a/n please read ending notes!

Zitao might have some eyeliner residue left - he’s not entirely sure; after several wipes later and plenty of worries that he’s going to get chemicals into his eyes, he’d given up and had dressed in a pair of mismatching sweats and headed out the door with his keys and his phone. 

Now that the worst of the storm was very clearly over, Zitao could finally breathe again. He can’t deny, however, that he’d gotten extremely lucky being let off the hook like that - now that he thinks back on it, he couldn’t believe his own behavior. Why had he thought that speaking out like that would have been a good idea? He hadn’t been the least bit respectful to Mr. Wu’s own beliefs and his own preferences regarding photography - he’d been selfish, butting in with his own opinion like that, as if he were the owner himself. He doesn’t think he will ever stop being grateful to Mr. Wu for having a change of heart like that, especially not when something tells him he won’t get another freebie like this.

The hospital is mild as always, not necessarily busy but not empty, either, and he signs in at the front desk as usual. “Hello, Zitao,” the secretary smiles at him, and he returns the gesture with a forceful tug of his lips. “Enjoying the weather?”

“Somewhat,” he says flippantly, riding on the high of his newfound Great Mood. “I just got out of a job interview, so I came to tell my mother how it went.”

“Ooh!” The secretary coos. “Good for you. Well, you know where to go. Have a good day, Zitao.”

He accepts the appraisal before turning and heading to the left to his mother’s room, the third door on the left at the very edge of the foyer just before the mouth of a long, narrow hallway leading out into the patio, door framed by potted plants. 

His mother’s door is usually always closed, it being so close to the lobby and the overall din of the lobby chatter tends to filter into her room. Zitao doesn’t blame her; restless chitchat can get quite annoying when you are trying to sleep. 

Which is why he glances up from his keyring which he’d tucked away into his back pocket, he’s surprised to find his mother’s door open - the lights inside off, nonetheless. Fearing the absolute worst, Zitao’s stomach drops.

It’s not like her to turn the lights off and leave the door ajar, and when he peeks in, he remembers that it’s definitely not like her to not be in her room without Zitao’s prior knowledge. 

What if something happened?

He’s darting back to the desk before he can even have a second thought about it, his expression frazzled and his nerves alight. The patrons stood at the desk for help gasp when he stumbles to the counter, and the secretary’s eyes widen at the movement. “Where is Doctor Kim?” He blurts out, and the secretary blinks in momentary confusion. “Doctor Kim Joonmyun, where is he?”

She frowns, then, and her head just a few degrees before she says, “Doctor Kim should be in his office right now since his next procedure isn’t scheduled until eleven-thirty. Should I page him for you?”

“Yes please,” he exhales shakily, and the secretary offers him a piteous look as she says hold on one moment please, and lifts the corded desk phone to her ear. 

Some of the people who have organized themselves into a patient line give him looks, some negative and some anxious, but Zitao pays them no mind, for he knows that if they were even remotely close to being in his shoes, they would be reacting exactly the same way. This is not the day for this - he’s just had the best moment of his entire life, it can’t all come crashing down like this. He’s had no time to prepare.

The secretary hangs up the phone, and the loud double-click of the phone settling into the dock gets his attention. “Doctor Kim will be right out for you,” she says, and Zitao nods in thanks as he steps away from the desk to allow access to the others who have had to wait.

He supposes that the best place to hover would not be in the waiting room around other worried patients, but rather around his mother’s door, that way Doctor Kim would not have to look hard for him on the off chance that he has forgotten Zitao’s appearance, even though the boy just saw him last Wednesday. 

It’s only a few seconds that he waits, but for Zitao, it feels like a few eternities, before he hears heavy footsteps and glances over his shoulder to see Doctor Kim approaching him with a clipboard in hand, his medical coat swaying with the speed of his gait. “You wanted to see me, Zitao?” He asks in a tone that Zitao could only describe as flustered, and he begins to feel guilty for possibly worrying the staff.

“Yes, I’m sorry if you were busy,” he apologizes and fiddles with his fingers. “I, um - do you know where my mother is?”

