They’re alone in a dimly lit practice room, rehearsing the steps for their performance the next day, when Luhan makes one spin too many and suddenly he is freestyling across the room, brushing the mirrored wall with one fingertip, and dancing back around to Sehun, who is standing awestruck and tired.

The ache in Sehun’s muscles throbs even more as he watches Luhan fly around the room on light feet, expression carefree. Sehun is the one with more dance experience; his lisp meant the company focused him on dance. But watching Luhan dance Sehun realizes that experience means nothing. Luhan only started dancing years after Sehun did, but now his movements are smoother, more fluid and connected than Sehun’s. To watch Luhan dance it seems like they haven’t been practicing for the better portion of the afternoon, because Luhan dances like it’s what he’s waited for his entire life. His limbs relax and the aches and pains in his back and shoulders become nothing as he dances circles around Sehun.

Watching him Sehun only wants to lie down, his head pounding with his inadequacy. But he stays immobile, watches, and then when he can’t bear it any longer he reaches out to Luhan, as if he’s waiting to be called upon.

Luhan only smiles, takes Sehun’s hand, and pulls him into his dance. The music has switched from the electro beat of the song they’re rehearsing to the soft tap of cymbals and the crooning of a familiar voice in one of their album’s ballads. They sway together, dancing over the floor with Sehun always a beat behind Luhan, until the song ends, and they’re left staring at each other.

The CD has come to its end and there is silence in the room. Luhan drops Sehun’s hand and gives him a quick peck on the lips. “I think that’s enough practice for today. I’ll get us something to drink.”

He leaves the room and Sehun is left alone, but all the tension is gone from his body and he feels the pain in his muscles barely, like a forgotten worry. He walks over to the CD player and skips to track six, plays the song. This time he nails each of his shoulders and sweep of his arms, and, more importantly, he doesn’t care.