在别人土地上成长, 成长以后是龙的传人
100 fic challenge [#100.] Regrets, Zhoumi-centric
Title: 觅觅无敌 (Incomparable Mi Mi) Part 2
Length: 10,748 words
Author: shieldkitten
Beta: cynicalxcharm
Rating: G
Summary: Zhoumi strives to be better than average, because living his life any other way would only fill him with regret.
Part 1 | Part 3 | Author's Notes
He goes from warm to cold, from wonton to mandu, from 汉字 to 한글, from Zhoumi to Joomyuk, and it's the loneliest feeling in the world to let himself into his small one-bedroom apartment and listen to his neighbours argue without being able to understand them. One of the first things he does is to walk into a CD shop to look for a Wang Lee Hom CD, because he thinks that if they have room for Wang Lee Hom CDs here, then maybe they will have room for a tall, skinny Chinese boy who takes Korean lessons five times a week and still gets ㅅ mixed up with ㅈ.
(Hanzi) (Hangul)
The way he meets Kihoon is too embarrassing to recount. It involves a taxi driver, a Chinese to Korean dictionary, a trip to the police station, Kihoon flashing him a grin from the other side of the lobby and Zhoumi inching away because he doesn't want the police to think he is in cohort with any actual criminals.
It turns out that Kihoon is only there to report that his wallet has been stolen, and he has taken a shine to Zhoumi, who can't converse fluently enough in Korean to decline a lift back to his apartment. Kihoon looks around Zhoumi's living room, admittedly sparse (but not depressingly so, Zhoumi will insist when he has learnt the word) and declares that this cannot do.
It is only when Kihoon hands him money for half the rent two weeks later that Zhoumi realises Kihoon has moved in, along with a bright orange couch, a green coffee table, a bookcase full of french cookbooks, and a futon.
"We are friends?" Zhoumi asks, articulating the words carefully while Kihoon looks through photographs of Zhoumi's classmates from his Korean language class.
"Heck no," Kihoon says, and Zhoumi's smile fades a little. "You're older, you're my hyung. Hey, she's cute. Can anyone sign up for these classes?"
(Mais si tu veux, Kihoon whispers later, because he is the sort of drunk that whispers life's great secrets after two hours of caterwhauling Trot songs, tu peux être mon ami.
(But if you'd like,) (you can be my friend)
Zhoumi is the sort of drunk that giggles at everything, even things in languages he doesn't understand, but he's not drunk, and he pulls Kihoon into a hug.)
"Hey, guess what?" Kihoon asks, and Zhoumi tries to casually ease the lid of his laptop down. Kihoon's been making fun of him for stalking Baidu for news of Wang Lee Hom's new album, and he doesn't think the six tabs of high quality Wang Lee Hom fantaken pictures he's accidentally clicked open will help matters. But Kihoon seems too excited to notice anything but the large envelope he is waving in Zhoumi's face.
"What?" Zhoumi asks, taking it from him and turning it over. It has SM Entertainment's logo embossed on the top left hand cover, and on the right, it says 'SM UCC Audition results'. When Zhoumi empties its contents onto the coffee table with trembling fingers Kihoon swoops down on the sheet on top and hoots and forgets Zhoumi is not a Korean Francophile, but Zhoumi gets the gist.
Somehow, and Kihoon has had something to do with it, he's in.
"You're joking," Zhoumi says, knuckles white, nails digging into his palms.
"You owe me," Kihoon says. "When you get famous, you're buying me first class tickets to Paris."
He makes Zhoumi sign an I.O.U. Zhoumi starts with a pie, heng-shu-gou, then stops and crosses it out, writing '주멱' instead.
(Joomyuk)
"Which song?" Zhoumi asks later, when he's gone over the letter with his dictionary and assured himself that Kihoon simply doesn't have the attention span to go through with such an elaborate hoax.
Kihoon shows him, and then Zhoumi gasps and flails at Kihoon and spends three hours picking apart his pronunciation, bemoaning that he will forever be known as that creepy Lee Yeonhee stalker.
"안녕하세요," Zhoumi says nervously when he meets Hangeng for the first time. He doesn't want Hangeng to feel obligated to be friends with him merely because they share the same citizenship, and he definitely doesn't want the manager who introduced them to think that just because he's met someone else who can speak Mandarin, he's going to neglect his Korean.
(Hello.)
"你好," Hangeng says, grinning at him. "你闷吗？想要去逛街还是到公园去走走?"
(Hello.) (Are you bored? Do you want to go shopping or to the park?)
All thoughts of restraint go flying out the window, and Zhoumi only pauses long enough to let Hangeng to tell him that if he wants to go to Itaewon by himself next time, he can take the buses numbered 一零一, 一零四, or 五六八 if he gets off at the 天桥 and 直直走五分钟就到了, and then he's off again, telling all the stories he's been dying to share - how it was his first time ever on an airplane, and he'd been so disappointed that he hadn't been given a window seat, how he hadn't been able to choose between Chinese-to-Korean dictionaries at the airport bookshop, so he bought three, how Kihoon had decided that his first Korean movie should be a horror movie called A.P.T., and Zhoumi still can't turn off his lights till after 10 p.m.
(101) (104) (568) (pedestrian bridge) (walk in a straight line for 5 minutes and you're there)
"You talk so much," Hangeng laughs, and Zhoumi can't even feel bad about it, because he feels like he could talk forever now that the dam has burst.
"This is Siwon," Hangeng introduces him to Super Junior's white knight when Zhoumi winds up with shopping bags full of clothes, CDs and things to decorate his dorm room with and Hangeng decides it would be easier to get Siwon to pick them up. "Siwon, this is Zhoumi."
"You can name me Joomyuk," Zhoumi says quickly. Siwon grins and sticks out his hand.
"我的名字是始源," he says in his heavily accented Mandarin, and Zhoumi learns why everyone is just a little bit in love with Choi Siwon.
(My name is Shiyuan)
"Mom, it's me, am I calling too late?"
"It's never too late for you, Mi, what's happened?"
"I just wanted to tell someone. The company is going to try to focus on the Chinese market. I told you about Super Junior, right? The company says there'll be a sub-unit to perform in China. Mom, I'm going to be in it. I'm going to be a singer."
"Joomyuk-ssi?" Zhoumi towers over Ryeowook, even when Ryeowook is wearing those ridiculous shoelifts Korean men seem so fond of wearing (Kihoon has an assortment in different colours), and he hunches down a little to hear better over the sound system.
"Teach me a Chinese song, okay?" Ryeowook calls into his ear, and then he's grinning and waving as Yesung yanks on his hand, pulling him out onto the dance floor. Zhoumi returns to the booth where Kyuhyun is sipping at a clear glass of water, and plonks himself down, trying to find his glass among the many on the table. Kyuhyun nudges the right one in his direction, and Zhoumi beams at him.
"Not dancing?" he asks, leaning in as Kyuhyun tilts his head.
"Can't," Kyuhyun says, and for a moment Zhoumi thinks he's being modest or sarcastic, until he realises with a jerk just what Kyuhyun means by can't.
"I forget, sorry, I-" he bangs his knee against the table when he tries to get up to apologise and Kyuhyun laughs.
"It's okay, I'll be back soon," he says, and Zhoumi watches him expectantly, waiting for him to leave the table so he can slam his forehead against it for being so insensitive, but Kyuhyun just sits there, looking back at him. "I meant on stage."
"I know, you're a foreigner," he says, patting Zhoumi's injured knee as Zhoumi struggles to find something to say that would make himself look like less of an idiot, and Zhoumi can only smile helplessly until Eunhyuk and Donghae slide breathlessly back into the booth to ask him why he dances like a squid.
His envy of Henry lasts right up until he watches the live broadcast of a Don't Don performance.
"It doesn't really bother me," Henry says flippantly, eyes dark under the veil of his hair, but he clutches Sungmin's hand all through dinner, and later, when Zhoumi brings by apples imported from Canada (because he can't find a moose, and their manager has explained very succinctly that Henry's not allowed to have beer yet), he hears a loud sniffle, and then running water.
Henry answers the door with red eyes and bits of tissue sticking to his cheeks. "Apples?"
"They're Canadian," Zhoumi says lamely.
"Oh," Henry says, a little brokenly. "Do you want to come in?"
They sit on the floor, backs against the couch and Henry rolls an apple in his hands. They talk in their own mishmash of languages - Zhoumi speaks in Mandarin, Henry tries to keep up until he can't quite find the vocabulary and switches to Korean, interpersed with English words that he confesses he just hopes people will pass off as Konglish.
