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"Sungho, you have to take this role. There's good pay, good press and you'll love the script!"
A certain blond's face scrunched up like a used tea towel,
"You couldn't be more wrong about the script. What's so great about having to kiss a co-star?"
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"These directors, always giving you romance roles. You're Kim Leehan, you can do anything, yet they limit you to one genre."
Sprinkling coloured flakes of nutrition into the lit-up fish tank, a full head of wine-coloured hair shook in polite dismissal,
"I don't mind it so much, Mr Nemours! Plus, this script isn't so bad."
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Only ever being casted in everything except romance movies, Sungho is used to handling guns and swords, he's used to being instructed to look fierce and project his voice. A romance is his biggest issue. He doesn't even look like a lovey-dovey person with his sharp-angled face and defensive posture — which director in their right mind saw Park Sungho, Park Sungho who's only played cruel roles and decided he'd make a great lead actor in a romance?
A glass of water was needed, so Polly — Sungho's personal assistant — scurried along with an almost nervous look upon her countenance. A stressed Sungho meant hell for everyone else.
When Polly rushed in with the tall glass, to which was rocking within the confines to escape over the edge, Sungho swore he could feel a headache coming on like the water coming onto the laminate floorboards of the meeting room.
Sat across him were both the blond's manager and the series casting director — who made the offer in the first place. Sungho glared through him with a judgmental eye, one that trailed up, down, around and around in attempt to figure out the thought behind this decision. The actor's manager only quivered in his polished shoes at the suffocating awkwardness in the room and so he cleared his throat,
"We thank you for your offer, but—"
A pointed claw sliced through the upcoming words, striking them down before they could even exist,
"I'll take it."
Polly dropped the glass, an echoing shatter — one that mimicked the faces that both men infront of Sungho harboured, he would've laughed if he was in a good mood. Instead, he inspected his nails closely, tongue poking insistently at the walls of his cheek — Polly was too blindsided to even apologise for the water, too astonished to run back for another.
"What?"
"Oh— no— nothing! Uh, I'll contact you, Mr Wang. Thank you, Mr Park for accepting. . ."
That was the quickest someone had left that meeting room.
Sungho turned his head backwards to Polly, the personal assistant swallowed audibly and scurried off once again to recieve a glass of water — one she'd surely not drop this time — this left just Sungho and his manager in the room,
"You were so sure about not taking it, what happened?"
"I thought about proving my versatility to the world. Letting them know I can do everything."
Another thing; Park Sungho is the most competitive man you could ever meet. It's often the first thing you'll hear about the blond, it got him to survive, it got him to where he is now.
A mere romance drama with some other man wouldn't stop him from levelling up.
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Pages flicked over in the low amber light, pages of the script. A live reading would occur tomorrow, meeting the co-actor Leehan would be sharing this romance with. Kim Leehan didn't know much about the co-actor, not even his name but apparently — from a rumour — the mysterious man was originally not going to accept. It made the wine-coloured haired man wonder, the pay was amazing, more than your average romance, the plot wasn't complicated either — easygoing, so what was with the hesitation? Any actor would've swooped for either of their roles, and they did. They just didn't make it through.
Despite multiple rumours, many of which Leehan could've listed out — the pet fish owner was rather thrilled to encounter this mystery man, if he was famous like himself, if he had nice breath — for their kiss scenes — or if he would give Leehan his time, spare him a look. Most of all, the actor prioritised his sleep and therefore could delay all of these thoughts for later on. So he tucked those ideas away into their own bed, under a thin white blanket as he himself moved the script to the side, turning off the desk lamp. The only light left in the room was the ambient, Weezer-shade-of-blue reflection off one of the many fish tanks in Leehan's house.
Shuffles and grunts floated through the room as the wine-haired actor clambered into the cushioned, pastel green covers of translucent thoughts, alien scenarios and better comebacks to an argument that already happened. It was too hot — a heatwave.
Fan was on, the covers off.
Multiple trips to the en suite bathroom to douse his face in cold water, multiple minutes of introducing dripping skin to motorised air.
Dreams didn't come to Leehan.
