All the Lines We Cast (Han Geng/Zhou Mi, R)

[sujuexchange]

Title: All the Lines We Cast
Author: meiface
Recipient: lixia84
Characters/Pairings: Han Geng/Zhou Mi
Rating: R
Genre(s): General, non-AU
Warnings: N/A
Word Count: 19,200
Summary: Han Geng’s interest in Super Junior M didn’t end when he left and it’s Zhou Mi now, with mixed feelings, who bears the brunt of that interest. They’re no longer bandmates and they were never friends, but they still find themselves tangled together two and some years on.

Author's Note: Included within is a very liberal version of reality. Most non-essential characters having been gifted with names from my imagination (save other celebrities). The gritty details of how the industry and concerts work are also invented as to be vaguely plausible and not as a blueprint of reality, as I am not personally familiar with said details, so forgive any inaccuracies. Many, many thanks to my amazingly helpful betas L and J; all remaining mistakes are mine alone.

Dear lixia84, I have always wanted to explore the potential relationship between GengMi, so your prompt was a perfect excuse! I then watched the story grow in size and length with mixed horror and fascination. Who knew I had this much to say? I hope I hit on a lot of what you wanted, though, and a lot of what you like. I tried to sneak in some KyuSung and HyukMin from your other requests, along with other things I had hopes you’d like resulting from my in-depth research (i.e., stalking your journal) (sorry about the creeping!). Happy holidays!


All the lines we cast into forever
Got tangled like some wreckage in the road


Kyuhyun got sick as soon as they came back from Singapore. It was the weather that did it, Zhou Mi suspected. Going from the humid warmth of a tropical wet season back to the frigid cold of Seoul in December had made Kyuhyun careless and his immune system unhappy. He bundled himself up in the dorms, stuffy and cranky as Ryeowook played concerned nursemaid. Zhou Mi kept his distance. They didn’t see each other that often anyway, running different schedules, and Zhou Mi couldn’t afford getting sick. The condition of his vocal cords weighed heavily on his mind.

It was a constant worry in the back of his thoughts, but on days like these it pushed to the forefront.

His scarf was Burberry - a gift from a fan - and Zhou Mi unwound it from around his neck as he stepped inside the building. He flashed a brief smile at the security guard as he headed for the elevators, stripping out of his gloves and tucking them in his pocket. He jabbed at the Up button. Fifth floor for the studio, where he was working with a lot of big names in the industry to help produce Super Junior M’s next album. He could hardly believe it was nearing a year since their last release - almost two and a half years since the album before that. Meaning two full years since the group had shifted fundamentally.

Zhou Mi didn’t like to dwell on it but he was a thinker despite himself. He hadn’t gotten where he was today based on talent and a smile alone, not like Henry. Henry wasn’t a kid anymore, but his straightforwardness was something that he wouldn’t grow out of. Things were simple for Henry: he wanted to do well and he wanted to be liked. It meant he tried as hard as he could and that earnestness usually won people over. That and the cheeky smile.

The elevator arrived with a sharp ding and Zhou Mi got inside, rubbing his hands over his cheeks, which were still stinging from the cold winter air. He was like Henry in some respects, wanting to do well and wanting to be liked, but he approached his goals differently. Zhou Mi was a worrier, a planner - a perfectionist. He couldn’t stop himself from analyzing everything from all angles, self-critical and always looking for ways to improve, and he knew it drove his bandmates crazy sometimes, but that was just who he was. It meant a lot of insomniac nights with too many thoughts whirling in his mind. It meant a lot of doubts about his decisions and whether or not he was making the right ones.

Zhou Mi didn’t talk about it because he did love his bandmates, loved Super Junior M, and was grateful for where he was right now, but he had bigger dreams than this. He worried sometimes if he were any closer to achieving them.

He stepped out onto the fifth floor. He bowed deep as he ran into two producers.

“Good morning,” he said. They smiled and nodded at him, passing by. They probably didn’t know his name but they recognized him from how often he was here.

The hallway was quiet as he made his way to the door marked 504B.

“Ah, Zhou Mi!” Sujeong, the music producer, and Zak, the sound engineer, were in front of the soundboard. They were each nursing a cup of coffee and leaning back in their chairs. “You’re here early.”

Zhou Mi bowed automatically, but he was smiling as he came up. “I was hoping we could get a lot done today.” Worrier or not, Zhou Mi always loved being in the studio. It wasn’t the same as performing, naturally, but there was a thrill to it as well, feeling like you were really watching the music come together. He imagined that the act of creation, of putting all the pieces together, would leave anyone a little heady.

“Look at you,” said Zak with a laugh. “So fashionable even this early in the morning. And here I am in sweats and a t-shirt.”

“Well, you don’t have fans who might stalk you on the streets with their camera phones,” Sujeong shot back. “Idols have to look presentable at all times.”

Zak winked at Zhou Mi, the lines around his eyes crinkling with his grin. “Guess I’m not cut out to be an idol then.”

“It’s not that bad,” Zhou Mi protested. His tone turned innocent. “Unless you don’t want middle schoolers sighing over the pin-up of you in their bedroom wall? I thought that was every middle-aged man’s dream.”

“Who’re you calling middle-aged? I’ll have you know my wife thinks I’m the sexiest man she knows.”

Sujeong guffawed. “Weren’t you just complaining the other day that she keeps sighing over how attractive Nichkhun is?”

Anyone would be hard-pressed not to admit that Nichkhun was easy on the eyes - and charming and well-mannered to boot. However, you might be less inclined to enjoy those attributes if you were a middle-aged man. Zak looked long-suffering, shaking his head at his coffee.

“Damn foreigners,” he said. “Coming here and being all irresistible to our good Korean girls. You, Zhou Mi. I’m watching you.”

Zhou Mi had no interest in their good Korean girls but he laughed along anyway. “Are we still working on Track 3 today? Henry said he’d come along later in the morning, but Ryeowook can’t make it until this afternoon. Kyuhyun has a cold, so he probably won’t be in for a few days.”

The atmosphere gradually sobered as they outlined their plan for the day. They would be mostly focused on the arrangement of Track 3; the vocals had been recorded a month ago, but Sujeong wasn’t satisfied with the current sound. Depending on the outcome of the day, Zhou Mi and the others might end up back in the recording studio. In the meantime, there were mock-ups of their album design and general discussion of the overall theme and how to integrate that into their songs. All of the members had contributed their opinions at earlier sessions, but Zhou Mi was one of the few with the time to sit in daily and see things through. If his vision came through a little clearer than the others’, well, it was lucky the other members trusted his opinion. Henry and Ryeowook were around a fair amount as well, and Kyuhyun had tagged along a number of times, but on the whole the Korean members were tied up with busy promotional and variety schedules.

But there were always text messages, of course. A quick question could always be answered with a brief yes or no or do I look like a soprano to you?, in Kyuhyun’s case.

Kyuhyun, despite the image he’d somehow cultivated in his earlier years, was talkative. He had opinions and commentary on everything. It wasn’t uncommon for Zhou Mi to return to his phone after an hour and a half bent over the soundboard and talking earnestly with Sujeong and Zak to find a barrage of texts.

It was worse today. Zhou Mi’s phone alerted him that he had fourteen new texts by eleven a.m. and a quick scroll through his inbox told him eleven were from Kyuhyun. Zhou Mi wavered somewhere between fond exasperation and annoyance; being sick and cooped up in the dorms, Kyuhyun apparently had nothing better to do than harass his friends via messages. Couldn’t he sleep or game or snoop through his fansites or something?

He was poised to send a reply to that effect without even bothering to read the texts (guaranteed to contain nothing of importance, he knew from experience), when he registered the other three messages.

From: Han Geng
Subject: Hey

Zhou Mi thumbed them open. They were in Chinese.

I heard you’re going to Beijing next week. How long are you staying?

Call me when you get here, I’ll make time to see you. It’s been a while.

And the last one, sent ten minutes after the first two:

Call me. I have time this afternoon.

He stared at the last message for a long moment, eyes going unfocused.

December 2011. Almost two years since Han Geng had left. But only three months since Zhou Mi had seen him in person. Shorter still since Zhou Mi had spoken to him on the phone: that had been only two and a half weeks ago. He’d had a feeling ever since Super Junior M had been scheduled to appear in Beijing for a year-end awards show that Han Geng would want to meet up. Well, suspicion confirmed.

Given the way things had gone last time…

Zhou Mi blinked, drawing his mind back to the present. He tapped at his phone, changing the keyboard to Chinese to reply. I’ll call around 4PM, so around 3 for you. In the studio right now.

“Everything all right?” Sujeong asked, looking up from the soundboard.

Zhou Mi’s smile was reflexive. “Yes. Just making an appointment for later.” He set his phone down without replying to Kyuhyun’s litany of messages and picked up his notebook instead. “So what’s next?”

***

Zhou Mi wouldn’t say he and Han Geng were friends. In fact, he wouldn’t say he and Han Geng had ever been friends to begin with. They were passing acquaintances at first, building off their shared ethnicity and relief at being able to speak their mother tongue. It wasn’t long before they realized that as politely friendly as they could be with each other, they were disinclined to ever be truly comfortable. Han Geng was closer with his group, his long-established friends; Zhou Mi felt a closer camaraderie with Victoria, who was a trainee with him, and by extension, her friends: SHINee members, other trainees, the girls who would be her future bandmates.

By the time Super Junior M was established, Han Geng and Zhou Mi’s lines had also been drawn. They were working colleagues, civil and respectful, but very little more than that.

Left together in Beijing for nigh on eight months, they made an effort to grow closer. Han Geng confided some of his worries about the future, for the group and for himself. He talked about his dreams and his mother. He encouraged Zhou Mi when the anti sentiment persisted for months after debut. “It’ll get better,” he said and Zhou Mi smiled at him, grateful. Some part of him, however, never believed that Han Geng truly understood. Some part of him suspected that Han Geng would always resent him a little bit for bringing the backlash against what would have otherwise been an untarnished dream come true: a China subgroup with Han Geng as leader, at the forefront of the Korean wave in the Chinese market. A chance to shine at home. All marred by the Only 13 movement that dogged Zhou Mi’s every move.

They tried, but in the end Han Geng still went to Siwon first. He took care of the other members like they were his blood brothers, even Henry, because it was hard to fight the instinct to mother someone who looked so lost and meant so well. He had his friends in this country, a link to the real world when he needed a break.

It was Zhou Mi who was left feeling claustrophobic in a group whose warm touches and strained smiles tried to make up for the chants of Thirteen members! Thirteen members!

Time helped. The fervent fans, few as they were, who made sure he knew how much he was appreciated everywhere they could, helped. Deepening friendships within the group helped: even if Zhou Mi and Han Geng would never be close, Zhou Mi had Kyuhyun. He got along well with Ryeowook, who was not as meek as he appeared upon first glance, but still had one of the kindest souls of anyone Zhou Mi had ever met. He and Henry shared an awkward solidarity, strained by a language barrier, but a solidarity nonetheless.

By the Super Girl promotions, Zhou Mi could say he was happy. They were doing well and they were getting along. Han Geng might look tired more often than not and Donghae was still obviously more comfortable around Henry than Zhou Mi but - it was good. Life was good, like that.

But then the busy holiday and awards season descended upon them, and everyone was exhausted, and Siwon got sick, and Han Geng had had enough.

They found out from the news. Henry shuffled awake to scarf down breakfast and then promptly bed down again on the sofa, wrapped up in his pajama pants and a heavy sweatshirt. Zhou Mi was texting Victoria. The TV announced that Han Geng had filed a lawsuit against SM Entertainment and there had not been a response from the company as of yet. Henry stared at the TV. Zhou Mi stared at the TV.

All the lines were busy when they called. Ryeowook and Kyuhyun didn’t pick up. Donghae replied to Henry, I have no idea what’s going on.

Han Geng wasn’t speaking to anyone, it seemed.

It was three more hours before their manager called them.

