As a congratulatory gift for Zitao’s ability to have pulled off the illusion for this long, Luhan awards him with a surprise-but-not-so-surprising grocery store trip, where Luhan spent nearly two-hundred dollars on Zitao’s very favorite drinks and snacks to fill his refrigerator as well as his pantry so Zitao no longer has to eat out every day and purchase every single meal.

“I tried to do my best to remember the diet you told me about last week,” his best friend comments to him as he stocks his refrigerator full of the cold produce, as Zitao watches from his seat at the island and rests his chin in his palm, eyebrows curved in amusement, “but I think I might have forgotten about a few things, so I got you plenty of vegetables and fruits, and I also got some of your favorite snacks for when you’re feeling extra gluttonous - they’re all the way in the back so you can resist some temptation to eat them all, especially the cheeses.”

“How do you even remember which cheeses are my favorite?” Zitao asks playfully. “When was the last time I ever bought cheese around you?”

“Hey,” Luhan calls out with a pointed finger as he turns back to face him, knelt down on the minuscule surface space of Zitao’s kitchen floor with shopping bags strewn around him, both empty and full. “You would be surprised what your mother and I talk about when you’re not around.” 

“Oh yeah?” Zitao hums unenthusiastically, looking down at his fingernails. “What do you guys talk about, then, other than my favorite cheeses?”

“Sometimes we talk about you,” his best friend shrugs as he places a carton of chocolate milk on Zitao’s upper shelf, followed by a large jar of apple butter on the door. “Other times we talk about your admiration for expensive cheese and greek yogurt, which is on the middle shelf above the produce drawers, by the way. Oh, and there are also those rare times we talk about your photography and your work, and your mother always has so much to say about how proud of you she is.”

Grateful, Zitao finds himself smiling. “That sounds like my mother, alright,” he confirms, and his best friend chuckles down in his spot on the floor. “You don’t, um… you don’t tell her anything about what exactly it is that I do at work, right?”

“Of course not,” Luhan reassures him confidently. “I haven’t shown her any of your photos, either. I figure if you ever decide you are comfortable enough to reveal that to her, that you will show her the proof yourself, and it’s not really my place to do it for you.”

“Thank you,” Zitao sighs. “I still don’t know how I’m going to tell her. I think I’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Don’t rush yourself,” his best friend says as he stands from his spot and closes Zitao’s refrigerator up, and cleans up the mess of plastic bags he’d made. “Your mom is patient, and you know that. Sure, her time might be limited, but I don’t necessarily think she would be any less proud of you even if you didn’t get to tell her in time.”

Recollection of just how little time his mother likely has before Zitao has to finally say goodbye brings tears to his eyes, and he feels foolish for crying when this should be a happy moment - happily, he is thriving at work, has been secondhand given a second chance at live at the hands of his boss, and has managed to get his life slowly and slightly back on-track. He should be out celebrating and preparing himself for the more strenuous properties of work, such as practicing his walk and maybe even practicing his expressions in his bathroom mirror - yet he’s still worrying, as always, and he can’t seem to find the ability to stop. 

“There you go,” Luhan says suddenly, and Zitao snaps out of his web of thinking as his best friend tosses away the handful of bags into Zitao’s under-sink bin. “Anything else you want from me, babe?” His best friend asks, and Zitao manages to swallow back the tears for now. “A , maybe?”

Brows knitting downward, Zitao chokes out a forced laugh. “Eat my ,” he responds, wondering at that moment just where he found a best friend as suggestive as his. “Speaking of eating, I should probably pick something to eat. My coordinator had me restricted to four-hundred calories per meal, and no carbs.”

Smirking, then, his best friend moves forward to lean his elbows on the island countertop as he says, “Well, it’s a good thing I bought you more yogurt and cheese, then, isn’t it? I got you plain, chocolate-almond, and lime custard, and also I got you sliced gruyere, spiced emmental, and onion-chive cheddar. Feel free to indulge yourself in a yogurt-cheese dinner, there’s plenty.”

Nodding, Zitao grins at him as he hops off of his island stool. “Would you like to partake a share in my yogurt-cheese dinner, oh wise one?”

