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chineseinkThis is the full, extended version of the short, incomplete ficbit posted here. I tried to be vaguely realistic by incorporating a lot of little details from real shows and translations of actual info, but my timeline is all over the place. I can safely say the fic takes place in December 2007, but if you look too closely and can identify all my references, you'll see that it's probably a chronological mess. I think I had some issues with live performances vs. the airing of pre-recorded game shows vs. the actual filming of said game shows, typically two weeks or more before the episode actually airs. Hopefully, it won't detract too much from the fic. :)
Suspicions of Surety (1/2)
Super Junior, KangTeuk, PG-13, 10200 words
In which Leeteuk starts to suspect, Sungmin is observant, and there is drinking.
Suspicions of Surety
by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
meitachi
The first time Leeteuk suspected, Kangin was laughing at him. They were on a show with five of the other members and the host had been trading snipes with Kangin for the past few minutes. She had just called Leeteuk the band umma, commenting on how hard it must be with such a delinquent husband. Leeteuk watched Kangin's eyes slit in amusement, his laugh loud and unapologetic, heartfelt; a hand reached out and grabbed Leeteuk's lightly, patting. Leeteuk tilted his head back and laughed too.
The second time Leeteuk suspected, Kangin had his hand in Leeteuk's hair, sliding his fingers through it, brushing past Leeteuk's ear as he adjusted the mic. He patted Leeteuk's cheek when he was done, grinning, and sent him back to the other side of the stage. The rough-soft feel of fingertips on his skin lingered as Leeteuk glanced over his shoulder, eyes searching.
The third time Leeteuk suspected, Kangin was scant centimeters from his body, their arms around each other as they swayed to the pulsing beat of the music. Kangin had an arm looped casually around Leeteuk's neck, holding him close as he moved their hips in rhythm, heads bent toward each other. Leeteuk dared a glance in Kangin's direction and felt his breath catch in his throat at the scorching look in Kangin's eyes, dark. He laughed, then, and bounced back, pulling away from Kangin's grip to smile at the camera, wave at the fans.
Leeteuk wasn't stupid. He had never been blindsided by love. He wouldn't say he'd known all along, but he'd known for awhile now--known that the imprint of Kangin's touches always lasted longer than they should have, recognized the warm flush in the pit of his stomach when Kangin pulled him close for a hug. Leeteuk knew what it meant that it was always Kangin's stupid jokes that made him laugh, even at the end of a long, exhausting day when he was frustrated at everything, but especially himself. He knew what it meant when a light squeeze on the shoulder would get him to relax when a slew of reassurances from anyone else wouldn't. He knew what it meant when his eyes began to wander, then linger, on the dip of Kangin's collarbone, the glisten of sweat on his throat, the smooth expanse of back.
He knew what it meant, but he didn't know what to do about it.
--
Kangin liked to touch people—except that wasn’t quite true. Kangin liked to touch Leeteuk. He liked to pat his arm or press their knees together when they were seated beside each other. He liked to stand beside Leeteuk and put a hand on his shoulder or in the small of his back when their leader was talking, representing Super Junior. He liked to link their fingers together, on stage, when it was sure to elicit deafening screams, and off-stage, when no one looked or thought twice about it.
Sometimes it made Leeteuk uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he didn’t return the unsaid affection, because he did—but sometimes he wondered if the feelings were too natural for words because they had always been close, or because fanservice had made them that way. Leeteuk was familiar with fanservice, comfortable with it, because he had been in the business long enough to know how things worked. But it was pervasive: there were times he wasn’t entirely sure how to make the distinction between act and reality anymore, not with Kangin, not with his own stage persona.
Leeteuk, super leader and band mother, was charismatic and funny and cute and sexy. He told stories on television shows that made people laugh, was cheerful and upbeat on the radio, and spoke confidently when he gave Super Junior’s thanks to the fans and to all the people who worked with them. He danced like he had no shame and grabbed Kangin’s hand during performances of Marry U because the screams were gratifying, exhilarating, and almost funny at times. But Leeteuk, Jungsu, who spent weeks feeling wretched about the cyworld scandal, who struggled to hide from the younger members the drain his role as leader wore on him, who ate little and slept less during the worst weeks—this Leeteuk didn’t know what to make of Kangin’s easy physical affection. It was different when it was the for the cameras, because Leeteuk knew it was an act, but when the gentle touches and the arm slung around his shoulder persisted even when it was just them, just thirteen or six or two, Leeteuk struggled to identify his feelings.
It made him uncomfortable, he realized at length, because it reminded him too keenly how easy it was to rely on Kangin. How nice it was to rest his head on Kangin’s shoulder, letting down his guard in rare moments of vulnerability. How much he wanted it.
Leeteuk was afraid to want things.
Kangin mumbled a sleepy, toothpaste-filled “morning” around his toothbrush; narrated to the camera following him around, making lame jokes about Eunhyuk just because he could; he adjusted his belt and then his microphone as Super Junior waited backstage, fidgeting but silent; laughed with Shindong as they changed, sweaty and grinning and tired; shivered a little in the cold night air, smoking a cigarette and sending texts on his phone.
Make sure Hyuk doesn’t set anything on fire. Drink with me when you get back. ^_^
Leeteuk was afraid to want things this important, especially when they made his stomach dip and his heart clench.
No drinking tonight, you have an early schedule. Go to sleep!
You spoil all my fun.
Sleep! I’ll see you in the morning.
Only for you, Teukie. <3<3
And Leeteuk knew Kangin was laughing, playing around, blowing smoke into the night, but it made him smile, reflexively. He shook his head and tucked his phone back into his pocket, looking up to see Eunhyuk glance at him—his eyes held no curiosity at all, because this was Kangin and Leeteuk, and Eunhyuk was more concerned about the upcoming end of the song. Leeteuk put his earphones back in and smoothed down his hair, ready to go, but his gaze slid past the camera, vacant, his thoughts still back at the dorms. Or just a little outside of it, in the dark, with a view of a wintry, starless sky.
--
“Hyung,” said Ryeowook, peering worriedly at Leeteuk. “Are you okay?”
Leeteuk slumped against the couch but managed a smile. “I’m fine,” he said, waving aside the other boy’s concern. “Just tired, you know.” Exhaustion was the most frequently used excuse, always accepted, and Leeteuk fell back on it now as he tugged the giant parka enveloping him closer.
“If there’s anything you need,” Ryeowook said, a little hesitantly. “Water? You’re still a little sick.”
Leeteuk’s smile turned wan. After a month of sickness, of coughing when he should have been lipsyncing, of shivering even in four layers of clothing and wrapped in a scarf, of barely having the energy to perform long-choreographed, well-rehearsed dances—the last thing he could afford was another month of the same. He would will himself better, if it came down to it. “A little water, maybe,” he said, fidgeting with his sleeve. Ryeowook nodded and hurried off to get it, ducking out of the small dressing room.
