Tagging Hearts
Title: Tagging Hearts
Pairing: Sehun/Tao
Rating: R
Summary: They tag the walls but Sehun knows that Zitao’s name is written all over his heart in inky black graffiti.
notes: for appia happy late birthday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i strayed i’m sorry
probably typos and past-tense problems but i actually tried to edit this ok
tagging hearts;
The rattling of the can at 3am is probably way too loud, but Sehun doesn’t care as he lifts it up and presses on the aerosol nozzle, the mind-numbing scent following the red paint filtering through his nostrils. Next to him Zitao has a black can, and they’re working on a piece together. In a dark alley that no one passes by at this time of night, in a less-than-stellar business district, they’ll likely not even be suspected of anything. They work quietly and in tandem, Sehun switching out the red for orange, filling in the outlines that Zitao is leaving with graceful arcs of his wrist and hand.
After about an hour they stand back and look up at their masterpiece. It’s their best yet, Sehun thinks, as he looks at the rays of the sun that Zitao had needed to stand on Sehun’s shoulders to complete. A sunrise in a dark alley before the sun itself rises. Next week it’ll be painted over--
Zitao takes out his cell phone, snapping a picture in the low light of early dawn, no doubt to post it up to instagram when they get home. Sehun rolls his eyes and shoves him; Zitao almost drops his phone and whips his head to glare at Sehun, but Sehun is smiling, and then Zitao’s chasing him down the alley and out onto the sidewalk where the street lamps are turning off and the first birds are chirping.
--
“Thirty bucks for a shirt?” Sehun whistles under his breath as he fingers the material of the long sleeved graphic tee placed neatly on a hanger. “Do they expect kids our age to be able to afford this crap?” he eyes Zitao, who is rifling through a rack of v-necks. “How do you afford it?”
Zitao glances up, flashing him a killer sharp smile. “Ten finger discount.”
Sehun snorts. Of course. He knows. He just likes to bitch occasionally. He glances at the messenger bag Zitao carries around with him wherever they go and knows that Zitao has stuffed plenty of questionable things in there. From t-shirts to shoes, to jewelry for his many ear piercings, Huang Zitao is slick. Sehun can’t recall him ever getting in trouble or even raising suspicion. Sehun’s a bit envious; but then again, why envy when he can ask Zitao to get him something?
“This is pretty,” Zitao comments, holding up a printed button down to his frame, smoothing it over his torso to check the size. Sehun thinks Zitao looks pretty in anything, but he doesn’t dare say it out loud. Not when Zitao already knows.
They make their way casually through the racks, nodding and smiling politely at the clerks as they offer help. Zitao is stealthy in the way he never has anything in his hands for too long -- he just looks like a picky shopper and like Sehun is his unwilling partner. Which isn’t half wrong. Sehun knows he won’t be spending any money on clothes and money not spent on clothes could be spent buying a spliff and he could really use one right about now. Anxiety is jittering in the back of his mind and normally it’s not a problem but Zitao is taking too long and Sehun isn’t paranoid by any means, but he is impatient.
After about thirty minutes of useless wandering and Zitao even boldly asking the clerk if a pair of sunglasses look alright on his face, they leave the store empty-handed. Zitao’s messenger bag barely looks any fuller but Sehun knows he has at least two new outfits in there.
--
“Oops, I’m sorry!” Zitao splutters in thickly accented Korean, as he stumbles over a dog that wandered too far away from its owner and caused him to jostle right into the path of a businessman.
Sehun is the dog owner. Well, honestly, he dog-sits part time to earn some money and today he and Zitao are using it to their advantage. He’s got a lazy, unapologetic look on his face as he tugs gently on the leash and gets the Labrador to come back to him, ruffling his ears affectionately. This is the best dog to use for this trick; everyone loves this dumb, dopey, happy face looking up at them so eagerly.
Zitao is bowing profusely and apologizing, half in Korean and half in Mandarin and the businessman awkwardly waves him off, clearly annoyed and obviously late for wherever he’s going. He assures Zitao stiffly that it’s alright, and then makes his way down the road. Zitao continues on the path, and Sehun lazily follows, allowing Ppyong to sniff his way around street lamps and benches.
When Sehun and Zitao converge at the ice cream stand around the corner, Zitao is buying two generous cones. One with extra sprinkles -- Sehun’s favorite. Sehun smiles as he approaches and takes the cone from Zitao’s fingers, the other man’s eyes sparkling with mischief and content.
“That guy was loaded,” the older says, holding his cone out of the way as he kneels down and ruffles Ppyong’s golden, furry head. “Good boy. You’ll get a treat when we get home.”
Ppyong barks and wags his tail as Zitao slips the stolen wallet into the back pocket of his skinny jeans.
