Fic: A piacere, con brio [SJM RPS] (1/2)
Title: A piacere, con brio
Fandom: Super Junior M RPS
Pairing: Henry/Ryeowook
Rating: NC17
Summary: Henry likes Ryeowook. Ryeowook likes Henry. It should be easy, but something gets lost in translation.
Notes: For diagon, who saved it twice over, and with thanks to aitakute for answering my super-specific question ♥
A piacere, con brio
“Yo, yo, yo,” Henry yodels as he slouch-strides into the kitchen one morning. It’s after ten o’clock, and everyone else is up. Siwon and Donghae are away filming, but the rest of them have the day off. Sungmin is frowning at his phone, Zhou Mi is picking through the latest pile of gifts sent by fans, and Hyukjae is standing over Kyuhyun offering apparently unwanted advice on whatever he’s doing online.
Ryeowook is washing the dishes. A huge pile of dishes and pots and pans. The weird thing is, he seems to be washing dishes that are already clean and dry.
“Good morning, Henry,” Zhou Mi says in Mandarin.
“Hello,” says Sungmin in Korean.
“How’s it going?” Hyukjae says in English.
Kyuhyun just makes a noise that could be construed as a greeting.
Ryeowook clatters one dish against another and runs more hot water into the sink.
Henry wanders across the room and picks up a packet of cereal. He eyes the dishes. There are two clean, unwashed bowls in front of him. He starts to reach out, even gets as far as touching one, before Ryeowook says, “Don’t. It’s not clean.”
“Looks clean to me.” Henry hooks a finger over the rim of the bowl and drags it towards him.
“Not clean,” Ryeowook repeats, squeezing out the dishcloth into the bowl.
“Yo, what?” Henry stares at him in mock dismay and opens his arms wide, still holding the cereal box. “Just want my breakfast, man. That bowl looked clean to me.”
“Yes, well.” Ryeowook flips the long sweep of his fringe out of his eyes. The waterlogged bowl and its mate go into the sink. “What do you know about clean, hmm?”
“That’s uncalled-for cruelty at this time of morning,” Henry complains. “At any time, actually.” He untucks the flap on the cereal packet and stuffs his hand inside, scooping up the multigrain Cheerios and shoving them into his mouth. “Now see what you made me do,” he says, or tries to say, around the crunch of the cereal.
Ryeowook wrinkles his nose and does that cute thing with his mouth, halfway between a moue and a look of uncertainty-or in this case, disgust. He backs away, but before Henry can open the fridge door and grab some milk, Ryeowook picks up a tea towel and holds it out in silent command.
Henry puts his free hand-fingertips sticky with whatever shit they put on Cheerios-on his chest. “Me? Why?”
“You’re here,” Ryeowook says succinctly. “You can dry up. After all, you need a bowl so you can eat like a civilised man.”
“Civilised?” Henry says, stuffing more cereal into his face until his cheeks bulge. “I’m Canadian.”
Sungmin and Hyukjae snort, which was the reaction he wanted. Ryeowook just looks at him until he withers, puts down the Cheerios, and takes the tea towel.
“Okay, why am I drying up dishes that are already clean?” Henry holds the tea towel by two corners and snaps it like a matador shaking out a cape. He tosses it into the air, spins on one foot, and catches the cloth before it falls. He looks at the others. None of them are remotely impressed by his antics. “And why isn’t anyone else helping?”
Zhou Mi lifts his head. “No one else was stupid enough.”
Ryeowook turns and flicks hot water bubbles in Zhou Mi’s direction. “Henry is being kind.”
“Henry has-” Zhou Mi switches from Mandarin into Korean and finishes his sentence with a phrase Henry doesn’t know.
Ryeowook obviously knows, because he draws in his breath and sparks a look at Zhou Mi before swinging around and plunging his hands back into the soapy water. Henry swallows the remaining mouthful of cereal and shoots a quizzical glance at Sungmin and Hyukjae, who seem to be trying not to laugh.
Just awesome. He’s the butt of the joke again. He doesn’t mind so much, in fact he encourages it most of the time, because at least when he’s making people laugh, he feels included-but occasionally, just every now and then, he wishes he didn’t have to play the dorky foreigner.
Henry pastes a smile on his face and stuffs in another handful of cereal. It tastes dry and disgusting, and he shoves away the box, chewing frantically, swallowing to force the Cheerios mush past the lump in his throat. He grabs a plate from the mound on the draining board and dries it with brisk efficiency and over-attention.
“It’s nothing bad,” Ryeowook says softly. His hair is in his eyes again, but this time he doesn’t brush it back. He’s standing very still, his lashes tangled in the silk of his fringe. He looks sideways at Henry, just quickly. “Nothing bad against you. Believe me.” Colour climbs to his cheeks and he tosses his head, blows at his fringe, and dumps more plates into the sink.
Henry shifts his attention back to the teetering pile of wet dishes. If it’s nothing bad against him, then Zhou Mi must’ve been teasing Ryeowook. That’s kind of a crappy thing to do. Yeah, usually they all tease one another or bitch at each other as soon as they open their mouths, but usually Ryeowook brushes off such comments with laughter or shakes his head and hides his mouth behind his hands or makes loud, giggling complaint. He doesn’t blush and go all quiet, and Henry feels bad that he’s the cause, however indirectly, of such hushed embarrassment.
“So, like, why are we doing dishes that are already clean?” he asks.
“We,” Ryeowook gives him a blinding smile, one that socks him in the gut with its perfection, “we are doing the dishes again because Donghae did them last night. He posted a picture online of him pretending to wash up.”
Henry dries another three plates and starts on the bowls. “Probably he got his manager to do them. Or Siwon.”
“He says he did them all himself.” Ryeowook sounds arch. “He says the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes.” He sniffs. “He’s such a terrible liar.”
“So,” Henry tries to work this out, “we’re doing the dishes because Hae pretended to clean dishes that were already clean?”
Ryeowook flicks back his hair with soapy fingers and gives him another bright smile. “In essence, yes.”
Henry stacks the bowls. “Dude, is there the remotest possibility that, just maybe, you might be, y’know, over-reacting?”
“Oh, Henry.” Ryeowook looks amused. “Would you trust Donghae to wash up correctly?”
“Uh,” says Henry, “like, am I the person you should be asking?”
Ryeowook trembles with laughter. “Probably not.”
Henry blushes and scrubs at a mixing bowl. He knows there’s a procedure for washing up-a ritual, more like-one developed by Ryeowook and followed no matter which dorms or which country they’re in. It’s a kind of safety net, something familiar. Henry understands that more than most.
He hurries with the drying up, clearing the draining board within a few minutes. He leans on his elbows and watches Ryeowook wash and rinse the pots and pans. There’s a precision in his actions, but that’s Ryeowook all over. He acts like he’s already achieved perfection and doesn’t want to let it slip, even if it’s only in the perfect way to wash dishes.
Henry thinks about this, and he thinks about Ryeowook’s slender body, and the two things conjoin somehow into an idea, and his mouth opens and he says, “I want to cook with you today.”
Ryeowook turns his head. Stares. “You do?”
There’s no need for him to look so surprised. It’s not like Henry said, “Yo, Wookie, let’s screw”-and he has no idea why that example came to mind, either, but it’s in his head now and he has to shake off the mental images before he meets Ryeowook’s suspicion-sharp gaze.
“Yeah. It’ll be fun.” And weirdly enough, he thinks it will be fun, and not because he plans on switching off the oven or over-salting the dish, either. Henry spins on his heel and snaps the damp tea towel at the others. “Tonight,” he announces, “I’m going to make meatballs and tagliatelle!” The last three words he flourishes in English with a bad Italian accent.
Sungmin looks up with interest, but Hyukjae says, “Do you think we could have some normal food first, and then have the other thing?”
