“How can they do that?” He trembles as tears flood his waterlines, his pulse quickening as this throat attempts to constrict and close. He can’t have an attack, not here, not right now, and especially not when he's been taking his medication for the attacks, he can’t. “If there’s a deficit, aren’t they supposed to fill in the gap elsewhere? I don’t - I don’t even know when my paycheck will come in, Han, I can’t - ”

His best friend sighs exasperatedly on the other line, his harsh breath static against the receiver. “I don’t know, Tao, I’m really sorry. They told me it’s because I’m not a relative of yours, therefore, now that you have your own income and tax, I’m not considered a reputable source of payment, apparently. It’s such bull, but don’t worry, I’m on my way there right now to give them a piece of my mind.”

He sniffles, letting out a choked cry, as he wraps his hand around his throat and struggles to breathe. “Will everything be okay?” He asks in a small voice, breaths tight. “What if they don’t let you help provide? I can’t lose her like this, Han, I can’t - not like this, I’m not ready, I - ”

“I know, Tao,” his best friend says, and Zitao can make out the blaring noise of a car horn in the muddy reception on the other line - Luhan must actually be in his car right now, and Zitao doesn’t want to even imagine how much he’s probably running the speed limit. “I’m trying, okay? I’ll keep you posted, don’t worry. I’ll figure this out, this can’t be legal to do, regardless of if I’m related to you or not.”

“Did they give you any stipulations to abide by?” Zitao blurts out. “Any, like - qualms to obey, or any requirements for being considered a qualifying source of payment? Is there anything I can do to make that happen?”

“I couldn’t get them to go into detail on the phone, but this can’t possibly be that vague. That’s why I’m on my way to the hospital, okay? I’ll try to fix this, Tao, don’t worry. Anyway, I gotta go, I’m turning off of the parkway, alright? Love you.”

Zitao doesn’t get any time to respond before the receiver clicks and the call is dropped, and he lowers his cell phone from his ear as he stares down at the call list, a tear flitting down his cheek. Why is it that everything that could possibly go wrong in somebody’s life, always seems to happen to Zitao? He’s not a horrible person - sure, he doesn’t actively attend church anymore, and he did shoplift once when he was a preteen because his father had been fighting with his mother at the time and had gotten her a birthday present with merely a second’s worth of thought behind it, and Zitao, only fourteen and penniless, had thought she deserved much better and had stolen a handbag, but nobody is perfect. Everybody makes mistakes, so why is Zitao the one being punished?

Shuddering, he places his phone back into his shoulder bag as his fingers loosen from his throat and he struggles to breathe, struggles to stand with softened knees upon high pedestals. He can’t deal with something like this while he is at work, especially when there is no window of opportunity for him to say his final goodbyes in person. Knowing his brittle relationship with the president, he doesn’t think it would necessarily be easy at all to explain the situation to him and be given an early leave for the day. At any rate, Zitao doesn’t know what to do.

He finds himself crouching down in the little stretch of the hallway as he gathers his head in his hands and does his best to stop the tears, to quell the tightness in his throat and catch his breath, and he wraps his hands around his own shoulders to help stabilize himself and make his awareness feel safe. 

It’s not a strong attack - thank God it isn’t, but Zitao still nevertheless finds himself yearning for the comforting touch of another in times like this. He’s lived through attacks like these many a time before, and he knows he will live through this one, but he can’t find it in himself to stop worrying about what this may mean for his mother’s dated future. He knows her time will come sooner or later, but he’d much rather it be later than sooner, and he’d definitely much rather sooner not be tomorrow. 

It’s when he’s sighing into his hands and wiping away the tracks of his tears that he hears the clacking of another person’s shoes, and a woman steps up to him and kneels down in her stance as she says, “Excuse me, miss, are you alright?”

Looking up at her with slightly-blurred vision, Zitao does not recognize her. Of course, he may have only been at work for a select few days, but he isn’t sure he’s ever gotten to cross paths with her before. She’s stereotypically female, thin with lightly-colored curly hair wrapped in a ponytail that pours down her back, bright eyes atop a freckled nose and a strangely cute outfit, something slightly flashy with decorated pinks rather than more professional attire. Zitao doesn’t know her.

