just reach out and hold my hand...
...because together we can fight the monsters in our fairytale.
Pairings: Hanchul in my opinion, though it is open to interpretation
Rated: PG-13 for angst
*inspired by the performance of the gay Polish-Russian dancer on Germany's Got Talent....sorry :P
~
You’re standing in the shadows at the back of the concert hall, hood thrown over your head as an extra precaution. The fans’ greatest dream is to see you here tonight, and you know that. But you also know that in their delight, they’ll want to tell everyone else, which means that the company will find out-and you can’t let that happen.
The curtain rises amidst the cheers of the fans and you watch as he takes the stage, lithe body flowing almost like water as he fights a hologram of an enemy in a fiery battle of martial arts. Darkness sweeps through the hall once he delivers the killing blow, and the fans’ voices rise once again in a cheer. You remember, with a slight pang, that once upon a time you would have been up there on stage with him, your palm pressed tight against his for that brief second of obscurity, when it’s just you and him.
When the lights come on again, he’s sitting in a plastic folding chair someone’s brought out, greeting the fans and thanking them for coming to even such a small performance. He adds something, sounding sheepish, and the fans laugh. You feel a bit frustrated that you’d never put much effort into learning his native tongue.
He says something else, and the fans hush as music starts playing softly, a tinkling introduction that sounds almost nostalgic. You close your eyes as he starts singing, and let his voice wrap around you like a caress. His voice is nowhere near as strong and clear as those of some of the other members of the group you’d once been in together, but it’s far more beautiful to your ears.
The fans sing along as the song finishes with a quiet almost-trill, and even from here you can see the tears (of happiness? of heartbreak? you can’t be sure) he’s holding back. But then he smiles brightly, continuing to talk to his fans, and by the time he stands up to dance to his next song, the emotion in his eyes is gone, replaced by the familiar burning passion you have always associated with his performances.
Shifting your weight slightly as the concert continues, you wonder briefly if it would have been worth the risk to buy a ticket that would have let you sit down for the two hours that the concert will last. Your knee will still ache if you stand for too long, even though the car accident that caused the injury was years ago. (And you can’t help but remember how, when you woke up half-paralyzed and terrified in the hospital, he was holding your hand and stroking your hair, uncaring of who could have seen it.)
A hiss of pain escapes your lips as you attempt to stretch your leg to prevent it from hurting too much later, and you swear that he turns to face you, eyes seeming to focus on your face even though you know there’s no way he can see you. You blink and then he’s falling to the ground, hand outstretched, the movement so graceful you’re not sure if it’s a mistake or part of the dance.
The concert goes on, and when he bows to his fans one last time and thanks them once again for coming, you know it’s your cue to leave. Slipping out before any of the fans rise from their seats, you turn and walk down a side hallway, following the path that the kind security guard you’d spoken with had told you leads to the backstage area.
Stylists and stage crew members are bustling about and you keep your head down, not quite sure if they can be trusted not to reveal your presence here. Thankfully, no one questions you as you turn down another hallway and lift your hand to knock firmly on the door of his dressing room.
He calls out something in his native language that you think means wait a moment, please, and several pounding heartbeats of yours pass before the door opens.
It’s been so long since you last saw him and you don’t care how much he judges you for the way you stare at him, drinking in the sight of those soft, kind features that you’ve so dearly missed. He looks nearly the same as he had all those years ago when he-left, you force yourself to think it. (It’s nothing but the truth and you’re nothing if not honest to yourself.)
“Come in,” he says finally, and you notice with no small amount of satisfaction that he’s switched to your language seemingly effortlessly. “Take a seat, make yourself comfortable. Just give me a moment to change.”
You do as he says, waiting as he disappears behind the folding screen in the corner to take off the glittery outfit he’d worn for the performance and change into something more casual. You’re a little hurt that he doesn’t feel comfortable enough to change in front of you, but something had to have changed in all these years you’ve been apart.
He steps out from behind the screen again in a few short moments and takes a seat across from you, opening his mouth like he wants to say something but hesitating as if he’s not sure he’s allowed to say it. You simply wait; you’re not good with words other than using them as cruel barbs, and you don’t think he’d have so easily forgotten that.
“Why are you here?” he asks finally. It seems to be the most neutral thing he could have said.
“I came to watch you perform, of course,” you answer, subtly challenging him to remember the reason why it should be so obvious that you’d come to his concert.
He looks at you, steadily, and something about his eyes makes you unable to hold his gaze. You drop your gaze to the floor, only now remembering ruefully that he’s still the only one who can command you as easily as a flick of the wrist.
“I hope you enjoyed the concert,” he says, and curse him for knowing you so well that he knows exactly what you want him to say, and he won’t say it. “Have you run into any difficulties yet with the language barrier?” he adds, and when you snap your head up to look at him you can tell he’s laughing at you.
You growl under your breath. “No, darling, I have not,” you tell him, and watch as he stiffens at the endearment that falls so easily from your lips. You let your gaze turn a little reproachful, a little goading. Just say it. Acknowledge it.
He sighs, knowing the look on your face well. “Baby,” he says, in his native language, and a thrill runs down your spine. “What do you want me to say? We...were lovers once. Then the world got in our way.”
“The world didn’t get in our way,” you correct him, knowing you sound angry but you have to say it. “You got in our way. You and your decision to leave the company even though I told you that that was the one thing I would never do, even for you.”
“What did you want me to do?” he counters, his temper rising slowly but surely. “They nearly killed me! True, they never raised a hand against me, but I almost died, baby. You were the only thing that kept me there for so long.”
“Are you accusing me of being the cause of your illnesses?” you demand, stunned and thoroughly furious now.
His eyes soften and he reaches out across the empty space between the two of you, the gesture confident even though you yourself are not even sure if you want to take his hand. “I’m not accusing you of anything, baby. I don’t regret a single moment I spent with you, only the way we separated. It could have been better...” His gaze darkens, before he continues.
“But it also could have been a lot worse. You could have not been brave enough to go behind the company’s back to continue to support me. You could have never come to find me again, to talk to me, to resolve our differences as we’re doing now. You could have lived the rest of your life never seeing me again.”
You bite your lip, trying not to cry. He always manages to do what no one else can.
“So what do you say, baby?” he asks, even more gently. “Should we give this another chance, or have you already declared defeat?”
“I never declare defeat,” you tell him, pretending not to notice the lone tear trailing down your cheek until he leans forward suddenly and wipes it away for you.
“Good,” he says simply, smiling-softly, radiantly, lovingly-at you, and you reach out and press your palm tight against his, tangling your fingers together.