"Was this what you expected?" Henry asks, pushing back his hair for the umpteenth time. "Coming to Korea only to be told to go work in China?"
"I don't mind where I work," Zhoumi says. "As long as I have work."
Henry's violin is propped up againt the wall - Henry hasn't bothered to put it back in its case.
"Did you know that Wang Lee Hom-"
"Plays the violin? Yes, I know, ge, Wang Lee Hom number two, remember? I still think I play better." Henry walks over and picks up his violin, cradling it possessively. Zhoumi grins, because the return of Henry's cockiness can only mean that his good humour has been restored.
"Prove it," he says, and standing in his pyjamas, with his hair clipped back, Henry plays the lover's theme from Liangzhu. It reminds Zhoumi of why he doesn't write sad love songs, and it's his turn to sniffle a little and dab at his eyes with his sleeve.
"You're such a girl, ge," Henry says.
The apples are sweet, a little crispy, and Zhoumi hears the sound of Henry's munching over a song in his head that goes 想家, 想找人分享旅途所有梦想.
(Thinking of home, I want to find someone to share all my dreams with)
"Do you think it'll work?" He asks. "The chanting?" Henry cocks his head and doesn't seem to understand '呼喊', and Zhoumi can't remember the Korean word for it, but he remembers the phrase. "지켜줄게13명?" (chanting)
([we] will protect 13 members)
Henry stiffens. "No." Then he shakes his head. "不知道." And again in English, "I don't know." He twirls his apple core in his hand, fingers sticky with juice. "Do you think it will?"
(I don't know)
Zhoumi presses his foot against the coffee table and flexes, rubbing the sole of his foot against the cool glass. "I don't know either. But I'm sure Sooman-sajang-nim knows what he's doing."
"He said not to worry," Henry says, and Zhoumi glances at him, watches him sigh and get up to toss his apple core. It's not fair that it's a boy they've sent to pave the way, just a boy, really, washing his hands and raking his wet fingers through his hair. Zhoumi wishes it were him instead, not this kid who folds himself into an armchair and yawns.
"You know, right?" Zhoumi asks him. "It's not personal, when they yell at you."
"Still hurts," Henry mumbles.
He's surfing Baidu to find something nice to show Henry - somewhere out there must still exist those girls who were so excited about the mysterious violin boy in Super Junior's thrilling new video - when he stumbles upon it. His own face, staring up at him. It's not a flattering picture.
Under it is the news that he is rumoured to be part of Super Junior-China, SJ-C, that he is rumoured to be a talentless hack, rumoured to be stuck up and stand-offish, that he is just a Siwon clone, that he may be Chinese, but he certainly isn't welcome in China.
He goes for a walk, a very long, meandering walk that takes him nowhere, and then he finds that he's lost, and he doesn't have any money for a cab.
It takes him three hours to find his way back. He's cold, he's hungry, and he's pretty sure he's stepped on dog poop at some point, but he's late for his shift at the recording studio, so he just changes his shoes before heading out again.
"Where were you?" the language coach snaps. "Forget it, just get in there. Donghae's butchering the song."
Donghae beams at him when he enters the studio, but the smile gets steadily smaller as Zhoumi corrects him, time and again. It's bei jing not bei jin, feng kuang not fen guang, and he hasn't gotten the tones remotely correct, so he'll have to record this all over again. There is a difference between Mandarin sung and Mandarin spoken, and although '属' is pronounced in the third tone when spoken, Donghae can't put the same emphasis on the word mid-song, because it clashes with the melody, and any Chinese singer worth his salt would know when to relax the rules of tonal pronunciation.
Donghae is in a bad temper by the time Zhoumi has to leave for his dance lesson, and Zhoumi tries to apologise for being short with him, but Donghae presses his headphones to his ears and doesn't listen. He gets at least one line right, though, and Zhoumi thinks that today at least, he will be grateful for small victories.
His dance class is a crash course for trainees who need to advance past the basics, fast, and the dance routine they are set today seems especially complicated, especially long and exhausting, and Zhoumi stumbles more than he should, even for someone whose body simply isn't accustomed to moving like this.
"Joomyuk-hyung, you okay?" one of the other trainees asks. He's only seventeen, but he's going to have his name in an album before Zhoumi does. Zhoumi smiles weakly and shakes his head.
"I'm okay, I'm just hungry."
"I think Key probably has something to eat in his bag."
"It's okay, it's easier to dance on an empty stomach. Don't worry about me," Zhoumi says, smiling, still smiling, as their dance coach turns up the music and tells them they're not stopping until everyone gets it right.
He doesn't eat when he gets home either, nor when he wakes up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, skin crawling, joints aching, burning up from the inside out.
He used to write music the way Ryeowook does, melody mixed with ideas, strings of notes and words that drift in and out of conscious thought. He would sit at his keyboard for hours, pressing down key after key in fluid motion until he had entire stanzas written, words that fit perfectly with tune, the entire product his own.
He doesn't have that luxury now. He has foreign melodies to work with, songs that already belong to someone else, that are already associated with themes that the fans already know. Trying to fit words where they don't belong is like pushing triangles into circular holes: nothing works, nothing flows the way it should, and in his frustration he crosses out entire pages of work, one dark line, two.
"You shouldn't stay up this late," Ryeowook tells him. "You haven't fully recovered from your cold yet."
"I work better at night," Zhoumi lies, resisting the urge to rub petulantly at his tired eyes.
"Well, don't forget to sleep during the day then," Ryeowook says, patting his back and heading out the door.
Zhoumi stares blankly at his notebook, at the title, '渴望', written in big, bold characters when he still had confidence in this project. He has the first lines written out in English - someone else's words - and he knows which Korean words follow, but he can't for the life of him think of anything in Mandarin. Maybe he's forgotten how to speak it, maybe he's not even Chinese, maybe he doesn't belong anywhere, and he's just a nameless, formless entity lingering inside the body of a tall, skinny boy who tried so hard and didn't make it. (Desire)
He jerks awake with a shaky yell and stares around the living room, disorientated. There should be an oriental vase by the television, something gaudy that his mother insists is valuable. He should be able to hear the crickets, see the orange glow of a coal refinery filtering in through gossamer curtains. Instead, he sees unwashed dishes in the sink, clothes strewn over the back of the couch.
Too tired to cry, he just collects his book and sheafs of paper and leaves them on his desk, crawling into bed with his mp3 player. The playlist is on shuffle, and ironically, the first song that comes on is '钓灵感'. With a groan he pulls off his headphones and buries his face in his pillow, but the song is stuck in his head now, and it has lines like 灵感游去又游来 and 难说追寻可能一无所有. Zhoumi doesn't necessarily believe that Wang Lee Hom wrote this song specifically to give him a hard time, but he does think that someone up there probably has a very rotten sense of humour.
(Fishing for inspiration) (inspiration flitters back and forth)
(it's hard to say if chasing it could get you nothing in return)
It's a week to the lunar new year, and the trees outside are laden with snow, and more is falling, softly, gently. It would be beautiful, it is beautiful, but Zhoumi doesn't notice.
"It started snowing today," his mother said, early in January when Zhoumi called home to ask for her spare rib soup recipe.
"Dress warmer," Zhoumi told her.
"Silly, that's something a mother should be telling her son. Do you have enough clothes? Do you want me to send over your winter things?"
They talked about things of inconsequence. Zhoumi mentioned that they'd booked his flight home today, and it would only be a month now before he could come home for the new year. His mother, ever the superstitious one, made him knock on wood.
"You know," his mother said, and Zhoumi could hear the tremor in her voice, the yearning, "the year you were born, it was as cold as this. We wrapped you up in so many blankets you looked like a round little dumpling."
"Drink this," Hangeng tells him, handing him a glass of ginseng tea. Zhoumi blinks hard and grips the mug in his hand. The heat should be a comfort, but Zhoumi doesn't notice. Colours flicker on his pale face as the images change, one after the other, on the television screen, words scrolling across too quickly for Zhoumi to catch, but Hangeng reads them out for him.
"Zhoumi, I'm sorry."
"What does it say?" Zhoumi asks.
"Hubei's been affected."
Zhoumi thinks he should feel more. He feels everything, so why doesn't he feel this? All he knows is that he hates the terse silence that settles over them, and he thinks he already hates anything Hangeng will say to break it. His plane ticket sits on the coffee table, already canceled, null and void.
"I'm sure Wuhan's fine," Hangeng says.
He's looking at Zhoumi as though he expects Zhoumi to say something, but Zhoumi doesn't have anything to say, doesn't even have a smile to offer. Instead he lifts his mug to his lips.