Kyuhyun cackles.
Henry ignores him. “Meatballs and tagliatelle are not dessert.” He grabs a wooden spoon and pounds it on the kitchen counter. “You will eat it and you will like it!”
Hyukjae looks worried.
“I’ll be helping him,” Ryeowook adds.
“Ah.” Hyukjae’s concerned expression softens into relief. “That’s okay, then. Should’ve said so earlier. We’ll eat it. Whatever it is.”
* * *
Tagliatelle is off the menu. They can’t find any in Carrefour, so Henry decides to buy pasta shaped like elk heads from IKEA instead.
“Is that a type of reindeer?” Ryeowook asks, fingering the pasta shapes through the cellophane covering on the box.
“Nah, it’s bigger.” Henry tries to demonstrate the size of an elk by waving his arms in the air. “It’s huge. Like a moose. Actually, it’s the same thing. A moose is an elk. Which is like a really big reindeer.”
Ryeowook looks confused, but he smiles and nods and they purchase the pasta.
Back at the dorms, Henry makes sure no one is in the vicinity of the kitchen. The only audience he wants is Ryeowook. Fortune favours him, and Henry empties the bags of groceries onto the table.
“You can be my sous-chef,” he says to Ryeowook, and starts issuing orders. Ryeowook obeys, setting out a mixing bowl and a wok and a chopping board and a sharp knife. Henry realises at that moment that maybe he should’ve looked up an actual recipe, but decides it doesn’t really matter. They’ve already done the shopping, and he’s fairly certain they got the most important component parts of the meal. It’s not like anyone’s going to care, as long as the food is edible.
Making the meatballs is easy. Henry tips the ground meat into the mixing bowl, seasons it, and adds an egg when Ryeowook suggests including it. Then he shoves his hands in the bowl and pulps the lot together. After squishing randomly for a while, he starts rolling small pieces into balls and sets them on a tray.
“You make some, too,” he tells Ryeowook. “This is the best part.”
Ryeowook pushes up his sleeves and joins in. His hands are long and narrow. It looks kind of obscene to see them covered in grease and herbs and a mixture of pork and beef mince, but it would sound stupid if Henry asked him to stop now. They stand close together over the bowl, and the only sound is the squidge of the meat.
Ryeowook forms his meatballs with careful precision, every one almost exactly the same as the other. He makes a neat row on the tray. Henry’s meatballs are large and prone to splitting. Ryeowook divides the larger meatballs without comment. He keeps his gaze on his task, but sometimes, unconsciously, he blows at the swinging ends of his fringe.
Henry looks up at that sound. His fingers dabble in meat and he stares at Ryeowook’s mouth and the sharp descending line of his cheek into his chin. He stares at the strained-honey-gold glaze of Ryeowook’s hair and the slick of mascara on his lashes. He stares until it’s troubling, and then Henry drops his gaze and makes another meatball.
Finally the ground meat is gone and the meatballs, all of mostly uniform size and shape, are placed on the tray in the fridge to firm up. That was Ryeowook’s idea. Now for the sauce.
“We should measure the ingredients,” Ryeowook says.
“No, we shouldn’t.” Henry opens a can of plum tomatoes and dumps them into the wok, then spends a couple of minutes stabbing at them with the edge of a wooden spoon until they lose their shape and go all mushy. “Another can. Actually, let’s use two more. Three more!”
It’s only when the tomatoes are bubbling away that Henry remembers that the sauce needs onions and garlic in it, too. He gets Ryeowook to peel and mince the garlic while he tackles the onions.
“Should we have done this first?” Ryeowook asks as he taps the garlic mush into the tomatoes.
“No,” Henry says, then adds, “but some people do.”
Ryeowook turns his head to hide his laughter.
They add salt and sugar and pepper and another clove of garlic, then throw in some random herbs. Henry turns the heat up; Ryeowook turns it down. They squabble good-naturedly over stirring the sauce. Henry finds a soup spoon and dips it into the mixture. He blows on it, then notices Ryeowook looking at him. It’s only polite to offer him first taste. Henry holds out the spoon. “Try it?”
He’s holding the spoon a little too high. Ryeowook lifts towards it, chin going up, revealing the length of his throat. Henry stares, forgets to lower the spoon. His attention flicks from Ryeowook’s throat to his lips, hesitant around the bowl of the spoon as if he fears the sauce will be too hot. A flash of teeth, of tongue, and then his mouth closes around the spoon and he slurps up the sauce. Yeah, he actually slurps, and it shouldn’t sound as sexy as it does, because Henry’s fairly certain that when he slurps sauce, he just sounds like a pig.
Ryeowook sways back from the spoon, eyes closing just a little as he considers the taste. Henry holds his breath, awaiting judgement. He totally guessed at the whole thing, the quantities and shit, so it might be a complete fail, but he wants it to be good, he wants it to be awesome, he wants Ryeowook to be blown away by his expertise.
“Mm,” says Ryeowook at last, looking up all bright-eyed, “not bad.”
Not bad. Henry can accept that. No, he embraces it. That’s praise. Grinning, he dips the spoon again and takes a big mouthful of the sauce. It burns his tongue. He holds back an unmanly yelp and focuses on the flavour. It’s fine, yeah, but it’s missing something-a touch more sweetness, a little more bite.
“We need-” he begins, moving towards the clutter of bottles and jars on the counter.
“Sweet chilli sauce,” Ryeowook says, heading in the same direction.
Like stars they collide, not a big bang nor even a soft thud but a bump that nevertheless rocks Henry from his axis. And because he’s not thinking, because he’s reacting on instinct, he puts an arm around Ryeowook’s waist. The logic is, of course, that if he feels unsteady, then Ryeowook must feel unsteady, too. But logic overlooks a lot of other issues, such as the fact that Ryeowook seems a lot more balanced than Henry.
Henry is also holding onto the spoon. The spoon-wielding arm is draped around Ryeowook. Possibly there’s still some sauce on the spoon, and Henry doesn’t want to transfer it onto Ryeowook’s shirt, so he jerks his hand back and does a sort of awkward crab-like move to the side and ditches the spoon into the sink.
“Uh,” he says, “sweet chilli sauce would do it, yeah.”
He lets Ryeowook fetch the bottle, watches him drip a measured amount into the sauce. Then his pride reasserts itself and Henry takes up the wooden spoon, turns up the heat again, and agitates the sauce with what he hopes is Jamie Oliver panache.
The sauce comes to the boil. Bubbles form and pop, sending splats of tomato everywhere, over the counter, the hob, onto their clothes. They both reach to turn down the heat, Ryeowook snug against Henry’s body without seeming to be aware of it. Ryeowook turns to say something, realises their proximity, and freezes. They stare at each other.
Henry has half a dozen muddled thoughts. At least five of them involve kissing Ryeowook.
As if he can read Henry’s mind-a terrifying idea-Ryeowook’s lips part and his eyelashes flutter and he gets this look about him that’s almost sultry. It’s breathtaking, the shock of it, the power of it, and Henry tries to ground himself, like-hot surface, hot sauce, the others will come in soon-and then he stops thinking as Ryeowook reaches up and touches the side of Henry’s mouth.
Ryeowook’s expression goes from brooding to soft. His fingertip slides towards Henry’s lips. He stops; laughs, breathless and enchanting. “You have sauce,” he says, “just here,” and he wipes his finger over Henry’s chin.
Henry knows he didn’t have sauce there.
A door opens; closes. Henry takes a step away from Ryeowook. It’s a big step. He doesn’t mean for it to be quite that exaggerated, but it’s not like he can take baby steps back towards him, is it? And because he moves away from the stove, he’s away from the glow of heat and now he feels cold, and that’s just stupid.
“Something smells good!” Sungmin calls as he wanders into the kitchen.