Swallowing around a cottony throat, he nods and allows her to help him stand. “I’m okay,” he says hoarsely, and he knows his eyes are probably red and swollen and that in this amount of halogen light, it would be pretty much impossible to not see that. “Thank you.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” The woman reiterates once more, and Zitao will probably be okay, he’s not exactly sure yet but there’s a good chance he will be fine. Adjusting his shoulder bag, he nods and tries to force a smile, though it’s hard and it makes his lips sting. “Are you supposed to be somewhere, miss?” The woman asks him again. “Do you need help getting there?”

Actually, not being so alone has made his anxiety go down significantly, and Zitao feels as though he can breathe more easily now. Although the worry is still very prevalent at the forefront of his mind, he feels a little bit calmer. “I was returning to Studio B,” he tells her, and realization dawns on her face as she nods. 

“Do you want me to help you get there?” She asks him, smiling, and Zitao notes that when she smiles, her eyes shrink and slit as her freckles scrunch along her facial musculature, light in color and not very contrasted from the shade of her skin. 

And although still upset and bothered, Zitao doesn’t think he is going to fall over anymore. “No thank you,” he tells her politely. “I think I’m alright now, thank you, though.”

“Okay,” the girl smiles. “Take care now, alright?”

She turns on her heel and heads out into the foyer and down the east wing, her curled hair bouncing behind her as the golden tones radiate in the lights, and Zitao sighs as he forces himself back into normal focus. What would have happened if the girl had been the president and he had seen Zitao skipping work like that? 

Maybe he just needs to immerse himself in some work to get his mind off of everything. 

It’s not exactly easy, however, to remain strong when he is by himself. As he walks down the hallway and up the stairs to his studio, the shuddering returns and with it come the tight muscles and the tears, and Zitao hates this. He hates being so emotionally sensitive especially at work, and this was exactly the reason he had been fired from the restaurant was for showing his mental illnesses too much when on company grounds. Still ashamed of the reactions he had gotten in the past, Zitao is too frightened to find out how the president would handle a situation like this.

When he pushes past the double-doors of his studio, the lights are off and the room has sunken into dimmed darkness as the coordinators and the photographer host another shoot, a girl Zitao doesn’t necessarily recognize from afar which simply means she isn’t Minseo, and Zitao takes the opportunity to slink into the darkness as to not disturb them and pull his bag from his shoulder and lay it on the couch, and with a great sigh, he sits himself down onto the padded cushion. 

In the darkness, his sadness only amplifies and it’s a mere several seconds before tears stream down his cheeks again, and he sighs as he wipes his under-eyes and tilts his head to the ceiling. He feels utterly pathetic - why can’t he just be strong and stop crying? Being himself, Zitao never had the chance to attach to anyone other than his mother. Sure, he and Luhan are very close, but Zitao never had the opportunity to attach to his father, and never had the opportunity to attach to any grandparents or second-rate parents. If something happens to his mother, Zitao doesn’t know what he’ll do.

Qian is helping out with the shoot alongside Joohyun, and in a more sensitive state than usual, Zitao can’t help but feel jealous as this girl gets assistance from both coordinators when he hadn’t. He’s not sure what must be required of someone to have two coordinators, but Zitao is a little bit sad that it isn’t him who gets that privilege. 

It’s when the girl is stepping down from her stool that Qian notices his presence, having turned around and Zitao nearly loses it as the acknowledgement bleeds across the woman’s face, as she jogs over to him with a sucralose smile on her face, and it’s only when she’s knelt down at her level and said, “Hi, Yingtao,” that she notices the pain in his expression and her own begins to sink. “What’s wrong?” She asks in a concerned tone, voice pressed and countenance prudent, perhaps fearing that one touch may set him off. 

“Nothing,” he tries to tell her for her own good, knowing that a crying Zitao is a very annoying Zitao. However, her gaze sharpens as her head a little bit to the side, and Zitao can tell that his persuasion is not following successfully through.

“Yingtao,” she repeats in a fluctuating tone, suspicious. “What’s wrong?”

He knows he can probably confide in Qian, but the last thing he would want to do would be to burden her with his issues because he knows he can be a little bit much sometimes. Sniffling as another tear falls and he instinctively raises a hand to shield it, he shakes his head, not wanting to tell her. 

