Playing Safe
Title: Playing Safe
Pairing: Yesung/Ryeowook
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 4,009
Summary: Ryeowook is one of Korea’s biggest singing stars. Jongwoon is his bodyguard. Inspired by this picture.
A/N: Birthday fic for my favourite magnae, shiryu_yugure! Happy birthday sweets, I love you! Happy early birthday too to specialrainbow, the two of you are people who are very, very special to me. I hope you both like this. ♥
___
It takes Jongwoon four rounds of interviews, two physical examinations, a battery of psychological tests, and three months before he’s approved as Kim Ryeowook’s personal bodyguard.
It takes him only one meeting to decide that he doesn’t like his new boss. When Youngwoon, the bodyguard he’s replacing, takes him to Ryeowook’s spacious, luxuriously-appointed apartment to introduce them, all he gets from his employer is a cold, appraising flick of the eyes from top to toe, before he says, “He’s so much smaller than you, Youngwoon. Are you sure he’s up to the job?”
Jongwoon bristles at that, but stays silent when Youngwoon shoots him a look. He’s served four years in the military, spent most of his early career in the police force, and spent the last two years as a bodyguard for the CEO of the largest construction company in Seoul, one of the wealthiest men in Asia. After him, anyone would be a piece of cake, including the spoilt singing star in front of him whom Jongwoon already suspects may be more trouble than the bountiful salary he’ll be getting. He’s young, barely more than a boy really, and tiny, and Jongwoon can only imagine the problems he’ll have herding him through a crowd of fangirls.
Not for the first time, he regrets leaving his previous boss; it wasn’t something he’d wanted, he’d enjoyed his work and all the first-class perks it brought him, but in retrospect, perhaps he shouldn’t have slept with his boss’s mistress. There was only one place for Jongwoon to go after the woman had an attack of the guilts and went crying to his boss, and that was an unceremonious exit out the door. It was fortunate that he’d remembered his old high school friend, Youngwoon, was in the same line of work, and had given him a call on the off-chance that there might be a vacancy where he was. As luck would have it, Youngwoon was leaving Ryeowook’s employ and was looking for someone to take over his position; it was only a matter of passing the various tests Ryeowook’s agency had set after that.
He listens to Youngwoon tell Ryeowook all that, extolling his virtues (perhaps exaggerating them, and fortunately skipping the part about him being fired for sleeping with his boss’s woman), but Ryeowook’s only response is, “I need to get back to my work. Get me my sweater, Youngwoon, I’m cold. And -" a pause "- you, Jongwoon, is that it? Bring me a glass of apple juice. Youngwoon will tell you what to do.” And he walks off into the little soundproof room built into his apartment where, as Youngwoon says, he writes all his songs, hips swaying gracefully with a fluidity born of hours of dance practice.
Youngwoon scratches his head sheepishly, turning to look at Jongwoon. “Well, there you go,” he says.
“Wow,” Jongwoon says, staring at the door. “Is he always like this?”
“He has his cute moments, I guess,” Youngwoon answers. “He’s not that bad once you get used to him.”
Jongwoon nods grimly.
___
“He’s… demanding,” Youngwoon tells him one night over cups of coffee and plumes of cigarette smoke, after they’ve pored over Ryeowook’s schedule for the next day. He’s due to appear at an open-air charity concert, and as Youngwoon says, those are nightmares to navigate, having to steer him through screaming, frenzied, maddened crowds and get him safely to his car. It’s Jongwoon’s first full day tomorrow, as it’s Youngwoon’s final day today; he’s staying long enough to take Jongwoon through the last details and have a quick chat with him before taking what’s left of his stuff in Ryeowook’s apartment and leaving.
Jongwoon had thought it odd when Youngwoon had first told him that he would have his own bedroom in Ryeowook’s apartment, every other room fitted with a buzzer that connects to it in case Ryeowook needs him. The only problem is, as far as he can see, Ryeowook seems to need his bodyguards more for pointless errands than for security reasons.
“I can already tell,” Jongwoon replies dryly. “Are we bodyguards or are we servants? You know, he should just get a full-time servant, rather than just a cleaner who comes in 3 times a week.”
Youngwoon shrugs. “Ryeowook likes his privacy.”
“And having his bodyguard live with him is private?”
Youngwoon grins. “I’ve kind of lost count of the number of times I’ve had to stop fangirls from trying to break in. I don’t know how they even get into the building, with all the security guards and locks, but quite often we come back and there’ll be a couple of them hanging outside the door, screaming for Ryeowook-oppa and trying to grab his clothes and underwear and shoes. He needs a bodyguard with him at all hours, or his tiny defenceless little self will get swallowed like a baby seal in a pool of sharks.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Jongwoon snorts.
“Well, I’ve worked for Ryeowook long enough that I sort of treat him like my little brother, you know? He seems cold at first, but he gets better as he gets used to you. And like I said, he’s cute sometimes. I’ve grown quite fond of him.”
Cute? Jongwoon shakes his head. It’s been only a week and Ryeowook hasn’t shown the slightest iota of the cuteness that he’s so famed for on stage. And as for treating him like a little brother? Jongwoon has a younger brother at home, and while he’s always found Jongjin to be an irritant while they were growing up, he’s practically an angel compared to this spoilt and cosseted singer who has an entire country at his feet. Jongwoon makes up his mind to call Jongjin more often and treat him better, maybe take him out for a meal on one of his rare off days -
The buzzer rings insistently, breaking into his thoughts, and both men look up.
