Standing Still
Fandom: Exo, Kris-centric
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 969
Written for Challenge 7 at aideshou. non-AU.
Standing Still
The one thing about Korea that’s not so different, Kris thinks when he’s standing by himself on his balcony in the early early morning, is the snow. Come November, the air is cold with the promise of it every day until March. And the snow doesn’t look all that different, either. It’s just snow, white and frigid and painfully beautiful.
Kris has lived in Korea for a long time. There was a period, sometime between the end of culture shock and the onset of the terrors of fame, when he rather enjoyed it: the night markets, the clubs, the newfound ease of communication, the solidified friendships. It had been fun, and surprisingly straightforward, while it lasted.
But those days are gone and he finds himself standing on the balcony at four in the morning instead, wondering if there’s anyone waiting below, camera poised to capture shots of him in his pajama pants and warmest coat. He doesn’t look down, just reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette and a lighter. He doesn’t smoke often (your voice is a disaster already he hears Jongdae tease wouldn’t want to make it even worse), but sometimes he can’t think of anything better to do when it’s somewhere between too late and too early to be awake and he can’t sleep. He takes a drag and blows the smoke out in a single gust, a cloud of chemicals and mild euphoria surrounding him for a second before dissipating.
Kris is used to having multiple names. Jiaheng for his family. Kevin for his friends. Kris and Yifan for the public. He hates when they mix, when over-attached fans call him one of his given names at fansignings, when his parents call him Kevin in public, so awkward and unnatural for them. They’re not separate, per se, but each one is different to him, refers to a way he exists that doesn’t fit in every circle he runs with. It’s nice to hear Kevin from his friends back home, when they Skype him and tease him about silly things he’s done or said on TV, Kris chanted in unison by the fans, Jiaheng when his mother calls him a little too early in the morning, never quite remembering exactly what the time difference is.
He finishes the cigarette faster than he wants to and considers lighting another one, but decides against it and shoves his hands back in his pockets again. The lights of Seoul blur together in a reddish mass before him, punctuated by too-big snowflakes floating down from the sky, settling in his hair and on his clothing. He watches his breath, even warmer than usual, come out in small puffs, faint white clouds evaporating before his eyes.
He’s never quite sure how to introduce himself these days. It’s easy on TV, on stage. Kris Kris Kris nothing but Kris, because that was what he picked as a stage name and the company was adamant about using it. It makes sense to him, too, because the guy on stage that looks like him, who's called Kris, isn’t exactly Kevin; Kris is a condensed version, the one that is good at keeping things in place, at speaking when no one else will, at saying exactly what the situation requires. Kevin is a lot less confident, a lot less domineering, and, in his opinion, probably more likable, although the way the fans react to him sometimes makes him doubt that. When he meets new people he doesn’t always know which one he is at the moment, which one he ought to say he is. Kevin doesn’t feel quite right when he’s not dealing with people from back home; Kris is still too new, too calculated, too obvious a declaration of his stardom. It’s easy, he thinks, for people like Yixing and Zitao, who don’t identify anything special with their names. Their onstage personas are essentially their full selves, the exact same Yixing and Zitao he’d gone through training with. Lay speaks a little less than the real Yixing, Tao seems even shier, but they’re essentially the same, and they know their stage names are irrelevant to who they are. Minseok and Jongdae don’t identify with their names in any given way; they’re just easier because there are Chinese characters associated with them. Lu Han was blessed with the right to keep his own name. He doesn’t resent them for it. He understands why his name means so much more for him, why Kris and Kevin have diverged more than he thought they would, why he's diverged from the guy he used to be quite a bit more than he expected to. It’s not as if Kris isn’t him. It is. It’s just not all of him, the way Kevin isn’t all of him anymore, the way Jiaheng never was, either, because it was so completely personal, a part of his family life and nothing else.
Kris thinks he understands why people sleep at night. It’s so much easier to think at night than during the day. There’s something about the way the sky darkens and the clouds open up and the animals go to sleep that sets him off, thinking about things he doesn’t want to, doesn’t have time for. He takes a hand out of his pocket, holds it over the balcony for a minute or two, watches the snow collect and melt against the warmth of his skin. He blows the water off his hand and it mixes with the snow in the air, falling to the street below. His watch tells him it’s nearly 4:30, and he knows they need to be up by 8 for rehearsals starting at 9. Wiping his still wet hand on his pants, he turns, opens the door to the apartment, and wanders back inside.
