Hip hop routine
Lay/Kris.
It's 2 in the morning when the phone rings.
No words are needed when he hears that ringtone; he turns instinctively in his bed, hands fumbling for the phone he has placed beside his pillow every single night before he goes to sleep. He skips the flashing screen, fingers already accustomed to searching for the 'answer' button without the sense of sight. Pressing it once, he rolls onto his side, phone sandwiched between his left ear and pillow.
There's no need for greetings, because there's no other reason he will call at 2 in the morning.
"You need a place?"
"Yeah." The answer over the phone comes after a bout of silence, but the both of them aren't surprised; it happens, and they know.
"I'll pick you up, usual place."
He drops the call, sitting up immediately after and making his way to the wardrobe, ignoring the temporary vertigo. His eyes already wide open and alert, he rummages for proper clothing, pulling them on as soon as he deems them fit for public. There's no time for thinking, no time to wonder how many times this has happened before, or when it will stop. It's a snap of fingers, and he'll be there; a call, and he'll be there.
------
He pulls the car to a stop at the side of the road once he spots the familiar figure, standing and staring blankly into space with a worn out duffel bag slung across his shoulders. He unlocks the door, his head turning to glance at the other as the latter makes his way in.
"Ge." A short greeting is all he gives, and the other replies with a nod of his head.
Judging from the fullness of the bag, he guesses that the other will be staying over for a good 3 days. There are times when the older one has stayed over for a week, or just a day, depending on how long he needs to escape from reality, from being himself. He ignores the electronic clock blinking 3.30am back at him, and he temporarily chooses to forget that he has work at 7am that very morning as he shifts the gear into place, foot depressing the accelerator.
The both of them stare at the road stretched out in front of them, mind occupied with different thoughts. That bit is clear to him, and the only thought that is running in his mind isn't a question or an angry remark.
I got you.
------
He brings his pillow and blanket out to the living room, only to see the other crouching on the couch, staring at his phone as if he is willing for a call to come through, for the screen to blink, anything, anything at all.
He keeps quiet.
The other knows the routine, knows where the bathroom is, and needs no more introductions to his house. He places the pillow and blanket on the couch, a crude approximate of a bed for the night. He lets his gaze linger slightly at the other, and he lets his thoughts stray for once. Will the other be happier if they had happened, does the other have to find a place to spend the night if they quarrel? Will it be different if he has cut their ties off cleanly then, will it not hurt--
"Yixing."
He blinks at the mention of his name, his gaze polite and hidden as he swivels on his foot to face the other.
"...Nothing."
He nods once at the dismissal, heading back to his room once again, devoid of that pillow and that blanket. Perhaps he has stared too long, he deduces, people always catch on during stares.
-----
The parquet near his door always creaks when pressure is placed on it, something he is closely familiar with. It's two days since that night, and somehow he has been expecting this to happen. He rises from his bed, casting a glance at the clock.
2.30am.
It's not that late, he surmises; the other has always been some kind of night owl. As long as he calls, everything goes back to normal, like an idyllic picture painted on a perfect summer day. Perhaps a goodbye will be appropriate, he thinks to himself as he makes his way to the door of his bedroom, running a hand through his messy hair. He spots the other with that same old rugged sling bag over his shoulder, slipping on his shoes. His pillow and blanket are neatly folded by the couch, like nobody has ever touched them before.
"Hey."
He sees how the other freezes in his movements, like the older has never expected that he will be awake to catch him in the act of leaving his house. He thinks it's ironic, that he's saying hello when what he is really trying to say is actually goodbye.
"So...going back?" He ventures, gesturing at the bag and the shoes. He sees how the other hesistates before nodding, and he tries to stop his brows from meeting in the middle with his frown. How many times is this going to happen, how many times will he be there to catch him when he falls? Not that he minds to provide that place for him to run to, but how many times can one's heart be broken and then glued back together in a fragile manner, over and over again, repeatedly?
"Yixing."