Qian sighs then and reaches out to take one of his hands in hers as she stares up at him, eyes soft, before she sighs out, “Yingtao,” and with a pleading expression, she asks, “please tell me?”

Breathing carefully, Zitao trembles as her hands let go of his fingers and smooth up his arms, warm and comforting, and his heart yearns for compassion. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you,” he confesses softly, his voice a few notches above a whisper, and Qian coos sympathetically. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“You can tell me anything, Yingtao, I promise,” the woman smiles helplessly, eyebrows tilted as she doesn’t know exactly how she can help. “It’ll stay just between us, but I cannot force you to tell me anything if you truly don’t want to.”

He is wary, nevertheless, knowing he is not strong enough in this state to follow through with rational thinking. Although not alone in the large studio, they are certainly alone in their immediate personal bubble, and Zitao has at least some confidence that nobody will eavesdrop. Reluctant and teary-eyed, he tells her. 

“Oh, Yingtao,” she hums sadly as she moves forward to wrap Zitao in her arms, and he openly cries out his worry into her shoulder, keeping his arms tight at his sides. “I’m so sorry, you poor baby. I hope your friend gets everything sorted out. Are you alright?”

Albeit not really being alright, he nods, not wanting to worry her and rain on her parade.

Still, she does not buy it, and she moves away from him to get his attention. “Look at me,” she says, tapping him gently on the upper back. Shyly, he moves back and meets her eye. As she soaks up the sight of him, and Zitao knows his eye makeup must be runny, her expression softens and she reaches over to a side table and plucks a tissue free from a disposable box upon the table, and as she wraps it around her finger into a point, she begins to dab at his under-eyes with the tissue. “Poor girl,” she shakes her head. “Everything will be okay, I promise you. And no matter what happens, you can always come talk to me, okay? I promise I will never judge you, and I will never ignore you. Just grab me whenever you need me, and I promise I will listen.”

He sniffles, feeling ironically like a used tissue, fragile and crumpled. “I’m sorry,” he cries out, feeling like a nuisance. “You were in the middle of work, and I just - ”

“Yingtao,” Qian says again, rubbing her palms over his shoulders once again. “Our job as coordinators is to take care of the girls, and this is taking care of you, is it not?”

Zitao doesn’t want to think about how material that sounds - it’s just the wording, really, but it makes it sound like she only cares because she’s paid to care. Zitao knows she doesn’t mean it that way, but it’s hard to try to reassure his brain right now when he’s at such a low point, that Qian means no harm. “I’m sorry,” he repeats, sobbing out tearlessly in a soft cry, his bottom lip trembling. “I don’t know what to do. I just want her to be okay.”

Qian sighs, her head lowering as if thinking about something, and Zitao can’t help but worry that he is proving to be irritating. Then, she glances behind herself toward the open section of the studio where the photographer is chatting with the girl who’d stepped down from her stool, a shorter girl in what appears to be a red plaid overcoat with her hair done up, before she glances back at Zitao and meets his eye with a twinkle in her gaze. “Tell you what,” she starts, rubbing her thumbs gingerly over the ridges of his collarbones where they meet his shoulders, “I’ve got nothing to do for a few minutes, and I think Mr. Park is finished with shoots for now, as well. How would you like if I treated you to your own personal shoot to get your mind off of it, hm? All yours, you can wear whatever you like, you can pose however you like, and we can do you up however you like, yeah?”

Zitao’s vision begins to clear, surprised that somebody could be so selfless and willing to help someone who is less than a friend in such a way, and he can’t even wrap his mind around how this could be allowed without the president’s permission, but he would do anything to not be left alone with his thoughts, right now. At least, not until Luhan calls him back with an update. Desperate for immediate companionship, Zitao sniffles and nods his head, and the reaction blooms a pretty grin upon Qian’s pinked lips, as she reaches up and smooths down the top of his hair in a gentle, comforting swipe. “Don’t worry, I will speak to Mr. Park about it so you don’t have to,” she smiles. “And don’t worry about the permission rights - it’s our studio, so we can technically do just about anything we like as long as it benefits the company.”

“Have you done this before with anybody?” He asks, internally hoping that he is special and he could for once be the only one to have gotten a certain privilege. 

