qui es in caelis
The times that Hankyung thinks he could fall in love with Heechul, Heechul isn’t being witty or artistic or expressive or cutting. He isn’t whispering or shouting or shrieking or performing. It’s the brush of his fingers on Hankyung’s wrist and the sweep of his bangs behind his ear, the curve of his smile and the dreams in his eyes.
Hankyung never visits Heechul. He sits in the hallway, listening to the quiet bustle of doctors and nurses, watches blankly as a parade of family and celebrities trail in and out of the room. Siwon tries twice to get him to go inside, murmuring, “hyung would like to see you,” through a rough voice and red-rimmed eyes, but soon gives up and instead sits with Hankyung a few hours each time, muttering prayers through cracked lips, worn bible unopened in one hand and fingers rubbing rosary beads bald in the other.
Donghae collects him at the end of the day, casting him accusing looks from swollen eyes. Kangin drives them home, turning the radio on as the silence swells, unbearable, and then off as the music blares, too loud and too happy.
“Hey,” says Heechul, slinging an arm around Hankyung’s shoulders and ruffling Hankyung’s bangs with his other hand. “Have you heard?” he asks, grinning as Hankyung scowls, dragging his fingers through his hair to smooth it back down.
“Yes,” says Hankyung, shifting anxiously, “Yashimmanman.” It’s possible some of the dread he’s feeling coloured his voice, because Heechul frowns, yanking sharply at Hankyung’s elbow.
“What’s wrong with you,” he demands, “it’s just an interview. Just sit there, look pretty and don’t embarrass the company. That’s my job.” Hankyung’s face doesn’t brighten, and Heechul socks him in the arm. “Hey,” he says, voice gentling, “your Korean is more than good enough.” Hankyung nods, only slightly dubious, and Heechul smiles, wide and easy.
“It’s you and me, baby,” he says, bright in his confidence, sunny as ever, “yo touch man.”
The dorms are painfully silent, the slightest noises echoing like gunshots. The members alternatively cling for comfort and shut themselves up in their rooms, alone and brooding. Ryeowook fills plate after plate with food that no one eats, scraping it into the bin, bent over the stove, braced on the counter, chest heaving.
Eeteuk deals with the press, holding conferences, playing the collected leader, usually accompanied by Shindong and Sungmin. He spits company lines, speaking through his teeth about staying strong and holding hope, refuses questions and offers thanks for thoughts and prayers that will accomplish nothing. He allows himself to be supported to the car, where he slumps, supported by his seatbelt, and Kangin starts the engine, keeping the tinted windows rolled all the way up. He clicks the radio on and off, a compulsive twitch.
“Stop it, would you?” Eeteuk snaps, hand over his eyes, “just leave the damn thing.” Kangin freezes, eyes on Eeteuk, removes his hand from the dial and nods quietly, returning his attention to the road. A song starts up on the radio, and it actually takes them a few seconds to identify the familiar refrain, muscles twitching as they recall ingrained dance moves. Heechul’s voice starts, young and happy, light with ambition and full of the belief that it would last forever. Eeteuk turns it off himself.
Hankyung lies on his bed, fully clothed, and stares at the ceiling. He cannot eat, cannot sleep, cannot move. He listens to himself breathe, concentrates of the feeling of his eyelashes on his face as he blinks. There’s the quiet hitching of breath caused by crying next door, and he can just hear soft footsteps shuffle by his door, the quiet snick of the bathroom door. The silence screams in his ears and the stillness rises in his throat as he chokes on the quiet.
“Heechul’s throwing things again,” Eeteuk informs Hankyung, before he’s even got both feet over the threshold, “and he’s locked up in your guys’ room, so…” Kangin pops up behind him.
“So we’re not interfering and you might want to utter a quick prayer,” he gives Hankyung a big grin and a thumbs up.
“Hwaiting,” says Eeteuk cheerfully, dimpling.
Hankyung knocks at the door and pauses for a moment, before remembering it’s also his room and he doesn’t need an invitation. He opens the door to find Heechul sprawled on the floor, panting for breath and staring at the ceiling.
“Don’t worry,” he says, not looking away from the tiles, “I threw pillows and stuffed toys. Learned my lesson.” Hankyung steps closer, kicking at Heechul’s legs.
“That’s a first,” he says. Heechul shrugs.
“Not nearly as satisfying,” he notes. Hankyung bobs his head in agreement, lowering himself to the floor to settle with his back against the bed, pulls Heechul’s feet into his lap and tugs at his toes. “It makes me so angry,” says Heechul, fists clenched, and Hankyung waits, because this could be anywhere from their latest schedule to the genocide in Africa. When he fails to respond, Heechul cranes his neck to look at him, frown deepening.
