"two moons"
two moons ; nc-17 ; various pairings (sehun/luhan, zitao/??, ??, etc) ; series.
mafia-verse exo au. part two: the repercussions of oh sehun's big mouth, featuring baekhyun the naive and zitao the predator.
PART ONE. PART TWO. PART THREE. PART FOUR. PART FIVE. PART SIX.
→ ☆ ☆ ☆
Six in the evening. The clouds had long since vanished into the sea of the night sky, like ships that had been totaled, dragged underneath by the current, until there was nothing left but the shadows where they once had stood. The air was cold, a chilling breeze that pierced jackets and dug in through woolen gloves, that found the space between warm skin and the soothing knit of winter scarves. Six in the evening, already pitch black, and for the fourth time that day, that damn kid Baekhyun was inside Starbucks ordering himself a latte.
Actually, to be more precise--and Zitao took a peek down at the small notepad he had open against his thigh--it was a nonfat no-foam caramel vanilla latte. In other words, it was total and utter crap. Shaking his head a little, Zitao glanced out the windshield of the small, two-door sports car he'd been afforded for this mission. It was one of the personal vehicles from their lot. Zitao could tell exactly who it belonged to simply by the sweet smell of cologne that still lingered around the steering wheel, that caught up around him as he slouched further into the driver's seat. It was no mistake that he'd been handed the keys to this car in particular, and he knew it. Somewhere in his chest, his heart swung with the immature beat of thoughts that were concocted from nothing but a wayward feeling, an attraction, that sparked whenever he met eyes with the vehicle's owner. Having a crush on someone was the most ridiculous thing a person in his line of work could do. Then again, it wasn't as though he'd picked this career for himself; he hadn't stood up in class and proudly declared that he was going to dedicate the rest of his youth to blade work and advanced martial arts and making sure that the last person left standing in an altercation was no one other than himself.
When he was younger, the whole reason behind the instruction had been simply to give him a sense of discipline. Studying moves had required concentration, ability, and rather than have him waste his time toying around with boys his age who caught frogs or ate bugs just to show off in front of the girls, Zitao's mother had sent him to the temple to learn martial arts. He only realized how ironic the decision was after she'd died.
Self control? Discipline? Peace with one's mind, body? These were all traits that his mother inherently lacked. What was to say, then, that Zitao didn't lack them as well? Why send him away for so long? Why spend time with him only when absolutely necessary?
The answer was simple. That didn't mean that it was an answer he had known right away, in the depths of his childhood, when he'd simply wondered why his life had to be the unfair one, why the other kids got to play around yet he always had to stay behind. But the long hours spent at the temple, wasting away energy, growing muscle, leaning out his body, combined with the arduous work ethic he was forced to apply to his schooling, gave his mother the free time to tend to her other long-time habit--well, intense nagging and unrealistic expectations aside. If only she'd had the means to pay for it, too. If only she'd stopped before it got out of control.
Baekhyun was pushing open the glass door again, and Zitao let out a pained sigh. He'd probably have to follow him to some kind of bar again, like last night--and the night before that, and the night before that. Baekhyun seemed like a kid prone to partying until those bare hours before dawn crept up on the horizon, staining the world with the reality of the night's deeds; then again, in Baekhyun's line of work, his best deals were probably done inside the club scene, back behind sullied curtains or in the cooler depths of the basement. For a split second, barely even a passing thought, Zitao envied him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually been to a club. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had someone touch him, innocently at first, growing more deluded and demanding as the seconds wore by and the music beat into their skulls. Had anyone ever touched him like that? He bit his lip, twisted the key, and listened to the engine purr to life beneath him.
When he was seventeen, his mother died. A drug overdose, they said; completely preventable, they said. Why didn't you take better care of her, their eyes said. Why didn't you notice the signs, their head shakes said. Why didn't she take care of me, Zitao almost said. His father didn't attend the funeral--he hadn't expected him to, since he'd never come to Korea with them in the first place, and the money that he had sent every month for maintenance and support stopped coming in the mail. Zitao figured that he just plain didn't care anymore. Their house fell behind on payments; Zitao had to start taking showers at the gym in school. Just before high school graduation, the dealers came. Zitao didn't have the money to pay them back.
The boss arrived, two days later, once Zitao had literally kicked the hustlers out of his living room. He would make a deal, the boss said.
Zitao had never seen someone so beautiful in his entire life.
