The 12th Floor of Apartment E

Mismatched

Kyungsoo's walk slows to a stop. He stares. Bites his lip—because he isn't sure how to go about this and a part of him wishes he took Mandarin instead of English back in high school because his English is crappy anyway and now his Mandarin is nonexistent. He stares for another two seconds before deciding to forego dignity and go on with makeshift sign language.

"I can speak Korean," Zitao, 1211 Kim Minseok's new roommate as apparently advocated by Luhan of 1224, says. He blinks up at Kyungsoo.

"Okay," Kyungsoo says, blinking back. "Um—why are you sitting out here by yourself?"

Zitao motions back towards the door of 1211 with his eyes. "They're having sex," he says.

The choral major sucks in his cheeks, puffs them out. "Oh," he says.

Zitao blinks again.

"Do you," Kyungsoo starts, "want to come with me instead of waiting out here? You're a transfer to the university, right?"

Zitao nods, standing up (Kyungsoo tries not to shrink when Zitao's head ends up at least ten centimeters above Kyungsoo's own). "Yes."

"So you'll be here for a while, then," the receptionist says brightly (because, being the receptionist, it's not often that Kyungsoo gets prospective friends in the apartment that are actually normal and Zitao seems pretty normal—and even if he isn't, the language barrier should at least keep the insanity from leaking out too much). "You should meet Baekhyunnie and Chanyeolie—"

"The flower man?" Zitao asks, suddenly bright (as Kyungsoo's brightness fades).

Kyungsoo sighs again. "Yeah," he says, "the flower man."

Minseok turns his head, eyes turning downward, when he feels fingers slide against his palm. He looks down to where Luhan is still sprawled, naked and tangled with the white sheets, across Minseok's bed. "Why're you getting up so fast?" Luhan asks, pulling at Minseok's hand lightly, making to yank the teacher back into bed.

"To tell Zitao to come back in," Minseok answers, amused. "And I'm always up before you anyway."

Luhan stretches languidly, pulling himself closer so that his head nearly rests in Minseok's lap—the translator dangles one, thin arm off the bed, wrapping it around Minseok's waist. "It's not like we kicked him out," he grins. "He didn't have to leave."

"Definitely not," Minseok says playfully. "Jumping me right after you get through the doorway definitely doesn't mean he had to leave."

The translator laughs (airily and perfectly and lightly and melodically and—). "I mean, we didn't force him out," Luhan shrugs. "He's just a polite kid. Don't worry about him. I bet Kyungsoo's doing his rounds and brought him down to the desk or something."

Minseok stares. "So it doesn't bother you that your dongsaeng who can barely string together a sentence in Korean is sitting out there alone in an apartment hallway?"

Luhan rolls away on the mattress, laughing even harder this time. "Trust me," he says, reaching out again and threading their fingers together. "Zitao can take care of himself. And—plus—even if he's not the greatest at Korean yet, there's Wufan and Yixing down the hall, remember?"

"Oh," Minseok says, after a pause. "Right."

"Right," the translator smiles, and finally pulls himself up to a sitting position. He slides closer to Minseok. Their eyes meet and Minseok feels his ears burn against the sides of his head the way they always do whenever he looks at Luhan (whenever Luhan looks back at him, and looks back at him like that). Luhan goes up onto his knees, pressing up against Minseok, hand slipping over the teacher's hip—fingertips curling against the skin of Minseok's waist. "Don't worry so much, Baozi," Luhan hums against Minseok's lips.