“Hyung,” said Kibum, leaning back in his chair a few feet away. He looked sleepy, eyes heavy under his stage makeup, his hair spiked away from his face. He gave Leeteuk a half-smile. “Don’t be so stressed.”
Not for the first time, Leeteuk was glad that the cameras backstage were restricted to the larger dressing area, freeing this small room for privacy. “Hey, I can take care of myself,” he said, scrunching up his nose and making a face at Kibum. He didn’t need his babies to worry about him. “You take care of yourself, Kibum-sshi.” He cocked his eyebrows at the other boy, indicating Kibum’s current state of near unconsciousness.
“Yeah, yeah,” Kibum murmured in return, shifting his weight in his chair. He looked at clock mounted on the wall and stifled a yawn.
Leeteuk let his gaze drift to the corner, where Shindong and Sungmin were having some kind of discussion about their—driving, if their gestures were anything to go by. Either that or windsurfing, Leeteuk couldn’t quite tell. Hankyung wandered out of the room, looking at his cell phone, and Donghae’s laughter could be heard distinctly from the other room, above the dull roar of stylists at work. Heechul’s voice rose above the noise as well, affected and cocky, I can’t help that Kangin’s jealous of my natural beauty.
“Yesung,” Leeteuk said sharply in his no-nonsense leader tone, “Sit down.”
Yesung looked up at his voice, his hand against the wall where he’d steadied himself. “Aish, Teuk,” he said, his mouth quirking into a smile. “Band umma is getting really bossy lately.”
“Mommies do what mommies must,” Leeteuk told him, sticking his tongue out. He snuggled further into the parka, pulling his feet up onto his chair and wrapping his arms around his legs. “Do as you’re told like a good boy, Yesungie.” He grinned as the other boy sat down, making sure to hide the worry from his expression. It hadn’t been so long since Yesung had been at the hospital for his cold; there was no way he was fully recovered just yet. It was another gnawing anxiety piling atop Leeteuk’s growing worries.
He tipped his head back, closing his eyes, and worked a crick out of his neck. He could do this. The good of the group before personal worries, he reminded himself firmly.
“Hyung,” a voice said in his ear.
Leeteuk’s eyes flew open and he stared at Kangin with something akin to terror in his eyes. Terror because that voice, low in his ear, was a little too reminiscent of his dreams, fantasies—a blend of reality and wishful thinking that had hot breaths panting near his ear, his skin prickling with awareness, as he waited for, wanted more.
His heart leaped into his throat as Kangin gave him a puzzled, concerned look. “Here’s your water. Ryeowook got waylaid by a stylist,” he said, offering a bottle. He put a hand on Leeteuk’s shoulder and sat down beside him, brows knit. “You okay?”
No, Leeteuk thought wildly. “I’m fine,” he stammered instead, grabbing the water bottle a little desperately. He shook his head and managed a smile. “Just…tired.”
“Are you not sleeping well again?” Kangin asked, all solicitude.
“Ahaha, what do you mean? I’m sleeping just fine. Just. You know. Busy. Recovering from the cold.” Leeteuk waved his hands around expansively, indicating everything that could possibly explain his distraction, trying to swallow rising, inexplicable panic. He smiled brightly. “I’m totally okay. But speaking of colds—are you taking care of yourself?” He patted Kangin’s thigh and said, “Don’t worry about me, Kangin-ah. Look after yourself first.”
He avoided Kangin’s eyes, looking away in time for his gaze to collide with Sungmin’s watchful one. Leeteuk swallowed and buried his face in his parka, wishing again that he could just smother himself in warmth and not have to deal with the world.
--
It didn’t start with the dreams, but they were a sure indicator. Leeteuk was fairly sure that you didn’t have erotic dreams about someone unless you were at least slightly interested. He woke up from the first one too warm, tangled up in his sheets and blankets, his heart pounding. Shit, he thought, lying on his back and trying to quiet his breathing, calm his blood. Shit, he thought, bringing the heels of his palms to his eyes and pressing hard, hoping to erase the images of slick kisses and damp skin, the feeling of his nerves on fire, the irrepressible knowledge of angles and muscles too defined to be anything but male.
It wasn’t until the third or fourth dream that Leeteuk finally matched a face to the heady desire, the burn of want that left his body tense, poised, and aching when he woke up, shamed. Fuck, he thought then, turning his face into the pillow and wishing he could smother away all his problems. If he could just stay here forever in his bed and not have to face the world… He hated himself, then, for always failing, for always making more problems than he could deal with, for being so stupid to risk everyone else with this crazy desire.
It was hard being leader, sometimes. But Leeteuk would never trade this responsibility with someone else, would never ask it of them. He took pride in his group; he would not fail them.
He fought the urge to slide his hand between his legs and stroke his erection until he came, jerking against the bed. He had suspected for some time now—love didn’t spring surprise attacks on him, not anymore, not since junior high. A short laugh escaped him, muffled by his pillow. How long ago that was. How could he have suspected then that he’d end up where he was now, in something close to love with one of his own dongsaeng?
Leeteuk saw Kangin in his mind, as he was in his dreams, mouth hovering close to his neck, eyes lidded, fingers tracing idle patterns on Leeteuk’s skin. He flushed and rolled over again, forcing his eyes open and staring at the dark ceiling above him.
He had suspected love for some time now, but it was something different altogether to want like this. It was obscene and filthy and Leeteuk didn’t know how to stop.
--
Fanservice was different now that Leeteuk knew, now that he dreamed. He pulled away from the easy touches now, from the hugs that Kangin was determined to give him, because if he let himself linger, he would find it hard to let go. Leeteuk touched Kangin’s arm lightly as he sang Hankyung’s lines during a performance, hiding behind his smile as Kangin laughed and shoved playfully at him. To Kangin, it was all a game, a performance on top of another performance. It hurt a little, but what hurt more were his ridiculous, inconceivable dreams and the impossibility of his desires. Just his luck to want things he couldn’t have.
So he went out drinking. It was just him and Heechul and it was a little odd to be on their own, no Hankyung at Heechul’s side or Kangin at Leeteuk’s. There were no other members from their company, just the two of them at a small table in an obscure bar.
“I don’t know what to do about it,” Leeteuk admitted to Heechul, glancing up from his drink.
Heechul looked at him with an expression that reminded Leeteuk that only nine days separated them; Heechul accorded him little respect. But he seemed to like Leeteuk, at least, and that was enough for his deferral to Leeteuk as leader, if nothing else. They were friends. “Teuk,” he said now, “you know what a disaster my last relationship was. Why would you come to me of all people for advice?”
But for all his cutting words, he would give advice. Leeteuk knew this, so he only shrugged and looked back down at his drink, dark amber in the dim light. “I’m desperate,” he joked, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
Heechul shook his head at him. “You’re an idiot,” he said bluntly. Leeteuk had mentioned no names, keeping his explanation as vague as possible, but Heechul was much more perceptive than people gave him credit for. “You’re going to end up regretting this. I’m not,” he added sharply, when he saw Leeteuk opening his mouth, “judging you for who it is. Except that you’re incredibly stupid because you couldn’t have chosen anyone worse.”