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No wonder why — Leehan's co-actor was Park Sungho, the younger man wasn't a die-hard fan, but he'd say that atleast ten of his favourite movies of all time had Sungho playing a character in them.
He was there — sitting across from the more recently-known actor, the same script in his perfectly manicured hands — was that on Sungho's own will or was it to get into the character of a non-conforming yet presentable English teacher at a rowdy highschool? Leehan had seen Sungho in many states in the films he watched: bloodied up, angrily yelling, running from zombies, nose in books, fists blazing, manipulating, crying — never had he seen Park Sungho have even the tiniest crumb of a romantic side plot, never had he seen Park Sungho kiss or embrace a co-actor.
Tolstoy & Archimedes, was what would soon be airing to the world. Two contrasting teachers at a highschool known for misbehaving students that only drive the opposites together. Leehan, as Park Jiho, a mathematics teacher — previously a high-ranking mathematician in the city — who now orders everything like the steps to solving an equation to find x. Sungho as Sim Hakkun, an English literature teacher — free-flowing like stanzas of a poem — a writer in his own time, overly lenient with his students. Sim Hakkun was never good at maths, Park Jiho despises literature — students are torn between the two. Getting to understand each other's specialised subject turns into much more throughout the term, when everything changes during the school camping trip just before the summer holidays — giving them an entire summer to figure it out, and to very much hide it at work.
Sim Hakkun was nothing like Sungho, Park Jiho was nothing like Leehan — Opposite actors made to play opposite roles, opposite-ception, opposition everywhere. Leehan's head was spinning.
"You're looking at me."
It's not everyday you meet someone so familiar yet so unknown. Even then, Leehan's eyes were solely on the voided cloth draped over the cheap table, how he could see the intricate bonding of the threads—
Oh.
The script.
Sungho was reading the script.
Leehan scrambled to scan the words he was due to read aloud,
"I'm not looking at you, I'm looking at the essay you're marking, how it makes no sense."
Already sharp, yet round eyes narrowed in the direction of the dull-red haired actor, as if this was real, it was only a script reading so why did it feel like Sungho was scrutinising the latter? He knew the renowned actor was known to be particular, sassy even — competent, too competent to enjoy the job, but this seemed too iffy. Did they have a problem? Leehan would make sure to be extra efficient if it stopped Sungho from burning holes into his skin.
"Well, Kerouac's Desolation Angels makes sense to me in the way which Euclid's Theory of Geometry makes sense to you. Beat poetry and squared numbers, sounds nice, doesn't it?"
Leehan chewed on his bottom lip,
"I'd prefer my trigonometry without Angelou's poetry."
Sungho huffed under his nose as if he was truly offended — Leehan would ask later if the latter was a passionate fan of literature. Maybe the taller had been overthinking, maybe Sungho was just amazingly fast at getting into character — though, Sim Hakkun was described to be more sweeter than this.
"I think you'd like Lewis Carroll, Mr Park."
"Mr Sim, what you think I'd like is surely something I wouldn't."
Sudden, rapid claps ripped through the tense atmosphere that the two had built up, more specifically Sungho. The director had intensely praised their tone, their pace, even how he had chills from the air.
"We're going on set tomorrow, this can not wait. Never have I seen such an entertaining script reading session!"
This was it — 91.2 days of filming beside Park Sungho and his overbearing eyes, 91 days of potential, snide criticisms or awkward silence. Leehan would still try his absolute best to form an alliance with the blond, to give him a good or even the best experience with filming a romance series.
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Day 4 of filming Tolstoy & Archimedes.
The wine-coloured haired man kept a record of the blond's behaviour; what expression he wore that day, if his fingers relaxed around the script, if he was talking to staff more than the day before, if he nodded at the playback — if he'd look in Leehan's direction, acknowledge him or even converse with him out of a scene.
In his slightly clammy hands — was a box, the colour of the sky after the sun goes to rest. A pretty, pastel pink bow embracing the notebook-sized box. This was a gamble, a gamble of bribery. An attempt — Sungho could either hate or tolerate whatever lies in the box.
"Hey Sungho . . ."