Unfortunately, Qian nods her head. “I’ve only done it a couple of times. I did it one time with that girl I told you about the other day, the one who had alopecia. I offered her a personalized shoot that didn’t follow any specific theme assigned by the president in hopes of making her feel more confident about herself. It’s not something we do too often because the president usually assigns us several themes per week to make sure we get every single girl to partake in.”

Zitao may not be the biggest fan of being dolled up this way, and although it is not the worst thing he’s ever had to go through aside from having his pressed to his taint at all times, it sounds like a very good way to clear his mind and help his focus loosen. “Okay,” he says, and Qian smiles happily.

“I’ll let you pick,” she promises. “I’ll take you into the back closet, not the shoe closet you change in but we’ve got a separate clothing closet on the other side. I’ll take you in there and you can pick out anything to wear, okay?”

Slightly calmed, Zitao nods, though he knows he has barely any experience whatsoever coordinating feminine outfits together and has absolutely no confidence that he will pick anything that actually works together, so with that in mind, he carefully asks, “Will you help me pick something out? I don’t… really know much about putting outfits together.”

“Of course, Yingtao,” she promises, her cheeks round around her smile and her eyes soft and caring. “Come on, let’s go see.”

Zitao discovers upon inspection that the president is not someone that often uses vivid, experimental shades in his clothing. The clothing closet is much like a storage room yet well-furnished with pretty ceiling lights and a regal oxblood carpet with gold and cream trim. Unlike the few racks that sit in the left side of the studio when you initially walk in and which contain miscellaneous outfits that would be used that day, the racks in the clothing room are organized by outfit and are color-coordinated, whereas each rack holds one specific kind of outfit in varying sizes. Zitao notices one to his right hung with red plaid overcoats just like the one the girl had been wearing, as well as a rack with black suit-sets similar to the set he had worn on his first day. 

As he continues to look around, he notices that the majority of clothing are all within a sort of bracketed set color range, ranging from reds to blues to grays and blacks, some greens and browns and whites, and Zitao only manages to see a select several racks filled with brights and vivids, only enough to count on his hands, and he wonders why the president doesn’t seem to make many clothes with unusual, eye-catching colors. Is he playing it safe, or something?

One thing that does catch Zitao’s eye is a rack off to his right, and on it is one single floor-length red gown, sheened and ruched as it goes down, and he finds himself unable to look away. “That one,” he says, and points at the singular garment, unpackaged as though used, yet Zitao finds it strange that the rack only has the one size and not several. 

Over his shoulder, Qian says, “That gown? I don’t know about that one, Yingtao. We don't normally use that one.”

Confused, he looks back at her. “Is it not okay?”

“Oh,” she startles, as though having been caught. “I mean - it should be okay, I think. Are you sure?”

Zitao had been immediately drawn to the dress, a beautiful ruby color in a shiny satin, adorned at the apex of its strapless sweetheart bodice with a golden broach and sparkly golden diamond trim that swirls around it elegantly, and when Zitao looks closely and trails his fingers along it, entranced by its beauty, he notices the broach’s center is coated in resin and is embellished with small golden jewels along its circular outside, and in the very center beneath the glossy coating are the same embroidered initials he’s been seeing on each piece of clothing. “I’m sure,” he says, feeling as though he were meant to pick this one somehow. “If - that’s okay,” he turns to her. “I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”

“No, it’s alright,” she tells him with a smile, though Zitao can’t help but see it as slightly forced. “And I think it would go really well with maybe some loose waves, some light makeup with some eyelashes and some peach tones. Oh! I’ve also got some jewelry in the vanities I think would go really well with that. How’s that sound?”

Feeling intrigued, Zitao nods. He’s never gotten to be a beautiful, elegant woman before. “That sounds nice.”

“I should tell you something,” he says as he sticks his head out of the closet door, feeling suddenly and on display for the whole world to see. “I’m - pretty flat-chested, like, really flat. Um… I hope that’s okay.”

Qian tilts her head, then, having crossed her arms and settled against the vanity as she waited. “Are you?” She asks, apparently never having noticed. “But you’ve always had volume there.”

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “They’re, um… they’re pads. I… that’s why I’m self-conscious.”

