Fake
by: keylimebliss
pairing: Tablo/Hyukjae
rating: R
Summary: He danced with his mind, carefully reciting each step in his head, and wished he could dance with his heart instead.
Warnings: angst, implied sex, swearing.
AN: I'm not hating on Lee Sooman or implying that he does this. It's just for the plot people, no need to hate him so much.
-_-|||
While I'm at it, characters aren't mine.
.:|:.
Hyukjae was twenty-two and dressed in light blue cotton and gaudy pants. He had a fraction of his hair tied up in a parody of a baby girl’s.
He was smiling brightly at the camera, as if he liked his outfit, as if he actually had pillow fights at his age, as if he believed in what he was singing.
He never felt so disgusted with himself, with his stupidly large and gummy smile.
.:|:.
Tablo, he mused, was beautiful in a way he would never be again.
He was willing to bet Tablo never lied about what he was singing, that he believed and felt every line in his heart, in his body.
He was beautiful on stage, passionate and real.
Hyukjae wished he could be like that, that he could dance thoughtlessly and mindlessly and beautifully.
.:|:.
The man in front of him had a kind face.
He looked like the ideal husband, the ideal father, the ideal man.
Looks, Hyukjae learned a long time ago as he slid down the length of a different man’s body to bring himself eye level to his crotch, really didn’t matter. Looks were more than deceiving, they were paradoxical.
He smiled back at him with an equally kind face, only a bit more coy. He let the collar of his shirt slip to expose a bit more of his skin, acutely aware of the man’s eyes attached to that small area of skin.
He pulled him closer to him, to the bed, and gave up all pretenses of control as the man lowered his face onto his neck and sucked on the delicate skin there, softened by a myriad of lotions and chemicals.
.:|:.
There was something wonderfully romantic about the awkward way Tablo grabbed his hand and whispered to him, “I think I like you,” face red with alcohol and embarrassment,
In retrospect, Hyukjae wished that he wouldn’t, that he couldn't to answer in less awkward way. He wished that he hadn’t let out that particular smile, light and teasing, and reached for the older man’s neck smoothly and whispered back to him, “I might like you too,” before taking the older man’s lips with his own.
He really wished he wasn’t so experienced.
.:|:.
Lee Sooman didn’t really care. It was just business, all of it was for the business.
He didn’t really care that Hyukjae felt dirty afterwards, or that he would take long hours scrubbing himself free of the filth on his skin until there wasn’t any left, or that he would continue scrubbing, trying vainly to cleanse himself of a more personal and emotional dirt.
Hyukjae knew he was lucky, because he really wasn’t that attractive, not the way Heechul or Leeteuk was. He didn’t appeal to men the way Sungmin or Jaejoong did.
He was lucky in comparison. He didn’t even want to know what Hyoyeon went through, never wanted to know after seeing a conspicuous dark bruise on her neck, or Yuri when he saw her coming out of one of SBS offices with swollen lips.
He thought about how people hated Tiffany for being a slut, and felt sorry for her because what else was she supposed to think she was supposed to do after all those meeting their president set up for her?
At least he wasn’t a girl, but it really didn’t make him feel better when his manager told him there was someone from KBS who wanted to see him tonight at the usual room.
.:|:.
Tablo was gorgeous. He was raw and pure, unadulterated by the entertainment world the way Hyukjae was.
There was something about the primitive honesty in his words that enchanted Hyukjae more than pretty clichés and provocative dances ever could. The depth of his words was overwhelming, somehow mysterious and always alluring in darkly inviting manner.
There was something beautiful about singing and rapping to life, about life, something that made Hyukjae want to own every word.
Tablo never complained about the younger man’s greed for more, always indulging him in bed with snippets of songs that Hyukjae would never forget.
Snippets of songs Hyukjae sometimes wanted to understand, and snippets of songs that sometimes he didn’t want to understand.
.:|:.
Another day, another performance.
He danced with his mind, carefully reciting each step in his head, and wished he could dance with his heart instead.
.:|:.
Hyukjae took Tablo on a rainy and stormy afternoon.
He guided the older man to the couch carefully, laying him there gently before removing his clothes. Every movement he made for Tablo’s benefit.
He slid down the elder’s body, noticing the slightest bulge in his stomach, the small trail of hair leading down to his crotch from his bellybutton, the scattered moles across his torso.
He slid his lips onto Tablo’s half-hardened cock, loving the way the man above him grunted deep and unattractively, the way his coarse pubic hair tickle the edge of his nose when he went down further.
He slid slick fingers into Tablo’s opening, loving the tightness, the hitch in the older man’s breath, the swearing and the wrinkles in his forehead formed when he furrowed his eyebrows and the unattractive way he bit his lip when Hyukjae found his prostrate.