Leeteuk pursed his lips and stayed silent. Of course Heechul was right. His dongsaeng, his own band member, and on top of all that—a guy. He might as well say goodbye to his career right now.
“You must be more masochistic than I gave you credit for,” Heechul said with a twist of his mouth, his trademark smirk appearing.
Leeteuk managed a little chuckle. “Clearly.” He tried to joke, the words bitter on his tongue—or maybe that was the alcohol. “No, it could be worse. I could’ve picked someone underage. Big Bang’s Seungri, maybe.”
Heechul laughed at that, a short, abrupt sound. “You’re so fucked,” he said, shaking his head. His smile faded as he took a swig of his soju. “What do you want to do?”
The noise of the bar hummed around them, with people talking in low voices, glass clinking between words. Leeteuk listened to it for a moment, wondering if he could find his answer among these strangers, immersed in their own lives, their own private dramas. He looked at Heechul, sharp angles softened by the feathered layers of his hair and the loose cut of his coral-pink shirt, and wondered if he’d find answers here, either. He put his hand to his forehead and pushed away bangs, shoulders slumping.
“I have no idea.”
“The dreams aren’t going to go away, you know,” Heechul said, clinking the bottle of soju against Leeteuk’s glass as he poured. “The fanservice isn’t going to stop.”
“We shouldn’t drink when we’re sick,” Leeteuk said, almost to himself, his eyes flicking to the mostly half-empty bottle Heechul put down on the table.
“Shut up, I can hold my liquor and you need it.” Heechul nudged Leeteuk’s glass closer to him, pointedly, and then said, “You know what the best thing to do is? The best thing to do is to tell him. Then he can reject you, you can cry, and we’ll all move the fuck on.” His eyes were not unsympathetic when he looked at Leeteuk, despite his caustic tone and words. “There will be drama and angst and everything is going to be supremely awkward for awhile, but you won’t lose your band, your career, your life.”
“I know, but—”
“Love sucks,” Heechul told him flatly, eyes bright in the darkness of the bar. “You worked for this for seven years, Leeteuk.” He reached over with a long, bony finger and poked Leeteuk in the forehead, right between the eyes. “Leader-sshi.”
I know, Leeteuk wanted to say, but what if it isn’t that easy?
I know, he wanted to say, but what if I don’t want to let him go?
He took a long drink of his soju instead.
You don’t have him, he reminded himself.
--
Leeteuk had been in love once before. It hadn’t been like this. There’d been a girl, confident in her long black hair, in her white smile, in the way she moved and talked and laughed. She’d liked to drink and go out to have a good time, liked being a girl, from the big hoop earrings to the stiletto heels and the long, manicured nails. Leeteuk had loved the smell of her perfume, flowery and flirty, but not enough to be overpowering. He’d loved seeing her and holding her and knowing she was on his arm when they went out, when the other guys looked at her. He’d loved the way she was comfortable around everyone, friends and strangers alike.
But her love of having a good time translated into parties without him with people he didn’t know. Her way with people translated into another guy, faceless, in the shadows, behind his back. Her confidence in herself translated into the jut of her chin when she told him she wasn’t sorry.
He’d begged because he hadn’t learned not to. He’d shouted and cursed and cried because he hadn’t known better.
In the end, she’d walked away from him anyway.
He hadn’t been able to hide the gaping wound she’d left, no matter how much concealer he’d dabbed under his eyes to hide the circles of sleepless nights or how much laughter he’d forced from himself, ringing false. People had noticed. He had been miserable for weeks.
But Leeteuk had moved on eventually, because that was what people did. Her imprint began to fade, the pain began to dull. And he’d learned.
He’d learned not to beg, not to cry, because it didn’t bring them back or keep them there. He dated casually after that and explained away his distance with his increasingly rigorous training. He was part of a group now, a leader, and their debut was approaching fast. He had to work too hard to be able to maintain a romance at the same time.
They believed his lie and, eventually, Leeteuk did too.
He was too busy for a proper romance. It wasn’t that he was afraid of love: he just had no time for it. But of course he wanted to meet the perfect girl one day. Of course. He smiled, hid a laugh behind his hand, when asked to describe his dream girl. “Someone cute, about 163 cm, who is wise and understanding and will listen to what I say. She’ll be innocent and lively and her eyes will turn into crescents when she smiles,” he said, dimpling, breaking out the charm, “Someone who will like only me!”
While everyone laughed at him and made fun of him for being so specific, Leeteuk pretended that he wasn’t afraid of love. Wasn’t afraid of pain. Wasn’t afraid to lose even more than he had to risk back then.
If Leeteuk wasn’t looking Kangin in the eye anymore, it wasn’t because he was afraid of love; he was just tired, that was all. Tired and stressed and still struggling with the remnants of his cold, which also explained the heavy feeling knotted in his chest. Congestion.
--
The holidays were the worst time of the year. Despite all the glitter and pomp, the red and silver and green and gold decorations strewn across everything he could see, Leeteuk sometimes found it hard to get into the holiday spirit. He could fake it with the best of them, but it was hard to feel truly seasonal when he was run ragged all the time. The holidays were the worst: daily performances, Sukira every night, volunteer work, fan events, and the endless filming for a variety of shows.
It was no wonder everyone got sick this time of year—when they could least afford it.
“Drink this,” Leeteuk said, bending over Sungmin and handing him a cup of hot tea. He sat down on the floor of the studio next to him, pulling up his knees and tugging at his giant sweater.
“Thanks.” Sungmin smiled and wrapped both hands around the styrofoam cup. He wasn’t sick yet but Leeteuk had seen him rubbing at his throat that morning and couldn’t afford to take any chances. He’d slipped cough drops into Heechul’s bag earlier that day when he’d left the group for filming. He’d nudged water cups at Eunhyuk throughout the day as they’d wandered in and out of the different studios in the building. He’d made sure Ryeowook had eaten his lunch properly, had held Donghae’s hand and rubbed his back as the other boy had tried to work the exhaustion out of his muscles, had called Kyuhyun to make sure he was all right: it was all part of his job.
It was late afternoon now and they were running through a quick rehearsal of their new dance steps for First Snow. They had learned the majority of the choreography throughout the past week, squeezing in dance practice into a long day of work, but their first live performance would be tonight and they needed to make sure they were perfect.
Their choreographer had given them a ten minute break, which most of them had taken advantage of to sprawl on the ground or splash some water on their face. Shindong was making a quick phone call out in the hall and Leeteuk had passed Yesung and Kibum cornered by a Manwon Happiness camera as he’d helped himself to a cup of tea and had gotten a second cup for Sungmin.
It was hard to take care of everyone, but Leeteuk did his best. He usually fared okay, serving up his concern with a dimple and a joke, if need be. But during the holidays, sometimes it was too much to keep up the stage persona, the charisma and perpetual smile.