Over the next few weeks, as the details of the case came out, Zhou Mi remembered the brief confessions he and Han Geng had traded in an effort to get to know each other. Han Geng had dreams and they were bigger than this, than Super Junior. His dreams were bigger than Korea, had never in fact been for Korea, had always - since the beginning - held the shape of China. Home.

They would never have understood each other, Zhou Mi realized at some point, no matter how hard they tried. Fundamentally, they saw the world differently.

Zhou Mi’s dreams held no shape. Instead, they were defined by the sharp ache behind his ribs, the catch of his breath in his throat, the buzz under his skin, a crawling need. His dreams were more raw. He wanted success. It could take whatever shape it wanted; he wasn’t so limited as Han Geng.

Over time, Zhou Mi found that this was something else for which Han Geng resented him.

***

3:05PM and Zhou Mi was standing at the window in the third floor lounge with his phone to his ear. He could see his faint reflection in the glass, eyes serious behind his black frames. Outside, the skies were pale blue and cloudless, stretching far behind the uneven horizon of busy Yeouido.

Behind him on the other side of the room, a girl sat bent over her iPod. She looked fairly young. Someone’s stylist or PA, maybe. She seemed absorbed in her music but Zhou Mi kept his voice down all the same.

“We’re scheduled to go, at any rate,” he said.

“Have you prepared your speech?”

“What speech?”

“For the award you’re surely going to win.” It was hard to tell if Han Geng was being serious or not. He sounded sincere, but Zhou Mi had long since learned not to trust the tone of someone’s voice. Certainly not Han Geng’s. “M has been doing really well. I’ve kept up.”

“Yes, we’ve done well. And I’m glad. Our fans have been amazing.”

He spoke carefully. Every conversation with Han Geng felt like a minefield. Honestly, Zhou Mi was tired of it. He was proud of how Super Junior M had pulled together without Han Geng and had managed to not only keep afloat but also do well without their frontman. The dynamic had changed, certainly, and the foundations had shifted somewhat, but it hadn’t necessarily been a bad thing.

He rather thought Han Geng felt differently. Their encounter three months ago seemed to indicate so.

“I might run into you backstage,” he was saying now. “I’m surprised SM is still letting you come after finding out that I’ll be there. Or do they not know?”

“To tell the truth, I’m waiting for a schedule change at any minute.”

Han Geng laughed. Something twisted low in Zhou Mi’s stomach. “Well, if you still end up coming, call me up.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to—” Zhou Mi hesitated. “The others would be thrilled to see you, you know. They still care about you a lot and I know you…”

A loaded pause. “Yes? What do you know about me?”

Han Geng was so much sharper in his native tongue. The others had never known him like Zhou Mi did, had never heard the cutting edge of precisely-chosen words. Han Geng wielded Mandarin like a weapon in a way he could never have managed with Korean. Zhou Mi had studied to be an MC; he knew well the power of words and the power of their delivery. It was heady, in a way, to see this unknown side to Han Geng, competent and fearless. At the same time, it made clear the division between them. No matter how Han Geng felt underneath towards the other Super Junior members, he was obviously opposed to the idea of sharing those feelings with Zhou Mi. They weren’t friends. They didn’t have to pretend anymore and they hadn’t for a long time. Han Geng didn’t welcome Zhou Mi presuming to know how he felt.

They like me better, Zhou Mi wished he could say, a petty barb. But he wasn’t even sure if that was true. He hadn’t betrayed them, true, but neither had he been there since the beginning. It made a difference.

He sighed.

“Forget it. Sorry I said anything.”

Han Geng hummed and the edge retracted, leaving him sounding warm and genuine again, like China’s favorite son. “Call me when you get here. We left some things…unresolved last time. We should talk. I’ll buy you a drink.”

Unresolved. That was one way to describe their last in-person encounter. Zhou Mi’s mind shied away from the memory, fingers curling tighter around his phone. He was frowning in his reflection, brows drawn. But Han Geng was right. They ought to resolve it, somehow, wrap up those loose ends. Talk about it.

Zhou Mi didn’t think much of talking. You had to be careful what you said in this business, of course, he’d learned his lesson well - but talking was easy. You didn’t have to think. Talking covered up the problems and the uncomfortable truths, words piling atop each other meaninglessly.

“All right. I’ll contact you when - if, I guess - we get to Beijing.”

“Good. Don’t forget to write your speech.”

“There’s no guarantee we’ll win.”

“Ah, but a good leader is always prepared, isn’t he?”

“I’m not le—”

Han Geng carried on like he hadn’t heard. “You can’t win and go up there without a speech. What if you don’t remember to thank everyone? You’re the only one fluent enough to be eloquent, Zhou Mi. You can’t embarrass M like that.”

Zhou Mi’s mouth tightened. “Don’t worry. We’ve been just fine this past year. We’ll only get better.”

A heartbeat. Oh, that had struck home. He’d probably pay for that later.

“See you next week. Think of me, Zhou Mi.”

He hung up before Zhou Mi could reply. Irritated, Zhou Mi ended the call and slipped his phone back in his bag. He resisted the urge to run a hand over his face - it would do his skin no favors and he already felt terrible. No need to make it worse.

Phone calls with Han Geng were never fun. They always left Zhou Mi annoyed or uncomfortable or both. He felt restless under his skin.

At least he was done at the studio for the day. Henry had come in right before lunch and Ryeowook would probably drop by soon, depending on whether his earlier schedule ran long. Zhou Mi didn’t need to stick around though. He made sure he had his bag and gloves before heading out, sunglasses shading his eyes from the afternoon sun.

There were a couple of girls hanging by the exit, but he couldn’t tell if they were fans or if they actually knew someone in the building they were waiting for. All the same, he smiled at them as he passed without stopping. Maybe he’d go shopping or call someone up for dinner. The last thing he wanted to do was be alone right now with his thoughts. Zhou Mi had gone down that path before many times; he knew where it led and he wasn’t interested in visiting, not today.

He hailed a cab. “Myeongdong,” he said as he climbed into the back.

***

It was always momentarily jarring to reorient himself to hearing Mandarin everywhere rather than Korean. It was faster this way than in reverse though, and by the time Zhou Mi was out of Beijing’s Capital International Airport his mind had comfortably slotted him back into the bustling world of thriving China.

Beijing wasn’t home like Wuhan was, but it was close. He’d lived here for years, gone to school here, made friends and memories stretching from the early pre-debut years to the months they’d spent with Han Geng as a hopeful, fledgling group. A mixed bag of memories, but what city wasn’t? What life wasn’t?

Eight members plus their managers meant two vans: beside Zhou Mi, Kyuhyun was passed out. He rarely ever stayed awake in moving vehicles most days but it was particularly bad during the busy end-of-year season. He looked like a child, Zhou Mi thought. An underfed, exhausted child. Not really cute. In the seat in front of them were Siwon and Henry, Siwon browsing on his phone and Henry plugged into his iPod. Zhou Mi returned to staring out the windows, drinking in the well-remembered sights.

The highway rushed by them in a blur, rows of trees lining the median disappearing into the crush of cars and high-rise of the city.

There was a crowd of fans at the entrance to their hotel. Zhou Mi was constantly impressed by their ability to dig up their travel information (alternatively, he mused, someone on their staff was acting conduit), but no longer surprised. Everyone held their bags close, ducked their heads, and pushed through behind security, per standard operating procedure. Zhou Mi smiled when he remembered - but he rarely forgot. It was part of being hyperaware of his image, something he could never help.

He glimpsed a sign or two with his name on it and the smile warmed a few degrees unconsciously. His fans might have been fewer in number, but they were amazing in heart.

“Smile, Kyuhyun,” he said, sliding an arm around Kyuhyun’s shoulders.

Kyuhyun only grunted, keeping his head down, practically catatonic as he moved on automation towards the door.

Zhou Mi shook his head, half-fond, because Kyuhyun would always be Kyuhyun, and half-deprecating. He might be fluent in Mandarin, might be forced to play spokesperson and translator, but Zhou Mi had no delusions about his position in the group. He had very little influence on what people did (outside of the studio, anyway) despite his urgings or suggestions. He got teased and indulged but he wasn’t half the leader he suspected Han Geng thought he was. He wasn’t half the leader Han Geng, with his charisma and impact, had been.

He waved at the fans in general, but directed at those shouting his name in particular. Their screams swelled in response. In front, Sungmin blew a kiss. Zhou Mi swallowed a laugh. Some girls looked on the verge of fainting. Kyuhyun didn’t bother to disguise his snort.

“Player,” Zhou Mi accused Sungmin cheerfully, once they were inside and crammed together in the elevator.

Sungmin just looked at him with wide, innocent eyes - and ruined it by grinning. “I’m just being nice,” he said.

“You really want to be nice?” said Eunhyuk. “Take off your shirt!”

“What? It’s freezing!”

“It wouldn’t stop Siwon.” Eunhyuk cackled at the wide-eyed look Siwon directed him, safely out of reach on the other side of the elevator with four people between the two of them.

Tired as they were, everyone was in good spirits. Beijing was warmer than Seoul - well, more accurately, it was less cold - by a few degrees. They were here briefly for an awards show and a performance, which meant rehearsal, interviews, mingling with other stars, and celebratory drinks. There was no guarantee they’d win, of course, but having a two day mini-vacation from their packed schedules back home entailed a little celebration anyway.

They settled into their respective hotel rooms. Zhou Mi left Henry digging through his bag for snacks and wandered into the room Kyuhyun and Ryeowook were sharing. Kyuhyun had sprawled out on the bed on his stomach, clutching a pillow to his face. With his eyes barely cracked open, he looked as if he’d like to resume the nap from the van.

“Maybe we’ll run into Jay Chou,” said Ryeowook. He sounded eager. “Maybe he’ll eat with us!”

“Too famous, too busy,” said Kyuhyun, shaking his head.

Zhou Mi could think of someone else who fit the description. The reminder to call had been chasing around in the back of his head since the plane had touched down. The comfort of being back home, sort of, was fast being replaced by the itchy feeling under his skin he associated with Han Geng. Not exactly pleasant.

“I wish we could do a duet with him.”

Zhou Mi looked over at Ryeowook quickly.

“He’s so talented,” said Ryeowook wistfully, “I’d love to work more piano into our songs.”

Ah, Jay Chou. Zhou Mi nodded. “Or maybe A-mei? Having a female voice would make for a good duet. Or Wang Leehom. He plays piano too.”

“Whatever.” Kyuhyun’s voice was muffled by the pillow. “Zhou Mi is clearly our next piano prodigy. Have you heard him on the keyboard?”

Zhou Mi whipped the other pillow across the back of Kyuhyun’s head in indignation. Ryeowook protested faintly, “No, but, he’s really quite good for his level—” He trailed off as Kyuhyun shoved Zhou Mi off the bed, snickering as it earned a squawk of protest. “It’s always good to push boundaries and learn new things...”

“Just wait,” Zhou Mi huffed from the floor, sitting up and smoothing down his hair. “I’ll become a master piano player and A-mei will ask me personally to do a duet with her. And I’ll say, ‘oh, my bandmate Kyuhyun loves you!’ and she’ll be like, ‘I don’t know who that is. I only want to duet with you, Zhou Mi. Because you’re the handsomest!’”

The difference, Zhou Mi thought later, between Kyuhyun laughing at him and Han Geng laughing at him was mostly that he knew Kyuhyun loved him anyway, piano genius or not. With Han Geng, who never looked more approachable and down-to-earth than when he laughed, Zhou Mi could never shake the feeling that he was being laughed at.

He found himself far from laughing a few hours later at the rehearsal for the awards ceremony. M’s managers were doing an impressive job keeping the group away from Han Geng in the chaos of the backstage. It mostly entailed squaring them away in a room, setting them up with food and laptops, and allowing them out only under supervision. It was similar to their normal routine with awards ceremonies in other countries (back in Korea they tended to wander freely since everyone knew everyone else), so it didn’t seem to raise any flags with the other members. Zhou Mi, on the other hand, felt like he was being babysat, or dog-sat, collared and tethered to the room. It didn’t help that he knew many of the other stars out in the halls or in the surrounding dressing rooms, or that he could know them, easily, through mutual friends, if only afforded an opportunity to see them.