“Oh,” Doctor Kim lays a hand on his abdomen over his corduroy sweater and breathes out a sigh of relief. “Of course, she is upstairs in the activity den. We are so sorry to have worried you, Zitao, but I can assure you she is alright because I am the one that brought her there.”

“Can I go see her?” He asks anxiously. 

However, Doctor Kim slides his free hand into his overcoat pocket and sighs full-bodied. “Unfortunately I cannot let you up there, Zitao. The den is off-limits to visitors. I can, however, take a message for her or have you come back later if you would prefer.”

Oh. That does sound like his mother, he has to admit. Could she happen to be talking to that lady Lanfen, again? “It’s not an emergency, sir,” he grins awkwardly, and Doctor Kim chuckles with a shake of the head. “I can come back. Do you know what a good time would be to return?”

“I’d say after lunchtime,” Doctor Kim tells him cheerfully. “Don’t worry, she’s been enjoying getting out of her room once or twice a week like this. You know, getting to interact with other people and whatnot. We’ve been talking to her about it for a few weeks now.”

“I’m glad she’s enjoying it. I will come back later then, sir,” he nods. “Sorry for worrying you.”

Passively, Doctor Kim waves him off comedically and there’s just something about the man that feels strangely paternal to him, and it makes Zitao miss having a father, sometimes. However, knowing his own father and his own ways and personality, it is not his father that he finds himself missing, but rather a companion to live with and learn from on a regular basis. With his mother in the state she is in and will more than likely remain in for the remainder of her time on the planet, Zitao has no expectation for the two to reconcile or for his mother to find someone new.

After the doctor disappears from the view, Zitao heads back to the front desk to ask the secretary for a pen and a piece of paper and writes his mother a note to then slip it beneath the crack of her door.

With a hefty breath, he dumps armfuls of transparent poster tubes onto his dining table, the plastic clattering loudly against the wood and Zitao has to practically spread him over the top of the table to prevent some of the tubes from rolling off the edges. 

This week he’s made about four hundred - mostly twenty-four-by-thirty-sixes but when he checks his blog, he notices that he’s gotten some requests to begin offering postcard sizes as well as digital prints, and Zitao is intrigued and ever willing to please. 

So, for digital prints, I think I’ll start at a rate of ten dollars, and for postcards five, and we’ll see what happens from there.

He frowns, then, as he reads down the list of his recent sales. Has he made more since opening his sister blog? If he checks his traffic statistics off to the side of the page, he realizes that yes, he’s gotten more traffic all because of his disguised photos and his portrait photographs. Do girls really get this much attention on a regular basis? Zitao can’t believe it.

On the positive side of the coin, this kind of thing could not only be good for Zitao’s chances of landing a good spot in the firm but could also be beneficial for his own personal business and therefore, could help him to rake in more revenue to help support his mother and keep her alive even longer. 

And on top of that, people are actually asking to purchase some of the prints of Luhan - like those from the amusement park that he had put in his portfolio for work. He would never have been able to imagine that something so small and trivial as a hobby could take off this way and earn him such a following, and the thought brings tears to his eyes. 

He knows he will never be able to express to the entire world just how thankful he is.

A knock at his door steals his attention from packaging his prints and capping the tubes, and he yells out a “Coming!” as he lays the finished tubes down and gets off of his seat.

When he opens his front door, he’s not too surprised to see Luhan posed behind the wood, arm leaned intimately against the framing and a tantalizing smirk on his lips as he says, “So I heard someone was missing their boyfriend?”

Disgusted, Zitao’s nose scrunches, “Don’t be cheesy in my ing doorway,” he complains, and his best friend laughs in a hearty bellow, and lets himself into Zitao’s apartment. “At least do it after I’ve had some dinner.”

The blonde sets his bag off to the side on Zitao’s island countertop, thudding noisily onto the polished granite. “Speaking of dinner, I bought some supplies to make your favorite,” he sing-songs, and Zitao prostrates himself against the wall as he awaits his daily dose of Being Impressed. “Got some meat, some spring onions, some peppers - we’re making beef stir-fry.”

“I’m glad to know you’re going to wine and dine me first,” Zitao jokes, and his best friend dramatically pats his own back in the middle of Zitao’s compressed kitchen. 

