At Gunpoint 6/10
Title: At Gunpoint 6/10
Pairing: Jonghyun/Key
Genre: AU
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter
Summary: Kibum doesn't like his life. Practically no part of it.
A/N: A day late. Surry! At least now you'll have minus one day of waiting for the next update? :D? LOL yeah.
Kibum doesn't like his life. Practically no part of it.
He doesn't hate it, he just doesn't feel passionate about it; not like he once did. He used to have hobbies (now he's uninterested), he used to have friends (now he's far away from them), he used to have a family (now he's surrounded by diplomats). In short, there's nothing, apart from his clothes and memories, that reminds him of the life he had.
Until he appeared, that is; his father's killer - or is that assassin? The same man who once threatened to choke him is living just a few rooms away, setting Kibum's stomach into knots. Because, after he squinted, turned upside down and held his breath while humming South Korea's national anthem, he saw it. He recognised Yongjin (he bets that's not even his real name) as the only link to his old life. The more he thinks about it, the more logical he finds it.
He doesn't hear himself sigh, headphones too tight over his ears and the volume too high, but he does feel his lungs empty. The woman on the television is passionately talking and gesturing about something, but he can't follow her.
His face screws up at the realisation that this is all there is, nowadays. He eats salads, because that's the most his stomach can really take, listens to music and takes stupid walks around the hotel. Walks which, by the way, are always ruined by stupid July-rainfalls and extreme humidity.
So days just come and go, finding him alone and bored, mostly thinking, eating, sleeping.
But this wouldn't be happening if he was different. If he could somehow leave this all behind, find somebody to spend his time with, get something to do. If there was something and somebody to live for, then maybe life wouldn't be this underwhelming.
Once again, he feels his chest rise and fall deeply while he watches his fingers let go of the remote control still in his hands.
His eyes close on their own accord.
He wants that change.
+
"Your silence sure is alarming," his uncle notes after two minutes that severely lack in conversation. His eyes never lose their focus as his left hand purposefully moves his fountain pen over the sheets in front of him. Paperwork. Wrong, your actions are alarming.
Kibum only remains silent, nails ticking on the armrests on either side of him. His right leg, crossed over the other one, connects with the heavy desk between him and his uncle. His eyes lock opposite of him, fixing on the other; testing him as he looks up to send Kibum a serious look.
"Are you going to tell me why you're here, or are you going to continue distracting me?" he asks after a few seconds, fingers tightening around his pen. The large grandfather clock behind him ticks impatiently.
In response, he stares at him defiantly. Challengingly. "You're usually the one doing all the talking, so-"
"Look, Kibum," he begins abruptly, reaching up for his reading glasses and letting them rest on the desk before continuing, "you're not a kid. You can understand everything I have done and everything I continue doing for you. You can't be mad at me." His eyebrows meet.
Kibum exhales humorlessly. "So you're looking out for me now?" His mouth twists.
And after that, nothing much is said for a while. words and secrets and truths too heavy hanging all around them. Kibum knows, his uncle knows, even the walls closing them in know. Nothing is about altruism and caring, not in this case.
Sanghwan sighs. Eventually, he speaks. "I'm not using you. No more than you are using me, at least," he stops, raising a palm that effectively stops Kibum from talking. "I support you financially," his tone picks up, "I offer you a home, food and a promising future, and you hate me for that? Really?"
Kibum averts his eyes; the window, the hanging chandelier over his head, the expensive painting opposite of him. He needs to inform him how much bullshit he thinks all of this is. How much he doesn't need it.
As if in an attempt to annoy him further, he continues. "I owed nothing to your mother. She didn't even ask before parking you here. I could have left you out on the streets and nobody would have noticed."
Kibum keeps looking away.
His uncle returns to his previous calm. "All I'm saying is, you're here because I want you to be, and you ought to show some gratefulness."
The words that leave Kibum's mouth are calm yet uncontrolled. "By letting you write my life out for me?"