When the shorter rotated to face the latter, his arms almost immediately crossed over his chest. It made Leehan wonder, what was it that always made Sungho so defensive?
The box thrusted forward, darkened handprints on the sides where Leehan's hands were, the sweat radiating from the mapped crevices of skin dampened the box. Leehan swore that he saw the slighest flick of the lips at this revelation.
"I got this for you. Just a little gift for good luck with filming."
Every move drew a baited breath; the undoings of the ribbon, the placement of the box on a table, the reveal of the object inside.
Inside, on top of cushioning tissue — a silver chain. Simple, sparkly and anything but tacky.
Sungho should have been put off, yet he wore this piece around his neck, letting it nuzzle into his collarbone.
Leehan was yet to live another day!
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Day 17 of filming Tolstoy & Archimedes.
"That's enough, take your seats."
Faint thuds of feet, screeches of chairs being pulled out, the legs dragged on the linoleum floor — a fight before math class had been broken up. Two kids, Haejin and Jeo, opposite sides of a violent hierarchy at Hanjin High School. The police knew all about it, but because everyone involved were minors, no one could be held accountable.
Park Jiho didn't have the energy or interest in breaking up these fights, he'd just send the two to the nurse's office and begin his lesson. These kids could struggle if they want, he was just here to do the job — Jiho couldn't be bothered. Well, he could. He wished that these kids would just listen for their own benefit, he tried sometimes. The maths teacher has been there before, being apart of some lame hierarchy, fighting his classmates almost daily and so Jiho guessed he could understand.
"Quadratic equations, open your textbooks. And focus this time, you have your half term test for maths tomorrow, I won't be repeating this topic."
Books opened, but Jiho knew that some hadn't, non-existent page shuffles from the right side of the room, students he knew caused trouble every class. Unluckily, the man's patience was being tested; longer work shift, papers from other classes to mark, a parking ticket, the tea machine in the teacher breakroom not working and now students who didn't want to listen.
Chuckles, whispers, the swishes of paper balls landing on the floor — Jiho had his front turned to the whiteboard, hand writing rapidly; numbers, letters and symbols. Just ignore it.
"The quadratic formula was developed through many millennia, Babylonian, Indian and Persian mathematicians. It started off as word and geometric expressions, then algebraic and negative numbers got involved to make the quadratic equations we know today."
Dot. An example on the board, Jiho hummed at the solved equation, he glanced back to see that most of the class had been following apart from a few in the corner,
"Wooseong, Songmin, Taejoon, focus."
Only they couldn't, or better yet — didn't want to. Continuously, scrunched-up balls of paper were chucked in very little-calculated directions, one throw that consequently ended up just lightly tapping Park Jiho on the back.
"Oh shit . . ."
That snap. You know — when you're pushed to your limits, a rubber band stretched to its full elasticity when it snaps back into place or breaks. To Jiho, this was really familiar. Too familiar for comfort — it always ended in bruises and split lips, bloodied mouths or broken fingers — and the teacher's office. A violent upsurge, but these were kids, Jiho was an adult. The upsurge was inappropriate, utterly illegal. However, what is Jiho's brain if it's not listening to reasoning — rather walking around the bush to reach an aim, no matter what?
Each step away from his desk, a thud. The air was different, no longer patient or gently flowing, it felt humid — suffocating. Just like the gaze of a certain maths teacher.
Eventually, pen-marked hands landed on Wooseong's desk, covering the dull corners — tie hanging, but still in movement with the leaned-down position of Jiho. Dull daze contrasting with the slight pulse of the jugular vein — Jiho's voice came out like cement, slow but hardening,
"I don't care, not a single bit, if you don't want to listen or learn. That's your choice if you want to reject education. But don't be pathetic, don't disturb everyone else. So, you'll stop messing around in my class, you'll sit there and be quiet until it's over. Got it?"
In return, a mixed-look — anger at being ordered around, yet meek agreement due to the empty look that seemed way too serious to aggravate further.
"Yeah."
"And cut!"
Leehan relaxed, eyes switching back to moon cresents, an approachable smile as he shook the hand of Wooseong's actor.
