071.
Heechul finds Zhou Mi endlessly fascinating. It isn't just the Chinese or the smile or legs or his way of getting through the hard things in life (grin and bear it) but it's something else.
He locates it when he prompts Zhou Mi to sing for him, just them two on the floor of the living room, pretending to watch some variety show.
"H-hyung," Zhou Mi says, startled. "Why?"
"You're a singer, aren't you?" Heechul doesn't say that he had learnt how to recognise Zhou Mi's name, all those bookmarked videos under 'cooking.' "C'mon, let me hear what brought you here to Korea. It better be good. Or," Heechul grins, "are you chicken?"
Zhou Mi laughs because he's expected to. Then, he closes his eyes and Heechul presses mute.
Zhou Mi sings like how Heechul talks - unrestrained, syllables and careful nuances pouring out. He sings because it's obvious it's what he was made to do, and the words run into one another, their meaning lost because Heechul doesn't care for it; he's lost in the sound.
When Zhou Mi finishes, he smiles, a bit embarrassed, and reaches for the remote again. The television's showing some advertisement now for BB cream, and Heechul touches his cheek subconsciously.
"You have a nice voice," Heechul says in a moment of absolute sincerity.
Zhou Mi mutters a grateful, "Thank you," and Heechul knows now.
The Korean Zhou Mi speaks is so measured and perfectly precise that Heechul feels he could count the syllables on his fingers and toes without missing a beat. If he could write it out, the hangul would be perfect; the circles perfectly round, the strokes perfectly straight and the curves would speak stories of their own.
Later, when he replays that video of Zhou Mi singing on stage and later accepting the award, he can't help but compare the Mandarin he sings and speaks - fluid, tones lost in excitement - and the Korean he speaks - precise and measured. He knows that Zhou Mi belongs to China, and wishes he could be the one to take him away and keep him to himself.
He locates it when he prompts Zhou Mi to sing for him, just them two on the floor of the living room, pretending to watch some variety show.
"H-hyung," Zhou Mi says, startled. "Why?"
"You're a singer, aren't you?" Heechul doesn't say that he had learnt how to recognise Zhou Mi's name, all those bookmarked videos under 'cooking.' "C'mon, let me hear what brought you here to Korea. It better be good. Or," Heechul grins, "are you chicken?"
Zhou Mi laughs because he's expected to. Then, he closes his eyes and Heechul presses mute.
Zhou Mi sings like how Heechul talks - unrestrained, syllables and careful nuances pouring out. He sings because it's obvious it's what he was made to do, and the words run into one another, their meaning lost because Heechul doesn't care for it; he's lost in the sound.
When Zhou Mi finishes, he smiles, a bit embarrassed, and reaches for the remote again. The television's showing some advertisement now for BB cream, and Heechul touches his cheek subconsciously.
"You have a nice voice," Heechul says in a moment of absolute sincerity.
Zhou Mi mutters a grateful, "Thank you," and Heechul knows now.
The Korean Zhou Mi speaks is so measured and perfectly precise that Heechul feels he could count the syllables on his fingers and toes without missing a beat. If he could write it out, the hangul would be perfect; the circles perfectly round, the strokes perfectly straight and the curves would speak stories of their own.
Later, when he replays that video of Zhou Mi singing on stage and later accepting the award, he can't help but compare the Mandarin he sings and speaks - fluid, tones lost in excitement - and the Korean he speaks - precise and measured. He knows that Zhou Mi belongs to China, and wishes he could be the one to take him away and keep him to himself.