Word Count: 2234
Summary: There's a line between friendship and love that gets thinner over the course of a decade. For some people. Donghae/Kibum, Hyukjae/Donghae
Author's notes: I...need to distract myself from this disturbing trend of Super Junior members going blond and reverting to Twins-era horror. And because _harmlessthings thinks that I can still fic on absolutely no sleep.
It’s like this: you fall in love (okay, fine, you made that up later, maybe you didn’t right then and there) and you grab onto him and decide never to let go, never to let up, never to miss a second.
He tells you that isn’t what happens. You’ve been friends since you were kids. Love didn’t just happen, you grew into it.
“Fuck you. Stop reading over my shoulder.”
“You’re in the middle of the hallway. Public space.” He bruises a kiss into your shoulder.
(And you’ll grow out of it.)
You hate that he’s usually right. You swear that he won’t be right this time.
It’s funny, because it’s actually Kibum who tells you first.
“You’re fucked,” he says. Kibum has learned how to act (or has always known and had just never tried) since the little shit used to mope around the dorms, trudging his feet and thinking in English. It’s only been a year, but it feels like centuries. The weight of friendship is almost as heavy and unmoving as time. You’re not quite sure whether to take the magnae seriously.
“I’ve been following your variety show. The mini-drama.” Kibum conveniently forgets to mention that he’s been able to do so while the others get an hour of sleep a night because he has decided that even dropping off the face of the fucking planet is more preferable than trying to stay sane in a house full of lunatic wannabes.
You conveniently forget to remind him that Donghae still talks about him. In his sleep. It’s really none of his business.
“It’ll never work, hyung.” You hear trust me; I’ve tried and cannot bring yourself to think charitable thoughts.
“That’s what you think,” you snap. You’re not really sure you’re having the same conversation anymore. Kibum’s voice is tinny over the cellphone’s speaker. Kibum’s voice has always been tinny and very far away.
“I miss you.” It sounds equally as convincing when Kibum says it, but you’re the hyung. Time to suck it up and act like it.
“Yeah. Well. Miss you too, bro. Come around for dinner one night.”
A few weeks after their debut, Kibum had asked Ryeowook to make hot dogs, American style. Ryeowook had spent hours cutting them up into tiny little octopus-shaped creatures and floated them in soup. Even Han Geng had been impressed, and Youngwoon had spent five entire seconds admiring Ryeowook’s dilligent skill with a knife before digging in. Kibum had gone a bit green and managed three delicate sips of soup before escaping to the bathroom, rice untouched.
When retching noises began to overpower the soft lull of conversation that’s sort of inevitable with eleven people around, Donghae excused himself and smashed on the door.
“Get the fuck out here, Kibum. It’s dinner time.”
Even ten people know how to shut up and listen, though.
“Ryeowook just spent--”
You still sort of hate Kibum for the yelling match they’d had through the door, how Donghae had taken it all personally, far too personally. Like every slur against Korea was a personal insult, a barbed note of failure.
You learn to categorize times into pre-death and post-death, because you know that’s how Donghae does it. Heechul likes to call it the day he ducked out of military service. No one finds that funny.
Pre-death is still sort of post-Kibum, but not enough post-Kibum that Donghae goes straight for you when he’s ripped into pieces and needs to be put together with kisses instead of hugs. You’re sort of okay with it, but not enough that it stops you from giving Kibum a black eye when you volunteer the both of you for a late-night convenience store raid.
“What the fuck was that for?” Kibum has dropped all of his honorifics. You feel sort justified in following up with the uppercut you’ve been practicing in the gym.
He coughs a bit of blood into his hand. “Is this about Donghae?”
“Donghae is my best friend.” That’s really not what you mean to say, but it does the job. You hate the way his lips are swollen and dark red, and the mouth-shaped mark low on his neck. You don’t tell him this.
“Yeah well. Great job you were doing there, consoling him. I really see it working out for the two of you.”
“You said it was over.”
Kibum shrugs and looks all of twenty-one, stupid, and immensely lonely. “It is. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He’s never going to--”
“Shut up.” That really isn’t what you want to say either. You kind of want to punch him again, your fist is ready, muscles contracted, neurons letting you know that all is clear, that Kibum won’t flinch and you won’t end up ruining his billion-won smile and sending Leeteuk into cardiac arrest, but you manage to restrain yourself. It’s really very hard until you remember that you actually like being an idol and Super Junior Members Kill Each Other Over Gay Love Triangle would probably ruin all their careers in an instant.
“You’ll just make the same mistake I did.” Kibum spits into the street. It’s a very unattractive look for him--beaten and bloody. Not like he has any schedules lined up.
“It’s my mistake to make.”
“Yeah. But. I’m really miserable.”
“We can tell.” You don’t feel particularly sorry for him. He just wasn’t right for Donghae, your Donghae, best friends for life, et cetera. You are.
Kibum scuffs his worn Converse into the ground and more of the rubber peels away. He’s an idol; he should have better things.
You don’t tell him this. You’ll let him figure this one out for himself.
You remember the exact second you moved out of the “slightly drunk but overall still making pretty great life decisions” phase--the part of the evening which included memorable moments like chucking Heechul’s favorite cat statue off the balcony because man that thing had always freaked you out, and Heechul’s the sort never to forgive or forget. But since you’ve shared a terse mutual dislike since debut-days you figure he deserves the heartbreak, and it’s not like Sungmin is sober enough to remember who’s done it.
After that, you have another few glasses of wine and forget how to flex your toes and find this absolutely hilarious. Donghae does too, or at least his mouth does, the only part of him you can feel, and it’s against your ear, and, fuck, you’re hard.