Sungho allowed himself to be impressed with how well the younger actor had managed to flip into the mindset of Park Jiho when Leehan himself was the complete opposite — an overly wholesome actor. All in one take too.
"You did good."
Leehan swore he could've choked up his guts. Instead, he turned a red that no colour consultant could put a name to and in a daze of euphoria from the drip of approval, the man — who's face was the same colour as his hair — called out to the room,
"I'll treat us all to a meal!"
Knowing full well, it was intended just for the blond, but it was still too risky to ask him directly. Maybe he did admire Sungho . . . just a little bit.
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32 days of filming Tolstoy & Archimedes.
Sungho couldn't tell that his shirt had torn from the side of his waist — the skin flexed over tight, lean muscles.
Leehan admittedly liked the sight, not in a perverse way, though it was sort of like that too — it was more of a likeness towards the vulnerability it presented. The rise of plains of skin synced with the function of the lungs, how the bleached hair lit up the same yellow as a firefly in the ambient lighting of the set. Mesmerising — how a human like Sungho looks up close.
Though the sight was delightful, though it felt like a step closer, though it was definitely not — Leehan decided to not let the elder suffer unknowingly any longer. Slithering out of his own jacket — which was previously harbouring him from the chilly summer evening breeze — the taller actor draped it over Sungho's unbelievably broad shoulders — seriously, they looked so pillow-replaceable — Sungho — who jolted at the unsuspecting action — twisted backwards to face the perpetrator of this sudden move. On the defense, of course — but not nearly as much as Day 1. His face scrunched and then relaxed at the realisation of who it was.
"What is it?"
"Your shirt is ripped."
The blond peeked down to see the span of skin and couldn't prevent the physical signs of embarrassment, though he pulled the jacket tighter around himself — Leehan could only beam at the sight, a smile that went beyond the moon, beyond the stars and God himself. Sungho strangely liked seeing it. He also found himself liking the generosity the wine-haired man presented to him despite his own clear actions of keeping it professional. Sungho couldn't help it — it had him warm, had him cozy and soft. Musk and florals radiated on set, yet stayed between the two like an inside joke.
"Thank you, Leehan."
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Day 60.
Leehan was getting along with another actor, a girl. Soomin — she acted as the principal. The two swiveled in the office chairs on set, talking about whatever they were talking about. Sungho didn't care.
This was a waste of time — the idiots were goofing around when they could have been prioritising filming on set. Sungho didn't care, though.
He was totally fine with leaning against the wall and watching them giggle like fools, use the set props like fun rollercoasters. Yeah, it was okay, bothersome even — bothersome in a 'Look how incompetent these people are' way and not a 'Why is he laughing with her?' way.
Sipping at the prop — a cup of coffee, the swallow turned out to be more audible than usual, even so that the cameraman glanced towards the blond — who had his eyes trained on the duo infront. The makeup artist could see the tenseness of Sungho's skin — how it tightened around his skull, how the makeup would crease when he relaxed for a millisecond.
"You weren't meant to drink that."
Well, Sungho could only hear how Leehan had asked if he could get lunch with Soomin. They both like tiramisu. All of a sudden, she's getting special treatment? The blond actor could scoff, and he did. The prop director had obviously thought it was intended towards himself — his index finger gestured to his chest in question, Sungho didn't even acknowledge him, or give him closure. Maybe it had the prop director blush a little.
Leehan could feel something was wrong from the way he was currently too aware, uncomfortably aware of fox or rather feline-like eyes boring through his skull into all of his memories, thoughts and future wants. His spine straightened like an arrowhead instinctively when he turned to see the predicted man with his arms crossed over tighter than usual. Leehan's seen Sungho with a sniper, he's looked cool with it, intimidating — but the younger actor thought Sungho didn't need a gun or a blade to look domineering.
"Are you two dating?"
Soomin whispered, leaning forward in her chair. Leehan might've wished it, might've manifested it in dreams when he reached REM sleep, might've imagined how it would be.
"No— uh, we're not."
With just a non-believing hum, the brunette continued to pivot in her chair, leaving Leehan to just process if he was being obvious — but he tried so hard to make himself look friendly and not crush-ridden.