--
“Nh,” Sehun writhes on the bed, his fingers tangled in coarse blond locks, nipples hard, chest heaving and toes curling into the sheets. Zitao’s kissing his way down his stomach, tongue tracing over the scars that Sehun left during a difficult time in middle school. He’s reverent and always so full of passion in everything he does, and it tends to leave Sehun winded.
Zitao’s finely manicured hands spread Sehun’s knees apart so he can settle between them. They’re both naked and the window is open, curtain fluttering in the breeze, fan stirring up the heady atmosphere of the room. The whirring noise is hardly enough to drown out the sounds that Zitao’s touch pull from Sehun’s lips, but it’s enough to break the knot that forms occasionally in Sehun’s stomach whenever Zitao makes eye contact with him.
On the dresser in the corner there’s a pretty display of every wallet ever pickpocketed -- women’s clutches to men’s billfolds, ranging in colors shapes and sizes. There’s jewelry hanging on a pretty stand, waiting for the right time to be pawned off; the drawers are full of clothes unpaid for, the closet bearing the same effort as the clothes hang innocently, brand new on the hangers, unwashed as of yet. Their apartment is modest -- the air conditioner breaks every summer about halfway through, and they’ve finally invested in heated blankets for when the furnace decides to crap out and let the building freeze over in the winter. They have one couch, one bed, one table with two chairs, one bathroom, and half a kitchen complete with a tiny oven and a fridge that Zitao has to do regular maintenance on in order for it to refrigerate properly. It’s been home for four years.
Sehun wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Light hazel eyes meet chocolate brown as they lock gazes, and Zitao moves up to kiss Sehun’s lips tenderly, reverently. They finish each other off with their hands, the busy-ness of the day catching up to them and they fall asleep in each other’s arms, content in what they have.
--
It was the second day of high school and Sehun had just transferred in. His mom had passed him from school to school but he got in trouble everywhere -- smoking, skipping class, not doing his homework. Maybe this school will be good for you, she had said, because she believed that there was nothing wrong with her only son… just that he was mal-adjusted everywhere else. On the first day Sehun seemed to blend in seamlessly, if not for his cotton candy pink hair and lavender circle lenses that set him apart, visually, from the crowd. But he did his homework and listened during lectures and didn’t speak out of turn, milling about from class to class, even actually staying in the cafeteria to eat instead of lurking and searching for the exit to the roof.
He’d lasted in good graces for about a week before he met Huang Zitao. And oh, what a meeting.
Some guys had finally had enough of ‘that quiet, twink exchange student’ and had him cornered during P.E. on the track field. Wearing a thin tee and shorts that barely covered anything, Sehun could only mentally curse the board of education and their thoughts on what would be ‘easy’ to exercise in. Skinny arms folded across an equally slender chest and Sehun noted, by the color of their shorts, that he was older than the punks that were currently circling him.
“What’s with your hair?” one of the kids had sneered, while another picked up dirt and sprinkled it atop his soft pink locks.
Sehun said nothing.
“Why do you wear those girly contacts?” a taller one asked, leaning forward and squinting at Sehun’s face. “They make you look more like a girl than half the real girls in this school.”
Sehun said nothing.
“Do you think he even has a dick?” the first kid’s eyes dropped down to Sehun’s shorts, and Sehun couldn’t even be bothered to blush or close his legs. He was used to this.
“Do any of you have dicks or do you act like assholes to compensate for your lack of balls?” came a voice out of nowhere, and the boys all froze, before taking a hurried step back away from Sehun.
Sehun’s savior came in the form of a boy with inky black hair and thick eyeliner, piercings lining his ears and rather… beefy arms folded across a slender chest. He actually looked good in that stupid uniform and Sehun arched a delicate brow, before watching the boys scatter. After blinking a few times, Sehun ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it to get the dirt out.
“Thanks,” he said, glancing up at his hero.
The other student, a year older than Sehun with blue shorts, nodded and offered a surprisingly kind smile that totally contradicted his sharp features. “You’re welcome. Although, between me and you,” the other leaned forward a bit, and when his voice dropped, Sehun could hear the soft accent on his tongue, “next time anyone gives you shit, just tell them that Zitao has his eye on you.” He leaned back, then offered a wink before slinking away, heading back to the high jump where his class was competing.
Zitao.
Sehun would never forget it.
--
In the Spring, Sehun was actually doing well with school. He wasn’t honor roll status but he was passing all his classes and no longer being bullied, thanks to a few utterances of ‘Zitao’ and ‘me’ in the same sentence. He wasn’t sure why that made people scram so quick, but he was thankful; and it was then that he realized he’d never succeeded in other schools because he was a lone wolf. No one looked out for him.
