(no subject)
No Use Crying
027. Replacement, Heechul/Kibum (002/100) [archive]
As soon as they inch around the corner, giggling all the while, he knows what they want. He is normally pretty tolerant, even warm, when it comes to fan encounters. He can usually even handle the freaks that sit around outside his apartment. But when he’s asked for his signature at the grocery store, his smile is considerably faker, his laugh more forced. His list of things to get is long enough without “harassed” down there after milk. These two teenage girls are ecstatic, making strange noises he didn’t know human beings were capable of producing. One of the girls, the one holding the notebook out to him, has twin buns resting on the top of her skull and he finds the way they bob along with her head both irritating and fascinating.
“Kim Heechul oppa, can we have your autograph?” The bun girl pleads as if for her life and not an unrecognizable scribble on what is probably her math homework. The silent friend holds out her pen as if it is a delicate and sterile instrument with which he will now perform brain surgery. It’s made funnier because, these kids, they don’t even know who he really is.
“I’m sorry ladies, but you’ve got the wrong man. I’m Kim Kibum, you’ll have to go to that super market down the street for Heechul.” He puts on that awkward little grin he’s been practicing, but he signs her notebook anyway. She’s so confused she almost drops it when he hands it back to her. Embarrassment colors them both bright red. They slip away in a rush of apologies, and he can still hear them arguing with each other long after the hypnotic blobs of hair have disappeared behind the cereal aisle.
Heechul walks out of the store thoroughly satisfied with himself, sipping shamelessly straight from the carton of milk. It doesn’t matter if those girls see, since it isn’t his own name he’s tarnishing.
“It’s still pretty thrilling, pretending to be somebody I’m not,” he says aloud, liking the way the words sound. But then the milk begins to taste sour in his mouth. His sneer slips downwards as if he hadn’t used enough adhesive when he glued it on. Why should it be so thrilling, when it’s what he does every day of his life?
The carton ricochets off the inside of the trashcan with a sickening sound, and stray milk splashes out onto the pavement.
027. Replacement, Heechul/Kibum (002/100) [archive]
As soon as they inch around the corner, giggling all the while, he knows what they want. He is normally pretty tolerant, even warm, when it comes to fan encounters. He can usually even handle the freaks that sit around outside his apartment. But when he’s asked for his signature at the grocery store, his smile is considerably faker, his laugh more forced. His list of things to get is long enough without “harassed” down there after milk. These two teenage girls are ecstatic, making strange noises he didn’t know human beings were capable of producing. One of the girls, the one holding the notebook out to him, has twin buns resting on the top of her skull and he finds the way they bob along with her head both irritating and fascinating.
“Kim Heechul oppa, can we have your autograph?” The bun girl pleads as if for her life and not an unrecognizable scribble on what is probably her math homework. The silent friend holds out her pen as if it is a delicate and sterile instrument with which he will now perform brain surgery. It’s made funnier because, these kids, they don’t even know who he really is.
“I’m sorry ladies, but you’ve got the wrong man. I’m Kim Kibum, you’ll have to go to that super market down the street for Heechul.” He puts on that awkward little grin he’s been practicing, but he signs her notebook anyway. She’s so confused she almost drops it when he hands it back to her. Embarrassment colors them both bright red. They slip away in a rush of apologies, and he can still hear them arguing with each other long after the hypnotic blobs of hair have disappeared behind the cereal aisle.
Heechul walks out of the store thoroughly satisfied with himself, sipping shamelessly straight from the carton of milk. It doesn’t matter if those girls see, since it isn’t his own name he’s tarnishing.
“It’s still pretty thrilling, pretending to be somebody I’m not,” he says aloud, liking the way the words sound. But then the milk begins to taste sour in his mouth. His sneer slips downwards as if he hadn’t used enough adhesive when he glued it on. Why should it be so thrilling, when it’s what he does every day of his life?
The carton ricochets off the inside of the trashcan with a sickening sound, and stray milk splashes out onto the pavement.