He slid his length into him, loving the painful clench of muscles around the intrusion, the scratches on that Tablo made on his back, the way the man beneath him shuddered and hissed.
It was beautiful. He was beautiful, and more importantly, he was real.
.:|:.
Hyukjae moaned breathily into the man’s ear as he bounced on the man’s cock, muttering sluttish phrases freely.
He tried not to think about the way he wished it was someone else who was fucking him, tried not to think he wished he could be kissing someone else.
He wished he was crying because the sensation of having a man he didn’t love inside of him was gloriously wicked and euphoric, and not because Lee Sooman had told him that fucking Tablo was useless.
.:|:.
“Let’s break up.”
Hyukjae couldn’t stand to look at Tablo in the eye, couldn’t stand see his reaction. The silence between them was unnerving, and with every second that passed by he wanted to take back those bitter words.
He chanced a glance at the older man, anxious and regretful. He saw Tablo facing the window, eyes seemingly emotionless before asking,
“Why?”
The silence, heavy and depressing, persisted. Hyukjae hated it, hated everything. He cast his eyes down and said plainly, “We’re through,” and walked out the door, not looking back, not letting his tone betray him, never letting Tablo know that he felt like dying inside.
He leaned against the door once he was outside, closing it behind him. He heard a scream, then a crash followed by many more. Curses in English and Korean drifted through the door, ringing with rage and anger.
Tears spilled down his cheek; regret spilled from his heart and gathered in his feet with each step he took away from the man’s apartment.
Someday, he thought, maybe someday I’ll be able to be me.
.:|:.
He danced in the studio.
He danced with his heart and wished he could dance like that on stage.
He dreamed of dancing like that on a stage, and it made him think of happier, more beautiful things.
But then his employer came into the room and told him someone from MBC wanted to see him that night, and he felt the restrictions of the disgustingly perfect world he lived in.
.:|:.
Hyukjae was twenty-three and in a dress, his face was heavy with make-up.
He smiled as if he enjoyed being in women’s clothes, laughed as if he was having fun.
He hated himself, with his hypocrisy and fakeness, and thought of a man who lived a real life.
He thought of a man who believed in his life, loved his life, and hated himself for breaking that man’s heart.
.:|end|:.
pairing: Tablo/Hyukjae
rating: R
Summary: He danced with his mind, carefully reciting each step in his head, and wished he could dance with his heart instead.
Warnings: angst, implied sex, swearing.
AN: I'm not hating on Lee Sooman or implying that he does this. It's just for the plot people, no need to hate him so much.
-_-|||
While I'm at it, characters aren't mine.
.:|:.
Hyukjae was twenty-two and dressed in light blue cotton and gaudy pants. He had a fraction of his hair tied up in a parody of a baby girl’s.
He was smiling brightly at the camera, as if he liked his outfit, as if he actually had pillow fights at his age, as if he believed in what he was singing.
He never felt so disgusted with himself, with his stupidly large and gummy smile.
.:|:.
Tablo, he mused, was beautiful in a way he would never be again.
He was willing to bet Tablo never lied about what he was singing, that he believed and felt every line in his heart, in his body.
He was beautiful on stage, passionate and real.
Hyukjae wished he could be like that, that he could dance thoughtlessly and mindlessly and beautifully.
.:|:.
The man in front of him had a kind face.
He looked like the ideal husband, the ideal father, the ideal man.
Looks, Hyukjae learned a long time ago as he slid down the length of a different man’s body to bring himself eye level to his crotch, really didn’t matter. Looks were more than deceiving, they were paradoxical.
He smiled back at him with an equally kind face, only a bit more coy. He let the collar of his shirt slip to expose a bit more of his skin, acutely aware of the man’s eyes attached to that small area of skin.
He pulled him closer to him, to the bed, and gave up all pretenses of control as the man lowered his face onto his neck and sucked on the delicate skin there, softened by a myriad of lotions and chemicals.
.:|:.
There was something wonderfully romantic about the awkward way Tablo grabbed his hand and whispered to him, “I think I like you,” face red with alcohol and embarrassment,
In retrospect, Hyukjae wished that he wouldn’t, that he couldn't to answer in less awkward way. He wished that he hadn’t let out that particular smile, light and teasing, and reached for the older man’s neck smoothly and whispered back to him, “I might like you too,” before taking the older man’s lips with his own.
He really wished he wasn’t so experienced.
.:|:.
Lee Sooman didn’t really care. It was just business, all of it was for the business.