But now that Zitao ‘had his eye on him’, Sehun felt himself pulling forward. Actually seeing a future beyond school-- college, maybe? He was really good with numbers and design and his mother encouraged him to take some pre-req architecture courses. But… Zitao had his eye on him. Sehun could feel his gaze almost everywhere.
It was slightly unnerving, but it kept people away from Sehun long enough for him to focus on what was important.
“Hey,” Zitao had come around the corner, and slung an arm around Sehun’s shoulders. It wasn’t often Zitao actually approached Sehun and physically, or verbally interacted with him -- Sehun stayed cool, adjusting his gait so Zitao’s weight didn’t hunch him over. “Do you smoke?”
Sehun chewed his lip. He hadn’t smoked in a long time-- basically, he’d quit once he started doing good in school. He didn’t have a reason to smoke anymore; he wasn’t stressed out, he wasn’t rebelling. But Zitao was now talking to him, offering him a smoke, and well… Sehun won’t deny. Especially because, sometimes, he thought about what he can do to repay Zitao back for his silent guardianship.
A smoke wouldn’t hurt.
They made their way onto the roof, a route that Sehun didn’t even know existed, located back by the janitor’s closet. Zitao sat down on the ground, nowhere near the edge, and pulled a crumpled pack of pink Capri 100’s out of his pocket. Sehun snorted, and sat down next to him.
“What,” Zitao said, putting a cig between his lips, the corner of his feline mouth quirking up into a smirk as he lifted a zippo and flicked it a few times. Butane must be low. “You a Camel guy?”
“Yeah, but I like the pink pack, too,” he said, able to envision the black Camel box with pink lining, stuffed into the back corner of his sock drawer.
Zitao just chuckled, puffing his cigarette to life before holding one out for Sehun. Sehun took it and put it between his index and middle finger, leaning forward for Zitao to light it. A slow, long drag, and the nicotine flowed through him like nirvana mixed with tar, his eyes closing for a brief second. The smoke dried out his lenses a bit, but he didn’t care too much.
“I see you’ve been doing well,” Zitao said, sitting up a bit. He sat indian style, and Sehun noticed that instead of the uniform slacks, Zitao wore skinny jeans.
“Thanks to you,” Sehun said easily, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back on a hand. Zitao didn’t comment on the feminine way Sehun held his cigarette with his fingers.
“You’re welcome,” Zitao said, and after that, they sat in silence for a bit.
Zitao stared up at the clouds, and Sehun stared over at Zitao. The other didn’t say anything -- he noticed, clearly, but didn’t seem to care. Sehun had a lot of things he wanted to ask, but… he was never too good with words. Verbage was not something he was blessed with and it’s what got him in trouble at most of his schools. ‘Lack of communication’, his teachers and peers would say.
“I’m gonna drop out,” Zitao said, matter-of-factly. His cigarette was halfway done and he stubbed it out, putting the half-smoked butt back into the carton, shoving it into his pocket.
Sehun continued to drag on his cigarette, even as he arched a brow in Zitao’s direction. “Why?”
Zitao shrugged, “School isn’t going to offer me anything in the long run. I can make it on my own without an education.”
Bold, Sehun remembers thinking. He licked his lips, and ‘what’s going to happen to me’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back, because it was hanging in the air anyway. Zitao lifted a hand, raised it, and waved away the ‘to me’ that was floating in front of Sehun’s face. A feral smirk graced Zitao’d features and he leaned in close to Sehun, his nose almost touching Sehun’s cheek.
“I could make it on my own with you.”
Sehun wasn’t sure what that meant, but he fell into the trap anyway.
--
Sehun still looks back on their last day of school -- how Zitao had brought silly string and window markers and decorated Sehun’s home room class with cartoon characters and sloppily written Hangul. Sehun remembers standing up in the middle of roll call and grabbing his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and climbing out of the open window to meet Zitao, who had some silly string in his hair, the sound of his teacher yelling from inside the classroom a dull echo compared to the symphony that rang in his ears when Zitao kissed him for the first time.
Now, in their modest apartment four years later, Sehun can’t even be upset that he got sucked into dropping out of school and disappointing his mother, who had finally started to believe that her son straightened out. He can’t be upset -- no way. Not when he’s watching Zitao work on the refrigerator in a tank top and boxer briefs, sweaty and frustrated as he uses a few tools to try and get the fan to work again. They have a mini plug-in fridge for back up in instances like this, because it doesn’t usually take Zitao long to fix the fridge.
They’ve come a long way; Sehun’s hair is more tame colors, like blonds and silvers and sometimes brown, and he no longer wears those circle lenses. Zitao has acquired more piercings and even a few tattoos, but for the most part, they’re still the same gangly kids that decided to leave high school and chase a dream together.
