(for sara_evac) White Lies [2/2]
Title: White Lies
part one
Blue Record is secluded in a row of clothing stores a few blocks away from Apgujeong station, and it’s a miracle the business is still thriving when only a handful of customers walk in and buy something. Chanyeol tells him that it’s not a store for everyone, so he’s not surprised by the low turnout, but Jongin only rolls his eyes and attributes it to the disintegrating sign outside. Advertisements are everything in this day and age.
Although most customers only come in to browse, a few seasoned music listeners return regularly, and Jongin’s able to pick out the devoted fans from the casual ones because they head over to the back wall as soon as they enter the store. Blue Record lives up to its name and boasts an impressive vinyl collection behind all of the regular CDs and DVDs. It easily outdoes Woodstock’s with music from numerous decades and places, and it’s the only collection Jongin’s seen that categorizes Sanulrim next to the Bee Gees. When Jongin heads to the shelves to clean the dirt off the cases, dusting the covers of the LPs with care, he’s reminded that most of the records have been sitting on the same racks for years, never once taken out and played. It’s a waste, a beautiful waste, but there are plenty of other things that are similarly glossed over and ignored.
It’s a slow afternoon, as usual. Chanyeol’s working the same shift as him today, but they joke that there really only needs to be one employee working at a time with the amount of traffic they’re getting.
“Even Jongdae doesn’t come in anymore,” Chanyeol says, pillowing his chin in his hand while he searches for the next song to play. Chanyeol refuses to put on Christmas music because all the other stores on their block are playing it, so instead, they’re looping Radiohead for the third time in a row.
“I heard he quit.” Jongin leans back in his chair, balancing on its two hind legs, and closes his eyes to take in the buzz of electric guitars. “The manager didn’t want to let him go because he’s the only who can alphabetize the stockroom correctly.”
“He said something about a temporary leave,” Chanyeol snorts. “But I know he’s not coming back. He got a scholarship at some conservatory, the lucky bastard.”
Jongin opens his eyes and leans forward again, bringing the chair back from its precarious position. “Wait, he’s studying now?”
“Or soon to be studying.” Chanyeol double clicks on something and a new song blares through the speakers overhead. “Have you ever thought about going back to school?”
Jongin thinks about towering stacks of textbooks, restless nights studying, and caffeine-driven stints at the library, but he has trouble integrating himself into each scene when the weight of an entirely different kind of commitment presses down on him. He shakes his head. “Not anytime soon. How about you?”
“I want to go,” Chanyeol doesn’t hesitate to say. “You get a taste of freedom you don’t get in high school. You can even study abroad and see things you only see in movies. Think about going to America.”
“You only know hello and goodbye in English.”
“It’s enough!” he proclaims, gesticulating wildly. He nearly jabs Jongin in the eye with his long limbs, and Jongin ducks away at the right time from experience. “I’ve already decided to go someday, but I need save up the money for tuition first.”
Chanyeol’s enthusiasm isn’t surprising. Jongin would choose him as the perfect candidate for university. He’s a well-rounded, congenial guy with a blinding set of teeth and a penchant for snapbacks, and although his eagerness is usually expressed by loud, obnoxious laughter, Chanyeol can probably immerse himself in the world of college, being the social chameleon he is, and never look back.
”How much is it?” Jongin asks, but he regrets it the moment he sees his colleague’s crestfallen face.
“It’s expensive.” Chanyeol laughs, but it comes out vaguely strained. “It’s going to take a while for me to find the money. I’ll find a way, though.” He looks down at his uniform and crumples the polyester fabric in his hands. “I guess I won’t be quitting anytime soon.
There’s a quick remedy on the tip of his tongue; it’s the same solution Sehun had offered him a few months ago. Jongin’s so close to letting the suggestion spill out because it might just benefit Chanyeol like it’s benefited him, and it will definitely save Jongin from yielding to the lies he’s long lost track of; however, he swallows the words down because Chanyeol has innocence preserved in the way he looks at things, in the way he taps out beats on the wooden counter and falls asleep towards the end of each shift. He isn’t cut out for a different life, and there have been times-more often than not-when Jongin’s wondered if he’s chosen the wrong trail to go down as well.