“Uh.” says Hankyung. Heechul pushes himself into a sitting position, outrage blooming afresh across his face.
“The new kids?” he questions, disbelieving, “only thirteen? Any of this ringing any bells?” Hankyung blinks, thoroughly confused.
“Zhou Mi and Henry?” he asks, puzzled. Heechul waves a hand dismissively, lying back down.
“Sure, if that’s them.” Hankyung frowns.
“Heechul, you’ve never met them. You didn’t even know their names.” Heechul’s face twists, as frustrated as Hankyung has ever seen him.
“That doesn’t matter, Hankyung, don’t you see? It could just as easily be me. It could just as easily be you.” His voice is soft and defeated, and Hankyung frowns again, starts to ask more questions, but is cut off by Heechul.
“Just go, Hankyung, I can’t even look at you right now, seriously.” Hankyung sighs, but rises, joints creaking. Heechul stops him with his hand on the knob and one foot out the door.
“Do you know so little of me, Hankyung?” Heechul asks, “Am I so hard to understand?” Hankyung pauses, thinks about the blackness of truth against white lies.
“I do know you, Heechul,” he says, “I do.”
Zhou Mi talks to him through the phone, gurgling through tears. The company has denied them tickets, told them to wait in China while they wait and see, until they decide what’s to become of the lot of them. But then Zhou Mi’s voice hardens, despite the lump evident in his throat, Henry echoing harshly in the background, that fuck decisions, fuck waiting, fuck refunds, fuck the company.
Hankyung goes with Kangin to the airport, the only sound the clicking of the radio, on and off, on and off.
Zhou Mi and Henry climb in the back, one hastily packed duffel back each thrown carelessly into the trunk, closing the doors against the flash of the cameras. Kangin finally foregoes the radio, his voice filling the car, calm and collected. Hankyung listens to the cadence of his voice rise and fall as he talks about the latest news from the doctors, feels Zhou Mi grip his hips from behind, as Henry slumps into the car door, pulling his hat low over his eyes, brave little boy hiding his tears.
Once they enter the apartment, Zhou Mi breaks away, long strides to Kyuhyun, who slumps in his embrace, tension bleeding out of his frame as he sobs uncontrollably, fingers wound tight in Zhou Mi’s shirt. Kangin checks his watch, mumbles about a company meeting, casting sideways looks at Zhou Mi and Henry, and leaves without another word.
Henry stands, awkward, wiping hastily at his eyes, young and painfully unsure. Hankyung thinks it’s probably his duty to be a leader, knows that Henry looks up to all of them but him in particular, ever since they met, thinks he should do…something. He leaves Henry to Ryeowook and retreats to his room, locking the door behind him.
When Heechul calls, his voice is staticky, crackling through the connection, and there are the sounds of people talking in the background, the ching of cash registers and the muted sounds of an intercom.
“So,” he says, deceptively casual, “on a scale of one to ten, how upset is everyone?” Hankyung sighs from the floor of his bedroom, trying to wrap a Eunhyuk’s present with one hand.
“Pretty much everyone is quietly disapproving but focusing on Eunhyuk. Who was very hurt. Continues to very hurt,” Hankyung allows his own disapproval to colour his voice, and Heechul sighs. Hankyung waves his hand frantically through the air, trying to dislodge a piece of scotch tape.
“I want the one that costs more,” Heechul says to someone else, irritated, “I don’t care what it looks like. Actually no, that’s hideous. Get me the next most expensive.”
“What’re you doing?” asks Hankyung, resorting to using his teeth, grimacing as the adhesive hits his tongue.
“What do you think?” Heechul asks snappishly, “And don’t do that, you look stupid.” Hankyung freezes.
“What?” he squeaks. Heechul laughs, clean and clear.
“It’s you, so I know you’re doing something stupid looking.” Hankyung rolls his eyes, flicking the dislodged tape off his thumb casually.
“Shut up,” he says, without bite, “you big softie.”
“You shut up,” Heechul grumbles, “and you’d better be the one to answer the door, I can’t guarantee what I’d say to anyone else.”
Hankyung is lying in bed, on his side, facing the wall in the time between the late hours of the night and the early hours of the morning, when he hears the squeak of hinges, sees the outline of a figure against the light of the hallway.
“Hyung?” whispers Eunhyuk, voice rough, swollen eyes visible in the murky lighting. Hankyung shifts slightly on the pillow, saying nothing, but keeps his eyes open. Eunhyuk creeps closer, slips under the covers, curls into Hankyung’s body.