He sighs, leaning forward. The leather office chair beneath him squeaks. "You were never supposed to have much choice, Kibum," he tells him, almost confidentially, and the latter thinks that is must be the most truthful thing he has heard all day.
They're interrupted by sharp ringing, the black telephone on Kibum's right complaining about an incoming call. Eyes flying over to the device, Kibum watches as his uncle's hand closes around it quickly, bringing it to his ears. A female voice speaks up, talking in a fast pace about things Kibum can't listen clearly. Her tinny voice only comes to a pause whenever Sanghwan replies, and barely a minute later the call is over.
"I've got to meet up with some clients now, but we'll talk about this later," he makes sure right after he sets the earpiece down, causing Kibum to slumpily stand up from his armchair.
In the few seconds that follow, Kibum has already reached the door to his uncle's office, and the only thing that stops him is his voice, once again.
"The appointment with my lawyer has been scheduled for this Wednesday. I will also have some extra paperwork to fill up, so I'll need you there, as well," he simply says, and Kibum thanks him for nothing.
A couple of minutes later, though, out in the hall of the nineteenth floor of the hotel, Kibum doesn't know how to feel. For a fact, his emotions have been a mix of anger and helplessness and everything in between, lately. His head has been a mess -then again, when has it not?- and his body has concentrated too much energy, too much frustration and too much aimless purpose. The pads of his fingers tingle as he pushes the elevator's button, and the soles of his feet prickle with every step towards his room.
The door shuts closed behind him, leaving the hall empty and the light still on.
Just some minutes before Sunday turns into Monday, he opens up again, steps out and walks forward. Stops. Retraces steps. Looks at his feet. Thinks of going back to bed.
Fuck this, I can change everything.
His feet take him to a completely different direction from his own room, bringing him right in front of a very specific door. His fist comes up, knocking on the expensive wood. His heart stops beating for fragments of a second only to begin thumping against his ribcage later.
When the door opens, he lunges forward.
→ previous. next.
Pairing: Jonghyun/Key
Genre: AU
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter
Summary: Kibum doesn't like his life. Practically no part of it.
A/N: A day late. Surry! At least now you'll have minus one day of waiting for the next update? :D? LOL yeah.
Kibum doesn't like his life. Practically no part of it.
He doesn't hate it, he just doesn't feel passionate about it; not like he once did. He used to have hobbies (now he's uninterested), he used to have friends (now he's far away from them), he used to have a family (now he's surrounded by diplomats). In short, there's nothing, apart from his clothes and memories, that reminds him of the life he had.
Until he appeared, that is; his father's killer - or is that assassin? The same man who once threatened to choke him is living just a few rooms away, setting Kibum's stomach into knots. Because, after he squinted, turned upside down and held his breath while humming South Korea's national anthem, he saw it. He recognised Yongjin (he bets that's not even his real name) as the only link to his old life. The more he thinks about it, the more logical he finds it.
He doesn't hear himself sigh, headphones too tight over his ears and the volume too high, but he does feel his lungs empty. The woman on the television is passionately talking and gesturing about something, but he can't follow her.
His face screws up at the realisation that this is all there is, nowadays. He eats salads, because that's the most his stomach can really take, listens to music and takes stupid walks around the hotel. Walks which, by the way, are always ruined by stupid July-rainfalls and extreme humidity.
So days just come and go, finding him alone and bored, mostly thinking, eating, sleeping.
But this wouldn't be happening if he was different. If he could somehow leave this all behind, find somebody to spend his time with, get something to do. If there was something and somebody to live for, then maybe life wouldn't be this underwhelming.
Once again, he feels his chest rise and fall deeply while he watches his fingers let go of the remote control still in his hands.
His eyes close on their own accord.
He wants that change.
+
"Your silence sure is alarming," his uncle notes after two minutes that severely lack in conversation. His eyes never lose their focus as his left hand purposefully moves his fountain pen over the sheets in front of him. Paperwork. Wrong, your actions are alarming.
