carniv♡re girl

“So which one of us sounded better?” Kyungsoo asks.

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Joonmyun looks back and forth between the two of them. He’s not entirely sure why, but his palms are sweaty and his muscles are all tense. “Uh,” he says. “I’m not quite certain I understand your question.”

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“We both sang for you, right? So who sang better?” Jongdae replies.

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“I’m not sure I’m well-equipped to be a judge of vocal ability!” Joonmyun squeaks. He takes a few steps back and feels his stomach lurch as Kyungsoo and Jongdae take a few steps forward to close the distance. They look deadly serious and Joonmyun feels intensely terrified.

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“You don’t have to be,” Kyungsoo says. “Just personal preference is enough. Come on, hyung, spit it out. We won’t be mad or anything.”

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Judging by the expressions on their faces, Joonmyun knows that’s a dirty lie. “I think I need to lie down,” he murmurs, wondering vaguely if pretending to pass out would get him out of this somehow.

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i heard that his photobook has many photos of sungyeol and sungjong :’) someday i’ll get around to reading the 93-days-with-myungsoo translation of his photobook, but for now, i’ll just assume what kind of things he wrote about them haha

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- - -

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Myungsoo takes over the living room and spreads his photos all over the floor, arranging and rearranging them as he decides which ones to include and which ones to leave out. “The rest of us use this room too, you know,” Hoya says as he inches around Myungsoo and his collection of pictures.

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“Mm,” Myungsoo replies, without looking up. “Uh-huh.”

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Hoya sighs as he flops onto the couch, picking up the remote and turning it on. “Never mind,” he says, rolling over onto his stomach. He peers over Myungsoo’s shoulder, giving the spread of photos a quick look-over. “Hey, Myungsoo. Do you think you have enough pictures of Sungyeol there?”

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“What?” Myungsoo asks.

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“Almost a third of these are of Sungyeol,” Hoya replies.

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Myungsoo finally seems to break out of his daze. “No, that can’t be,” he says, half-frowning.

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“Okay, whatever,” Hoya says. He changes the channel, ignoring Myungsoo in favor of a documentary on the wildlife of Madagascar.

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- - -

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After Hoya’s left, Myungsoo gathers up all of his photos and separates them into three categories: Sungyeol, things that are Sungyeol-related, and things which are neither Sungyeol nor Sungyeol-related. “Ah,” he says, once he’s finished organizing them. The last of the three categories is rather pitifully populated.

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He stares at the three piles, frowning slightly as he looks back and forth between the photos. “Maybe I should go take more?” he wonders aloud. “But they’re pretty good, it’d be a waste to not put them in…”

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Myungsoo picks up one of Sungyeol smiling, the afternoon sun at his back and illuminating him from behind. “Well, it is supposed to be a book of photos of things I like,” he says. “I do like Sungyeol a lot. I’m sure it’ll be alright.”

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It takes Lu Han a few days to wear Minseok down enough that he finally admits what’s wrong. “It’s Sehun,” he says. “Well, not Sehun, exactly. You and him – I’m tired of it. You two always touching and doing fanservice.”

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Lu Han breathes out a sigh of relief. “Is that it?” he asks. “You don’t have to worry about that, you know. I don’t touch him like I touch you. I don’t feel for him what I feel for you.”

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“I know,” Minseok says. “I do know that. But it still bothers me, and I can’t help that.”

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“It’s not serious. It’s just playing for the audience – we’re just friends, Sehun and I.” Lu Han reaches out and touches Minseok’s arm lightly. “It can’t be helped. We’d get in trouble if we stopped.”

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“I’m not asking that you stop,” Minseok says. His voice is steady, but Lu Han can tell he’s upset. “I’m asking you to understand that I’m allowed to be upset about it.”

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Lu Han knows he’s said the wrong thing, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. He hesitates for a second, drawing back. “I don’t want to argue,” he replies, trying to keep his tone even.

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“Then let’s not. I’m going to bed,” Minseok says. “Good night.”

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Just because you say that doesn’t mean it’s not an argument anymore, Lu Han wants to say. Instead, he leaves to go back to his own bedroom and sulks into his pillow.

