three questions he asked (and one he didn't) | idol producer oneshot

three questions he asked (and one he didn't)

it was a relatively shitty day. zhangjing knew his vocal cords well, understood how they worked and reacted to various situations, so he groaned in a knowing frustration after waking up and feeling an all-too-familiar tickle dancing along the back of his throat.

eyes still shut, he waved his arm around until his palm made contact with his bedside table, wiggling his fingers around until they found and wrapped around his phone. he blinked away the blurriness clouding his vision wearily and clicked on the messages app, selecting the contact named "tan man" sitting second on his recents list.

not feeling good. vocal cords are dying brb

the reply was almost instant. knowing him, chaoze was probably already in the process of texting zhangjing to curse him out for being late to practice.

ur lucky u dnt pull the sick thing alot fell better soon

zhangjing rolled his eyes - chaoze's awful grammar and spelling ailed his eyes more than waking up did, and that said a lot - and made a mental note to chastise him when his voice felt better. the numbers at the top of the screen spelled out 9:52 a.m. and zhangjing marveled at chaoze's self-control, usually nonexistent, considering he hadn't bombarded him with 128 text messages and 44 missed calls when zhangjing wasn't present for their competitive vocal group's practice, which always started promptly at 9:00 every wednesday and saturday morning.

it was currently saturday. zhangjing considered getting up momentarily to draw the curtains and shield his room from the unwanted waves of sunlight drifting in. it would be easy. he would just have to push aside his blanket, swing his legs over, walk to the window, and pull the curtains together, and then repeat the first three actions in reverse order. zhangjing turned over and snuggled deeper into his pillow instead.

two and a half hours passed before zhangjing opened his eyes again, carefully and reluctantly. once again, his arm flailed blindly around, fingers probing, before he clasped his vibrating phone, usually the source of his entertainment but, at that moment, the bane of his existence.

he turned over in his bed and silently cursed the sunlight, even brighter than before as the day brinked on afternoon, but used it to adjust his tired eyes. the vibrating stopped as he pressed the answer button and lightly grunted in question.

"hey, 'jing." the greeting was soft, almost unsure. it was followed by three knocks, just as soft (if not softer), against zhangjing's door.

zhangjing murmured in invitation, foregoing words more so with the intention of prolonging the realization of how fucked up his voice sounded than preserving his throat. the door opened and yanjun entered, looking all too unnecessarily beautiful clad in a black hoodie and ripped jeans for what a lazy saturday afternoon and zhangjing's sensitive eyes called for, cradling a plate accessorized with a bottle of pills and a glass of water.

he raised an eyebrow at the younger boy, who merely grinned. zhangjing contemplated how, in theory, a simple pair of lips and teeth shouldn't be able to outshine the sun floating beyond the window behind him.

"chaoze told me you were sick. would like you some medicine?"

zhangjing hummed gratefully and slowly sat up, resisting a smile in case yanjun, always so intimidatingly perfect, realized he hadn't brushed his teeth yet.

---

zhangjing was eternally grateful for his body's ability to heal quickly, or else he wouldn't have been blessed with the smoke of cooked meat surrounding him, sitting at a table in a dimly lit hadilao teeming with people. well, that, and the fact that his voice had recovered in time to adequately practice and later perform with the rest of his team less than two weeks later.