yixing-centric | blue ocean, black sand
Title: Blue Ocean, Black Sand
Pairing: none (yixing-centric)
Genre: slice of life
Rating: G
wordcount: 1279
“I will fulfil my dream.”
That is what he promised. In front of a huge screen with shifting colours and a cheering crowd with a microphone clutched tightly in his hand. He promised, and he was shaking the whole time.
This time, he is backstage, and those words are whispered to himself. He can hear cheers out there, from fans waving blue lightsticks, fans which are not his. He’s shaking this time too.
When the news first reached him, he didn’t know how he was supposed to react. Wu Fan had said it clearly, “Jonghyun can’t dance. For their concert.” They’re speaking in Korean, but they’re good enough now, so there’s no way that Yixing has misheard. For a moment, he’s stunned and wondering why he should care at all, why is Wu Fan tell him this? What does a sunbae’s injury and inability to perform have to do with them - they’re trainees. They’re supposed to be faceless and silent and learning and working hard -
“Volunteer. They need a replacement.” Lu Han says from his position on the rug, rubik’s cube in his hands. He flips them one way, and then another. Two greens line up. Three greens.
Yixing swallows as everything settles into place in his mind. “Why me?” He’s not supposed to question it, but it slips out anyway.
Wu Fan joins Lu Han on the floor, watching some blues shift into place, “You need it.”
He runs that over in his mind a few times. Does he need it? Probably. It’s why he ends up at the receptionist’s desk, asking where the sunbaes in question are practising. Why he gets the sharp look before being directed appropriately. It’s why he knocks on the door and asks to be the replacement.
They let him. Barely.
He is excused from his usual classes so he can practise the dances. A lot of the time, SHINee isn’t there, so he is left with the dance instructor, going over this movement that isn’t sharp enough, footwork that needs to be slower, a missed beat there, here. Sometimes, their dance instructor has f(x) to tend to, so he gets the room to himself and he practises. Practises, until somebody interrupts him.
“Hey.”
He stops mid-step and turns to look at the intruder. Zitao. “Hey, did your classes end?” Yixing really has no idea of what classes he’s supposed to be talking about. He remembers little bits of their class schedules, like how Wu Fan always gets up an hour earlier than he does for a class of sorts and how Lu Han comes back to the dorm the latest because he’s almost always got a vocal lesson that runs late. Zitao has an evening with nothing scheduled but he goes and practises alone anyway. These days though, he’s so wrapped up in practising, he can’t remember much else.
Zitao smiles his peculiar smile. It doesn’t really go with his eyes, Yixing has always thought, but it has since grown on him. “Of course. Wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He’s soft-spoken. Always has been.
Yixing walks over to the music player and pauses Senorita. Suddenly, he’s well aware of how each step is heavier and how his thighs and calves are aching. How long has he been practising? He can’t remember. “How’d they go?” Yixing assumes that Zitao’s back from working on rapping. He heard the mention of JQ in the hallways a few days ago.
“Fine,” Zitao says as he studies his own reflection in the mirror. It can be mistaken as vanity, but Yixing knows that it’s because he lives alone and his reflection and shadow have almost become friends.
He ends up at the concert rehearsals faster than he expects. It’s always like this, there’s always that section of his life which a superior force has decided to take and fast forward, so he can only barely discern the ways in which everything is progressing. Everything is chaotic, but so utterly memorable at the same time. He forces himself to take notice of everything, just in case this is the closest he gets to his dream. In case, although it isn’t at all his intention.
He ends up sharing a dressing room with all five members, feeling very awkward and out of place the whole time. Taemin is a sunbae, but Yixing is the hyung. They talk, but still, he doesn’t get over that, how strange it feels. Jinki is unfailing in giving him support - and that, Yixing is infinitely grateful for. “Thank you,” he says that a lot, until they come back from a practise of Ring Ding Dong and Jinki actually has to tell him to stop.
“Seriously, Xing, stop.”
It’s weird that they call him that, but Yixing assumes it’s a pet name of sorts, so maybe they like him. Maybe he’s being accepted in some way. Still, he reigns in all the excitement that is on the verge of blossoming. Not yet, he reminds himself. Not yet.