Ryeowook smiles, makes ready to wave the praise over to Henry, but there’s nothing to praise but tomato sauce, because oh, crap- “The meatballs!” Henry blurts, pointing at the fridge. “The pasta!”
Sungmin looks startled. Ryeowook puts a hand to his mouth.
Henry yanks open the fridge door and grabs at the tray. There’s probably an art to cooking meatballs that involves placing them at regular intervals in the sauce, but he doesn’t have time for that and so he dumps the lot into the wok and pokes at them with the wooden spoon. Some of the meatballs-probably the ones he made-begin falling apart. Henry tries to stir around them. At this rate they’ll be eating deconstructed lasagne.
“Let me,” Ryeowook says, curving his fingers over Henry’s hand and taking over the stirring. He flicks Henry a glance, part amusement and part command. “Cook the pasta.”
Sungmin strolls closer to inspect the cooking process. “Need any help?”
“Everything’s under control.” Henry gives Sungmin a toothy grin as he brandishes a saucepan. He hopes they bought enough elk pasta.
* * *
Dinner is a success, even if Hyukjae is caught sneaking potato chips from a bag hidden in his jacket pocket. Donghae removes this temptation by snatching the bag and upending the chips onto the floor. Hyukjae jumps up to remonstrate, grapples with Donghae, and a half-eaten cake wrapped in fancy paper falls out of his other pocket and gets trodden on.
Ryeowook watches all this from his place at the table and laughs. He’s happy and relaxed and he eats two small helpings and gets sauce in the corners of his mouth. Henry resists the urge to wipe away the smudges, then feels irrationally jealous when Sungmin leans across the table and cleans Ryeowook’s face instead.
“This is really good,” Siwon says, spearing one of the pasta shapes and examining it. “I like the reindeer.”
“It’s an elk,” Ryeowook corrects him.
“A moose,” Henry says at the same time.
Siwon gives a cautious nod. “It’s really good.”
Ryeowook eats another elk head. It’s the most that Henry’s seen him eat in forever-proper food, that is, not the bubble tea and snacks that make up their diet when they’re filming variety shows until four in the morning. He looks so happy, and Henry thinks he’d be glad to cook for the rest of their time in Taiwan if it would make Ryeowook smile like that every day.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Henry says, getting to his feet.
“No.” Ryeowook sends a wicked glare down the length of the table. “Donghae will do the dishes.”
“Dude.” Donghae leans back in his chair and adopts an angelic expression. “Didn’t you see? I did the dishes last night. All of them.”
“Lies!” Ryeowook wags a finger at him.
“We had to re-wash them, man. They were in a right state.” Henry manages to keep a straight face and shakes his head. “So grimy, yeah. It’s like you only used one bowl of water and you didn’t rinse afterwards. It was horrible.”
Donghae frowns. Turns his head to look at Siwon. “You told me-”
Siwon huffs and excuses himself from the table, muttering something about learning his lines for tomorrow.
Ryeowook taps his fingers on the table. Donghae shuffles his feet. “Okay, I’ll do it. Kyuhyun, you’re helping.”
Kyuhyun blinks. “No, I’m not.”
Further ridiculousness is avoided by Sungmin nominating Hyukjae to dry the dishes. Everyone else retreats to a safe distance while these tasks are accomplished to the accompaniment of over-loud comments, random bursts of song, and the crash of something breaking.
Henry sits on the arm of the sofa, both feet on the seat cushion. Ryeowook curls up at the opposite end of the couch and hugs his arms across his stomach. “I think I ate too much.”
“But it was good, yeah?”
Ryeowook gives him a smile of piercing sweetness. “It was good. But now I’m very full. And sleepy.”
“Stay here then. Rest a bit.” Henry looks for the remote control. “We can watch TV. A crappy drama or something.”
“Okay.” Ryeowook settles deeper into the corner of the sofa. His gaze flickers towards Henry then slides away. “I really ate too much.”
“I had, like, five portions. That’s too much.” Henry starts channel hopping. After a while he gives the remote to Ryeowook, who chooses a sappy drama and watches until the first ad break, then switches to a news programme.
Zhou Mi comes over, sleek and attentive in tight black jeans and a grey knit top that probably cost more than the entire of Henry’s wardrobe. His hair is styled into ruffles and he’s wearing eyeliner and he looks frankly terrifying, but in a good way. He casts a glance at them and says, “Li Xu. I’m going out.”
Ryeowook looks up and smiles brightly. “Have a good time.”
“No,” Zhou Mi says, tilting his head and driving emphasis into his words. “I’m going out.”
There’s a tiny pause, and then Ryeowook says, “Oh!” and darts a glance at Henry, very quick, before he looks back at Zhou Mi. “I think I’ll stay in.”
Zhou Mi raises his eyebrows. “You’re sure?”
“Just for tonight.” Ryeowook runs his forefinger over the armrest of the sofa. “I’ll come with you next time.” He’s almost blushing, but Henry can’t be sure because of the way Ryeowook’s hair falls.
Henry looks from Zhou Mi to Ryeowook and back again. “Where’re you going? Is it someplace fun?”
Zhou Mi’s smile is brittle. “It can be fun. Sometimes.”
“Then let’s go together.” Henry jumps off the sofa. He’s never been curious about Ryeowook’s nights out with Zhou Mi, assuming them to be shopping-oriented whenever he thought about it, which wasn’t very often because he was usually doing something more interesting himself, such as shooting hoops with Donghae or watching really hilarious porn with Hyukjae. He’s not curious now, either, but getting the groceries and cooking was so much fun that he wants to stick beside Ryeowook for a bit longer, and if that means going out and looking at leopard-print scarves and zebra-print bags and fuck knows what else, he can deal. “I’m ready. Let’s go now.”
“I’d prefer to stay in,” Ryeowook says, all soft and sleepy-like.
“Sure?” Zhou Mi asks again, quieter now, and this time he actually looks at Henry before flicking his attention back to Ryeowook.
There’s something between them, an odd sort of vibrato that Henry’s never noticed before, and whatever it is, whatever it means, it rubs him the wrong way. And that’s weird, because Henry likes Zhou Mi, and it’s kind of freaky to feel agitated like this. He sits back down, regains the remote control, and switches from the news programme to another drama.
He doesn’t catch what, if anything, Ryeowook replies to Zhou Mi. He stares at the TV with great concentration until he’s aware of Ryeowook shifting across the couch, and when he looks around, he realises that Zhou Mi has gone and Ryeowook is on the verge of leaving.
Henry turns off the TV and stands up. “Where are you going?”
Ryeowook blinks. “To my room.”
“I’ll come with you,” Henry announces, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Then, when Ryeowook looks startled, he adds, “I’ll... bring my keyboard. Yes. My keyboard! Didn’t you want to, like, practice? You can practice on my keyboard.”
Ryeowook considers. “There’s a piano downstairs.”
“Mimi will be practicing on it. He always hogs that piano.”
A smile sputters across Ryeowook’s lips. “Zhou Mi has gone out.”
“Ah, yeah.” Henry had forgotten about that. “The piano downstairs is crappy. Use my keyboard. Let me just fetch it-”
He darts out of the sitting room and hurries towards his bedroom, lifts his keyboard into his arms and runs halfway across the room before he realises the plug is still in the socket and he’s jerked back by the length of the power cord. So he goes and unplugs it, and then there’s the hassle with the adaptor, and he has to loop the cord around his neck, and finally he’s ready, he’s only been delayed by a few minutes, and he dashes out of his room and barges into Ryeowook’s room without bothering to knock, only Ryeowook isn’t there.