“You look tired, hyung,” Sungmin said to him, voice concerned. “You okay?”
Leeteuk smiled a little, out of habit, but let it fall as he leaned back against the wall. “I’m okay,” he said, brushing the hair from his glasses with one hand, the other holding a half-empty cup of tea. “Everyone’s tired, you know.”
“Yeah.” Sungmin was silent for a little bit, sipping at his tea, watching Siwon bat at Hankyung’s baseball cap, relaxing as he teased. “A noona called me earlier,” he said suddenly, and Leeteuk lifted his head to squint at him in mild puzzlement.
“Yeah?”
Sungmin turned his head, a small, wry smile on his lips. “We were sort of seeing each other. I mean, when we had time, but we would text and call each other, you know? I guess it was kind of like a long-distance relationship.” He chuckled to himself. “She wanted to end things. Said she still wanted to be friends, but that it wasn’t going to work out with both of us so busy all the time.”
Leeteuk didn’t know what to say. Sometimes it was hard being looked up to, being turned to, because just because he was oldest didn’t mean he had all the answers. “I’m sorry, Min. Things are always really busy during the holidays, though, it’s true. Do you think she would have waited? It would have died down in a month or so, after the holidays.”
“No,” said Sungmin. He looked at Leeteuk as if he were trying to find an answer Leeteuk didn’t know he had, to a question he hadn’t heard. “Hyung, do you think being celebrities makes it impossible to have a relationship? One that will truly make us happy?”
As if he hadn’t wondered that himself on countless occasions. But he had a ready answer, one he’d give himself all those times he’d doubted. “I’m sure we can still find love. Look at all the celebrities who are happily married, after all. We just haven’t met the right person, I guess. You shouldn’t lose hope.”
But Sungmin kept looking at him. Then he said, quietly, “It’s okay to love Kangin-sshi, hyung.”
Leeteuk knocked over his tea.
--
Everyone had heard about Leeteuk’s past dating mishaps by now. “A hyung told me that I should let my girlfriends be free—so I let them be free and they all ran away!” He told the story like that with a dimpled laugh because then it was funny, good to share on talk shows or radio programs. He didn’t tell about how hard it was to smile when he had found out his third girlfriend was cheating on him but still had to keep up the morale for the other twelve members (always the good of the group first, he repeated). He didn’t tell about the sharp pain of inadequacy each rejection elicited. He didn’t tell about the girl, second or fourth, he wasn’t sure anymore in the blur of years, who told him with quiet bitterness, “You pushed me away. It was obvious you didn’t need me.”
Leeteuk didn’t tell that story. He didn’t think about what it might mean, either.
--
Sungmin had promised not to tell, but Leeteuk couldn’t help being jumpy. He knew his stress levels were shooting through the roof—this to worry about, on top of everything else—and his cold was fighting back. He almost cried this morning in frustration because it had hurt to wake up from an unsatisfying four-hour sleep. His body had protested every movement, aching, sore; it was doing its best to fight the virus and keep up with the high demands of Leeteuk’s daily schedule, but it was a losing battle. It was only through sheer strength of will that Leeteuk had managed to climb out of bed and shakily make his way to the dorm bathroom to splash water on his face.
That had been—Leeteuk checked his watch—nine hours ago. It was three o’clock in the afternoon now and they were nearing the end of a long day of filming for Exploration of the Human Body. Leeteuk had had to refrain from a lot of participation, his few attempts ending in dismal failures that had elicited more sympathetic winces than laughter. They would be cut, for sure. He would just have to rely on his mouth this episode, but even thinking of interesting things to say took so much effort. He was tired.
Thank God for Kangin. Kangin was there to talk, to boast, to posture and to tease and to cause general mayhem. He was there with his easy laughter, raising the atmosphere for the show and the filming alike.
But Kangin was also there to trip over himself for the woman they’d invited onto the show. Why were they always female guests? Leeteuk watched Kangin smile and flirt and do outrageous things to get the woman’s attention, his stomach twisting. He knew it was mostly for show, because the camera loved a good “romantic atmosphere,” and Kangin was a notorious flirt, but it still made the jealousy rise up inside Leeteuk. He bit the inside of his cheek and looked away.
Leeteuk had things to be grateful for, though. The woman guest hadn’t stayed the entire time—who but celebrities had that much time free for filming, after all?—and the camera loved Kangin even more as he laughingly bullied around the younger members and continued torturing Eunhyuk, just because he could.
“One of these days,” Shin Dong Yup was telling Kangin, “one of your band members is going to manage to pull your pants down.”
“Nah, they wouldn’t dare,” Kangin said confidently, crossing his arms. “They’re too afraid of me, you see. I’m the strongest member, you know. They wouldn’t cross me. That’s why Siwonnie didn’t pull down my shorts—he paused and thought better of it, didn’t he?”
Leeteuk managed a chuckle from the other side of the crowd of thirteen boys, trying not to dwell on the way he knew his eyes drank in Kangin’s presence, his energy. Or the way his gaze lingered on the upturned crescents that were Kangin’s eyes when he laughed, or the curve of his calves, bared by his shorts. He tried to ignore the heat that rose sometimes, just watching Kangin move, remembering the shift of muscle and skin from his dreams and from the showers. Sungmin squeezed his shoulder and Leeteuk closed his eyes, stifling a sigh. He was hopeless.
Kangin came to stand by him later, during a break. “Hyung,” he said, “you look like hell. Sit down. Do you want some food?” He put his hands on Leeteuk’s shoulders and guided him to a chair, forcing him to sit. The look on his face made Leeteuk feel warm inside.
They talked for a little, about meaningless things, poking fun at each other and at the other members. Kangin revealed his secret plot for world domination by way of depantsing half the group, and Leeteuk laughed. Kangin grinned and got sillier, making up more and more ways to embarrass Eunhyuk and their MC. He started using hand gestures halfway through, which got progressively larger and stranger as he explained some of his wilder schemes, and Leeteuk kept laughing, occasionally sneaking out a cough.
By the end of the break, Sungmin and Yesung were crowded around them as well, offering their own suggestions, encouraging Kangin like they didn’t know better. Kibum sat a little to the side of the group, laughing occasionally, but looking more amused at the group than with them.
By the end of the break, Leeteuk also felt better than he had in ages. He looked up at the PD-nim’s call to resume shooting and felt fingers close around his arm. Kangin tugged him to his feet and ran a quick hand down his back, comforting and friendly, the touch warm through Leeteuk’s shirt and jacket. He stored away the memory to linger over later, smiling now at Kangin, who ended his gesture with a hand in Leeteuk’s hair, gentle as he brushed it away from his eyes.
“Don’t look so ill, hyung. It’s unattractive.” He grinned and Leeteuk hit him, and they were back to filming and exploring the human body.