As she soaks up the statement, Qian actually nods in understanding and stands from her slumped spot. “That’s okay,” she reassures him with a gentle smile. “We’ll get you contoured up, so you can come on out, now.”

Oh. Well, that went much better than he had anticipated - he’d thought that it would have been an issue and that Qian would have gotten angry at him for lying. Is he, perhaps, not the only one in the firm with no s?

Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, he slips back into the darkness of the closet, grabs a handful of the gown to lift it from the ground so as to not step on it and tear it, and comes out into the light. Qian’s eyes instantly go wide as her eyebrows raise, both shocked and somewhat impressed, and Zitao can’t help but feel exposed. “You’re gorgeous in red, Yingtao,” she coos in awe. “Wow.”

Unused to so many compliments, Zitao blushes. “I’m sorry for not telling you about… my chest,” he confesses, but Qian simply brushes it off with a shake of her head as she waves him over to the vanity chair. 

“Let me tell you something, Yingtao,” she starts to say as Zitao sinks into the chair, and Qian immediately gets to work sliding a barber’s cloak over his front to protect his outfit from stains, and she slides her hands forward into his hair as she ties it back behind him for the meantime. “I told you about how myself and the other staff are trying to boycott the president’s strict dieting rules, right? Well, since the president uses such strict rules when it comes to dieting, the girls lose a lot of weight, and when you lose weight universally, you also lose it in the s. You would be simply surprised how many girls I’ve seen go from a d-cup to a triple a-cup.”

Zitao doesn’t know what those words mean, but he assumes it has something to do with size. 

“So if anybody has experience with faking size,” she says with a comical smile. “It would be the coordinators. Don’t worry, Yingtao, we’ll get you nice and plumped, alright?”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Zitao resists laughing at the statement. He’s not sure he’s ever before referred to s as plumped. Maybe women enjoy having their s complimented that way. “I’m gonna get started here,” she tells him as she takes a makeup brush from a holding canister off to the side and swirls it around in something in her hand, something round and container-like. “Okay?”

Confident and ready, Zitao nods and closes his eyes.

“Come look, Yingtao.”

He grabs handfuls of the gown as he steps off of the stepstool, having to instinctively look down to make sure neither his pads nor his s have decided to poke out, and glances over as Mr. Park tilts the camera’s screen toward him to let him see. The shot he’s brought up on the screen is one of Zitao laughing, his lips curled and angled exposing his teeth, the redness of his lips radiating off of the brightness of the ruby gown, his hair wavy as it tinkles down his exposed where the broach rests right at the apex of his cleavage. His skin is creamy and slightly tanned, yet slightly golden underneath the milkiness, his cheekbones, his collarbones, and the rounds of his illusioned s dusted in a glossy, light-refracting shimmer. Utterly awed, Zitao forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“Impressive, huh?” Mr. Park smiles, and Zitao finds himself unable to piece together words to say. “I thought a nice bright light with a soft exposure worked best - the flash was giving it far too much exposure and it was washing you out, so I was getting too many shadows. And I thought this was the best shot since it looks the most natural. What do you think?”

In all honesty, Zitao doesn’t know what he thinks. It’s an absolutely breathtaking picture, but it’s hard to see it as being him, and therefore, he naturally does not know if he should be happy or not. As though reading into him and his silence, Qian fills in the space as she wraps bare hands around Zitao’s shoulders and smiles as she says, “I think she’s so in love that she’s speechless, Mr. Park. You did a fantastic job as always!”

Proud of himself, Mr. Park smiles, retracting the camera to flip through the gallery. “Would you like a copy sent to you, Miss Song?”

“Oh, please do,” Qian laughs, patting the photographer on the upper back in a congratulatory fashion. “Thank you so much for squeezing us into your schedule, I know you are a very busy man.”

“Nah,” Mr. Park waves her off as he slides the camera strap over his head and lets it hang from his neck. “I’m actually not as busy as you might think. Got a couple girls coming in later for a magazine shoot; Mr. Wu has myself and Choi down in Studio F shooting it, and we’re doing it down in the black-box, so I won’t be available after three o’clock. Mr. Wu is overseeing it, you see, so it might take us several hours making sure everything is absolutely perfect because he’s one hell of a perfectionist. Other than that, I don’t have much scheduled for me, today.”