He was tall, as though he'd been hung upside down as a child until all of his limbs stretched and enlarged and filled with the blood that traveled down through his body. He had huge hands--strong hands, powerful hands, that slipped into perfectly tailored pockets of perfectly fitting slacks in a perfect dusky color that matched the overcoat he wore to fight off the autumn chill. Zitao loved the smell of him; it permeated his house, and for the first time in a long time, he was embarrassed of his own surroundings. He had kept the place neat--he had to--but it was hardly decorated; the sofa was lumpy and the television only got basic cable. Zitao could be a real asset, the boss had told him. It was such a nice surprise, he'd added. Sincerest apologies for the lackies, he'd murmured.
It wasn't as though girls had never caught his attention--but with his schedule, how could they? Men and women became just human beings at the temple; there was no difference between them. Would there really be much of a difference if someone chose to attack him? Would gender matter, outside of the natural agility women had, or the more available strength of men? Zitao stopped paying attention to the differences. People were people. People could be cruel, calculating; people could hurt other people. Everyone had the capacity to do anything.
Baekhyun wasn't going to the club. Zitao tailed him, always a few cars behind, grinning almost skeptically at the way Baekhyun's left tail light flickered and threatened to give out. Was that God, giving him a sign? Allowing him an opportunity? When Baekhyun pulled his short silver sedan up to the curb, Zitao parked a street light behind, tight next to the curb. He'd never seen Baekhyun go there before. With interest, he settled back in his seat to watch.
The building was in the more expensive part of town; funny, really, because Baekhyun tended to stick to the slums, never much caring to blow his fortune on petty items. Zitao assumed that the boy had a reason for his career that didn't involve blowing cash on fancy cars or expensive clothes--a dire financial reason, albeit entirely innocent and naive. Zitao almost started to feel sorry for him. If that hacker kid hadn't given up the name, Baekhyun would have had a lot of money to use to get his affairs straight. It was a real pity.
The contract would be for two years, the boss said; potentially three, depending on how much he screwed up the first year. It would cover all of his mother's debts, from the time where she started falling behind on payments and then, later, when she stopped working as a prostitute. Zitao hadn't even blinked twice at the information. Perhaps it was something he had once noticed but never brought up. Perhaps he had never noticed at all. Zitao, the real Zitao, had become a tiny jewel, kept tight and precious inside his chest, in a ruby-crusted jewelry box with a gold lock and key. He forgot where he put the key. It didn't really matter, anyway.
Two years. Three, maybe. Zitao had agreed. He had finished high school, left his house-- presumably to be condemned--and moved into the depths of Chinatown, where the New Moon gang, a mixed bag of Chinese immigrants and a handful of Korean social links, had just started gaining notoriety.
He had always wanted to ask his mother why they moved to Korea. He'd always forgotten to bring it up.
"What are your memories of Qingdao?" the boss had asked him once, after he'd watched Zitao sparring with one of their trainers. The sweat had dripped off his nose as he came to sat down and, embarrassed, Zitao had mopped it up with his shirt sleeve, which made the boss smile. He liked it when he made him smile. Originally, he had thought of it as a rare occurrence, but more often than not, the man was smiling. Business made him turn cold again.
"Being hungry," Zitao had answered, an honest little quiver to his voice. That jewelry box inside of him rattled insistently for a moment, and Zitao sucked in a breath, trying again. "The ocean."
"I've never been," the boss answered, but his head had turned to address a runner who had come to report information for him, and the next words left his lips sounding vacant, distracted. "Maybe we can go sometime."
Zitao flicked his eyes back towards the building, then looked at his watch, before realizing it was much more efficient to look at the digital radio clock instead. Baekhyun had been inside for at least twenty minutes. Impatient, Zitao started to fiddle with the dial of the stereo, but all that came on was some upbeat pop number from a girl group Zitao had never heard of. Crossing his arms against his chest and leaning back in his seat again, he waited.
When Baekhyun appeared again, he wasn't alone. Zitao was immediately on edge. The man holding the door open for Baekhyun was tall, impossibly so, and dressed in a pair of ill-fit jeans and an oversized basketball jersey, but he wasn't the one that caught Zitao's attention. Baekhyun's hand was being clasped in the hold of a short, well-dressed businessman, decked out in a custom-made Chanel suit. (Zitao had learned a bit about fashion after he'd come under contract. The boss had required it of him.) To say it was expensive would be an understatement. Zitao could have paid for his own flat with that money. He could have booked a ticket to China with that money. He probably had killed for that amount of money.