But the incident stayed on Leeteuk’s mind for the rest of the filming and throughout the night as they rushed to eat and then to change and then to perform. He was still thinking about it during Sukira that night, between periods of silly lipsyncing, waving around jingle bells and fuzzy antlers, and a spot of advice-giving. He got a text that read “I was out and bought you cold medicine, so you don’t need to later. ^^ Hwaiting!” and Leeteuk thought some more. What he thought was:
Oh my God, I’ve always loved him.
--
part 2 »
Suspicions of Surety (1/2)
Super Junior, KangTeuk, PG-13, 10200 words
In which Leeteuk starts to suspect, Sungmin is observant, and there is drinking.
Suspicions of Surety
by
meitachiThe first time Leeteuk suspected, Kangin was laughing at him. They were on a show with five of the other members and the host had been trading snipes with Kangin for the past few minutes. She had just called Leeteuk the band umma, commenting on how hard it must be with such a delinquent husband. Leeteuk watched Kangin's eyes slit in amusement, his laugh loud and unapologetic, heartfelt; a hand reached out and grabbed Leeteuk's lightly, patting. Leeteuk tilted his head back and laughed too.
The second time Leeteuk suspected, Kangin had his hand in Leeteuk's hair, sliding his fingers through it, brushing past Leeteuk's ear as he adjusted the mic. He patted Leeteuk's cheek when he was done, grinning, and sent him back to the other side of the stage. The rough-soft feel of fingertips on his skin lingered as Leeteuk glanced over his shoulder, eyes searching.
The third time Leeteuk suspected, Kangin was scant centimeters from his body, their arms around each other as they swayed to the pulsing beat of the music. Kangin had an arm looped casually around Leeteuk's neck, holding him close as he moved their hips in rhythm, heads bent toward each other. Leeteuk dared a glance in Kangin's direction and felt his breath catch in his throat at the scorching look in Kangin's eyes, dark. He laughed, then, and bounced back, pulling away from Kangin's grip to smile at the camera, wave at the fans.
Leeteuk wasn't stupid. He had never been blindsided by love. He wouldn't say he'd known all along, but he'd known for awhile now--known that the imprint of Kangin's touches always lasted longer than they should have, recognized the warm flush in the pit of his stomach when Kangin pulled him close for a hug. Leeteuk knew what it meant that it was always Kangin's stupid jokes that made him laugh, even at the end of a long, exhausting day when he was frustrated at everything, but especially himself. He knew what it meant when a light squeeze on the shoulder would get him to relax when a slew of reassurances from anyone else wouldn't. He knew what it meant when his eyes began to wander, then linger, on the dip of Kangin's collarbone, the glisten of sweat on his throat, the smooth expanse of back.
He knew what it meant, but he didn't know what to do about it.
--
Kangin liked to touch people—except that wasn’t quite true. Kangin liked to touch Leeteuk. He liked to pat his arm or press their knees together when they were seated beside each other. He liked to stand beside Leeteuk and put a hand on his shoulder or in the small of his back when their leader was talking, representing Super Junior. He liked to link their fingers together, on stage, when it was sure to elicit deafening screams, and off-stage, when no one looked or thought twice about it.
Sometimes it made Leeteuk uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he didn’t return the unsaid affection, because he did—but sometimes he wondered if the feelings were too natural for words because they had always been close, or because fanservice had made them that way. Leeteuk was familiar with fanservice, comfortable with it, because he had been in the business long enough to know how things worked. But it was pervasive: there were times he wasn’t entirely sure how to make the distinction between act and reality anymore, not with Kangin, not with his own stage persona.
Leeteuk, super leader and band mother, was charismatic and funny and cute and sexy. He told stories on television shows that made people laugh, was cheerful and upbeat on the radio, and spoke confidently when he gave Super Junior’s thanks to the fans and to all the people who worked with them. He danced like he had no shame and grabbed Kangin’s hand during performances of Marry U because the screams were gratifying, exhilarating, and almost funny at times. But Leeteuk, Jungsu, who spent weeks feeling wretched about the cyworld scandal, who struggled to hide from the younger members the drain his role as leader wore on him, who ate little and slept less during the worst weeks—this Leeteuk didn’t know what to make of Kangin’s easy physical affection. It was different when it was the for the cameras, because Leeteuk knew it was an act, but when the gentle touches and the arm slung around his shoulder persisted even when it was just them, just thirteen or six or two, Leeteuk struggled to identify his feelings.
It made him uncomfortable, he realized at length, because it reminded him too keenly how easy it was to rely on Kangin. How nice it was to rest his head on Kangin’s shoulder, letting down his guard in rare moments of vulnerability. How much he wanted it.
Leeteuk was afraid to want things.
Kangin mumbled a sleepy, toothpaste-filled “morning” around his toothbrush; narrated to the camera following him around, making lame jokes about Eunhyuk just because he could; he adjusted his belt and then his microphone as Super Junior waited backstage, fidgeting but silent; laughed with Shindong as they changed, sweaty and grinning and tired; shivered a little in the cold night air, smoking a cigarette and sending texts on his phone.
Make sure Hyuk doesn’t set anything on fire. Drink with me when you get back. ^_^
Leeteuk was afraid to want things this important, especially when they made his stomach dip and his heart clench.
No drinking tonight, you have an early schedule. Go to sleep!
You spoil all my fun.
Sleep! I’ll see you in the morning.
Only for you, Teukie. <3<3
And Leeteuk knew Kangin was laughing, playing around, blowing smoke into the night, but it made him smile, reflexively. He shook his head and tucked his phone back into his pocket, looking up to see Eunhyuk glance at him—his eyes held no curiosity at all, because this was Kangin and Leeteuk, and Eunhyuk was more concerned about the upcoming end of the song. Leeteuk put his earphones back in and smoothed down his hair, ready to go, but his gaze slid past the camera, vacant, his thoughts still back at the dorms. Or just a little outside of it, in the dark, with a view of a wintry, starless sky.
--
“Hyung,” said Ryeowook, peering worriedly at Leeteuk. “Are you okay?”
Leeteuk slumped against the couch but managed a smile. “I’m fine,” he said, waving aside the other boy’s concern. “Just tired, you know.” Exhaustion was the most frequently used excuse, always accepted, and Leeteuk fell back on it now as he tugged the giant parka enveloping him closer.
“If there’s anything you need,” Ryeowook said, a little hesitantly. “Water? You’re still a little sick.”
Leeteuk’s smile turned wan. After a month of sickness, of coughing when he should have been lipsyncing, of shivering even in four layers of clothing and wrapped in a scarf, of barely having the energy to perform long-choreographed, well-rehearsed dances—the last thing he could afford was another month of the same. He would will himself better, if it came down to it. “A little water, maybe,” he said, fidgeting with his sleeve. Ryeowook nodded and hurried off to get it, ducking out of the small dressing room.
“Hyung,” said Kibum, leaning back in his chair a few feet away. He looked sleepy, eyes heavy under his stage makeup, his hair spiked away from his face. He gave Leeteuk a half-smile. “Don’t be so stressed.”