"Sungho, do you wanna come to lunch with us?"
Yet the blond only walked off — one step forward and two steps back, Leehan felt as if he had done something to upset the elder man.
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Day 71.
It was getting a bit obvious — Leehan was getting a bit obvious.
Sim Hakkun stood amongst a room with two suitcases and a bunkbed, a window and a tall lamp in the corner. The school camp trip. Last year wasn't so bad . . . no bones were broken atleast, and two teachers definitely weren't caught making out against the vast oak tree behind the dorm building. This year would be better, he hoped.
Park Jiho was currently sat on the bottom bunk, laptop on a singular thigh, notebook on the other. Concentrating, not on his work but rather the fact that he was sharing a room with the man he just didn't understand.
Hakkun hummed along with the buzz of the lamp,
"So, who's going on night duty?"
Jiho didn't look up from his laptop,
"I'll do it."
The English teacher didn't speak, instead — he flopped to sit next to the mathematician.
"You work too much, even on this trip, your eyes are glued to the page."
"It's my job."
"Indeed,"
A pale, pink-undertoned hand trailed over the — personally — nonsensical equations written in blue ink, they looked beautiful in the way all complex things do.
"though, you should appreciate the moment simultaneously."
A glance, a glance, a glance. It was hard to sneak a singular frame of Hakkun in this light, too domestic that it would make Jiho start wishing, so he kept his eyes down.
"Are you going to quote some poet now? To prove your point? Get all philosophical on me?"
Hakkun just grinned,
"Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero."
"And what does that mean?"
Finally the laptop was set aside, though the notebook stayed — Jiho's hand stilled near the latter's upon said notebook — pinkies almost touching, almost intertwining.
"Seize the day, putting as little trust as possible in tomorrow. Horace."
"I'm living."
"Are you now?"
This was unfair, bordering on doomed flirtation.
"I'm breathing and conscious, I'm not upset with where I am in life."
"But what about the things you want?"
There's not much that he wants, Leehan could agree with his character here — Jiho wanted Hakkun and Leehan whole-heartedly wanted Sungho.
"What about them?"
"Will you wait forever to take them?"
"They'll come to me."
"And if they never do?"
Was Sungho getting closer? Leehan swore this wasn't on the script, he could see the subtle glitter of his eyeshadow in this light. This was hard.
"Then I'll never have it."
"You could, if you reached out."
Sudden muffled crashes from the wall opposite, multiple voices commentating and hushing others. A fight. Whilst Jiho was ready to get up, Hakkun made it first — with a soft smile, he repeated,
"Carpe diem, Jiho."
Then he was out, softly scolding the boys and making them apologise to each other.
"Cut!"
Leehan doubled over from the wound up position he held himself in since Sungho got too close, now did it make the scene even better? Hell yes. Did it make Leehan's stomach churn with anxious-fascination? Also hell yes.
Had he also bought Sungho another gift? Yes, he thought it was the only way to start a conversation, the only way for Sungho to see him.
This time it was a nice watch, plain and simple. Sungho latched it onto his wrist and thanked Leehan. Routine.
Leehan was getting obvious. Sungho could see clear as a spring sky that the younger man wanted his approval, wanted to have a ceritified connection. Sungho just didn't know if he was ready to let the latter in; let him see past the claws and the teeth, see the tongue and the supple skin underneath. At a distance, it was safe.
But Leehan continued to be friendly despite being pushed away, continued to light the flames despite sitting centimeters away from human gasoline. That just tugged at Sungho, red strings on his neck; pulling and pulling and pulling until the pressure in his throat forced his tear ducts to open. He wanted to let Leehan in, maybe. Maybe, he admired the redhead's determination, his friendliness even when it slightly bothered the blond when such generosity was directed towards others. Sungho wasn't ready for that conversation.
"What food do you like?"
It felt a bit sad not knowing that already.
"Oh— Gummies, but if we're talking
restaurants—"
"Gummies are fine."