“God, it’s 1 a.m.,” Jongwoon groans. “What does he want now?”
“He’s still composing, and he’s probably hungry,” Youngwoon says, standing up. He grabs his duffel bag from the floor and swings it over his shoulder, stubbing his cigarette out and clapping a meaty hand on Jongwoon’s shoulder. “You know what to do by now.”
“Yeah. One blueberry muffin, warmed, and a glass of milk, cold.”
Youngwoon laughs as he opens the door and both of them walk out together, Jongwoon heading towards the kitchen, him going to the front door. “Take care of him.”
“I should have been a waiter instead, that’s all I’m doing for him, serving him food,” Jongwoon grumbles, and Youngwoon leaves with a parting laugh and a final shout of “You haven’t seen what those scary fangirls can do yet!”
___
Over the next few weeks, Jongwoon learns that the nickname Ryeowook’s fans have given him is “doll”, because he looks so much like one with his fair skin and pretty eyes and perfect lips and slender, delicate body.
Jongwoon’s nickname for him is “nightmare”.
Ryeowook isn’t a bad person to work for, per se. He certainly doesn’t ill-treat Jongwoon, and most of the time he’s closeted in his little home studio composing anyway. It’s the incessant demands for his attention that annoy Jongwoon; he can’t even read a book in peace in his bedroom before Ryeowook’s buzzing for him for something stupid or other. Jongwoon decides that Ryeowook must have been born with his hands on a piano, because while there’s no denying that he’s talented, he also seems incapable of using them for anything else, like picking up a piece of paper that’s flown to the floor behind him. No, he has to buzz Jongwoon for that, and then demand that he sits in and ‘keeps him company’. Jongwoon does it, because he has no choice, but it isn’t even really company, because Ryeowook hardly talks to him anyway, unless it’s to ask him to do something.
One time, Jongwoon decides to tell him straight, after Ryeowook’s buzzed him into the studio, just to tell him he’s cold, and could he please pass him his sweater? And when Jongwoon looks, the sweater is flung over the couch right behind him, and he picks it up and hands it to Ryeowook, while saying with as much politeness as he can muster, “You know, this was just behind you.”
“Uh huh,” Ryeowook replies distractedly, slipping the garment over his head. His hair falls into his eyes with the movements and he shakes it out of his face, bending back over his music sheets. “So?”
“So you could have just turned around to get it, instead of asking me to come all the way here from my room.”
The soft scratching of pencil on paper stops; Ryeowook looks up slowly at him, and Jongwoon steels himself for a diva-esque explosion. He starts mentally counting the amount of money he has left over from his last paycheque, and calculating how long he can stretch it out until he finds another job, because he’s going to be fired, he’s sure of it, Ryeowook’s going to throw him out and -
But instead of screaming or shouting or throwing things, Ryeowook simply looks at him with hurt eyes and his bottom lip trembling, and says in a small voice, “But I’m composing. I can’t stop when I’m composing, or I’ll lose it, lose the momentum. Jongwoon, are you saying that I treat you badly?”
Jongwoon’s at a loss for words, especially since Ryeowook’s lip is wobbling dangerously and his eyes are starting to fill, and quickly he waves his hands and shakes his head. “No! No, that’s not what I meant at all. I - I understand.”
“Do you? Really?” Ryeowook asks, blinking wide eyes at him, and he can only nod as Ryeowook flashes him a contented smile and goes back to his music.
He ends up staying all night in the studio, nodding off on the couch and jumping whenever he hears Ryeowook so much as shift or rustle papers.
It’s amazing, he thinks wryly to himself, what “the doll” can do once he chooses to turn on those “cute moments” Youngwoon mentioned. But Jongwoon never ever complains about Ryeowook’s requests again. If anyone knew that he made Ryeowook cry, he’d probably be ripped limb from limb.
___
Ryeowook does get better as the weeks melt into months. He’s less cold and he talks more, and as Jongwoon gets more used to his habits and his likes and dislikes, and learns to anticipate them, Ryeowook’s requests become less bothersome. And in fact, he can be cute, especially when he smiles; Jongwoon finds himself enchanted by his smile, because it’s bright and infectious and lights up his entire face from his eyes to his cheeks to his lips, and it always makes him feel like smiling right back, no matter how demanding or irritating Ryeowook was just a second ago.
Not that he completely adores having to pick up after him, of course, but it’s easier on him when he presents Ryeowook with his customary midnight snacks and makes sure he’s kept warm when working -Ryeowook’s too thin to do well in cold weather, Jongwoon thinks - before he has a chance to sound that irritating buzzer.
What doesn’t get better, though, are the fangirls.
Youngwoon wasn’t kidding about them, Jongwoon thinks desperately for the umpteenth time as he ushers Ryeowook through the horde at the Beijing airport, where they’ve just arrived for Ryeowook’s first concert there. It’s bad enough in Korea, where fans squeal and scream and split his eardrums at the merest glimpse of Ryeowook, but at least there are barricades to hold them at bay most of the time, and if they happen to be in the streets, most of them are too shy to do more than gape or squeal or ask for a quick picture and autograph.
