It’s raining in Vancouver when his plane touches down.

 

It seems oddly fitting.  There’s an iron band around Kris’s heart, squeezing all the breath out of his chest.  He leans his face against the tiny, cool plastic window, but it doesn’t help him feel any better.

 

Thirteen hours prior in Incheon, he’d wandered heavy-hearted and lost down the jetway, sat in the wrong seat and only realized halfway through the flight.  The lady whose seat he had taken had decided against disturbing him, and he doesn’t know it’s because his misery is so palpable it casts a pall over those sitting nearest him.

 

It’s the longest flight of his life.

 

Kris picks up his phone.  No matter how long he’s away from home, no matter how far, the muscle memory remains, and his thumb skates sluggishly over the buttons one at a time. He puts the phone to his ear.

 

“Hi, mom.” Kris says, in English.

 

“Hi, baby.” Kris’s mom sounds delighted to hear her son’s voice, and breaks into excited Mandarin to tell him about what’s going on at home.  Kris’s heart constricts painfully. 

 

“Mom.” Kris breaks in through her happy cooing, and something in his tone activates what Kris calls her ‘mom senses’.  She always knows when something’s up.

 

“Jiaheng…is something wrong?” She asks, and she always sounds so worried, even if it’s nothing.

 

“I’m at the airport.  Would you—” Kris chokes a little.  “I’m in Vancouver.  Come pick me up.  Please.”

 

He hangs up before he can hear her reply, and leans dejectedly against the Baggage Claim kiosk with his hand over his eyes to hide the tears.

 

*

 

He’d told no one he was leaving as he packed his backpack with a few changes of clothes, made sure to slip out so early the sun hadn’t risen yet, carrying his shoes out of the dorm and holding the knob as he closed the door behind him.  The way the doorjamb had clicked softly shut sounded like a cannon blast to Kris’s ears, and the finality of it made him cringe:  It was like hacking off a limb, but this limb had eleven other hearts and minds, and a proportional amount of pain associated with the cut.

 

“I don’t understand, Jiaheng.” His mother reaches over to pat his shoulder.  She always insists on calling him that.  Kris has no motivation to correct her.  “I’m happy to see you, but…aren’t you supposed to be recording your album?”

 

Kris closes his eyes to suppress the tears he can feel burning the backs of his lids.  “I got a break.” He whispers, and his voice cracks around the tightness in his throat.  “So I came home for a little while.”

 

“I see.  Well, your dad will be pleased.  This is a nice surprise.” She tries her hardest to sound cheerful, but Kris’s melancholy is profound, and she goes quiet after a minute.

 

Kris had left a note in a sealed envelope on his pillow back in Korea explaining everything, and he tries his hardest not to imagine the reactions it’s receiving right now:  The manager-hyungs’ uproar, Zitao probably crying, Chanyeol retreating into his room to sulk and mope…Kris focuses on a distant point outside the car, his thoughts flying like shards of glass.

 

*

 

To my brothers,

 

When you see this letter, it means I’m back in Canada.  I left early this morning to catch my flight.

 

Being an idol is not what I expected, and it’s become too difficult to keep it up.  I’m disappointed and tired.  I know I’m letting you all down by admitting this, and I’m sorry.  I was never a good duizhang.

Please be good to your hyungs and each other.  Joonmyun is the best leader you can ever have, and I will be watching you every day and cheering you on.  Please don’t think too badly of me when I’m gone.  I was too weak, so this is nobody’s fault but my own.

 

I am so sorry to each and every one of you.

 

With love, Wu Yifan

 

*

 

“Hey, Kris isn’t up yet.” Minseok says offhandedly.  “Go get him for breakfast, Yixing.”

 

Yixing wrinkles his nose in distaste; Kris is ornery when he gets woken up early, but he does as he’s told.  He raps on Kris’s door sharply before opening it.  “Duizhang?  Minseok-ge says it’s time for breakfast, and—“

 

Kris’s bed is made perfectly, all the sheets tucked in except at the foot where he always forgets, and Yixing feels his stomach drop a couple of notches.  Kris is never awake early, and his bed is never made unless Minseok bullies him into it.

 

Yixing comes into the room a little further and spots a white envelope lying on Kris’s blue pillowcase, marked with Kris’s untidy scrawl.  His heart is pounding in his ears when he picks it up and slits it open; something is very wrong.  He knows the answer is in the envelope, but he’s not sure he wants to find out.

 

“Yixing, I thought you were going to wake up—” Minseok sticks his head around the corner, and stops as his eyes take in the made bed, and Yixing’s hands shaking around the neatly creased paper clutched in them.  Yixing looks up, wide-eyed as if he’d just received a blow to the face, and s the paper at Minseok silently.