He rests a hand on his shoulder instead. “You’ll make it. It sounds clichéd when I say it, but I believe in you.”
The glimmer of hope in Chanyeol’s eyes stays with him for the rest of the day.
x
Jongin’s the only one left to close up the store again. He doesn’t particularly enjoy the late shifts when Chanyeol isn’t there to distract him, but they give him ample time to ponder away on his own and possibly squeeze in a few minutes of rest.
The bell attached to the door jingles just as the clock reads 10PM, and Jongin stirs from his nap at the counter, caught in a disoriented state, and attempts to stand to greet the customer.
“Sleeping on the job?”
Jongin’s heart lurches in a way he doesn’t understand when he sees and hears Kyungsoo. “People don’t usually come in this late.”
Kyungsoo loosens the scarf around his neck and glances around at the interior of the store. He stops to take a long look at the back wall with clear eyes, moving closer to it the more his eyes linger to read the titles of the albums. It must be snowing outside again because there’s a trail of slush coming from Kyungsoo’s boots, and it occurs to Jongin that he should prepare to close up soon and start by cleaning the floor like he normally does, but he stays, not minding if he has to leave a few minutes late.
“You promised me you’d show me the vinyls.”
“Right, I did.” Jongin hops over the counter and discreetly wipes away at any drool that might have dried on his face. “Obviously, you can see them now, but what are you interested in?”
“I like jazz,” Kyungsoo replies. “The classic kind. There’s a certain quality to the singers’ voices from that time, and it’s hard to describe what it is, but I’ve always liked listening to them sing.”
“For some reason, I’m not surprised you chose jazz out of everything else.” Jongin crouches down to reach the bottom shelf and skims through the first few vinyls.
“Is this another detective stereotype? We all have to be old souls?” Kyungsoo adjusts his trousers and stoops down so they’re examining the same shelf. Now that he’s closer, Jongin can smell a hint of something clean, probably from the laundry detergent on his neatly pressed clothes.
“Maybe. I haven’t met a detective who’s requested pop or heavy metal, but then again, I haven’t met many detectives.” He pulls out one particular vinyl. The case is tinted with age, but it’s free of dust from the number of times he and Chanyeol have cleaned the shelves. He hands Kyungsoo the vinyl and stands up. “How about this one?”
He’s an admirer of music rather than an expert-Chanyeol is more of an expert than he is-but he chooses an artist he’s sure Kyungsoo will know. Jongin doesn’t recall filing it away the LP in its proper spot, so it must have been sitting on the shelf since before he started working at Blue Record.
“Frank Sinatra.”
“Do you like his music?”
“I do,” Kyungsoo breathes out, the excitement evident in his voice. “I don’t own any of his LPs, but I like to sing his songs sometimes.” He gazes at the pastel blue cover and traces his finger along the cursive lettering of the name. After a few seconds, he hands it over to Jongin, who blinks in confusion.
“You don’t want to buy it?”
Kyungsoo’s lapses into silence, and without Chanyeol’s background music, it intensifies ten-fold into white noise. “Do you have a pipe dream, Jongin?” he finally asks.
“What’s that?”
“A dream you want to chase after but can’t due to various reasons.”
Jongin thinks of Chanyeol, who dreams of America and university. He thinks of his parents, who started living their pipe dreams the moment they opened the restaurant. He thinks of Sehun, who lets his actions speak louder than his words and has no dreams beyond what he does. Jongin draws a blank because it dawns on him that he’s not quite complacent, but he’s not unhappy either; instead, he hovers, directionless. “I don’t think I have one.”
Kyungsoo nods slowly, as if he’s disappointed, and Jongin can tell that he doesn’t fully understand. “I have one, but it’s useless to think about it now.”
“No, that’s not true.” Jongin holds out the vinyl again towards him and Kyungsoo takes it back with tentative fingers. “Is it singing? Is becoming a singer your pipe dream?”