“There,” Zitao says, as the fan starts whirring quietly again. He shuts the freezer door and re-opens it a few times, just to make sure that it’s working properly, before he starts putting the food from the mini fridge back into the regular one.
“Where are we going tonight?” Sehun asks, hanging over the arm of the couch upside down. Zitao looks shorter, from this angle, as he wipes the sweat from his brow. “It’s Friday.”
Zitao smirks and grabs a dish towel, mopping his face. “The Hilton.”
--
Dressed to the nines in slacks, button downs and vests, Zitao’s got a fedora on his head and his eyes lined dark with kohl. Sehun’s blond hair is slicked back and they look like they fit in perfectly well, with all these business tycoons and A-list celebrities. Zitao even smiles for some cameras that mistake them for being paparazzi-worthy, and Sehun stays stony-faced the whole time. A few curious onlookers seem to ask each other who that handsome pair is, and Zitao skillfully, gracefully, grabs a champagne flute, knocking it back and putting the empty glass on another passing tray.
They split up once they’re in the crowd -- Sehun to the gambling tables, Zitao to the social circles. Between the two of them they work the people effortlessly; Sehun with his perfect poker face, winning rounds of craps with mostly bluffs rather than luck, and Zitao flirting his way through diamonds and rubies and if he could steal those Loubitons off her feet he damn well would.
Sehun loves watching Zitao during these functions. Their intentions are never innocent, slide of hand and quick-witted smiles, Zitao thrives with their makeshift stage. Women and men alike trying to get his attention, flirting with him; asking him who he is, where he’s from, and him playing the foreigner card so effortlessly one would never believe he lives in a studio apartment in a run-down part of town instead of an exotic palace by the ocean.
After a few rounds, Sehun stops gambling. If he kept going, people would realize the tricks up his sleeve (literally) and card counting. The hidden pocket of his tuxedo vest is stuffed with his winning tickets and he makes his way over to the exchange counter to turn them in for cash. He smiles coolly at the girl handling the register as he slides over his winnings, leaning against the ledge, taking a cursory glance around the hall. Zitao is on the opposite side and the cheeky bastard is clasping a newly acquired watch around his wrist without a care, like he actually owns a Rolex. He catches Sehun’s eye and Sehun nods his head, watching as Zitao charmingly excuses himself from the social foray.
Sehun’s tucking the cash into his suddenly fattened wallet when Zitao approaches and slides a hand over the small of his back.
“Lady Luck on your side tonight?” Zitao asks, kissing the shell of Sehun’s ear.
“Lady Luck is always on my side,” Sehun says with a little smirk, nudging Zitao away so they can exit the party relatively unnoticed.
Tonight’s winnings will pay the next two month’s rent, and Zitao will have to visit a pawn store in the next city over to get away with all the jewels he heisted.
--
“What are we doing?” Zitao asks one day, lounging on the couch with his head on Sehun’s lap. For as much as they can afford, they stick to basic cable and Netflix through their Wii, and Sehun’s clicking through movies as Zitao enjoys the perks of the younger’s fingers running through his hair. Sehun doesn’t say anything, and like usual, Zitao takes it as his cue to keep talking. “Don’t you wonder?”
“We’re making it,” Sehun says, barely blinking as he looks through the murder documentaries. “Just like you said we would.” He adjusts his feet on the coffee table; the ashtray gets pushed aside and he almost knocks over the bong, and he watches it wobble for a second, before being satisfied when it doesn’t go crashing to the floor.
“It’d be nice if you smiled or something when you say that,” Zitao says, pout evident in his voice.
Sehun glances down at him, and the sight of Zitao actually pouting, nose scrunched, lips pursed, eyes wet, makes the younger snort and pinch the bridge of Zitao’s nose. “I’m smiling on the inside~”
“Yah--” Zitao squirms and flails, batting at Sehun’s hand to get it away from his face. “Asshole.”
Sehun just grins as Zitao sits up and stands up from the couch. Grabbing the collar of his shirt, Zitao pulls the fabric off of his body and tosses it as Sehun’s head, and Sehun has no reaction as he lifts a hand and pulls the shirt off, letting it lump on his lap, eyes still on the tv.
“Ahem,” Zitao clears his throat.
Sehun flicks his gaze up towards the man of his dreams, his escape from reality, his anchor to the Earth.
“I’m being seductive,” Zitao points out needlessly.
Sehun reaches out, both hands on Zitao’s hips, tugging him down onto his lap, Netflix forgotten as Sehun leans up and lands a kiss on Zitao’s collar bone. “I love you.”
“Don’t ruin the mood,” Zitao laughs, though he melts easily under Sehun’s touch.
Tonight they’re planning on tagging the rich area of Gangnam, right by one of the prestigious private schools. Until then… Sehun will take his turn of tending to Zitao.