No dice, not leading up to the rehearsal or throughout the rehearsal itself. As things began winding down, however, Zhou Mi received a text, brief but to the point. Han Geng wanted to meet up.

The crawling under his skin had reached a nearly unbearable point; Zhou Mi had known for over a week that they were headed in this direction, that day by day they moved closer to this meeting. It had built up more with the passing days, tripling in the short time they had been in Beijing.

He skipped out on the group dinner, pleading university friends to meet. Eyes apologetic, mouth wry, no one blinked twice at his lie as he split from the others to head out on his own. It made him wonder if any of them knew him as well as they thought…or as well as he’d thought they did.

When he arrived at the restaurant - private party, private room, of course - he found Han Geng alone outside the door, waiting for him. His chest clenched tight for a moment as Han Geng weighed him with his stare.

Then a waitress in a long red qi pao turned the corner and into the hallway, pushing a cart laden with food. She stopped in front of another private room, but the moment dissolved. Han Geng’s eyes flitted down the hall then back to Zhou Mi. He smiled. “You came.” He stepped forward then and Zhou Mi thought for a frantic second Here—? but all Han Geng did was sling an arm around him, pulling him into a loose one-armed hug.

But the proximity lodged his heart in his throat and it had yet to settle back where it belonged.

Han Geng tugged him inside, where there had been a crowd of A-listers in China’s entertainment industry: emcees and singers and actors, Han Geng knew them all, and they all doted on him in turn. Here were the connections Zhou Mi had missed out making earlier, lined up around a table covered in food and alcohol, loud and laughing and learning his name.

Zhou Mi thrived in crowds, or so it seemed. He did get along with most people, really, but it wasn’t all natural, easy connection either. Zhou Mi just knew how to flip on the public persona - not the idol persona, even, but the persona of himself around people that was engaging, witty, high energy, and an eternally devoted listener to all stories ridiculous or mundane. People loved to talk about themselves. He drank with them, toasting across the table, and exchanged anecdotes about mutual acquaintances, all the while committing name, faces, and stories to memory.

Han Geng sat beside him engaged in his own lively conversations and toasts, thigh pressed hot along Zhou Mi’s under the table.

It wasn’t only alcohol making Zhou Mi dizzy; anticipation ran through his bloodstream too, heady.

At some point, the crowd would dissipate or they would take their leave. At some point, they would be alone.

It took less than two hours. The group thought KTV would be a spectacular idea - a frequent consensus after a few hours of eating and drinking - and normally Zhou Mi would be tempted. Tonight, though, he joined the few declining. Out of sight, Han Geng’s hand rested on his knee, palm warm through Zhou Mi’s skinny jeans.

“Your hotel room?” Zhou Mi murmured as he followed Han Geng out the back door and into a nondescript car.

Han Geng grinned.

“Nothing strange about inviting an old friend catching up.”

“No, not at all,” agreed Zhou Mi. “If we were friends.”

For all the space in the backseat, they were still pressed unnecessarily close. Zhou Mi cast a wary glance towards the driver, who appeared to be ignoring them soundly.

“Aren’t we friends?” asked Han Geng, tilting his head.

“Are we friends?”

“I suppose,” Han Geng said thoughtfully, voice dropping into a low murmur, “we’re not. I usually prefer my friends to be good, honest people.”

Unlike yourself?

Zhou Mi held his tongue, but he had a feeling his thoughts were visible in his eyes. Han Geng seemed to read the sentiment, anyway, lips curving up humorlessly. “Straightforwardness is a virtue.”

It was not, it seemed, one that Han Geng seemed particularly interested in cultivating. Not with Zhou Mi, at least, who was more confused after years of knowing Han Geng. The longer they knew each other, the more complicated things got, layer after layer of misdirection and double meanings, of Han Geng’s smile but his razor-edged words. His grip, tight and unrelenting on Zhou Mi’s wrists as he shoved them through the door into Han Geng’s hotel room sent one message. His mouth, hot and open on Zhou Mi’s skin, sucking bruises into his neck, sent a different one.

They stumbled across the room, Zhou Mi gasping and flushed as Han Geng pressed him down onto the bed.

“You— I want—” Zhou Mi panted.

Han Geng growled, “I don’t care.” He pinned Zhou Mi to the bed with a hand on his chest. “You do as I say, Zhou Mi. You might be the new leader of M, but that means nothing to me. Remember who’s in charge.”

I’m not leader. It would be futile to protest. Zhou Mi had said it before and it had only earned him a dark look and the sharp score of teeth against his skin.

Instead, Zhou Mi nodded, a short, sharp movement.

“You,” he breathed.

Han Geng’s smile was barely that, more of a dangerous baring of teeth. He stripped Zhou Mi with ruthless efficiency and left Zhou Mi lying untouched on the bed as he stood at the foot of the bed and took his time getting out of his own clothes.

Long, toned legs. Han Geng’s secret vanity, Zhou Mi had come to find. Zhou Mi liked to joke about his legs in public, but Han Geng was far more obsessed with his own than anyone would have guessed. He attributed it to the dancing. They were certainly powerful, in any case, and Zhou Mi swallowed hard when Han Geng finally climbed onto the bed and swiftly straddled him.

Zhou Mi’s eyes crossed as Han Geng leaned forward, his weight shifting across Zhou Mi’s thighs. He lowered his head to lick at Zhou Mi’s collarbone, warm and wet, while his hands settled into the grooves of Zhou Mi’s hips, holding him still with a silent command.

He worked over Zhou Mi’s throat with tongue and teeth until Zhou Mi’s breath was ragged. “Don’t,” he whispered when Zhou Mi’s hands fluttered off the sheets as if they were about to close on Han Geng’s back. “Hands down.”

Shaking, Zhou Mi did as told and then moaned, long and loud, when Han Geng rocked his hips forward, relieving some of the pressure against Zhou Mi’s aching cock.

“Please. Han Geng—”

Han Geng chuckled low in his throat. He mouthed at Zhou Mi’s jumping pulse and rocked his hips again. Sparks jumped in Zhou Mi’s vision. “I rather liked ‘Geng-ge’, back when we were in M. You were good at pretending you respected me. Such a polite newcomer. Knew your position well.”

His hand snaked in between them.

“What happened, Mi?”

Zhou Mi squeezed his eyes shut as Han Geng’s hand closed around him. “Ge,” he choked out.

Nothing had ever been straightforward between the two of them. In hindsight, perhaps neither of them were the “good, honest people” they liked to project to the public.

***

The first time happened in the middle of an argument after Super Junior M debuted but before Han Geng left. None of the other members were around for one reason or another. They tended to hold themselves back more when the others were around, but alone it was easier for that thin strand of patience to snap. Zhou Mi didn’t even remember what they’d been fighting about. It didn’t matter.

At some point in the furor of snide comments and barbs, Han Geng crowded Zhou Mi back against the wall, eyes flashing. Zhou Mi was taller, but Han Geng knew how to wield his presence until Zhou Mi felt pinned under his angry stare, boxed in by the words flying from his lips, rapid-fire and harsh. Being larger than life was a skill cultivated for the stage, and Zhou Mi had never felt smaller.

“You don’t respect me as leader,” Han Geng said, furious.

Between Zhou Mi’s blink and sharp inhale, Han Geng kissed him. Angrily. Like he had a point to prove.

And Zhou Mi was angry too, but he felt like a drowning man fighting against the sea, his defense flimsy against the onslaught. He had always been water to Han Geng’s rock, the river that bent and wound around the mountain in those classical paintings, always flexible and willing to adapt. Han Geng stood firm and immovable in his convictions, overwhelming in the breadth of his surety.

Han Geng knew he was right. His beliefs were true. He bent others to his will simply through his presence, which felt like a solid, looming thing. Inevitably, things distorted around him to better fit his worldview.

Zhou Mi turned out to be no exception.

His mouth opened under Han Geng’s, his gasps far from protest. His will wasn’t so weak that he would surface from the kiss with his mind changed, but all the same he melted under Han Geng’s hands. “Pliable” was the word, he’d think later. While they touched, Han Geng was right, and in charge, and leading; Zhou Mi followed helplessly under his direction, winding, winding, winding. He would hate himself for it later but when Han Geng beckoned, he followed.

Han Geng did so enjoy being right. He held Zhou Mi against the wall and turned his protests into moans. With Han Geng’s hand down the front of his pants, Zhou Mi’s mind went blank as his body took over, shivering hot with need. When he came with a cry, sagging against the wall, Han Geng’s eyes gleamed.

***

Victoria came out in sweats and a puffy marshmallow coat, but she still looked gorgeous. Couldn’t look bad if she tried, in Zhou Mi’s somewhat biased opinion. Not that he’d tell her that when he could feign a disappointed look and sigh instead, of course. It always made her indignant. “Yah, shut up!” She swiped his arm with a mittened hand. “It’s just you, why do I have to dress up nice?”

“After I went through all this effort for you!” Zhou Mi put on his most long-suffering face. “The magic’s gone.”

“Whatever,” she huffed.

They went to one of their favorite cafés in Hongdae, milling between students and other passersby. They barely got second looks, wrapped up as they were against the unforgiving January air. Only Victoria’s eyes and the tip of her nose, red with cold, were visible. She whined, “Hurry up! Go inside! I’m so cold!” She stamped her feet beside him and he took the opportunity to dart inside the café before her and laugh as she scrambled to catch up.

“Jerk!”

They ordered coffee and sat down at a corner table, mirroring each other as they cupped their hand around the heat of the mug as they attempted to warm up. “That’s a nice scarf,” Zhou Mi said, eying the colorful purple and black checked scarf wrapped around Victoria’s neck. “Is it new?”

“Yeah, it was a gift.”

Zhou Mi waited expectantly. She looked at him innocently.

“If you’re not going to tell me who it’s from, I’m just going to assume it’s from a secret lover. Or maybe not so secret.” He leered at her suggestively. “Is it from who I think it’s from, Song Qian? Should we be expecting a scandal soon? We Got Married leads to…true love!”

“Shut up! It’s not like that.”

“Oh? So it’s not from our charming Thai prince?”

Victoria flushed and sipped at her coffee, glaring at him from beneath her bangs. “Please. That boy is such a player. He acted all nice for the show and he’s a good guy, I’ll give him that, but I’d never date him.”

“Not man enough for you?”

She arched a brow. “He’s plenty man. He’s just not serious. I wouldn’t waste my time.” Her eyes sparkled. “Do you like a man like that? Is he manly enough for you?”

He was grateful they were speaking in Mandarin, with less chance of being overheard and understood. It was his turn to sip at his coffee, stalling. “He’s good-looking,” he acknowledged, “and charming, of course. He’s talented too. But I doubt he’s interested.”

“If he were, though? If you had any pick and you knew your feelings would be returned?”

Zhou Mi shrugged. He didn’t like to daydream like that. It made people inclined to live in fantasies rather than reality, and Zhou Mi preferred reality. Fantasies did him little good and only left him longing for impossible things. Better to focus on what he had and what he could achieve.

Victoria’s expression had grown sober, thoughtful. Her eyes were dark and serious as she regarded him. “Do you ever wish…?”

“Sometimes, of course. I mean, when we’re constantly surrounded by love songs, movies about true love… It’s hard not to wish not to be alone. He shrugged a little, philosophical. “But what’s the point? It won’t change anything. It just depresses me. I’d rather think about the things I can do, to improve who I am, my abilities, the success of Super Junior M.”

“You know, sometimes I think that if Changmin weren’t, well, Changmin, I would…”

That was unexpected. Zhou Mi looked at her in surprise. “Really?”