Not for the first time, Leeteuk was glad that the cameras backstage were restricted to the larger dressing area, freeing this small room for privacy. “Hey, I can take care of myself,” he said, scrunching up his nose and making a face at Kibum. He didn’t need his babies to worry about him. “You take care of yourself, Kibum-sshi.” He cocked his eyebrows at the other boy, indicating Kibum’s current state of near unconsciousness.
“Yeah, yeah,” Kibum murmured in return, shifting his weight in his chair. He looked at clock mounted on the wall and stifled a yawn.
Leeteuk let his gaze drift to the corner, where Shindong and Sungmin were having some kind of discussion about their—driving, if their gestures were anything to go by. Either that or windsurfing, Leeteuk couldn’t quite tell. Hankyung wandered out of the room, looking at his cell phone, and Donghae’s laughter could be heard distinctly from the other room, above the dull roar of stylists at work. Heechul’s voice rose above the noise as well, affected and cocky, I can’t help that Kangin’s jealous of my natural beauty.
“Yesung,” Leeteuk said sharply in his no-nonsense leader tone, “Sit down.”
Yesung looked up at his voice, his hand against the wall where he’d steadied himself. “Aish, Teuk,” he said, his mouth quirking into a smile. “Band umma is getting really bossy lately.”
“Mommies do what mommies must,” Leeteuk told him, sticking his tongue out. He snuggled further into the parka, pulling his feet up onto his chair and wrapping his arms around his legs. “Do as you’re told like a good boy, Yesungie.” He grinned as the other boy sat down, making sure to hide the worry from his expression. It hadn’t been so long since Yesung had been at the hospital for his cold; there was no way he was fully recovered just yet. It was another gnawing anxiety piling atop Leeteuk’s growing worries.
He tipped his head back, closing his eyes, and worked a crick out of his neck. He could do this. The good of the group before personal worries, he reminded himself firmly.
“Hyung,” a voice said in his ear.
Leeteuk’s eyes flew open and he stared at Kangin with something akin to terror in his eyes. Terror because that voice, low in his ear, was a little too reminiscent of his dreams, fantasies—a blend of reality and wishful thinking that had hot breaths panting near his ear, his skin prickling with awareness, as he waited for, wanted more.
His heart leaped into his throat as Kangin gave him a puzzled, concerned look. “Here’s your water. Ryeowook got waylaid by a stylist,” he said, offering a bottle. He put a hand on Leeteuk’s shoulder and sat down beside him, brows knit. “You okay?”
No, Leeteuk thought wildly. “I’m fine,” he stammered instead, grabbing the water bottle a little desperately. He shook his head and managed a smile. “Just…tired.”
“Are you not sleeping well again?” Kangin asked, all solicitude.
“Ahaha, what do you mean? I’m sleeping just fine. Just. You know. Busy. Recovering from the cold.” Leeteuk waved his hands around expansively, indicating everything that could possibly explain his distraction, trying to swallow rising, inexplicable panic. He smiled brightly. “I’m totally okay. But speaking of colds—are you taking care of yourself?” He patted Kangin’s thigh and said, “Don’t worry about me, Kangin-ah. Look after yourself first.”
He avoided Kangin’s eyes, looking away in time for his gaze to collide with Sungmin’s watchful one. Leeteuk swallowed and buried his face in his parka, wishing again that he could just smother himself in warmth and not have to deal with the world.
--
It didn’t start with the dreams, but they were a sure indicator. Leeteuk was fairly sure that you didn’t have erotic dreams about someone unless you were at least slightly interested. He woke up from the first one too warm, tangled up in his sheets and blankets, his heart pounding. Shit, he thought, lying on his back and trying to quiet his breathing, calm his blood. Shit, he thought, bringing the heels of his palms to his eyes and pressing hard, hoping to erase the images of slick kisses and damp skin, the feeling of his nerves on fire, the irrepressible knowledge of angles and muscles too defined to be anything but male.
It wasn’t until the third or fourth dream that Leeteuk finally matched a face to the heady desire, the burn of want that left his body tense, poised, and aching when he woke up, shamed. Fuck, he thought then, turning his face into the pillow and wishing he could smother away all his problems. If he could just stay here forever in his bed and not have to face the world… He hated himself, then, for always failing, for always making more problems than he could deal with, for being so stupid to risk everyone else with this crazy desire.
It was hard being leader, sometimes. But Leeteuk would never trade this responsibility with someone else, would never ask it of them. He took pride in his group; he would not fail them.
He fought the urge to slide his hand between his legs and stroke his erection until he came, jerking against the bed. He had suspected for some time now—love didn’t spring surprise attacks on him, not anymore, not since junior high. A short laugh escaped him, muffled by his pillow. How long ago that was. How could he have suspected then that he’d end up where he was now, in something close to love with one of his own dongsaeng?
Leeteuk saw Kangin in his mind, as he was in his dreams, mouth hovering close to his neck, eyes lidded, fingers tracing idle patterns on Leeteuk’s skin. He flushed and rolled over again, forcing his eyes open and staring at the dark ceiling above him.
He had suspected love for some time now, but it was something different altogether to want like this. It was obscene and filthy and Leeteuk didn’t know how to stop.
--
Fanservice was different now that Leeteuk knew, now that he dreamed. He pulled away from the easy touches now, from the hugs that Kangin was determined to give him, because if he let himself linger, he would find it hard to let go. Leeteuk touched Kangin’s arm lightly as he sang Hankyung’s lines during a performance, hiding behind his smile as Kangin laughed and shoved playfully at him. To Kangin, it was all a game, a performance on top of another performance. It hurt a little, but what hurt more were his ridiculous, inconceivable dreams and the impossibility of his desires. Just his luck to want things he couldn’t have.
So he went out drinking. It was just him and Heechul and it was a little odd to be on their own, no Hankyung at Heechul’s side or Kangin at Leeteuk’s. There were no other members from their company, just the two of them at a small table in an obscure bar.
“I don’t know what to do about it,” Leeteuk admitted to Heechul, glancing up from his drink.
Heechul looked at him with an expression that reminded Leeteuk that only nine days separated them; Heechul accorded him little respect. But he seemed to like Leeteuk, at least, and that was enough for his deferral to Leeteuk as leader, if nothing else. They were friends. “Teuk,” he said now, “you know what a disaster my last relationship was. Why would you come to me of all people for advice?”
But for all his cutting words, he would give advice. Leeteuk knew this, so he only shrugged and looked back down at his drink, dark amber in the dim light. “I’m desperate,” he joked, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
Heechul shook his head at him. “You’re an idiot,” he said bluntly. Leeteuk had mentioned no names, keeping his explanation as vague as possible, but Heechul was much more perceptive than people gave him credit for. “You’re going to end up regretting this. I’m not,” he added sharply, when he saw Leeteuk opening his mouth, “judging you for who it is. Except that you’re incredibly stupid because you couldn’t have chosen anyone worse.”
Leeteuk pursed his lips and stayed silent. Of course Heechul was right. His dongsaeng, his own band member, and on top of all that—a guy. He might as well say goodbye to his career right now.