“It’s stupid, isn’t it?” Kyungsoo has retreated into himself, gilding his words with a false smile, and Jongin wants nothing more than to draw him out of his shell again. “When I listen to Frank Sinatra and all these singers I look up to, I have to stop myself from thinking about the what-ifs. I’m working a job I like, but sometimes, it feels like I don’t like it enough. You wouldn’t think that enjoying a job would matter, right? A lot of people end up doing things they aren’t fond of anyway.” He sighs, and Jongin realizes it’s a pivotal moment because Kyungsoo is letting out something he’s been keeping deep within him. “I’m fortunate. I shouldn’t be complaining.”
“Kyungsoo-”
“I’m sorry I’m dumping all of this on you. You’re just doing your job like I am.”
“You know,” he says, gazing absentmindedly at the rows and rows of untouched music in front of him, “nothing’s impossible in the long run. I might not have a so-called pipe dream, but I wouldn’t give up on it if I had one. Besides, I thought you were all about optimistic theories.”
Kyungsoo bites his lip. “That doesn’t apply here.”
“It should. You can be a kickass detective and singer, and break all the stereotypes.”
“Shut up,” Kyungsoo replies weakly, but he has a genuine grin on his face that slowly chips away the walls he built up around himself moments before.
“Now, should I ring this up for you?” Jongin asks, waving the vinyl around. “I swear if you don’t buy it, I’ll take it out of my paycheck and give it to you.”
“Why would you do that?” Kyungsoo slowly takes the vinyl back into his hands.
“Your inner conflict is hard to watch.” Jongin heads back to the counter and smiles when Kyungsoo follows him. “That record needs a new home anyway.”
Because they’re walking home in the same direction, Kyungsoo waits for him to close up the store. Just as Jongin is turning the lock and stuffing the master set of keys back in his backpack, Kyungsoo’s phone rings. The sidewalks are still reasonably lit and occupied by late-night commuters. They walk unhurriedly, and Jongin watches the people pass by, upholding their schedules even as they waddle slightly on the icy ground in their bulky winter wear. Kyungsoo dangles his recent purchase at the crook of his elbow and exchanges hushed strings of speech with whomever’s on the other line. Next to the pedestrians, Jongin thinks that Kyungsoo’s a familiar face. It grows on him the more he sees him, and when Kyungsoo’s illuminated by both the Seoul streetlights and his own peculiarities, his one-shade uniformity melts away to reveal someone multidimensional-the real Do Kyungsoo.
“I’ll call the bank tomorrow to ask about the checks,” Kyungsoo mumbles, and Jongin catches it because those words sound eerily familiar. They stop at a crosswalk and Kyungsoo finishes up his conversation with a series of yes’s and noises of agreement.
“Work?” Jongin asks and Kyungsoo nods. The light turns red and they proceed to cross.
“There’s a new case I’m taking on starting today. It involves fraud, which is different from what I handle most of the time.”
Jongin burrows his hands into his pockets and balls them into fists as the adrenaline starts to pick up in his veins. “Fraud?”
“Check fraud, probably a conman’s doing. I’m sorry, but I can’t say much more. Confidentiality and everything.”
“It’s alright,” Jongin responds, clearing his throat. He’s foolishly forgotten his place. Although he’s considerably inactive these days, he can’t erase his past deeds. They’re phrases tattooed underneath his skin, containing secrets that only Jongin can see. Suddenly, walking beside Kyungsoo feels like a severe crime.
They’ve reached a less populated block, and Kyungsoo begins murmuring a melody that unwinds Jongin’s nerves. The notes flow out with the rush of his white breath, making it look like he’s pouring out a song into the air from his lungs. His murmurs form into vowels and consonants, his voice deepens and expands, and soon he’s singing, voice on the softer side, but it’s distinguishable from the sound of passing cars. He carves out a tune that’s somewhat recognizable. The name escapes him as it floats around in Jongin’s mind, barely out of reach.
When he finishes, tapering out the last note, Jongin takes his hands out of his pockets to clap vigorously. “Is that a Frank Sinatra song?”
“Yeah, he’s sung it before. It’s called ‘Come Fly With Me’.” He looks away sheepishly and rewraps his scarf tighter around his mouth.