Ginseng is always more bitter than he expects.
Zhoumi drops his keys in the little plate he keeps by the door and tugs off his shoes, placing them neatly on the shoe rack. Glancing at his laptop on the way to the fridge he stops and climbs over the sofa, sitting on the floor and reading the messages Kexin has left on his instant messenger.
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: Hey.
(ke-xin-ke-ai: kexin-cute)
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: Mi?
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: Guess you're not at your computer.
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: Just wanted to ask if you've heard from your parents yet. We're all praying for them, okay?
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: :)
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: Oh, also happy new year :D Make lots of money and give us fat red packets~
Shouldn't you be spending time with your family instead of at your computer? he types and hits send, then scrambles to get himself a snack. The fridge is almost empty (depressingly so), but he takes out the Chinese new year cake he's been saving and grabs a fork. His chat window is flashing when he settles back on the floor in front of his laptop, but he pulls up his music player first and scrolls through the songs. When he picks the one he likes, he changes his display name to read '觅虎在别人土地上成长, 成长以后是龙的传人'. (Tiger Mi grew up in someone else's land, after he grew up he became an heir of the dragon)
Urgh, no, I'm hiding, Kexin has written in reply. The aunts keep asking me when I'm getting married.
She sends another message before he can type up a response. Have you heard from your parents yet?
They called three days ago, they're okay. My dad's helping to fix the burst water pipe.
You're so lucky you're in Korea~
Zhoumi rests his chin on his arm, and picks out his keys with one finger. You know, if you hide, you won't get your red packets.
A sacrifice I'm willing to make, Kexin writes back, and then adds a little moving emoticon of a penguin smashing its face onto a desk.
Zhoumi laughs and sits up. Poor penguin!
There's a pause, and Zhoumi fiddles with his fork, pressing the prongs into the plastic packaging of his cake, reluctant to open it.
The chat window flashes again. Hey, Mi, have you gone on the Super Junior Bar lately?
Zhoumi's fingers drum out a yes, but he hesitates, pinky poised over the return key.
No, I haven't. Anything interesting?
Kexin goes quiet again, and then, No, no there's nothing.
She has to sign off because her grandmother wants to talk to all the grandchildren, and Zhoumi wishes her a happy new year with a pang in his heart. He hasn't been able to call home since his father called, for fear of tying up the line, and he knows that it should be a good enough reason, but it just seems so unreasonable to expect him to spend his first lunar new year alone without even the sound of his mother's voice, telling him '快高长大', as if he really needed to get any taller.
(Grow taller, faster)
When he feels the all too familiar prickle of emotion behind his eyelids, he clicks on the bookmark sandwiched between 'Xinhua' and 'Bar: Wang Lee Hom', scrolling through line after line of happy new year wishes. He clicks on some of them and laughs out loud, saving the images to share with Hangeng later - Super Junior members with their heads photoshopped onto the zodiac animals. Then he sees what Kexin didn't want him to see.
Only love, only 13, we will protect SJ13. If they add new members, would Super Junior still be Super Junior? If they add new members, would E.L.F. still be E.L.F.? Henry, Zhoumi, the sky is so infinitely wide, can't you find your own space to shine? You don't understand what it means to be in Super Junior. You don't know what they've been through to debut. Do you think you can take the easy route, riding on their coat tails? No one will respect you if you don't work hard, everyone will hate you for intruding on our perfect family. Do you know what it's like to wait 5 years to debut? Do you know what it's like to have anti-fans attacking you even though you didn't do anything wrong? Do you know how it feels to be alone in a foreign country and not be allowed to go home for holidays? Do you know how worried E.L.F. and SJ were, staying up all night praying because their friends, their loved ones were in an accident? E.L.F. will never cheer for you, never wave their sapphire blue balloons for you.
The letter goes on, and Zhoumi knows he should stop reading, but his finger moves as if of its own accord, scrolling down the page, and he reads their promises to dislike him, to hate him, to give no support to Hangeng's dream simply because of him. Tears would be a welcome relief, tears would refract the light and distort the words before his eyes, but his eyes remain dry and he counts every banner that says Only 13, Only 13, Only 13.
You're all fucking losers who don't know what you're talking about. Please do us all a favour and climb up a tree to die.
He recognises the username as Daoping's, and now the tears come, one, two, three, but he wipes at them with the back of his hand, because Daoping has left a whole string of messages that defend Zhoumi in his own crass, well-meaning way, Zhoumi supposes that he should probably find this a little less funny, that he will probably get in trouble if the company ever found out, but Daoping calls someone a rock-headed pile of steaming horse manure and Zhoumi can't help clapping his hand over his mouth and glancing around the empty apartment to make sure no one else is home before giving in to a smile that makes his cheeks hurt.
He decides to send Daoping an e-card that says Happy New Year, may your tongue remain as sharp as my nose :^D.
He finally unwraps his cake and sinks his fork into it with a sigh. It is store bought, hardly the same as the moist, sticky sweetness of his grandmother's home made Wuhan-style 年糕, and without his cousins there, fighting for the first forkful of cake, the first bite doesn't seem quite as enjoyable.
(Chinese new year cake)
His phone rings, and it's Hangeng on the other end. "Hi Zhoumi! Come upstairs, everyone's home now, and we're having dinner in a few minutes."
Everyone, Zhoumi thinks, is a pronoun that stands for the number 13.
"What do you mean you don't want to intrude? Ryeowook spent three weeks arguing with a vendor to convince him to import Wuchang fish. Have you ever heard Ryeowook arguing? Do you know how his voice gets really high pitched when he's upset?"
"By the way," Hangeng adds when he opens the door to a Zhoumi with suspiciously red eyes. "We've got twenty frozen Wuchang fishes in the freezer. They're all yours now."
They eat standing around the kitchen table, plates in hands, and Zhoumi notices little things, like Heechul eating off of Shindong's plate, Kyuhyun frowning a little when Sungmin declines a second helping, Eunhyuk and Donghae tossing bits of carrot at each other, Ryeowook getting pelted with the stray ammunition. Conversation swells and peters out in intervals, and what strikes Zhoumi the most is that they're made up of little groups, but they're a whole.
He declines dessert, declines to stay to watch A Series of Terror Events. As he slips on his shoes, Henry breaks away from the group, who are too busy making fun of Yesung's fifteen seconds of screentime to notice that they are thirteen again. Only thirteen.
"You're not an outsider," he says, with all the wisdom of a boy who's been there and done that, and Zhoumi responds with a shaky laugh.
"I know," he replies, getting to his feet.
What he feels, however, is a completely different matter altogether.
Liyin has nothing but kind words.
"You shouldn't be comforting me," Zhoumi says, bemused. "I should be trying to calm your nerves."
"Talking about your problem keeps my mind off mine," she admits, laughing.
"You'll do fine," Zhoumi says. "Do you want to practice again?"
Liyin wrings her hands in her lap. "Do we have time before the car gets there? I worry the words will fly right out of my head the moment I get out on stage."
Zhoumi grins and shakes his head, stilling her hands with his and giving them a squeeze. "Don't worry, I'll prompt you if you get stuck. You'll do fine. You'll do better than fine, actually. I mean, you look amazing. Your hair, everything."
It's the first time he's been on a stage in front of cameras since the MC competition. He's forgotten how bright the lights are, how it feels to have a sea of faces hanging on your every word. For a wild moment he wants to hold the microphone to his lips and say 'Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Zhoumi, and I just want you to give me a chance', but this is Liyin's stage, not his, and he has a duty to make sure she is the one who shines tonight.
And then Hangeng steps onto the stage.
They sit in Zhoumi's hotel room later, Liyin staring meditatively at the contents of her glass. Zhoumi watches her hands, her manicured nails scraping ever so slightly against her white plastic straw as she stirs her drink, swirling ice cubes and bubbles against the glass.
They're waiting for Hangeng to get back - he's been allowed to visit his parents, since they're here in Beijing, and he's promised to bring food back for the both of them, so they're waiting.
"It's not that I'm not grateful," Liyin says suddenly, setting down her glass. "I know it's hard for a girl to make it in this business, I know I need his help, that if it weren't for him, Junsu-oppa, Siwon-oppa, I wouldn't even be a blip on the radar. It's just..." She looks down at her hands, damp with condensation. "They don't see me, just him."
