“Taozi.” The inner office door is open; Yixing sits at his desk. He lifts an arm, and Zitao closes the door behind him before moving to stand within reach, complaining briefly that he’s too sweaty to hug.

Yixing, as always, is calm and collected. He wears tranquility well, but it often leads people to think there isn’t a single thought in his head. The only sign of exasperation is the heavy sigh as he pulls Zitao closer.

“Bad meeting?” Light comes in from the large window behind Yixing’s desk, looking into the gym room next door. The blinds are pulled to the ceiling, slightly uneven. Smudges glisten dully on the glass surface. They must have been in the office rather than the conference room, not wholly unusual but a sign that it may not have been the most on-the-level meeting.

“No,” Yixing sighs again. He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head to make it fall back in place. The gesture annoys Zitao; when his boss is so irritated he fusses and fidgets, it's a sign of frustration. He doesn't like being frustrated and tries to fix it, which is usually where Zitao comes in. “They’re just a part of the stubborn, older generation.” Ah. Zitao knows the type: Anyone younger, regardless of experience, will never be enough and should never say anything. Seen and not heard.

“Want me to beat them up?” Zitao’s only half-joking, but he’s glad the remark gets a chuckle out of his boss. “They’re probably still in the elevator; there could be a tragic accident.” Yixing swats his lightly.

But he doesn’t say ‘no.’