It’s the least he can do, after all.
Pairing: Sehun/Tao
Rating: R
Summary: They tag the walls but Sehun knows that Zitao’s name is written all over his heart in inky black graffiti.
notes: for appia happy late birthday!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i strayed i’m sorry
probably typos and past-tense problems but i actually tried to edit this ok
tagging hearts;
The rattling of the can at 3am is probably way too loud, but Sehun doesn’t care as he lifts it up and presses on the aerosol nozzle, the mind-numbing scent following the red paint filtering through his nostrils. Next to him Zitao has a black can, and they’re working on a piece together. In a dark alley that no one passes by at this time of night, in a less-than-stellar business district, they’ll likely not even be suspected of anything. They work quietly and in tandem, Sehun switching out the red for orange, filling in the outlines that Zitao is leaving with graceful arcs of his wrist and hand.
After about an hour they stand back and look up at their masterpiece. It’s their best yet, Sehun thinks, as he looks at the rays of the sun that Zitao had needed to stand on Sehun’s shoulders to complete. A sunrise in a dark alley before the sun itself rises. Next week it’ll be painted over--
Zitao takes out his cell phone, snapping a picture in the low light of early dawn, no doubt to post it up to instagram when they get home. Sehun rolls his eyes and shoves him; Zitao almost drops his phone and whips his head to glare at Sehun, but Sehun is smiling, and then Zitao’s chasing him down the alley and out onto the sidewalk where the street lamps are turning off and the first birds are chirping.
--
“Thirty bucks for a shirt?” Sehun whistles under his breath as he fingers the material of the long sleeved graphic tee placed neatly on a hanger. “Do they expect kids our age to be able to afford this crap?” he eyes Zitao, who is rifling through a rack of v-necks. “How do you afford it?”
Zitao glances up, flashing him a killer sharp smile. “Ten finger discount.”
Sehun snorts. Of course. He knows. He just likes to bitch occasionally. He glances at the messenger bag Zitao carries around with him wherever they go and knows that Zitao has stuffed plenty of questionable things in there. From t-shirts to shoes, to jewelry for his many ear piercings, Huang Zitao is slick. Sehun can’t recall him ever getting in trouble or even raising suspicion. Sehun’s a bit envious; but then again, why envy when he can ask Zitao to get him something?
“This is pretty,” Zitao comments, holding up a printed button down to his frame, smoothing it over his torso to check the size. Sehun thinks Zitao looks pretty in anything, but he doesn’t dare say it out loud. Not when Zitao already knows.
They make their way casually through the racks, nodding and smiling politely at the clerks as they offer help. Zitao is stealthy in the way he never has anything in his hands for too long -- he just looks like a picky shopper and like Sehun is his unwilling partner. Which isn’t half wrong. Sehun knows he won’t be spending any money on clothes and money not spent on clothes could be spent buying a spliff and he could really use one right about now. Anxiety is jittering in the back of his mind and normally it’s not a problem but Zitao is taking too long and Sehun isn’t paranoid by any means, but he is impatient.
After about thirty minutes of useless wandering and Zitao even boldly asking the clerk if a pair of sunglasses look alright on his face, they leave the store empty-handed. Zitao’s messenger bag barely looks any fuller but Sehun knows he has at least two new outfits in there.
--
“Oops, I’m sorry!” Zitao splutters in thickly accented Korean, as he stumbles over a dog that wandered too far away from its owner and caused him to jostle right into the path of a businessman.
Sehun is the dog owner. Well, honestly, he dog-sits part time to earn some money and today he and Zitao are using it to their advantage. He’s got a lazy, unapologetic look on his face as he tugs gently on the leash and gets the Labrador to come back to him, ruffling his ears affectionately. This is the best dog to use for this trick; everyone loves this dumb, dopey, happy face looking up at them so eagerly.
Zitao is bowing profusely and apologizing, half in Korean and half in Mandarin and the businessman awkwardly waves him off, clearly annoyed and obviously late for wherever he’s going. He assures Zitao stiffly that it’s alright, and then makes his way down the road. Zitao continues on the path, and Sehun lazily follows, allowing Ppyong to sniff his way around street lamps and benches.
When Sehun and Zitao converge at the ice cream stand around the corner, Zitao is buying two generous cones. One with extra sprinkles -- Sehun’s favorite. Sehun smiles as he approaches and takes the cone from Zitao’s fingers, the other man’s eyes sparkling with mischief and content.
“That guy was loaded,” the older says, holding his cone out of the way as he kneels down and ruffles Ppyong’s golden, furry head. “Good boy. You’ll get a treat when we get home.”
Ppyong barks and wags his tail as Zitao slips the stolen wallet into the back pocket of his skinny jeans.