When the street lamp flashed a beam across his face, Zitao recognized the contours, the soft shadows, the neatly styled black hair, and that sickeningly cheap smile--and his hand immediately slid onto the gear stick in reflex. Baekhyun and the other man shook hands the way two people agree on a business arrangement. The door shut again, closing the two inside, and the kid retreated back to his car.
Baekhyun was in way over his head, Zitao mused to himself.
It had been four years since he'd signed the contract. Nearly five, actually, if he counted correctly. And, like an obedient puppy, Zitao had stayed where he was wanted, doing work he didn't necessarily enjoy but was trained enough to complete with ease. What else was he supposed to do? Become a freelance assassin for hire?
What would the boss think of him then?
The route Baekhyun took was familiar to him this time, and Zitao had no trouble following him. They left the high-rise apartment buildings, the skyscrapers, the constant pattern of neon lights that danced across windshields and scampered off into the distance. The streets gradually became dimmer; the road became less paved, with smart little holes that Zitao had to avoid with tender precaution. After all, this was a precious asset. This was only a loan. This was his car.
When Baekhyun pulled into the driveway of a rickety old house, the shutters flapping in the slight breeze, Zitao let out a soft sound of pity.
He didn't really want to have to murder Baekhyun at his mother's house. That was just so disgustingly cliche.
Parking down the block, a few houses down, Zitao killed his headlights. Baekhyun was lingering in the vehicle, the driver's door open, loud music pumping out of the stereo as he struggled to gather something out of the passenger seat. Zitao slipped from his car soundlessly, the door shutting with hardly a click. His sneakers hit the asphalt with the weight of his step, and calling out in a soft sound, he gathered Baekhyun's attention without much effort.
"Hey," Zitao called out, a cat-like smile stretching his lips out into a grin. "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you..."
Baekhyun looked a little apprehensive. Jumpy. Nervous. Either that, or he looked a little high. Zitao hoped it was the latter; it would work to his advantage. His sneakers found the bump where Baekhyun's driveway started. Hovering there for a moment, Zitao pointed tenderly towards the back of the car.
"Your tail light's burnt out," Zitao murmured, motioning Baekhyun closer with the subtle upturn of his fingertips. "I just wanted to let you know."
The boy immediately relaxed. "Shit," he mumbled with a grin, and killing the engine--stupid, Zitao thought immediately, you're a stupid kid--he swung his keys around one finger, tapping the door shut to start to come around the back of the car. Zitao pedaled back a couple of steps and let out a soft laugh. It was almost, almost genuine.
"Sorry, I tried to tell you at the stop sign back there, but you didn't see me. I know it's a real pain," Zitao murmured softly, his Korean practiced and soft. Baekhyun was bending over to inspect the tail light, as though he'd really be able to tell its working condition without the car running. He seemed to realize that, after a moment; Zitao almost saw the virtual light bulb start up over his head. He stifled a smile.
Before Baekhyun could stand up straight again, Zitao had the back of his hair in a tight grip. The sound of his gloves, the leather crunching, melted in with the strands that caught in his hold. When Baekhyun's head coiled back, Zitao squeezed his eyes shut. The sound of his forehead hitting the hard exterior of the trunk made a sick, crunching sound, and his body slid limp onto the cement. Crouching down, an immediate shift, Zitao reached for his hair again, holding his head up to expose his neck.
"Sorry," he whispered, before Baekhyun's head hit the cement with a forcible sound.
In the dark, the blood looked like oversized rain puddles. Zitao pretended it was so, soft puddles of muddy water that threatened to run onto his sneakers, making him dance and dart away, crouching along the side of Baekhyun's car. With the other's keys in hand--"Sorry," he said again in a whisper--he popped the driver door open.
Baekhyun really was naive. Zitao still felt sorry for him.
There was a tiny prick of vibration in his pocket, almost soundless, cradled by the denim of his jeans. Under the relative silence of night, the sounds of televisions and couples arguing filtering through the air from open windows, shrouded by blinds, Zitao flipped his phone open.
The voice on the other line was amused. Zitao started to smile.
"If you were a new dealer," Zitao started in a low whisper, as his sleeved arm reached across the car, and gloved fingers yanked a duffel bag across the console, "...and you stole a whole shipment of cocaine from someone else, where would you hide it?"
The other line laughed. Zitao shushed him, hoisting the bag over his shoulder just as a light flickered on in the top floor of Baekhyun's house.