“You must be more masochistic than I gave you credit for,” Heechul said with a twist of his mouth, his trademark smirk appearing.
Leeteuk managed a little chuckle. “Clearly.” He tried to joke, the words bitter on his tongue—or maybe that was the alcohol. “No, it could be worse. I could’ve picked someone underage. Big Bang’s Seungri, maybe.”
Heechul laughed at that, a short, abrupt sound. “You’re so fucked,” he said, shaking his head. His smile faded as he took a swig of his soju. “What do you want to do?”
The noise of the bar hummed around them, with people talking in low voices, glass clinking between words. Leeteuk listened to it for a moment, wondering if he could find his answer among these strangers, immersed in their own lives, their own private dramas. He looked at Heechul, sharp angles softened by the feathered layers of his hair and the loose cut of his coral-pink shirt, and wondered if he’d find answers here, either. He put his hand to his forehead and pushed away bangs, shoulders slumping.
“I have no idea.”
“The dreams aren’t going to go away, you know,” Heechul said, clinking the bottle of soju against Leeteuk’s glass as he poured. “The fanservice isn’t going to stop.”
“We shouldn’t drink when we’re sick,” Leeteuk said, almost to himself, his eyes flicking to the mostly half-empty bottle Heechul put down on the table.
“Shut up, I can hold my liquor and you need it.” Heechul nudged Leeteuk’s glass closer to him, pointedly, and then said, “You know what the best thing to do is? The best thing to do is to tell him. Then he can reject you, you can cry, and we’ll all move the fuck on.” His eyes were not unsympathetic when he looked at Leeteuk, despite his caustic tone and words. “There will be drama and angst and everything is going to be supremely awkward for awhile, but you won’t lose your band, your career, your life.”
“I know, but—”
“Love sucks,” Heechul told him flatly, eyes bright in the darkness of the bar. “You worked for this for seven years, Leeteuk.” He reached over with a long, bony finger and poked Leeteuk in the forehead, right between the eyes. “Leader-sshi.”
I know, Leeteuk wanted to say, but what if it isn’t that easy?
I know, he wanted to say, but what if I don’t want to let him go?
He took a long drink of his soju instead.
You don’t have him, he reminded himself.
--
Leeteuk had been in love once before. It hadn’t been like this. There’d been a girl, confident in her long black hair, in her white smile, in the way she moved and talked and laughed. She’d liked to drink and go out to have a good time, liked being a girl, from the big hoop earrings to the stiletto heels and the long, manicured nails. Leeteuk had loved the smell of her perfume, flowery and flirty, but not enough to be overpowering. He’d loved seeing her and holding her and knowing she was on his arm when they went out, when the other guys looked at her. He’d loved the way she was comfortable around everyone, friends and strangers alike.
But her love of having a good time translated into parties without him with people he didn’t know. Her way with people translated into another guy, faceless, in the shadows, behind his back. Her confidence in herself translated into the jut of her chin when she told him she wasn’t sorry.
He’d begged because he hadn’t learned not to. He’d shouted and cursed and cried because he hadn’t known better.
In the end, she’d walked away from him anyway.
He hadn’t been able to hide the gaping wound she’d left, no matter how much concealer he’d dabbed under his eyes to hide the circles of sleepless nights or how much laughter he’d forced from himself, ringing false. People had noticed. He had been miserable for weeks.
But Leeteuk had moved on eventually, because that was what people did. Her imprint began to fade, the pain began to dull. And he’d learned.
He’d learned not to beg, not to cry, because it didn’t bring them back or keep them there. He dated casually after that and explained away his distance with his increasingly rigorous training. He was part of a group now, a leader, and their debut was approaching fast. He had to work too hard to be able to maintain a romance at the same time.
They believed his lie and, eventually, Leeteuk did too.
He was too busy for a proper romance. It wasn’t that he was afraid of love: he just had no time for it. But of course he wanted to meet the perfect girl one day. Of course. He smiled, hid a laugh behind his hand, when asked to describe his dream girl. “Someone cute, about 163 cm, who is wise and understanding and will listen to what I say. She’ll be innocent and lively and her eyes will turn into crescents when she smiles,” he said, dimpling, breaking out the charm, “Someone who will like only me!”
While everyone laughed at him and made fun of him for being so specific, Leeteuk pretended that he wasn’t afraid of love. Wasn’t afraid of pain. Wasn’t afraid to lose even more than he had to risk back then.
If Leeteuk wasn’t looking Kangin in the eye anymore, it wasn’t because he was afraid of love; he was just tired, that was all. Tired and stressed and still struggling with the remnants of his cold, which also explained the heavy feeling knotted in his chest. Congestion.
--
The holidays were the worst time of the year. Despite all the glitter and pomp, the red and silver and green and gold decorations strewn across everything he could see, Leeteuk sometimes found it hard to get into the holiday spirit. He could fake it with the best of them, but it was hard to feel truly seasonal when he was run ragged all the time. The holidays were the worst: daily performances, Sukira every night, volunteer work, fan events, and the endless filming for a variety of shows.
It was no wonder everyone got sick this time of year—when they could least afford it.
“Drink this,” Leeteuk said, bending over Sungmin and handing him a cup of hot tea. He sat down on the floor of the studio next to him, pulling up his knees and tugging at his giant sweater.
“Thanks.” Sungmin smiled and wrapped both hands around the styrofoam cup. He wasn’t sick yet but Leeteuk had seen him rubbing at his throat that morning and couldn’t afford to take any chances. He’d slipped cough drops into Heechul’s bag earlier that day when he’d left the group for filming. He’d nudged water cups at Eunhyuk throughout the day as they’d wandered in and out of the different studios in the building. He’d made sure Ryeowook had eaten his lunch properly, had held Donghae’s hand and rubbed his back as the other boy had tried to work the exhaustion out of his muscles, had called Kyuhyun to make sure he was all right: it was all part of his job.
It was late afternoon now and they were running through a quick rehearsal of their new dance steps for First Snow. They had learned the majority of the choreography throughout the past week, squeezing in dance practice into a long day of work, but their first live performance would be tonight and they needed to make sure they were perfect.
Their choreographer had given them a ten minute break, which most of them had taken advantage of to sprawl on the ground or splash some water on their face. Shindong was making a quick phone call out in the hall and Leeteuk had passed Yesung and Kibum cornered by a Manwon Happiness camera as he’d helped himself to a cup of tea and had gotten a second cup for Sungmin.
It was hard to take care of everyone, but Leeteuk did his best. He usually fared okay, serving up his concern with a dimple and a joke, if need be. But during the holidays, sometimes it was too much to keep up the stage persona, the charisma and perpetual smile.
“You look tired, hyung,” Sungmin said to him, voice concerned. “You okay?”
Leeteuk smiled a little, out of habit, but let it fall as he leaned back against the wall. “I’m okay,” he said, brushing the hair from his glasses with one hand, the other holding a half-empty cup of tea. “Everyone’s tired, you know.”