He shoots his head up at the one word response, his eyebrows raised in enquiry, only to catch how the other is staring at him with a level, almost cold stare. A stare to stop his train of thoughts from spiralling towards the fantasy and the happily-ever-after ending, because Yixing and him just do not match. It's a one-sided love, something which Yixing knows from the very beginning when he sees the older enter his own relationship. There's no chance for him even if the older one gets thrown out repeatedly, because there's no more space in his heart except for that particular guy.
"Stop it," The other mumbles, breaking the gaze as he resumes his activity of putting on his shoes, before letting himself leave through the front door like he never once stepped in before.
How many times can one's heart be broken and then glued back together? That isn't for him, but that question is for himself, Zhang Yixing.
"Goodbye Kris," He murmurs in reply, his brows creased in concern. Not in heartache, never, he convinces himself, but for worry, like what a normal friend will do.
------
It's 3 in the morning when the phone rings.
No words are needed as he searches for his phone on his bed. He presses the phone against his ear, pulling the blanket tighter around him.
"Yixing?"
Tenth time.
Not like he is counting.
"I'll pick you up, usual place."
-----
They were young before, before all this calling started, before all this Kris-moving-in-temporarily-affair started.
"Yixing, you would let anyone walk over you, eh?" Kris commented, laughing as Yixing ran back with two ice cream cones from the shop around the corner. The vanilla ice cream had already started to make its way down his hand, leaving a kind of spiral-like pattern on the back of his palm as he hands a cone over. It wasn't the end of the world if Kris failed a test, that was what Yixing was trying to say, but somehow it got lost in the promises of ice cream and the youthful dreams of being impulsive and appreciating challenges ("Go get me ice cream within 5 minutes without it melting all over!" And Yixing ran.)
"Watch it, that's a hooker you are describing," Yixing retorted back, although the smile on his face was unmistakable. It was difficult to explain to Kris, when he is someone who woud blindy wave off any comment or statement he deemed awkward or preferred not to answer.
He glanced over at the other and etched the image of Kris having vanilla ice cream on the corner of his mouth. Yixing couldn't be bothered if it was someone else. But this someone else is Kris, and that made the difference.
Go ahead and say goodbye, I'll be alright.
Go ahead and make me cry, I'll be alright.
And when you need a place, to run to,
For better for worse, I got you.
It's 2 in the morning when the phone rings.
No words are needed when he hears that ringtone; he turns instinctively in his bed, hands fumbling for the phone he has placed beside his pillow every single night before he goes to sleep. He skips the flashing screen, fingers already accustomed to searching for the 'answer' button without the sense of sight. Pressing it once, he rolls onto his side, phone sandwiched between his left ear and pillow.
There's no need for greetings, because there's no other reason he will call at 2 in the morning.
"You need a place?"
"Yeah." The answer over the phone comes after a bout of silence, but the both of them aren't surprised; it happens, and they know.
"I'll pick you up, usual place."
He drops the call, sitting up immediately after and making his way to the wardrobe, ignoring the temporary vertigo. His eyes already wide open and alert, he rummages for proper clothing, pulling them on as soon as he deems them fit for public. There's no time for thinking, no time to wonder how many times this has happened before, or when it will stop. It's a snap of fingers, and he'll be there; a call, and he'll be there.
------
He pulls the car to a stop at the side of the road once he spots the familiar figure, standing and staring blankly into space with a worn out duffel bag slung across his shoulders. He unlocks the door, his head turning to glance at the other as the latter makes his way in.
"Ge." A short greeting is all he gives, and the other replies with a nod of his head.
Judging from the fullness of the bag, he guesses that the other will be staying over for a good 3 days. There are times when the older one has stayed over for a week, or just a day, depending on how long he needs to escape from reality, from being himself. He ignores the electronic clock blinking 3.30am back at him, and he temporarily chooses to forget that he has work at 7am that very morning as he shifts the gear into place, foot depressing the accelerator.
The both of them stare at the road stretched out in front of them, mind occupied with different thoughts. That bit is clear to him, and the only thought that is running in his mind isn't a question or an angry remark.
I got you.
------
He brings his pillow and blanket out to the living room, only to see the other crouching on the couch, staring at his phone as if he is willing for a call to come through, for the screen to blink, anything, anything at all.
He keeps quiet.