But things are different in China. There are no barricades, for one, and the girls are bolder and closing in, hemmming them in, and Jongwoon can’t move. And for another, it’s all unfamiliar, the directions, the language, and when Jongwoon raises his voice, telling them to move back, to clear some space, they don’t understand or pretend not to understand what his tone of voice and his angry face and his arms held out in front of him in warding gestures should tell them clearly.
Ryeowook’s close behind him, but they’re caught in the crowd and can’t move, but over the heads of the screaming girls Jongwoon sees, to his relief, the airport security guards wading in, trying to clear a path for them.
“Ryeowook, stay close to me,” he says, reaching behind him but grasping only empty air instead. “Ryeowook?”
He turns, and there he is, almost swallowed up by the crowd of screaming fans, hands grabbing at him as he’s pulled backwards, his arms flying up to shield his face.
“Jongwoon!” Ryeowook manages to cry out, and Jongwoon dives forward, shoving bodies ruthlessly out of the way, not caring that girls are tripping or falling as he barrels into them and wraps his arms around Ryeowook’s body, pulling him away from the maddened girls tugging at his clothes and bag. Hands are still coming at him, pressing into his back, his sides, his arms, but he pulls Ryeowook flush against his chest, holding him protectively, feeling him tremble with shock and fear.
“Get lost,” he snarls, glaring with fiery eyes at the girls around him; he’s through being polite when they decided to endanger Ryeowook. “Get the fuck away from him.”
And finally, finally, they retreat, pushed back by a combination of Jongwoon’s anger and the airport guards chivvying them away, and Jongwoon puts a careful arm around Ryeowook's shoulders and guides him out of the airport.
In the car, on the way to the hotel, Ryeowook curls up with his legs tucked under him on the seat, and Jongwoon continues to hold him because he’s still shaking, holds him close and rubs his hand up and down his arm reassuringly until he falls asleep, small and soft and vulnerable against him.
___
That very night, when they’re back at the hotel after his concert, there are reports in the papers that Kim Ryeowook’s bodyguard ‘swore’ at fans, complete with pictures of Jongwoon pushing at girls, but Jongwoon only laughs at the articles, and Ryeowook skims them with a derisive snort before turning bright smiling eyes on Jongwoon.
“Thank you,” he says softly, crumpling up the papers and tossing them carelessly aside; Jongwoon bends to pick them up, out of habit, and Ryeowook stops him with a hand on his cheek.
“I’m glad you were there,” he says, and Jongwoon’s seized by a sudden desire to turn and nuzzle into Ryeowook’s palm, except that of course he won’t because Ryeowook’s his boss - his male boss, at that.
So he straightens up - Ryeowook’s hand drops from his face - and runs his hand through his hair self-consciously. “Uh. It’s, well, it’s my job, isn’t it?”
Ryeowook’s stopped smiling, and in the back of his mind Jongwoon thinks that he’s done something wrong. But all he does is sigh, a small, soft one, before he looks away from Jongwoon and slides under the covers on the huge hotel bed.
“I’m very tired,” he whispers, his voice muffled by the bedclothes. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Yes, of course,” Jongwoon says, snapping to attention. “Good night, Ryeowook.”
He tucks the sheets tighter around Ryeowook’s body and switches off the bedside lamp before making his way to the door and letting himself out. The last thing he sees before he closes the door are Ryeowook’s eyes, big and bright and staring at him, and the outline of his body under the sheets, looking even smaller in the vastness of the king-sized bed.
___
They’re back in Korea, and Ryeowook’s starting to plan for his third album. That means things are easier on Jongwoon, as he has far less public engagements to attend. Ryeowook spends most of his time in his apartment, holed up in his music room into the wee hours of the morning, feverishly composing and singing, sometimes until he falls asleep at the piano.
The first time Jongwoon finds him like that, slumped over the low desk where he writes his music, he takes the blanket from Ryeowook’s bedroom and wraps it around him, noting grimly how pronounced his eye bags are and wondering how long Ryeowook’s going to keep losing sleep.
The second time he finds Ryeowook asleep in the room, face pressed against the keys of his piano and his hands still limp on the keyboard, he picks him up and carries him carefully into his bedroom before arranging him on his bed, feeling how light and small Ryeowook is in his arms and thinking that really, Ryeowook needs to eat more, delicate bones pushing up underneath his skin so that Jongwoon can feel every jut and ridge.
The third time, Ryeowook isn’t the one who falls asleep. It’s Jongwoon who drifts off first, wedged comfortably in the couch reading as he keeps a watchful eye on Ryeowook on the piano and gets him whatever he needs. He stares as Ryeowook plays a few bars and frowns prettily, teeth worrying at his pencil before he rubs out notes and scribbles some more, then tries playing the bars out again.
He falls asleep, lulled by a combination of slow melodies and the peaceful sight of Ryeowook at work, but before long he’s woken up by a warm weight on top of him and forces his bleary eyes open to see Ryeowook climbing on top of him, burrowing into his chest.
“Ryeowook?” he asks hoarsely, struggling to sit up. “Sorry, I just - god, what time is it? Do you need something? Are you hungry?”