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They’ve just left the showers and are about to round the corner when they hear their names being mentioned. “Oh man, they’re gossiping about us,” Sehun whispers, grabbing Jongin’s wrist and pulling him away before Jongin can accidentally walk in on it.

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“Why do you sound so happy about that?” Jongin replies, but Sehun shushes him so they can hear better.

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Jongin opens his mouth to complain, but then they overhear: “ – they’re not, like, gay for each other or something, are they?” He closes his mouth and shakes his head.

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“Fuck, that’s so offensive,” Sehun says. “If I were gay, I wouldn’t get with you, of all people. Your table manners are an atrocity.”

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“Excuse you,” Jongin retorts. “Look at who’s talking about manners – you are the most irreverent asshole I know. I’m the one who’s offended.”

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Sehun ignores him. “I can’t believe we’re the ones getting gay rumors when Lu Han and Minseok go to the same school as us,” he mutters.

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The hardest thing, Yixing thinks, is that soon Lu Han will forget everything, millennia upon millennia of memories gone like those thousands of years were nothing. Lu Han will forget all of the things he’s done, all the friends he made, all the people he saved – all of them except Minseok, and Yixing knows he’s not allowed to find that unfair, but he can’t help it. “He got it easy, you know,” Yifan says, not unkindly. “He was allowed a graceful fall, at least. A smooth transition into his mortal life, and he gets to be with the person he fell for.”

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“Don’t be like that,” Zitao says, frowning as he crosses his arms. “Lu Han deserves to be happy. He served for so many years so dutifully.”

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Yifan, though, is only watching Yixing as Yixing looks below to where Lu Han is. “Better to stop now before it begins to hurt too much, Yixing,” he says. “You deserve to be happy, too.”

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“Who said I’m not?” Yixing asks. Yifan and Zitao exchange looks, but know better than to press him on it.

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- - -

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Lu Han murmurs prayers every night. While he still remembers, he says them to Yixing, telling him about his new human life and all the things in it, but Yixing knows it’s only a matter of time.

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“Hey, Yixing, are you up there?” Lu Han whispers one night. “Yixing, I really am forgetting. I think all I remember now is your name and your face and – Yixing, I’m sorry.”

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Above, Yixing closes his eyes and sighs. A few days later, Lu Han doesn’t say Yixing’s name when he says his prayers. A week later, Lu Han doesn’t say any prayers at all.

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- - -

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“Minseok, do you believe in guardian angels?” Lu Han asks one afternoon as they sit in a crowded Starbucks in the middle of Beijing.

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“I don’t know,” Minseok replies. Behind them, Yixing watches, invisible, and reminds himself he must be impartial.

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“I do,” Lu Han says. “I think there’s one watching over us right now. I can feel him, I think – some kind soul, trying to make sure we don’t live with regrets.”

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Minseok mock-frowns. “You sure the heat isn’t getting to you, Lu Han?” he teases.

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Lu Han laughs, and Minseok joins in a few seconds later. There’s a warm feeling that floods Yixing’s heart that takes him a few moments to place – happiness.

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i said it before, but i will say it again: this is truly a prompt after my own heart :’) au where sunggyu (vocals/second guitar) and woohyun (vocals/bass) are part of the same garage band of some local fame, along with myungsoo (first guitar) and sungyeol (drums).

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“Wow,” Hoya says. “Did you just walk out of the wrong decade? By like, fifty years or so?”

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“Haha, go fuck yourself,” Sunggyu replies, not even looking over as he starts setting up his amp. “Why are you backstage, anyway? Only members and staff allowed.”

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Hoya half-smiles, half-smirks. “I’m providing an important service, you know. Moral support,” he says. “And you should let me be your fashion manager too, from the looks of things. Are you really gonna wear that leather jacket on stage?”

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“Try waiting until after the concert’s over to get him out of his clothes,” Woohyun suggests, looking up from his bass and snorting at his own joke.

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“Wow, that was almost witty,” Hoya replies dryly. “Did you think that one up by yourself, hyung?”

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Woohyun gives him a hurt look so exaggerated that Sunggyu laughs. “I thought you said that you were moral support, Hoya,” Woohyun says. “But my morals never feel supported when you’re around. Why is that? I wonder.”