He helps Luhan unload the groceries from inside the man’s backpack, the pack of triple-bagged beef to avoid leakage, the spring onions, the raw, bulbous peppers, a package of mushrooms, a carrot, a handful of shallots, and the bottle of oils and sauces. “I thought we were just going to have some drinks,” Zitao admits as he sets the package of beef off to the side. “I was promised some alcohol.”

“Uh, unless you want to throw up all over the in’ place and have the world’s worst hangover, you are not drinking on an empty stomach,” Luhan instructs in a stern voice, and Zitao rolls his eyes as his friend bends to procure Zitao’s wok from the cupboard. “And as the designated drinking friend with a much higher alcohol tolerance than you, I’m going to be responsible for how you drink. Capiche?”

“Okay, okay,” he holds up both hands in a truce, metaphorically waving his own white flag. “So are we just casual drinking, or are we getting ed up?”

Luhan ponders that for a moment amidst slicing a spring onion on the cutting board, “Well, I’m currently a Susan, homemaker, thirty who enjoys a single glass of Moscato and I’d like to be Angelina who gets kicked out of the bar after five Jägerbombs and passes out on the sidewalk in a puddle of her own vomit.”

He laughs, then, eyebrows furrowing in disbelief at the humorous statement. “So, we’re getting ed up.”

“Safely ed up,” his best friend corrects him, the picture of filial and responsible. “Oh, by the way, I didn’t get to ask you yet how your mom took the news. Was she happy for you?”

Ah, that’s right - Zitao had intended to stop by the hospital again around noon but had fallen asleep on the couch due to barely sleeping between his attacks last night, and by the time he’d woken up, it had been already nearing supper which meant that Luhan had only been mere minutes away before he would have pulled up to the complex. Note to self: go to a doctor and see if you can get put on a sleeping medication specifically meant for anxiety. “I actually didn’t get a chance to tell her yet,” Zitao admits, and his friend gives him an offhanded hum with a questioning lilt. “Well, I went this morning after you dropped me off. Came home, changed clothes, took my makeup off, and all that. Then I got to the hospital and Doctor Kim had told me that my mother was doing her biweekly socialization up in the activity den, which is off-limits to all visitors.”

“Oh,” Luhan coos briskly. “Well, at least she’s okay. You didn’t try again a few hours later?”

He laughs nervously, passing the sliced strips of raw beef to his friend atop the cutting board. “I, uh - kind of fell asleep by accident and took a really long nap. I barely slept last night.”

“The attacks?” His friend asks, knowing very well how many times Zitao had to ring him throughout the course of the night. Being someone that normally averages a whopping twelve hours, however, Luhan had not been the least bit sleepy despite having his sleep interrupted several times. 

“Yeah. I mean, I did get some sleep, but it was probably only a couple of hours because I did get up really early this morning so I didn’t have to panic when getting ready.”

Although not physically frail, Zitao is a very emotionally delicate person, and as much as he tries to show that he isn’t, Luhan knows him like the skin on the back of his hands. Zitao is someone who cries easily, yet at the same time, can withstand a lot of battery without showing much emotion. When in times of fragility, however, say if his self-esteem is low, Zitao can be as feeble as a fabergé egg. 

“You needed the sleep, though,” Luhan reminds him in a homely tone. “It’s alright, it happens. Besides, your mom will understand if you explain it to her. So, are you excited for your first day?”

Although plenty excited to start a new chapter in the journey of his life and to finally get his hands on his first paycheck, there’s also the underlying layer of fear that something may go wrong or that Zitao may get found out when he least expects it, and aside from public embarrassment, he fears public execution even more. Having been conflicted over whether or not this is a fantastic idea or a stupid idea, Zitao doesn’t quite know. “I, uh, haven’t made up my mind yet,” he cracks with a lopsided smile, and his friend snorts out a humored chuckle in response. 

“You’ll do great, Tao, I know you will. Do you know what you’re going to wear?”

As it is Friday, he knows he only has a mere couple of days until his first day, and it both feels too quick yet not quick enough. After he wakes up tomorrow, Zitao is going to make it a point to spend a few hours of his time attempting to match outfits so he will not have to rush each and every morning. “Not yet,” he tells him honestly. “My in’ boss actually told me what I can and can’t wear, can you believe that?”

