title: dépaysement (2/?)
pairing: kaisoo, kaixing (my ships are colliding and this fic is exploding)
rating: pg-15
genre: au, romance
length: (??? probably short. there’s only so much I can write before I end up killing myself because it won’t come out the way I want it to.)
summary: Kyungsoo’s a fashion editor, Yixing’s a designer, Jongin’s an ex-dancer. They’re in Hong Kong: Kyungsoo for work, Jongin to d.o. (hahaha) something with his life, and Yixing for unicorns.
a/n: yey SATs are over… but that doesn’t mean the quality of my writing will get any better sob. also apparently in Korea “your name-ah” or “your name-sshi” is respect/affection? oh and “your name-hyung” is said by a guy talking to his older brother or another older guy that he’s close to. also, this installment was somewhat inspired by lots of EXO polaroids so.
Jongin starts, this time entirely unable to hold back his shock. He whirls around to confront Kyungsoo, who’s standing guardedly behind him with an indecipherable expression in his eyes.
“You … this… what…?” he sputters, anger and disbelief coagulating into flames as he stares at Kyungsoo, refusing to back down. This time, Kyungsoo is the one to drop his gaze first, studying his black leather shoes almost meditatively. Finally, he heaves a sigh and turns away from Jongin, back to the orderly rows of black and white, now missing the snapshot that Jongin is still grasping with icy fingers.
“This wasn’t the way I wanted to… whatever, screw it.” He inhales slowly and holds the breath before letting all the air rush out in a frustrated stream.
“A few months after you left Seoul Dance Academy on an ‘extended break’, Vogue Korea sent me to look for you. To see if you were interested in walking for us.” At Jongin’s blank silence, he clarifies: “Walking down the runway. In other words, modeling in the Fall/Winter Hong Kong Fashion Week show.” He turns and meets Jongin’s eyes again, hands full of other prospective models’ faces, and waits for Jongin to say something.
Jongin merely gapes at him, conflicting thoughts racing through his mind at the same time. Seoul Dance Academy? He knows… Model? Hong Kong Fashion Week? Vogue Korea. They know. Who could have … that means everyone—
Kyungsoo looks up at him with thinly veiled, bitter amusement, catching at glimpses of the Jongin behind his Kai façade and filing them away for later inspection. “It’s okay. Breathe. Oxygen is good. I know, I know, it’s a lot to take in at once. And in case you still haven’t grasped who I am, I’m a fashion editor for Vogue Korea, and this year we’ve signed a contract with a certain designer. Except said designer won’t let us show his collection exclusively, unless you model for him. That was his only condition.”
Sighs again, scratches the back of his neck with one small, delicate hand. Jongin idly thinks that Kyungsoo’s hands would be dwarfed against his own, then wonders why that thought even entered his head.
“I was trying to be your friend at first, you know. Despite a year of trying to learn Mandarin, it’s not going so well. And I heard you speaking Korean— then you introduced yourself to me as ‘Kai’. I wasn’t expecting to find you here…” His voice trails off uncomfortably as he seems to suddenly remember that Jongin’s still standing there in front of him, listening to him ramble.
“So, um, take a few days to think it over. This should be a one-time thing; we’re definitely not asking you to model permanently for us. You could even keep smoking outside the apartment complex, pretending you’re not waiting for me.” He picks up a photograph, trying and failing to hide the sly smirk that slips onto his face.
“I— I wasn’t—“ and Jongin doesn’t even wonder how Kyungsoo can see through him so easily as he works furiously to meld into Kai again: calm, cool, and sardonically collected. “Why would I do this for someone I just met, Vogue Korea or not? You said it yourself; I’m on an ‘extended break.’” Injects as much sarcasm as he can into the last two words.
Kyungsoo merely waves this aside, pursing his lips as he holds another photograph up to the light and studies it with absent-minded focus. “The designer said you’d react like this, so he told me to give you this.”
He picks up yet another photograph off the table, further down the same row that Jongin had broken and hands it to him, feigning disinterest but keeping his attention on Jongin’s face from the corners of his eyes. Jongin notices this, and he’s determined not to let his mask crack. It’s for this reason, and this reason only, that he manages not to react when he sees the two people in the snapshot.
It’s of Yixing, and him, of course, but it’s Yixing’s face that his eyes immediately focus on and Jongin forgets to breathe as he remembers how devastatingly beautiful Yixing is. The Jongin in the photograph seems to be thinking along the same line, all predatory possessiveness and naked desire in his eyes, because of course Jongin’s facing Yixing like the camera’s not even there. In the border, someone’s written, in slightly smudged ink: “Jongin-ah, when did you become Kai-sshi?”
“Yixing… wants me to model for him,” He mutters aloud, listening to how the words sound strangely in the air. His fingers cage around the photo so that his thumb covers his photographic face and all he can see are Yixing’s dreamy, glimmering eyes. “Why?”
Kyungsoo shrugs, searching Jongin’s once-smooth veneer for any hint of explosion, even as the fiery anger is smothered by confusion (and nostalgia and maybe a little bit of hope). “He didn’t give a reason. He just said your name, mind you, it was ‘Jongin’ at the time, and gave me this photograph in case you were still ‘as contrary as before’. His words, not mine.”
“Jongin-ah, let’s take a picture.” Yixing says while pulling out his instant film camera. He turns it around to point it at Jongin and himself and takes it before Jongin can fully turn to face the camera, chuckling.
“Xingxing!” Jongin whines in amused protest, poking Yixing in the side. “I wasn’t ready! Take one more,” and this time Yixing turns it to focus on Jongin. He pulls out the two Polaroids and lays them out on the scuffed dance studio floor, laughing softly. In the first photo, Yixing is looking at the camera, and Jongin is looking at Yixing, with sleep-droopy eyes and mussed hair. The second has caught Jongin smirking, eyes never leaving the photographic Yixing at the border of the film.
Yixing’s fingers card through his hair, gently but somehow conveying a sense of dark urgency. He’s always in a rush to get somewhere else, forgetfully absent-minded, like most artists Jongin knows, and patiently caring, unlike most people Jongin knows. He’s curled up against Yixing’s side right now, not caring that he’s all sweaty and disgusting after three hours of dancing out his soul. Yixing doesn’t seem to mind, either, but when Jongin twists upwards to meet Yixing’s eyes, they’re far away, somewhere Jongin can’t tie him down. That unfamiliar look in Yixing’s eyes shakes him for some reason (had it always been there?) and he quickly looks away before falling asleep to the steady, comforting rhythm of Yixing’s fingers still weaving through his hair.
When Jongin wakes up with a start, he’s been carefully propped up against the icy mirror, fingers still trying ineffectually to grasp at a Yixing long gone. He looks around wildly for Yixing before his eyes settle on a photograph that’s been pinned to the wall beside him. It’s the second photo they took, the light and focus on himself, with Yixing blurred and indistinct around the edges. There’s something written in messy and almost illegible Korean on the white border, and Jongin squints as he tries to read the message left for him.
“Jongin- ah, I’ve never been very good at good-byes. But you want to be a dancer, and I’ll only drag you and your dreams down. Sooner or later you’ll get over this fascination you seem to have with me, and I’ll only be heavyweight. If you ever need your Yixing-hyung, I’ll be in Hong Kong.
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