It builds up.  

A pounding feeling between his eyes, pulsing relentless growing and growing until his skin becomes hot and pin pricks began to course through his body.

Amazing Kiss faintly reaches his ears, pass the fog of nerves, low simmering discontent.  It all surges a need to escape.

There’s too many people, the sounds they make jarring, unpleasant.  

It’s impossible to forget the cameras between them, knows there’s a camera following his every move.  

He sighs, his legs move on their own and all he hears past the noise is the way Gunhee’s voice calls out almost futility, Heeseok hyung.

The cameras don’t follow him, unsurprisingly, instead only following his escape through the glass doors.

But he hears footsteps behind him, hurried in their attempts to catch up, sneakers squeaking against the tiled floor.

Through all the turns Heeseok finally ends up in a usually vacant bathroom, smaller than the ones closer to the practice rooms, clean with how infrequently it was used.

He pushes through the door, listens to it swish close and the the sound of it being opened again, slamming close again.

He can’t look him in the eye, Heeseok watches his reflection in the mirror, eyes meeting Gunhee’s frazzled gaze.

“Hyung,” Gunhee says softly, shuffling a bit closer, “are you ok?”

Heeseok allows himself to stay as Gunhee keeps going to him, he can feel the way his mouth betrays him and a small smile begins to show.

“Hyung,” Gunhee’s voice changes, mellowing into a sweet noise, his lips widening into a grin.  

Heeseok forces his smile to leave, heart fluttering when he realizes just how close Gunhee really is.

“We have practice,” Heeseok offers, voice low.  His cheeks warm knowing that they’re here because of him.

Practice had been unbearable.  The song on loop as Gunhee and Dongsu had attempted to form some sort of choreography.  

Heeseok had followed along with stiff movements, a sluggish energy he wanted to so desperately blame on his worsening cold.  

He hadn’t allowed himself to think about Gunhee after their kiss.  No matter how much his body reacted to the other boy, how much it thrilled him that Gunhee had followed him, always following him.

“I know,” Gunhee finally says, breaking up his thoughts, now closer.

Gunhee kisses him like they have all the time in the word.  His fingers trail up his neck, curling around his, holding Heeseok still between the warmth of his body and the coldness of the porcelain sink.

Is this what he had wanted?

When he walked out of the practice room and held his breath until he heard Gunhee’s footsteps.  When he stayed that night in that small room and pushed Gunhee away from him.  

Gunhee’s mouth is hot, searing broad of heat against his chest, soft mouth stuttering his breath.

He likes this too much.  A part of Heeseok, the part that has taken years in the making, the industrial engineering student who has spent years understanding numbers, finding comfort in logic and efficiency can’t figure out what to do with this.

What to do with Gunhee.

What to do when he fails.

Before he can push Gunhee away the other boy pulls apart, pink lips settling into a soft smile, pink high on his cheeks.

“Please try harder Heeseok hyung, so we can all survive,” Gunhee is honest, open with his emotions, thoughts, still untouched from the bitterness that Heeseok has learned to swallow, untouched from the hard life Heeseok has learned to thrive under.

Heeseok doesn’t answer.  

He turns his face away and feels the way his heart misses a beat when Gunhee’s hand finds its place in his own.  

-

Gunhee looks beautifully ethereal.

Heeseok’s eyes keep going back to him, gaze catching on the column of his neck, elegant, wrapped like a present with the black ribbon.  His skin is golden, shimmering with makeup, lips dulled down with a darker shade of lipstick.  

The collar of his shirt rides down enough, Heeseok can see the lines of his collarbones, just enough skin to make him wonder.

He’s breathtaking.

They can’t compare.

Gunhee’s made so perfectly, the lines of his legs, the strength of his shoulders.  Clothes drape on him like they were made just for him.  His eyes shine nervously, hair swept over them.  

Heeseok takes a deep breath, shies away from the cameras.

He doesn’t allow himself to think until they’re being shoved behind the stage, microphones fixed on them, the stage dimming, lights splattering like the constellations Heeseok wishes one day he could have.