“Well,” Luhan responds chipperly as he dips into Zitao’s refrigerator once more for a tub of plain yogurt and a thin cellophane bag of sliced cheese, as well as two unsweetened bottled teas to share between them. “Only if you clear your personal schedule, my Lady, to so willingly partake in watching a movie with me as we indulge in our exquisite yogurt-cheese dinner.”

He laughs, openly and sweetly, as he dips his fingers swiftly into the ped bag to steal a slice of cheese as they step into Zitao’s living room and plop themselves down onto the sofa accordingly, shoulder to shoulder and mind to mind. “I guess I will have to move my seven-o-clock meeting to eight, so you have me all to yourself for an hour, Monsieur.” 

Having stayed up late last night drinking with his best friend, Zitao finds himself very tired the next morning before work, and he finds himself practically dragging his feet the length of his steps and unable to pay attention as he readies himself. By the time he makes his way out the door that morning, he has already scalded the side of his hand by accidentally pouring freshly-brewed coffee on it and hadn’t even thought to eat something before sliding into his car and heading out. Being this tired, he’s lucky he even remembered to put his extensions in, albeit sloppy and pulled back into a ponytail. 

And although being exhausted and unable to stop yawning, Zitao manages to not crash his car by the time he pulls into the company parking lot. He’s going to have to stop drinking until nearly one in the morning because exhaustion-hangover combinations are not a favorite.

He covers his mouth and yawns into his palm as he steps into the air-conditioned foyer, his car keys in his hand with the lanyard strap tangled up in his fingers, and he autonomously heads over to the electronic bulletin board before heading to his studio to see if maybe, by any chance, he might be requested somewhere before Qian needs him.

It does successfully wake him up, however, when he notices a blinking exclamation point next to his company photo and his scripted name, flashing red and outlined in white, and he blinks several times to clear his vision so he can read properly. Is he wanted in the black-box this early?

Frowning, he wonders if perhaps it has something to do with the practice walk for the Shanghai show that Zitao had attended the other day and if maybe it might be a follow-up practice for the show. Excited and intrigued to know if the president hasn’t chosen to dispose of him yet, Zitao hurries to the black-box.

If he recalls correctly, the president had instructed him weeks ago during his interviews to only wear heels up to a certain height, being that Zitao is already so tall, and he’s had several weeks to think about why his performance may not be up to the standard it could be and how he could improve it, and Zitao had internally monologued this morning about how each time he’s stumbled while walking, it had been while wearing high heels. So, in an effort to prove himself and present a satisfactory performance, Zitao had worn flat-soled sneakers that day. Surely the president must be somewhat impressed with Zitao’s gusto toward improving himself, right?

Excitedly, he pushes past the double-doors and adjusts his shoulder bag as he once more becomes familiar with the brightly-lit black-box and the crowd of women that once again linger down at the foot of the stage, some having seated themselves on the edge as they chat to each other and others standing to speak with the president, with a select few others sitting in the wing seats. As he continues to glance around, he notices Minseo sat on the edge of the stage with her legs criss-cross and her long black hair fallen before her, as she smiles and talks to a girl sitting adjacent to her, her hands loosely mimicking the actions of her words. Not wanting to disturb her because of course, Minseo has other friends rather than simply just him, he decides not to call out for her as he approaches the president.

“Mr. Wu,” he calls out with a smile between his cheeks, and the muscles in the president’s neck cord as he startles slightly and turns around to the trajectory of the voice. “I’m here.”

He expects a eulogistic good morning, Miss Huang, somewhat stereotypical of the president simply with more emotion added in Zitao’s own mind - yet all he gets is a discontented frown, almost bothered by something, the man’s eyebrows stressing downward and the muscles in his jaw tensing as his gaze hardens when he says, “You’re late.”

Blinking, Zitao’s head whips around briefly to glance at the massive wall-clock above the doors; how is he four minutes late? He hadn’t even noticed he was running late whatsoever. “I’m so sorry,” he blurts out as he faces the man again, his eyes glossier than before. He’s never been late before, and he knows the president does not sit well with tardiness. “I hadn’t even realized - ”

“Your outfit,” the president interrupts him once more, “is atrocious, as well.”