Her smile was a little embarrassed, but she nodded. “He’s far more serious than Nichkhun is, but so polite, and handsome, and charming. He loves his family. He’s smart. He’s a hard worker. If only I didn’t feel like he was a brother! And he sees me as a sister.”

“Feelings can change.” He turned the idea over in his mind. Shim Changmin. One of Korea’s darlings, among the media and the public, especially with his new image of late. A little boy grown up into a man. Zhou Mi sighed. “I think I envy his success more. We’ll never know what it’s like, you know. Being the rising star of your own country, treated like you’re a precious child. We’re not Korean. They’ll always see us as foreigners.”

“Yes,” Victoria agreed. “Is that what you want? To be the pride of a nation?”

“Isn’t that what everyone wants? Don’t you?”

Her lips curled up at the corners slightly. Rueful. “My dreams were never as grand as yours, Zhou Mi. I grew up dancing because that’s what I had done all my life. I didn’t really know what the future would hold, or what I wanted. I ended up leader of a group, a surrogate mother to four girls who are - and I love them but - they’re children. They’re so young. They have no idea what they’re doing or what they want either, even though they work hard. I love them, though, and they love me. Korea’s been good to me. I think you could say I’m happy.” She hesitated and Zhou Mi felt the weight of her next words. “I don’t think I have to go back to China to be happy. Korea is home too.”

“Oh,” he said.

“You can’t imagine it, can you?”

“…we’re different people,” he said at last. For all their similarities, their kinship, they were different too. He’d known it, of course, but he had never felt it as keenly as he did then.

“You’d be happier in China, wouldn’t you? Or Taiwan.”

“Not to be ungrateful for everything—”

She patted his hand. “I know. I know what you mean. I know you value the company and Super Junior M and the opportunities they’ve given you. I know you’ve worked hard to make sure you do as well as you can.”

“Right. And Korea is - home. A second home.”

Even as he said it, it didn’t feel right. Wuhan was home. Beijing was his second home. Taipei had felt more like home than Seoul did. He met Victoria’s sympathetic glance awkwardly. No, it wasn’t the same. Where she’d found home, he still felt like a stranger, an interloper. Seoul was a place to stay, part of the package deal for working with the company, working for his future. It had always felt - and still did feel - like a temporary station along the tracks of his life.

Zhou Mi drank his coffee and let Victoria change the subject. When he returned to the dorms later that day, he asked Henry if he considered Korea home. Henry looked kind of surprised, but his answer was definitive. “Naw. Canada’s home.”

At least he wasn’t alone, Zhou Mi supposed.

***

Singapore again.

On the bright side, it wasn’t pouring down rain like it had been every time before that Zhou Mi could remember. Whether the warm muggy air - an unsettling thing in February - that clung to him like a second skin could be considered an up side or a down side was open for debate. While Zhou Mi appreciated a chance to wear outfits that weren’t four layers deep and a lack of cold that seared his lungs and throat, dealing with the sticky humidity that dampened said outfits was unpleasant. To say the least.

He scowled out the window, unappreciative of the view of the bay from thirty-five stories up. It was the same thing every time.

He dropped his forehead against the cool glass with a sigh. It wasn’t fair to take out his irritation on Singapore’s nightscape, thousands of bright lights twinkling happily at him from below. The view from Marina Bay Sands at night was gorgeous, as always. It was the company that fell short - or the lack of company, as it were. SM had made their position on certain company very clear and as well-meaning as they were, it still left Zhou Mi frustrated.

He snorted. Who was he fooling? They weren’t that well-meaning. They were just concerned with PR, which meant circumventing any potential problems, cutting them off before they formed, taking preventative measures. But that was only to be expected from any farsighted business that didn’t want to crash and burn in the unforgiving flames of scandal; Zhou Mi couldn’t blame them. All the same, the official SM policy regarding any and all interactions with Han Geng was incredibly irritating. What was that adage… See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Don’t talk to him, don’t look for him. Just pretend he wasn’t there.

Super Show 4. It was big. It was loud. It was keeping them all, Zhou Mi included, busy. Fortuitously, Han Geng was in Singapore at the same time for some promotion, which was comparatively much more discreet (or as discreet as anything involving a big name like Han Geng could be - meaning at least in this instance he wasn’t inviting 3000 fans into an arena to scream his name). It wasn’t often their schedules aligned. Zhou Mi wanted to see him.

“Are you out of your mind?” one of his managers had snapped. “How big of a mess do you want to make? I can handle disasters. Eeteuk makes one once a week. Fiascoes, sure. But I don’t deal with catastrophes, Zhou Mi. Try not to get me fired.”

“I’m not trying to get you fired, I just thought I could—”

“You just thought something stupid. Don’t make me quit, Zhou Mi,” his manager had said earnestly. “I like my job, you know? Don’t make me hate it. Upper management can make my life hell. They have no idea what it’s like out flying around with you crazy assholes, to say nothing of your psycho fans.”

Everyone involved in the entertainment industry was prone to melodramatics. It was probably contagious. “Hyung,” he said helplessly. Zhou Mi didn’t want to get anyone fired. He didn’t bother broaching the subject with the other manager, feeling guilty.

The point was, he figured, that he’d never get an official okay, because it would never be okay. But what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, right? Hadn’t he managed to pull off all those meetings in China?

His hand curled into a fist against the glass as he made up his mind.

They had a few free hours tonight. That was all he needed.

He had just sent a text to Han Geng when someone knocked on his door. A moment later, Eunhyuk stuck his head inside.

“Hi,” said Zhou Mi, looking up from his phone. He smiled quizzically.

Eunhyuk glanced left, then right. “I was looking for Sungmin,” he said. “I guess he’s not up here.”

“Nope, not hiding under my bed or in the bathroom. Multi-floor game of hide and seek?” It wouldn’t surprise him, honestly. They’d done it before.

Eunhyuk just grinned. “Nope, not this time. I just needed a breather from our friendly neighborhood stalker.” He slipped inside as he spoke, heading for Zhou Mi’s bed.

Zhou Mi arched an eyebrow. “Our?”

“Mine,” Eunhyuk amended, flopping happily on top of the duvet. “Donghae’s high on something, I swear. Even I can’t keep up with him. I need a break. Need to spend some time around sane people to make sure whatever he’s got isn’t contagious.”

Zhou Mi regarded him, amused. Those two - well, they weren’t exactly the same, but they couldn’t come in a more complete set. Basically terrors, in Zhou Mi’s opinion. Very young, very energetic terrors who found themselves hilarious. Not everyone else agreed. “Your relationship is truly loving.”

“Well, I’ve thought about it a lot and I’ve decided all friendships are a little weird. That’s what makes them unique. And interesting. There’s nothing as boring as a healthy, functioning relationship where everyone’s all polite to each other or whatever. For one thing,” he affected a solemn expression, “I would have nothing to talk about on shows.”

“So we’re all fodder for your climb up the variety ladder?”

Eunhyuk beamed at him.

Zhou Mi found himself laughing. “Watch yourself. You don’t know the kinds of stories I can tell about you in Chinese!”

“Yah, I told you you’re lucky I can’t speak Chinese yet. Once I get fluent, though, watch out. I know all your secrets, Zhou Mi.” The threatening glare he was attempting was somewhat tempered by his ruffled hair, made unruly through a roll across the bed. Zhou Mi stepped close with plans to roll him off the edge but Eunhyuk must have caught the glint in his eye because he promptly rolled the other way. “Hey! I told you to watch out! Don’t make an enemy of me, or I’ll get Kyuhyun to translate all the horrible things you say.”

“Impossible. He’s slacked off too much and forgotten all his Chinese.”

Plan B: sudden impact. Zhou Mi threw himself lengthwise across the bed, squashing Eunhyuk under him.

Eunhyuk grunted. Zhou Mi chortled.

“Where’s Kyuhyun, anyway? With my luck, he’s off with Sungmin, demolishing all of my plans.”

“No, he’s with Yesung somewhere, I think. Last I saw them they were being highly inappropriate in the hallway.” There was no need, Zhou Mi felt, to feel up another man’s philtrum in public. Or ever. Yet for all Kyuhyun complained about it, he never did much to stop Yesung. Weird relationships, indeed. This band was full of them. Beneath him, Eunhyuk wriggled and made a plaintive sound.

“Gross. Stop it. I need to breathe. What’re you doing tonight? I think some of the guys wanted to go drink.” He rolled his eyes as Zhou Mi compliantly rolled off of him. “They always want to drink. I think Ryeowook’s an alcoholic.”

Fond abuse and name-calling. Genuine annoyance and hurt at times. The strangest in-jokes and a dozen little tics individual to each member. Zhou Mi, being perfectly honest, found most of Super Junior bewildering at times and downright bizarre at others. For all of the awkward strains that still existed between him and a few members, he didn’t think he’d trade this group for any other. They weren’t his best friends, certainly, but they were friends nonetheless.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed. He fished it out, squirming.

“Hey.” Eunhyuk poked him in the shoulder with a bony finger.

Zhou Mi turned his head to squint at him. “What.”

“I asked you what you’re doing tonight. Or, you know, in about fifteen minutes.”

Zhou Mi was going out. He cleared the screen of his phone and smiled to himself. Those were private plans; no need to announce them to the world. “I guess I’m going to drink with you guys,” he said. “I’ll watch you all make fools of yourselves with your embarrassingly low tolerance.”

“I don’t have to stay here and listen to insults against my masculinity.” Eunhyuk climbed off the bed and smoothed a hand over his hair. He made a point to flash a haughty look at Zhou Mi. “I am ten times more masculine than you!”

Zhou Mi shrugged, unbothered. “I’m man enough.”

Man enough, cock and all. Hard to feel like anything but a man when Han Geng fisted a hot hand around him and made him see stars.

He felt a twinge low in his belly and rolled flat onto his stomach. Eunhyuk said from the door, “If you see Sungmin, tell him I’m looking for him.”

“You have a phone!” Zhou Mi called out as Eunhyuk exited.

He shook his head and turned his own phone on again, returning to the earlier message screen. The feeling in his gut grew stronger, a low hum of dark anticipation. Han Geng had returned only one word: Okay.

Asshole, Zhou Mi thought, and it wasn’t affectionate. All the same, he was looking forward to slipping out of the tipsy revelry later. He wondered what it said about him that he was so eager to leave his friends to spend time with someone he didn’t like and didn’t get along with. It helped, Zhou Mi granted, that they would fuck. Sex was always an acceptable excuse.

***

All of SM’s official and unofficial policies regarding Han Geng couldn’t dictate where Han Geng’s own management put him: Marina Bay Sands was the premiere hotel in Singapore, ritzy and upscale, and so it was almost inevitable that they - being Asian superstars of similar caliber - would end up in the same place.

They were smarter than to risk meeting inside the hotel, though.

They were smarter than to be seen leaving together too.

Not quite sober - he’d had a few drinks with the group - Zhou Mi tugged on a cap and lost himself in the milling crowd at the bottom of Tower 2. Singapore’s thriving nightlife meant a constant throb of locals and tourists around Marina Bay - for the hotel, the restaurant atop it, the Infinity Pool, the casino, the Singapore Flyer, or the endless shops. There was always something to do or see or eat, even on a Thursday night. Zhou Mi loved it.

He loved, too, how easy it was to slip away unnoticed and hail himself a cab. “Marina Square,” he told the driver cheerfully. So normal. Just as if he were any local resident, off to meet his friends for the night. The driver didn’t look twice at him and didn’t seem inclined to chat. He left Zhou Mi in peace with his thoughts and his habit of staring out the windows at the passing lights. In front, the meter ticked up steadily.

It didn’t go far. They arrived before Zhou Mi knew it, jolting him out of his glassy-eyed stares.