“No,” Ryeowook says, small hands on his shoulders and pushing him back down into the couch. “No, I don’t want anything. I just want to close my eyes and rest for a while.”
“I’ll take you to your room - “
“No,” Ryeowook says again, this time more firmly. “I’m fine here. And I have to go back to my music soon anyway. Just let me rest for a moment.”
“I’ll let you have the couch then,” Jongwoon says, trying to sit up again, but Ryeowook pushes him once more, a frown on his face, which, close up, is gray from exhaustion.
“I want to be here. With you.” It isn’t a request, and Jongwoon tenses up as Ryeowook nuzzles into his neck, hands on his chest and thighs gripping his hips and backside settled on his abdomen. “I just need a few minutes… to shut… and I will…”
He’s asleep before he gets all his words out, warm breath tickling Jongwoon’s neck and his lips just slightly pressed into his skin and his hair tickling Jongwoon’s nose. And before Jongwoon knows it, he’s curled his arms around Ryeowook, one hand stroking his hair and the fingers of the other tracing the bumps of his spine under his t-shirt.
He falls asleep like that, wrapped up warm and snug in Ryeowook.
___
Jongwoon doesn’t quite know what to do at first when Ryeowook kisses him one night after he’s started recording for his new album. From spending hours in his home studio, he moves to spending hours in the company’s recording studio, singing until his voice cracks and grows hoarse, and Jongwoon plies him with tumblers of warm honey that he prepares fresh every morning and carries along with him in thermos flasks.
It’s on one of these nights when they’re in the car and on the way home, Ryeowook silent and grim because he’d spent all day trying to get this one song right and his voice had completely given way, the high notes refusing to leave his exhausted throat without cracking. Jongwoon keeps quiet, not wanting to antagonize Ryeowook when he’s upset enough, but then Ryeowook begins to cry, not making any noise but for little gasping breaths, his chest heaving silently and his shoulders shaking and fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Ryeowook?” Jongwoon asks anxiously, cupping his chin and tilting his head up to look at him. “What’s wrong, don’t cry, it’ll make your voice worse - we’ll just go back and rest for a couple of days and it’ll be okay again - “
Ryeowook reaches up and kisses him then, hard and insistent and born out of a need to feel a comforting warm body on his, and Jongwoon’s too shocked to kiss back or pull back, even as Ryeowook’s hands tighten into fists in his shirt. It’s only when Ryeowook coaxes his lips apart with his tongue that Jongwoon responds, hesitantly at first, then bolder as Ryeowook’s tears dry up and his breathing becomes more erratic, but not because he’s crying.
Ryeowook tastes like the honey Jongwoon makes for him.
___
They don’t speak of the kiss for the longest time. Neither do they mention the late-night cuddles on the couch, or the times when Ryeowook enters Jongwoon’s bedroom and slides under the sheets next to him, back pressed to front, or even the couple of times Jongwoon slips guiltily into Ryeowook’s luxurious bedroom and stands, fidgeting, staring down at him, until Ryeowook raises himself on one elbow with a tired but welcoming smile and pulls him into his bed, curling himself up like a lazy cat into Jongwoon’s side.
Jongwoon’s slept with many women before this, but never with a man. Not like this, at least, holding someone close and feeling his heartbeat against his chest and tracing fingers over his knuckles or cheekbones or shoulder blades while he sleeps, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. He guesses, as he brushes soft, barely-there kisses across Ryeowook’s forehead, that he’s never been in love before this either. Not before Ryeowook.
___
That’s not something they speak of either, love. Not when Ryeowook’s a star who has girls throwing themselves at his feet, and when Jongwoon’s just his bodyguard.
But when Ryeowook finally releases his album and it’s back to the everyday frenzy of performances, schedules, and mad rushes from one place to another, it’s Jongwoon whom Ryeowook looks for in the midst of surging crowds, locking hands as Jongwoon leads him to his waiting car. It’s Jongwoon whose arms Ryeowook collapses into at the end of an exhausting day, and it’s Jongwoon who Ryeowook runs to when his manager tells him that his album’s gone platinum, laughing and clapping his hands before jumping on him, making him stagger backwards, and kissing him breathless.
It’s Jongwoon that Ryeowook celebrates with after winning an award for his album, downing soju over grilled meat at a restaurant, and later when they’re back home Ryeowook breaks out a bottle of wine he’s kept for special occasions.
There’s something different about it when Ryeowook pushes him into the bed and climbs on top of him and kisses him again, and it’s not the alcohol. It’s just the way Ryeowook feels against him, tiny and pliant and sweet, and the way Ryeowook’s bare skin feels under his fingers and mouth as the alcohol gives Jongwoon enough courage to push his shirt up and out of the way, and the way Ryeowook gasps his name, over and over, whimpers I love you-s into his neck that he can’t help but reply to as he presses into him, soft and slow and gentle.
It’s all very surreal to Jongwoon, and he falls asleep after with Ryeowook pulled close to him, thinking hazily that it’s all a very nice dream. When he wakes up the next day with the sun shining in through the curtains and Ryeowook still ensconced in his arms, breathing deeply and contentedly, Jongwoon realizes, with a rush of relief, that it doesn’t matter that Ryeowook’s a star, or that he’s just a bodyguard, because Ryeowook loves him, and that’s all that matters.