Lips parting as the statement begins to sink into his skin, Zitao’s heart cracks. “Excuse me?” He asks softly, quietly, unsurely. 

Brazenly, the president’s jaw raises as he inhales a breath through the nose, his chest broadening. “I thought that I had told you, Miss Huang, that pastel blues and purples did not work well on your skin tone.”

Confused, Zitao glances down. Had he not paid attention this morning when dressing himself to have not noticed that he put on blue-jeans and a periwinkle-mauve sweater? He remembers very well how displeased the president had been when Zitao had worn that baby blue blouse for his follow-up interview, but he must have been too tired this morning to have remembered that he was to follow a strict color palette. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes sincerely. “It slipped my mind this morning, but it won’t happen again, I swear.”

“Thin ice, Miss Huang,” the president reminds him with rigidity in his voice. “Your incompetence and your relentless apologizing will have you treading on thin ice.”

Zitao swallows and bows his head in a nod, remembering that he was additionally told to stop apologizing for little things. Whether that had been out of the president’s sheer lack of patience or because he genuinely wanted Zitao as a person to improve, he isn’t very sure, but he’s ashamed to know that he had forgotten the rules he had been so diligently given to follow.

As he yearns to be told it’s okay and that he just has to remember to try harder, the president strides away from him and drops the subject, leaving Zitao hanging without reassurance, as he loudly instructs all of the girls to gather on the stage for the practice, and it becomes disgustingly clear that everybody was waiting for him this whole time, and Zitao feels like crying out of embarrassment.

As he’s stepping on the stage, then, he feels something brush his arm and glances over to see Minseo having tapped him on the exposed arm with careful fingers, and as if sensing his inner turmoil, she wordlessly offers him a piteous smile to show her support for him, and it helps. 

“Alright, ladies,” the president announces boldly as Zitao is reclaiming his spot behind the girl he had been placed behind during the last practice walk. “As you all may or may not know, the Shanghai show is being conducted this Friday evening, and I have booked the lot of you flight tickets to depart this Wednesday afternoon. On the day of the flight, you are not to report to work whatsoever, as I myself will not be here. Those who are not joining us in the Shanghai show will remain here under the direction of Vice President Zhang and Treasurer Im until we return to work that Monday. Understood?”

Zitao nods, chiming in with the monotony of understanding.

“And yes,” the president reiterates, “you are to report to work next Monday. Should you not choose to show, I will be forced to void your contract and depending on the number of strikes tallied against you, you may lose your job. Take this very seriously, ladies - this is not a vacation for you all to gallivant about and go off as you wish. This is a business trip, and while you may be allotted free time to explore the city to your desire, you are not to abuse this privilege as you have work to do. Am I clear?”

Swallowing, his lips tremble as his voice blends in with those around him. “Yes, Mr. Wu.”

Inhaling and folding his hands lavishly before him, the president concludes his speech before stepping off of the stage and taking a seat in the front row of the audience chairs, propping a leg handsomely up on his knee as the meat of his thigh flexes, and he readies a clipboard and a pen and begins to organize them all by name, reminding of their respective leading and following partners for memorization and organization purposes, and Zitao is grateful for how many times the president repeats himself, for he - clearly, judging by his outfit today - is not the greatest at remembering things if they are only said once. 

“Miss Huang Yingtao,” he hears, and almost isn’t able to register it as the president’s voice, as he only once before heard the president speak his first name. Perking up, he glances over top of the shoulders of the girl in front of him to see what the president has called him for, and realizes that the man is simply reading down a list attached to his clipboard, his eyes trained on the paper as he waves his pen in a directory manner. “You are number seven, behind number six, Miss Lee Yooyoung and in front of number eight, Miss Yang Dasom.”

Number seven, in front of Dasom and behind Yooyoung. Glancing from person to person as Yooyoung respectfully turns around to give him a small wave, and he, in turn, faces the other way to offer a wave to Dasom, Zitao prays that he will be able to remember their faces by the time the show rolls around. 

As the president concludes introducing each model to their preliminary partners, Zitao blows out a shuddering breath as they are instructed to begin to walk, likely for the president to nitpick them one last time before the show. Then, as the space between him and Yooyoung begins to grow as she strides elegantly toward the front of the stage, very clearly experienced and plentifully so, Zitao presses his toes down and begins to walk.