Rating: pg
Wordcount: 969
Written for Challenge 7 at aideshou. non-AU.
Standing Still
The one thing about Korea that’s not so different, Kris thinks when he’s standing by himself on his balcony in the early early morning, is the snow. Come November, the air is cold with the promise of it every day until March. And the snow doesn’t look all that different, either. It’s just snow, white and frigid and painfully beautiful.
Kris has lived in Korea for a long time. There was a period, sometime between the end of culture shock and the onset of the terrors of fame, when he rather enjoyed it: the night markets, the clubs, the newfound ease of communication, the solidified friendships. It had been fun, and surprisingly straightforward, while it lasted.
But those days are gone and he finds himself standing on the balcony at four in the morning instead, wondering if there’s anyone waiting below, camera poised to capture shots of him in his pajama pants and warmest coat. He doesn’t look down, just reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette and a lighter. He doesn’t smoke often (your voice is a disaster already he hears Jongdae tease wouldn’t want to make it even worse), but sometimes he can’t think of anything better to do when it’s somewhere between too late and too early to be awake and he can’t sleep. He takes a drag and blows the smoke out in a single gust, a cloud of chemicals and mild euphoria surrounding him for a second before dissipating.
Kris is used to having multiple names. Jiaheng for his family. Kevin for his friends. Kris and Yifan for the public. He hates when they mix, when over-attached fans call him one of his given names at fansignings, when his parents call him Kevin in public, so awkward and unnatural for them. They’re not separate, per se, but each one is different to him, refers to a way he exists that doesn’t fit in every circle he runs with. It’s nice to hear Kevin from his friends back home, when they Skype him and tease him about silly things he’s done or said on TV, Kris chanted in unison by the fans, Jiaheng when his mother calls him a little too early in the morning, never quite remembering exactly what the time difference is.
He finishes the cigarette faster than he wants to and considers lighting another one, but decides against it and shoves his hands back in his pockets again. The lights of Seoul blur together in a reddish mass before him, punctuated by too-big snowflakes floating down from the sky, settling in his hair and on his clothing. He watches his breath, even warmer than usual, come out in small puffs, faint white clouds evaporating before his eyes.
He’s never quite sure how to introduce himself these days. It’s easy on TV, on stage. Kris Kris Kris nothing but Kris, because that was what he picked as a stage name and the company was adamant about using it. It makes sense to him, too, because the guy on stage that looks like him, who's called Kris, isn’t exactly Kevin; Kris is a condensed version, the one that is good at keeping things in place, at speaking when no one else will, at saying exactly what the situation requires. Kevin is a lot less confident, a lot less domineering, and, in his opinion, probably more likable, although the way the fans react to him sometimes makes him doubt that. When he meets new people he doesn’t always know which one he is at the moment, which one he ought to say he is. Kevin doesn’t feel quite right when he’s not dealing with people from back home; Kris is still too new, too calculated, too obvious a declaration of his stardom. It’s easy, he thinks, for people like Yixing and Zitao, who don’t identify anything special with their names. Their onstage personas are essentially their full selves, the exact same Yixing and Zitao he’d gone through training with. Lay speaks a little less than the real Yixing, Tao seems even shier, but they’re essentially the same, and they know their stage names are irrelevant to who they are. Minseok and Jongdae don’t identify with their names in any given way; they’re just easier because there are Chinese characters associated with them. Lu Han was blessed with the right to keep his own name. He doesn’t resent them for it. He understands why his name means so much more for him, why Kris and Kevin have diverged more than he thought they would, why he's diverged from the guy he used to be quite a bit more than he expected to. It’s not as if Kris isn’t him. It is. It’s just not all of him, the way Kevin isn’t all of him anymore, the way Jiaheng never was, either, because it was so completely personal, a part of his family life and nothing else.
Kris thinks he understands why people sleep at night. It’s so much easier to think at night than during the day. There’s something about the way the sky darkens and the clouds open up and the animals go to sleep that sets him off, thinking about things he doesn’t want to, doesn’t have time for. He takes a hand out of his pocket, holds it over the balcony for a minute or two, watches the snow collect and melt against the warmth of his skin. He blows the water off his hand and it mixes with the snow in the air, falling to the street below. His watch tells him it’s nearly 4:30, and he knows they need to be up by 8 for rehearsals starting at 9. Wiping his still wet hand on his pants, he turns, opens the door to the apartment, and wanders back inside.