 

Minseok’s eyes flick back and forth, reading swiftly, and he doesn’t look up from the paper when he says, “Go get Joonmyun and manager-hyung.  Don’t tell the others.”

 

*

 

Kris closes the door behind him and looks around his childhood bedroom in a daze.  It’s not like it used to be; his posters and pictures are all gone, the personality swept out of the corners and converted into the sort of blandness meant for guests, but the bed and its yellow bedspread is still the same, and underneath that, clean sheets.  Kris plops down on the bed and lays back, numbness swirling around in his head, the misery finally too much to bear.

 

He stays there the rest of the day, dozing off at some points, and when he dreams longingly of Zitao’s hand sliding into his after a show, of Luhan hugging him tightly, of Sehun’s crowing laughter, the cold splash of realization startles him awake.

 

He pushes the thoughts of his friends out of his mind and purposely imagines all the things that drove him away in the first place:  Grueling dance practices leaving him aching and bruised, frothy-mouthed screeching sasaengs clawing desperately at his arms, the forcible dieting and lack of sleep—anything to wash the longing for Korea out of his mind.

 

He suddenly recalls a particularly bad day, when one of SHINee’s manager-hyungs had struck Joonmyun across the back of the head impatiently as they pushed and shoved through the crowded airport.  Joonmyun had been more upset than hurt, but the unhappy surprise that had crossed his face had been enough to make Kris step in between them protectively, gathering Joonmyun to his side with a nasty glare in the manager’s direction.  Joonmyun had clung to him, hat pulled down to hide his face, but Kris’s disgust didn’t erode the feeling of Joonmyun’s hand interlocked with his own. 

 

Kris had spent the rest of that trip remembering the warmth and firmness of Joonmyun’s smaller hand gripping his, suddenly both afraid of and searching for reasons to hold his hand again. 

 

Opportunities hadn’t presented themselves then, but it hadn’t stopped him from remembering it for a long time afterward.

 

The hardest part about leaving had been leaving Joonmyun, knowing he wouldn’t see Joonmyun again, possibly ever.  And he had left Joonmyun with so much responsibility, because he couldn’t handle it.  Maybe Joonmyun would hate him now, and that would make things so much easier.  Liking Joonmyun like this doesn’t bother him on principle; the fact that it’s Joonmyun does.  Distance will help with his end of it, at least.  Eventually.

 

Even so, it’s hard to shake off his craving for Joonmyun, the way he aches for the sound of his voice or the press of his warm body next to him as they walk together.  He can’t explain it.  It’s less of a crush, more like naïve longing.  He’d made a mistake calling up that particular memory, and the pain lances through him again, deeper, sharper than before.

 

“Jiaheng?” His mother knocks on the door.  “It’s time to eat.  Are you hungry?”

 

He gets up slowly, his body feeling much older than his twenty-two years, and goes out to join his parents for dinner.

 

*

 

It’s a mess back at the dorms.  Manager-hyung shouts into his cell phone at full volume and receives the same angry screaming in return, but all of the band members are sitting in the living room, crowded together on the sofa, clinging to each other.  All except Joonmyun, that is, who’s pacing back and forth across the floor in front of all of them, hands behind his back, occasionally sniffing loudly but otherwise not speaking.  Nobody interrupts him, though, because they recognize when Joonmyun is thinking deeply.

 

Baekhyun is draped over the armrest of the sofa, wide-eyed and blank-faced, with Chanyeol leaning heavily against him.  He slurs something unintelligible into the back of Baekhyun’s shirt, and Baekhyun takes a minute to register that he’s speaking at all, even as he feels Chanyeol’s low voice vibrating against his back.

 

It’s another few moments before he realizes Chanyeol’s talking on the phone.  “Hyung, please pick up.” He mumbles.  “Yifan hyung, come home.” He hangs up after a few long moments of silence and sniffles quietly into the back of Baekhyun’s sweatshirt.

 

Joonmyun looks up at them as he passes, gazing at Chanyeol thoughtfully, and then resumes his pacing without a word.

 

*

 

It’s been a couple of weeks, and Kris has stopped checking his phone because he’s tired of deleting everything.  The angry, threatening messages from the manager-hyungs don’t really faze him, but the sad voicemails Chanyeol leaves every day are the emotional equivalent of being kicked in the jaw, so he doesn’t listen to them anymore.

 

He had been so tempted to reply back to Joonmyun’s text.  His thumb hovered over the keys, but in the end, he just deleted the message:

 

Duizhang, please come home.  I miss you.

 

He’s tried his best to stay anonymous here, and with the help of his mother, his hair is dark brown now and much shorter.  It’s not a perfect disguise, but he’s beginning to relax into the routine of daily life again, because people have finally stopped telling him he looks like someone famous.  His short hair feels like the closure to a bad breakup.

