all you touch and all you see, Is all your life will ever be
Title: Tsaminamina (Pt. One)
Fandom: Super Junior
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Hankyung/Heechul
Summary: World Cup AU, bear with me on plot holes >>
A/N: GO NETHERLANDS! GO GERMANY!
Hankyung thinks the retching noise he’s making is probably extremely unattractive. Bile makes his throat ache raw and the smell of his own vomit makes his nostrils burn, and he spits a few times before pulling his head out of the basin and shoving himself to his feet. The toilet roars as it flushes automatically and Hankyung is suddenly extremely grateful it held off until his head was not in the line of fire. He slides the lock back on the stall and steps up to the line of identical airport sinks and plastic foam dispensers, washing his hands and face and rinsing his mouth before reaching for the automated hand dryers, holding his hands under the machine for a few seconds before giving up and wiping them on his pants, sighing. He turns around and nearly falls over a little boy who had apparently been standing directly behind him, silently waiting.
“Aack,” he squawks, undignified, and pinwheels backwards, flailing slightly. The boy continues to look at him, unblinkingly unsettling the way little kids can be, and Hankyung casts a desperate glance around for anyone looking especially harried or tired, hoping for a parental rescue. No one appears, and he’s eventually forced to turn his gaze back down to moppy black hair and big solemn eyes.
“Uh,” Hankyung says eloquently, and is saved from formulating a sentence when the little boy thrusts a pad and paper at him, before tugging his own shirt out and showing Hankyung the Chinese flag patch stitched over the heart, finally breaking into a grin that transforms the whole of his tiny face. Hankyung feels his lightbulb blink on and smiles, reaching out and signing the pad quickly, adding a flourish and a jersey number before handing it back and patting him awkwardly on the head.
The boy shoves a clenched fist into the air “Jia!” he declares, eyes bright, and skips off, waving his paper and calling for his parents. Hankyung moves back to a sink, splashing water on his face before stepping back and looking at himself in the mirror, bags under his eyes and teary from vomiting, pale skin with his hair stuck up in the back and flatly limp in the front.
He sighs, shoves wet fingers through his bangs and straightens his bright red jacket , lined with new, heavy fabric, and starkly dark stitching on the right breast in the smooth lines of his name, gold stars spilling out from his shoulder. He slings the woven nylon web strap of his duffel bag over his head and onto his shoulder, pulling at it until it settles at his back. He yanks his ball cap from a side pocket and pulls it over his eyes, slides sunglasses onto his face and sticks his hands into his pocket, surveys himself again in the mirror. He feels foolish. He looks foolish. With a growl he yanks the sunglasses off and leaves them on the counter, stalking from the bathroom and rejoining the collection of his teammates, similarly attired in thick black warm up pants and bright red jackets, brand new sports bags gleaming black with sponsor patches worked smoothly into the stiff outer material.
They nod at him, and Hankyung sees the same nearly crippling nerves in their faces as he feels churning in his stomach and affecting the rhythm of his heart. Another straggler arrives from one of the merchandise stalls lining the hallways, drinking in small hurried gulps from a purchased water bottle, and the manager does a quick headcount, flicking his fingers from man to man before nodding briskly and starting to make shooing motions, herding the travel-tired bunch through the airport and out into the hot balmy air.
In Hankyung’s small, heavily accented under educated hometown, he is somewhat of a big deal. He is representing his town for their country and is regarded as such a prodigal son that he finds it awkward to visit. There is a lot of bowing and signing and ticker tape and televisions blaring highlights and repeats of games, and inevitably there are photos taken--Hankyung is somewhat on the opposite side of the photogenic scale.
The point is, soccer is important to his hometown, and to his country after failing to rank, failing to qualify, and they pale in comparison the exterior of a simple airport in South America during the World Cup. There are people literally dancing in the streets, something Hankyung had only heard about, and there are live drums being tapped out in samba beats, playful catcalls, a cacophony of music and chatter and bright colours. Hankyung almost trips over the first step of their designated bus because his eyes are on the flags spilling from the windows and the doors and the cars, and he stumbles into a seat, practically pressed against the window. Siwon settles beside him, looming with golden brown muscle and gleaming white teeth and perfectly gelled hair, dimpling as he leans against Hankyung’s flank.
“It’s beautiful, hyung,” he says in a strange hybrid of foreignly tinged Mandarin and polished Korean. Hankyung nods, and leans slightly into Siwon’s familiar solidness. Siwon hums, then pauses. “Are you nervous, ge?” he asks, and Hankyung pulls his gaze from the gentle blur of the moving landscape outside the vehicle and turns to face Siwon. The younger man is still young, handsome, confidant, but his heart is doing double time against Hankyung’s side.
“Why should I be,” Hankyung teases, “when I have you to protect me, Siyuan.” Siwon dimples again, and flexes a solemn bicep.
“I will keep you safe,” he vows in a deep melodramatic voice, but his fingers shake in the cradle of his palm. Hankyung lets the comfortable silence drag on for a few moments.
“Manager-ge made a good choice for captain,” he says finally. “You will do right by us.” Siwon nods carefully, lost in thought, and chews his lip absently. Hankyung looks down at the open program in Siwon’s hands, notices the page he has it open to. S. Korea vs. Nigeria. “Do you miss home, Siwon?” he asks, tripping along in his choppy Korean.
“I am where I am supposed to be,” Siwon says quietly, but his eyes drift over the roster and the pictures and the statistics, and Hankyung doesn’t point out he never answered the question.