His friend stills at that, knife lax in his hand as he wraps his hand around the bottom of a bell pepper. “Well, yeah, Tao, most work environments have dress codes.”

An eye roll. “No, not like that. I mean he told me what colors I can and can’t wear. Like, this morning he told me my outfit was cute, but not cute on me. Can you believe that?”

“What?” His friend blurts out mid-julienne. “Are you serious? What a ing douchebag. Don’t listen to him, Tao, you looked great this morning.”

“Yeah, he gave me some speech about artistic freedom,” Zitao explains with air-quotes, and his best friend snorts. “As if I was insulting his artistic ego by wearing blue when my skin is warm-toned.”

“Was he wearing blue?”

Zitao nods, “Yeah. Navy blue.”

“Then I’ll bet five dollars that he’s got no ing room to talk,” Luhan grins as he slides the beef into the oiled wok with a wooden spoon, and when Zitao is overcome with the lustrous scent of garlic and sesame oil, his stomach begins to growl. “Hey, Zitao’s Stomach, you have no room to talk, either.”

Zitao laughs and gives him a playful shove before returning to the other loin of beef. Despite being nitpicked this morning, Zitao feels good. He thrives with a sense of accomplishment that he’s overcome a large hurdle, that he’s defied his own odds, and has proven to himself that he truly can do something if he puts his mind to it. 

Perhaps it may still be slightly unorthodox in the eyes of those who do not approve, but Zitao feels as though the heavens had graced him with one final chance - one he could not possibly ignore nor refuse.

He hopes from the very depths of his heart that while this decision may be putting his own safety and his own mental state at risk, that his mother will prosper from it and will live to see him one day walk down the aisle and say his infamous I do, and that above all, she will be proud of him for trying his hardest. 

The thought glues a permanent smile to Zitao’s curved lips, and over the course of the evening and after several drinks, it begins to creep his best friend out.
 

There’s a frog in his throat when he wakes up - esophageal reflux, followed by the urge to profusely vomit because it’s finally Monday, and yet again when he needs it the most, Zitao finds it hard to breathe.

Zitao has to walk himself through his routine measures to alleviate the pressure in his throat and give his body back the permission to breathe, by forcing himself to drink water and by reaching for his inhaler in the nightstand drawer next to his bed. It’s more annoying than it is frightening to wake up close to each morning with his throat in knots and the inability to intake air. As someone who has finally found a reason to go out into the world and live, Zitao doesn’t much appreciate the universe trying to have him killed. 

Although bothersome and heavier on the breath restriction, this attack is nowhere near the severity of the one he had early Friday morning in the middle of the night.

And amid his battle to force his eyes to remain open and turn his alarm off, six-thirty his alarm reads in blinking green font, Zitao both feels the desire to burrow back into the safety of his bed and have them fire him so he will no longer have to come in, and show up bright and early in the most chipper of moods and face his fears head-on. 

But which one is the more doable option?

Zitao doesn’t know.

He decides to start his morning with the hardest part of this long-term disguise - his hair and makeup. 

Of course, with hands as shaky as his and composure as frazzled as his, Zitao hurts himself several times with the extension clips and hisses out his expletives of pain. After several minutes of fussing, he smooths a hand over the back of his head and feels sadness rush through him when his fingertips graze the ridges of the clips, indicating he hasn’t installed them well enough as Luhan had. As it is six-thirty in the morning, however, Luhan would still be fast asleep and Zitao doesn’t have the time to ask him to come over and help.

Although unable to see the back, he thinks that the sides look alright, but out of pure self-consciousness, he decides to tie the upper half up in a lazy ponytail that cascades down the rest of his hair, the obvious tendrils of his shorter hair sticking out at the ends. , what was he supposed to do about that? He doesn’t remember how exactly his friend had assessed it.

Oh, right - didn’t he straighten his hair?

Zitao thanks every God above that Luhan had left him a straightener, and he hastily plugs it in to wait for it to heat up as he heads into his room to begin his makeup.

Right, so Mr. Wu specifically said no cool colors. That means no grays. Zitao hopes that he can do no grays.