 

What he’s most amazed at is how he’s managed to conceal from his parents the real reason he’s home.  They don’t know about his abject failure as an idol, because the company doesn’t want to make a fuss just yet.  But it’s only a matter of time before his family gets suspicious about his so-called vacation, though, and he knows he’s got to come up with an excuse or get out.

 

He settles, after long thought, for the less painful option of getting out.

 

*

 

He books a room for a week at a cheap and vaguely seedy hotel, figuring that will give him enough time to find an apartment or a job.  After his mother waves goodbye from the car (he intentionally makes her slightly late for work, so she can’t follow him inside) he hails a taxi to the hotel and settles into his tiny, musty room with his bag, feeling more alone than he ever has in his life.

 

He starts dreaming of the EXO dorms again, of Joonmyun leaning against his side while they watch a movie, of Chanyeol ignorantly chanting obscene English rap lyrics at the top of his lungs, of the sound of pyrotechnics exploding feet in front of him, and then he wakes up in his dank hotel room, a pall of melancholy springing itself on him the instant his eyes flicker open.

 

He manages to procure a fistful of job applications—nothing special:  A shoe shop, a restaurant, a couple of department stores.  But he draws a total blank when he puts pen to paper, because none of his work references speak English, and he’s really sure SM would ing love to give some great gouge on him.  “Sure, he’s a great worker, but he quits halfway through the job.”  Frustrated, he pushes the papers away from him in disgust and grabs his coat instead.

 

He’s halfway down the street away from the hotel, splashing through cold puddles and drawing his collar up against the chilly late-afternoon wind, when his phone rings in his pocket.  It surprises him so much that he automatically reaches for it. 

 

Joonmyun is calling him. 

 

He stares at the screen, dithering so wildly on whether to answer it or not that Joonmyun’s call goes to voicemail just as he decides to answer it, and he hangs up angrily, half tempted to fling his phone into the ankle-deep puddle he just splashed through.

 

Instead, his phone rings again.  It must be important if Joonmyun wants to talk to him this badly.  He chews on a fingernail nervously before finally hitting the ‘answer’ button and holding the handset to his ear.

 

“Hello?” His voice sounds too loud to his own ears from lack of use.

 

“Hey,” Joonmyun’s voice is quiet, gentle, but Kris can hear the nervousness underneath.  “Yifan?  Are you okay?”

 

Kris relaxes so suddenly, so completely, that he feels dizzy and has to lean on the fence next to him.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’m okay, Joonmyun.” He’s grateful that Joonmyun isn’t freaking out on him, isn’t screaming in his ear.  That Joonmyun cares about him first and why later.

 

“I need your help with something.” Joonmyun says calmly, and Kris bites his lip uncertainly, though Joonmyun can’t see that.

 

“I’ll try.” He croaks out.

 

Joonmyun lets out an exasperated little laugh.  “I can’t ing speak English and this airport is huge.  Come get me.”

 

Kris stands up straight almost instantly, even before the meaning of Joonmyun’s words really sinks in.  “Come get you?” His heart leaps up, but his brain is still two steps behind.

 

“Vancouver Airport.  I have no idea where the I am and I can’t ask anyone.”

 

“You’re in Vancouver?” Kris repeats dumbly, flinging out his arm to hail a taxi.  “Why?”
 

“Because you’re here, dummy.” Kris can hear the smile in Joonmyun’s voice.  “Now hurry up.”

 

*

 

Joonmyun’s tired. 

 

Customs had scrutinized him especially hard when his return ticket seemed ‘suspicious’, and subsequently kept him behind for much longer than he’d wanted, having to go find a translator for him as he explained his mission to the suspicious-eyed uniformed security guards.  Finally, after much discussion that included Joonmyun pulling his celebrity card and giving contact information for what seemed like every person he knew, they’d reluctantly let him continue. 

 

He leans against the wall next to the baggage claim office, waiting for the equally sleepy woman behind the counter to return with his backpack, rubbing his eyes blearily.

 

“Joonmyun!”

 

Kris is coming through the sliding doors, soaking wet from head to toe and trying not to run for fear of sliding, though there’s enthusiasm and eagerness in every step.  Joonmyun watches him approach, hardly recognizing him with his short dark hair, and how ill and tired Kris looks.  He’s not even sure it’s really Kris he’s seeing.  They both stare uncertainly as Kris approaches, sizing one another up as if they’ve never met before.

 

Kris slows and eventually stops some distance away from him, chapped lower lip caught between his teeth as Joonmyun’s evident hesitation sinks in.  Joonmyun’s tired eyes are huge in his pale face as they flick over Kris, taking stock of him.

 

“Yifan?” He smiles a little, and Kris’s face breaks into the most profound relief. 

 

“Joonmyun!”

