fumerie (fumerie) wrote,

[exo] Gravitation Redux

originally written for loveismix. a remix of Gravitation by qt changdictator. greatest thanks from the bottom of my hearteu to a fluffy creamy friend, without whom (and all the inspiration, brain-storming, research help, and hand-holding) this fic could never have happened.

Gravitation Redux
exo // kris/chanyeol // pg-13 // 5,000 words
The crew joke about Park Chanyeol being the Leslie Cheung to acclaimed director Kris Wu's Wong Kar-wai, but they might need to rethink their analogy.

Gravitation Redux


“What we have this time in some way differs from all the films I’ve done. What we have is a story about these two people who make mistakes and try to fix them. It isn’t entertainment. It’s just a story.”

The TV screen burst into sounds and colours just at the start of Kris Wu’s little speech, catching the man’s quirk of the lips shift into a half-grimace. “Sometimes you just try to tell a story, and hope for someone in the audience to nod and say, yes, I get what you mean. You hope for a spark of recognition.”

On the screen, Park Chanyeol nodded profusely at the side, hanging on to every single word of the man sitting next to him on the cherry red couch, eyes wide and smile ready at every pause in Kris’ words.

“So Chanyeol, you’ve been working with director Kris Wu for a long time, haven’t you? Six, seven years?”

His phone rang, the vibration startling him.

“-but this is the first time you are the male lead in his work after your first movie together, Gravitation, is that right? Is there any difference now?”

He reached for the phone carelessly thrown under a cushion, tapping the little green tab. On the screen, one, two, three beats for the translations.

”Hey, Chenchen.”

“Hey,” he reached for the remote control, turning down the volume. On the screen, Chanyeol was smiling, addressing the host.

“Yes, we met seven years ago on the set of Gravitation. He was-“ A two-shot wherein Chanyeol’s hand hovered over Kris’ shoulder for a half second before shifting into a general grand gesture. “He was this intimidating cool guy, you know, the first time we met-“

”Hey, you know what,” there was a pause over the phone, the click-click-spark sounds of a lighter, and the faint sigh of an exhale. “Today I met this one person for what I decided was the very last time.”

On the screen, a close-up of Chanyeol’s brightly lit animated face. “It was an audition, but not really, and Jia – my partner in the movie – was there. The moment I stepped in, she asked if I got a light, and Kris was just sitting there staring at us, saying nothing, and I was freaked out because I didn’t know what to expect, my first time on a Chinese production. Are we allowed to smoke during audition? Why is that guy with the eyebrows drilling holes into my face?”

He remembered it – the way Chanyeol had fumbled with his pockets, throwing nervous glances at them while he lit Jia’s cigarette for her. The jittery click-spark hissing sounds of the lighter in big clumsy hands. The way Kris’ eyes had sharpened as the fire sparked.

“Tell me about it.”


It was an audition, but not really. It was an idol movie, a pre-packaged premise and plot written with a name already in place for the lead – some big-name Korean idol who had been trying to jump ship to the big screen. No audition necessary, the studio made sure of that, but Kris Wu liked his formalities.

“I owe Lu Han this one time, and never again,” Kris sighed next to him. How Lu Han had managed to ship Kris Wu from Hong Kong back to China for this project was a mystery, one Chen would rather not touch.

“It’s not that bad. We’ve got Meng Jia; she’s doing well for a newcomer. She’s got the attitude for the role. Not bad casting for a pre-packaged job, actually.”

“Park Chanyeol,” Kris rolled the name on his tongue, his Korean rusty after years.

“He did dramas. Starred in a couple of MVs.” Chen shrugged, smoothing over the glossy photo of a typical pretty face. “Knows his way around musical instruments. Guitar, drums, bass. Like I said, not bad.”

Jia arrived early in the afternoon, the charming girl with sharp eyes Chen had expected. Kris threw her his cigarette pack.

“You smoke?”

“No.” She tapped one out with practiced fingers, the gesture graceful and self-assured.

“Good enough,” Kris nodded. “When your future husband walks in, strike up a connection.” It wasn’t the first scene in the screenplay, but the very first time Canlie and his future wife met at a friend’s party. She nodded and smirked, shifting into her character of a rebellious young girl, leaning against the wall with her shoulder blades. They had her read the script while waiting.

Park Chanyeol burst into the room in a whirlwind of confused enthusiasm. The pretty face came with awkward gangly limbs, a pretend swagger covering up a body grown out too fast. When Jia tilted her head to look at him, it was more a challenge than a seduction.