A short ride, but it wasn’t as if he could have walked or hopped on the MRT. He paid and climbed out, then took a moment to survey the mall before him. Korea had its fair share of shopping centers, all of which Zhou Mi was proud to report his intimate familiarity. He and Victoria had seen them all at one point or another. Singapore, though, was another thing altogether. It felt like he couldn’t turn a corner without running into another mall, another cluster of shops, rising above the street in clean, modern lines but bursting with color and aromas at the same time. Where Seoul was dotted with hills and trees, Singapore stretched out nearly flat before him, unapologetically metropolitan and bustling with a young, energetic crowd. From their well-kept enclosures in front of buildings or lining street medians, shocks of tropical flora contributed to the overall foreign atmosphere. Singapore was not Seoul. Nor was it as familiar as Beijing, which was well-loved but cramped, crowded, and smoggy.

Here, Zhou Mi felt a wild flash of potential. Possibilities.

It made him a little giddy as he entered the shopping center - or maybe that was the alcohol. Maybe a little of both. He went hunting for a directory. From here to the karaoke place, wherever that was. A little online investigation had informed him that Marina Square had a KBOX; a darkened, private room was as discreet as they could get and close enough to their hotel that if they were missed it wouldn’t take long to reappear, playing innocent. Eyebrows would be raised at either of them checking into another hotel room, even more so if it were only for a few hours. So here they were.

He was first to arrive. He bowed and thanked the girl in awkward English when she led him to the room. She smiled and retreated back to the front desk. He wondered if she spoke Mandarin - she looked Chinese and he had been told that most Singaporeans were bilingual or multilingual. Zhou Mi hadn’t had much opportunity to actually chat with Singaporeans, despite Super Junior’s fairly frequent visits.

The room was as dim as he’d hoped, flashy disco lights revolving along the wall. Zhou Mi pulled up a number of old Super Junior songs, laughing to himself, and settled back against the couch to wait.

Han Geng slipped inside when the stereos were blasting Twins. The shell-shocked expression drew a giggle from Zhou Mi.

“Shit,” Han Geng said, shutting the door behind him. “Turn that off.”

“Look at your hair!”

“I’d rather not.”

On screen, a younger Han Geng danced front and center, eyes piercing even as his hair - fluffy and a hideous beige-gray non-color that offended Zhou Mi’s sensibilities - offset some of that intensity. Off screen, Han Geng grimaced as he dropped onto the couch beside Zhou Mi. “Can we not live in the past?”

“Haven’t you always said you’d never forget your roots?” Zhou Mi responded lightly, because he was in a good mood and he wouldn’t let Han Geng ruin it.

As Kibum took over the screen, Han Geng grabbed Zhou Mi’s chin in one hand. “Hey,” he said. His voice was low.

In the dark, it was hard to see his eyes, but Zhou Mi felt a shiver go up his spine anyway. The grip on his chin was firm and Han Geng’s intent clear. It wasn’t like Zhou Mi could claim surprise - he knew why they’d come here, after all. He’d initiated it, for once.

When Han Geng kissed him, his mouth tasted like coffee and something sweet. Zhou Mi let himself be pressed back against the couch, Han Geng leaning over from the side as his hand slid from Zhou Mi’s chin to cup his face, fingers pressing a little too hard to be gentle. When his teeth closed around Zhou Mi’s bottom lip and tugged, Zhou Mi let out a shuddery little sigh.

“You taste like…coconut?” he murmured.

“I had some toast with some sort of spread. Singaporean thing.” He shifted, putting one foot on the ground so he could nudge the other leg between Zhou Mi’s thighs. His mouth sealed over Zhou Mi’s again, hot, effectively silencing him from further inane comments.

Like it mattered what Han Geng tasted of. As long as he kept kissing Zhou Mi like that, as long as he kept that pressure on Zhou Mi’s crotch, tiny little rocks of his thigh against the fly of Zhou Mi’s slacks.

He was flushed hot from head to toe, his fingers winding desperately in Han Geng’s hair to keep him close. Fingers inched up his hip to hook in his waistband, and Zhou Mi’s stomach jumped at the touch, trembling.

Han Geng drew his mouth away, breath damp against Zhou Mi’s cheek. “Turn around.”

Heeding Han Geng’s tugs and nudges, Zhou Mi rearranged himself until he turned sideways on the couch, Han Geng spooned behind him rather than hovering over him. The heat from Han Geng’s body plastered to his back made Zhou Mi feel hotter than ever, almost feverish, but maybe that was only his own blood pounding furiously through his veins. Or the alcohol from earlier. Every touch seemed magnified in response, screaming along his nerves with sensation. Han Geng had deftly contrived sometime during this rearrangement to undo the button of Zhou Mi’s fly; Zhou Mi’s breath caught in his throat as the zipper was eased down over his aching cock.

He whimpered when Han Geng finally palmed him through his underwear. Han Geng nipped his ear, sharp. “Quiet.”

There was steel in his tone, like always, and Zhou Mi responded to it unthinkingly, as always. Under the cover of the music still blaring from the TV and speakers, Han Geng wrapped his hand around Zhou Mi and jerked him slow. His grip was a little too dry, a little too tight, but Zhou Mi bit his lip hard and thrust shallowly into his fist.

It felt a little surreal, jerking in response to Han Geng’s hand as Sungmin’s cheerful voice rang out to Haengbok in the background. At some point, Zhou Mi squeezed his eyes shut. His own hands had curled into fists beside him on the couch - Han Geng had murmured “Hands off” between nosing at Zhou Mi’s jaw and sucking kisses into his neck and Zhou Mi had frozen, lifting his hands away. His hips pumped to the rhythm of Han Geng’s hand on him, slick now with the precome that had dripped from the head of his cock.

Fuck. Zhou Mi swallowed the curse and choked for air as he came, dots dancing before his eyes. Han Geng’s tongue slid over a particularly sharp bite along his shoulder. He wrung out the aftershocks slowly, hand loosening.

When Zhou Mi caught his breath, eyes opening to meet Han Geng’s, his mouth went dry.

As Don’t Don came on, Zhou Mi twisted off the couch and sank to his knees between Han Geng’s spread legs. He licked his lips and fumbled at the zipper of Han Geng’s jeans, then licked his lips again, nervous and excited and dazed still as he freed Han Geng’s erection from its confines.

It didn’t take long. It took, in fact, exactly the length of Don’t Don. Han Geng was rock hard and on edge. His fingers dug into Zhou Mi’s scalp as he fucked Zhou Mi’s mouth, and he arched and spilled down Zhou Mi’s throat as Heechul screamed Super Junior in the background.

It was so strange as to be utterly real, because nothing could be this fantastically timed otherwise. Zhou Mi pulled off, wiping at his mouth, his knees aching on the hard linoleum floor. Han Geng’s head tipped back, exposing his throat, as he caught his breath. The light from the screen left him highlighted in pale, sickly blues and yellows while the colorful disco lights continued dancing along the walls, disconcerting. They gave Zhou Mi a headache.

He pulled himself back onto the couch, perching on the edge as he conscientiously dusted off the knees of his slacks. They didn’t speak for several minutes as Don’t Don wrapped up and the next song was cued. Zhou Mi glanced at the screen. Me. Super Junior M.

Himself on the screen, hair longer, shaped differently; black. Han Geng on the screen, smiling widely and expression open. It was a far cry from the lean body slumped beside him now, sex-drained and flushed, but expression as guarded as ever. Counter to that, his eyes spoke volumes in person, in ways that could never be conveyed on screen - Han Geng was careful to draw those curtains shut when cameras came about.

Zhou Mi was startled when Han Geng spoke. “Put something else in. Zhang Xue You or something. Chen Long. Whatever. I don’t want to hear all this crap.”

“Go put some in yourself,” Zhou Mi said, and he’d meant to sound churlish but he wasn’t that annoyed. It was hard to be after orgasm. He contented himself with making a face of discontent as he slid down the couch to the touchscreen controls.

By the time the opening strains of Frankie Wang’s As Long As You’re Happy sounded, they had both cleaned up and tucked themselves in, buttoned up neat and proper. Zhou Mi was fishing for the mic when Han Geng said, unexpectedly, “Hey, do lunch with me.”

Zhou Mi stared.

“Saturday sometime. I wrap up tomorrow but I don’t leave until Saturday afternoon. I know you guys are here through the show that night.”

Han Geng cocked a brow, as if he were extending some sort of challenge - and maybe he was. Lunch? The two of them?

“In public?”

“We don’t have to throw a parade or take out an ad in the newspaper, if that’s what you mean. You can wear all your usual disguises. Let’s get lunch. See a little more of Singapore.”

The last bit, thrown out casually, was the bait. Zhou Mi knew it; Han Geng knew it. Zhou Mi was dying to see more of Singapore than the inside of his hotel room and whatever scenery he glimpsed through the windows of rented vans and the occasional cab. He thought of his managers, earnestly pleading him to not do anything stupid. No catastrophes, Zhou Mi. He thought of the official company line regarding Han Geng.

What was Han Geng even getting out of this lunch date? It would be normal between friends, but they weren’t—

Zhou Mi pursed his lips. He wasn’t a risk-taker by nature. Some things were worth a calculated risk, certainly, but not everything. Zhou Mi was the frantic overthinker, a secretive planner beneath his spontaneously cheerful image. He worried and fretted over everything and sometimes - often times - that was tiring.

This thing with Han Geng wasn’t smart. Hadn’t ever been. Meeting here tonight itself had been a risk, but Zhou Mi had thrown caution to the wind. There was something in the air here, something that surrounded him like the clinging warmth, that made him think that maybe he could get away with more here, far from Seoul. He’d felt it as soon as he’d stepped out of the airport earlier that day; he’d felt it again arriving at Marina Square. Heady possibility.

“All right.”

Han Geng grinned. Zhou Mi still had no idea what he was gaining from it. “Eleven or so. I’ll text you.” He unfolded himself lazily from the couch and stood. “You should go back to the drinking party.”

Zhou Mi couldn’t taste the soju in his mouth anymore but evidently Han Geng had noticed it earlier. “What I do is none of your business.” It was a standard flippant answer. He’d never seen Han Geng take it so well before, however, with a hum and that grin again. He left as quickly and quietly as he’d entered, slipping from the darkened room into the halls and avoiding, Zhou Mi presumed, as many attendants as he could. It wouldn’t do for Han Geng to be caught here without a handy excuse.

It wouldn’t do for Zhou Mi to leave too soon after, either. Plausible deniability was what they needed, so Zhou Mi settled back into the couch and scrolled through available Taiwanese artists for songs he knew.

After he belted out Fan Fan and Lara then detoured through Wang Lee Hom and Jay Chou, Zhou Mi returned to the female singers and came across A-Mei. With a laugh, he sang If You’ve Also Heard in the original register - unlike Kyuhyun, he had no need to drop it. Feeling smug and self-satisfied, he ended on A-Mei’s Listen to the Sea.

Zhou Mi figured he’d killed enough time to leave safely by the time the last melancholy notes died off. Cap back on his head, he strolled out to the front counter to pay. Muffled music sounded from behind various doors; KBOX was doing pretty good business for a Thursday night. University students who didn’t have class on Fridays, maybe, or not until late. Zhou Mi sneaked sideways glances into the mostly dark rooms; he was pleased to find that he couldn’t see much.

The girl at the register wasn’t the same one he’d seen upon arrival. He hoped that was for the best. She wouldn’t have connected him, then, with the person who’d turned up later to join him in the room. Zhou Mi smiled at her as she rung him up. He found it a little strange that she wouldn’t meet his eye, looking embarrassed as she handed him his receipt.

“Thank you.” Maybe she was a fan? They sometimes ran into fans who got self-conscious as soon as they recognized the person standing in front of them as one of their favorite idols. Zhou Mi smiled at her again as he took his leave, but she continued to avoid his gaze, eyes glued to the countertop.

He shrugged and headed for the escalator, eyes wandering across the brightly lit mall. It buzzed with people, a cacophony of voices and background noise. There was food somewhere nearby - there was always food somewhere nearby, Zhou Mi thought. Whatever it was smelled delicious. He was mostly sober now, the haze from first the alcohol and then orgasm clearing away, and found that he was starving.