Pairing: Yesung/Ryeowook
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 4,009
Summary: Ryeowook is one of Korea’s biggest singing stars. Jongwoon is his bodyguard. Inspired by this picture.
A/N: Birthday fic for my favourite magnae, shiryu_yugure! Happy birthday sweets, I love you! Happy early birthday too to specialrainbow, the two of you are people who are very, very special to me. I hope you both like this. ♥
___
It takes Jongwoon four rounds of interviews, two physical examinations, a battery of psychological tests, and three months before he’s approved as Kim Ryeowook’s personal bodyguard.
It takes him only one meeting to decide that he doesn’t like his new boss. When Youngwoon, the bodyguard he’s replacing, takes him to Ryeowook’s spacious, luxuriously-appointed apartment to introduce them, all he gets from his employer is a cold, appraising flick of the eyes from top to toe, before he says, “He’s so much smaller than you, Youngwoon. Are you sure he’s up to the job?”
Jongwoon bristles at that, but stays silent when Youngwoon shoots him a look. He’s served four years in the military, spent most of his early career in the police force, and spent the last two years as a bodyguard for the CEO of the largest construction company in Seoul, one of the wealthiest men in Asia. After him, anyone would be a piece of cake, including the spoilt singing star in front of him whom Jongwoon already suspects may be more trouble than the bountiful salary he’ll be getting. He’s young, barely more than a boy really, and tiny, and Jongwoon can only imagine the problems he’ll have herding him through a crowd of fangirls.
Not for the first time, he regrets leaving his previous boss; it wasn’t something he’d wanted, he’d enjoyed his work and all the first-class perks it brought him, but in retrospect, perhaps he shouldn’t have slept with his boss’s mistress. There was only one place for Jongwoon to go after the woman had an attack of the guilts and went crying to his boss, and that was an unceremonious exit out the door. It was fortunate that he’d remembered his old high school friend, Youngwoon, was in the same line of work, and had given him a call on the off-chance that there might be a vacancy where he was. As luck would have it, Youngwoon was leaving Ryeowook’s employ and was looking for someone to take over his position; it was only a matter of passing the various tests Ryeowook’s agency had set after that.
He listens to Youngwoon tell Ryeowook all that, extolling his virtues (perhaps exaggerating them, and fortunately skipping the part about him being fired for sleeping with his boss’s woman), but Ryeowook’s only response is, “I need to get back to my work. Get me my sweater, Youngwoon, I’m cold. And -" a pause "- you, Jongwoon, is that it? Bring me a glass of apple juice. Youngwoon will tell you what to do.” And he walks off into the little soundproof room built into his apartment where, as Youngwoon says, he writes all his songs, hips swaying gracefully with a fluidity born of hours of dance practice.
Youngwoon scratches his head sheepishly, turning to look at Jongwoon. “Well, there you go,” he says.
“Wow,” Jongwoon says, staring at the door. “Is he always like this?”
“He has his cute moments, I guess,” Youngwoon answers. “He’s not that bad once you get used to him.”
Jongwoon nods grimly.
___
“He’s… demanding,” Youngwoon tells him one night over cups of coffee and plumes of cigarette smoke, after they’ve pored over Ryeowook’s schedule for the next day. He’s due to appear at an open-air charity concert, and as Youngwoon says, those are nightmares to navigate, having to steer him through screaming, frenzied, maddened crowds and get him safely to his car. It’s Jongwoon’s first full day tomorrow, as it’s Youngwoon’s final day today; he’s staying long enough to take Jongwoon through the last details and have a quick chat with him before taking what’s left of his stuff in Ryeowook’s apartment and leaving.
Jongwoon had thought it odd when Youngwoon had first told him that he would have his own bedroom in Ryeowook’s apartment, every other room fitted with a buzzer that connects to it in case Ryeowook needs him. The only problem is, as far as he can see, Ryeowook seems to need his bodyguards more for pointless errands than for security reasons.
“I can already tell,” Jongwoon replies dryly. “Are we bodyguards or are we servants? You know, he should just get a full-time servant, rather than just a cleaner who comes in 3 times a week.”
Youngwoon shrugs. “Ryeowook likes his privacy.”
“And having his bodyguard live with him is private?”
Youngwoon grins. “I’ve kind of lost count of the number of times I’ve had to stop fangirls from trying to break in. I don’t know how they even get into the building, with all the security guards and locks, but quite often we come back and there’ll be a couple of them hanging outside the door, screaming for Ryeowook-oppa and trying to grab his clothes and underwear and shoes. He needs a bodyguard with him at all hours, or his tiny defenceless little self will get swallowed like a baby seal in a pool of sharks.”
“You’re so dramatic,” Jongwoon snorts.
“Well, I’ve worked for Ryeowook long enough that I sort of treat him like my little brother, you know? He seems cold at first, but he gets better as he gets used to you. And like I said, he’s cute sometimes. I’ve grown quite fond of him.”
Cute? Jongwoon shakes his head. It’s been only a week and Ryeowook hasn’t shown the slightest iota of the cuteness that he’s so famed for on stage. And as for treating him like a little brother? Jongwoon has a younger brother at home, and while he’s always found Jongjin to be an irritant while they were growing up, he’s practically an angel compared to this spoilt and cosseted singer who has an entire country at his feet. Jongwoon makes up his mind to call Jongjin more often and treat him better, maybe take him out for a meal on one of his rare off days -
The buzzer rings insistently, breaking into his thoughts, and both men look up.