When the fire sparked between Chanyeol’s fingers, Kris was staring.


“Kris hates me,” Chanyeol slurped his coffee milk, eyes droopy as he struggles not to fall asleep on the script.

“He doesn’t.”

“I’m an idol actor.”

“You went to acting school.” Chen wondered when his job had gone from assistant director to male lead’s babysitter. Chanyeol had taken to seeking him out when he’d discovered Chen was one of the rare Korean pokemons on set.

“He thinks I’m a crappy idol actor.”

“He worked with plenty of idol actors in Hong Kong. You’re no special snowflake, Park Chanyeol.”

Except Chanyeol sort of was. He had never seen Kris spend such a shocking amount of effort looking for something in someone, actor or otherwise. Microexpression, Chanyeol. What do you think love is, Chanyeol. Do you even know how to take off your make-up, Chanyeol.

“He said not to use my face to act. That I am too expressive – it looks too much like acting. He keeps saying this is not a Korean drama. I know I’ve only done a handful of drama roles, but—“

“But it’s just a stylistic difference, Chanyeol. He didn’t mean anything by it.” Chen cut in, rolling his eyes as he flipped through the script for tomorrow’s scenes. “In K-drama, you guys use a lot of straight-on close-ups of the character’s facial expression or reaction. You push for melodrama and over-the-top emotions. It isn’t like that here. And you’re not playing a Korean.”

There was only the sound of slurping for a long while.


“Chanyeol, look at me like you love me. I am here, you can almost touch me, and you need to, so you take a single step forward, but I am always a step too far, and I'm not seeing the same thing you do."

Kris was shouting this, and everyone on set was exchanging glances, the surreptitious dubious looks that said, ‘who is he kidding?’ The crew gossiped, of course they did. Chen wanted to run a betting pool but Yixing shut him down faster he could make a joke about Zitao eating peach. Yixing worried, he knew. Chen preferred walking around looking clueless as he bulldozed his way into the gossip source with his megaphone. Kris wasn’t the type who would talk if they asked.

They didn’t need to ask. Sometimes Kris and Chanyeol came to the set together in the morning, matching Ray Bans barely hiding dark circles and twitching grins on their faces. They made a striking pair on set next to each other. Chanyeol shadowed Kris outside of his scenes, a sort of whirlwind sweeping over Kris with his Primary mixtapes and obnoxious oversized hoodies.

He found them like that one afternoon, facing each other with connected earbuds linking the distance between them, Chanyeol holding a lighter out under the white stick between Kris’ lips. The fire sparked. A deep inhale.

He stepped away. Chen didn’t want to pry, but he could see the way Kris was trying to pull away and failing.


“Hit me up when you’re ever in Seoul,” Chanyeol grinned, making the call-me gesture at him at the end of their celebratory dinner after filming wrapped up. Kris might have been lingering at the side, waiting. For what, Chen wasn’t quite sure. He didn’t really want to know either.

In the cutting room, Kris looked at Chanyeol with an intensity that hurt, gaze trailing the contours of his face drawn and shaped by the lighting and the frame of the shot. As if he was trying to etch that image on the back of his eyelids. Pu Canlie, face soft and young and in love in the spark of fire he lit for his first-time lover. It was an over-the-shoulders shot, and Chen couldn’t help but saw Kris and Chanyeol in that cinematic soft light, hunched shoulders and furtive glances as they shared a fire that one afternoon.

Smoking scenes had a special code in the history of cinema, he thought. Ho Po-wing lighting up his cigarette with the burning tip of Lai Yiu-fai’s in the middle of their break-up in Happy Together. Chow Mo-wan and Wang Jing-wen on the rooftop of their apartment building in 2046. Carlos lighting up both his and George’s cigarettes against a backdrop of Hitchcock’s Psycho in A Single Man. A seduction. A connection. A private touch. A history of shared fire and smoke. The fire warmed up the colours of the frame, sometimes signifying a clear shift in palette.

Kris Wu was no cinematographer, that was a job he left for Zhang Yixing, but that afternoon Chen swore he saw the colour palette shift in Kris’ eyes. The hues deepened and the static frame came alive, the way Christopher Doyle and Eduardo Grau lit up the love stories for their respective directors.

Next to them, Yixing was asking, “What do you think about a more vibrant tone?”

Next to them, Kris was asking, “When was the last time you were in Seoul?”