He tries to keep his eyes forward and unfocused, doing his best to not dare look down at how calculatively the president may be staring at him as he reaches the front edge of the stage and stilling for just a moment before he turns on his heel and turns back around to follow Yooyoung from an elongated distance toward the back of the stage, the forefront line several inches to his left as they do just the opposite. Okay, no problem, he’s at least pretty sure he stuck that turn which means Mr. Wu must be at least a little bit proud of him - after all, he was told to practice in his own time.

They run through it three times - Zitao has to assume, that with no prior knowledge of how the company shows are conducted, that he will be walking more than once around - before the girl at the beginning of the line, presumably number one, whom Zitao cannot see from here, stops at the front of the stage, and the rest of them fall into place behind her with Zitao nervous and short of breath. 

Standing from his seat, the president nods his head in a confirmatory manner as he attaches his pen to his clipboard before lowering it. “Good job, ladies. You all seem well-prepared for this show, although there are a select few whom I would like to have a word with in private, so I shall pull those few aside in just a moment. As you all know by now, we are only taking a maximum of four coordinators to the show, likely from Studio A as well as Studio G, which means getting yourselves ready to walk will span several hours. The day of departure, you will each be sent an email with very unequivocal instructions regarding each time for each arrival, be that at the hotel, the venue, et cetera. At the venue, we will have one practice walk-through, or a dress rehearsal, if you will. You all are to wear heeled shoes to the dress rehearsal and are to be on time,” the president reiterates harshly, voice loud and resonant, and Zitao over his bottom lip nervously as he realizes the words were for him. “Should you be even a minute late to the dress rehearsal, I will be forced to remove you from the show roster and you will not participate. Do I make myself clear?”

Anxious, Zitao finds himself voiceless as the girls around him hum out, “Yes, Mr. Wu.”

“Remember,” the president raises an instructional finger, his expression cold. “Do not come to work Wednesday. If you clock in on Wednesday, you will be expected by Vice President Zhang to complete your routine shift. Should you attempt to leave early without their permission, you will be written up accordingly as company policy, and should you attempt to ask for their permission, you will be promptly denied. Keep all of this in mind, ladies, and you may be dismissed. As you leave, however, I would like to speak to Miss Jeon and Miss Huang individually.”

As the girls file carefully down the stairs, Zitao finds himself gulping. Has he done something wrong? He knows that he wore purple today when he wasn’t supposed to, but that had been an honest mistake from sheer exhaustion and Zitao not having had enough time to organize his closet to make sure he properly follows his assigned color palette when dressing. 

As the stage clears, however, he notices that the other girl to have been called is down on the theater floor, speaking privately with the president - isn’t that the girl who, just last week, had tried to get him in trouble at practice? What could the president be speaking to her about, he wonders? Albeit curious, Zitao thinks it is disrespectful to unjustly eavesdrop, and he patiently waits his turn by the edge of the stage, his hands folded delicately by his groin and his heart pounding in his chest. 

“Miss Huang,” he hears down below, and he jumps, his tied hair bouncing, as the president signals him to come down with a beckoning twitch of his fingers. Frightened, Zitao carefully kneels down to step off of the stage. 

“Yes?” He asks in a shy voice, breaking halfway through as the president’s dark, sharp eyes practically bore right through his skin. 

“Good work today, Miss Huang,” the man tells him stoically, and Zitao’s eyes widen slightly at the unexpected compliment. “Remember, toes down, always keep your toes down. And another thing - do not wear flat shoes to practice. You will walk in heels, Miss Huang, no matter how tall you are.”

Taken aback, Zitao forces himself to nod to slice through the awkward air. “Yes, Mr. Wu, it won’t happen again.”

“Make good on your word for once, Miss Huang,” the president warns him, “for each and every time you have promised to change, your faults have recurred.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Wu,” he bows in respect. “I will also remember not to wear blue or purple again, I’m so sorry.”