--
“Nh,” Sehun writhes on the bed, his fingers tangled in coarse blond locks, nipples hard, chest heaving and toes curling into the sheets. Zitao’s kissing his way down his stomach, tongue tracing over the scars that Sehun left during a difficult time in middle school. He’s reverent and always so full of passion in everything he does, and it tends to leave Sehun winded.
Zitao’s finely manicured hands spread Sehun’s knees apart so he can settle between them. They’re both naked and the window is open, curtain fluttering in the breeze, fan stirring up the heady atmosphere of the room. The whirring noise is hardly enough to drown out the sounds that Zitao’s touch pull from Sehun’s lips, but it’s enough to break the knot that forms occasionally in Sehun’s stomach whenever Zitao makes eye contact with him.
On the dresser in the corner there’s a pretty display of every wallet ever pickpocketed -- women’s clutches to men’s billfolds, ranging in colors shapes and sizes. There’s jewelry hanging on a pretty stand, waiting for the right time to be pawned off; the drawers are full of clothes unpaid for, the closet bearing the same effort as the clothes hang innocently, brand new on the hangers, unwashed as of yet. Their apartment is modest -- the air conditioner breaks every summer about halfway through, and they’ve finally invested in heated blankets for when the furnace decides to crap out and let the building freeze over in the winter. They have one couch, one bed, one table with two chairs, one bathroom, and half a kitchen complete with a tiny oven and a fridge that Zitao has to do regular maintenance on in order for it to refrigerate properly. It’s been home for four years.
Sehun wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Light hazel eyes meet chocolate brown as they lock gazes, and Zitao moves up to kiss Sehun’s lips tenderly, reverently. They finish each other off with their hands, the busy-ness of the day catching up to them and they fall asleep in each other’s arms, content in what they have.
--
It was the second day of high school and Sehun had just transferred in. His mom had passed him from school to school but he got in trouble everywhere -- smoking, skipping class, not doing his homework. Maybe this school will be good for you, she had said, because she believed that there was nothing wrong with her only son… just that he was mal-adjusted everywhere else. On the first day Sehun seemed to blend in seamlessly, if not for his cotton candy pink hair and lavender circle lenses that set him apart, visually, from the crowd. But he did his homework and listened during lectures and didn’t speak out of turn, milling about from class to class, even actually staying in the cafeteria to eat instead of lurking and searching for the exit to the roof.
He’d lasted in good graces for about a week before he met Huang Zitao. And oh, what a meeting.
Some guys had finally had enough of ‘that quiet, twink exchange student’ and had him cornered during P.E. on the track field. Wearing a thin tee and shorts that barely covered anything, Sehun could only mentally curse the board of education and their thoughts on what would be ‘easy’ to exercise in. Skinny arms folded across an equally slender chest and Sehun noted, by the color of their shorts, that he was older than the punks that were currently circling him.
“What’s with your hair?” one of the kids had sneered, while another picked up dirt and sprinkled it atop his soft pink locks.
Sehun said nothing.
“Why do you wear those girly contacts?” a taller one asked, leaning forward and squinting at Sehun’s face. “They make you look more like a girl than half the real girls in this school.”
Sehun said nothing.
“Do you think he even has a dick?” the first kid’s eyes dropped down to Sehun’s shorts, and Sehun couldn’t even be bothered to blush or close his legs. He was used to this.
“Do any of you have dicks or do you act like assholes to compensate for your lack of balls?” came a voice out of nowhere, and the boys all froze, before taking a hurried step back away from Sehun.
Sehun’s savior came in the form of a boy with inky black hair and thick eyeliner, piercings lining his ears and rather… beefy arms folded across a slender chest. He actually looked good in that stupid uniform and Sehun arched a delicate brow, before watching the boys scatter. After blinking a few times, Sehun ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it to get the dirt out.
“Thanks,” he said, glancing up at his hero.
The other student, a year older than Sehun with blue shorts, nodded and offered a surprisingly kind smile that totally contradicted his sharp features. “You’re welcome. Although, between me and you,” the other leaned forward a bit, and when his voice dropped, Sehun could hear the soft accent on his tongue, “next time anyone gives you shit, just tell them that Zitao has his eye on you.” He leaned back, then offered a wink before slinking away, heading back to the high jump where his class was competing.
Zitao.
Sehun would never forget it.
--
In the Spring, Sehun was actually doing well with school. He wasn’t honor roll status but he was passing all his classes and no longer being bullied, thanks to a few utterances of ‘Zitao’ and ‘me’ in the same sentence. He wasn’t sure why that made people scram so quick, but he was thankful; and it was then that he realized he’d never succeeded in other schools because he was a lone wolf. No one looked out for him.