 

Joonmyun forgets all about his bag and his tiredness as his legs carry him forward unthinkingly.  He throws himself at Kris, who opens his arms for a hug—

 

Joonmyun drives his clenched fist directly into the soft spot just above Kris’s navel.  It’s not a terribly hard blow, but it’s a strategic one, and Kris’s arms fly inward to wrap around his abdomen protectively as the air leaves his lungs in a rush.

 

Kris hunches over slightly, taking a step back from Joonmyun, tiny Joonmyun who towers over him with that clenched fist held up as though cocked to hit him again, and Kris holds up a hand in conciliation.  Joonmyun lets his arm drop to his side, tears suddenly weighing heavily on his lower lids and threatening to spill. 

 

Kris takes another step backward, his heart caving in on itself as he watches the fury drain from Joonmyun’s face, wetness b around the corners of his dark eyes.  But Kris knows he deserves this.  He knows he deserves every ounce of white-hot pain when Joonmyun turns his back on him and walks away, radiating icy resentment.

 

Kris slouches helplessly against a pillar, the silent, tearing hurt so intense it saps all the strength out of his legs.  He sinks down slowly to the floor, horribly aware for the first time of what a dreadful mistake he’s made.  His eyes are dry, but he knows that won’t last long.  He folds up against the pillar, burying his face in his crossed arms to hide his face, fighting against the dry sob clawing at the back of his throat.

 

And it’s the damnedest thing, the most unexpected thing, when a warm hand slips inside his own, folding long fingers over the back of it.  Kris doesn’t have the energy to startle or jerk his hand back, but his sudden, total mystification is what makes him lift his head up.

 

Joonmyun is kneeling, holding Kris’s hand, and his eyes are wet but his expression is softer now, but dazed.  “I didn’t fly twelve hours just so I could punch you in the stomach.”

 

“You can reach my face now.” Kris says, and the tightness of his voice makes the joke fall flat.  Joonmyun smiles sadly and squeezes Kris’s hand.

 

“Come on.  Show me where to get a hotel.” He pulls Kris onto his feet but doesn’t let go of his hand, and Kris follows obediently.  He’ll follow that hand anywhere it leads him.

 

A half-hour later, they arrive at Kris’s hotel, and it seems even more shabby and chilly than before when he leads Joonmyun up the dank stairwell.  Joonmyun dutifully doesn’t remark, just lets Kris take him to the second floor and into the tiny room at the end of the hallway.

 

The room is something of a disaster, and Kris winces as he closes the door behind him, having forgotten about the fast-food bags sitting on the table next to the job applications he’d been painstakingly trying to fill out earlier.  Dirty clothes hang on the back of the chair dragged halfway across the room where Kris had used it as a stepstool.  Joonmyun remains silent, sitting down on the edge of the single bed and bowing his head with closed eyes.  He looks exhausted.

 

Restless and uncomfortable, Kris sets to tidying up, because he’s ashamed of this side of himself Joonmyun is suddenly privy to.  He’s gathering scattered dirty clothing from the corners of the room when Joonmyun finally speaks.

 

“Yifan, come here.”

 

The laundry slips from Kris’s suddenly numb hands.  He moves to sit next to Joonmyun on the bed, heart thudding painfully against his bone.  Joonmyun looks at him searchingly, piercingly, his gaze stripping away every layer of Kris’s exterior down to the raw emotion beneath.

 

“Yifan, come back.” Joonmyun exhales after a moment.  “Please.”

 

“I can’t come back.” Kris mumbles, rubbing his eyes to hide the way his face is flushing with the effort of holding back tears.  “I don’t want to be an idol.”  It comes off petulant, childish, and Kris flushes.

 

“I know it’s hard.” Joonmyun enfolds Kris’s hand with his own again, and even though it’s smaller, the strength of it makes Kris feel like a child.  “I need you.  We all need you, but especially me.  And we all miss you so much.”

 

Kris shakes his head.  “I miss everyone.  I think about you all the time.” He swallows painfully.  “But I hated the constant bull.  Never sleeping, not eating, being screamed at for the stupidest things, and as duizhang it was even worse because I was responsible for everyone’s ups.  I’m burnt out, Joonmyun.”

 

Joonmyun’s eyes crease at the corners, but it’s impossible to tell whether from sadness or amusement.  “I know.  I didn’t think you’d crack that easily.  But there’s no harm in trying the direct approach.”

 

Kris squeezes Joonmyun’s hand before folding his own in his lap.  “I think I’m going to take a shower.” He says, because he actually hasn’t bathed in a couple of days, and he’s becoming aware of it.  He hadn’t really minded before, but Joonmyun makes him feel self-conscious.

 

“Okay.  I’ll make up a bed on the floor.” Joonmyun says, glancing at the window and the deepening sky outside.  The rain is beginning to clear, and stars are peeking out from the velvety darkness as the last of the sunlight vanishes behind the horizon.