“God, it’s 1 a.m.,” Jongwoon groans. “What does he want now?”
“He’s still composing, and he’s probably hungry,” Youngwoon says, standing up. He grabs his duffel bag from the floor and swings it over his shoulder, stubbing his cigarette out and clapping a meaty hand on Jongwoon’s shoulder. “You know what to do by now.”
“Yeah. One blueberry muffin, warmed, and a glass of milk, cold.”
Youngwoon laughs as he opens the door and both of them walk out together, Jongwoon heading towards the kitchen, him going to the front door. “Take care of him.”
“I should have been a waiter instead, that’s all I’m doing for him, serving him food,” Jongwoon grumbles, and Youngwoon leaves with a parting laugh and a final shout of “You haven’t seen what those scary fangirls can do yet!”
___
Over the next few weeks, Jongwoon learns that the nickname Ryeowook’s fans have given him is “doll”, because he looks so much like one with his fair skin and pretty eyes and perfect lips and slender, delicate body.
Jongwoon’s nickname for him is “nightmare”.
Ryeowook isn’t a bad person to work for, per se. He certainly doesn’t ill-treat Jongwoon, and most of the time he’s closeted in his little home studio composing anyway. It’s the incessant demands for his attention that annoy Jongwoon; he can’t even read a book in peace in his bedroom before Ryeowook’s buzzing for him for something stupid or other. Jongwoon decides that Ryeowook must have been born with his hands on a piano, because while there’s no denying that he’s talented, he also seems incapable of using them for anything else, like picking up a piece of paper that’s flown to the floor behind him. No, he has to buzz Jongwoon for that, and then demand that he sits in and ‘keeps him company’. Jongwoon does it, because he has no choice, but it isn’t even really company, because Ryeowook hardly talks to him anyway, unless it’s to ask him to do something.
One time, Jongwoon decides to tell him straight, after Ryeowook’s buzzed him into the studio, just to tell him he’s cold, and could he please pass him his sweater? And when Jongwoon looks, the sweater is flung over the couch right behind him, and he picks it up and hands it to Ryeowook, while saying with as much politeness as he can muster, “You know, this was just behind you.”
“Uh huh,” Ryeowook replies distractedly, slipping the garment over his head. His hair falls into his eyes with the movements and he shakes it out of his face, bending back over his music sheets. “So?”
“So you could have just turned around to get it, instead of asking me to come all the way here from my room.”
The soft scratching of pencil on paper stops; Ryeowook looks up slowly at him, and Jongwoon steels himself for a diva-esque explosion. He starts mentally counting the amount of money he has left over from his last paycheque, and calculating how long he can stretch it out until he finds another job, because he’s going to be fired, he’s sure of it, Ryeowook’s going to throw him out and -
But instead of screaming or shouting or throwing things, Ryeowook simply looks at him with hurt eyes and his bottom lip trembling, and says in a small voice, “But I’m composing. I can’t stop when I’m composing, or I’ll lose it, lose the momentum. Jongwoon, are you saying that I treat you badly?”
Jongwoon’s at a loss for words, especially since Ryeowook’s lip is wobbling dangerously and his eyes are starting to fill, and quickly he waves his hands and shakes his head. “No! No, that’s not what I meant at all. I - I understand.”
“Do you? Really?” Ryeowook asks, blinking wide eyes at him, and he can only nod as Ryeowook flashes him a contented smile and goes back to his music.
He ends up staying all night in the studio, nodding off on the couch and jumping whenever he hears Ryeowook so much as shift or rustle papers.
It’s amazing, he thinks wryly to himself, what “the doll” can do once he chooses to turn on those “cute moments” Youngwoon mentioned. But Jongwoon never ever complains about Ryeowook’s requests again. If anyone knew that he made Ryeowook cry, he’d probably be ripped limb from limb.
___
Ryeowook does get better as the weeks melt into months. He’s less cold and he talks more, and as Jongwoon gets more used to his habits and his likes and dislikes, and learns to anticipate them, Ryeowook’s requests become less bothersome. And in fact, he can be cute, especially when he smiles; Jongwoon finds himself enchanted by his smile, because it’s bright and infectious and lights up his entire face from his eyes to his cheeks to his lips, and it always makes him feel like smiling right back, no matter how demanding or irritating Ryeowook was just a second ago.
Not that he completely adores having to pick up after him, of course, but it’s easier on him when he presents Ryeowook with his customary midnight snacks and makes sure he’s kept warm when working -Ryeowook’s too thin to do well in cold weather, Jongwoon thinks - before he has a chance to sound that irritating buzzer.
What doesn’t get better, though, are the fangirls.
Youngwoon wasn’t kidding about them, Jongwoon thinks desperately for the umpteenth time as he ushers Ryeowook through the horde at the Beijing airport, where they’ve just arrived for Ryeowook’s first concert there. It’s bad enough in Korea, where fans squeal and scream and split his eardrums at the merest glimpse of Ryeowook, but at least there are barricades to hold them at bay most of the time, and if they happen to be in the streets, most of them are too shy to do more than gape or squeal or ask for a quick picture and autograph.