The other knows the routine, knows where the bathroom is, and needs no more introductions to his house. He places the pillow and blanket on the couch, a crude approximate of a bed for the night. He lets his gaze linger slightly at the other, and he lets his thoughts stray for once. Will the other be happier if they had happened, does the other have to find a place to spend the night if they quarrel? Will it be different if he has cut their ties off cleanly then, will it not hurt--
"Yixing."
He blinks at the mention of his name, his gaze polite and hidden as he swivels on his foot to face the other.
"...Nothing."
He nods once at the dismissal, heading back to his room once again, devoid of that pillow and that blanket. Perhaps he has stared too long, he deduces, people always catch on during stares.
-----
The parquet near his door always creaks when pressure is placed on it, something he is closely familiar with. It's two days since that night, and somehow he has been expecting this to happen. He rises from his bed, casting a glance at the clock.
2.30am.
It's not that late, he surmises; the other has always been some kind of night owl. As long as he calls, everything goes back to normal, like an idyllic picture painted on a perfect summer day. Perhaps a goodbye will be appropriate, he thinks to himself as he makes his way to the door of his bedroom, running a hand through his messy hair. He spots the other with that same old rugged sling bag over his shoulder, slipping on his shoes. His pillow and blanket are neatly folded by the couch, like nobody has ever touched them before.
"Hey."
He sees how the other freezes in his movements, like the older has never expected that he will be awake to catch him in the act of leaving his house. He thinks it's ironic, that he's saying hello when what he is really trying to say is actually goodbye.
"So...going back?" He ventures, gesturing at the bag and the shoes. He sees how the other hesistates before nodding, and he tries to stop his brows from meeting in the middle with his frown. How many times is this going to happen, how many times will he be there to catch him when he falls? Not that he minds to provide that place for him to run to, but how many times can one's heart be broken and then glued back together in a fragile manner, over and over again, repeatedly?
"Yixing."
He shoots his head up at the one word response, his eyebrows raised in enquiry, only to catch how the other is staring at him with a level, almost cold stare. A stare to stop his train of thoughts from spiralling towards the fantasy and the happily-ever-after ending, because Yixing and him just do not match. It's a one-sided love, something which Yixing knows from the very beginning when he sees the older enter his own relationship. There's no chance for him even if the older one gets thrown out repeatedly, because there's no more space in his heart except for that particular guy.
"Stop it," The other mumbles, breaking the gaze as he resumes his activity of putting on his shoes, before letting himself leave through the front door like he never once stepped in before.
How many times can one's heart be broken and then glued back together? That isn't for him, but that question is for himself, Zhang Yixing.
"Goodbye Kris," He murmurs in reply, his brows creased in concern. Not in heartache, never, he convinces himself, but for worry, like what a normal friend will do.
------
It's 3 in the morning when the phone rings.
No words are needed as he searches for his phone on his bed. He presses the phone against his ear, pulling the blanket tighter around him.
"Yixing?"
Tenth time.
Not like he is counting.
"I'll pick you up, usual place."
-----
They were young before, before all this calling started, before all this Kris-moving-in-temporarily-affair started.
"Yixing, you would let anyone walk over you, eh?" Kris commented, laughing as Yixing ran back with two ice cream cones from the shop around the corner. The vanilla ice cream had already started to make its way down his hand, leaving a kind of spiral-like pattern on the back of his palm as he hands a cone over. It wasn't the end of the world if Kris failed a test, that was what Yixing was trying to say, but somehow it got lost in the promises of ice cream and the youthful dreams of being impulsive and appreciating challenges ("Go get me ice cream within 5 minutes without it melting all over!" And Yixing ran.)
"Watch it, that's a hooker you are describing," Yixing retorted back, although the smile on his face was unmistakable. It was difficult to explain to Kris, when he is someone who woud blindy wave off any comment or statement he deemed awkward or preferred not to answer.
He glanced over at the other and etched the image of Kris having vanilla ice cream on the corner of his mouth. Yixing couldn't be bothered if it was someone else. But this someone else is Kris, and that made the difference.
Go ahead and say goodbye, I'll be alright.
Go ahead and make me cry, I'll be alright.
And when you need a place, to run to,
For better for worse, I got you.