Half an hour later, he was back in the hotel clutching a few bags of chicken skewers, save the two he’d already eaten two while waiting for a cab. He found the majority of his bandmates still in the hotel room where he’d left them earlier, drunk and loud. Donghae and Henry had teamed up to annoy Siwon to some success and Eunhyuk was nearly passed out on Sungmin, his head cushioned on Sungmin’s thigh and Sungmin’s fingers threaded through his hair. The lowest of low tolerances, Zhou Mi noted with a snicker, which came of hardly ever drinking. Kyuhyun and Ryeowook were arguing about something very loudly, while nearby Yesung was lying on his back, poking at his phone. Shindong and Eeteuk were missing.

Zhou Mi’s offering of chicken skewers was met with a loud clamor of approval and he was nearly mauled in Henry’s efforts to get to the food. Kyuhyun eyed him with disquieting sobriety - damn his high tolerance - but he didn’t ask where Zhou Mi had gone.

“To get food,” would’ve been Zhou Mi’s ready quip, at any rate.

“Hey, don’t take my portion!” Ryeowook cried, wrestling Henry’s fourth stick from him.

***

Back in school, Chen Xin had been frequently reprimanded by their instructors for lacking drive. “Where is your ambition?” they asked disapprovingly. “You have talent, but talent itself is not enough if you do not put in the work.”

While Zhou Mi was sympathetic to his friend’s complaints about his repetitive scoldings, he was never subject to the same. His instructors saw both talent and drive in him and their critiques came more in the form of counsel: enunciate, gesture less, remember to rest your vocal chords. It’s good to push yourself, Zhou Mi, but not to hurt yourself.

He signed up for nearly every talent show, every holiday performance. Zhou Mi had never been particularly shy or reticent. He had been a lively child and thrived on positive attention. It translated in university to a love of performance, stage-fright cowed early into obedience.

He loved singing because he was good at it; he ate up the accolades with a dazzling smile. The compliments shored up his dreams, building them higher and higher. He had many aspirations where Chen Xin had few.

“Did you hear? That Korean group has a Chinese member!” Li Yuming told him all about Han Geng over lunch in the cafeteria one day. “My roommate says he’s from Beijing. I wonder what it’s like, going to another country where you can’t even speak the language to get famous.” She looked pensive. “I don’t think I would enjoy that. I want to be well-known here, in China.”

“It might be easier to be famous here once you’re established elsewhere,” Zhou Mi pointed out.

Still, she shook her head. “I’ll stay in China no matter what. It’s meaningless elsewhere. They won’t even understand what you sing!”

Zhou Mi had always found her rather hard-headed in certain beliefs. He privately thought it would be her stumbling block, the obstacle that kept her back from true success. She was close-minded about a lot of things, which limited in his opinion her ability to make the most of an opportunity. Besides, it wasn’t difficult to sing in another language: the foreign sounds were just another component of the music.

When he found out Chen Xin had submitted a video of him singing in Korean to a UCC competition, Zhou Mi didn’t think much of it. When he found he’d won, Zhou Mi found himself facing a fork in the road. He had goals and aspirations, much like everyone else, but he saw opportunity where some of them saw none.

“You don’t even know Korean,” Yuming exclaimed.

Zhou Mi shrugged and turned up the walkway to his building. Yuming tagged along behind, exasperated at the cavalierness in Zhou Mi’s attitude.

“I’ll learn,” he said.

***

“Overheated yet?” Han Geng asked him with false sympathy. He’d rolled his eyes pointedly when he’d seen the fashion scarf Zhou Mi had draped around his neck and kept needling Zhou Mi about it as they’d braved the sea of people in search the place Han Geng’s manager had discreetly booked under his name. Marmalade Pantry, Han Geng had said. Very popular, apparently. When they’d finally been seated, their table was tucked far enough in a corner that they wouldn’t likely attract unwarranted attention. It was a busy Saturday.

ION was gigantic. It was, the friendly cab driver had informed Zhou Mi, the newest of the malls lining Orchard Road. It was designed to be airy and bright and modern, and it was all of that in spades. Zhou Mi liked it immediately. It certainly hadn’t hurt that he’d passed signs for Louis Vuitton and Burberry on meeting up with Han Geng. The urge to shop tickled him but he squashed it for the time being. There might be time later… Or not, realistically speaking, as he’d sneaked out for a quick lunch before the afternoon run-through for the concert. The Saturday show wasn’t until six at least, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to squeak out the time.

Zhou Mi spared a moment to feel guilty about his managers. He then redirected his attentions to perusing the menu. He answered Han Geng with cool dignity as he flipped the page. “I’m fine, thanks.” While it was hot outside, undeniably so, the air conditioning inside the mall kept Zhou Mi at a perfectly comfortable temperature with his scarf.

Like Han Geng had any right to comment on fashion. He was a walking sartorial crime, with or without his stylists. Zhou Mi had some serious reservations about their work as showcased in Han Geng’s music videos.

“I’m surprised you came,” Han Geng said after they placed their orders and the waitress retreated. His gaze was assessing.

It made Zhou Mi want to squirm in his seat. He frowned. “Yeah?”

He supposed it was odd. He couldn’t remember the last time in the past two years they’d spent time in person that hadn’t involved sex in some form.

“They treat you a hell of a lot better than they ever treated me.”

“What?” Zhou Mi blinked. “The company?”

“Yeah. They certainly wouldn’t have given me the luxury of having a nice lunch out in whichever city we had to perform in. Must be nice, having all this freedom. I wonder when they changed their policies.”

Zhou Mi laughed mostly out of surprise. Han Geng’s resentment was a familiar thing, as much a staple of the past two years as the sex. But this angle of attack was almost absurd. “They don’t know. It’s not like I was given permission to saunter out to meet you. Honestly, I have to sneak back in before one-thirty and pray no one missed me too much.”

Han Geng looked faintly incredulous. “You sneaked out?”

“Of course I did. Even if they gave me freedom to wander around Singapore, which they didn’t, I’d still be forbidden to see you. Don’t you know, Geng-ge? You’re a touchy subject for the company.”

It couldn’t be said that Han Geng looked very remorseful or, in fact, penitent at all. The arrival of their drinks interrupted the conversation. Han Geng had gotten some sort of mango drink; Zhou Mi, conscientious of his throat as always, had gotten hot green tea with honey. He sipped at it and considered the man across the table.

“I don’t regret it,” Han Geng said quietly. He was strangely reserved today, aside from the barbs about the scarf. Zhou Mi knew Han Geng had his thoughtful side, the contemplative, compassionate side that made him dear to China’s media and his fanbase, but he rarely saw it for himself. Another unsettling factor to an already unsettling meeting.

Lips drawn tight at the corners, Han Geng looked unhappy and far older than he was in reality. “My contract was bullshit. The things they were forcing me to do just because they could - bullshit. They’ll always look down on foreigners, you know. They’ll always treat you worse than they treat their own citizens. They just don’t care as much when you’re not Korean.”

He met Zhou Mi’s eyes. “Am I wrong? Is it different for you?”

“Well,” said Zhou Mi. The drawn expression transformed into a little smirk on Han Geng’s face. He knew he wasn’t wrong. “Not exactly,” said Zhou Mi, irritated at the conclusions Han Geng was leaping to and more irritated that he couldn’t explicitly disagree. Damn Han Geng and his sure convictions.

“It is different,” Zhou Mi said at last. “I’m not worked to the bone the way you were. I’m not a - full member.” Official member. He would never have the same sort of true acceptance Han Geng had received, that Victoria and Amber and Jia and Fei received now. It meant he wasn’t expected (nor particularly welcome) to show up at official Super Junior events with the press or at awards shows or photoshoots. It wasn’t as bad as it had been - they made an effort nowadays to include him and Henry where they could, in SM Town activities, at least, if nothing else. On the whole, Zhou Mi tried to stay optimistic: This way he had more time to focus on developing Super Junior M tracks, putting his input in with Sujeong and Zak. He had more free time to shop and eat, to fly back to China once in a while.

He found that his gaze had dropped at some point. Looking up, Zhou Mi found Han Geng staring at him with pity in his eyes. It lent steel to his spine. Zhou Mi hated few things more than being pitied. He was not that pathetic. “I have good friends,” he said, “and a lot of connections. I have more input in our music. Super Junior M is getting more popular than ever. I have time to rest and visit China. You’re right, I have it much better than you ever did.”

Don’t you dare pity me.

Han Geng had the grace to look away.

After a moment, he drawled, “Well, I expect Eeteuk is still being his typical self. Hypocritical liar.”

It was always odd to hear Eeteuk’s name in Chinese but the substance of this bitterness was, again, not unfamiliar to Zhou Mi. Han Geng didn’t make it a practice of ranting to Zhou Mi the grudges he held, but the topic had come up before. For all that he still cared for most of the members, Han Geng had found it difficult - nearly impossible in some cases - to forgive some of them. Eeteuk was chief among them. His spineless inability to stand up to the managers and their outrageous demands, Han Geng had snarled, makes him a coward and a fool. And worse, he presents himself as a caring leader. He’s the most self-involved, mercenary little weasel I know. Any care he has for the other members comes secondary to his own interests. I was ten times the leader he was.

Yes, Zhou Mi had agreed at length. But he’s still there. You left.

The argument held little water for Han Geng, who’d only snorted. Don’t mistake that for nobleness on his part. He’s only too scared to take any risks without the group as his safety net. He needs to know there’s always something to fall back on while he climbs his way up the ladder.

Eeteuk had made far too many sacrifices, in Han Geng’s opinions. The welfare and well-being of his band members, primarily. He’s never looked out for me and then he accuses me of betraying them?

“Eeteuk is Eeteuk,” Zhou Mi said, diplomatic. Eeteuk wasn’t his favorite member. They weren’t that close, all told. But neither did he feel kindly enough towards Han Geng to feed his grudge.

Han Geng made no effort to hide his contempt.

“Weaselly as ever,” he concluded. He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Ever thought about leaving, Zhou Mi?”

“What do you mean?”

“Going solo. Doing something on your own. I hear you’ve met a lot of people, made a lot of connections.” Han Geng grinned, and China’s favorite son was back. “And, of course, there’s always me. I know everyone. More importantly, they like me.”

“Are you implying they don’t like me?”

“Let’s be honest: you’re not the ideal boy next door that appeals to the older generation. You might be fashionable, but you’re a little too…” He waved at the scarf. “You know.”

Zhou Mi had come to this conclusion himself a long time ago. He didn’t, however, appreciate it coming from Han Geng. “At least the connections I’ve made are friends. I know they’re willing to help me if I need it. To be perfectly frank, I have no idea why you’re offering, considering that we’ve both agreed that we’re hardly friends.” This odd lunch outing notwithstanding.

“You can call it duty, maybe. An obligation to help out someone in similar circumstances. Mentorship, perhaps.”

“There’s no need to help me if you’re moved by pity, I already told you I’m doing fine—”

“Do you want to do a collab? Be featured on my next album?”

That drew him up short. Han Geng’s eyes were mischievous but he seemed otherwise serious. “We could even do a duet - you could sing, you know, and not just write lyrics or correct pronunciation or whatever it is you do for M. Get your foot in the door in China. Get to know the producers.”

Zhou Mi was saved from answering him when their waitress approached again with a tray bearing their food. Han Geng looked away from him to smile at her, charming, and she was visibly flustered as she set down their respective plates. The scent of fresh-baked bread made Zhou Mi’s mouth water, reminding him that he had eaten very little for breakfast as he’d known he’d be going out for lunch.

They put their conversation on hold as they ate. The clink of silverware against their plates and the hum of other conversations in the background was the only accompaniment to their meal. Zhou Mi’s mind overflowed with thoughts, jumbled and each vying for attention. The entire timeline of his acquaintance with Han Geng washed across his mind in short bursts of memories, from that initial meeting to the awkward times during Super Junior M, to the sex, frantic and dangerous, and the barbs, the endless disagreements, the strange fascination with each other that had pervaded everything, from the beginning. That unexplainable way they were drawn together, meeting up time and time again, despite how much they disagreed with and often disliked each other. Not friends, Han Geng had made clear multiple times. And yet this offer for a collaboration, for some possibility of advancing Zhou Mi’s career…

He wouldn’t put it past Han Geng to be offering mostly out of spite - some sort of twisted delight in seeing SM lose another artist, particularly a foreign one. More proof positive to the world, Han Geng would view it, that SM treated its artists like shit.

