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“Nishimura Riki.”
He’s up on his feet a little after his name is spoken, lethargic in a way of self-assured victory. Or perhaps, he’s just a little dizzy on pride— on the way the screams of his name drown out every other noise.
However, he’s not concerned about the praise at all. His eyes narrow in on the host, the one who’d whispered his name into the mic like a secret being spilled to millions, to the people watching the award show from their freezing streams at home. He’s looking, watching, staring, and as Riki goes to receive the highest honour that could be bestowed upon a musician, he cannot quite look away.
Perhaps the pleasurable buzz of actually having won has not settled in yet, perhaps somewhere within, he had an inkling that his victory was to be expected. At least, that’s the excuse he provides himself with as the cameras zoom in onto him, but he’s only looking at Lee Heeseung.
It seems to work out in his favour, though, when he goes to receive the award and his fingers are trembling. It’s a breath of fresh air in a stadium being suffocated by thousands, it’s a sudden moment where Riki's heart, a pitiful thing which has a mind of it’s own, softens and slows until he’s shuddering.
It’s a moment where his fingers brush against Heeseung's, and it’s only the two of them.
And then he’s pulling away, expressions twisting into something more acceptable (smug) as he takes the stage and addresses all those who have supported him— all those who have allowed for this day to come.
And a handful of those who watch from behind him, just as afraid as him, just as breathless as him.
“Wha—” The word is lost to the air as Heeseung stumbles forward, long fingers wrapping and digging into his wrist, dragging him along and he follows closely behind.
Riki does not spare him a second glance. The rings on his fingers are cold against warm Heeseung's skin, a titillating contrast, and the actor witnesses with wide eyes as he’s pulled along corridor by corridor.
“Shut up,” Riki mutters, almost sensing the complaint stirring and on the tip of Heeseung's tongue.
“I have to make the nominations,” says Heeseung, but in vain, as it is a plea which falls on deaf ears. Riki simply looks at him over his shoulder, the knot of his tie so loose that it rests on his upper ribs till where his shirt has been unbuttoned— his skin glistens golden, sweaty.
He bites down on his lip, out of habit it seems, but he does not offer any form of an explanation.
They play this game of chase until Heeseung's being led onto a terrace that’s rather popular amongst people of their profession— but not on nights like these.
Nights when snow threatens to fall, the wind so cold that it chips at your skin. It’s a smoking lounge, of sorts, and though nothing would seem better than a warm cigarette on a cold night, they’re in the midst of an award show.
What is Riki thinking?
He’s being shoved onto the terrace by Riki, who shuts the door behind him and Heeseung's arms immediately wrap around himself in a fright, because it’s fucking freezing.
“What are you doing?” It’s the first sentence he manages to get out which Riki actually listens to.
He chooses, however, not to respond.
Verbally, at least, as his eyes are searching Heeseung's when the actor turns to face him, colouring crimson high in his cheeks, the tip of his nose a faint pink already. It’s a smoking lounge, there are no cameras, no paparazzi hiding by the corner, yet Heeseung feels more scrutinised than ever. And then, as calmly as he can manage, Heeseung utters, “Riki.”
And the rockstar’s hand is wrapping around the knot of Heeseung's tie, pulling him closer as he simultaneously pushes him up against the brick wall behind him, their lips meeting somewhere in the middle as Riki presses snugly against the older.
It’s a soft kiss, pink, wet around the edges as Heeseung's hand comes to rest by Riki's speeding heart, the other curling around his bicep. He shivers despite the warmth being radiated by Riki's body— because of it, in fact, and he basks in the way Riki's thumb swipes at his cheekbone.
It’s uncharacteristically soft, gentle in a way which has Heeseung aching for more when he feels Riki's lashes flicker open. He does not let go, but he does pull away until Heeseung's chasing him for a peck.
Underneath the stars, away from the spotlight, Heeseung sees someone he used to dislike. Someone who’s a bit ragged at the edges, rough, perhaps too sullen. Yet his hands, as they comb through the small hairs on Heeseung's nape, recount a different story.
“Congratulations for winning.”
Riki looks a tad amused, tucked snugly by Heeseung's body when he says, “Are you my gift?”