Kris invited him to a clique, and it involved a trip to Seoul. Only because he knew a Suho guy who knew a Kyungsoo who knew a Baekhyun who knew a Sehun. Chanyeol was doing low-budget arthouse for a friend now, of course he was. Chen regretted his involvement the moment he saw the look on Kris’ face as Chanyeol turned and caught sight of them.

Except he didn’t expect the call, four hours after Kris and Chanyeol had ditched him as the unnecessary third wheel to their unfunny tall-people non-clique. But it was Kris who sounded strange, and Chen pulled on his jacket to walk out the door again. They found their way to a buzzing bar in Sinchon, a choice made by Kris who made fun of him for being a crappy Korean tour guide.

“I broke up with Seoul for Taipei when I was ten,” he sneered, stealing a sip of Kris’ drink only to promptly choke. Kris chuckled but his eyes spelled a disconnect. “Where’s Tower the Second?”

“He went home.” And that was it. He didn’t pry, ordering another round of drinks. Kris was the kind of person who talked only when others didn’t ask. It took him another three rounds.

“It was a bad idea.”

“It was?”

“He shouldn’t have- I shouldn’t have pushed for it. He can’t afford something like this in his career right now. Not even one in secret, because it’s just a whole lot of risk. Neither of us can afford it.”

“His agent told him this?” Chen ran his finger along the rim of his glass as Kris knocked back his drink. Yixing should have been here, not him. “Doesn’t sound like something Park Chanyeol would say.” He remembered the way Chanyeol’s eyes had widened and lit up when he’d first seen Kris that afternoon. He remembered the sudden hesitance in Chanyeol’s steps. Kris huffed out a dry laugh.

“You’re right. Park Chanyeol would not say that.”

“You told him this.” The realization dawned on him. It wasn’t a question. Kris was silent for another moment before relenting.

“Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. It’s the truth. He’s got more to lose than I do. He agreed.” He raised his glass and Chen obliged, glasses clinking together in the bustle of the Seoul night buzz. “He agreed. He laughed, and then walked out.” There was a sense of disconnect in the air, Chen thought. He hadn’t been surrounded by so much Korean for years.

“What did you really want to tell him before you chickened out?” One drink away from passing out on the table.

“That we should run off to Canada together, that we could- you know- live.“

What a dumbass, he thought, but the truth was he thought Kris had made the right choice as well.


Promotion and premiere for Gravitation swept over them like a sudden tidal wave. They were back in Korea for a brief run, and Chanyeol turned up in a black suit and slicked back hair, ready for the camera flashes and the bombardment of rapid-fire interview questions. Here, side by side with a gorgeous Jia in a rose champagne silk dress, Chanyeol was the confident smiling leader of his own domain. His smile faltered for a split second when his eyes caught sight of Kris across the room, but a blink of the flash and it was back. Chanyeol strode over to pull them into hugs, and Kris stiffened but did not pull away.

They sat Kris and Chanyeol next to each other for the premiere. Chen tried not to pry, but they did not touch, outside of that first greeting hug. He didn’t realize how strange it would feel to see Kris and Chanyeol not touching. A touch on the shoulders, a bump of the knees, the daily minute details they’d all taken for granted. Now they sat there, backs ramrod straight, faces shrouded in shadows. Leaning ever so slightly towards each other, but never touching. On the screen, a faint echo of Kris’ words.

Look at me like you love me.


Chanyeol was an easy friend. He breezed into your life, and before you could count the number of his teeth, he had already got your phone number and a history of your pets. Chanyeol made him laugh, Chanyeol was casual and obnoxious and hilariously genuine in his attempts to be a cool person. He liked Chanyeol, but he didn’t know if he liked Chanyeol enough to be that awkward bridge between him and Kris.

He said yes when Chanyeol called.

“Your last night in Seoul,” Chanyeol shouted, trying to drown out the music.

It was Chanyeol and a bunch of his celebrity friends in a club thumping away in dubious dubstep and bursting lightbeams. Chanyeol was his manic self, face twisting with loud obnoxious laughter over the music and the buzzing crowd. Chanyeol got him in a headlock when he arrived, they all laughed and it was strange, Chen thought, to see Chanyeol here being the poster child of Seoul nightlife, all slicked up and out of control, instead of the sleepy and disoriented overgrown child in China.