And so after the filming for that day was over, Leehan and Sungho sat outside in the chilled air, bottoms rested on jagged stone — plastic box of assorted gummies sat between them like a child. Quiet yet constant chewing and lack of words, reaching for the same gummy and letting the latter have it, taking it in turns. Leehan even made Sungho huff in amusement once.
"You're really pretty, the way you talk."
"What, are you practicing being Jiho?"
"No, not at all. Although I'd say that I relate to Jiho in a way, but no, I was speaking as Leehan."
"I speak prettily?"
"Yes, yeah. You do."
"Hm."
"It's actually making me sleepy."
"Am I boring you?"
As if electrocuted, Leehan jolted to life as if his only mission in the world was to deny this claim,
"Oh god no! You know I meant your voice—"
"You're funny, and pretty."
Sungho didn't even have to pretend to actually mean the approving compliment, he meant it as monotone as it came out and all Leehan could do was light the flame more, simmer in the aftermath of the blaze.
"Gummies aren't so bad either."
Leehan left all the green-apple-flavoured ones to Sungho seeing how he plucked them up every time.
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Sungho pawed, scraped at Leehan's nape — partially because he hadn't eaten lunch and mostly . . . actually he didn't know why he was very attached to this kiss. Leehan tasted of sour apple gummies, Sungho liked sour apple gummies and Sungho was hungry, simple.
Leehan wasn't even complaining — this was somewhat where he wanted to be. To contrast, the director was, one — truly disturbed and two — wanting a different type of kiss for this scene.
It's day 85.
"Okay guys, let's stop—"
Sungho bit down gently.
"Uh, guys?"
It was the teeniest bit embarrassing that the director had to drop a random prop to get their attention, Leehan immediately let go of his latch on Sungho's arm and stepped back.
"I said slow . . ."
Sungho wiped the moisture from the corner of his lips,
"That was slow."
Okay, wow — if that's slow, what's fast? Sungho may as well be a feral animal at this point, all the traits added up. Mind you, Leehan hasn't seen the blond in a full moon — but that could just be his whimsical imagination.
"Okay, nevermind. Leehan, you're in control of this scene, in control of the kiss."
Cameras rolling, lights flicked on — Jiho rested a damp hand on the side of Hakkun's neck, stroking the jugular vein, feeling it rage against the confines of skin, feeling it branch like a shrub reaching out to the touch.
"Carpet deem or whatever it was, can I be yours?"
Hakkun didn't even glance to the side to check for incoming colleagues or students, he knew this classroom was Jiho's — therefore it was untouchable. This was their bubble, theirs to pop whenever they wanted.
"You know the answer to that."
"Maybe."
This wasn't the battle of lips — this was the sunrise touching the land before saturating it throughout the day, it filled Sungho more than ravaging and devouring. Kissing Leehan wasn't a competition, he could take this loss, just once. Taking time, taking bit by bit, there was always more. Jiho pulled back abruptly,
"Shit."
"What? Is someone coming? Oh my god. Jiho—"
"No, no, not that. I just couldn't feel my heartbeat for a second."
"Wow, it's really true that maths teachers have no charisma.'
"Yet you still fell for me, hypocritical much?"
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Leehan was too good at that.
Sungho didn't care about the days anymore, but for your curiousity — Day 90.
Tomorrow would be the last day on set with Kim Leehan, Kim Leehan — who mixed his gummies together like a maniac, who bought Sungho gifts worth two years of a nurse's salary, who smiled like millions of people weren't dying by the second. Leehan who put Sungho's fire out with water and a blanket, one they were currently sharing on set, on the side.
Today was an off day — with the blond, with the weather. Summer yet the sky was low on saturation, summer yet the sun hid behind shields of grey puff, summer yet the air was biting at pinkened skin.
Leehan was too good at being a romantic.
Sungho was well aware of the latter's experience with romance, with kissing co-actors. Other people bit those lips before he did.
This wasn't new, so why was it bothersome? Why did reality poke at the blond every second, make that tick larger, filling it with bubbling blood with no direct target or cause? Wasn't Leehan's fault, neither was it past co-actors. All of a sudden, a messy, muddy brown became Sungho's favourite colour — not as enraged as red, not as solemn as blue, not as sick as green, not as regal, relaxing as purple.