"I don't know," Minseok said, his voice crackled and amused through the receiver of Zitao's cellphone. "But I'll bet I wouldn't be able to hide it for long."
mafia-verse exo au. part two: the repercussions of oh sehun's big mouth, featuring baekhyun the naive and zitao the predator.
PART ONE. PART TWO. PART THREE. PART FOUR. PART FIVE. PART SIX.
→ ☆ ☆ ☆
Six in the evening. The clouds had long since vanished into the sea of the night sky, like ships that had been totaled, dragged underneath by the current, until there was nothing left but the shadows where they once had stood. The air was cold, a chilling breeze that pierced jackets and dug in through woolen gloves, that found the space between warm skin and the soothing knit of winter scarves. Six in the evening, already pitch black, and for the fourth time that day, that damn kid Baekhyun was inside Starbucks ordering himself a latte.
Actually, to be more precise--and Zitao took a peek down at the small notepad he had open against his thigh--it was a nonfat no-foam caramel vanilla latte. In other words, it was total and utter crap. Shaking his head a little, Zitao glanced out the windshield of the small, two-door sports car he'd been afforded for this mission. It was one of the personal vehicles from their lot. Zitao could tell exactly who it belonged to simply by the sweet smell of cologne that still lingered around the steering wheel, that caught up around him as he slouched further into the driver's seat. It was no mistake that he'd been handed the keys to this car in particular, and he knew it. Somewhere in his chest, his heart swung with the immature beat of thoughts that were concocted from nothing but a wayward feeling, an attraction, that sparked whenever he met eyes with the vehicle's owner. Having a crush on someone was the most ridiculous thing a person in his line of work could do. Then again, it wasn't as though he'd picked this career for himself; he hadn't stood up in class and proudly declared that he was going to dedicate the rest of his youth to blade work and advanced martial arts and making sure that the last person left standing in an altercation was no one other than himself.
When he was younger, the whole reason behind the instruction had been simply to give him a sense of discipline. Studying moves had required concentration, ability, and rather than have him waste his time toying around with boys his age who caught frogs or ate bugs just to show off in front of the girls, Zitao's mother had sent him to the temple to learn martial arts. He only realized how ironic the decision was after she'd died.
Self control? Discipline? Peace with one's mind, body? These were all traits that his mother inherently lacked. What was to say, then, that Zitao didn't lack them as well? Why send him away for so long? Why spend time with him only when absolutely necessary?
The answer was simple. That didn't mean that it was an answer he had known right away, in the depths of his childhood, when he'd simply wondered why his life had to be the unfair one, why the other kids got to play around yet he always had to stay behind. But the long hours spent at the temple, wasting away energy, growing muscle, leaning out his body, combined with the arduous work ethic he was forced to apply to his schooling, gave his mother the free time to tend to her other long-time habit--well, intense nagging and unrealistic expectations aside. If only she'd had the means to pay for it, too. If only she'd stopped before it got out of control.
Baekhyun was pushing open the glass door again, and Zitao let out a pained sigh. He'd probably have to follow him to some kind of bar again, like last night--and the night before that, and the night before that. Baekhyun seemed like a kid prone to partying until those bare hours before dawn crept up on the horizon, staining the world with the reality of the night's deeds; then again, in Baekhyun's line of work, his best deals were probably done inside the club scene, back behind sullied curtains or in the cooler depths of the basement. For a split second, barely even a passing thought, Zitao envied him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually been to a club. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had someone touch him, innocently at first, growing more deluded and demanding as the seconds wore by and the music beat into their skulls. Had anyone ever touched him like that? He bit his lip, twisted the key, and listened to the engine purr to life beneath him.
When he was seventeen, his mother died. A drug overdose, they said; completely preventable, they said. Why didn't you take better care of her, their eyes said. Why didn't you notice the signs, their head shakes said. Why didn't she take care of me, Zitao almost said. His father didn't attend the funeral--he hadn't expected him to, since he'd never come to Korea with them in the first place, and the money that he had sent every month for maintenance and support stopped coming in the mail. Zitao figured that he just plain didn't care anymore. Their house fell behind on payments; Zitao had to start taking showers at the gym in school. Just before high school graduation, the dealers came. Zitao didn't have the money to pay them back.
The boss arrived, two days later, once Zitao had literally kicked the hustlers out of his living room. He would make a deal, the boss said.
Zitao had never seen someone so beautiful in his entire life.