Petty. If Zhou Mi viewed it that way, he found the entire thing incredibly distasteful.

On the other hand, if he viewed it in light of his future… Everything Han Geng had said was true. It would go incredibly far in establishing a foundation for Zhou Mi’s career, wherever it went after Super Junior M. And it would, because Super Junior M was not forever. It couldn’t be. Zhou Mi wouldn’t let it be.

“Think about it,” Han Geng said when they parted ways later.

***

Zhou Mi thought about it. Over the next few weeks, it popped into his head with discomfiting regularity. It didn’t help that in between the Super Shows and the fine-tuning of the Super Junior M album, he ended up filming in Beijing. When the offer had come for him to be part of a Chinese drama, he hadn’t hesitated long before accepting. Opportunity. He didn’t turn those down. He didn’t leap at every opportunity, of course; being the worrier he was, he always feared where he might land if he leaped without looking, but his mental calculations tended to weigh heavily in favor of building bridges. Those were solid and safe.

“Of course!” he’d said, delighted. Bridges were good investments.

“Wah, how great!” said Ryeowook. “It’s always good to get experience in different things, too. My musical taught me a lot. I’m sure you’ll have a lot of fun.”

“Do you think Siwon would have useful tips?” Zhou Mi had wondered.

“Don’t go to Donghae,” advised Henry.

Kyuhyun had only smirked when he’d heard. “Are you going to have a love story? Are you going to have to kiss a girl on screen?” With the rest of Zhou Mi’s dorm empty, he’d taken over the couch and stretched out along the length of it. Zhou Mi stood above him and slapped his thigh.

“Can you at least pretend to be happy for me?”

“I’m very happy you’ll get to kiss a girl on screen,” Kyuhyun said dutifully, the evil wretch. When he’d finally dropped the smirk, he’d said with surprising sincerity, “It’ll be a good opportunity for you.”

Later, he’d added, “You better call.” And, “Beijing, right? Hankyung’s there.”

Indeed. Zhou Mi hadn’t forgotten. Knowing he was going to be in Beijing, and being in Beijing, hadn’t helped the constant replaying of Han Geng’s offer. Getting a foot in the door, establishing contacts - the things Han Geng had offered stayed forefront his mind even as he was doing the self-same things: meeting directors, actors, actresses; establishing himself as a hard worker, a talent, someone they would be interested in working with again, someone they would support in his own ventures… It was always an ongoing process.

In the cramped dressing rooms behind set one day, while getting direction from a harried-looking producer and editing comments from one of the script-writers, Zhou Mi was distracted by the sound of Han Geng’s name.

One of the lead actresses was chatting with her make-up artist beside him. Her eyes were shut as her stylist drew carefully across them with liquid eyeliner. “He’s such a charmer,” she was saying, and her voice was trembling with laughter even as she held still. “He sent me a weibo message about how much he was looking forward to this drama. He wished us a lot of success.”

It planted a seed of doubt in Zhou Mi’s mind. Since he’d arrived in Beijing two weeks ago, he’d made a conscious effort not to see Han Geng, and hadn’t communicated with him beyond text messages. That changed that night, when Zhou Mi called.

“Did you have something to do with this?”

“What? Your drama?” A laugh rang in Zhou Mi’s ear.

“Tell me.”

“How far do you think I’m willing to go for you? We’re not friends. I don’t owe you anything. I made you my offer; it’s up to you whether or not you’ll accept it. I’m not going to pull strings for you heedlessly.”

The rebuff should have annoyed Zhou Mi but strangely relieved him. Han Geng wasn’t responsible for the drama opportunity. It had been stupid to think so. Zhou Mi was more than aware of his own strengths and the ability to make close friends and keep them was one he prided himself on. He had his own network of people willing to pull strings for him or drop a complimentary word in the right ear - all without Han Geng’s say-so, thank you very much.

They’d all offered to help him before, some more explicitly than others. Calvin Chen and Ken Wu leaped immediately to mind as two of the more recent, and rather more vocal, parties. Taiwan had been…a revelation of sorts and a reminder that he knew how to operate without Super Junior M as his defining factor. He recalled the years before Super Junior M, before SM at all, when he’d been pressing forward in his career as an individual. He knew how to do this, even if there was a bit of relearning in the process.

He thought of Han Geng again, flying solo after - how long had it been? Seven, eight years?

It wasn’t impossible, Zhou Mi mused. This potential future Han Geng was laying out before him like that legendary City of Gold. It was attainable. Of course, he didn’t have to go Han Geng’s route and file a suit, leaving in bitter terms and severing any number of long-standing relationships. It made far more practical sense to preserve good relations, to use his existing circumstances to his benefit. With M, Zhou Mi could reap the benefits of an established fanbase and a well-respected company with a lot of useful connections. With the time he had to himself, when M was on hiatus, he could foray into more individual activities, especially those based in China.

Zhou Mi held back a noise of surprise when someone touched his harm, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Your turn in the chair, Zhou Mi.” The make-up stylist nodded at him and his answering smile was reflexive. He seated himself in front of the brightly-lit mirror and stared vaguely at his reflection. Another day on set. Another scene to film.

Don’t burn bridges was an admonishment he remembered from his university day. Not if you want to succeed in the entertainment industry.

“—so you have to look like you hate him, even if you don’t. Got it?” Today it was the director ranting, frazzled. “Tell me you got it, I refuse to repeat myself. How many times do I have to repeat myself every day, we don’t have that kind of time to waste-!”

“Got it.” The leading lady laid a calming hand on his arm. Her smile was warm. “Don’t worry, director, we’ll do exactly as you said. Right, Zhou Mi?”

“Of course. We’ll make you proud.”

“Good,” snapped the director. “Hurry up. Your turn’s up next and we don’t have time to waste. Get ready.”

“Almost done,” promised the stylist.

The lights were hot when he stepped out under them a few minutes later. The cameras were rolling. As Zhou Mi moved into position, he reflected that it was something he’d been doing all his life, from the blocking on stage as an MC to getting behind a mic stand to sing, to arranging himself according to choreography during Super Shows. Timing was everything. You couldn’t miss the cue.

***

Chen Xin lacks ambition, the instructors wrote in their report. He has so much potential, but he fails to capitalize on possibilities.

Zhou Mi lacks foresight, the instructors said. He is passionate and he is driven, but he can’t always see the big picture. He focuses on what is in front of him and forgets to think of the long-term effects. Be careful of your voice, Zhou Mi. Be careful of your choices. Be sure they are carrying you where you want to go.

Zhou Mi took the criticism to heart.

***

The weather was turning; the cherry and plum trees were already budding and would soon bear a sea of pink-white blossoms on their bare branches. It was one of Zhou Mi’s favorite times of the year. It made him think of the traditional Chinese paintings, flowers and birds stretching across the canvas in delicate brushstrokes, made warm with touches of gentle color. Spring meant the end of winter, the closing of the door to the old year. Spring meant new beginnings.

Early spring also meant the last of the awards season celebrating the previous year. Curled up on the frankly uncomfortable couch in his tiny Beijing apartment, Zhou Mi watched Han Geng lit up with the bright stage lights, grinning widely and waving at the audience. In his other hand he held his award. It was his second of the night.

He was dressed in a neatly tailored suit, one even Zhou Mi approved of. The questionable stylists had not erred here. He looked happy, absolutely thrilled and grateful to be up there receiving this award. He had teared up the first time, voice choked as he thanked his mother and his fans. It’d made a pang shoot through Zhou Mi, watching.

Han Geng looked…like the leader Super Junior M had been lucky to have in its inception. Without his clout, his popularity, carrying them, they wouldn’t have managed to stay afloat. M had been his dream first. M had stopped being enough somewhere along the way. But for those two years they’d been seven, Han Geng at the helm, they had navigated the troubled waters with the unwavering belief that it would all turn out okay in the end. Han Geng had seemed so fervent, and so proud. He’d looked like his dreams had come true again.

Zhou Mi had respected him then, even if he hadn’t liked him. Despite what Han Geng thought, despite their arguments, despite the unusual arrangement they’d fallen into - Zhou Mi had admired him in a way. A way he had perhaps, he thought now ruefully, never let Han Geng know. All the same, it had been there and lingered still: the strength of Han Geng’s convictions and his willingness to make the necessary sacrifices. He might have faltered on occasion, like any human was bound to (and in the extreme circumstances to which Han Geng had been subject, it was amazing he hadn’t lost his way more) but he never let his doubts hold him back long.

He hadn’t seemed to fear the way Zhou Mi tended to. Or perhaps he was just better at conquering those fears.

The camera panned to the audience. It paused on Han Geng’s empty seat and zoomed in on the woman in the next seat. She was wearing a full-length gown in deep bronze, elegantly draped from one shoulder and tucked in at the waist with a tasteful pattern of tiny crystals across the bust. Zhou Mi had approved of her dress earlier as she’d walked down the red carpet on Han Geng’s arm, beaming and radiant. She was clapping now, that same brilliant smile from earlier making a reappearance and eyes shining like she couldn’t be prouder.

“What’re you making that face for?” Han Geng asked, emerging from the tiny kitchen with a fresh bottle of Tsingdao beer in one hand. “Are you still watching that awards show?”

Zhou Mi motioned at the screen.

“Girlfriend?”

“Are you kidding? I don’t have the time to spare for a girlfriend.”

Han Geng sat down on the couch and Zhou Mi gave him a sidelong look. “Haven’t you always talked about wanting to get married? Finding that perfect girl you can take home to your mom?”

“Yeah, well.” A shrug. “I don’t have the time right now. I’ll figure that out later. Work takes priority right now.”

Which explained why he’d taken the night off and invited himself over to Zhou Mi’s apartment, sure.

“You don’t have to date a girl to fuck her,” Zhou Mi said, deliberately crude.

Han Geng’s laugh still had that edge of mockery to it. He tipped the neck of his bottle in Zhou Mi’s direction, as if acknowledging him for that hit. “But I don’t need that when I have you, right?”

“Fuck you.”

“I do. And you like it.”

Tight-lipped, Zhou Mi stared at the TV.

“You can’t deny that, can you?” He dropped a hand to Zhou Mi’s knee, palm warm through the thin wool blend. “Do you care who I fuck, Mi?”

In the unforgiving florescent lighting of the apartment, he looked tired. There were circles under his eyes. Zhou Mi knew the kind of ragged schedule Han Geng ran - heard about it through mutual acquaintances, remembered it from M days - and it was no surprise that he worked himself to the bone. Sacrifices he was willing to bear for his dreams had always been one of the things Zhou Mi had admired, after all. Yet for the lines on his face, the imperfections of his skin free of make-up, he still radiated some form of earnestness. Dependability. This was China’s landlord, their eternal son.

It was so much at odds with what lived inside him, as much bitterness and pettiness as there was grace and generosity. So much twisted enjoyment at playing others to his own tune. He loved his mother, true enough. Loved his fans. Loved as well the way they would defend him blindly and never think him capable of this, leaning forward and catching Zhou Mi’s mouth with his own.

He tasted of the sharp tang of beer, his mouth cold as Zhou Mi’s tongue slipped inside. His hand ran up Zhou Mi’s thigh, thumb running along the inner inseam of his slacks.

The heater in the window was still humming: early spring nights were still cold. Zhou Mi felt himself shiver under Han Geng’s hands for another reason altogether. He swallowed convulsively.

“Do you care who I fuck?” Han Geng murmured again, low and close. His lips skated across Zhou Mi’s jaw to his neck. His breath was hot. “You shouldn’t.”