The blanket made the elder too hot, then too cold, then too itchy, then too sleepy. Leehan was still, on his phone — wasn't shuffling every minute unlike Sungho. Stupid sounds came from the bottom of the younger actor's phone, beeps of victories, buzzers of fails. As if it was that simple; win or lose. Sungho hated losing. Sungho pushed off with a scoff, stomping away to another side of the set — the absence loud enough to grab Leehan's attention, enough for him to tilt his head and summarise the leave to maybe messing up his hair or makeup on accident and seeking staff to fix it.
Leehan would learn that this wasn't the case at all.
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Leehan still counted like it mattered.
Day 91.
The filming of Tolstoy & Archimedes inevitably ended. Not yet, was it out as months of editing, colouring, cutting and adding music had to be added and consulted before a final release.
And so, to celebrate almost 100 days of filming — a party was set up. A manor; rented, decorated, lit. Purple stadium lights that lurked in a clockwise rotation, tables of expensive, chef-made party snacks, expensive alcohol — people dancing, music bouncing off the walls, worming itself into Leehan's ears, the bass rattling his bones, vibrating his muscles.
Sungho wasn't here. Not behind pillars, not sat on sofas, or stairwells. Not against walls, on his phone, not spectating from corners. Not sipping alcohol whilst briefly answering to a stranger, attempting to shorten conversations, not sneaking earplugs into his ears to avoid the booming music. Sungho might've been in the background to everybody — to Leehan, Sungho was the centrepiece of the room. Even if he didn't say anything, spare a glance, stuck to a bitter concoction and a screen — he'd still be the reason Leehan wouldn't leave early to go eat gummies at home. He would go when Sungho wanted.
Except there wasn't that guidance, Sungho wasn't here.
Leehan did something wrong — something's been off since the last day of filming.
And it stuck. Stuck like the sour apple gummy to the grape gummy, like the sugar granules to tastebuds — wouldn't wear off. It was all behind the scenes, it lived through Hakkun and Jiho. No one noticed , no one knew. Not even you. The crew meals, the cold nights on set, after work at one of their places, speaking on movies, animals, favourites — whatever came up. The distance wasn't normal anymore, it was drastic for it to occur. Sungho of course was still his sassy self, but he spoke to Leehan casually, an established bond. The wine-haired actor would try bridge the gap, whatever money it took. He had it, he didn't mind.
Suddenly, the thousand dollar wine in Leehan's cup wasn't so appetising. So, he tossed a few grape gummies in the shapes of fish into the cup.
What's worse, is that it made it taste better.
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Knock knock knock.
Simple — door opens.
Sungho stands there, meticulous. White t-shirt, navy sweatpants, freshly bleached hair — sleepless.
Leehan stands in opposition, meticulous too. Black long sleeve shirt, black, slightly baggy jeans. Yet his hair is growing, black roots clawing at the scalp, bleeding a dull red — sleepless. There had to be something symbolic about the way black seemed to have attached itself to Leehan tonight.
A bag, considerably smaller than anything Sungho has recieved. He sees the bag and he's immediately refusing,
"Leehan— No, no— I don't want it."
"Sungho—"
"Stop, don't waste your money like this, don't waste my time like this."
The door began to close, but not successfully — Leehan wouldn't sit by, let Sungho do whatever he liked, wouldn't let the blond let this go by the slightest.
"Why can't you forgive me?"
"Forgive you? What do you mean? You think I'm mad at you?"
"Why else would you be avoiding me? Please, just take the gift."
Sungho could cry, but he settled for a sneer.
"One, there's nothing going on here that's on you. Two, money will not buy resolution. I don't know what people have put you through before, but gifts . . . they don't solve problems."
It made sense now, friends — who got upset so often over miniscule things — guilt-tripped Leehan into buying their forgiveness. Leehan thought forgiveness could be bought, could be objectified. He was taken advantage of financially. Leehan wanted approval, validation — that's why he seeked it from Sungho, bought him all the gifts in the world without thought. But it went beyond that, the need for approval was infact the tiniest part of loving Sungho.