They drank and girls flocked to them and Chanyeol played with his lighter, the spark of fire sputtering on and off, the light searing his knuckles. Chanyeol was laughing, and his other hand was splayed over someone’s bare thigh, but his gaze was fixed across the room. A certain disconnect. He knew that look, the look of someone lost and alone in a room packed with human bodies.

“He asked me to be in his next film,” Chanyeol half slurred half shouted into his ear later into the night, the stench of alcohol wafting over his face. “I said yes.” He laughed again, and Chanyeol’s actor friend might have been glaring but Chen just wasn’t quite sure.

He punched Chanyeol’s shoulder for being a fucking dumbass anyway.


The next Kris Wu-Park Chanyeol collaboration gave Chanyeol a minor role of total two scenes in the whole movie. It was a crime-thriller about the arms trafficking trade of the international triads, titled Run & Gun. It enjoyed surprising box office success in Hong Kong, enough to warrant the immediate follow-up, Run & Gun 2, wherein Chanyeol reprised his role of a contract killer working for a triad boss.

If Run & Gun brought about commercial success, it was Let Out The Beast that truly shot both Kris Wu and Park Chanyeol to fame with critical acclaim on the festival circuit, bringing back several Hong Kong Film Awards and Golden Horses, including one Best Supporting Actor for Chanyeol at a film festival. A tribute to the subgenre ‘triad kids’ popular in Hong Kong in the nineties with the long-running success of the Young & Dangerous series, Let Out The Beast told the parallel and interweaving violent stories of twelve young men’s route to the top and their definition of happiness.

Chanyeol took on the role of an isolated Korean-Chinese kid trying to find his identity on the Kowloon streets after being uprooted from his home country at an early age, a performance some critics claimed to be semi-autobiographical of Kris Wu himself who spent his early years in several countries, and a theme reminiscent of Hong Kong New Wave filmmaker Ann Hui. Chanyeol’s acting career picked up after Let Out The Beast as he ceased to be viewed as merely an idol-actor and started taking up more serious roles back in Korea.

“I owe a lot to Kris,” Chanyeol said in an interview for Vogue Korea, “He mentored me, and was the one who saw something in me as an actor. He believed in me.”

It was just a difference in film stock, but there was still a distinct difference between Chanyeol of the slick and polished Korean productions and Chanyeol on the vibrant frame of Kris Wu’s vision. By their next project together, Black Pearl – a wuxia epic loosely based on Jin Yong’s novel A Deadly Secret, everyone had already caught on.

“You’re part of the crew now,” Tao told him as they all huddled together playing cards in the late hours, sans Kris, in Chanyeol’s trailer. “Kris does that, he picks up people along the way and keeps them.”

“Like Yixing as his DP, Tao on camera, me, Minseok.” Chen grinned. “That’s why we call him duizhang.”

“Now we’ve got you who’s like... the Gong Li to his Zhang Yimou.” Yixing said, and only smiled serenely when Chen turned to throw him a sharp look. He didn’t know how much the rest of the crew knew about Kris and Chanyeol’s history, but of course.

“Or the Tony Leung to his Wong Kar-wai.” Tao interjected, grinning behind his cards.

“No, no. More like Leslie Cheung—“

“Except Chanyeol can’t sing.” Chen cut in, and they laughed, but his heart thumped in his ribcage at the sudden connection. Chanyeol side-eyed them over his cards. None of it meant much of anything to him.


The girl was beautiful. Ex-model, rising K-drama actress, actually an old friend of Chanyeol. If anything, Kim Yejin’s sudden visit on the set of Black Pearl was a breath of fresh air for the whole crew who had been stuck on a mountain in the middle of nowhere for weeks. Chanyeol took her out for dinner at the local noodle shop in the small village. She brought the whole crew snacks from Korea and took all their teasing with good humour. It wasn’t until several days after she’d left that Chen started to notice the tension on the set.

It was just the little things at first – Kris snapping when Chanyeol didn’t stand at the correct position, demanding Yixing to revise a whole set of storyboards, re-shooting a scene over and over three hours past their usual cut-off point. He would have just chalked it up to the usual pressure and stress if there weren’t a strange indignation in Chanyeol’s attitude as he fought back.

And he did. It was subtle, but it was there in passing remarks. Most of the crew didn’t notice, but those who did walked on eggshells around them, waiting for the storm to pass. Chen had a feeling it wouldn’t, and he was right.

“You are acting,” Kris’ tone was ice cold, two in the morning after eight straight hours of filming.

“I’m doing what I’m supposed to do,” Chanyeol’s shoulders were tense under the tattered heavy fabric of his costume.