But now that Zitao ‘had his eye on him’, Sehun felt himself pulling forward. Actually seeing a future beyond school-- college, maybe? He was really good with numbers and design and his mother encouraged him to take some pre-req architecture courses. But… Zitao had his eye on him. Sehun could feel his gaze almost everywhere.
It was slightly unnerving, but it kept people away from Sehun long enough for him to focus on what was important.
“Hey,” Zitao had come around the corner, and slung an arm around Sehun’s shoulders. It wasn’t often Zitao actually approached Sehun and physically, or verbally interacted with him -- Sehun stayed cool, adjusting his gait so Zitao’s weight didn’t hunch him over. “Do you smoke?”
Sehun chewed his lip. He hadn’t smoked in a long time-- basically, he’d quit once he started doing good in school. He didn’t have a reason to smoke anymore; he wasn’t stressed out, he wasn’t rebelling. But Zitao was now talking to him, offering him a smoke, and well… Sehun won’t deny. Especially because, sometimes, he thought about what he can do to repay Zitao back for his silent guardianship.
A smoke wouldn’t hurt.
They made their way onto the roof, a route that Sehun didn’t even know existed, located back by the janitor’s closet. Zitao sat down on the ground, nowhere near the edge, and pulled a crumpled pack of pink Capri 100’s out of his pocket. Sehun snorted, and sat down next to him.
“What,” Zitao said, putting a cig between his lips, the corner of his feline mouth quirking up into a smirk as he lifted a zippo and flicked it a few times. Butane must be low. “You a Camel guy?”
“Yeah, but I like the pink pack, too,” he said, able to envision the black Camel box with pink lining, stuffed into the back corner of his sock drawer.
Zitao just chuckled, puffing his cigarette to life before holding one out for Sehun. Sehun took it and put it between his index and middle finger, leaning forward for Zitao to light it. A slow, long drag, and the nicotine flowed through him like nirvana mixed with tar, his eyes closing for a brief second. The smoke dried out his lenses a bit, but he didn’t care too much.
“I see you’ve been doing well,” Zitao said, sitting up a bit. He sat indian style, and Sehun noticed that instead of the uniform slacks, Zitao wore skinny jeans.
“Thanks to you,” Sehun said easily, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back on a hand. Zitao didn’t comment on the feminine way Sehun held his cigarette with his fingers.
“You’re welcome,” Zitao said, and after that, they sat in silence for a bit.
Zitao stared up at the clouds, and Sehun stared over at Zitao. The other didn’t say anything -- he noticed, clearly, but didn’t seem to care. Sehun had a lot of things he wanted to ask, but… he was never too good with words. Verbage was not something he was blessed with and it’s what got him in trouble at most of his schools. ‘Lack of communication’, his teachers and peers would say.
“I’m gonna drop out,” Zitao said, matter-of-factly. His cigarette was halfway done and he stubbed it out, putting the half-smoked butt back into the carton, shoving it into his pocket.
Sehun continued to drag on his cigarette, even as he arched a brow in Zitao’s direction. “Why?”
Zitao shrugged, “School isn’t going to offer me anything in the long run. I can make it on my own without an education.”
Bold, Sehun remembers thinking. He licked his lips, and ‘what’s going to happen to me’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back, because it was hanging in the air anyway. Zitao lifted a hand, raised it, and waved away the ‘to me’ that was floating in front of Sehun’s face. A feral smirk graced Zitao’d features and he leaned in close to Sehun, his nose almost touching Sehun’s cheek.
“I could make it on my own with you.”
Sehun wasn’t sure what that meant, but he fell into the trap anyway.
--
Sehun still looks back on their last day of school -- how Zitao had brought silly string and window markers and decorated Sehun’s home room class with cartoon characters and sloppily written Hangul. Sehun remembers standing up in the middle of roll call and grabbing his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and climbing out of the open window to meet Zitao, who had some silly string in his hair, the sound of his teacher yelling from inside the classroom a dull echo compared to the symphony that rang in his ears when Zitao kissed him for the first time.
Now, in their modest apartment four years later, Sehun can’t even be upset that he got sucked into dropping out of school and disappointing his mother, who had finally started to believe that her son straightened out. He can’t be upset -- no way. Not when he’s watching Zitao work on the refrigerator in a tank top and boxer briefs, sweaty and frustrated as he uses a few tools to try and get the fan to work again. They have a mini plug-in fridge for back up in instances like this, because it doesn’t usually take Zitao long to fix the fridge.
They’ve come a long way; Sehun’s hair is more tame colors, like blonds and silvers and sometimes brown, and he no longer wears those circle lenses. Zitao has acquired more piercings and even a few tattoos, but for the most part, they’re still the same gangly kids that decided to leave high school and chase a dream together.