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“Congratulations on filling your daily quota on thinking,” Hoya quips.

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Sunggyu doubles over in silent laughter and Woohyun scowls. “You are such a little shit,” he says, although there’s no real malice in his tone. “I’m seconding Sunggyu hyung’s go fuck yourself.”

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“Uh-huh,” Hoya replies. He then takes the opportunity while Sunggyu’s guard is down to smoothly slide the jacket off, throwing it over his shoulder and taking a few steps back before Sunggyu can even realize what’s going on. Sunggyu is left standing in a threadbare black T-shirt, so faded that the design on the front is unrecognizable.

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“Hey! Give that back,” Sunggyu snaps, attempting to lunge around the speakers to grab at his jacket, but Hoya laughs and retreats out of reach.

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“After the concert,” Hoya says, smirking before he escapes back to the audience.

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“Fucking bastard,” Sunggyu mutters, sighing slightly as he turns his attention back to his guitar. “Why do I even.”

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Woohyun reaches over and pats him on the back.

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“Are you the type of person who obsesses over something until you get sick of it and never pick it up ever again?” Jongsuk asks.

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Woobin blinks a few times. “Not particularly, I think,” he answers. “Why?”

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“Because there are sixteen bags of shrimp chips in your pantry,” Jongsuk says. “I counted. And also, you’ve been eating them like crazy for the past few days.”

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“I just like them,” Woobin replies. He shrugs, and picks up the half-empty bag. “Do you want some?”

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Jongsuk feels like Woobin has eaten enough shrimp chips in the last three days that he feels sick of them by second-hand association, but he is pretty sure there is no polite way to say that. “Uh, no, that’s okay,” Jongsuk says. “Thanks for offering, though. But, aren’t you going to get tired of eating them sooner or later?”

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“Well, you see me almost every day, and you’re not tired of seeing me yet, are you?” Woobin asks.

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“Are you, perhaps, thinking about eating me? I won’t taste that good,” Jongsuk teases.

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Woobin reaches over to grab his hand, pressing his teeth into Jongsuk’s wrist and pretending to bite down. He looks up and grins. “I don’t know – seems alright to me,” he says.

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Jongsuk tries to make a face, but he ends up laughing instead.

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“Uh, Baekhyun,” Chanyeol says, rather weakly. “You’re gonna leave bruises on my hipbone. Through my jeans, even.”

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“Sorry,” Baekhyun replies, loosening his grip ever-so-slightly. “Better?”

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“I think I might be able to start regaining circulation now,” Chanyeol mutters. “Hey, not that I’m against being affectionate and stuff, but don’t you think this is a little over-the-top?”

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“Not really,” Baekhyun says. He is practically glued to Chanyeol’s side, arm firmly wrapped around Chanyeol’s waist. When they walk, it looks like they are doing a strange imitation of a three-legged-man race.

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Chanyeol stifles a sigh; it comes out sounding a bit like a sneeze instead. “We’re practically tripping over each other,” he points out.

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“People ogle you because you’re good-looking,” Baekhyun says, putting a particular emphasis on the word ‘ogle’. “I am preventing that from happening.”

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“Well, they’re still staring at us now, but not ‘cause I’m attractive,” Chanyeol murmurs. Baekhyun either doesn’t hear or pretends not to.

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“Holy shit,” Sumin says, suddenly sitting up straight in her chair. She stares down at her hands, looking mildly terrified.

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“Uh,” Chiwoong says, looking up from his textbook. “Studying not going well, I take it?”

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“I started falling asleep and I remembered something as I was dreaming,” she murmurs, bringing her hands up to her forehead. “It was when I was a kid – like, ten, maybe? And my dads were taking me back home from the park. Jongin-appa was holding me, because I was tired. And then, I noticed this huge bruise on his neck and was all, you know, dad! What happened to your neck? Is there something wrong?”

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By the look on Chiwoong’s face, he already knows where this story is going, but she goes on anyway. “He said it was a mosquito bite,” she says miserably. “But now I realize. It was a gigantic – fucking – hickey.”

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Chiwoong pats her on the back gingerly. “I’m sorry for your mental trauma,” he says.

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