His hand closed over Zhou Mi’s cock, half-hard and rising between them.

Silently and steadily, he rubbed at Zhou Mi’s erection through his clothes. His eyes were narrowed in concentration as he wrung aborted gasps from Zhou Mi with every firm rub of his thumb, every press of the heel of his palm. The rhythm increased and, with it, Zhou Mi’s pounding pulse. His hands clutched at the sofa beneath him. He knew the rules. No touching allowed. Not when Han Geng was getting him off.

The pressure built low in Zhou Mi’s spine until he had to bite back a groan. He came with a shudder and a hot flush of embarrassment, feeling the spreading warmth soaking into his briefs.

Han Geng sat back and watched him. He was still holding his beer with his free hand.

“Would you fuck a girl for your career?”

Zhou Mi clenched his hands. “No!” He might build bridges and make the most of his connections, but there were lines, goddammit.

Han Geng’s mouth quirked. He took a swig of his beer. “No, you probably wouldn’t fuck her. But you’d hang her on your arm and let the world think what they wanted, wouldn’t you? They’d leap to the wrong conclusion and you would let them, because it would help you. Just think of the scandal if they knew the truth.”

“I’m not you.”

Zhou Mi stood up, legs still trembling. He locked eyes with Han Geng for a long moment, staring with a sort of desperate hatred that he hadn’t felt in ages. So some part of him had once respected Han Geng and maybe still did, unwillingly. But Zhou Mi also hated him.

Turning, he stalked towards the bathroom to clean himself off.

Behind him, Han Geng laughed again. It was an ugly sound. “We’re more alike than you think, Zhou Mi.” Zhou Mi didn’t turn around. “It’s why we’re drawn to each other. Birds of a feather…”

I’ll never be anything like you, Zhou Mi thought furiously. He shut the bathroom door with emphasis.

***

Han Geng auditioned for SM mostly out of desperation. He lived the life of a poor student ready to risk anything to make it big. He had nothing to lose. This was all or nothing, and Han Geng always gave his all.

Zhou Mi auditioned by accident, through a friend. He had already been making inroads on a successful future career in the industry. He thought it was worth putting on hold to see this new opportunity out. Never overlook an opportunity, after all.

Han Geng trained for four years in SM before he could debut. He struggled to learn a new language, one that never felt familiar tripping off his tongue. He never felt at home.

Zhou Mi trained for a year and half before he debuted with Super Junior M. He was welcomed from the first by a dark-eyed boy with a bite of his food. If Korea wasn’t home, he had people there who made him feel like it could be.

Han Geng was the first foreign idol in Korea. He broke all kinds of new ground. He worked to his bones to hold his head up high, maskless and proud. He became the pride of a nation.

Zhou Mi entered an industry populated with foreign idols, a diversity used as a selling point. He faced an overwhelming anti-fan sentiment that chased down his every insecurity and laid it bare. He integrated himself as best he could in response.

Han Geng had enough of being treated like dirt for every ounce of blood and sweat he put forth. He knew he was worth more. He went home, where he’d always known he belonged. He built up a new empire, one that knew his value and respected it.

Zhou Mi worked the system instead, from inside. His name, tiny, went in the contributing lines of every Super Junior M album. He honed his language skills until it earned him an indispensable position in the group. He created his own value.

Han Geng said, “We’re more alike than you think, Zhou Mi.”

They were not, Zhou Mi realized, so different in the end.

***

Frost no longer curled across the window panes in the morning. Spring was in full bloom, quite literally, chilly sunlight washing over a colorful array of green buds and cheerful flowers. By some miracle, no one Zhou Mi knew was sick, though that hadn’t been the case just last week. It was like a collective bug, he reflected, that had gotten Ryeowook, Luna, and Donghae all at once, and had left them at the same time. At least it hadn’t been anyone he’d had to live with. While Henry whined with predictable misery when sick, Jungmo, maybe surprisingly, wasn’t much better. Zhou Mi lived a happier life not having to nurse either of them.

He waited by the door while Henry grabbed his jacket and took a whirlwind detour back into his room for his sunglasses and scrambled back out, socked feet sliding along the wood floor. “Ready!” he said. “Sorry!” He stuffed his feet into his sneakers, hooked them on from the back, and was out the door right behind Zhou Mi.

“Do you want to stop for coffee?” Zhou Mi asked, slipping his sunglasses over his nose as they stepped outside the building.

“Yeah,” said Henry eagerly. “We can go to that Paris Baguette on the corner. It shouldn’t be too crowded, right? I think the before-work rush is over.”

“Should we get something for Sujeong?”

“Maybe.” Henry looked doubtful. “He might’ve already had some though?”

“A second cup wouldn’t go unwelcomed, I think.”

Henry shrugged. “Sure, dude. I don’t really get this politeness stuff. All the rules are so complicated.”

Zhou Mi laughed. “It’s just being nice to people who help you out. It leaves them with a good impression, so they’re more likely to help you again. Building bridges.”

“Sounds complicated,” Henry repeated.

He seemed to conclude it was a convoluted adult thing he wasn’t ready to untangle and Zhou Mi wasn’t particularly up to the task of edifying him, not without caffeine to fortify him, at any rate. They picked up their coffees and an extra for their music producer with minimal fuss and then Henry flagged down a cab for them.

Studio today? Zhou Mi’s phone buzzed with a text from Kyuhyun on the ride.

yes!! :) what about you?

Can’t, unless it’s late. You free around 11?

drinks with Changmin. you want to come? he’d be happy to see you!!

Yeah, like I need to see his ugly face. I’ll call you when I’m done or you can text me where you are.

okay :)

Cheerful, Zhou Mi tucked his phone away. He chuckled when he saw Henry dozing again, head tilted against the window on his side of the car and baseball cap pressed awkwardly into his face. That kid could honestly sleep anywhere. It had to be some sort of life skill. A useful one in this business though.

The building was moderately busy when they arrived and they passed both familiar and unfamiliar faces on their way up to the studio. Henry got the door to 504B and held it open for Zhou Mi, who came in with a coffee in each hand. Sujeong had his back to them but turned upon their entrance.

“Hey, guys.”

“Hi!” Henry grinned. “We got you coffee.”

Zhou Mi extended his left arm in offering.

Sujeong laughed. “Good kids. You know how to treat an old man right.”

“You work so hard for us,” Zhou Mi said when Sujeong had relieved him of the coffee. He turned to set his own cup down on the back table so he could shrug off the bag he’d slung over his shoulder.

Sujeong patted Henry affectionately. “Pull up a chair. It’s good, we’re nearing the end now. You here for those touch-ups? We can probably start with Henry’s back-up track, if you’re ready?” His questioning look was met with a nod, so he continued. “And Zhou Mi, show me that song you have in mind. Adding a track at this late in the stage - doable, but it’ll require some long hours. At least you’ve already picked the title songs. Have you filmed the MV yet?”

“Yeah, just last week, actually. Through the night.”

Henry made a noise of discontent, muffled into his coffee. He could put in the long hours as required, but he still didn’t enjoy them. Unlike Zhou Mi, he wasn’t afraid to complain about them either. Zhou Mi just got snappish. He was still short on sleep, if he were being perfectly honest, but that was pretty much par for the course these days. Sujeong gave them both a sympathetic look.

“At least that’s out of the way. Let’s focus on getting the rest of this album finished and polished up.” While he turned to Henry to discuss the particulars, Zhou Mi rummaged through his bag for his composition notebook. Its corners were well-worn, having seen a lot of use the past few weeks; Zhou Mi had taken to carrying it everywhere with him so he could jot down ideas for lyrics and, tentatively, music. That was new, yeah. He’d been interested in composition for a long time now. After seeing Ryeowook or Henry at work over staved paper, after hearing Jungmo pick out melodies on his guitar, seemingly out of nowhere, Zhou Mi had wondered what it’d be like to create music like that. He thought he’d give it a shot.

He wasn’t a fast learner by any means. His current attempts at the basics were probably on par with his piano skills - far from being the next prodigy. All the same, it left Zhou Mi with a delicious curl of satisfaction in his stomach. He was slowly on his way to achieving another long-held goal.

There was a song floating in his mind too. A love song, of course. Something terribly sad, because those were the most romantic. He laughed a little to himself when he thought of it. It was nothing more than an idea at this point. Zhou Mi glanced down at the open page of the notebook and the mostly empty bars. The music sounded better in his head than written down, but he was convinced he’d get it right one day. The title was already there: 人生无憾. Life without regret. A story about a pair of lovers who were no longer together, who had suffered a painful separation, but who found that, for all the pain, they could never look back and regret their love. Or something silly and romantic like that. He’d thought of it after watching one of the recently airing dramas.

The point, perhaps, wasn’t the content of the song. It was instead the way Zhou Mi heard the song in his head: powerful and soulful. Chinese. A duet. He pictured the male voice in his own register and the female in another’s - Lara, perhaps. She had done such an amazing job with Jay Chou’s Coral Sea, after all.

Brushing the thought away, Zhou Mi flipped through his notebook until he found the pages he was looking for. Potential last track, Sujeong and Zak had suggested to them a few weeks ago, handing over a song Super Junior M’s manager had passed along to them. “Want to do the lyrics, Zhou Mi?” Sujeong had asked, once he’d played it for Zhou Mi’s benefit.

“I think I can manage something,” Zhou Mi had said.

And he had. Henry thought the lyrics were pretty good - or what half he’d understood, at any rate, he’d admitted freely with a boyish smirk. The others wouldn’t even bother asking for translations until it was time to record and they needed some understanding of the emotion behind the lyrics. Sujeong, however, looked pleased by them, reading over the translations Zhou Mi and a manager had cobbled together.

“Nice work, Zhou Mi. We’ll do a demo and see how everything sounds together, make any changes necessary.”

Henry piped in his opinions as they ran through a rough demo. The rest of the morning passed by in a blur. By the time Sujeong thought to order lunch, it was already nearing two.

“I’m so hungry,” Henry whined pitifully, pillowing his head on his arms on the table.

“Food’ll be here in ten minutes.”

“Oh, your phone buzzed a few times while you were recording.”

Zhou Mi checked his messages.

We’re still on for tonight, right?

Changmin. Zhou Mi sent back a cheerful of course!

Ran into Danson Tang the other day. He couldn’t quit talking about you and that time you showed him around Seoul. Anything you need to tell me?

Zhou Mi rolled his eyes. He thought about pointedly ignoring the text, but decided after a few minutes to respond.

I don’t need fuck my way through the business.

The reply came five minutes after the food did. Henry had yet to surface from his kimchi fried rice.

You’re a hundred years too early, Zhou Mi.

Zhou Mi waited until the long day at the studio wrapped up. In the elevator on the way down, he pulled out his phone and looked it, thinking about his reply. When he stepped outside, the sun was dipping below the horizon, the sky highlighted in pinks and oranges, and flickers of lights coming on all over the city.

Zhou Mi thought of the notebook in his bag with its unfinished song. Maybe after he finished that one he’d write a song for himself. A solo. He laughed a little at the thought. It would be a long time before he got to that point, considering the state of his composition skills. But someday…

He thought of Sujeong, who’d bid him goodbye with a hearty clap on the back and a warm, “You worked hard today.” He thought of meeting with Changmin and Kyuhyun later. He thought of Danson, who still spoke so well of him. He thought, too, of Han Geng - the darling of China, the dancing king, the good son and landlord of a billion hearts - and the way his eyes darkened when Zhou Mi knelt between his legs. The way he kissed Zhou Mi and taunted him and obsessed over him and, in a twisted and tangled way, drew him slowly back towards China, inexorably.

Don’t worry, Zhou Mi wrote. I’m coming home.

In his own time. In his own way.

There was another hour and a half before he had to meet Changmin for dinner. Zhou Mi tucked his phone away and started down the street, walking at a steady clip but with no particular destination in mind. He had some time to kill.



All the lines we cast will bring us home
It's a long way but I'm coming home