She looks up at him, and gone is the Liyin that is mature for her age, gone is the Liyin that smiles politely while interviewers ask questions that Hangeng takes, over and over. In her place is a frustrated girl who knows she is excellent, who is tired of using someone else's fame to garner attention for herself, and who is jealous that Hangeng should get to be the pioneer, China's golden son, leaving anyone attempting the same route to stardom to be conceived as copycats riding on his success.
"You're a very talented young woman," Zhoumi tells her, earnestly, truthfully. "I see you."
"Ge," she says softly, hand brushing over his, polished nails gleaming in the light. "I see you, too."
Hangeng returns, lifting up bags of plastic tupperware filled to the brim with food. He names the dishes as he opens each container - 拉面, 红烩牛肉, 炒青菜, 麻婆豆腐 - the smell is enough to make Zhoumi's mouth water. (Noodles, beef stew, vegetable stir fry, mapo tofu)
"You guys eat up," he says, pressing cutlery into their hands. "I'm just going to lie down for a minute."
He doesn't wake up until morning call, and Zhoumi pretends not to notice the coughing fit Hangeng has when he sits up in bed, but he leaves the bottle of cough syrup next to a glass of water on the table.
"That was like a holiday, wasn't it?" Hangeng asks, when they're safely installed on an airplane back to Korea. Zhoumi watches the ground drop away through the small oblong window, watches till there is nothing but water below.
"We'll be back soon," Hangeng tells him, patting his back and smiling.
The feeling of alienation heightens, even in the thick of their preparations. Zhoumi, who used to think he could get everything if only he worked hard enough for it, begins to think he will never be able to get this, this feeling that Hangeng insists he and Henry are missing. He can feel Hangeng's frustration and he wants to apologise, but he's frustrated too, because he's doing everything he's supposed to, turning on cue, jumping on cue, singing on cue, and still Hangeng says that it's wrong, that it's different from how it's supposed to be, but he won't explain what it is that is missing.
Those who listen at doors never hear any good of themselves, and Zhoumi makes the mistake of pausing before entering when he overhears Donghae and Eunhyuk talking in the dance studio.
"Hankyung-hyung wants everything to be perfect, but we're running out of time," Donghae is saying, and through the gap in the door Zhoumi can see that he is lying down, pillowing his head on Eunhyuk's lap as Eunhyuk stretches his lower back, twisting his body around.
"Do you need help teaching them the routines?" Eunhyuk asks, turning the other way.
"They know the routines," Donghae says. "Hankyung-hyung says it's the feeling of it. You can tell that it's different from how it is when Super Junior dances together."
"That's because they're not Super Junior." Donghae sits up, and Zhoumi tenses, waiting (hoping) for his protests, but Eunhyuk continues. "Sorry, Hae, you know how I feel about this. They're nice guys and I hope you guys conquer China and sell lots of albums or whatever, but they're not one of us."
Donghae takes far too long to reply. "Don't let Sungmin-hyung hear you talking like that, he'll kick your ass."
"I'm more afraid of Ryeowook, to be honest," Eunhyuk says with a laugh that ends in a sigh. "It's going to be really quiet."
Donghae presses the sole of his shoe against the side of Eunhyuk's. "Get a louder ringtone, then."
In the beginning of his traineeship, when he had signed his contract and his career into the hands of Lee Sooman, Sooman had pointed to the chairs on the opposite side of his office desk and said Anytime you need to talk, or if you just need to sit with someone, my door's always open. Zhoumi takes up the offer now, sitting cross-legged and toying with the hem of his shirt. Sooman hasn't said anything past 'would you like something to drink?' and seems content to let Zhoumi sit there while he does his work, but Zhoumi can't help but feel that he's wasting Sooman's time, not just now, at this moment, but that his past year at the company has been a complete waste of time and effort.
"Do you think so?" Sooman asks when Zhoumi finally finds a way to articulate how he feels. Zhoumi nods slowly. Sooman gets to his feet and moves to a filing cabinet, pulling out a drawer and selecting a file from it.
"This is your contract," he says, laying it down in front of Zhoumi. "When you signed this you made a promise to the company, to me, to do your best. The part everyone forgets is that I make a promise too, to do what's best for you." He takes the seat next to Zhoumi, leaning back - just enough leeway, Zhoumi thinks, to give him room to flee. "What do you want to do, Joomyuk?"
Zhoumi stares at the file, at his name written across the manilla folder both in Mandarin and in Korean. There's a way out of this, he could step away from the messy line between Super Junior and Super Junior-China, leave the distinction for someone else to make and wait for another chance. There will be other bands, ones with less baggage, new ones where he will be a founding member so no one can tell him he doesn't belong.
But how long will he have to wait? Can he really afford to give up this opportunity? There will be none as good as this, no more bands with Hangeng's name attached. Zhoumi can't afford the same scruples Liyin has, he's desperate, he's waited so long for the chance to have his name on the pages of a CD booklet, to have his voice heard. There was a boy who had a chance to be a part of Super Junior, but he had walked away from it, and Zhoumi doesn't want his story. He doesn't want to look back in regret.
别懦弱, Wang Lee Hom tells him, 让眼泪流出来不是因为失败.
(Don't be afraid) (Don't let the tears that fall be because of defeat)
"I want to succeed," he says. And then he adds, in case it isn't clear, "I want to be part of SJ-China."
Sooman smiles, taking back the file and clapping Zhoumi on the shoulder. "That's good. The fans would've been insufferable if they thought they'd won."
As Zhoumi leaves he hears Sooman slide back onto his rolling chair and murmur something about needing to find a less politically-charged name for this band.
Simply deciding you want to something doesn't mean you'll actually get it. Zhoumi pulls Henry aside more often than he should given how many violin lessons the boy has, and they watch videos of Super Junior dancing, over and over, until Henry's head lolls back on the couch, and he snorts in his sleep. Zhoumi worries at his thumbnail with his teeth, frowning in concentration, looking for that thing they are missing, that spark Hangeng is looking for.
"Much better," Hangeng says at last, and Henry groans, collapsing on the polished floor of the dance studio, Ryeowook fanning his hands at him sympathetically. Zhoumi slumps against the wall and nods, simply grateful that this hurdle is over.
"Listen," Hangeng says, voice low. "I'm sorry I was so hard on you. It's just that there are so many people hoping we'll fail, and I don't want them to have any reason to say you aren't as good as the original members."
Zhoumi massages the back of his neck and nods, trying his hardest not to resent Hangeng. He tries his hardest not to resent anything - Siwon's stubbornness in the recording studio, Donghae's habit of goofing around, and Kyuhyun's reluctance to learn conversational Mandarin. There's no room for negativity, no time for it, not this close to the finish line.
"Zhoumi?" Ryeowook finds him in the recording studio, headphones clamped tightly around his ears, making them hurt where the skin rubs against his spectacles. His sheets of printed lyrics are covered in notes, common mistakes the others make in pronunciation that he wants to go over in the morning.
"Lixu," Zhoumi acknowledges him, pulling off his headphones. They've begun to call each other by their Chinese names, getting into the habit of 哥 instead of 형.
(ge) (hyung)
"I found a Chinese song I want to learn," Ryeowook says, easing onto the chair beside Zhoumi. "Hangeng-ge says you should be the one to teach it to me, since it's by your favourite singer."
Zhoumi glances at the clock, then at the notes in his hand, but it's been a long time since anyone in the band has come to him of their own accord, and he can see that this is Ryeowook's metamorphical olive branch.
"Which song is it?" he asks, setting down his notes, and Ryeowook beams. He pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it, revealing lyrics written in Hangul. Zhoumi is impressed by the amount of effort Ryeowook has put into it.
"Kiss Goodbye?" he asks, looking at the title. "But that's a sad song."
"I know, I like pretty sad songs," Ryeowook says, smoothing out the piece of paper. "Plus, if you think about the lyrics..." His face takes on a mischievous look. "It's good fanservice, don't you think?"
Zhoumi can't help but laugh at that - Ryeowook is so much more devious than people give him credit for. Ryeowook smiles and prods Zhoumi's cheek with a slender finger.
"There it is," he says, as if he's an indulgent older brother. "Haven't seen that smile in a while."
Zhoumi puffs out his cheeks and expells the air in a sigh. "Sorry."
Ryeowook squeezes his hand. "It's been hard on you, isn't it? Trying to be perfect."
"I have to be," Zhoumi says, smiling sardonically. "Or SJ-M is doomed." Ryeowook smacks him on the arm and shakes his lyrics sheet.
"Teach me, and then we'll teach Kyuhyunnie together."
"Kuixian," Zhoumi corrects him before he can stop himself.
"对对."
(Yes, yes.)