Rehearsals end and Yixing wonders how his sunbaes can keep this up for more than one night. If rehearsals are like this -
Jonghyun offers him a bottle of water. Probably his fifth today, Yixing thinks as he reaches out tentatively for it, “Thank you, sun -”
“Jonghyun.”
“Wha -”
“Jonghyun, call me Jonghyun.”
The stylists are remarkable, Yixing can’t help thinking. Sure, he’s pretty much the ideal blank canvas that any stylist wants. There are idols with troublesome skin, eyes that need fixing, hair that cannot be tamed, that is too-treated. Yixing is the ideal blank slate, the white canvas, and he knows that. Thin, pale, good-looking. There isn’t a lot more to him, but the way that they’ve made him up - made him a person with more confidence and charisma than what he really feels - Yixing thinks that is impressive. It’s like he’s wearing a mask, so the audience won’t be able to see all his insecurities and concerns, nor the weariness which clings to his limbs and drags him down.
There’s a while yet before the concert starts, but already, the fans are pouring in, and he can hear them. Yixing tries not to think about them too much, instead, he runs over all the dance routines in his mind again, this hand motion, this step and this shift at that beat -
His phone starts off in his backpack on the plastic chair banished to the corner of the room. There’s a text message from Wu Fan.
Good luck.
Yixing finds that he’s shaking too much to tap out a reply, so he lets it sit there on the tiny screen, glowing at him. He tries to pull out what courage he can from that short message from Wu Fan, in what short amount of time they have.
Another message arrives.
You can do it is what Zitao says. He attaches a photo of Lu han in a text which arrives ten seconds later, where the other boy is cross-legged on a chair, reading. At least, he seems to be, because Zitao has attached a message.
Lu Han’s nervous for you. Don’t worry though, you’ll be fine.
Another wave of texts come in, none of which Yixing has the stability of hand to respond to, but he manages a tiny smile as the strength of the support he is receiving begins to take root.
His mind is totally blank as the music starts up on the loudspeakers and in his earpiece. He can see all the lightsticks, a blue ocean. It’s not an ocean for him, but he might have one in the future.
“I will fulfil my dream.”
Pairing: none (yixing-centric)
Genre: slice of life
Rating: G
wordcount: 1279
“I will fulfil my dream.”
That is what he promised. In front of a huge screen with shifting colours and a cheering crowd with a microphone clutched tightly in his hand. He promised, and he was shaking the whole time.
This time, he is backstage, and those words are whispered to himself. He can hear cheers out there, from fans waving blue lightsticks, fans which are not his. He’s shaking this time too.
When the news first reached him, he didn’t know how he was supposed to react. Wu Fan had said it clearly, “Jonghyun can’t dance. For their concert.” They’re speaking in Korean, but they’re good enough now, so there’s no way that Yixing has misheard. For a moment, he’s stunned and wondering why he should care at all, why is Wu Fan tell him this? What does a sunbae’s injury and inability to perform have to do with them - they’re trainees. They’re supposed to be faceless and silent and learning and working hard -
“Volunteer. They need a replacement.” Lu Han says from his position on the rug, rubik’s cube in his hands. He flips them one way, and then another. Two greens line up. Three greens.
Yixing swallows as everything settles into place in his mind. “Why me?” He’s not supposed to question it, but it slips out anyway.
Wu Fan joins Lu Han on the floor, watching some blues shift into place, “You need it.”
He runs that over in his mind a few times. Does he need it? Probably. It’s why he ends up at the receptionist’s desk, asking where the sunbaes in question are practising. Why he gets the sharp look before being directed appropriately. It’s why he knocks on the door and asks to be the replacement.
They let him. Barely.
He is excused from his usual classes so he can practise the dances. A lot of the time, SHINee isn’t there, so he is left with the dance instructor, going over this movement that isn’t sharp enough, footwork that needs to be slower, a missed beat there, here. Sometimes, their dance instructor has f(x) to tend to, so he gets the room to himself and he practises. Practises, until somebody interrupts him.
“Hey.”