Henry deposits the keyboard and its tangled length of cable and adaptor plug on the bed and goes out into the corridor. He has the horrible idea that maybe Ryeowook has got food poisoning from the elk pasta and he hurries to the bathroom. He stands there for a moment, then puts his ear to the door. But that’s just wrong, because guys need their own space and privacy sometimes, so Henry backs off and shuffles around, and then the sounds of energetic game-play emerging from Kyuhyun’s room draw him to the open door to watch Hyukjae and Donghae’s units expire horrifically in a lava-bath while Kyuhyun’s characters leap to safety.
“Come and die with us,” Hyukjae invites.
Henry shakes his head. “Can’t, man. Things to do.” He backs away just as the bathroom door opens and Ryeowook emerges, his face pale and bright. He doesn’t look like he’s got food poisoning, but there’s something different, some sort of emotion brimming in him, but Henry can’t quite work out what it is. It kind of looks like excitement, but that doesn’t make any sense, because they’re just going to practice on the keyboard, but then Ryeowook is very dedicated and seems to enjoy the process of learning much more than anyone else in the group.
Ryeowook smiles, brushes the hair from his eyes. “I’m sorry to make you wait.”
“Uh, no problem.” Henry feels confusion knot around his certainty, not that he’s certain of anything where Ryeowook is concerned, and he gestures towards Ryeowook’s room. “The keyboard awaits. Let’s go.”
* * *
Henry wakes up in Ryeowook’s bed.
It takes him a moment to orient himself. It’s dark. He’s still dressed. He has a raging hard-on and Ryeowook is asleep next to him. Once these facts are apparent, Henry notices lesser details. Like, it’s actually not all that dark, because Ryeowook didn’t draw the curtains all the way last night and so there’s a yellow-white security light glow bleeding into the room. Also, although he’s still dressed, Ryeowook isn’t. Or at least he is, but he’s definitely not wearing jeans and a shirt any more. Henry’s hand is trapped against the side of Ryeowook’s thigh. That’s how he knows, because Ryeowook’s thigh is bare. And warm. And soft, but with a hard pull of muscle beneath.
Henry wonders if he should move his hand, because technically he’s sort of groping Ryeowook, but if he moves his hand, Ryeowook might wake up, and that could be embarrassing. Or not. Actually, it might be more embarrassing if it wasn’t embarrassing. Henry thinks he’s getting confused again and lets his brain shift gears.
Ryeowook’s bed is really comfortable. That’s obviously why he fell asleep here. Henry remembers spending an hour or two helping Ryeowook practice on the keyboard. He doesn’t consider himself a good tutor, but for Ryeowook he somehow finds the patience within himself to slow down and advise, and he kind of likes it, especially when Ryeowook tilts his head and flips his hair and gives him a glistening look, eyes and teeth and soft, soft mouth.
He remembers the keyboard practice, and he remembers Sungmin coming in with a bottle of wine that he said was really expensive and it’d be a shame to waste it, and it was pretty awesome-tasting, and the lesson ended and Ryeowook asked him to play for them instead, and because drink always makes Henry want to show off, he switched the keyboard to the harpsichord setting and started on Rameau’s Gavotte and Variations. He played the gavotte too fast, not that anyone noticed, and so he had another drink and tried to explain what a gavotte is, and he remembers making a lame joke about Baroque n’ roll, and Sungmin looked blank and Ryeowook applauded like they were on a variety show and smiled and smiled, his cheeks flushed with the effects of the wine, and Henry remembers how gut-wrenchingly beautiful he looked.
Siwon came in sometime after that to complain that Sungmin had stolen his bottle of wine. Another bottle was produced from somewhere, and the evening descended into mindless chatter and random and often inaccurate recitals of SM Entertainment hits made more hilarious by the fact that the keyboard was still on the harpsichord setting.
Sungmin and Siwon left at some point, which should’ve been Henry’s signal to leave, too, except Henry remembers that he didn’t want to go and so-genius idea-he pretended to nap face-down on the keyboard.
He remembers Ryeowook rubbing his back, a comforting stroke across his shoulders and then a more tentative caress across skin, a light touch over his nape and into his hair. Then he must’ve fallen asleep for real, because he has only the fuzziest memory of waking once before, the keyboard taken from his embrace, and Ryeowook leading him to bed.
Henry supposes he should be glad he wasn’t wearing his baseball cap last night. How much lamer can anyone get? Lame for trying to impress Ryeowook with his cooking skills. Lame for trying to knock Ryeowook’s socks off with renditions of dances no one danced to any more written by dead Baroque composers. Just all-out lameness, really. He’s made of lame.
He tries to move his hand. Realises he should move his body first. Henry shifts sideways by about an inch. His hand has gone to sleep. He wiggles his fingers and manages to stroke Ryeowook’s thigh at the same time. That actually wasn’t part of his plan, and he freezes when Ryeowook mumbles something and stirs.
Henry lies still, heart pounding and his nerves jumpy. Ryeowook makes a small noise and turns onto his side, curling in against Henry’s warmth.
A whimper finds its way out of Henry’s mouth. He turns it into a cough, then hastily hushes himself, because, yeah, he really doesn’t want Ryeowook to wake up right now, because his cock is way too hard and he feels kind of ticklish all over and he should get out of bed right this minute.
Ryeowook moves closer. He tucks his face against the crook of Henry’s neck. Ryeowook’s hair, soft and tumbled with sleep, does a slow slide against Henry’s throat. “Ahh,” Henry says, involuntarily and probably not as loud as he thinks it sounds, “uh.” He can’t handle this. Wincing, he bumps up his shoulder to shake Ryeowook off.
Another little murmur. Ryeowook twists away, taking most of the duvet with him. Henry breathes again. Too soon, as it turns out, because Ryeowook does a half-roll to lie supine and flings out a hand, and the back of his hand makes contact with Henry’s erection.
Henry makes a strangled gurgling noise. It’s not as if the contact was a punch or anything; no, it doesn’t hurt, but the reality of Ryeowook’s hand anywhere in the vicinity of his cock makes Henry want to explode. And explosions are always messy, and now he really, really has to get out of here.
He manages to put one leg out of bed, foot on the floor, before Ryeowook turns over and cuddles up to Henry again. No shit, Ryeowook actually lays his head on Henry’s chest, face tilted up, a dream-smile on his lips. Henry thought that kind of thing only happened in movies.
Obviously not. Unless...
Suspicious, Henry stares at Ryeowook. What if this is all some kind of joke? What if Ryeowook is only pretending to be asleep? Henry listens to Ryeowook’s breathing, mostly steady, occasionally irregular, and studies his peaceful, smoothed-out expression. If Ryeowook is pretending, then he’s really good at it.
Henry dismisses the thought, too interested in examining the lines and curves and angles of the face tipped towards him. The indifferent light draws uneven blurs across Ryeowook’s expression, gentling everything.
He’s never understood why Ryeowook insists on wearing make-up all the time. It’s not like his skin is that bad. If anything, it’s soft and kind of peachy, and the contrast between it and the faint grey stripe of stubble on his top lip is really... compelling. Yeah, that’s it. Compelling. Henry stares at the hint of stubble and wonders if it’s soft, too. His gaze drifts down to Ryeowook’s mouth, pouted in sleep.
If only he would drool or snore or do something gross or funny. But no. He lies there, adorable and beautiful and breakable and-
That’s it, that’s absolutely it. Henry can’t take it any more. With a squashed howl of despair, he slides out of bed and thumps onto the floor. He lands on his tailbone, the shock of which momentarily cuts through the haze of lust. He sits up too fast and regrets it, his erection painful in his jeans. He swears, quietly and in English.
Ryeowook makes a dreamy sound. “Henry,” he says, and then he huddles back into the duvet.
The sound of his name on Ryeowook’s lips stops Henry for a moment, a lightning-strike of awareness going through him. He cradles the knowledge, hugs it close, then bolts across the floor, creeps across the corridor, and takes refuge in his own room, where he reacquaints himself with his right hand and a packet of tissues.