“You cannot make mistakes in a live show, Miss Huang,” he is reminded, the man’s voice deep and fluid yet soft and patient, and Zitao can’t believe that he could be hearing what sounds like - compassion? “As a renowned couturier, I do have a reputation to uphold, both my own as well as that which belongs to my brand. When my advocates make mistakes publicly, it damages both reputations that I am responsible for perpetuating. Respectfully, Miss Huang, you do tend to act carelessly when involved in matters regarding others around you, and while I do have faith in you and your work and your presence that you may make the adjustments necessary to perform sufficiently, this show is not to be taken lightly by any means, and I will, if need be, remove you from this department and place you in Rec for you to learn how to perform properly. Am I making myself clear, Miss Huang?”

“Very clear, sir,” Zitao nods, a grateful smile plastered across his face, for he knows that he has struggled greatly adjusting from absolutely no experience to the highest level of experience required, and the president is no stranger to that knowledge, either. Having held Zitao to this standard this quickly, only having been just under a month since he had started at the firm, should be impossible when the president is often talked about regarding having impossible standards overall, but Zitao is not one to back down from a challenge if absolutely necessary. If it saves his mother’s life, Zitao will try his absolute hardest to learn how to be as talented, if not more so than the girls who reside in the department right now.

Lips pressed tightly together into something that is not a grin nor a frown, the president gives him a curt nod. “Do not let me down, Miss Huang. This is your chance to prove that you deserve a spot in this department.”

It does not at all go unnoticed how the president’s tone has dropped now that they are alone in the theater, something much less absinthial and perhaps just a smidge empathetic, and Zitao is determined to prove to him that he deserves the money that he makes, whether experienced or not. He has tried far too hard to get here to fail now. 

On Wednesday morning, Zitao gets to sleep in past his normal alarm and feels practically euphoric when he wakes sheer hours later and stretches, limbs cracking as the haze of sleep begins to dissipate, and he feels much more alive than he has in the last week. 

He’d told his mother Monday evening that he was going to leave town for almost a week and would return Sunday afternoon, and Luhan had very devoutly promised to take good care of her while Zitao was gone. His mother, although Zitao somehow expected her to be upset that she would not see her son for five days, acted as though he couldn’t have been leaving for more than several hours, and Zitao had pouted childishly as Luhan laughed at his mother’s apathy. 

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me for so long,” Luhan crows dramatically, theatrically, as he sees Zitao off at the terminal, having helped him dress in something pretty and girly to accommodate Shanghai’s warmer weather, merely a flouncing blouse that exposes slivers of Zitao’s toned abdomen and cuffed denim shorts that round out his hips, hoping to conceal the straight-lined masculinity in his frame. Luhan had chosen lemon-yellow, of all colors, as it was simply a gorgeously bright, sunny day, and with Zitao not being required to go to the firm today, his best friend found it fitting to exercise the use of clothes he’d purchased for Zitao outside of pencil skirts and button-up blouses. “Oh, what am I going to do without my beautiful girlfriend? Oh, my heart.”

Laughing as his face scrunches in disbelief, Zitao shakes his head and pats him dramatically on the back as his hair bounces around his shoulders, long and curled at the tips to add life to the strands. “Oh, if only there was a solution - perhaps a dating website, or maybe even this thing called waiting.”

“Shut the up, you,” Luhan laughs, cleanly-dressed for once and lightly perfumed with his favorite cologne, just as floral and masculine as Zitao knows it to be. “Got all your makeup packed?”

Glancing down at his rolling carry-on held handle-first in his right palm, Zitao nods with a grin of excitement. “Yep, I remembered my anxiety meds and all.”

“Cell phone charger?” Luhan asks skeptically, irises dark. “You always forget your cell phone charger.”

Zitao laughs, “Okay, well, I have it this time. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure to call both you and mom when I arrive. What time will you be getting to the hospital?”

Casually, his friend shrugs, “I don’t have a shift today, so I can head over there immediately. Spend the evening with your mom, maybe watch a couple movies. What time do you think you’ll get to the hotel?”

“Sometime this evening for sure,” he reassures him. “Maybe before nine? I want to do it before mom goes to sleep.”

“Tao,” his friend laughs. “If your mom knows she’s expecting a phone call, believe me, she’ll force herself to stay awake as long as it takes. She’ll refuse her medication if that’s what it takes. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she gets her morphine, too. I’ll take care of her, you don’t have to worry about anything.”