Part 1 | Part 3 | Author's Notes
Title: 觅觅无敌 (Incomparable Mi Mi) Part 2
Length: 10,748 words
Author: shieldkitten
Beta: cynicalxcharm
Rating: G
Summary: Zhoumi strives to be better than average, because living his life any other way would only fill him with regret.
Part 1 | Part 3 | Author's Notes
He goes from warm to cold, from wonton to mandu, from 汉字 to 한글, from Zhoumi to Joomyuk, and it's the loneliest feeling in the world to let himself into his small one-bedroom apartment and listen to his neighbours argue without being able to understand them. One of the first things he does is to walk into a CD shop to look for a Wang Lee Hom CD, because he thinks that if they have room for Wang Lee Hom CDs here, then maybe they will have room for a tall, skinny Chinese boy who takes Korean lessons five times a week and still gets ㅅ mixed up with ㅈ.
(Hanzi) (Hangul)
The way he meets Kihoon is too embarrassing to recount. It involves a taxi driver, a Chinese to Korean dictionary, a trip to the police station, Kihoon flashing him a grin from the other side of the lobby and Zhoumi inching away because he doesn't want the police to think he is in cohort with any actual criminals.
It turns out that Kihoon is only there to report that his wallet has been stolen, and he has taken a shine to Zhoumi, who can't converse fluently enough in Korean to decline a lift back to his apartment. Kihoon looks around Zhoumi's living room, admittedly sparse (but not depressingly so, Zhoumi will insist when he has learnt the word) and declares that this cannot do.
It is only when Kihoon hands him money for half the rent two weeks later that Zhoumi realises Kihoon has moved in, along with a bright orange couch, a green coffee table, a bookcase full of french cookbooks, and a futon.
"We are friends?" Zhoumi asks, articulating the words carefully while Kihoon looks through photographs of Zhoumi's classmates from his Korean language class.
"Heck no," Kihoon says, and Zhoumi's smile fades a little. "You're older, you're my hyung. Hey, she's cute. Can anyone sign up for these classes?"
(Mais si tu veux, Kihoon whispers later, because he is the sort of drunk that whispers life's great secrets after two hours of caterwhauling Trot songs, tu peux être mon ami.
(But if you'd like,) (you can be my friend)
Zhoumi is the sort of drunk that giggles at everything, even things in languages he doesn't understand, but he's not drunk, and he pulls Kihoon into a hug.)
"Hey, guess what?" Kihoon asks, and Zhoumi tries to casually ease the lid of his laptop down. Kihoon's been making fun of him for stalking Baidu for news of Wang Lee Hom's new album, and he doesn't think the six tabs of high quality Wang Lee Hom fantaken pictures he's accidentally clicked open will help matters. But Kihoon seems too excited to notice anything but the large envelope he is waving in Zhoumi's face.
"What?" Zhoumi asks, taking it from him and turning it over. It has SM Entertainment's logo embossed on the top left hand cover, and on the right, it says 'SM UCC Audition results'. When Zhoumi empties its contents onto the coffee table with trembling fingers Kihoon swoops down on the sheet on top and hoots and forgets Zhoumi is not a Korean Francophile, but Zhoumi gets the gist.
Somehow, and Kihoon has had something to do with it, he's in.
"You're joking," Zhoumi says, knuckles white, nails digging into his palms.
"You owe me," Kihoon says. "When you get famous, you're buying me first class tickets to Paris."
He makes Zhoumi sign an I.O.U. Zhoumi starts with a pie, heng-shu-gou, then stops and crosses it out, writing '주멱' instead.
(Joomyuk)
"Which song?" Zhoumi asks later, when he's gone over the letter with his dictionary and assured himself that Kihoon simply doesn't have the attention span to go through with such an elaborate hoax.
Kihoon shows him, and then Zhoumi gasps and flails at Kihoon and spends three hours picking apart his pronunciation, bemoaning that he will forever be known as that creepy Lee Yeonhee stalker.
"안녕하세요," Zhoumi says nervously when he meets Hangeng for the first time. He doesn't want Hangeng to feel obligated to be friends with him merely because they share the same citizenship, and he definitely doesn't want the manager who introduced them to think that just because he's met someone else who can speak Mandarin, he's going to neglect his Korean.
(Hello.)
"你好," Hangeng says, grinning at him. "你闷吗？想要去逛街还是到公园去走走?"
(Hello.) (Are you bored? Do you want to go shopping or to the park?)
All thoughts of restraint go flying out the window, and Zhoumi only pauses long enough to let Hangeng to tell him that if he wants to go to Itaewon by himself next time, he can take the buses numbered 一零一, 一零四, or 五六八 if he gets off at the 天桥 and 直直走五分钟就到了, and then he's off again, telling all the stories he's been dying to share - how it was his first time ever on an airplane, and he'd been so disappointed that he hadn't been given a window seat, how he hadn't been able to choose between Chinese-to-Korean dictionaries at the airport bookshop, so he bought three, how Kihoon had decided that his first Korean movie should be a horror movie called A.P.T., and Zhoumi still can't turn off his lights till after 10 p.m.
(101) (104) (568) (pedestrian bridge) (walk in a straight line for 5 minutes and you're there)
"You talk so much," Hangeng laughs, and Zhoumi can't even feel bad about it, because he feels like he could talk forever now that the dam has burst.
"This is Siwon," Hangeng introduces him to Super Junior's white knight when Zhoumi winds up with shopping bags full of clothes, CDs and things to decorate his dorm room with and Hangeng decides it would be easier to get Siwon to pick them up. "Siwon, this is Zhoumi."
"You can name me Joomyuk," Zhoumi says quickly. Siwon grins and sticks out his hand.
"我的名字是始源," he says in his heavily accented Mandarin, and Zhoumi learns why everyone is just a little bit in love with Choi Siwon.
(My name is Shiyuan)
"Mom, it's me, am I calling too late?"
"It's never too late for you, Mi, what's happened?"
"I just wanted to tell someone. The company is going to try to focus on the Chinese market. I told you about Super Junior, right? The company says there'll be a sub-unit to perform in China. Mom, I'm going to be in it. I'm going to be a singer."
"Joomyuk-ssi?" Zhoumi towers over Ryeowook, even when Ryeowook is wearing those ridiculous shoelifts Korean men seem so fond of wearing (Kihoon has an assortment in different colours), and he hunches down a little to hear better over the sound system.
"Teach me a Chinese song, okay?" Ryeowook calls into his ear, and then he's grinning and waving as Yesung yanks on his hand, pulling him out onto the dance floor. Zhoumi returns to the booth where Kyuhyun is sipping at a clear glass of water, and plonks himself down, trying to find his glass among the many on the table. Kyuhyun nudges the right one in his direction, and Zhoumi beams at him.
"Not dancing?" he asks, leaning in as Kyuhyun tilts his head.
"Can't," Kyuhyun says, and for a moment Zhoumi thinks he's being modest or sarcastic, until he realises with a jerk just what Kyuhyun means by can't.
"I forget, sorry, I-" he bangs his knee against the table when he tries to get up to apologise and Kyuhyun laughs.
"It's okay, I'll be back soon," he says, and Zhoumi watches him expectantly, waiting for him to leave the table so he can slam his forehead against it for being so insensitive, but Kyuhyun just sits there, looking back at him. "I meant on stage."
"I know, you're a foreigner," he says, patting Zhoumi's injured knee as Zhoumi struggles to find something to say that would make himself look like less of an idiot, and Zhoumi can only smile helplessly until Eunhyuk and Donghae slide breathlessly back into the booth to ask him why he dances like a squid.
His envy of Henry lasts right up until he watches the live broadcast of a Don't Don performance.
"It doesn't really bother me," Henry says flippantly, eyes dark under the veil of his hair, but he clutches Sungmin's hand all through dinner, and later, when Zhoumi brings by apples imported from Canada (because he can't find a moose, and their manager has explained very succinctly that Henry's not allowed to have beer yet), he hears a loud sniffle, and then running water.
Henry answers the door with red eyes and bits of tissue sticking to his cheeks. "Apples?"
"They're Canadian," Zhoumi says lamely.
"Oh," Henry says, a little brokenly. "Do you want to come in?"
They sit on the floor, backs against the couch and Henry rolls an apple in his hands. They talk in their own mishmash of languages - Zhoumi speaks in Mandarin, Henry tries to keep up until he can't quite find the vocabulary and switches to Korean, interpersed with English words that he confesses he just hopes people will pass off as Konglish.