Part 2 >>>
Fandom: Super Junior M RPS
Pairing: Henry/Ryeowook
Rating: NC17
Summary: Henry likes Ryeowook. Ryeowook likes Henry. It should be easy, but something gets lost in translation.
Notes: For diagon, who saved it twice over, and with thanks to aitakute for answering my super-specific question ♥
A piacere, con brio
“Yo, yo, yo,” Henry yodels as he slouch-strides into the kitchen one morning. It’s after ten o’clock, and everyone else is up. Siwon and Donghae are away filming, but the rest of them have the day off. Sungmin is frowning at his phone, Zhou Mi is picking through the latest pile of gifts sent by fans, and Hyukjae is standing over Kyuhyun offering apparently unwanted advice on whatever he’s doing online.
Ryeowook is washing the dishes. A huge pile of dishes and pots and pans. The weird thing is, he seems to be washing dishes that are already clean and dry.
“Good morning, Henry,” Zhou Mi says in Mandarin.
“Hello,” says Sungmin in Korean.
“How’s it going?” Hyukjae says in English.
Kyuhyun just makes a noise that could be construed as a greeting.
Ryeowook clatters one dish against another and runs more hot water into the sink.
Henry wanders across the room and picks up a packet of cereal. He eyes the dishes. There are two clean, unwashed bowls in front of him. He starts to reach out, even gets as far as touching one, before Ryeowook says, “Don’t. It’s not clean.”
“Looks clean to me.” Henry hooks a finger over the rim of the bowl and drags it towards him.
“Not clean,” Ryeowook repeats, squeezing out the dishcloth into the bowl.
“Yo, what?” Henry stares at him in mock dismay and opens his arms wide, still holding the cereal box. “Just want my breakfast, man. That bowl looked clean to me.”
“Yes, well.” Ryeowook flips the long sweep of his fringe out of his eyes. The waterlogged bowl and its mate go into the sink. “What do you know about clean, hmm?”
“That’s uncalled-for cruelty at this time of morning,” Henry complains. “At any time, actually.” He untucks the flap on the cereal packet and stuffs his hand inside, scooping up the multigrain Cheerios and shoving them into his mouth. “Now see what you made me do,” he says, or tries to say, around the crunch of the cereal.
Ryeowook wrinkles his nose and does that cute thing with his mouth, halfway between a moue and a look of uncertainty-or in this case, disgust. He backs away, but before Henry can open the fridge door and grab some milk, Ryeowook picks up a tea towel and holds it out in silent command.
Henry puts his free hand-fingertips sticky with whatever shit they put on Cheerios-on his chest. “Me? Why?”
“You’re here,” Ryeowook says succinctly. “You can dry up. After all, you need a bowl so you can eat like a civilised man.”
“Civilised?” Henry says, stuffing more cereal into his face until his cheeks bulge. “I’m Canadian.”
Sungmin and Hyukjae snort, which was the reaction he wanted. Ryeowook just looks at him until he withers, puts down the Cheerios, and takes the tea towel.
“Okay, why am I drying up dishes that are already clean?” Henry holds the tea towel by two corners and snaps it like a matador shaking out a cape. He tosses it into the air, spins on one foot, and catches the cloth before it falls. He looks at the others. None of them are remotely impressed by his antics. “And why isn’t anyone else helping?”
Zhou Mi lifts his head. “No one else was stupid enough.”
Ryeowook turns and flicks hot water bubbles in Zhou Mi’s direction. “Henry is being kind.”
“Henry has-” Zhou Mi switches from Mandarin into Korean and finishes his sentence with a phrase Henry doesn’t know.
Ryeowook obviously knows, because he draws in his breath and sparks a look at Zhou Mi before swinging around and plunging his hands back into the soapy water. Henry swallows the remaining mouthful of cereal and shoots a quizzical glance at Sungmin and Hyukjae, who seem to be trying not to laugh.
Just awesome. He’s the butt of the joke again. He doesn’t mind so much, in fact he encourages it most of the time, because at least when he’s making people laugh, he feels included-but occasionally, just every now and then, he wishes he didn’t have to play the dorky foreigner.
Henry pastes a smile on his face and stuffs in another handful of cereal. It tastes dry and disgusting, and he shoves away the box, chewing frantically, swallowing to force the Cheerios mush past the lump in his throat. He grabs a plate from the mound on the draining board and dries it with brisk efficiency and over-attention.
“It’s nothing bad,” Ryeowook says softly. His hair is in his eyes again, but this time he doesn’t brush it back. He’s standing very still, his lashes tangled in the silk of his fringe. He looks sideways at Henry, just quickly. “Nothing bad against you. Believe me.” Colour climbs to his cheeks and he tosses his head, blows at his fringe, and dumps more plates into the sink.
Henry shifts his attention back to the teetering pile of wet dishes. If it’s nothing bad against him, then Zhou Mi must’ve been teasing Ryeowook. That’s kind of a crappy thing to do. Yeah, usually they all tease one another or bitch at each other as soon as they open their mouths, but usually Ryeowook brushes off such comments with laughter or shakes his head and hides his mouth behind his hands or makes loud, giggling complaint. He doesn’t blush and go all quiet, and Henry feels bad that he’s the cause, however indirectly, of such hushed embarrassment.
“So, like, why are we doing dishes that are already clean?” he asks.
“We,” Ryeowook gives him a blinding smile, one that socks him in the gut with its perfection, “we are doing the dishes again because Donghae did them last night. He posted a picture online of him pretending to wash up.”
Henry dries another three plates and starts on the bowls. “Probably he got his manager to do them. Or Siwon.”
“He says he did them all himself.” Ryeowook sounds arch. “He says the sink was overflowing with dirty dishes.” He sniffs. “He’s such a terrible liar.”
“So,” Henry tries to work this out, “we’re doing the dishes because Hae pretended to clean dishes that were already clean?”
Ryeowook flicks back his hair with soapy fingers and gives him another bright smile. “In essence, yes.”
Henry stacks the bowls. “Dude, is there the remotest possibility that, just maybe, you might be, y’know, over-reacting?”
“Oh, Henry.” Ryeowook looks amused. “Would you trust Donghae to wash up correctly?”
“Uh,” says Henry, “like, am I the person you should be asking?”
Ryeowook trembles with laughter. “Probably not.”
Henry blushes and scrubs at a mixing bowl. He knows there’s a procedure for washing up-a ritual, more like-one developed by Ryeowook and followed no matter which dorms or which country they’re in. It’s a kind of safety net, something familiar. Henry understands that more than most.
He hurries with the drying up, clearing the draining board within a few minutes. He leans on his elbows and watches Ryeowook wash and rinse the pots and pans. There’s a precision in his actions, but that’s Ryeowook all over. He acts like he’s already achieved perfection and doesn’t want to let it slip, even if it’s only in the perfect way to wash dishes.
Henry thinks about this, and he thinks about Ryeowook’s slender body, and the two things conjoin somehow into an idea, and his mouth opens and he says, “I want to cook with you today.”
Ryeowook turns his head. Stares. “You do?”
There’s no need for him to look so surprised. It’s not like Henry said, “Yo, Wookie, let’s screw”-and he has no idea why that example came to mind, either, but it’s in his head now and he has to shake off the mental images before he meets Ryeowook’s suspicion-sharp gaze.
“Yeah. It’ll be fun.” And weirdly enough, he thinks it will be fun, and not because he plans on switching off the oven or over-salting the dish, either. Henry spins on his heel and snaps the damp tea towel at the others. “Tonight,” he announces, “I’m going to make meatballs and tagliatelle!” The last three words he flourishes in English with a bad Italian accent.
Sungmin looks up with interest, but Hyukjae says, “Do you think we could have some normal food first, and then have the other thing?”
Kyuhyun cackles.