Fandom: Super Junior
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Hankyung/Heechul
Summary: World Cup AU, bear with me on plot holes >>
A/N: GO NETHERLANDS! GO GERMANY!
Hankyung thinks the retching noise he’s making is probably extremely unattractive. Bile makes his throat ache raw and the smell of his own vomit makes his nostrils burn, and he spits a few times before pulling his head out of the basin and shoving himself to his feet. The toilet roars as it flushes automatically and Hankyung is suddenly extremely grateful it held off until his head was not in the line of fire. He slides the lock back on the stall and steps up to the line of identical airport sinks and plastic foam dispensers, washing his hands and face and rinsing his mouth before reaching for the automated hand dryers, holding his hands under the machine for a few seconds before giving up and wiping them on his pants, sighing. He turns around and nearly falls over a little boy who had apparently been standing directly behind him, silently waiting.
“Aack,” he squawks, undignified, and pinwheels backwards, flailing slightly. The boy continues to look at him, unblinkingly unsettling the way little kids can be, and Hankyung casts a desperate glance around for anyone looking especially harried or tired, hoping for a parental rescue. No one appears, and he’s eventually forced to turn his gaze back down to moppy black hair and big solemn eyes.
“Uh,” Hankyung says eloquently, and is saved from formulating a sentence when the little boy thrusts a pad and paper at him, before tugging his own shirt out and showing Hankyung the Chinese flag patch stitched over the heart, finally breaking into a grin that transforms the whole of his tiny face. Hankyung feels his lightbulb blink on and smiles, reaching out and signing the pad quickly, adding a flourish and a jersey number before handing it back and patting him awkwardly on the head.
The boy shoves a clenched fist into the air “Jia!” he declares, eyes bright, and skips off, waving his paper and calling for his parents. Hankyung moves back to a sink, splashing water on his face before stepping back and looking at himself in the mirror, bags under his eyes and teary from vomiting, pale skin with his hair stuck up in the back and flatly limp in the front.
He sighs, shoves wet fingers through his bangs and straightens his bright red jacket , lined with new, heavy fabric, and starkly dark stitching on the right breast in the smooth lines of his name, gold stars spilling out from his shoulder. He slings the woven nylon web strap of his duffel bag over his head and onto his shoulder, pulling at it until it settles at his back. He yanks his ball cap from a side pocket and pulls it over his eyes, slides sunglasses onto his face and sticks his hands into his pocket, surveys himself again in the mirror. He feels foolish. He looks foolish. With a growl he yanks the sunglasses off and leaves them on the counter, stalking from the bathroom and rejoining the collection of his teammates, similarly attired in thick black warm up pants and bright red jackets, brand new sports bags gleaming black with sponsor patches worked smoothly into the stiff outer material.
They nod at him, and Hankyung sees the same nearly crippling nerves in their faces as he feels churning in his stomach and affecting the rhythm of his heart. Another straggler arrives from one of the merchandise stalls lining the hallways, drinking in small hurried gulps from a purchased water bottle, and the manager does a quick headcount, flicking his fingers from man to man before nodding briskly and starting to make shooing motions, herding the travel-tired bunch through the airport and out into the hot balmy air.
In Hankyung’s small, heavily accented under educated hometown, he is somewhat of a big deal. He is representing his town for their country and is regarded as such a prodigal son that he finds it awkward to visit. There is a lot of bowing and signing and ticker tape and televisions blaring highlights and repeats of games, and inevitably there are photos taken--Hankyung is somewhat on the opposite side of the photogenic scale.
The point is, soccer is important to his hometown, and to his country after failing to rank, failing to qualify, and they pale in comparison the exterior of a simple airport in South America during the World Cup. There are people literally dancing in the streets, something Hankyung had only heard about, and there are live drums being tapped out in samba beats, playful catcalls, a cacophony of music and chatter and bright colours. Hankyung almost trips over the first step of their designated bus because his eyes are on the flags spilling from the windows and the doors and the cars, and he stumbles into a seat, practically pressed against the window. Siwon settles beside him, looming with golden brown muscle and gleaming white teeth and perfectly gelled hair, dimpling as he leans against Hankyung’s flank.
“It’s beautiful, hyung,” he says in a strange hybrid of foreignly tinged Mandarin and polished Korean. Hankyung nods, and leans slightly into Siwon’s familiar solidness. Siwon hums, then pauses. “Are you nervous, ge?” he asks, and Hankyung pulls his gaze from the gentle blur of the moving landscape outside the vehicle and turns to face Siwon. The younger man is still young, handsome, confidant, but his heart is doing double time against Hankyung’s side.
“Why should I be,” Hankyung teases, “when I have you to protect me, Siyuan.” Siwon dimples again, and flexes a solemn bicep.
“I will keep you safe,” he vows in a deep melodramatic voice, but his fingers shake in the cradle of his palm. Hankyung lets the comfortable silence drag on for a few moments.
“Manager-ge made a good choice for captain,” he says finally. “You will do right by us.” Siwon nods carefully, lost in thought, and chews his lip absently. Hankyung looks down at the open program in Siwon’s hands, notices the page he has it open to. S. Korea vs. Nigeria. “Do you miss home, Siwon?” he asks, tripping along in his choppy Korean.
“I am where I am supposed to be,” Siwon says quietly, but his eyes drift over the roster and the pictures and the statistics, and Hankyung doesn’t point out he never answered the question.