He stops mid-step and turns to look at the intruder. Zitao. “Hey, did your classes end?” Yixing really has no idea of what classes he’s supposed to be talking about. He remembers little bits of their class schedules, like how Wu Fan always gets up an hour earlier than he does for a class of sorts and how Lu Han comes back to the dorm the latest because he’s almost always got a vocal lesson that runs late. Zitao has an evening with nothing scheduled but he goes and practises alone anyway. These days though, he’s so wrapped up in practising, he can’t remember much else.
Zitao smiles his peculiar smile. It doesn’t really go with his eyes, Yixing has always thought, but it has since grown on him. “Of course. Wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He’s soft-spoken. Always has been.
Yixing walks over to the music player and pauses Senorita. Suddenly, he’s well aware of how each step is heavier and how his thighs and calves are aching. How long has he been practising? He can’t remember. “How’d they go?” Yixing assumes that Zitao’s back from working on rapping. He heard the mention of JQ in the hallways a few days ago.
“Fine,” Zitao says as he studies his own reflection in the mirror. It can be mistaken as vanity, but Yixing knows that it’s because he lives alone and his reflection and shadow have almost become friends.
He ends up at the concert rehearsals faster than he expects. It’s always like this, there’s always that section of his life which a superior force has decided to take and fast forward, so he can only barely discern the ways in which everything is progressing. Everything is chaotic, but so utterly memorable at the same time. He forces himself to take notice of everything, just in case this is the closest he gets to his dream. In case, although it isn’t at all his intention.
He ends up sharing a dressing room with all five members, feeling very awkward and out of place the whole time. Taemin is a sunbae, but Yixing is the hyung. They talk, but still, he doesn’t get over that, how strange it feels. Jinki is unfailing in giving him support - and that, Yixing is infinitely grateful for. “Thank you,” he says that a lot, until they come back from a practise of Ring Ding Dong and Jinki actually has to tell him to stop.
“Seriously, Xing, stop.”
It’s weird that they call him that, but Yixing assumes it’s a pet name of sorts, so maybe they like him. Maybe he’s being accepted in some way. Still, he reigns in all the excitement that is on the verge of blossoming. Not yet, he reminds himself. Not yet.
Rehearsals end and Yixing wonders how his sunbaes can keep this up for more than one night. If rehearsals are like this -
Jonghyun offers him a bottle of water. Probably his fifth today, Yixing thinks as he reaches out tentatively for it, “Thank you, sun -”
“Jonghyun.”
“Wha -”
“Jonghyun, call me Jonghyun.”
The stylists are remarkable, Yixing can’t help thinking. Sure, he’s pretty much the ideal blank canvas that any stylist wants. There are idols with troublesome skin, eyes that need fixing, hair that cannot be tamed, that is too-treated. Yixing is the ideal blank slate, the white canvas, and he knows that. Thin, pale, good-looking. There isn’t a lot more to him, but the way that they’ve made him up - made him a person with more confidence and charisma than what he really feels - Yixing thinks that is impressive. It’s like he’s wearing a mask, so the audience won’t be able to see all his insecurities and concerns, nor the weariness which clings to his limbs and drags him down.
There’s a while yet before the concert starts, but already, the fans are pouring in, and he can hear them. Yixing tries not to think about them too much, instead, he runs over all the dance routines in his mind again, this hand motion, this step and this shift at that beat -
His phone starts off in his backpack on the plastic chair banished to the corner of the room. There’s a text message from Wu Fan.
Good luck.
Yixing finds that he’s shaking too much to tap out a reply, so he lets it sit there on the tiny screen, glowing at him. He tries to pull out what courage he can from that short message from Wu Fan, in what short amount of time they have.
Another message arrives.
You can do it is what Zitao says. He attaches a photo of Lu han in a text which arrives ten seconds later, where the other boy is cross-legged on a chair, reading. At least, he seems to be, because Zitao has attached a message.
Lu Han’s nervous for you. Don’t worry though, you’ll be fine.
Another wave of texts come in, none of which Yixing has the stability of hand to respond to, but he manages a tiny smile as the strength of the support he is receiving begins to take root.
His mind is totally blank as the music starts up on the loudspeakers and in his earpiece. He can see all the lightsticks, a blue ocean. It’s not an ocean for him, but he might have one in the future.
“I will fulfil my dream.”