For some reason you feel like this is a great moment for Sharing. “Donghae,” you whine. “My--I’m.” Fucking dying down here, but your tongue is having a bit of an issue shaping the words.
That’s okay. Donghae gets the point with a bit of pointed gesticulation. It’s not really all that complicated--you’re best friends, right? Best friends Do Things. Help each other out.
“My room, he hisses. You have to pinch his shoulder repeatedly to stop him from flailing wildly in that direction.
“Ab.so.lu.te.ly. Not. I have my own room.”
Donghae raises an eyebrow. “Stairs?”
You’re really not sure you can push elevator buttons at this point in time but it’s worth a shot. “Definitely not stairs.” Headlines like Super Junior's Donghae and Eunhyuk Found Dead, Sprawled Over Each Other In Gay Embrace would certainly convince Leeteuk to figure out some way to revive the dead so he could have the pleasure of killing them again. And maybe even a second time, you know, for kicks.
Sungmin’s a bit too busy having a heartfelt conversation with an empty DVD case to notice that you’ve slipped out, but Kyuhyun raises an eyebrow. If he were Siwon, you would take that as a cue to start Decoding whether that meant if I catch you fucking on any public surface I will destroy your porn collection or have fun! Man am I jealous; I never get any.
Amazingly, you make it into the elevator. “Okay,” you try to say around a mouthful of Donghae-hair. It’s great hair, but it’s sort of in your mouth and not all that tasty. “Okay, twelve please.”
Donghae shoves you into the number-pad and all of the buttons light up. “That is not--”
And he’s kissing you. It’s more of a slobbery sort of sharing-spit session than the tangle of tongues you’d been looking forward to, but it sends fire racing down your spine and up your cock almost immediately, so it does the trick. You press backwards. The elevator comes to a halt, doors open, and Donghae slides a hand into your pants.
Oh shit. You’re really not going to last.
His hand is rough, he’s squeezing slightly too tightly, and fisting too quickly. It feels amazing. You find that your hips are doing this unattractive roll-hump-thing into his hand, and you’re biting his ear which is the only piece of him you can really reach while your body is undulating like a beached whale and suddenly you’re coming, way too fucking quickly, hot molten liquid coursing down every knob of your spine just as the door opens again.
“Someone’s going to see.” The words come out slurred. There’s a place on Donghae’s throat--the patch of skin right underneath his Adam’s apple--that you really want to lick.
If you had to categorize the moment it all started turning to shit, you’d say it was here. Kibum of course, would be correct in saying that it started from the beginning of Super Junior ‘05. Donghae would be even more correct in saying that it started the second you shook hands outside that park by Shim’s Noodle Bar my name is Lee Donghae, my name is Lee Hyukjae. Let’s be friends.
You reach for his jeans and feel around, groping, sliding--nothing. Just. Softness.
He pulls away. “Hyukjae.”
You are not drunk enough to forget where a fairly fucking essential piece of anatomy is. “I’m not Kibum, right?”
Pretty much exactly what you didn’t want to say. Shit.
“No,” he says, sighing, like he’s been through this thousands of times before.
Right, well, that was easy. Kibum was right. Your mistake and all. You’re drunk and angry and have moved into the “for safety reasons I should be positioned near a toilet right about now” phase of the evening and you would really like to pretend all of this didn’t happen, except for the part where your still-sensitive cock is wet and hanging over the edge of your sweatpants’ elastic waistband and how the memory of Donghae getting you off will be fuelling your masturbation fantasies for the rest of your life.
“No,” Donghae says again, and you get ready to tell him to stuff it because, come on, man, not now. Timing. Learn some. But he keeps talking: “You’re just not a girl.”
“Excuse me?” Your brain must still be suffering from the overdose of cheap sauvignon blanc which Sungmin somehow manages to acquire by the case for times like these--best boyband in Asia, nominated for the Daesangs, outselling Seo Taiji, life couldn’t get better and all.
“I’m not interested in you. In Kibum. In men.”
“You sure fooled me for a few seconds there.”
“I’m thinking,” you say loudly, just as the elevator doors open again, “that you could have said something years ago. You know. When I first fell in love with you.”
“You didn’t fall in love with me.”
“Right,” and you’re miserable. Kibum was right--pit in your stomach and all. You wonder if you’ll eat so much chocolate that you’ll blow up just like Kibum, and immediately refuse to entertain the notion. Greasy Kibum is worst Kibum, really.
You don’t want them saying that about you.
The elevators doors open and close and it’s the third floor of the building. You decide that even stairs are better than this sort of silence wherein Donghae has too much to say and you have too much to feel. You walk out.
“Hyukjae,” Donghae pleads. “Come on. Let’s talk about this.”
“Don’t follow me. I need to think.”
Hours later, Kyuhyun finds you sobbing in the stairwell. He calls you a little girl, but helps you back out to the landing, into the elevator, and back into your bed. Alone.
It takes you more than just that evening to review ten years of memories.
By the time you’re suiting up for Miinah promotions, you’re pretty much over it. Well, as over it as someone who has to wake up and see the chiseled definition of Donghae’s newly discovered abdominal muscles every morning can actually be, but you somehow manage not to throw yourself on top of him and beg him to fuck you. It’s a daily struggle.
“You ready?” Donghae smiles. It’s the tighter smile of post-death but also the sympathetic half-wink of post-handjob, and you’re really not fond of that look.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” Which would be true if “fine” meant “elephants mimicking that stupid ice skating chorus move in your stomach,” which it doesn’t.
“Break a leg.”
Kibum broke a foot.
Started & Completed: 7/13/2011
I really was going to wait until midnightanddawn was done before posting any more fic. shows how much self control I have.