 

“There’s enough room if you want to share.  It’s a queen bed.” Kris says wearily, stripping off his stained, two-day-old shirt and tossing it listlessly at the wall.

 

“Thank you.” Joonmyun says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and his eyes don’t quite meet Kris’s.

 

Kris stays in the shower a long time, thinking hard, and when he comes out, Joonmyun is curled up in a blanket on the floor, but the tension in the curve of his spine tells Kris he’s not sleeping.  Kris crawls into bed and turns off the light, and the distance between himself and Joonmyun feels far wider than the oceans that had separated them just a few hours before.

 

*

 

Kris wakes and rolls over when Joonmyun opens the curtains, grey morning light spilling in through the second-story window.  He’d been restive and agitated all night, hyperconscious of Joonmyun’s slow, steady breathing on the floor, and of the choices looming around him like ogres, waiting for his grip to weaken.

 

“Time to get up.” Joonmyun says brightly, and Kris groans and throws his arm over his eyes.

 

“How can you be this chipper after so much jet lag?” He growls.

 

“I barely slept, actually,” Joonmyun replies, whipping the bedcovers off of Kris’s body.  “Now come on.  It’s ten a.m., and I want to see your hometown.”

 

Kris rolls over, away from Joonmyun, rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers.  “I have to work on my applications this morning.” He mumbles, and Joonmyun comes around the other side of the bed too.

 

“What applications?”

 

Kris hesitates, because suddenly it sounds so stupid to him.  “Jobs.  I have to make money somehow here.”

 

“Oh.” Joonmyun looks surprised, and maybe slightly hurt, but he masters it quickly.  “I’ll help you, then.” He smiles slightly too wide, and Kris blinks at him.  “I know I can’t read English worth a , but I think I can figure out where to write your name.  I’ll copy off the others.  And then after that you can show me Vancouver.”

 

Kris sits up groggily, bracing himself against the accompanying headrush. “ it.” He says.  “Let’s go downtown.”

 

*

 

Joonmyun is delighted with Vancouver, and his enthusiasm is contagious.  Kris can’t help but feel a little more hopeful, even as the thought of his neglected applications weighs at the back of his mind like an anchor.  Not to mention there’s still a particular stiffness to the set of Joonmyun’s shoulders, and it’s making Kris uncomfortable enough that he doesn’t reach out to grab Joonmyun’s hand when he normally would have. 

 

Kris can see clearly that Joonmyun tries his hardest to stay upbeat and open, but when they momentarily brush against uncomfortable topics or lose track of what they’re saying, Joonmyun’s face falls into lines of tension.

 

Still, the little gush of pleasure he gets when he makes Joonmyun laugh, and watching Joonmyun happily spook a flock of pigeons, and the delight that crosses his face when Kris finds a chocolate shop—well, that’s enough for him.  A painful emotion wells in his chest.  He doesn’t know what it is, just that it’s both strenuous and attention-consuming, and Joonmyun seems to be at the center of it.

 

He buys them a late lunch from one of his favorite poutine shacks, and Joonmyun eyes it suspiciously even when Kris digs in with gusto, careful not to spill the container as they walk.

 

“It looks…messy.” He says uncertainly, and Kris laughs, wiping a bit of gravy off his face with a napkin.

 

“It’s kind of messy, yeah.  But it’s amazing.  I haven’t eaten this in so long.”

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Kris snorts.  “You like beondegi, Joonmyun, and beondegi is literally the worst thing I’ve ever put anywhere near my mouth.  It’s just French fries, and sauce, and cheese.  Are you scared of gravy?”

 

Joonmyun puts a French fry in his mouth, and a smile spreads across his face.  “This might be better than bulgogi pizza.” He admits, helping himself to another.

 

“Do you want to, um, to go to the park before we head back?” Kris asks awkwardly, tilting his head back and looking up at the sky.  The clouds have dissipated to reveal a sticky-hot sun, and Joonmyun has shed his jacket already.  The back of his neck is beginning to redden in the sunlight.

 

“Sure.” Joonmyun smiles, and it’s that soft smile this time, laced with tightness like poison.  Kris’s heart staggers in his chest a little.

 

He takes them to Sun Yat-Sen park, which he realizes is yet another mistake the instant they arrive.  Joonmyun is clearly taken with the classical Chinese garden, but Kris feels uneasy at how much it makes him ache for China, for Korea.  He finds a park bench to sit on, comfortably far back from the walking path and opulently fragrant with white orchids.  The flowers hide the architecture so Kris doesn’t have to look at a toilet that reminds him longingly of Shanghai.

 

Joonmyun sits on the bench, taking Kris’s hand in his own as Kris settles heavily next to him.  He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look around at Kris.  It’s his own way of relaying how uncomfortable he is even as he laces their fingers together.