He decides to go with a pink base - light in hue, something just a notch away from natural yet cute and refreshing. If he’s going to have a daily coordinator to do makeup on him throughout the period of his shift, as Mr. Wu had mentioned Friday morning, he’s going to assume that doing an entire full face of extravagant makeup would only be a waste of his time. Yet, he knows he has to do something to look more convincing.

He wonders, as he bounces his makeup sponge against his cheeks and covers up his under-eye circles if his other coworkers will come to work with makeup on? He wants to assume the answer would be yes, but at the same time, he is not sure what kind of mindstate someone who wears makeup regularly would have after being on a job for so long. He wonders if some days, the other girls would be too tired to put any on and would show up to work bare-faced. Albeit curious, Zitao finds himself too self-aware and wary to attempt to go into work bare-faced. 

And in regards to those girls that do wear makeup to work, how much do they wear? Do they apply lightly akin to Zitao’s method, or do they go all-out and layer on color and glow in the sunlight? Zitao finds himself so uncharacteristically curious.

Then comes the hard part - trying to apply things to his eyes. Inexperienced in every way, Zitao doesn’t trust himself to not blink when he attempts to swipe mascara onto his eyelashes and darken them just a bit. 

How is Luhan so calm when he does this kind of thing to people? Zitao wants to assume it’s just mere years of practice, but even so, he isn’t sure how Luhan’s hands don’t shake and how he doesn’t screw up even occasionally.

He’s got to make a mental note to ask Luhan sometime how he remains so still and unwavering when applying makeup to people because that’s a skill Zitao can definitely get behind learning. 

When he finally finishes his makeup, he doesn’t think he’s done too shabby of a job with the brushes Luhan had purchased for him - but then again, it seems like the kind of a natural look that someone would aim for would they not want people to know they were wearing much at all. Oh well, Zitao thinks to himself. It’ll just have to do. 

Besides - he thinks he looks quite feminine now, and that realization brings him happiness and makes him smile, cheeks rosy, and lips glistening.

It’s then that he remembers he’d plugged the flatiron in, and rushes into his attached bathroom to straighten his hair.

He gets adventurous near the end, after having straightened and curled the ends of his own hair inward, and wonders if perhaps he could do a little bit of wave action to the ends of the extensions - and, yeah, no, that looks like . Alright, scratch that bright idea. 

And behind every -up is a pack of gemstone-encrusted barrettes, similar to the ones Luhan had put in his hair after his makeover. 

Alright, I have twenty minutes before I have to leave. What the do I wear?

He stares at his closet with blank thoughts, mind blurred and completely devoid of an idea as he sorts through plaids and florals and brocades, solids and duo-solids, satins and corduroys and wools, entirely and utterly lost. 

He lays a hand across the paired outfits he’d made Saturday afternoon, mulberry matched with eggshell and cream paired with cappuccino-brown, yet the vivids swim around messily with no matches, as Zitao has no experience matching vivids whatsoever and had gotten a headache just by the brightness of the hues. 

With pink-toned makeup, a pink-toned outfit would be suited best, right? 

He reaches for a pre-matched outfit, a rich cranberry blouse with a white-washed denim skirt, one with frays along the hem and black stitching, a nice contrast if Zitao does say so himself. And black shoes - he thinks to himself - would probably look nice along with this, right? 

The outfit feels nice on his skin, but he can’t help but feel and exposed; then again, this is probably the longest his legs have ever seen the light in his entire life. 

And the rush of empowerment that flows through him as his shoes click on the flooring with each step is definitely a plus, as well. 

Ten minutes, he realizes. Ten minutes until he’s got to leave to head to the company building. 

His hands falter against the refrigerator handle as he reaches for a piece of fruit to eat when he remembers that he needs his portfolio - as it’s got his information as well as his required color palette in it - and he doesn’t remember where he last left it.

, where the would he have put it?

He tries to retrace his steps, remembering that he had brought it in from the interview and had taken it into the living room - but then what? He could have sworn he’d laid it on the coffee table or else on his kitchen counter, yet when he glances over, it’s in neither spot and he begins to wonder if perhaps he’s losing his mind. 

He panics as the clock ticks down, as he grabs a bag from his closet and tosses his keys and his miniature belongings into it, still unable to figure out where