“Yeah.” Sungmin was silent for a little bit, sipping at his tea, watching Siwon bat at Hankyung’s baseball cap, relaxing as he teased. “A noona called me earlier,” he said suddenly, and Leeteuk lifted his head to squint at him in mild puzzlement.
“Yeah?”
Sungmin turned his head, a small, wry smile on his lips. “We were sort of seeing each other. I mean, when we had time, but we would text and call each other, you know? I guess it was kind of like a long-distance relationship.” He chuckled to himself. “She wanted to end things. Said she still wanted to be friends, but that it wasn’t going to work out with both of us so busy all the time.”
Leeteuk didn’t know what to say. Sometimes it was hard being looked up to, being turned to, because just because he was oldest didn’t mean he had all the answers. “I’m sorry, Min. Things are always really busy during the holidays, though, it’s true. Do you think she would have waited? It would have died down in a month or so, after the holidays.”
“No,” said Sungmin. He looked at Leeteuk as if he were trying to find an answer Leeteuk didn’t know he had, to a question he hadn’t heard. “Hyung, do you think being celebrities makes it impossible to have a relationship? One that will truly make us happy?”
As if he hadn’t wondered that himself on countless occasions. But he had a ready answer, one he’d give himself all those times he’d doubted. “I’m sure we can still find love. Look at all the celebrities who are happily married, after all. We just haven’t met the right person, I guess. You shouldn’t lose hope.”
But Sungmin kept looking at him. Then he said, quietly, “It’s okay to love Kangin-sshi, hyung.”
Leeteuk knocked over his tea.
--
Everyone had heard about Leeteuk’s past dating mishaps by now. “A hyung told me that I should let my girlfriends be free—so I let them be free and they all ran away!” He told the story like that with a dimpled laugh because then it was funny, good to share on talk shows or radio programs. He didn’t tell about how hard it was to smile when he had found out his third girlfriend was cheating on him but still had to keep up the morale for the other twelve members (always the good of the group first, he repeated). He didn’t tell about the sharp pain of inadequacy each rejection elicited. He didn’t tell about the girl, second or fourth, he wasn’t sure anymore in the blur of years, who told him with quiet bitterness, “You pushed me away. It was obvious you didn’t need me.”
Leeteuk didn’t tell that story. He didn’t think about what it might mean, either.
--
Sungmin had promised not to tell, but Leeteuk couldn’t help being jumpy. He knew his stress levels were shooting through the roof—this to worry about, on top of everything else—and his cold was fighting back. He almost cried this morning in frustration because it had hurt to wake up from an unsatisfying four-hour sleep. His body had protested every movement, aching, sore; it was doing its best to fight the virus and keep up with the high demands of Leeteuk’s daily schedule, but it was a losing battle. It was only through sheer strength of will that Leeteuk had managed to climb out of bed and shakily make his way to the dorm bathroom to splash water on his face.
That had been—Leeteuk checked his watch—nine hours ago. It was three o’clock in the afternoon now and they were nearing the end of a long day of filming for Exploration of the Human Body. Leeteuk had had to refrain from a lot of participation, his few attempts ending in dismal failures that had elicited more sympathetic winces than laughter. They would be cut, for sure. He would just have to rely on his mouth this episode, but even thinking of interesting things to say took so much effort. He was tired.
Thank God for Kangin. Kangin was there to talk, to boast, to posture and to tease and to cause general mayhem. He was there with his easy laughter, raising the atmosphere for the show and the filming alike.
But Kangin was also there to trip over himself for the woman they’d invited onto the show. Why were they always female guests? Leeteuk watched Kangin smile and flirt and do outrageous things to get the woman’s attention, his stomach twisting. He knew it was mostly for show, because the camera loved a good “romantic atmosphere,” and Kangin was a notorious flirt, but it still made the jealousy rise up inside Leeteuk. He bit the inside of his cheek and looked away.
Leeteuk had things to be grateful for, though. The woman guest hadn’t stayed the entire time—who but celebrities had that much time free for filming, after all?—and the camera loved Kangin even more as he laughingly bullied around the younger members and continued torturing Eunhyuk, just because he could.
“One of these days,” Shin Dong Yup was telling Kangin, “one of your band members is going to manage to pull your pants down.”
“Nah, they wouldn’t dare,” Kangin said confidently, crossing his arms. “They’re too afraid of me, you see. I’m the strongest member, you know. They wouldn’t cross me. That’s why Siwonnie didn’t pull down my shorts—he paused and thought better of it, didn’t he?”
Leeteuk managed a chuckle from the other side of the crowd of thirteen boys, trying not to dwell on the way he knew his eyes drank in Kangin’s presence, his energy. Or the way his gaze lingered on the upturned crescents that were Kangin’s eyes when he laughed, or the curve of his calves, bared by his shorts. He tried to ignore the heat that rose sometimes, just watching Kangin move, remembering the shift of muscle and skin from his dreams and from the showers. Sungmin squeezed his shoulder and Leeteuk closed his eyes, stifling a sigh. He was hopeless.
Kangin came to stand by him later, during a break. “Hyung,” he said, “you look like hell. Sit down. Do you want some food?” He put his hands on Leeteuk’s shoulders and guided him to a chair, forcing him to sit. The look on his face made Leeteuk feel warm inside.
They talked for a little, about meaningless things, poking fun at each other and at the other members. Kangin revealed his secret plot for world domination by way of depantsing half the group, and Leeteuk laughed. Kangin grinned and got sillier, making up more and more ways to embarrass Eunhyuk and their MC. He started using hand gestures halfway through, which got progressively larger and stranger as he explained some of his wilder schemes, and Leeteuk kept laughing, occasionally sneaking out a cough.
By the end of the break, Sungmin and Yesung were crowded around them as well, offering their own suggestions, encouraging Kangin like they didn’t know better. Kibum sat a little to the side of the group, laughing occasionally, but looking more amused at the group than with them.
By the end of the break, Leeteuk also felt better than he had in ages. He looked up at the PD-nim’s call to resume shooting and felt fingers close around his arm. Kangin tugged him to his feet and ran a quick hand down his back, comforting and friendly, the touch warm through Leeteuk’s shirt and jacket. He stored away the memory to linger over later, smiling now at Kangin, who ended his gesture with a hand in Leeteuk’s hair, gentle as he brushed it away from his eyes.
“Don’t look so ill, hyung. It’s unattractive.” He grinned and Leeteuk hit him, and they were back to filming and exploring the human body.
But the incident stayed on Leeteuk’s mind for the rest of the filming and throughout the night as they rushed to eat and then to change and then to perform. He was still thinking about it during Sukira that night, between periods of silly lipsyncing, waving around jingle bells and fuzzy antlers, and a spot of advice-giving. He got a text that read “I was out and bought you cold medicine, so you don’t need to later. ^^ Hwaiting!” and Leeteuk thought some more. What he thought was:
Oh my God, I’ve always loved him.
--
part 2 »
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