He was tall, as though he'd been hung upside down as a child until all of his limbs stretched and enlarged and filled with the blood that traveled down through his body. He had huge hands--strong hands, powerful hands, that slipped into perfectly tailored pockets of perfectly fitting slacks in a perfect dusky color that matched the overcoat he wore to fight off the autumn chill. Zitao loved the smell of him; it permeated his house, and for the first time in a long time, he was embarrassed of his own surroundings. He had kept the place neat--he had to--but it was hardly decorated; the sofa was lumpy and the television only got basic cable. Zitao could be a real asset, the boss had told him. It was such a nice surprise, he'd added. Sincerest apologies for the lackies, he'd murmured.
It wasn't as though girls had never caught his attention--but with his schedule, how could they? Men and women became just human beings at the temple; there was no difference between them. Would there really be much of a difference if someone chose to attack him? Would gender matter, outside of the natural agility women had, or the more available strength of men? Zitao stopped paying attention to the differences. People were people. People could be cruel, calculating; people could hurt other people. Everyone had the capacity to do anything.
Baekhyun wasn't going to the club. Zitao tailed him, always a few cars behind, grinning almost skeptically at the way Baekhyun's left tail light flickered and threatened to give out. Was that God, giving him a sign? Allowing him an opportunity? When Baekhyun pulled his short silver sedan up to the curb, Zitao parked a street light behind, tight next to the curb. He'd never seen Baekhyun go there before. With interest, he settled back in his seat to watch.
The building was in the more expensive part of town; funny, really, because Baekhyun tended to stick to the slums, never much caring to blow his fortune on petty items. Zitao assumed that the boy had a reason for his career that didn't involve blowing cash on fancy cars or expensive clothes--a dire financial reason, albeit entirely innocent and naive. Zitao almost started to feel sorry for him. If that hacker kid hadn't given up the name, Baekhyun would have had a lot of money to use to get his affairs straight. It was a real pity.
The contract would be for two years, the boss said; potentially three, depending on how much he screwed up the first year. It would cover all of his mother's debts, from the time where she started falling behind on payments and then, later, when she stopped working as a prostitute. Zitao hadn't even blinked twice at the information. Perhaps it was something he had once noticed but never brought up. Perhaps he had never noticed at all. Zitao, the real Zitao, had become a tiny jewel, kept tight and precious inside his chest, in a ruby-crusted jewelry box with a gold lock and key. He forgot where he put the key. It didn't really matter, anyway.
Two years. Three, maybe. Zitao had agreed. He had finished high school, left his house-- presumably to be condemned--and moved into the depths of Chinatown, where the New Moon gang, a mixed bag of Chinese immigrants and a handful of Korean social links, had just started gaining notoriety.
He had always wanted to ask his mother why they moved to Korea. He'd always forgotten to bring it up.
"What are your memories of Qingdao?" the boss had asked him once, after he'd watched Zitao sparring with one of their trainers. The sweat had dripped off his nose as he came to sat down and, embarrassed, Zitao had mopped it up with his shirt sleeve, which made the boss smile. He liked it when he made him smile. Originally, he had thought of it as a rare occurrence, but more often than not, the man was smiling. Business made him turn cold again.
"Being hungry," Zitao had answered, an honest little quiver to his voice. That jewelry box inside of him rattled insistently for a moment, and Zitao sucked in a breath, trying again. "The ocean."
"I've never been," the boss answered, but his head had turned to address a runner who had come to report information for him, and the next words left his lips sounding vacant, distracted. "Maybe we can go sometime."
Zitao flicked his eyes back towards the building, then looked at his watch, before realizing it was much more efficient to look at the digital radio clock instead. Baekhyun had been inside for at least twenty minutes. Impatient, Zitao started to fiddle with the dial of the stereo, but all that came on was some upbeat pop number from a girl group Zitao had never heard of. Crossing his arms against his chest and leaning back in his seat again, he waited.
When Baekhyun appeared again, he wasn't alone. Zitao was immediately on edge. The man holding the door open for Baekhyun was tall, impossibly so, and dressed in a pair of ill-fit jeans and an oversized basketball jersey, but he wasn't the one that caught Zitao's attention. Baekhyun's hand was being clasped in the hold of a short, well-dressed businessman, decked out in a custom-made Chanel suit. (Zitao had learned a bit about fashion after he'd come under contract. The boss had required it of him.) To say it was expensive would be an understatement. Zitao could have paid for his own flat with that money. He could have booked a ticket to China with that money. He probably had killed for that amount of money.