“Your face moves, but I don’t see any real emotion in you. It’s been how many years? You are acting, and everyone can tell. Scrap that superficial layer off the surface, what do you think is left?”

“Have you ever thought about taking up your own advice?” Chanyeol’s voice rang out, rough and tired. A tense hush fell over the set. Chanyeol was staring straight into Kris’ eyes, and when their gaze broke, no one said anything as Chanyeol quietly walked off, the compressed anger bleeding out in his steps.


“Okay, tell me what your deal is.” He found Kris in the early hours nursing the local paint thinner version of rice liquor.

“I keep thinking it’d get better, but it doesn’t.” Kris ran a hand down his face. He was quiet for a long beat. “I’ve never told anyone this.”

“What, did you sleep with him?” The sudden silence made his stomach drop. Chen cursed under his breath. He had just been joking. “You slept with him? When?”

“That time we went to Seoul after Gravitation. Just that one time.”

It’d be a lie to say he hadn’t suspected. Kris might be lying, he might not. It didn’t matter. “What did you tell him after?”

“That I made a mistake. And I’d never repeat it for his sake.” Kris Wu was a grade A dumbass. Chen threw himself back against his chair.

“You fucked up.”

“I did.” Kris pressed fingers against his temple.

“And yet you keep pulling him back.” Like some kind of fucked up gravitational force.

“Tell me what to do.”

“I can’t. You’re a grown-ass man. The truth is no matter what I tell you, you won’t do it. The only thing you’re willing to do is your own decision. I’ve seen enough to know.”

When they returned to the set the next day, everyone had perfected the art of acting like nothing had ever happened.


Kris got a new script, just three weeks after the wrap-up of Black Pearl. Kris and Lu Han did. They wrote it together over the winter.

“It’s a gay love story,” Chen repeated over his copy of the screenplay during their lunch meeting at a local café. “I thought you didn’t do romance anymore.”

“It was about time. It’s a story I’ve been waiting to put out there.” Lu Han nodded with enthusiasm between mouthfuls of noodles. “Stanley Kwan did Lan Yu. Wong Kar-wai did Happy Together. With Kris’ portfolio of work, we could get good financial backing.”

“It’s just a story about two men who make mistakes and try to make amends, to become better people.” Kris spoke over his beer, fingers running down the spine of the screenplay. He looked haggard.

Two Moons, it said. A story about Er Yuan, a Chinese singer who time travelled to the past and got to repeat a whole year with a Korean man he loved during the height of their career together in Seoul. They were in love, but the relationship was never acknowledged or consummated, both afraid of their feelings and the consequences on their careers. Torn between his belief in one reality and budding hope for a second chance, Er Yuan traced the steps of his old mistakes despite falling in love all over again.

“Heavy on character development and mood-setting,” Chen nodded, flipping through the pages. “Definitely a change of pace from your action-packed portfolio, a bit like Gravitation back then. Got anyone in mind for the leads?”

The silence in the air made him look up. He could read the answer in Kris’ eyes before his mouth twisted up to say the answer.

“I was thinking Park Chanyeol for the Korean male lead.”

Chen kept his gaze, and he was sure Kris could clearly read his silent accusation.

“I’ve seen his recent works, he’s vastly improved from his early days in... what was it, Gravitation?” Lu Han wiped his mouth with a napkin after the last slurp of his noodle soup. “You know what, even back then,” Lu Han turned to Kris with a slight smile, “I thought you two had something pretty special together.”

“Did you?” Kris chuckled, shaking his head.

“I just want to ask, did you ever get over him?” Chen drummed his fingers against the china teacup. Lu Han had long left for a budget meeting.

“I don’t feel anything like that for him anymore. Neither does he. It’s been seven years. That chapter has long been closed.” The unimpressed look he was still directing at Kris made him sigh. “I think of this as closure. We both need it, Chanyeol and I.”

“Did he say yes?”

“He always does.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Two Moons began production mid-autumn in South Korea, China, and Hong Kong.


“Hey, little Chenchen. Kim Jongdae. Hey.”

He fumbled with the clock on his bedside table, cursing into his pillow when the light of his phone hit the screen. “It’s five in the fucking morning, Park Chanyeol. I will shove little Chenchen’s fist into your mouth the next time we meet, which, might I remind you, is in three fucking hours.”