“There,” Zitao says, as the fan starts whirring quietly again. He shuts the freezer door and re-opens it a few times, just to make sure that it’s working properly, before he starts putting the food from the mini fridge back into the regular one.
“Where are we going tonight?” Sehun asks, hanging over the arm of the couch upside down. Zitao looks shorter, from this angle, as he wipes the sweat from his brow. “It’s Friday.”
Zitao smirks and grabs a dish towel, mopping his face. “The Hilton.”
--
Dressed to the nines in slacks, button downs and vests, Zitao’s got a fedora on his head and his eyes lined dark with kohl. Sehun’s blond hair is slicked back and they look like they fit in perfectly well, with all these business tycoons and A-list celebrities. Zitao even smiles for some cameras that mistake them for being paparazzi-worthy, and Sehun stays stony-faced the whole time. A few curious onlookers seem to ask each other who that handsome pair is, and Zitao skillfully, gracefully, grabs a champagne flute, knocking it back and putting the empty glass on another passing tray.
They split up once they’re in the crowd -- Sehun to the gambling tables, Zitao to the social circles. Between the two of them they work the people effortlessly; Sehun with his perfect poker face, winning rounds of craps with mostly bluffs rather than luck, and Zitao flirting his way through diamonds and rubies and if he could steal those Loubitons off her feet he damn well would.
Sehun loves watching Zitao during these functions. Their intentions are never innocent, slide of hand and quick-witted smiles, Zitao thrives with their makeshift stage. Women and men alike trying to get his attention, flirting with him; asking him who he is, where he’s from, and him playing the foreigner card so effortlessly one would never believe he lives in a studio apartment in a run-down part of town instead of an exotic palace by the ocean.
After a few rounds, Sehun stops gambling. If he kept going, people would realize the tricks up his sleeve (literally) and card counting. The hidden pocket of his tuxedo vest is stuffed with his winning tickets and he makes his way over to the exchange counter to turn them in for cash. He smiles coolly at the girl handling the register as he slides over his winnings, leaning against the ledge, taking a cursory glance around the hall. Zitao is on the opposite side and the cheeky bastard is clasping a newly acquired watch around his wrist without a care, like he actually owns a Rolex. He catches Sehun’s eye and Sehun nods his head, watching as Zitao charmingly excuses himself from the social foray.
Sehun’s tucking the cash into his suddenly fattened wallet when Zitao approaches and slides a hand over the small of his back.
“Lady Luck on your side tonight?” Zitao asks, kissing the shell of Sehun’s ear.
“Lady Luck is always on my side,” Sehun says with a little smirk, nudging Zitao away so they can exit the party relatively unnoticed.
Tonight’s winnings will pay the next two month’s rent, and Zitao will have to visit a pawn store in the next city over to get away with all the jewels he heisted.
--
“What are we doing?” Zitao asks one day, lounging on the couch with his head on Sehun’s lap. For as much as they can afford, they stick to basic cable and Netflix through their Wii, and Sehun’s clicking through movies as Zitao enjoys the perks of the younger’s fingers running through his hair. Sehun doesn’t say anything, and like usual, Zitao takes it as his cue to keep talking. “Don’t you wonder?”
“We’re making it,” Sehun says, barely blinking as he looks through the murder documentaries. “Just like you said we would.” He adjusts his feet on the coffee table; the ashtray gets pushed aside and he almost knocks over the bong, and he watches it wobble for a second, before being satisfied when it doesn’t go crashing to the floor.
“It’d be nice if you smiled or something when you say that,” Zitao says, pout evident in his voice.
Sehun glances down at him, and the sight of Zitao actually pouting, nose scrunched, lips pursed, eyes wet, makes the younger snort and pinch the bridge of Zitao’s nose. “I’m smiling on the inside~”
“Yah--” Zitao squirms and flails, batting at Sehun’s hand to get it away from his face. “Asshole.”
Sehun just grins as Zitao sits up and stands up from the couch. Grabbing the collar of his shirt, Zitao pulls the fabric off of his body and tosses it as Sehun’s head, and Sehun has no reaction as he lifts a hand and pulls the shirt off, letting it lump on his lap, eyes still on the tv.
“Ahem,” Zitao clears his throat.
Sehun flicks his gaze up towards the man of his dreams, his escape from reality, his anchor to the Earth.
“I’m being seductive,” Zitao points out needlessly.
Sehun reaches out, both hands on Zitao’s hips, tugging him down onto his lap, Netflix forgotten as Sehun leans up and lands a kiss on Zitao’s collar bone. “I love you.”
“Don’t ruin the mood,” Zitao laughs, though he melts easily under Sehun’s touch.
Tonight they’re planning on tagging the rich area of Gangnam, right by one of the prestigious private schools. Until then… Sehun will take his turn of tending to Zitao.
It’s the least he can do, after all.