But things are different in China. There are no barricades, for one, and the girls are bolder and closing in, hemmming them in, and Jongwoon can’t move. And for another, it’s all unfamiliar, the directions, the language, and when Jongwoon raises his voice, telling them to move back, to clear some space, they don’t understand or pretend not to understand what his tone of voice and his angry face and his arms held out in front of him in warding gestures should tell them clearly.
Ryeowook’s close behind him, but they’re caught in the crowd and can’t move, but over the heads of the screaming girls Jongwoon sees, to his relief, the airport security guards wading in, trying to clear a path for them.
“Ryeowook, stay close to me,” he says, reaching behind him but grasping only empty air instead. “Ryeowook?”
He turns, and there he is, almost swallowed up by the crowd of screaming fans, hands grabbing at him as he’s pulled backwards, his arms flying up to shield his face.
“Jongwoon!” Ryeowook manages to cry out, and Jongwoon dives forward, shoving bodies ruthlessly out of the way, not caring that girls are tripping or falling as he barrels into them and wraps his arms around Ryeowook’s body, pulling him away from the maddened girls tugging at his clothes and bag. Hands are still coming at him, pressing into his back, his sides, his arms, but he pulls Ryeowook flush against his chest, holding him protectively, feeling him tremble with shock and fear.
“Get lost,” he snarls, glaring with fiery eyes at the girls around him; he’s through being polite when they decided to endanger Ryeowook. “Get the fuck away from him.”
And finally, finally, they retreat, pushed back by a combination of Jongwoon’s anger and the airport guards chivvying them away, and Jongwoon puts a careful arm around Ryeowook's shoulders and guides him out of the airport.
In the car, on the way to the hotel, Ryeowook curls up with his legs tucked under him on the seat, and Jongwoon continues to hold him because he’s still shaking, holds him close and rubs his hand up and down his arm reassuringly until he falls asleep, small and soft and vulnerable against him.
___
That very night, when they’re back at the hotel after his concert, there are reports in the papers that Kim Ryeowook’s bodyguard ‘swore’ at fans, complete with pictures of Jongwoon pushing at girls, but Jongwoon only laughs at the articles, and Ryeowook skims them with a derisive snort before turning bright smiling eyes on Jongwoon.
“Thank you,” he says softly, crumpling up the papers and tossing them carelessly aside; Jongwoon bends to pick them up, out of habit, and Ryeowook stops him with a hand on his cheek.
“I’m glad you were there,” he says, and Jongwoon’s seized by a sudden desire to turn and nuzzle into Ryeowook’s palm, except that of course he won’t because Ryeowook’s his boss - his male boss, at that.
So he straightens up - Ryeowook’s hand drops from his face - and runs his hand through his hair self-consciously. “Uh. It’s, well, it’s my job, isn’t it?”
Ryeowook’s stopped smiling, and in the back of his mind Jongwoon thinks that he’s done something wrong. But all he does is sigh, a small, soft one, before he looks away from Jongwoon and slides under the covers on the huge hotel bed.
“I’m very tired,” he whispers, his voice muffled by the bedclothes. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Yes, of course,” Jongwoon says, snapping to attention. “Good night, Ryeowook.”
He tucks the sheets tighter around Ryeowook’s body and switches off the bedside lamp before making his way to the door and letting himself out. The last thing he sees before he closes the door are Ryeowook’s eyes, big and bright and staring at him, and the outline of his body under the sheets, looking even smaller in the vastness of the king-sized bed.
___
They’re back in Korea, and Ryeowook’s starting to plan for his third album. That means things are easier on Jongwoon, as he has far less public engagements to attend. Ryeowook spends most of his time in his apartment, holed up in his music room into the wee hours of the morning, feverishly composing and singing, sometimes until he falls asleep at the piano.
The first time Jongwoon finds him like that, slumped over the low desk where he writes his music, he takes the blanket from Ryeowook’s bedroom and wraps it around him, noting grimly how pronounced his eye bags are and wondering how long Ryeowook’s going to keep losing sleep.
The second time he finds Ryeowook asleep in the room, face pressed against the keys of his piano and his hands still limp on the keyboard, he picks him up and carries him carefully into his bedroom before arranging him on his bed, feeling how light and small Ryeowook is in his arms and thinking that really, Ryeowook needs to eat more, delicate bones pushing up underneath his skin so that Jongwoon can feel every jut and ridge.
The third time, Ryeowook isn’t the one who falls asleep. It’s Jongwoon who drifts off first, wedged comfortably in the couch reading as he keeps a watchful eye on Ryeowook on the piano and gets him whatever he needs. He stares as Ryeowook plays a few bars and frowns prettily, teeth worrying at his pencil before he rubs out notes and scribbles some more, then tries playing the bars out again.
He falls asleep, lulled by a combination of slow melodies and the peaceful sight of Ryeowook at work, but before long he’s woken up by a warm weight on top of him and forces his bleary eyes open to see Ryeowook climbing on top of him, burrowing into his chest.
“Ryeowook?” he asks hoarsely, struggling to sit up. “Sorry, I just - god, what time is it? Do you need something? Are you hungry?”