There was loud laughter over the phone, abruptly cut short by a loud sneeze. “Fuck, sorry. Sorry.” Chanyeol was laughing again, and what the actual fuck, he sounded drunk, three hours before they were due on set. “I was just- I’ve just finished watching a bunch of movies, and you know how Kris is about anyone disturbing his beauty sleep.”

“And you thought I wouldn’t-“

“Kris kept talking about him, you know, so I thought it would be good research for the film, right? So I watched a bunch of them, and they’re pretty, but also pretty fucking sad. I just don’t understand, Chen. I just don’t get why some people are really, really sad because they’re fucking in love with somebody.” Another loud sniff.

“Chanyeol,” Chen mumbled into his pillow, tasting exhaustion in the back of his tongue. “Did you seriously wake me up at five in the morning to rant about your Kris-induced Wong Kar-wai marathon?”

“I don’t get why anyone could like that kind of stuff, Chen. No one ever gets anything they want. People fall in love, and it’s always with the wrong person at the wrong time. Why would anyone want to watch a movie about two people falling out of love?”

“You tell me, Chanyeol. You just did.”

“But then, you know what, when the frame shifted from black and white to vivid colours in that cab... when the whole world just brightened up. You know how it happens. Sometimes- sometimes that’s exactly what I felt when I looked at Kris. You get what I mean? It’s fucked up, but that’s what I felt. I remember that. They say love is a matter of timing, you know that? But I’m just really fucking tired.”

The truth was Kris had always been the one who was horrible at letting go.


On the screen, a montage of Chanyeol laughing and pressing kisses against bare skin. The back of neck, shoulder blades, elbows, fingertips. Close-ups of lips and the curve of his cheeks and his reddened ears peeking out under dark hair. The camera lens tracking memories. A voice-over in soft, wistful timbre.

“Sometimes love is something that goes on for years, even after it crashes and burns. There's always that element of bitter resentment running underneath the surface, of could-haves and would-haves. I just want you to be happy, like somehow it will make up for my abundance of mistakes in our history. It won't, and you’re not really happy, but I don't know what else to do.”

On the screen, a long shot of a man’s figure standing alone in a bustling airport, backlit against the vast glass window overlooking the planes taking off.

“There's a lot of things I can't tell you, and the first of many is still ‘I love you.’”


The film made its gala premiere at the Hong Kong International Film Festival. The full crew and cast made their appearance, crowding up the red carpet at The Grand Cinema. They floated through the usual flurry of camera flashes and media-tagged microphones. Chanyeol clung to his sister’s arm the moment he spotted her inside and dragged her around, making the round of introduction.

Chen caught sight of Kris at the bar just moments before they had to go in for the showing, the man looking strangely calm and content, champagne glass in hand. They cheered once for the new movie.

“I asked Chanyeol if he would ever consider this film to be his coming out. I told him I would. He said no.”

“Was it the closure you needed?”

Kris didn’t answer, raising his champagne glass in salute as he made his way inside the screening room and sat down next to an empty seat. Kris and Chanyeol went out for dinner the day after the promotion run for Two Moons wrapped up, Chen knew they did, but he didn’t pry.

On the screen, Er Yuan ran his thumb over his lighter. Click-spark. The sputter of a fire. His mouth moved to the words.

”I told him ‘you deserve your happiness,’ but what I really meant was, ‘I hope you are just as lonely as I am.’”

Sometimes, the worst things in life were stories with no endings. Relationships with no goodbyes.


Two Moons marked the last of Kris Wu’s and Park Chanyeol’s professional and personal relationship.

In the end credits of the film shown at international festivals, there was a line at the very end that read, “Mom, I’m sorry. Wish I could have told you earlier.” The line was taken out in the theatrical and subsequent DVD releases.


- Kris' and Chanyeol's professional relationship was loosely inspired by that of Wong Kar-wai and Takeshi Kaneshiro.
- Zhang Yimou's and Gong Li's professional/romantic relationship was highly publicized over a long period in the early years of their careers. It ended after 7 years. They only worked together again over a decade later.
- Leslie Cheung was a hugely successful and influential musician/actor in the Hong Kong entertainment industry. He denied his sexual orientation in the first half of his career and only started to open up after moving to Canada. Leslie Cheung committed suicide in April 2003, aged 46.
- Eduardo Grau's cinematography work in A Single Man carries startling similarity to certain themes and motifs in Wong Kar-wai's Happy Together, despite his denial of the intention in an interview.

Tags: fandom: exo, pairing: kris/chanyeol
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