Sighing softly, Zitao offers him a soft, worried smile. “I know you will. I’m just… scared.”

“She’ll be there, Tao,” the blonde reassures him. “I’ll make sure of it. I won’t let the universe take her before you come back - I’ll in’ fight it if I have to, throw hands with Saturn if I need to.”

The image of the joke plastered in his mind makes him laugh, and Luhan’s comforting touch lingers on his exposed shoulder. “Promise?” He asks, his glossed lips sparkling as he smiles weakly. “I hear the universe can be pretty hard to take down in a fight, what with all of those black holes and supernovas.” 

“I promise,” his best friend nods. “I’ll be welcoming you back to the city with my prize belt to prove it.”

“Yingtao!” He hears somewhere behind him, and Luhan glances over the boy’s shoulder as Zitao turns back to see who had called his name. Having been a few minutes later than most, Minseo is waving at him with her boarding pass in hand as she drags her rolling carry-on alongside her, an ecstatic grin on her face. Happy to see his friend, Zitao waves back as Minseo approaches him and adjusts the strap of his carry-on as she stops. “Oh - who’s this?” She asks, pointing to Zitao’s best friend, whom, narcissistically, smooths a hand back over his styled hair as he’s addressed.

“Oh, this Luhan,” Zitao responds. “Luhan, this is Minseo from work.”

Cheesy and vain, Luhan reaches out delicately for Minseo’s hand as though princely, and Zitao audibly gags as his best friend places a precious little kiss on the girl’s knuckles. “A pleasure to meet you, Minseo from work,” Luhan smiles as the girl blushes, covering as she silently laughs. “I’ve heard a lot about you - Yingtao truly admires you.”

“Yingtao,” Minseo smiles at him. “Is this your boyfriend?”

Grossed out, Zitao curls up his lips and sticks out his tongue. “No, we’re best friends from high school.”

“I,” Luhan pompously splays his fingers along his upper chest, schmoozy and sickly-sweet, “am Yingtao’s boyfriend when convenient, as she is not seeing anyone at the moment and is not actively looking. I guess you could call me… a rent-a-boyfriend. Available with four weeks’ notice, starting at six-twenty-five an hour.”

Taken off-guard by the man’s joke, Minseo laughs openly with curved eyebrows and pinked lips, her sundress flouncing around her knees as her laughter causes her body to slightly sway, her eyes slitting. “Yingtao,” she giggles. “You have such funny friends.”

Zitao scoffs, crossing his arms over his fake bosom as he says, “Yeah, but he can get pretty ing annoying sometimes when he’s not being funny. That cheesy gag? That’s him every day.”

“You know you love me,” Luhan smirks at him and blows him a kiss, which makes Zitao roll his eyes and makes Minseo grin impishly. “Keep her safe, Minseo, will you? She’s a little and she attracts a lot of eyes - trust me, she doesn’t want any of them. Will you take over as rent-a-girlfriend for me while you girls are in Shanghai?”

Sighing, Zitao rolls his eyes and uncrosses his arms, resting a hand on his hip as he settles his tongue in his cheek. Will Luhan ever not embarrass him in front of people Zitao is trying to impress? Nevertheless, Minseo nods. “Sure,” she smiles. “I’m already biual, so this should be a piece of cake. Is that okay with you, Yingtao?”

Zitao glances over at her, and although not attracted to women in any way, he doesn’t find the idea to pretend to date Minseo to keep himself out of the gazes of strange men necessarily unattractive. Smirking, he nods. “I usually only need it when I go out to restaurants or out drinking,” he tells her. “I’ll let you know when I need your services, Minseo.”

Their individual attention is shattered as their boarding is called over the loudspeaker, and Zitao watches as some of the other women from work who have made themselves comfortable in the waiting chairs stand with their luggage in-hand and head over to their respective gate. Turning back, Zitao pulls on the strap from his carry-on again as Minseo does the same. “Gotta go,” he presses his lips together and nods, and his best friend in a breath and offers him a supportive smile. “I’ll miss you, Han.”

“Be safe,