There is something about little Kim Minseok that no one really knows; and that is his love for pictures—be it taking or posing for them. He likes the idea of taking everlasting snapshots of his life for memory will fade and eventually disappear altogether but inks that mold together to create a beautiful photo will last a lifetime and more.

And so he poses for photos proudly despite the insults of his weight and chubby cheeks because this will be what is left of him after he leaves this world behind, these photographs will be his only legacy. He wants to be remembered, even if only by a few people and thus his infatuation with cameras and photographs began. Hopefully, these pictures of him will be treasured and kept safe by the grandchildren he dreams to have and shared with their own children when the opportunity arises.

“These photos tell the story of your great-grandfather’s life. It may seem boring but he lived his life to the fullest and was happy, very happy indeed.”

A book filled with photos that narrated his life. Minseok would like that; he would like that very much.




 

Minseok almost didn’t become an idol because he was so passionate about photography. The walls of his room are littered with pictures of different scenes. A couple were stills of the setting sun while others were blurred images of running soccer players. Most were completely random and even abstract.

He remembers his first camera well—he had gotten it when he was thirteen—a birthday present his parents had said, knowing how their son was positively enamoured by the bulky object but could not afford the then luxurious item. And right they were. He was practically bursting with elation. He faintly remembers his father handing him the item, placing one hand on his shoulder, gruff voice speaking slowly.

“Only take beautiful pictures my son, pictures so beautiful that they’ll put heaven to shame.”

He remembers nodding distractedly, too busy fiddling around with the gift but he holds those words dear to his heart. They’re the reason behind his every photo, the seemingly vague theme to all the works he has taken.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and hence, Minseok concluded that everything he loved was indeed beautiful. Therefore, Minseok only took pictures of all that he loved.

Minseok almost didn’t become an idol because he was so passionate about photography. Nevertheless, he still did.

And his camera joined him on his road to stardom.




 

The first person he really became acquainted with was this quiet person at one side of the room. The other flitters around people like a bee—no a butterfly—and smiles a little too bright and a little too kind for one to not be drawn and ensnared into the trap that is Luhan.

Radiant, he shines brighter than the sun. His soft voice is enthralling. Hook. Each little nod of his head and quirk of his lips were undoubtedly the most alluring thing he has ever laid his eyes upon. Line. The warmth that radiates off him as the younger wraps slender arms around his form was bewitching.

Sinker.

Minseok fell and he fell hard but he wasn’t complaining because the thudding against his chest and the surge of happiness at every glimpse of the Chinese male was the best thing he has ever felt in his life.

Even if his heart constricted at the sight of the elegant male linking arms with another. Even if the little deer’s laugh had a different lilt—so much lighter and so much more carefree not to mention happy—when with the other boy. Even if he feels as if a wrecking ball has slammed into his chest, crushing his lungs and suddenly he can’t breathe—

Minseok learns the other boy’s name and permanently ingrains the characters Oh Sehun at the back of head, kept harshly under lock and key.

His obsession with cameras and pictures evolved as the years strolled by. Amateur skills polished and flourished under the gentle hand of time. As the camera progressed into the digital ones today thanks to the advanced technology of the 21^st century, Minseok no longer had to bother with the hassle of printing them out for all his little moments in life. He smiles.

Click!

Everything he loves will be saved in one trusty little chip.

Click!

Luhan’s gentle and kind smile will be preserved in these 600 x 400 images.

Click! 

The ever-present twinkle of Luhan’s eyes will be engraved in this portrait.

Click!

Luhan. Lu Han. Luhan. Luhan. LuhanLuhanLuhan.

Minseok puts down the camera, settles his head into the safety of his palms, and groans. 

It’s been three years, give or take, and he is still freefalling. Luhan has become an addiction, a drug, he knows this isn’t good, this isn’t right, feeling like this will not end well but he can’t seem to pull away. Every word brings him closer. Every brushing of fingers makes him fall a little more. And every smile makes him take an even deeper plunge down the abyss.

He has about a couple of thousand photos now­­­­­ and each one of them is Luhan. But somehow, Sehun sneaks into at least two-thirds of his photos too. Always watching the elder, a tender upturn of the lips graces the usually stoic face. More often than not, his pink tongue makes an appearance too. And sometimes, Luhan would be the one watching longingly at Sehun as the younger practices hard for their long awaited debut, a fond expression settling on his angelic features. The twinkle in his eyes intensifies as the younger moves to the beat, pushing his body harder and faster, while playing with the  string of the hoodie that Sehun has left with Luhan. Minseok recognises that look on Luhan’s face, sees it on Sehun’s and just knows that it’s on his too when he observes the petite Chinese.

His head hurts but his heart aches even more.

When Minseok took on the stage name of Xiumin, he feels two things.

An overwhelming sense of loss, of regret, of pain. He’s replacing his name—given to him by his parents whose soothing voices still rings in his ears—simply because he it’s Korean. It was like sacrificing a part of him; the name is so deeply interlaced in every fibre of his being. It was and still is his identity. To erase that just so he can have that one moment of fame, of glory, of success. It hits hard and it hits raw.

