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Cuti looks around the group of players crowding Heungmin on the pitch and he can’t help feeling completely out of his depth. He remembers some faces like Cho who made headlines for being attractive (which he begrudgingly acknowledges as Cho nuzzles against Heungmin), and Hwang who scored the winning goal against Portugal. Others he doesn’t recall so well, although there seems to be one universal understanding between him and the Korean national team.
They all love Heungmin.
This isn’t new knowledge to Cuti, who has known Heungmin to easily be one of the most likable players in the Premier League–which admittedly, isn’t a very hard feat to accomplish when players like Balotelli and Barton have been on the pitch. He’s not ignorant to all the times Maddison jumps on Heungmin for celebrations or the poorly hidden affection that Richarlison stares at him with.
But it’s different seeing him in his element, surrounded by his people–speaking his native language, sharing jokes, and an easy understanding that here he’s Son Heungmin, national representative. Not Heungmin Son, Asian footballer.
And Cuti is just one of his club teammates that Heungmin invited to Korea.
So as he watches the way Heungmin keeps cupping the cheeks of the short guy he recognizes as the PSG player and cooing at him with adoration, Cuti can’t help the way his chest clenches in discomfort. He stands awkwardly from a few feet afar, although it feels more like a whole ocean’s breadth away–both in the unfamiliar language that surrounds him and the feeling that he’s intruding on an atmosphere he’s not privy to.
As if he can hear Cuti’s thoughts, Heungmin’s gaze lifts to meet his. His smile widens if that’s even possible, and moves his arm to wrap around PSG’s shoulder instead. His other arm waves Cuti over and only then does Cuti force himself to move.
The rest of the Korean players’ eyes flicker over to Cuti. He feels prickles down his spine, although there’s really nothing intimidating about their curious stares. He still can’t help the way he feels like he’s being introduced to his boyfriend’s extended family who are all one wrong move away from chopping his balls off.
Which is stupid.
Because he isn’t Heungmin’s boyfriend.
And the other players aren’t judging his every move.
(He hopes.)
“Cuti!” Heungmin exclaims with excitement as if the two of them haven’t been attached at the hip since they arrived in Korea the night before. His other arm wraps around his waist and Cuti wishes he would let go of his grip on PSG to focus on him instead.
He finds himself in a makeshift circle where he and Heungmin (and PSG, ese boludo) are in the center. Cuti directs his gaze at Heungmin whose smile seems to shine brighter than normal in hopes of ignoring the unfamiliar stares directed at him.
Heungmin says something in Korean to his teammates. Cuti hears his name and Tottenham somewhere in the middle and looks around to see everyone latching onto his words like he’s a prophet sent from God. Cuti would too, if he knew what he was saying.
At the end of Heungmin’s little speech, Cho shouts something from the crowd, the word couple lost somewhere in there and laughs arise. He thinks he hears a few wolf whistles. Heungmin blushes and looks down bashfully. Cuti smiles confused, not for the first time wishing he was back in London where he could at least pick up a few familiar words.
Heungmin says something again and the crowd disperses like that. Soon it’s just the two of them and PSG who Heungmin still has a strong grip on. PSG says something to him with a smug look and Heungmin laughs, slapping him on the back.
“Bye, Kangin,” Heungmin says in English. So that’s his name.
Kangin (PSG, Cuti thinks spitefully,) turns to leave, yelling out a “Bye, Heungmin-hyung! Bye Cuti!” and chasing after his other teammates.
Cuti frowns. Hyung. He’s heard that word come from Heungmin’s lips a few times before, particularly when that infuriatingly handsome Korean actor came to visit him a while back or when he overheard him on call with Jisung Park a couple of times. From what he understands, it seems to be a term of endearment.
Heungmin never calls him hyung.
“Hyung,” Cuti tests the unfamiliar syllables out loud and immediately regrets it. He cringes at the way it sounds stiff, so unlike the way the Korean players direct it at Heungmin laced with affection.
Heungmin whips his head toward him. His eyes crinkle as he smiles, his crow’s feet appearing. “What did you say?” he asks, laughing.
Cuti looks down in embarrassment. “Nothing.”
Heungmin laughs again, and some of the others look their way. “No, I wanna hear it again. What’d you say?”
“‘S nothing. You’re laughing at me.”
“Because it’s cute! Call me ‘hyung’ again, Cuti.”
“Why do you never call me that?” is what comes out of his mouth instead, and a slurry of curse words runs rampant in his head like alarms. Pelotudo, Cuti.
Heungmin tilts his head in confusion. “Why would I?” He asks, like it’s normal that he’s so liberal with his physical affection but can’t afford to let a single term of endearment be directed at Cuti.
Cuti groans, irritation bleeding into his speech. “Es como compa, ¿no? You never call me hyung. But you do with your actor friend, or Jisung Park.”
His teammate processes his question, understanding dawning on his expression. Then he bursts out laughing.
Cuti feels shame coursing through him. Heungmin would have a good reason for not calling him that, he always does. He should’ve stayed satisfied with the status quo–trust him to always mess things up.
He crosses his arms in an attempt to preserve his dignity. But Heungmin brings him in for an embrace and he melts into his arms, although his face still feels heated.
“Cuti,” Heungmin says, breathless with laughter. He runs a hand through Cuti’s hair. “Have you ever heard me call Kangin hyung?”
Cuti purses his lips. Again with PSG. “No,” he mumbles.
“Exactly. I don’t call him hyung because I’m not supposed to. He’s the youngest.”
Cuti separates from his embrace. Heungmin stares patiently at him, gaze bright with affection. He’s not sure what he’s done to have the Korean look at him like that, but he’s dying to know so he can do it again.
“I don’t understand.”
Heungmin smiles again. “You only call people hyung when they’re older than you. That’s why I don’t call you hyung.”
Cuti’s face flushes again, this time in embarrassment. Being in Korea makes him ten different shades of stupid, it seems. “Sonny,” he whines. He burrows his head against Heungmin’s neck and feels the vibrations of his body as the Korean laughs.
“I can call you other things though. Like dongsaeng. Just not hyung,” he teases.
“I hate you,” Cuti replies, although the way he clings to Heungmin’s body like a sloth says otherwise.
“No you don’t,“ Heungmin says, before mumbling something in Korean as he ruffles his hair again.
“¿Qué quiere decir?”
Heungmin presses a kiss against the crown of his head. “C’mon. I wanna show you around the stadium.” He peels Cuti’s arm off him and although Cuti isn’t a fan, he’s disgustingly compliant as Heungmin half-drags the two of them off the pitch to leave the rest of the players to their own devices.
Cuti rests his head against the crook of his neck and celebrates that not even Kangin who Heungmin seems to love so much can latch onto him like he is. Cuti one, PSG zero.
Heungmin chuckles beside him and Cuti can’t tell if he said that out loud or not. But as the two of them walk through the tunnel while the national team is left behind, he finds that he doesn’t care.
“Lindo,” Heungmin says, grabbing Cuti’s hand and intertwining their fingers together.