Henry ignores him. “Meatballs and tagliatelle are not dessert.” He grabs a wooden spoon and pounds it on the kitchen counter. “You will eat it and you will like it!”
Hyukjae looks worried.
“I’ll be helping him,” Ryeowook adds.
“Ah.” Hyukjae’s concerned expression softens into relief. “That’s okay, then. Should’ve said so earlier. We’ll eat it. Whatever it is.”
* * *
Tagliatelle is off the menu. They can’t find any in Carrefour, so Henry decides to buy pasta shaped like elk heads from IKEA instead.
“Is that a type of reindeer?” Ryeowook asks, fingering the pasta shapes through the cellophane covering on the box.
“Nah, it’s bigger.” Henry tries to demonstrate the size of an elk by waving his arms in the air. “It’s huge. Like a moose. Actually, it’s the same thing. A moose is an elk. Which is like a really big reindeer.”
Ryeowook looks confused, but he smiles and nods and they purchase the pasta.
Back at the dorms, Henry makes sure no one is in the vicinity of the kitchen. The only audience he wants is Ryeowook. Fortune favours him, and Henry empties the bags of groceries onto the table.
“You can be my sous-chef,” he says to Ryeowook, and starts issuing orders. Ryeowook obeys, setting out a mixing bowl and a wok and a chopping board and a sharp knife. Henry realises at that moment that maybe he should’ve looked up an actual recipe, but decides it doesn’t really matter. They’ve already done the shopping, and he’s fairly certain they got the most important component parts of the meal. It’s not like anyone’s going to care, as long as the food is edible.
Making the meatballs is easy. Henry tips the ground meat into the mixing bowl, seasons it, and adds an egg when Ryeowook suggests including it. Then he shoves his hands in the bowl and pulps the lot together. After squishing randomly for a while, he starts rolling small pieces into balls and sets them on a tray.
“You make some, too,” he tells Ryeowook. “This is the best part.”
Ryeowook pushes up his sleeves and joins in. His hands are long and narrow. It looks kind of obscene to see them covered in grease and herbs and a mixture of pork and beef mince, but it would sound stupid if Henry asked him to stop now. They stand close together over the bowl, and the only sound is the squidge of the meat.
Ryeowook forms his meatballs with careful precision, every one almost exactly the same as the other. He makes a neat row on the tray. Henry’s meatballs are large and prone to splitting. Ryeowook divides the larger meatballs without comment. He keeps his gaze on his task, but sometimes, unconsciously, he blows at the swinging ends of his fringe.
Henry looks up at that sound. His fingers dabble in meat and he stares at Ryeowook’s mouth and the sharp descending line of his cheek into his chin. He stares at the strained-honey-gold glaze of Ryeowook’s hair and the slick of mascara on his lashes. He stares until it’s troubling, and then Henry drops his gaze and makes another meatball.
Finally the ground meat is gone and the meatballs, all of mostly uniform size and shape, are placed on the tray in the fridge to firm up. That was Ryeowook’s idea. Now for the sauce.
“We should measure the ingredients,” Ryeowook says.
“No, we shouldn’t.” Henry opens a can of plum tomatoes and dumps them into the wok, then spends a couple of minutes stabbing at them with the edge of a wooden spoon until they lose their shape and go all mushy. “Another can. Actually, let’s use two more. Three more!”
It’s only when the tomatoes are bubbling away that Henry remembers that the sauce needs onions and garlic in it, too. He gets Ryeowook to peel and mince the garlic while he tackles the onions.
“Should we have done this first?” Ryeowook asks as he taps the garlic mush into the tomatoes.
“No,” Henry says, then adds, “but some people do.”
Ryeowook turns his head to hide his laughter.
They add salt and sugar and pepper and another clove of garlic, then throw in some random herbs. Henry turns the heat up; Ryeowook turns it down. They squabble good-naturedly over stirring the sauce. Henry finds a soup spoon and dips it into the mixture. He blows on it, then notices Ryeowook looking at him. It’s only polite to offer him first taste. Henry holds out the spoon. “Try it?”
He’s holding the spoon a little too high. Ryeowook lifts towards it, chin going up, revealing the length of his throat. Henry stares, forgets to lower the spoon. His attention flicks from Ryeowook’s throat to his lips, hesitant around the bowl of the spoon as if he fears the sauce will be too hot. A flash of teeth, of tongue, and then his mouth closes around the spoon and he slurps up the sauce. Yeah, he actually slurps, and it shouldn’t sound as sexy as it does, because Henry’s fairly certain that when he slurps sauce, he just sounds like a pig.
Ryeowook sways back from the spoon, eyes closing just a little as he considers the taste. Henry holds his breath, awaiting judgement. He totally guessed at the whole thing, the quantities and shit, so it might be a complete fail, but he wants it to be good, he wants it to be awesome, he wants Ryeowook to be blown away by his expertise.
“Mm,” says Ryeowook at last, looking up all bright-eyed, “not bad.”
Not bad. Henry can accept that. No, he embraces it. That’s praise. Grinning, he dips the spoon again and takes a big mouthful of the sauce. It burns his tongue. He holds back an unmanly yelp and focuses on the flavour. It’s fine, yeah, but it’s missing something-a touch more sweetness, a little more bite.
“We need-” he begins, moving towards the clutter of bottles and jars on the counter.
“Sweet chilli sauce,” Ryeowook says, heading in the same direction.
Like stars they collide, not a big bang nor even a soft thud but a bump that nevertheless rocks Henry from his axis. And because he’s not thinking, because he’s reacting on instinct, he puts an arm around Ryeowook’s waist. The logic is, of course, that if he feels unsteady, then Ryeowook must feel unsteady, too. But logic overlooks a lot of other issues, such as the fact that Ryeowook seems a lot more balanced than Henry.
Henry is also holding onto the spoon. The spoon-wielding arm is draped around Ryeowook. Possibly there’s still some sauce on the spoon, and Henry doesn’t want to transfer it onto Ryeowook’s shirt, so he jerks his hand back and does a sort of awkward crab-like move to the side and ditches the spoon into the sink.
“Uh,” he says, “sweet chilli sauce would do it, yeah.”
He lets Ryeowook fetch the bottle, watches him drip a measured amount into the sauce. Then his pride reasserts itself and Henry takes up the wooden spoon, turns up the heat again, and agitates the sauce with what he hopes is Jamie Oliver panache.
The sauce comes to the boil. Bubbles form and pop, sending splats of tomato everywhere, over the counter, the hob, onto their clothes. They both reach to turn down the heat, Ryeowook snug against Henry’s body without seeming to be aware of it. Ryeowook turns to say something, realises their proximity, and freezes. They stare at each other.
Henry has half a dozen muddled thoughts. At least five of them involve kissing Ryeowook.
As if he can read Henry’s mind-a terrifying idea-Ryeowook’s lips part and his eyelashes flutter and he gets this look about him that’s almost sultry. It’s breathtaking, the shock of it, the power of it, and Henry tries to ground himself, like-hot surface, hot sauce, the others will come in soon-and then he stops thinking as Ryeowook reaches up and touches the side of Henry’s mouth.
Ryeowook’s expression goes from brooding to soft. His fingertip slides towards Henry’s lips. He stops; laughs, breathless and enchanting. “You have sauce,” he says, “just here,” and he wipes his finger over Henry’s chin.
Henry knows he didn’t have sauce there.
A door opens; closes. Henry takes a step away from Ryeowook. It’s a big step. He doesn’t mean for it to be quite that exaggerated, but it’s not like he can take baby steps back towards him, is it? And because he moves away from the stove, he’s away from the glow of heat and now he feels cold, and that’s just stupid.
“Something smells good!” Sungmin calls as he wanders into the kitchen.