"Oh."
"Anything else?"
"You're not mad at me, so why are you avoiding me?"
Sungho crossed his arms and Leehan immediately recognised the stance, walls are coming up again. They need to be broken down from the root.
"You don't wanna know."
"I very much do."
"You'd think it's stupid."
"Nothing about you, nothing you've ever said or done is stupid."
"Hm."
"Please."
"Come in."
Sungho stood to the side, Leehan's eyes flicked between the entrance and the blond. He's been here before. Just not like this.
Clean, Sungho's doing. He never hired cleaners, Leehan knew the latter found it therapeutic. He placed the bag on the kitchen counter, carefully as if it would dirty the surface.
"Do you want tea?"
"I want you to talk to me."
"You don't make this easy, huh."
"Can't help it. I like you, you know that. I know you know that."
"I do, and it's very much reciprocated but . . ."
Leehan could wait all night, he genuinely would. The devotion scared himself a lot of the time.
"Fine. I was, or maybe still am, jealous and overthinking."
Well, who knew Park Sungho could overthink? Jealous, Leehan very much knew about, he could feel unease radiate off Sungho whenever the latter was in an awkward situation. But that hadn't happened in a while.
"Overthinking what?"
"Your ability to love. You did it so easily with me, you've only ever acted in romances. You're experienced."
"That doesn't mean anything compared to what I feel for you, Sungho."
"I know—"
"But you don't . . . You should've just told me, I would have soothed your thoughts immediately, without a doubt. Those co-actors, they're actors. Not girlfriends, boyfriends, crushes. Actors. They didn't make me determined, didn't make me want to share my gummies, didn't make me want to invite them over. None of them made me want to think of a relationship outside of set, or kisses or embraces outside of acting. Not like you have."
"You're not like . . . put off?"
"No! This . . . this just shows how much you truly like me, how much you try to hide it but it slips out under your guise anyways. It's relieving."
Sungho grumbled,
"It's insufferable, to have those thoughts."
Leehan approached,
"So I'll make sure you don't have to deal with them alone."
"Yours too, I'm not mad at you, never was. Sorry you felt that way."
"I'm sorry you felt that way too."
"Shut up, don't apologise when it's not your fault."
Sungho grabbed the charcoal, up-close not-ironed hem of the shirt, tugged with the force of all the years combined in the gym to create a universe-changing crash of a kiss. One, Leehan saw coming — he knew when Sungho pursed his own lips. He had plenty of signs and times to escape the brutality of what is Sungho's kissing, but no, he was right where he wanted to be. Leehan didn't care how Sungho kissed him, it mattered the blond was kissing him in the first place. But then, the realisation came — they had all the time in the world, there was no need to bite or intrude, Sungho came to a slow pace, took his time, gave the chance for Leehan to actually create a rhythm, let the fading redhead actually get a feel of his lips without it seeming like a dizzying blur. The hum he recieved confirmed it all.
Sungho broke it to breathe, a bad lung capacity despite being sporty and athletic. Leehan took it as the chance to officialise,
"I'm yours, you're mine?"
"What, did you think I'd kiss you without the intention of dating you?"
"Situationships exist, 2Sung."
"Okay, never call me that again. And, I don't mess around like that."
"You don't understand how happy I am to actually be in a relationship with you, oh my god."
"That's kinda cute."
"My boyfriend called me cute, headline!"
"Do you want tea or not?"
Leehan gestured to the bag,
"No, I want you to go try that on."
Oh, so it's a clothing item . . . Leehan continued when he saw the hesitation in Sungho's stillness,
"I whole-heartedly promise it's not a skirt. Especially, because I have one too, and of course, I wouldn't do that to myself!"
That helped.
Luckily, it turned out to be a cheap, baby pink t-shirt, one you could get for a fiver at the rare but local t-shirt printing shop in semi-urban areas. Their initials seemingly hand-sewn below a picture of them on set printed onto it. No wonder the tips of Leehan's fingers were red and sore, he'd pricked himself doing so.
The final gift — wasn't one of money — but of heart and thought.
Day 99.
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