“Hyung,” he sobs softly, “hyung…” Hankyung hesitates, then pulls Eunhyuk in gently, slides a hand on the back of his neck, comforting. The younger boy buries his head in Hankyung’s neck and cries, chest heaving, fingers trembling on Hankyung’s ribcage. The door creaks again, and Sungmin crawls over them to press against Hankyung’s back, Kyuhyun squeezing in behind him and Zhou Mi curling at their feet, long limbs dangling off the bed as he pillows his head on Hankyung’s calf, his hand curling around Kyuhyun’s ankle.
Heechul is the greatest performer Hankyung has ever seen. Not the greatest talent, not even close, but the greatest entertainer by far. He enchants his audience, with his stage presence, his clothes, his hair, the grip of his fingers on the microphone and the glint of teeth in his smile, the twist of his lips.
Heechul is happiest when he’s performing, and the most at home Hankyung has ever seen him look is as the lead singer of a rock band. On those occasions when he performs sans Super Junior, not sharing lines and struggling with a dance routine, but goes back to back with a guitarist, or goes his knees for a note, head tilted back, hair falling out of his eyes, mic-stand still clutched in one hand, that’s when his eyes glitter and his smile turns exhilarated.
Sometimes Hankyung wonders if Heechul wishes he was never placed with Super Junior, but with a real band, if Heechul would be happier if he had a bigger slice of the stage, if they’d never met. Sometimes Hankyung wonders if he’d be happier.
Hankyung is sitting in his chair in the waiting room when an old man sits next to him.
“Who are you here for?” he asks with a small smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. He wiggles his ring finger, tapping the metal against the armrest. “My Eun-Sun,” he says softly, eyes crinkling, “not much time now…but I see you nearly every day.”
“I,” says Hankyung, eyes burning, “he’s.” He stops, rubs his temples. He wonders bitterly if this is even real-it wouldn’t the first time a desperate reporter tried despicable means.
“Someone special,” murmurs the old man, tilting his head back against the wall.
“Yes,” whispers Hankyung tiredly, “yes, I suppose.”
“You shouldn’t do such things,” Hankyung scolds, trying to get a grip on Heechul’s hands, “so little, Heechul-ah.” Heechul evades him easily, waving his arms around excitedly, nearly upsetting himself from the bathroom counter.
“As if,” he scoffs haughtily, grinning adrenaline at Hankyung, smile blinding in its youth, “didya see me Hankyung? And Youngwoon says I can’t fight.”
“You can’t,” says Hankyung dryly, giving up on checking him for injuries, “throwing rocks and waving a stick doesn’t count.” Heechul fixes him with a pointed glare.
“And where were you, Mr. Martial Arts?” Hankyung returns the glare, crossing his arms mulishly.
“Well, I-that’s not why I took martial arts,” he says lamely, looking determinedly away from Heechul’s disbelieving stare.
“Oh really,” says Heechul, mocking. “Hankyung, there is only one reason why anyone, anyone, takes martial arts…” he pauses dramatically. Hankyung rolls his eyes. “To be a ninja.”
Kibum walks into the apartment, dropping his bag on the floor, the door banging shut behind him, unshaven and disheveled, eyes shot with red, clothes in disarray.
“Kibum,” says Donghae, stunned.
“Hyung,” says Kibum, exhausted, “hyung, how is-” he’s cut off by Donghae’s fist in his face.
“You!” gasps Donghae, shoving Kibum back against the door and swinging again, aiming through blurred vision, “What excuse do you have, you-” Kibum catches him easily, sliding down the floor, rocking him as he cries.
“I know,” he says, wrapping his arms tightly around Donghae, “I know, Hae, I’m so sorry, I’m so, so, so--”
“I just couldn’t,” he tells Hankyung from the hard plastic of the hospital hallway, “I just…can’t.”
He leaves two days later.
Sometimes, when Hankyung is supposed to be at dance practice, he will linger in the doorway of the music studio and listen to Heechul play the piano, watch long slender fingers dance over ivory coloured keys as Heechul hums low in his throat, soft melodies that ring louder in Hankyung’s mind than the ping of the metronome or the blasting of synthesized pop, that will stay longer than the dance steps he performs a thousand times.
Hankyung thinks that Heechul is most reachable when he is practicing this kind of music, when he performs on the radio, playing the piano and singing classics in a low rough voice he rarely uses on albums, eyes closed, effortless in his beauty. He thinks Heechul is most suited to this kind of music, slower with no high chords or sustained notes, not spinning away from Hankyung in flurries of bright clothes and fast words.