 

“Joonmyun?” Kris asks tentatively after a few minutes of painful silence.

 

“Yes?”

 

“You’re still pissed at me, aren’t you?”

 

Joonmyun hesitates. “I’m not pissed.  But I’m disappointed.” His tone is cool, flat, even, and it’s far worse than if he had cried or shouted.

 

Kris doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he stays quiet.  Even if he did want to say something, he’s not sure he’d be able to talk around the lump in his throat.  What he wouldn’t give to stand up and walk away from Joonmyun right now…but he can’t.  He’s stuck with Joonmyun’s company until one of them decides to leave for good.

 

Joonmyun continues with a sidelong glance at Kris, his eyebrows furrowing slightly:  “And what’s more, I miss you.  I need you.”

 

Kris tries desperately to ignore the way his heart leaps into overdrive when Joonmyun squeezes his hand tightly.  Joonmyun makes him feel like a child looking up to his hyung; Kris is older, but not by much, and Joonmyun is always a step ahead of him, always steady, always sure-footed.  In a lot of ways, Joonmyun really leads the group, and Kris just follows his example.

 

“I was no good.” Kris tries to pull his hand away from Joonmyun’s, but Joonmyun doesn’t let go.  “How could I go back and face them after this?  No, Joonmyun.  I…I can’t.  It’s bad enough you have to see me like this.”

 

“See you like what?” Joonmyun finally turns to look at him.  His eyes are tight.  “See you fall?  Yifan, I trained for seven years.  I fell, too.  I saw a lot of people screw up and crack from the pressure.  Remember when Jongin freaked out?  We both held him up when he needed us, and I know if I left, you’d be right here with me too.”  He hesitates for a moment, but before Kris can interrupt, he continues.  “Leading EXO is something we do together.  We can’t share that with anyone else but each other.  So you can lean on me.”

 

“Can I?” Kris asks, his heart thumping rapidly in his ears.  He reflexively presses himself a little closer to Joonmyun, so that their elbows knock together gently.

 

“Of course you can.” Joonmyun replies, a little smile creasing his lips.

 

Kris’s hand is shaking badly when he lifts it and puts it around Joonmyun’s shoulders, pulling him closer—or maybe clinging to Joonmyun like a drowning man, he’s not sure—and Joonmyun’s head fits so neatly into the niche of his shoulder, his hair frizzy with humidity tickling the side of Kris’s face.  His heartbeat is so loud he’s amazed Joonmyun can’t hear it too.

 

“That’s right.” Joonmyun murmurs, so softly Kris can barely hear him.  “Lean on me.”

 

And without warning, something breaks loose in Kris, bursts free like the torrent from a broken dam; tears rush scalding-hot into his eyes, all the breath crushed out of him in a labored sob.

 

He cries.  He buries his face in Joonmyun’s hair and cries as quietly as he can, occasionally wiping his nose on his sleeve because he doesn’t want to get cry-snot on Joonmyun, and some little hysterical part of him thinks that’s funny.  But each time, the pain washes over him and drowns it out, and the shaky giggle that waits in the back of his throat comes out raw-sounding and broken.

 

Joonmyun doesn’t interrupt.  He lets Kris cry, occasionally squeezing his hand or rubbing his arm, but not speaking.  Finally, he fishes in his pocket for a tissue.

 

“Come on, now,” Joonmyun says soothingly, sitting back to dab at the tears glazing Kris’s face.  Kris covers his mouth with his hand and gulps for breath, forcefully clamping down on his emotions in order to rein in his runaway sniveling.  “You don’t look great when you’ve been crying.”

 

Impatient with himself, Kris snatches the tissue from Joonmyun’s hand a little more forcefully than necessary and blows his streaming nose in it. 

 

Joonmyun smiles a little too knowingly.

 

*

 

They head back to the hotel, where Kris washes his face intently with cold water when he sees how blotchy he looks.  Joonmyun waits for him, sits on the bed and flips through TV channels looking for movies, but he gives up when it’s clear there’s nothing he’ll understand.  Still, with nothing else to do, he continues to flick through the channels, and eventually finds Shaun The Sheep, purely by accident on his sixth or seventh iteration through; it’s never been his favorite, but the lack of dialogue and slapstick humor is enjoyable enough.

 

A slow smile creeps across Kris’s face when he emerges from the bathroom, his bangs and the hair in front of his ears damp and frizzy.  “I love this show.” He says, and Joonmyun pats the bed beside him.

 

“I know you do.  Come sit with me.”

 

Kris crawls onto the bed next to Joonmyun, uncertain exactly what Joonmyun wants him to do, but Joonmyun throws his arm out and drags Kris into a sort of headlock.