Ryeowook smiles, makes ready to wave the praise over to Henry, but there’s nothing to praise but tomato sauce, because oh, crap- “The meatballs!” Henry blurts, pointing at the fridge. “The pasta!”
Sungmin looks startled. Ryeowook puts a hand to his mouth.
Henry yanks open the fridge door and grabs at the tray. There’s probably an art to cooking meatballs that involves placing them at regular intervals in the sauce, but he doesn’t have time for that and so he dumps the lot into the wok and pokes at them with the wooden spoon. Some of the meatballs-probably the ones he made-begin falling apart. Henry tries to stir around them. At this rate they’ll be eating deconstructed lasagne.
“Let me,” Ryeowook says, curving his fingers over Henry’s hand and taking over the stirring. He flicks Henry a glance, part amusement and part command. “Cook the pasta.”
Sungmin strolls closer to inspect the cooking process. “Need any help?”
“Everything’s under control.” Henry gives Sungmin a toothy grin as he brandishes a saucepan. He hopes they bought enough elk pasta.
* * *
Dinner is a success, even if Hyukjae is caught sneaking potato chips from a bag hidden in his jacket pocket. Donghae removes this temptation by snatching the bag and upending the chips onto the floor. Hyukjae jumps up to remonstrate, grapples with Donghae, and a half-eaten cake wrapped in fancy paper falls out of his other pocket and gets trodden on.
Ryeowook watches all this from his place at the table and laughs. He’s happy and relaxed and he eats two small helpings and gets sauce in the corners of his mouth. Henry resists the urge to wipe away the smudges, then feels irrationally jealous when Sungmin leans across the table and cleans Ryeowook’s face instead.
“This is really good,” Siwon says, spearing one of the pasta shapes and examining it. “I like the reindeer.”
“It’s an elk,” Ryeowook corrects him.
“A moose,” Henry says at the same time.
Siwon gives a cautious nod. “It’s really good.”
Ryeowook eats another elk head. It’s the most that Henry’s seen him eat in forever-proper food, that is, not the bubble tea and snacks that make up their diet when they’re filming variety shows until four in the morning. He looks so happy, and Henry thinks he’d be glad to cook for the rest of their time in Taiwan if it would make Ryeowook smile like that every day.
“I’ll do the dishes,” Henry says, getting to his feet.
“No.” Ryeowook sends a wicked glare down the length of the table. “Donghae will do the dishes.”
“Dude.” Donghae leans back in his chair and adopts an angelic expression. “Didn’t you see? I did the dishes last night. All of them.”
“Lies!” Ryeowook wags a finger at him.
“We had to re-wash them, man. They were in a right state.” Henry manages to keep a straight face and shakes his head. “So grimy, yeah. It’s like you only used one bowl of water and you didn’t rinse afterwards. It was horrible.”
Donghae frowns. Turns his head to look at Siwon. “You told me-”
Siwon huffs and excuses himself from the table, muttering something about learning his lines for tomorrow.
Ryeowook taps his fingers on the table. Donghae shuffles his feet. “Okay, I’ll do it. Kyuhyun, you’re helping.”
Kyuhyun blinks. “No, I’m not.”
Further ridiculousness is avoided by Sungmin nominating Hyukjae to dry the dishes. Everyone else retreats to a safe distance while these tasks are accomplished to the accompaniment of over-loud comments, random bursts of song, and the crash of something breaking.
Henry sits on the arm of the sofa, both feet on the seat cushion. Ryeowook curls up at the opposite end of the couch and hugs his arms across his stomach. “I think I ate too much.”
“But it was good, yeah?”
Ryeowook gives him a smile of piercing sweetness. “It was good. But now I’m very full. And sleepy.”
“Stay here then. Rest a bit.” Henry looks for the remote control. “We can watch TV. A crappy drama or something.”
“Okay.” Ryeowook settles deeper into the corner of the sofa. His gaze flickers towards Henry then slides away. “I really ate too much.”
“I had, like, five portions. That’s too much.” Henry starts channel hopping. After a while he gives the remote to Ryeowook, who chooses a sappy drama and watches until the first ad break, then switches to a news programme.
Zhou Mi comes over, sleek and attentive in tight black jeans and a grey knit top that probably cost more than the entire of Henry’s wardrobe. His hair is styled into ruffles and he’s wearing eyeliner and he looks frankly terrifying, but in a good way. He casts a glance at them and says, “Li Xu. I’m going out.”
Ryeowook looks up and smiles brightly. “Have a good time.”
“No,” Zhou Mi says, tilting his head and driving emphasis into his words. “I’m going out.”
There’s a tiny pause, and then Ryeowook says, “Oh!” and darts a glance at Henry, very quick, before he looks back at Zhou Mi. “I think I’ll stay in.”
Zhou Mi raises his eyebrows. “You’re sure?”
“Just for tonight.” Ryeowook runs his forefinger over the armrest of the sofa. “I’ll come with you next time.” He’s almost blushing, but Henry can’t be sure because of the way Ryeowook’s hair falls.
Henry looks from Zhou Mi to Ryeowook and back again. “Where’re you going? Is it someplace fun?”
Zhou Mi’s smile is brittle. “It can be fun. Sometimes.”
“Then let’s go together.” Henry jumps off the sofa. He’s never been curious about Ryeowook’s nights out with Zhou Mi, assuming them to be shopping-oriented whenever he thought about it, which wasn’t very often because he was usually doing something more interesting himself, such as shooting hoops with Donghae or watching really hilarious porn with Hyukjae. He’s not curious now, either, but getting the groceries and cooking was so much fun that he wants to stick beside Ryeowook for a bit longer, and if that means going out and looking at leopard-print scarves and zebra-print bags and fuck knows what else, he can deal. “I’m ready. Let’s go now.”
“I’d prefer to stay in,” Ryeowook says, all soft and sleepy-like.
“Sure?” Zhou Mi asks again, quieter now, and this time he actually looks at Henry before flicking his attention back to Ryeowook.
There’s something between them, an odd sort of vibrato that Henry’s never noticed before, and whatever it is, whatever it means, it rubs him the wrong way. And that’s weird, because Henry likes Zhou Mi, and it’s kind of freaky to feel agitated like this. He sits back down, regains the remote control, and switches from the news programme to another drama.
He doesn’t catch what, if anything, Ryeowook replies to Zhou Mi. He stares at the TV with great concentration until he’s aware of Ryeowook shifting across the couch, and when he looks around, he realises that Zhou Mi has gone and Ryeowook is on the verge of leaving.
Henry turns off the TV and stands up. “Where are you going?”
Ryeowook blinks. “To my room.”
“I’ll come with you,” Henry announces, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. Then, when Ryeowook looks startled, he adds, “I’ll... bring my keyboard. Yes. My keyboard! Didn’t you want to, like, practice? You can practice on my keyboard.”
Ryeowook considers. “There’s a piano downstairs.”
“Mimi will be practicing on it. He always hogs that piano.”
A smile sputters across Ryeowook’s lips. “Zhou Mi has gone out.”
“Ah, yeah.” Henry had forgotten about that. “The piano downstairs is crappy. Use my keyboard. Let me just fetch it-”
He darts out of the sitting room and hurries towards his bedroom, lifts his keyboard into his arms and runs halfway across the room before he realises the plug is still in the socket and he’s jerked back by the length of the power cord. So he goes and unplugs it, and then there’s the hassle with the adaptor, and he has to loop the cord around his neck, and finally he’s ready, he’s only been delayed by a few minutes, and he dashes out of his room and barges into Ryeowook’s room without bothering to knock, only Ryeowook isn’t there.