"Was this what you expected?" Henry asks, pushing back his hair for the umpteenth time. "Coming to Korea only to be told to go work in China?"
"I don't mind where I work," Zhoumi says. "As long as I have work."
Henry's violin is propped up againt the wall - Henry hasn't bothered to put it back in its case.
"Did you know that Wang Lee Hom-"
"Plays the violin? Yes, I know, ge, Wang Lee Hom number two, remember? I still think I play better." Henry walks over and picks up his violin, cradling it possessively. Zhoumi grins, because the return of Henry's cockiness can only mean that his good humour has been restored.
"Prove it," he says, and standing in his pyjamas, with his hair clipped back, Henry plays the lover's theme from Liangzhu. It reminds Zhoumi of why he doesn't write sad love songs, and it's his turn to sniffle a little and dab at his eyes with his sleeve.
"You're such a girl, ge," Henry says.
The apples are sweet, a little crispy, and Zhoumi hears the sound of Henry's munching over a song in his head that goes 想家, 想找人分享旅途所有梦想.
(Thinking of home, I want to find someone to share all my dreams with)
"Do you think it'll work?" He asks. "The chanting?" Henry cocks his head and doesn't seem to understand '呼喊', and Zhoumi can't remember the Korean word for it, but he remembers the phrase. "지켜줄게13명?" (chanting)
([we] will protect 13 members)
Henry stiffens. "No." Then he shakes his head. "不知道." And again in English, "I don't know." He twirls his apple core in his hand, fingers sticky with juice. "Do you think it will?"
(I don't know)
Zhoumi presses his foot against the coffee table and flexes, rubbing the sole of his foot against the cool glass. "I don't know either. But I'm sure Sooman-sajang-nim knows what he's doing."
"He said not to worry," Henry says, and Zhoumi glances at him, watches him sigh and get up to toss his apple core. It's not fair that it's a boy they've sent to pave the way, just a boy, really, washing his hands and raking his wet fingers through his hair. Zhoumi wishes it were him instead, not this kid who folds himself into an armchair and yawns.
"You know, right?" Zhoumi asks him. "It's not personal, when they yell at you."
"Still hurts," Henry mumbles.
He's surfing Baidu to find something nice to show Henry - somewhere out there must still exist those girls who were so excited about the mysterious violin boy in Super Junior's thrilling new video - when he stumbles upon it. His own face, staring up at him. It's not a flattering picture.
Under it is the news that he is rumoured to be part of Super Junior-China, SJ-C, that he is rumoured to be a talentless hack, rumoured to be stuck up and stand-offish, that he is just a Siwon clone, that he may be Chinese, but he certainly isn't welcome in China.
He goes for a walk, a very long, meandering walk that takes him nowhere, and then he finds that he's lost, and he doesn't have any money for a cab.
It takes him three hours to find his way back. He's cold, he's hungry, and he's pretty sure he's stepped on dog poop at some point, but he's late for his shift at the recording studio, so he just changes his shoes before heading out again.
"Where were you?" the language coach snaps. "Forget it, just get in there. Donghae's butchering the song."
Donghae beams at him when he enters the studio, but the smile gets steadily smaller as Zhoumi corrects him, time and again. It's bei jing not bei jin, feng kuang not fen guang, and he hasn't gotten the tones remotely correct, so he'll have to record this all over again. There is a difference between Mandarin sung and Mandarin spoken, and although '属' is pronounced in the third tone when spoken, Donghae can't put the same emphasis on the word mid-song, because it clashes with the melody, and any Chinese singer worth his salt would know when to relax the rules of tonal pronunciation.
Donghae is in a bad temper by the time Zhoumi has to leave for his dance lesson, and Zhoumi tries to apologise for being short with him, but Donghae presses his headphones to his ears and doesn't listen. He gets at least one line right, though, and Zhoumi thinks that today at least, he will be grateful for small victories.
His dance class is a crash course for trainees who need to advance past the basics, fast, and the dance routine they are set today seems especially complicated, especially long and exhausting, and Zhoumi stumbles more than he should, even for someone whose body simply isn't accustomed to moving like this.
"Joomyuk-hyung, you okay?" one of the other trainees asks. He's only seventeen, but he's going to have his name in an album before Zhoumi does. Zhoumi smiles weakly and shakes his head.
"I'm okay, I'm just hungry."
"I think Key probably has something to eat in his bag."
"It's okay, it's easier to dance on an empty stomach. Don't worry about me," Zhoumi says, smiling, still smiling, as their dance coach turns up the music and tells them they're not stopping until everyone gets it right.
He doesn't eat when he gets home either, nor when he wakes up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, skin crawling, joints aching, burning up from the inside out.
He used to write music the way Ryeowook does, melody mixed with ideas, strings of notes and words that drift in and out of conscious thought. He would sit at his keyboard for hours, pressing down key after key in fluid motion until he had entire stanzas written, words that fit perfectly with tune, the entire product his own.
He doesn't have that luxury now. He has foreign melodies to work with, songs that already belong to someone else, that are already associated with themes that the fans already know. Trying to fit words where they don't belong is like pushing triangles into circular holes: nothing works, nothing flows the way it should, and in his frustration he crosses out entire pages of work, one dark line, two.
"You shouldn't stay up this late," Ryeowook tells him. "You haven't fully recovered from your cold yet."
"I work better at night," Zhoumi lies, resisting the urge to rub petulantly at his tired eyes.
"Well, don't forget to sleep during the day then," Ryeowook says, patting his back and heading out the door.
Zhoumi stares blankly at his notebook, at the title, '渴望', written in big, bold characters when he still had confidence in this project. He has the first lines written out in English - someone else's words - and he knows which Korean words follow, but he can't for the life of him think of anything in Mandarin. Maybe he's forgotten how to speak it, maybe he's not even Chinese, maybe he doesn't belong anywhere, and he's just a nameless, formless entity lingering inside the body of a tall, skinny boy who tried so hard and didn't make it. (Desire)
He jerks awake with a shaky yell and stares around the living room, disorientated. There should be an oriental vase by the television, something gaudy that his mother insists is valuable. He should be able to hear the crickets, see the orange glow of a coal refinery filtering in through gossamer curtains. Instead, he sees unwashed dishes in the sink, clothes strewn over the back of the couch.
Too tired to cry, he just collects his book and sheafs of paper and leaves them on his desk, crawling into bed with his mp3 player. The playlist is on shuffle, and ironically, the first song that comes on is '钓灵感'. With a groan he pulls off his headphones and buries his face in his pillow, but the song is stuck in his head now, and it has lines like 灵感游去又游来 and 难说追寻可能一无所有. Zhoumi doesn't necessarily believe that Wang Lee Hom wrote this song specifically to give him a hard time, but he does think that someone up there probably has a very rotten sense of humour.
(Fishing for inspiration) (inspiration flitters back and forth)
(it's hard to say if chasing it could get you nothing in return)
It's a week to the lunar new year, and the trees outside are laden with snow, and more is falling, softly, gently. It would be beautiful, it is beautiful, but Zhoumi doesn't notice.
"It started snowing today," his mother said, early in January when Zhoumi called home to ask for her spare rib soup recipe.
"Dress warmer," Zhoumi told her.
"Silly, that's something a mother should be telling her son. Do you have enough clothes? Do you want me to send over your winter things?"
They talked about things of inconsequence. Zhoumi mentioned that they'd booked his flight home today, and it would only be a month now before he could come home for the new year. His mother, ever the superstitious one, made him knock on wood.
"You know," his mother said, and Zhoumi could hear the tremor in her voice, the yearning, "the year you were born, it was as cold as this. We wrapped you up in so many blankets you looked like a round little dumpling."
"Drink this," Hangeng tells him, handing him a glass of ginseng tea. Zhoumi blinks hard and grips the mug in his hand. The heat should be a comfort, but Zhoumi doesn't notice. Colours flicker on his pale face as the images change, one after the other, on the television screen, words scrolling across too quickly for Zhoumi to catch, but Hangeng reads them out for him.
"Zhoumi, I'm sorry."
"What does it say?" Zhoumi asks.
"Hubei's been affected."
Zhoumi thinks he should feel more. He feels everything, so why doesn't he feel this? All he knows is that he hates the terse silence that settles over them, and he thinks he already hates anything Hangeng will say to break it. His plane ticket sits on the coffee table, already canceled, null and void.
"I'm sure Wuhan's fine," Hangeng says.
He's looking at Zhoumi as though he expects Zhoumi to say something, but Zhoumi doesn't have anything to say, doesn't even have a smile to offer. Instead he lifts his mug to his lips.