There’s a hush that goes over the crowd, the piano’s first notes start and the crowd’s eyes land on the way the spotlight halos over Gunhee.  The first note, in Gunhee’s honey tone is enough to get a reaction.  

Heeseok holds his breath, head down, counts the beats until he has to sing.

His throat goes dry, faintly hearing the way Gunhee and Dongsu melt together into one note.

Heeseok swallows, takes in a breath, brings his microphone to his lips and finally faces the crowd.

He panics, he can’t think straight as he starts to sing, facing all the people watching them, watching him.

His voice cracks, catching on his mistake.  He can’t help but grimace, the crowd drawing in their breath at the faulty start.

He pushes through, his brain gone blank, following as best as he remembers the arrangement Gunhee had worked so hard on.

He can’t hear anything past the roaring against his ears, the way his pulse has quicken.  

Heeseok harmonizes when he has to, sings his lines, tries to remember the minimal choreography.

And then it’s time for the high note, his body turns out of habit, eyes finding Gunhee as he watches the way the light glints off his skin, swallowing him into a brighter, sharper image of the boy.

Heeseok fills out the one fault Gunhee has.  But he knows it’s not enough.

-

He cries when they let him speak, his eyes catch on Hyunwoo in the crowd and he has so much to say but it all dies in his throat.

The cameras are there when they go back, the rest of the group and he plays along, tired, accepting.

The rest of the night stretches out with the performances, the cheers from the crowd, the reactions from the others.

Heeseok watches this all happen, until the last stage finishes and everyone starts to leave.  He stands behind Gunhee when they get called in for rankings.  He knows he won’t place well, knowing he was last in his own group.  He watches as the ranks begin to fill out, only paying attention when he hears his own group called.

Somehow they push the ranks down.  Gunhee sits proudly on top, a big point gap between him and the others.  Heeseok’s own rank is lower, but higher than he would have expected.  He ends up number seven overall, he wonders if it’s enough, looking at the way Gunhee’s still can’t seem to understand that he’s number one.

He has to start thinking logically, has to stop looking for Gunhee.

-

But Gunhee still finds him.  

He doesn’t say anything.  His stage makeup is smudged, too worn.  He smiles because Gunhee always smiles.  Heeseok wants to smile back but there’s bile rising up his throat and it all feels unfair.  No matter how much he wants it Heeseok just doesn’t seem to have it in him.

“We’ll both be here next week,” Gunhee whispers.  He’s holding makeup wipes in his hands, places them on the edge of the sink.  

“We’ll both survive, right hyung?”

-

Gunhee barely makes it, even with his point advantage.  No one can seem to understand how it was barely enough.  

RBW Lee Gunhee - 29.

Heeseok watches from his seat as he goes up the stage, looking at the camera, expression etched into sadness, eyes glinting with tears threatening to spill.  Heeseok knows it hurts him.  Knows that if he turns around he’ll see Yeo Hwanwoong just as devastated.

They don’t call RBW Yeo Hwanwoong after that.

They don’t call Jellyfish Yoon Heeseok.

He watches as the cameras follow Gunhee’s journey to Yeo Hwanwoong, how the cameras capture the sad words and smiles shared between them.  The tears that Gunhee has never been ashamed to shed.

He has his things ready to leave.  Changes out of the uniform, stuffs it into his bag.  He waits along the hallways for the van to take him back to the company.  

His eyes look back and back again through the glass door for a familiar ride.  

There’s a hand in his.

It catches him off guard, long fingers forcefully finding their place between his.  

He goes limp but the force of the other is enough to pull him through the halls, down the familiar deserted turns, into the small bathroom people seem to have forgotten.

His bag hangs from his other arm and Heeseok can only see Gunhee, cornering him against the wall.

“Don’t you dare leave me behind,” Gunhee says, voice different, hard, no longer playful, thick, “tell me you’ll remember me.”

“Ok,” Heeseok gives way.

Gunhee kisses his cheek, kisses his jaw, kisses his mouth.  He takes in a shuddering breath, face finding the space between his neck and shoulder.

“Don’t forget me,” Gunhee whispers, hot against his neck.

It’s all Heeseok wants to do.