Henry deposits the keyboard and its tangled length of cable and adaptor plug on the bed and goes out into the corridor. He has the horrible idea that maybe Ryeowook has got food poisoning from the elk pasta and he hurries to the bathroom. He stands there for a moment, then puts his ear to the door. But that’s just wrong, because guys need their own space and privacy sometimes, so Henry backs off and shuffles around, and then the sounds of energetic game-play emerging from Kyuhyun’s room draw him to the open door to watch Hyukjae and Donghae’s units expire horrifically in a lava-bath while Kyuhyun’s characters leap to safety.
“Come and die with us,” Hyukjae invites.
Henry shakes his head. “Can’t, man. Things to do.” He backs away just as the bathroom door opens and Ryeowook emerges, his face pale and bright. He doesn’t look like he’s got food poisoning, but there’s something different, some sort of emotion brimming in him, but Henry can’t quite work out what it is. It kind of looks like excitement, but that doesn’t make any sense, because they’re just going to practice on the keyboard, but then Ryeowook is very dedicated and seems to enjoy the process of learning much more than anyone else in the group.
Ryeowook smiles, brushes the hair from his eyes. “I’m sorry to make you wait.”
“Uh, no problem.” Henry feels confusion knot around his certainty, not that he’s certain of anything where Ryeowook is concerned, and he gestures towards Ryeowook’s room. “The keyboard awaits. Let’s go.”
* * *
Henry wakes up in Ryeowook’s bed.
It takes him a moment to orient himself. It’s dark. He’s still dressed. He has a raging hard-on and Ryeowook is asleep next to him. Once these facts are apparent, Henry notices lesser details. Like, it’s actually not all that dark, because Ryeowook didn’t draw the curtains all the way last night and so there’s a yellow-white security light glow bleeding into the room. Also, although he’s still dressed, Ryeowook isn’t. Or at least he is, but he’s definitely not wearing jeans and a shirt any more. Henry’s hand is trapped against the side of Ryeowook’s thigh. That’s how he knows, because Ryeowook’s thigh is bare. And warm. And soft, but with a hard pull of muscle beneath.
Henry wonders if he should move his hand, because technically he’s sort of groping Ryeowook, but if he moves his hand, Ryeowook might wake up, and that could be embarrassing. Or not. Actually, it might be more embarrassing if it wasn’t embarrassing. Henry thinks he’s getting confused again and lets his brain shift gears.
Ryeowook’s bed is really comfortable. That’s obviously why he fell asleep here. Henry remembers spending an hour or two helping Ryeowook practice on the keyboard. He doesn’t consider himself a good tutor, but for Ryeowook he somehow finds the patience within himself to slow down and advise, and he kind of likes it, especially when Ryeowook tilts his head and flips his hair and gives him a glistening look, eyes and teeth and soft, soft mouth.
He remembers the keyboard practice, and he remembers Sungmin coming in with a bottle of wine that he said was really expensive and it’d be a shame to waste it, and it was pretty awesome-tasting, and the lesson ended and Ryeowook asked him to play for them instead, and because drink always makes Henry want to show off, he switched the keyboard to the harpsichord setting and started on Rameau’s Gavotte and Variations. He played the gavotte too fast, not that anyone noticed, and so he had another drink and tried to explain what a gavotte is, and he remembers making a lame joke about Baroque n’ roll, and Sungmin looked blank and Ryeowook applauded like they were on a variety show and smiled and smiled, his cheeks flushed with the effects of the wine, and Henry remembers how gut-wrenchingly beautiful he looked.
Siwon came in sometime after that to complain that Sungmin had stolen his bottle of wine. Another bottle was produced from somewhere, and the evening descended into mindless chatter and random and often inaccurate recitals of SM Entertainment hits made more hilarious by the fact that the keyboard was still on the harpsichord setting.
Sungmin and Siwon left at some point, which should’ve been Henry’s signal to leave, too, except Henry remembers that he didn’t want to go and so-genius idea-he pretended to nap face-down on the keyboard.
He remembers Ryeowook rubbing his back, a comforting stroke across his shoulders and then a more tentative caress across skin, a light touch over his nape and into his hair. Then he must’ve fallen asleep for real, because he has only the fuzziest memory of waking once before, the keyboard taken from his embrace, and Ryeowook leading him to bed.
Henry supposes he should be glad he wasn’t wearing his baseball cap last night. How much lamer can anyone get? Lame for trying to impress Ryeowook with his cooking skills. Lame for trying to knock Ryeowook’s socks off with renditions of dances no one danced to any more written by dead Baroque composers. Just all-out lameness, really. He’s made of lame.
He tries to move his hand. Realises he should move his body first. Henry shifts sideways by about an inch. His hand has gone to sleep. He wiggles his fingers and manages to stroke Ryeowook’s thigh at the same time. That actually wasn’t part of his plan, and he freezes when Ryeowook mumbles something and stirs.
Henry lies still, heart pounding and his nerves jumpy. Ryeowook makes a small noise and turns onto his side, curling in against Henry’s warmth.
A whimper finds its way out of Henry’s mouth. He turns it into a cough, then hastily hushes himself, because, yeah, he really doesn’t want Ryeowook to wake up right now, because his cock is way too hard and he feels kind of ticklish all over and he should get out of bed right this minute.
Ryeowook moves closer. He tucks his face against the crook of Henry’s neck. Ryeowook’s hair, soft and tumbled with sleep, does a slow slide against Henry’s throat. “Ahh,” Henry says, involuntarily and probably not as loud as he thinks it sounds, “uh.” He can’t handle this. Wincing, he bumps up his shoulder to shake Ryeowook off.
Another little murmur. Ryeowook twists away, taking most of the duvet with him. Henry breathes again. Too soon, as it turns out, because Ryeowook does a half-roll to lie supine and flings out a hand, and the back of his hand makes contact with Henry’s erection.
Henry makes a strangled gurgling noise. It’s not as if the contact was a punch or anything; no, it doesn’t hurt, but the reality of Ryeowook’s hand anywhere in the vicinity of his cock makes Henry want to explode. And explosions are always messy, and now he really, really has to get out of here.
He manages to put one leg out of bed, foot on the floor, before Ryeowook turns over and cuddles up to Henry again. No shit, Ryeowook actually lays his head on Henry’s chest, face tilted up, a dream-smile on his lips. Henry thought that kind of thing only happened in movies.
Obviously not. Unless...
Suspicious, Henry stares at Ryeowook. What if this is all some kind of joke? What if Ryeowook is only pretending to be asleep? Henry listens to Ryeowook’s breathing, mostly steady, occasionally irregular, and studies his peaceful, smoothed-out expression. If Ryeowook is pretending, then he’s really good at it.
Henry dismisses the thought, too interested in examining the lines and curves and angles of the face tipped towards him. The indifferent light draws uneven blurs across Ryeowook’s expression, gentling everything.
He’s never understood why Ryeowook insists on wearing make-up all the time. It’s not like his skin is that bad. If anything, it’s soft and kind of peachy, and the contrast between it and the faint grey stripe of stubble on his top lip is really... compelling. Yeah, that’s it. Compelling. Henry stares at the hint of stubble and wonders if it’s soft, too. His gaze drifts down to Ryeowook’s mouth, pouted in sleep.
If only he would drool or snore or do something gross or funny. But no. He lies there, adorable and beautiful and breakable and-
That’s it, that’s absolutely it. Henry can’t take it any more. With a squashed howl of despair, he slides out of bed and thumps onto the floor. He lands on his tailbone, the shock of which momentarily cuts through the haze of lust. He sits up too fast and regrets it, his erection painful in his jeans. He swears, quietly and in English.
Ryeowook makes a dreamy sound. “Henry,” he says, and then he huddles back into the duvet.
The sound of his name on Ryeowook’s lips stops Henry for a moment, a lightning-strike of awareness going through him. He cradles the knowledge, hugs it close, then bolts across the floor, creeps across the corridor, and takes refuge in his own room, where he reacquaints himself with his right hand and a packet of tissues.
Part 2 >>>