Fix You

A quarter to three... Where are you, Byun Baekhyun? Chanyeol peers out the window of their hotel-room onto the garishly illuminated streets of night-time Beijing, scowls, closes the blinds and sighs. It's three o'clock in the morning in the overcrowded capital of a country whose language they barely speak, and his group-mate and best friend of six years, Byun Baekhyun, is nowhere to be found. Exhausted from a day of incessant interviews, meetings and performances, just as they were about to call it a night, Baekhyun decided that he had to roam the city or run mad. Unbeknownst to their managers and members and against Chanyeol's vehement opposition, he snuck out the building while the latter was showering, leaving behind no more than a scrap of paper on which had been scribbled with a hasty hand Don't worry, I'll be back. Cover for me. I have to. I can't breathe otherwise.

This is not the first time Baekhyun has disappeared into foreign darkness. When their schedule has been particularly taxing, their day spent servicing the fancies of those who like a colouring book would fill the outlines of EXO's nine members with whatever hues may please their palates, never minding the underlying tints of the persons who inhabit them, he'll don his black mask and baseball-cap and, affecting anonymity, slink into the night. Chanyeol never asks where he's been or what he's done. He doesn't want to know – know why he had to go, whom he might have seen, why he can't breathe when they're alone together – he can't afford to...neither of them can.

He crashes onto his bed, his long limbs overtaking its edges, and stares at emptiness. Gradually fatigue subdues anxiety: his eyes grow heavy, his breathing even, his heartbeat sluggish as he surrenders to unconsciousness. He dreams of nothing – or so he thinks. Abruptly something encumbers his lower body, something heavy, something warm, something...human. He opens his eyes and there is the prodigal returned to the fold, if a little too near it for comfort. Baekhyun stares at him a few seconds, his expression at once elated and downcast, then curves his fine fingers over Chanyeol's dumbfounded face and softly sweeps them along his features, lingering on the younger's mouth.

Chanyeol observes him closely – the dilation of his pupils, the slight contraction of his modestly-proportioned eyes, the reddish glow in his habitually pale cheeks, the added flush and fleshiness of his naturally plump lips – and reconsiders his plan of attack. "Byun Baekhyun," he starts with an even baritone, "are you drunk?"

Amazingly, the elder bursts into laughter. "I don't know. Am I?"

Chanyeol's temper darkens in time with his tone. "You'd better be. Get off." No response. He draws in a palliative lungful of air and repeats, "Baekhyun-ah, I'm not playing. Get off." But the elder only burrows further into the younger's lap, tightening his grip on Chanyeol's hips where he bestrides him. His nostrils flaring to double their size, Chanyeol grits his teeth and growls, "What the hell sort of game is this?! I said GET OFF!" He flings his arms at his rider to push him away, but Baekhyun grabs his wrists mid-air and pins them to either side of Chanyeol's face, pitching his own so near it, the younger's stomach heaves at the stench of alcohol that promptly engulfs him.

"Don't want to," Baekhyun hisses, his air indomitable. "Do you hear me? I don't want to."

Chanyeol checks. In their six years of acquaintance, through five of which they've shared a room as well as a living, he has never known the elder so impassioned, so utterly implacable. Something must have happened. Something bad. His blood chills at the thought. I should have gone after him. I should have told the managers. "Baekhyun-ah, how much did you have to drink?" he probes carefully, retuning his voice to reconciliation.

Baekhyun tilts his silvered head and puckers. "A little...or a lot...depends on how you measure it."

By the glass, not the bottle. "Why? What happened?" Chanyeol pursues, armouring himself for the worst.