When the street lamp flashed a beam across his face, Zitao recognized the contours, the soft shadows, the neatly styled black hair, and that sickeningly cheap smile--and his hand immediately slid onto the gear stick in reflex. Baekhyun and the other man shook hands the way two people agree on a business arrangement. The door shut again, closing the two inside, and the kid retreated back to his car.
Baekhyun was in way over his head, Zitao mused to himself.
It had been four years since he'd signed the contract. Nearly five, actually, if he counted correctly. And, like an obedient puppy, Zitao had stayed where he was wanted, doing work he didn't necessarily enjoy but was trained enough to complete with ease. What else was he supposed to do? Become a freelance assassin for hire?
What would the boss think of him then?
The route Baekhyun took was familiar to him this time, and Zitao had no trouble following him. They left the high-rise apartment buildings, the skyscrapers, the constant pattern of neon lights that danced across windshields and scampered off into the distance. The streets gradually became dimmer; the road became less paved, with smart little holes that Zitao had to avoid with tender precaution. After all, this was a precious asset. This was only a loan. This was his car.
When Baekhyun pulled into the driveway of a rickety old house, the shutters flapping in the slight breeze, Zitao let out a soft sound of pity.
He didn't really want to have to murder Baekhyun at his mother's house. That was just so disgustingly cliche.
Parking down the block, a few houses down, Zitao killed his headlights. Baekhyun was lingering in the vehicle, the driver's door open, loud music pumping out of the stereo as he struggled to gather something out of the passenger seat. Zitao slipped from his car soundlessly, the door shutting with hardly a click. His sneakers hit the asphalt with the weight of his step, and calling out in a soft sound, he gathered Baekhyun's attention without much effort.
"Hey," Zitao called out, a cat-like smile stretching his lips out into a grin. "Hey, I'm sorry to bother you..."
Baekhyun looked a little apprehensive. Jumpy. Nervous. Either that, or he looked a little high. Zitao hoped it was the latter; it would work to his advantage. His sneakers found the bump where Baekhyun's driveway started. Hovering there for a moment, Zitao pointed tenderly towards the back of the car.
"Your tail light's burnt out," Zitao murmured, motioning Baekhyun closer with the subtle upturn of his fingertips. "I just wanted to let you know."
The boy immediately relaxed. "Shit," he mumbled with a grin, and killing the engine--stupid, Zitao thought immediately, you're a stupid kid--he swung his keys around one finger, tapping the door shut to start to come around the back of the car. Zitao pedaled back a couple of steps and let out a soft laugh. It was almost, almost genuine.
"Sorry, I tried to tell you at the stop sign back there, but you didn't see me. I know it's a real pain," Zitao murmured softly, his Korean practiced and soft. Baekhyun was bending over to inspect the tail light, as though he'd really be able to tell its working condition without the car running. He seemed to realize that, after a moment; Zitao almost saw the virtual light bulb start up over his head. He stifled a smile.
Before Baekhyun could stand up straight again, Zitao had the back of his hair in a tight grip. The sound of his gloves, the leather crunching, melted in with the strands that caught in his hold. When Baekhyun's head coiled back, Zitao squeezed his eyes shut. The sound of his forehead hitting the hard exterior of the trunk made a sick, crunching sound, and his body slid limp onto the cement. Crouching down, an immediate shift, Zitao reached for his hair again, holding his head up to expose his neck.
"Sorry," he whispered, before Baekhyun's head hit the cement with a forcible sound.
In the dark, the blood looked like oversized rain puddles. Zitao pretended it was so, soft puddles of muddy water that threatened to run onto his sneakers, making him dance and dart away, crouching along the side of Baekhyun's car. With the other's keys in hand--"Sorry," he said again in a whisper--he popped the driver door open.
Baekhyun really was naive. Zitao still felt sorry for him.
There was a tiny prick of vibration in his pocket, almost soundless, cradled by the denim of his jeans. Under the relative silence of night, the sounds of televisions and couples arguing filtering through the air from open windows, shrouded by blinds, Zitao flipped his phone open.
The voice on the other line was amused. Zitao started to smile.
"If you were a new dealer," Zitao started in a low whisper, as his sleeved arm reached across the car, and gloved fingers yanked a duffel bag across the console, "...and you stole a whole shipment of cocaine from someone else, where would you hide it?"
The other line laughed. Zitao shushed him, hoisting the bag over his shoulder just as a light flickered on in the top floor of Baekhyun's house.
"I don't know," Minseok said, his voice crackled and amused through the receiver of Zitao's cellphone. "But I'll bet I wouldn't be able to hide it for long."