Super Junior does not perform at the awards show, but they do appear, sitting close in one row, Zhou Mi and Henry placed carefully in the middle, hands linked beneath the gaze of the camera. All of the bands scheduled to perform have scrapped their singles, instead singing slow ballads. A few even do Super Junior acoustic remixes, and all bow pointedly to their row at the end. Hankyung thinks bitterly of the subtitles that will splash across the screens of the televisions: sappy, touching lies designed to assuage the secondhand guilt and sadness viewers feel, because it will comfort their consciences to think that they are all one big happy supportive family who can get through anything with the strength of each other.
Hankyung thinks that Heechul would have hated this, would have preferred slick dances in his honour, the pounding of the synthesizer rather than the scream of the violin strings. Or maybe Heechul would have loved this, because apparently Hankyung didn’t know him very well at all.
“Let’s go on a roadtrip,” Heechul says, backstage, after they’ve won another award and finished the obligatory encore, and Hankyung laughs, adrenaline still roaring in his ears.
“Where?” he asks, grinning.
“Anywhere. Nowhere.” Heechul turns to him, eyes fever bright, grip tight. “Let’s get in a car, Hankyung, and follow the white lines, just let life happen.” Hankyung laughs again.
“What are you talking about?” he asks. He can hear the rest of the band outside the dressing room, singing a victory song, the clamour of the camera crews and the dying screams of the crowd.
“Don’t you just want to do something crazy, Hangeng?” Heechul asks softly, gaze intense, “To be spontaneous and maybe a little stupid, and achieve one of those perfect, beautiful moments most people only ever see in the movies?” Hankyung smiles indulgently.
“You’re always spontaneous, Heenim.” Heechul doesn’t break eye contact, pupils moving as he searches for something in Hankyung’s face. Abruptly, he releases his grip on Hankyung and steps back, turning to the mirror to flick at his hair.
“Of course,” he says airily, “I am Kim Heechul.”
Heechul’s parents pull Eeteuk aside at the hospital, speaking in low mutters, and Heejin sits down next to Hankyung, slouching low in the chair.
“They’re talking about long term care,” she says, and then looks suddenly angry, “He wouldn’t like that,” she hisses, knuckles white against the edge of her seat, “he wouldn’t like this, he wouldn’t.”
“He would hate it,” Hankyung agrees, voice scratchy from disuse. Heejin slumps, defeated.
“If this were a drama,” she whispers, eyes closed, “maybe he would wake up. And if I were braver, I would send him to sleep.”
Hankyung thinks that if this were a drama, he would help her to be brave. He would help her, and then he would take Donghae and find Kibum, and shake them both for not learning that people don’t last forever, and he would go drinking with Kangin and eat with Ryeowook and cry with Eeteuk and hug Henry.
And he thinks that if he were braver, he would get in a car and never look back.
“Oh god,” Heechul gushes, “I love her so much,” he leans forward, gaze glued to the television screen, legs slung across Hankyung, bottle of cheap soju dangling from one hand and a lit cigarette smoking lazily from the other.
“Oh?” asks Hankyung idly, leaning his head against Heechul’s shoulder, reaching one hand around past Heechul’s neck to snuff out his own cigarette on the end table’s ashtray, sliding his fingers through Heechul’s hair on the way back. “And who is it this time?”
Heechul shrugs, taking another swig from the bottle before offering it to Hankyung. “I don’t know, the girl in this commercial, but fuck, she is so hot hot,” he half sings the last two words in a breathy whisper, biting off the final syllables.
Hankyung smiles against the lip of the bottle, warm from Heechul’s mouth and hard against his teeth, swallows down the burn, comforting in its familiarity. “You fall in love so easily,” he murmurs, teasing, tilting his head down to steal a drag from
Heechul’s cigarette.
“I fall in love so easily,” Heechul agrees, tilting his fingers away from Hankyung’s mouth to his own, breathing in deeply. His face glows in the ebb of the embers and is shadowed in the gloom of the television. He exhales slowly, tilting his head upwards, one smooth exhale. Hankyung takes his gaze off Heechul to watch the wisps reach for the ceiling, dissipating in loose curls. “I could fall in love with you.”
The times that Hankyung thought he could have fallen in love with Heechul, Heechul wasn’t being witty or artistic or expressive or cutting. He wasn’t whispering or shouting or shrieking or performing. It was the brush of his fingers on Hankyung’s wrist and the sweep of his bangs behind his ear, the curve of his smile and the dreams in his eyes.