He didn’t really care that Hyukjae felt dirty afterwards, or that he would take long hours scrubbing himself free of the filth on his skin until there wasn’t any left, or that he would continue scrubbing, trying vainly to cleanse himself of a more personal and emotional dirt.
Hyukjae knew he was lucky, because he really wasn’t that attractive, not the way Heechul or Leeteuk was. He didn’t appeal to men the way Sungmin or Jaejoong did.
He was lucky in comparison. He didn’t even want to know what Hyoyeon went through, never wanted to know after seeing a conspicuous dark bruise on her neck, or Yuri when he saw her coming out of one of SBS offices with swollen lips.
He thought about how people hated Tiffany for being a slut, and felt sorry for her because what else was she supposed to think she was supposed to do after all those meeting their president set up for her?
At least he wasn’t a girl, but it really didn’t make him feel better when his manager told him there was someone from KBS who wanted to see him tonight at the usual room.
.:|:.
Tablo was gorgeous. He was raw and pure, unadulterated by the entertainment world the way Hyukjae was.
There was something about the primitive honesty in his words that enchanted Hyukjae more than pretty clichés and provocative dances ever could. The depth of his words was overwhelming, somehow mysterious and always alluring in darkly inviting manner.
There was something beautiful about singing and rapping to life, about life, something that made Hyukjae want to own every word.
Tablo never complained about the younger man’s greed for more, always indulging him in bed with snippets of songs that Hyukjae would never forget.
Snippets of songs Hyukjae sometimes wanted to understand, and snippets of songs that sometimes he didn’t want to understand.
.:|:.
Another day, another performance.
He danced with his mind, carefully reciting each step in his head, and wished he could dance with his heart instead.
.:|:.
Hyukjae took Tablo on a rainy and stormy afternoon.
He guided the older man to the couch carefully, laying him there gently before removing his clothes. Every movement he made for Tablo’s benefit.
He slid down the elder’s body, noticing the slightest bulge in his stomach, the small trail of hair leading down to his crotch from his bellybutton, the scattered moles across his torso.
He slid his lips onto Tablo’s half-hardened cock, loving the way the man above him grunted deep and unattractively, the way his coarse pubic hair tickle the edge of his nose when he went down further.
He slid slick fingers into Tablo’s opening, loving the tightness, the hitch in the older man’s breath, the swearing and the wrinkles in his forehead formed when he furrowed his eyebrows and the unattractive way he bit his lip when Hyukjae found his prostrate.
He slid his length into him, loving the painful clench of muscles around the intrusion, the scratches on that Tablo made on his back, the way the man beneath him shuddered and hissed.
It was beautiful. He was beautiful, and more importantly, he was real.
.:|:.
Hyukjae moaned breathily into the man’s ear as he bounced on the man’s cock, muttering sluttish phrases freely.
He tried not to think about the way he wished it was someone else who was fucking him, tried not to think he wished he could be kissing someone else.
He wished he was crying because the sensation of having a man he didn’t love inside of him was gloriously wicked and euphoric, and not because Lee Sooman had told him that fucking Tablo was useless.
.:|:.
“Let’s break up.”
Hyukjae couldn’t stand to look at Tablo in the eye, couldn’t stand see his reaction. The silence between them was unnerving, and with every second that passed by he wanted to take back those bitter words.
He chanced a glance at the older man, anxious and regretful. He saw Tablo facing the window, eyes seemingly emotionless before asking,
“Why?”
The silence, heavy and depressing, persisted. Hyukjae hated it, hated everything. He cast his eyes down and said plainly, “We’re through,” and walked out the door, not looking back, not letting his tone betray him, never letting Tablo know that he felt like dying inside.
He leaned against the door once he was outside, closing it behind him. He heard a scream, then a crash followed by many more. Curses in English and Korean drifted through the door, ringing with rage and anger.
Tears spilled down his cheek; regret spilled from his heart and gathered in his feet with each step he took away from the man’s apartment.
Someday, he thought, maybe someday I’ll be able to be me.
.:|:.
He danced in the studio.
He danced with his heart and wished he could dance like that on stage.
He dreamed of dancing like that on a stage, and it made him think of happier, more beautiful things.
But then his employer came into the room and told him someone from MBC wanted to see him that night, and he felt the restrictions of the disgustingly perfect world he lived in.
.:|:.
Hyukjae was twenty-three and in a dress, his face was heavy with make-up.
He smiled as if he enjoyed being in women’s clothes, laughed as if he was having fun.
He hated himself, with his hypocrisy and fakeness, and thought of a man who lived a real life.
He thought of a man who believed in his life, loved his life, and hated himself for breaking that man’s heart.
.:|end|:.