Ginseng is always more bitter than he expects.
Zhoumi drops his keys in the little plate he keeps by the door and tugs off his shoes, placing them neatly on the shoe rack. Glancing at his laptop on the way to the fridge he stops and climbs over the sofa, sitting on the floor and reading the messages Kexin has left on his instant messenger.
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: Hey.
(ke-xin-ke-ai: kexin-cute)
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: Mi?
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: Guess you're not at your computer.
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: Just wanted to ask if you've heard from your parents yet. We're all praying for them, okay?
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: :)
♥-可-心-可-爱-♥ says: Oh, also happy new year :D Make lots of money and give us fat red packets~
Shouldn't you be spending time with your family instead of at your computer? he types and hits send, then scrambles to get himself a snack. The fridge is almost empty (depressingly so), but he takes out the Chinese new year cake he's been saving and grabs a fork. His chat window is flashing when he settles back on the floor in front of his laptop, but he pulls up his music player first and scrolls through the songs. When he picks the one he likes, he changes his display name to read '觅虎在别人土地上成长, 成长以后是龙的传人'. (Tiger Mi grew up in someone else's land, after he grew up he became an heir of the dragon)
Urgh, no, I'm hiding, Kexin has written in reply. The aunts keep asking me when I'm getting married.
She sends another message before he can type up a response. Have you heard from your parents yet?
They called three days ago, they're okay. My dad's helping to fix the burst water pipe.
You're so lucky you're in Korea~
Zhoumi rests his chin on his arm, and picks out his keys with one finger. You know, if you hide, you won't get your red packets.
A sacrifice I'm willing to make, Kexin writes back, and then adds a little moving emoticon of a penguin smashing its face onto a desk.
Zhoumi laughs and sits up. Poor penguin!
There's a pause, and Zhoumi fiddles with his fork, pressing the prongs into the plastic packaging of his cake, reluctant to open it.
The chat window flashes again. Hey, Mi, have you gone on the Super Junior Bar lately?
Zhoumi's fingers drum out a yes, but he hesitates, pinky poised over the return key.
No, I haven't. Anything interesting?
Kexin goes quiet again, and then, No, no there's nothing.
She has to sign off because her grandmother wants to talk to all the grandchildren, and Zhoumi wishes her a happy new year with a pang in his heart. He hasn't been able to call home since his father called, for fear of tying up the line, and he knows that it should be a good enough reason, but it just seems so unreasonable to expect him to spend his first lunar new year alone without even the sound of his mother's voice, telling him '快高长大', as if he really needed to get any taller.
(Grow taller, faster)
When he feels the all too familiar prickle of emotion behind his eyelids, he clicks on the bookmark sandwiched between 'Xinhua' and 'Bar: Wang Lee Hom', scrolling through line after line of happy new year wishes. He clicks on some of them and laughs out loud, saving the images to share with Hangeng later - Super Junior members with their heads photoshopped onto the zodiac animals. Then he sees what Kexin didn't want him to see.
Only love, only 13, we will protect SJ13. If they add new members, would Super Junior still be Super Junior? If they add new members, would E.L.F. still be E.L.F.? Henry, Zhoumi, the sky is so infinitely wide, can't you find your own space to shine? You don't understand what it means to be in Super Junior. You don't know what they've been through to debut. Do you think you can take the easy route, riding on their coat tails? No one will respect you if you don't work hard, everyone will hate you for intruding on our perfect family. Do you know what it's like to wait 5 years to debut? Do you know what it's like to have anti-fans attacking you even though you didn't do anything wrong? Do you know how it feels to be alone in a foreign country and not be allowed to go home for holidays? Do you know how worried E.L.F. and SJ were, staying up all night praying because their friends, their loved ones were in an accident? E.L.F. will never cheer for you, never wave their sapphire blue balloons for you.
The letter goes on, and Zhoumi knows he should stop reading, but his finger moves as if of its own accord, scrolling down the page, and he reads their promises to dislike him, to hate him, to give no support to Hangeng's dream simply because of him. Tears would be a welcome relief, tears would refract the light and distort the words before his eyes, but his eyes remain dry and he counts every banner that says Only 13, Only 13, Only 13.
You're all fucking losers who don't know what you're talking about. Please do us all a favour and climb up a tree to die.
He recognises the username as Daoping's, and now the tears come, one, two, three, but he wipes at them with the back of his hand, because Daoping has left a whole string of messages that defend Zhoumi in his own crass, well-meaning way, Zhoumi supposes that he should probably find this a little less funny, that he will probably get in trouble if the company ever found out, but Daoping calls someone a rock-headed pile of steaming horse manure and Zhoumi can't help clapping his hand over his mouth and glancing around the empty apartment to make sure no one else is home before giving in to a smile that makes his cheeks hurt.
He decides to send Daoping an e-card that says Happy New Year, may your tongue remain as sharp as my nose :^D.
He finally unwraps his cake and sinks his fork into it with a sigh. It is store bought, hardly the same as the moist, sticky sweetness of his grandmother's home made Wuhan-style 年糕, and without his cousins there, fighting for the first forkful of cake, the first bite doesn't seem quite as enjoyable.
(Chinese new year cake)
His phone rings, and it's Hangeng on the other end. "Hi Zhoumi! Come upstairs, everyone's home now, and we're having dinner in a few minutes."
Everyone, Zhoumi thinks, is a pronoun that stands for the number 13.
"What do you mean you don't want to intrude? Ryeowook spent three weeks arguing with a vendor to convince him to import Wuchang fish. Have you ever heard Ryeowook arguing? Do you know how his voice gets really high pitched when he's upset?"
"By the way," Hangeng adds when he opens the door to a Zhoumi with suspiciously red eyes. "We've got twenty frozen Wuchang fishes in the freezer. They're all yours now."
They eat standing around the kitchen table, plates in hands, and Zhoumi notices little things, like Heechul eating off of Shindong's plate, Kyuhyun frowning a little when Sungmin declines a second helping, Eunhyuk and Donghae tossing bits of carrot at each other, Ryeowook getting pelted with the stray ammunition. Conversation swells and peters out in intervals, and what strikes Zhoumi the most is that they're made up of little groups, but they're a whole.
He declines dessert, declines to stay to watch A Series of Terror Events. As he slips on his shoes, Henry breaks away from the group, who are too busy making fun of Yesung's fifteen seconds of screentime to notice that they are thirteen again. Only thirteen.
"You're not an outsider," he says, with all the wisdom of a boy who's been there and done that, and Zhoumi responds with a shaky laugh.
"I know," he replies, getting to his feet.
What he feels, however, is a completely different matter altogether.
Liyin has nothing but kind words.
"You shouldn't be comforting me," Zhoumi says, bemused. "I should be trying to calm your nerves."
"Talking about your problem keeps my mind off mine," she admits, laughing.
"You'll do fine," Zhoumi says. "Do you want to practice again?"
Liyin wrings her hands in her lap. "Do we have time before the car gets there? I worry the words will fly right out of my head the moment I get out on stage."
Zhoumi grins and shakes his head, stilling her hands with his and giving them a squeeze. "Don't worry, I'll prompt you if you get stuck. You'll do fine. You'll do better than fine, actually. I mean, you look amazing. Your hair, everything."
It's the first time he's been on a stage in front of cameras since the MC competition. He's forgotten how bright the lights are, how it feels to have a sea of faces hanging on your every word. For a wild moment he wants to hold the microphone to his lips and say 'Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Zhoumi, and I just want you to give me a chance', but this is Liyin's stage, not his, and he has a duty to make sure she is the one who shines tonight.
And then Hangeng steps onto the stage.
They sit in Zhoumi's hotel room later, Liyin staring meditatively at the contents of her glass. Zhoumi watches her hands, her manicured nails scraping ever so slightly against her white plastic straw as she stirs her drink, swirling ice cubes and bubbles against the glass.
They're waiting for Hangeng to get back - he's been allowed to visit his parents, since they're here in Beijing, and he's promised to bring food back for the both of them, so they're waiting.
"It's not that I'm not grateful," Liyin says suddenly, setting down her glass. "I know it's hard for a girl to make it in this business, I know I need his help, that if it weren't for him, Junsu-oppa, Siwon-oppa, I wouldn't even be a blip on the radar. It's just..." She looks down at her hands, damp with condensation. "They don't see me, just him."
She looks up at him, and gone is the Liyin that is mature for her age, gone is the Liyin that smiles politely while interviewers ask questions that Hangeng takes, over and over. In her place is a frustrated girl who knows she is excellent, who is tired of using someone else's fame to garner attention for herself, and who is jealous that Hangeng should get to be the pioneer, China's golden son, leaving anyone attempting the same route to stardom to be conceived as copycats riding on his success.