Laughing, Qian turns to Zitao and wraps a protective arm around his shoulders to give him a squeeze, and Zitao is thankful to work with such a kindhearted person. “What about you, Yingtao?” She asks softly, caressing the round of his shoulder with the pad of her thumb. “Mr. Park, could Yingtao keep a copy of the photos as well?”

The photographer shrugs, eyebrows raised. “I don’t see why not, as long as she doesn’t solicit them for self-profit. They are company property, technically, but I don’t see a problem with her having them as keepsakes.”

A smile. “What do you think?”

Proud of himself, Zitao would absolutely love to show the world what he’s created. However, he has to remind himself that he still hasn’t briefed his mother on exactly what it is he does and hasn’t really told the internet much at all past his interview acceptance. Would he get in trouble for posting the photos on his blogs? Zitao doesn’t want to get the legalities jumbled. “I mean,” he shrugs, rouged lips pursing. “If you’re getting a copy, then I think it would only be fair that I also get a copy, considering I’m the art, here.”

Unused to Zitao’s dry humor, the two adults laugh, Qian’s eyebrows twisting in disbelief as she hugs him to her. “Oh, Yingtao,” she sighs with a grin on her lips. “You’re quite a character, you are. Please never take off from work, it might prove to be too boring for me.”

“I’ll get them to you possibly by tomorrow morning, Yingtao,” Mr. Park tells him graciously. “I’ve got to upload them to the company database and make distributable copies. If you would prefer, I could either send them to your company email, or I can hand them to you when you come in tomorrow on a disc. Which would be easier?”

For digital prints, Zitao finds it would simply be quicker to already have them on a digital device. “Email would be easier,” he tells the photographer, lips curling into a tight grin. “Thank you, Mr. Park.”

Politely, the man thanks him for his artistry and bows upon departure, setting his camera onto a side desk as he begins to clean up from the shoot, folding up the stepstool and bringing it over to the rack of backdrops. Having been unsettled nearly the entire shoot, Zitao breathes an increasingly calming sigh. Come to think of it, the shoot really did help to get his mind off of the phone call, and now that he thinks about it, his anxiety isn’t nearly as prevalent anymore. Whatever will happen, will happen, and Zitao knows he will just have to accept it and learn to work with it. 

And for how touchy and sensitive he can be when threatened with a panic attack, Zitao knows he isn’t the easiest person to deal with - yet Qian was absolutely remarkable, as patient as can possibly be and so wholly altruistic, such a considerate soul to be presented with, and Zitao feels indebted to her. “Qian,” he calls out softly, and the woman turns to him with a slightly distracted expression, having turned away from him to interact with Mr. Park. “Thank you… for taking care of me.”

As the words settle along particles in the air, Qian’s gaze begins to soften, and her lips begin to shine. “You’re very welcome, Yingtao. I’m glad you are feeling better now. Is that what you needed?”

Sighing contentedly, he nods, finally feeling somewhat happy. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Qian smiles. “I hope everything goes well with your mother, Yingtao. Let me know if you ever need anything else, okay?”

As Zitao unwinds, smiles, and finds his solace again, Qian hugs him, and he finds himself tearing at the very feeling of being held by such a warm, loving presence. In hindsight, it really makes him miss his mother.

“That’s not you.”

Zitao rolls his eyes, leaning back against his couch with his arms crossed over his chest. “Then who would it be? I’m not a monozygotic twin, you know.”

In disbelief, his best friend’s lip curls at the edge, exposing a section of the row of his teeth, nose scrunched as Zitao’s laptop reflects off of his glasses. “Okay, well, yeah it is you, but still, that’s not you. You’re ing... crazy gorgeous, ing snatching my damn wig. I might just have to make you my wife if I were straight.”

He snorts, “Are you telling me I’m ugly?”

Luhan shoots him a bewildered look, eyebrows furrowed, as he settles his elbows on his knees and looks at him. “Tao, I think you might need to lay off the hairspray, I think it’s starting to get to you. If there’s anyone in the world that looks like an unbleached , believe me, it’s my ugly . You don’t have to live with appearance duality, you’re cute all the time. People like me, we wake up ugly and make up hot, but that’s duality. You, my friend, are just attractive all the time.”

Zitao laughs and shak