There are days when Zitao cannot get himself out of that ditch he wakes up in. When the melancholy of having awoken, but having no reason to be awake, sticks with him for a minute, an hour, an afternoon. When the light filtering through the window, a sliver of which is not blocked by his thin curtain, is not vibrant sunlight, but the greying clouds projecting a monochrome aura over his home, and his city.

He usually likes weekends. No work. Nothing to do. Relaxation. There’s not much to complain about, to be honest. But it’s one of those mornings.

He has a hint of a cold when he wakes up that day. The simmering headache, ready to explode. The tiniest of sniffs. The frame of his life just one second too slow -- an aftereffect of dizziness, he knows. In addition, he wakes up with confusion. He’d had a dream of some sort, and not entirely pleasant. Not quite a nightmare either, just strange, and puzzling, and it had left a bitter taste all over.

Oh yes. It’s one of those mornings.

He sighs, bringing an arm up over his eyes. There’s hardly any morning sun to block them from, but he shuts them anyway. He flings his other arm over to the side of his bed that is not his, but obviously not occupied either. Feeling around, he clings onto crumpled sheets and a thrown-back blanket.

Sehun has a shift today. Right.

Thus Zitao finds himself in a predicament. Not only is he alone, but he’s also on the verge of sickness, and in a solemn mood. And without his partner here, his best friend, his love, well… what is he to do?

He manages to drag himself up to a sitting position after who-knows-how-many minutes, rubbing sleep and gunk away from his eyes, and waiting for the world to stop spinning. Tea, he decides. Tea is what he needs.

On his way to the kitchen to boil water, only clothed in his black wifebeater and shorts, he can’t help but think to himself what could possibly be wrong? He’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed, clearly, and could see it himself. But why? He hadn’t taken a step, and yet he knew today wasn’t going to be a good day. He surely wouldn’t leave the apartment. 

He’s practically in battery-saving mode. Not feeling it. As he waits for his tea, he tries turning on the television. But nothing can keep him entertained for more than a few seconds. Music, maybe? But no, that doesn’t work either.

No, it’s not just one of those mornings. 

He sighs, grabbing his tea and bringing a chair over to his bedside window. He plops down, head leaning against the cool glass, tea cup in hand.

It’s one of those days.









Sehun gets home late, and he curses at his coworkers for not only handing him this unexpected shift, but also the load of work afterwards. Had he asked for it? No. At least he gets paid for overtime. But was coming home at eight PM, leaving his boyfriend by himself all day worth it?

He shakes his head, closing the front door behind him. Definitely not, he thinks as he loosens his tie. He would have rather spent the day with him, going out for some coffee, enjoying the days they both don’t have work to attend to. 

His button down feels constricting at this point, and the belt around his waist isn’t helping. He quickly skips into their room, hoping to grab a tee and shorts to change into.

Sehun stops at the doorway, not sure what he’s looking at.

There’s Zitao, still in his pajamas, sitting alone by the window, his back towards Sehun. He appears slumped over, and Sehun is suddenly hit with a worry -- that perhaps Zitao has hurt himself somehow while he was away?

He runs over, calling out his name. “Zitao?” But he stops, mid-syllable, when he sees that the boy is merely asleep. The tea cup clamped in both his hands is precariously on his lap, and with all the patience Sehun can muster, he removes the drink from his grip. Zitao does not awaken.

“Hey,” he whispers, hoping to wake him. “Zitao?” 

Nothing. Knocked out.

Sehun can’t help but wonder what could have led the boy to this silent spot by the window. He must have been here all day, for him to be dressed like this even now.

Guilt eats away at his insides. Was it because he had taken this impromptu shift? Left him on this cloudy day, with nothing to occupy himself with. 

Sehun changes quietly on the other side of the bed, not wanting to disturb his slumber. It must be uncomfortable. Would he be able to move him without bothering him?

Sehun shakes his head to himself. No. He’ll wait until the evening, or the night, when Zitao can awake naturally. 

And as he sits there on that bedside, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, he sighs. It must be, he thinks. It must be one of those days.









Zitao’s eyes hurt to open. They’re all crusty from the terribly long nap. He struggles to reach consciousness, and when he does, he sees it’s dark in the room. Where’s his tea? He glances around, finally spotting it on the nightstand. Had he put it there? He doesn’t remember doing that.

After a while, he notices that it isn’t completely dark in the room. There’s a faint glow coming from the hall. He stands, stretching out the kinks all along his neck and back. Note to self, he thinks. Never sleep against the window.

He follows the glow into the kitchen, where he finds the light on, Sehun’s ipod playing ballads through their mini speakers, and the man himself sitting by the counter on his favorite barstool, the red one with the chink on the seat. 

“It’s broken,” he’d said when they first bought it. “I’ll take it, and you can have the blue one instead. You like blue, don’t you?”

Of course Zitao liked blue. And Sehun knew that.

He stands, leaning against the doorframe for a few seconds. Watching. Staring at Sehun’s long lashes, pointed down as the boy reads a thin hardcover he has held against the marble. Staring at his pale, pale skin, almost shining in the bright fluorescent light. Staring at the boy who had no doubt waited for him to wake up this entire time.

“What time is it?” Zitao says softly. Audible enough to grab Sehun’s attention, but not loud enough to shock him.

Sehun’s head tilts up, and he smiles when he sees Zitao there. And Zitao curls his lips back. “Almost midnight. You were tired today?”

Zitao nods, unable to explain his fatigue in any other way. “I guess I was. How was work?”

Their conversation is like muffled feet on carpet, a private exchange between the two. Something one has to strain to hear, and yet they have no problem picking up each other’s voices. 

“Exhausting,” Sehun answers. “But I’m glad to be back.”

“Sorry for not welcoming you home,” Zitao says. He walks over to where Sehun is and leans down.

The way Sehun knows right where to meet him halfway, their kiss feather-like and gentle. 

Zitao is about to sit down next to Sehun when Sehun stops him with a hand on his waist. He rises to his full height, and Zitao marvels at their close proximity, how tall he has grown. 

“It’s your favorite song,” is all Sehun says. Zitao admits he hadn’t noticed it was playing until Sehun had pointed it out. It’s their favorite song, to be exact.

It’s the slow song they danced to, all the way back in high school. Some stupid school dance, and their friends had pushed them together as a joke. He wonders if they would laugh if they saw them now.

Sehun bows mockingly, a small smirk on his face. “May I have this dance?”

Zitao laughs, taking his hand. “It’s all yours.”

They twirl and waltz to the rhythm of the song -- the one playing aloud, and the one in their heads and hearts. They have to make do with their confined kitchen space, but it’s no matter to them.

The smiles are there. And when the song is over, they keep dancing. A midnight ball, all to themselves.

When they finally stop, Sehun having pulled Zitao close until their chests are practically touching, and their noses brush against each other’s, Zitao is the one to break their pause.

“It was one of those days,” he says, frowning.

Sehun doesn’t like that frown, doesn’t like it at all. He closes the distance between them, another kiss to finale their dance. “I bet it was,” he mutters into Zitao’s lips. “But it doesn’t have to be one of those nights, right?”

Zitao only chuckles in reply, kissing back.

No, he mentally agrees. The night can hide those gloomy clouds, can hide those morning shivers, can hide those wistful expressions. And it can hid them from prying eyes. 

He thinks, maybe once in a while, it’s okay to have One of Those Days.