Kris falls awkwardly against Joonmyun, his limbs suddenly weak, his heart bounding into overdrive.  He carefully, ever so carefully—as if Joonmyun is the spooked animal and not the other way around—pillows his head against Joonmyun’s shoulder, and Joonmyun rubs his back lightly.  It’s comfortable.  Kris closes his eyes, every nerve in his body focused on how Joonmyun feels.

 

Kris falls asleep on Joonmyun’s arm, and Joonmyun doesn’t have the heart to wake him when it’s time for bed.

 

*

 

Kris wakes slow and easy and much too hot, and it’s a few moments before he realizes that the pall of dread that’s smothered him the past few weeks has taken its leave; it’s another few moments on top of that before he recognizes the feeling of a body pressed against his back, and then—he sees Joonmyun’s arm flung over his waist, hand tucked beneath his ribs, breath warm against the back of his neck.

 

The realization makes his body stir awake eagerly, but before he can suppress it, a ripple of exhilaration passes through him from head to toes.  Joonmyun stirs awake behind him, his arm tightening on Kris’s waist slightly as he presses his face between Kris’s shoulderblades.

 

Kris’s heartbeat is frantic again, battering against his sternum like a frightened animal, and his tension is what wakes Joonmyun fully.

 

“Yifan?” he mumbles, making no motion to release Kris from his hold, and Kris gurgles something to the affirmative while trying to find his voice.  “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing,” Kris says breathlessly, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.  Joonmyun withdraws his arm, lifting his head to peer over Kris’s shoulder, eyebrows furrowed over squinting, sleepy eyes.

 

“Nothing?” Joonmyun murmurs drowsily, and Kris avoids Joonmyun’s narrow gaze.  He feels like he’s standing on something moving under his feet, and Joonmyun is controlling the motion, trying to shake him off balance.  “Why are you so jumpy?”

 

“No reason.” Kris says awkwardly, fooling no one.  He’s hyperaware of Joonmyun’s warm hand resting casually on his waist, of the sharpness of Joonmyun’s elbow digging into his back, and it’s making his blood pressure skyrocket.  Just touching Joonmyun has Kris’s mind exploding like a microwaved potato.

 

He steels his nerves and reaches back to pull Joonmyun’s hand around his waist again, and Joonmyun makes a sleepy mewl of satisfaction and burrows his nose against the back of Kris’s neck.  The sensation makes every hair on Kris’s body stand up in waves of chill.

 

“Is this okay?” Joonmyun splays his hand against Kris’s chest, and the way his breath stirs the tiny hairs on Kris’s neck makes Kris twitch.  He forces himself to relax the way he’d learned before going onstage.  There’s a full beat of silence before Kris has the oxygen in his lungs to answer. 

 

“Yeah.  It’s okay.”

 

Joonmyun snores softly, and it takes every ounce of self-discipline Kris possesses not to bolt like a frightened horse.

 

*

 

Jet-lag has caught up with Joonmyun, who sleeps in almost until noon, and Kris’s body is cramped and sore from laying in the same position for so long, stilled by his absolute bewilderment and not just a tiny bit of hope.

 

Kris takes Joonmyun to a movie, where he doesn’t understand a word but stays glued to the screen anyway, crowing and clapping in excitement at the explosions; and when his hand links with Kris’s, Kris tries to pretend he didn’t jump, and is glad that the rising color in his face is muted by the darkness.

 

They share a quiet dinner after the movie (poutine again, by Joonmyun’s request), each casting inquisitive glances at the other but never quite matching up, so that by the time they get back to the hotel room, they both feel fragmented, confused, clumsy.  Joonmyun reaches for Kris’s hand again, but when Kris retracts it out of pure surprise, he doesn’t try again.

 

Joonmyun begins making his bed on the floor again, emphatically avoiding Kris’s gaze as he takes the pillow from the stained loveseat.  Kris pulls back the bedsheets, feeling just as bereft, and it’s a few minutes after the light goes out that Kris finds words bubbling up unsolicited in his throat.

 

“Joonmyun?”

 

“Yeah?” Joonmyun whispers.

 

“…You can come up on the bed if you want to.  You don’t have to sleep on the floor.” His voice squeaks at the end a little, and he swallows to wet his dry throat.

 

The silence is thick between them, heavy with anticipation.  “Okay.” Joonmyun says, and Kris can hear him shifting around before the bed dips beneath him, creaking ominously, and Joonmyun slides beneath the bedsheets.  Kris startles when Joonmyun’s elbow brushes his own as he settles into place, barely enough to transfer warmth, but Kris is instantly and ferociously questioning the wisdom of his decision to invite Joonmyun into his bed like this.

 

“Thanks.” Joonmyun murmurs, fidgeting a little as he adjusts the pillow under his head, and Kris’s throat is dry again.

 

Joonmyun falls asleep quickly, but Kris stays awake for a long time, his rapid pulse ringing in his ears.