On the other hand, Minseok becoming Xiumin symbolises something. ‘Xiumin’ is Chinese, ‘Luhan’ is Chinese.

He was chosen to be in EXO-M, not Sehun. He was better at Mandarin, not Sehun. He was the one going to be travelling over and promoting their group in China, not Sehun. Minseok is the one who will be spending more time with Luhan now.

Not Sehun.

It’s stupid, but he feels rather smug, having finally one-upped the other boy after all these years.

Minseok, no. Xiumin – 1

Sehun – 909404812

It’s so one-sided. It’s absolutely ridiculous that this competition for Luhan’s attention and affection is so blatantly biased. He is the only one keeping track of the score, he is the only one actually exhuming efforts in trying to winning the Chinese’s love, he is the only one that has to even bother.

He has lost, is still losing and always will lose. Oh Sehun will, forever and ever more, come up top and be crowned victor.

Xiumin can’t help but hope though, he has fallen fast and is falling hard and he won’t stop. He can’t stop.

But didn’t they say that “slow and steady wins the race”? He still has a chance.
 

It’s insane how easy Xiumin got close to Luhan after the rowdy bunch of twelve sweaty boys split evenly into two.

Fanservice was key in this day and age to stay afloat in the industry. It’s all about the skinship, it’s all about making a fool out of yourselves and most of all, it’s all about the pairings.

Xiumin is paired with Chen. He isn’t surprised though—they were close, being the only Koreans in a group full of Chinese people and also being the only ones who needed help translating and keeping up with everything. They bonded over the foreignness of it all. From angry swirls of ink, forming on looming signboards to the miniscule characters printed on the menus at restaurants. They had gotten close within a short amount of time.

Yet, they hadn’t gotten close enough. He still feels uncomfortable when the younger man attaches himself onto the elder. He still feels creeped out when the other throws an arm over his shoulder. He wonders if they can see his grimace through the carefully plastered grin in every fantaken photo of the two of them.

He hates fanservice.

EXO-M’s mangers gets wind of how Luhan and Xiumin are close, very close with fansites citing their mutual love of soccer and all things manly, and pushes the oldest members together. And he, the object of their fantasies, enjoyed scrolling through the countless photos of “xiuhan’s” every favourite moment.

It’s all about entertaining hormone-driven, erted females. There must be more, more, more. Skinship was key and to feed their delusions.

Xiumin has never loved fanservice that much before.

Home sweet home.

It’s been a while since the group had reassembled and EXO-M would be leaving for China the day after. Everyone else had gone to bed or at least retreated to their respective rooms save for Xiumin, Luhan and Sehun.

Luhan and Sehun were going to catch up and spend the remaining of their time together, inviting Xiumin along.

He accepted. And he regrets.

The three were currently lounged on the battered cream sofa with blankets enveloping them.  A movie—Tangled to be exact—was playing on the regular flatscreen t.v. that sat comfortably two metres away from them. Sehun’s head was nestled on Luhan’s lap, the elder his messy locks rhythmically, eyes glued to the scene unfolding on the screen whereas Xiumin stayed on the other corner, curled up in a ball as he tries to pry his eyes from the other two.

He irrevocably fails.

He’s distracted and doesn’t get the movie, doesn’t even understand the bare gist of it but the scene before him doesn’t need any background information. It doesn’t need content knowledge. It’s something simple and a little too familiar, reminding him of people he knows—

“Why won’t anyone look at me like that?”

His voice was soft, always has been but this was softer than usual. However, Xiumin has trained himself to pick out Luhan’s voice from any environment, be it on stage where swarms of girls would shriek and squeal, or the quiet of an empty room. It’s ingrained into his very core and he instinctively listens.

“Because like her, you aren’t looking when he does.”

Xiumin knew Luhan heard him—he recognises the spark that Luhan’s eyes twinkled when something, anything registers in his pretty little head. And suddenly, the air is knocked out of his lungs. He can’t breathe. It was as if the empire state building decided to collapse right on top of him and the massive weight crushes him and crushes him whole. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe.

Luhan’s smile is tender, watery even, as he looks down at the boy on his lap. Doe eyes clash with sharp ones and the Chinese leans in, closer, closer and closer.

Imeantme. Imeantme. Imeantmememememememe. Me.

Lips touch just as Xiumin turns tail and flees.

The next day is stifling. The air smells of affection, it stinks of infatuation, it reeks with ing love. Xiumin turns green at the mere mushiness of it, with Sehun’s arms wrapped around Luhan as they both try to waddle around the dorms literally attached to one another. Xiumin turns green at how cheesy the two could be with the secret little kisses to the hugs that lingered for far too long. Xiumin turns green at lovestruck gazes, the longing looks and hushed words the pair exchanges at the airport.

Xiumin turns green.

He turns green with envy.

Luhan motions Xiumin to come forward and the elder mentally grimaces but does so anyway. Bringing one arm up to form half of a heart as the other does the same, both Xiumin and Luhan wore matching grins full of cheek as the fangirls go crazy beneath them.

Fanservice never hurt as much before.