“No,” Ryeowook says, small hands on his shoulders and pushing him back down into the couch. “No, I don’t want anything. I just want to close my eyes and rest for a while.”
“I’ll take you to your room - “
“No,” Ryeowook says again, this time more firmly. “I’m fine here. And I have to go back to my music soon anyway. Just let me rest for a moment.”
“I’ll let you have the couch then,” Jongwoon says, trying to sit up again, but Ryeowook pushes him once more, a frown on his face, which, close up, is gray from exhaustion.
“I want to be here. With you.” It isn’t a request, and Jongwoon tenses up as Ryeowook nuzzles into his neck, hands on his chest and thighs gripping his hips and backside settled on his abdomen. “I just need a few minutes… to shut… and I will…”
He’s asleep before he gets all his words out, warm breath tickling Jongwoon’s neck and his lips just slightly pressed into his skin and his hair tickling Jongwoon’s nose. And before Jongwoon knows it, he’s curled his arms around Ryeowook, one hand stroking his hair and the fingers of the other tracing the bumps of his spine under his t-shirt.
He falls asleep like that, wrapped up warm and snug in Ryeowook.
___
Jongwoon doesn’t quite know what to do at first when Ryeowook kisses him one night after he’s started recording for his new album. From spending hours in his home studio, he moves to spending hours in the company’s recording studio, singing until his voice cracks and grows hoarse, and Jongwoon plies him with tumblers of warm honey that he prepares fresh every morning and carries along with him in thermos flasks.
It’s on one of these nights when they’re in the car and on the way home, Ryeowook silent and grim because he’d spent all day trying to get this one song right and his voice had completely given way, the high notes refusing to leave his exhausted throat without cracking. Jongwoon keeps quiet, not wanting to antagonize Ryeowook when he’s upset enough, but then Ryeowook begins to cry, not making any noise but for little gasping breaths, his chest heaving silently and his shoulders shaking and fat tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Ryeowook?” Jongwoon asks anxiously, cupping his chin and tilting his head up to look at him. “What’s wrong, don’t cry, it’ll make your voice worse - we’ll just go back and rest for a couple of days and it’ll be okay again - “
Ryeowook reaches up and kisses him then, hard and insistent and born out of a need to feel a comforting warm body on his, and Jongwoon’s too shocked to kiss back or pull back, even as Ryeowook’s hands tighten into fists in his shirt. It’s only when Ryeowook coaxes his lips apart with his tongue that Jongwoon responds, hesitantly at first, then bolder as Ryeowook’s tears dry up and his breathing becomes more erratic, but not because he’s crying.
Ryeowook tastes like the honey Jongwoon makes for him.
___
They don’t speak of the kiss for the longest time. Neither do they mention the late-night cuddles on the couch, or the times when Ryeowook enters Jongwoon’s bedroom and slides under the sheets next to him, back pressed to front, or even the couple of times Jongwoon slips guiltily into Ryeowook’s luxurious bedroom and stands, fidgeting, staring down at him, until Ryeowook raises himself on one elbow with a tired but welcoming smile and pulls him into his bed, curling himself up like a lazy cat into Jongwoon’s side.
Jongwoon’s slept with many women before this, but never with a man. Not like this, at least, holding someone close and feeling his heartbeat against his chest and tracing fingers over his knuckles or cheekbones or shoulder blades while he sleeps, watching the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. He guesses, as he brushes soft, barely-there kisses across Ryeowook’s forehead, that he’s never been in love before this either. Not before Ryeowook.
___
That’s not something they speak of either, love. Not when Ryeowook’s a star who has girls throwing themselves at his feet, and when Jongwoon’s just his bodyguard.
But when Ryeowook finally releases his album and it’s back to the everyday frenzy of performances, schedules, and mad rushes from one place to another, it’s Jongwoon whom Ryeowook looks for in the midst of surging crowds, locking hands as Jongwoon leads him to his waiting car. It’s Jongwoon whose arms Ryeowook collapses into at the end of an exhausting day, and it’s Jongwoon who Ryeowook runs to when his manager tells him that his album’s gone platinum, laughing and clapping his hands before jumping on him, making him stagger backwards, and kissing him breathless.
It’s Jongwoon that Ryeowook celebrates with after winning an award for his album, downing soju over grilled meat at a restaurant, and later when they’re back home Ryeowook breaks out a bottle of wine he’s kept for special occasions.
There’s something different about it when Ryeowook pushes him into the bed and climbs on top of him and kisses him again, and it’s not the alcohol. It’s just the way Ryeowook feels against him, tiny and pliant and sweet, and the way Ryeowook’s bare skin feels under his fingers and mouth as the alcohol gives Jongwoon enough courage to push his shirt up and out of the way, and the way Ryeowook gasps his name, over and over, whimpers I love you-s into his neck that he can’t help but reply to as he presses into him, soft and slow and gentle.
It’s all very surreal to Jongwoon, and he falls asleep after with Ryeowook pulled close to him, thinking hazily that it’s all a very nice dream. When he wakes up the next day with the sun shining in through the curtains and Ryeowook still ensconced in his arms, breathing deeply and contentedly, Jongwoon realizes, with a rush of relief, that it doesn’t matter that Ryeowook’s a star, or that he’s just a bodyguard, because Ryeowook loves him, and that’s all that matters.