 

*

 

Kris wakes when Joonmyun shakes his shoulder; he’s fully dressed already, a baseball cap on his head.  “Yifan, get up.”

 

He sits up blearily, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.  He recognizes Joonmyun’s typical airport garb, and his stomach plummets before he even realizes what Joonmyun wants.

 

“I gotta go back.  They only gave me three days off.” Joonmyun says, and his eyebrows furrow in a truly pained expression.  “Will you see me to the airport?”

 

The lump in his throat swells to painful proportions, and Kris can only nod silently, reaching for his jeans and pulling them on over his sleeping shorts. 

 

They catch a taxi to the airport and Kris carries Joonmyun’s backpack for him, even though his chest feels as if someone is taking a sledgehammer to his lungs.  He tries hard not to watch Joonmyun while he checks in at the counter, keeps his eyes away from the passport and airline ticket clutched in Joonmyun’s hand.

 

Joonmyun clutches at his hand a little desperately as Kris walks him to the security checkpoint, and Kris realizes Joonmyun has tears in his eyes as they draw nearer and nearer, walking slowly as to draw the last of their time out.  Kris thinks he’s never been more reluctant in his life to let someone walk away from him.

 

They don’t speak.  Joonmyun turns to look at Kris, his eyes glittering with tears but his mouth firm, and it’s like everything happens in slow motion:  Joonmyun’s hands come up to rest on Kris’s upper arms, slipping up and around his neck as Kris sweeps Joonmyun into a hug—and then somehow they’re kissing, and Kris’s whole body wakes like a lit firework.  He can feel the fluttering of Joonmyun’s damp eyelashes against his cheek, the press of his warm body even through layers of clothing, but most of all his lips, his lips, smooth and hot against his own.  A curious sensation begins in his stomach, as if his insides have been pushed up somewhere in the region of his diaphragm.

 

Deaf to the catcalls and sudden noise directed at them, Kris nudges Joonmyun’s mouth open with the swipe of his tongue along his lower lip, and he thinks he’d like to taste Joonmyun completely, to make him his, to claim him.

 

His heart trembles at the idea, because he knows Joonmyun belongs in Korea, and he…doesn’t belong anywhere.

 

Joonmyun finally breaks the kiss and draws away, his eyes and lips both red and puffy.  “Bye, Yifan.” He lets his hand trail over Kris’s arm, and then he turns away, his backpack slung over his shoulder, and walks into the security checkpoint, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

 

Kris watches him for a few minutes, but Joonmyun doesn’t look back.

 

He turns away as Joonmyun rounds the corner past the checkpoint, lost to sight, and checks the departures board mindlessly because he feels completely lost.  Joonmyun is three hours early for his flight.  It seems like such a waste, when they could’ve had so much more time...just an hour or two.

 

More time.  More. Time.

 

Something galvanizing floods his limbs, and before even he knows what he’s doing, he sprints through the airport and out the front doors.

 

*

 

Joonmyun’s eyes are dry when he walks down the jetway, but his eyelids feel heavy, and there’s a stone in his chest that he can’t seem to shake.  He’d hoped he’d be able to convince Kris to come back, but three days just wasn’t enough time.

 

And somehow he thinks that he’d rather stay here in Vancouver with Kris, too.  He runs over the English he’d retained in the last two days and thinks he wouldn’t mind learning more, in order to stay.  He wouldn’t mind being here a little longer.

 

He his lips, his heart beating faster, feeling as if something is pulling at him, tugging, like gravity.  It hurts in no way Joonmyun’s familiar with, resting as a sickening weight in his belly.

 

He stands up, heaving his bag over his shoulder, feeling the weight of that pain slosh around in his stomach, and it’s agonizing.  To hell with SM. To hell with everyone.

 

He excuses himself past the gentleman seated at the end of the row and begins making his way to the front of the plane through the narrow aisle, darting past cramped and grumpy passengers, hat askew and bag swinging wildly off his shoulder.

 

As he rounds the corner to the jet entry door, he collides with someone tall and sturdy, and grunts a sorry in mangled English, but then a hand wraps around his wrist and pulls him back, and he looks up into Kris’s disheveled hair and red eyes.  His impatience and restlessness dissolve instantly.

 

“Where are you going?” Kris asks, eyebrows raised in confusion, and Joonmyun mouths stupidly for a moment.

 

“…to see you.”

 

“I’m right here.” Kris murmurs.  “Stay with me.”

 

And Joonmyun’s hands shoot out and grab Kris by the collar, dragging him down to kiss him again without even thinking.  Someone behind them remarks impatiently about blocking the aisle, but neither of them hears nor cares.

 

And as the plane noses up into the air, the ground falling away swiftly beneath them, Kris’s chin over Joonmyun’s shoulder and arms around his waist as they look eagerly out the tiny window, Kris feels like he might really be going home after all.