Kibum only remains silent, nails ticking on the armrests on either side of him. His right leg, crossed over the other one, connects with the heavy desk between him and his uncle. His eyes lock opposite of him, fixing on the other; testing him as he looks up to send Kibum a serious look.
"Are you going to tell me why you're here, or are you going to continue distracting me?" he asks after a few seconds, fingers tightening around his pen. The large grandfather clock behind him ticks impatiently.
In response, he stares at him defiantly. Challengingly. "You're usually the one doing all the talking, so-"
"Look, Kibum," he begins abruptly, reaching up for his reading glasses and letting them rest on the desk before continuing, "you're not a kid. You can understand everything I have done and everything I continue doing for you. You can't be mad at me." His eyebrows meet.
Kibum exhales humorlessly. "So you're looking out for me now?" His mouth twists.
And after that, nothing much is said for a while. words and secrets and truths too heavy hanging all around them. Kibum knows, his uncle knows, even the walls closing them in know. Nothing is about altruism and caring, not in this case.
Sanghwan sighs. Eventually, he speaks. "I'm not using you. No more than you are using me, at least," he stops, raising a palm that effectively stops Kibum from talking. "I support you financially," his tone picks up, "I offer you a home, food and a promising future, and you hate me for that? Really?"
Kibum averts his eyes; the window, the hanging chandelier over his head, the expensive painting opposite of him. He needs to inform him how much bullshit he thinks all of this is. How much he doesn't need it.
As if in an attempt to annoy him further, he continues. "I owed nothing to your mother. She didn't even ask before parking you here. I could have left you out on the streets and nobody would have noticed."
Kibum keeps looking away.
His uncle returns to his previous calm. "All I'm saying is, you're here because I want you to be, and you ought to show some gratefulness."
The words that leave Kibum's mouth are calm yet uncontrolled. "By letting you write my life out for me?"
He sighs, leaning forward. The leather office chair beneath him squeaks. "You were never supposed to have much choice, Kibum," he tells him, almost confidentially, and the latter thinks that is must be the most truthful thing he has heard all day.
They're interrupted by sharp ringing, the black telephone on Kibum's right complaining about an incoming call. Eyes flying over to the device, Kibum watches as his uncle's hand closes around it quickly, bringing it to his ears. A female voice speaks up, talking in a fast pace about things Kibum can't listen clearly. Her tinny voice only comes to a pause whenever Sanghwan replies, and barely a minute later the call is over.
"I've got to meet up with some clients now, but we'll talk about this later," he makes sure right after he sets the earpiece down, causing Kibum to slumpily stand up from his armchair.
In the few seconds that follow, Kibum has already reached the door to his uncle's office, and the only thing that stops him is his voice, once again.
"The appointment with my lawyer has been scheduled for this Wednesday. I will also have some extra paperwork to fill up, so I'll need you there, as well," he simply says, and Kibum thanks him for nothing.
A couple of minutes later, though, out in the hall of the nineteenth floor of the hotel, Kibum doesn't know how to feel. For a fact, his emotions have been a mix of anger and helplessness and everything in between, lately. His head has been a mess -then again, when has it not?- and his body has concentrated too much energy, too much frustration and too much aimless purpose. The pads of his fingers tingle as he pushes the elevator's button, and the soles of his feet prickle with every step towards his room.
The door shuts closed behind him, leaving the hall empty and the light still on.
Just some minutes before Sunday turns into Monday, he opens up again, steps out and walks forward. Stops. Retraces steps. Looks at his feet. Thinks of going back to bed.
Fuck this, I can change everything.
His feet take him to a completely different direction from his own room, bringing him right in front of a very specific door. His fist comes up, knocking on the expensive wood. His heart stops beating for fragments of a second only to begin thumping against his ribcage later.
When the door opens, he lunges forward.
→ previous. next.