"You're a very talented young woman," Zhoumi tells her, earnestly, truthfully. "I see you."
"Ge," she says softly, hand brushing over his, polished nails gleaming in the light. "I see you, too."
Hangeng returns, lifting up bags of plastic tupperware filled to the brim with food. He names the dishes as he opens each container - 拉面, 红烩牛肉, 炒青菜, 麻婆豆腐 - the smell is enough to make Zhoumi's mouth water. (Noodles, beef stew, vegetable stir fry, mapo tofu)
"You guys eat up," he says, pressing cutlery into their hands. "I'm just going to lie down for a minute."
He doesn't wake up until morning call, and Zhoumi pretends not to notice the coughing fit Hangeng has when he sits up in bed, but he leaves the bottle of cough syrup next to a glass of water on the table.
"That was like a holiday, wasn't it?" Hangeng asks, when they're safely installed on an airplane back to Korea. Zhoumi watches the ground drop away through the small oblong window, watches till there is nothing but water below.
"We'll be back soon," Hangeng tells him, patting his back and smiling.
The feeling of alienation heightens, even in the thick of their preparations. Zhoumi, who used to think he could get everything if only he worked hard enough for it, begins to think he will never be able to get this, this feeling that Hangeng insists he and Henry are missing. He can feel Hangeng's frustration and he wants to apologise, but he's frustrated too, because he's doing everything he's supposed to, turning on cue, jumping on cue, singing on cue, and still Hangeng says that it's wrong, that it's different from how it's supposed to be, but he won't explain what it is that is missing.
Those who listen at doors never hear any good of themselves, and Zhoumi makes the mistake of pausing before entering when he overhears Donghae and Eunhyuk talking in the dance studio.
"Hankyung-hyung wants everything to be perfect, but we're running out of time," Donghae is saying, and through the gap in the door Zhoumi can see that he is lying down, pillowing his head on Eunhyuk's lap as Eunhyuk stretches his lower back, twisting his body around.
"Do you need help teaching them the routines?" Eunhyuk asks, turning the other way.
"They know the routines," Donghae says. "Hankyung-hyung says it's the feeling of it. You can tell that it's different from how it is when Super Junior dances together."
"That's because they're not Super Junior." Donghae sits up, and Zhoumi tenses, waiting (hoping) for his protests, but Eunhyuk continues. "Sorry, Hae, you know how I feel about this. They're nice guys and I hope you guys conquer China and sell lots of albums or whatever, but they're not one of us."
Donghae takes far too long to reply. "Don't let Sungmin-hyung hear you talking like that, he'll kick your ass."
"I'm more afraid of Ryeowook, to be honest," Eunhyuk says with a laugh that ends in a sigh. "It's going to be really quiet."
Donghae presses the sole of his shoe against the side of Eunhyuk's. "Get a louder ringtone, then."
In the beginning of his traineeship, when he had signed his contract and his career into the hands of Lee Sooman, Sooman had pointed to the chairs on the opposite side of his office desk and said Anytime you need to talk, or if you just need to sit with someone, my door's always open. Zhoumi takes up the offer now, sitting cross-legged and toying with the hem of his shirt. Sooman hasn't said anything past 'would you like something to drink?' and seems content to let Zhoumi sit there while he does his work, but Zhoumi can't help but feel that he's wasting Sooman's time, not just now, at this moment, but that his past year at the company has been a complete waste of time and effort.
"Do you think so?" Sooman asks when Zhoumi finally finds a way to articulate how he feels. Zhoumi nods slowly. Sooman gets to his feet and moves to a filing cabinet, pulling out a drawer and selecting a file from it.
"This is your contract," he says, laying it down in front of Zhoumi. "When you signed this you made a promise to the company, to me, to do your best. The part everyone forgets is that I make a promise too, to do what's best for you." He takes the seat next to Zhoumi, leaning back - just enough leeway, Zhoumi thinks, to give him room to flee. "What do you want to do, Joomyuk?"
Zhoumi stares at the file, at his name written across the manilla folder both in Mandarin and in Korean. There's a way out of this, he could step away from the messy line between Super Junior and Super Junior-China, leave the distinction for someone else to make and wait for another chance. There will be other bands, ones with less baggage, new ones where he will be a founding member so no one can tell him he doesn't belong.
But how long will he have to wait? Can he really afford to give up this opportunity? There will be none as good as this, no more bands with Hangeng's name attached. Zhoumi can't afford the same scruples Liyin has, he's desperate, he's waited so long for the chance to have his name on the pages of a CD booklet, to have his voice heard. There was a boy who had a chance to be a part of Super Junior, but he had walked away from it, and Zhoumi doesn't want his story. He doesn't want to look back in regret.
别懦弱, Wang Lee Hom tells him, 让眼泪流出来不是因为失败.
(Don't be afraid) (Don't let the tears that fall be because of defeat)
"I want to succeed," he says. And then he adds, in case it isn't clear, "I want to be part of SJ-China."
Sooman smiles, taking back the file and clapping Zhoumi on the shoulder. "That's good. The fans would've been insufferable if they thought they'd won."
As Zhoumi leaves he hears Sooman slide back onto his rolling chair and murmur something about needing to find a less politically-charged name for this band.
Simply deciding you want to something doesn't mean you'll actually get it. Zhoumi pulls Henry aside more often than he should given how many violin lessons the boy has, and they watch videos of Super Junior dancing, over and over, until Henry's head lolls back on the couch, and he snorts in his sleep. Zhoumi worries at his thumbnail with his teeth, frowning in concentration, looking for that thing they are missing, that spark Hangeng is looking for.
"Much better," Hangeng says at last, and Henry groans, collapsing on the polished floor of the dance studio, Ryeowook fanning his hands at him sympathetically. Zhoumi slumps against the wall and nods, simply grateful that this hurdle is over.
"Listen," Hangeng says, voice low. "I'm sorry I was so hard on you. It's just that there are so many people hoping we'll fail, and I don't want them to have any reason to say you aren't as good as the original members."
Zhoumi massages the back of his neck and nods, trying his hardest not to resent Hangeng. He tries his hardest not to resent anything - Siwon's stubbornness in the recording studio, Donghae's habit of goofing around, and Kyuhyun's reluctance to learn conversational Mandarin. There's no room for negativity, no time for it, not this close to the finish line.
"Zhoumi?" Ryeowook finds him in the recording studio, headphones clamped tightly around his ears, making them hurt where the skin rubs against his spectacles. His sheets of printed lyrics are covered in notes, common mistakes the others make in pronunciation that he wants to go over in the morning.
"Lixu," Zhoumi acknowledges him, pulling off his headphones. They've begun to call each other by their Chinese names, getting into the habit of 哥 instead of 형.
(ge) (hyung)
"I found a Chinese song I want to learn," Ryeowook says, easing onto the chair beside Zhoumi. "Hangeng-ge says you should be the one to teach it to me, since it's by your favourite singer."
Zhoumi glances at the clock, then at the notes in his hand, but it's been a long time since anyone in the band has come to him of their own accord, and he can see that this is Ryeowook's metamorphical olive branch.
"Which song is it?" he asks, setting down his notes, and Ryeowook beams. He pulls out a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolds it, revealing lyrics written in Hangul. Zhoumi is impressed by the amount of effort Ryeowook has put into it.
"Kiss Goodbye?" he asks, looking at the title. "But that's a sad song."
"I know, I like pretty sad songs," Ryeowook says, smoothing out the piece of paper. "Plus, if you think about the lyrics..." His face takes on a mischievous look. "It's good fanservice, don't you think?"
Zhoumi can't help but laugh at that - Ryeowook is so much more devious than people give him credit for. Ryeowook smiles and prods Zhoumi's cheek with a slender finger.
"There it is," he says, as if he's an indulgent older brother. "Haven't seen that smile in a while."
Zhoumi puffs out his cheeks and expells the air in a sigh. "Sorry."
Ryeowook squeezes his hand. "It's been hard on you, isn't it? Trying to be perfect."
"I have to be," Zhoumi says, smiling sardonically. "Or SJ-M is doomed." Ryeowook smacks him on the arm and shakes his lyrics sheet.
"Teach me, and then we'll teach Kyuhyunnie together."
"Kuixian," Zhoumi corrects him before he can stop himself.
"对对."
(Yes, yes.)
Part 1 | Part 3 | Author's Notes