” he finally says to Yixing, “but the flight’s delayed. A snowstorm’s whipped up around the destination. You won’t be able to leave for another couple of hours.”
Yixing’s been waiting in captivity for almost half a day; it’s already edging towards the late hours of the night in China.
“Lu Han-ge,” Yixing says in a trembling voice, turning his back to Sehun and knotting his fingers in his hair. Lu Han’s eyes grow wide at his panic. “Lu Han-ge, I think you’re going to have to get me a sleigh.”
--
It turns out that the sleigh isn’t necessary. The flight’s only delayed half an hour, because the snowstorm dissipates faster than expected. Yixing’s exhausted. He hasn’t eaten in twelve hours, and he probably looks like a nervous wreck, his hair tousled into a bird’s nest and his clothes rigid with sweat. When they finally call his flight name and number, he almost faints in relief.
“Thank you, Lu Han-ge,” Yixing says, clasping Lu Han’s hand in his own. Lu Han grins at him, and gives a quick salute.
“Let me know if you get into any trouble in the Toronto area again,” he calls back as Yixing walks toward the gate. “Keep in touch, Yixing.”
Yixing gives Lu Han one last wave before the attendant scans his ticket in and gestures towards the plane’s entrance. He almost runs down the walkway in his haste.
“Welcome, sir,” a woman greets him with a brochure and a cheerful bow as she ushers him to his seat. “We hope you enjoy your flight to Vancouver!” And Yixing, he beams.
--
It’s nearing ten in the evening Beijing time, February 14th. Yifan’s in his and Yixing’s apartment, watching the second hand inch around the face of his watch, tick tick tick. He’s laid dinner on the table, candles, trails of rose petals to the bedroom and bathroom. Yifan has one of those petals between his fingers now, tearing it to shreds, and the red stands stark against the white of the tablecloth. He sighs at his watch. The candles are melted down to the last nubs of wax. The shreds of flower are beginning to wilt and turn black.
But then Yifan hears a key turn in the handle of the front door in the living room. He stands, heart thudding painfully in his chest.
“Xing?” he calls hesitatingly.
“Fanfan,” comes the ragged sigh, and Yifan sprints into the other room before he can even catch his breath.
Yixing stands in the living room, his face wan, dark circles weighing down his eyes and hair standing on end. There’s a nervous twitch in his right temple. He looks like a wreck, and all Yifan wants to do is hold him in his arms.
So Yifan does, collecting Yixing and tucking him under his chin, pressing him tighttighttight to his chest.
“Zhang Yixing,” he breathes in relief. “Thank god. I was so worried! I’ve been checking the weather in Toronto, and apparently it’s been mild and sunny! I can’t imagine why they would have had to delay all of the flights - ”
“It wasn’t snowing in Toronto,” Yixing corrects wearily, pulling back to cup Yifan’s cheek in the palm of his hand, “but it was in Vancouver.”
“V-Vancouver?” Yifan says, eyes wide. “What were you doing in Vancouver?”
Yixing just smiles, and pulls fully away to amble clumsily towards the still-open door. Yifan remains where he is standing, stunned.
“You can come in now,” Yixing says softly into the hallway, and his smile grows wider when he glances behind him to see the question in Yifan’s eyes.
“Oh,” Yifan chokes out on a whimper, clasping a hand over his mouth in disbelief as a small woman steps into the doorway. “Oh, Mama.”
“Oh, my little rou rou,” the woman sobs as she stumbles into the apartment towards Yifan, arms open and eyes brimming with tears. She has Yifan’s nose, his forehead, his mouth. “Oh, my little Yifan.”
The two embrace with cries that sound almost wounded, and Yifan holds his mother so fiercely that he lifts her off of the floor and twirls her around in a circle. They begin to babble at each other in Cantonese, so fast that Yixing can’t follow, and Yifan’s mother kisses the tear tracks running down his face. Yixing leans against the loveseat, arms crossed, eyes soft. Yifan is such an ugly, but endearing crier. He hasn’t seen his mother since their wedding two years ago.
“Yixing brought me here all the way from Vancouver,” Yifan’s mother finally says in Mandarin when they gather their bearings again. “He wanted to surprise you, for Valentine’s Day.”
Yixing can see how hard it is for Yifan to step away from his mother, but he does, and totters forward to take Yixing’s face gently in his hands.
“Xing?” Yifan’s eyes are so wide, shining with tears.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, baobei,” Yixing murmurs back. Yifan makes a choked little noise in the back of his throat, like he wants to say something but just can’t, and leans down to press his lips so tenderly to Yixing’s, chaste but full of emotion, full of the things he can’t put into words.
“Thank you,” he whispers fervently, and Yixing curls his fingers around Yifan’s hips.
Yixing hasn’t eaten or slept in 36 hours. He’s lost all of his important documents in an airport in Vancouver, and is probably facing some sort of legal suit in Toronto. He’s exhausted to his very bones, but this, Yifan’s love, Yifan’s happiness, it’s worth it. Yixing nestles his head in the crook of Yifan’s neck, breathes in the scent of his cologne and the salt of his tears, and feels his heart very nearly beat right out of his chest.