“I wasn’t expecting the impromptu performance,” Jongin comments, rubbing his hands together to regain some warmth. “That was amazing.”
“It’s not really a performance, but I’m glad you enjoyed it regardless.”
Jongin lets out a long, content sigh. “Singing will take you places, even if you think it’ll take you a while for it to happen. If you think about it, it’s nice to have a pipe dream.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because,” Jongin hesitates, stalling for time because he doesn’t want his words to ring true when he utters them and can’t take them back. He licks his chapped lips. The skin is on the verge of breaking, and he should protect his face more if he’s walking home often in the frigid evenings. “Sometimes, I don’t know where I’m headed. I fall into routines easily, but I don’t know where they’ll take me and I don’t know where I want to go either.”
Jongin turns to look at him, anticipating a response, but Kyungsoo keeps his eyes forward. The headlights from incoming cars bounce off his face, brightening his cheeks and chin, but they keep his eyes indecipherable in the dark. “Maybe you should take your advice,” he says, “If it takes a lifetime to chase a pipe dream, then it might take half a lifetime to discover what it is first. You still have more than enough time to find where you’re going.”
They reach the next intersection where they have to separate. They’re the only ones waiting for the light to turn again to cross perpendicular roads. They both have their hands tucked in their pockets, and Kyungsoo’s standing close enough for their elbows to knock against each other. Jongin feels an unusual attachment to him, as if a thin, invisible string connects them. Perhaps, it’s a culmination of what he’s learned about Kyungsoo, that he still has his doubts and fears even when he’s practicing optimism and adhering to his philosophies-even when he’s potentially Jongin’s foil. He’s shed his shadow for something more substantial, something more human.
The light turns red and Kyungsoo’s leaving first, but Jongin sticks his hand out in the cold to hold onto Kyungsoo’s sleeve for a fraction of a second longer. He’s been reassured that he has years to find his dream, his motivation, but he finds that it’s the small moments that hold the most significance.
x
Jongin dreams of memories. They start off by flashing through his mind like a collection of photographs, cast in greyscale and sepia tones. His dreams are never ordered chronologically. Some nights, he dreams of sweet coffee, 10,000 won bills, and a weightlessness in his step every time he walks out of a nameless, brandless café. Other nights, he dreams of snakes, the ones with black scales and black eyes; those dreams are more like nightmares because he’s immobile as the reptiles crawl up his body and wrap around his arms, his legs, his neck. And when they all squeeze at once, Jongin wakes up in his dark bedroom, sweating and gasping for breath. His most vivid, recurring dream is more solid because it happens exactly the way he remembers it.
It’s his first con. Sehun receives orders from a nondescript higher-up to intercept a monetary exchange between two businessmen. He claims it’s an easy job, and that it’s virtually impossible to screw up.
“Unless you back out,” he warns, sliding a tiny, yet deadly looking knife into the inside pocket of his crisp blazer. “There’s no backing out in this business.”
Jongin balks, but gingerly takes his knife in the end because it’s too late to turn back, just like Sehun’s said.
They meet the man at the designated location inside a grungy hotel lounge. The smell of cigarette smoke is thick in the air, and it coats the back of Jongin’s throat in a sour layer every time he inhales.
“We’re Mr. Park’s representatives,” Sehun lies coolly, and Jongin doesn’t dare to breathe as he continues. “Unfortunately, he couldn’t be here today, but he sent us to carry out the agreement as previously planned.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The man nods furiously. There’s sweat gathering on top of his bald head, and he struggles to reach down and lift up his briefcase. “I’ve carried out my side of the deal, as promised.” He sets his briefcase on the table between them. When he cracks it open, Jongin’s head spins when he sees the amount of money wrapped up inside.
“This will do,” Sehun announces gruffly, shutting the briefcase before Jongin can count a rough estimate. Go in and pull out as quickly as possible, he’s been told. Don’t wait, don’t hesitate. “Mr. Park will notify you via private correspondence sometime within the next 48 hours. Thank you for coming today.”
Jongin bows stiffly when they’re about to leave. Formalities are important; always uphold formalities. His blazer feels tight around his torso, and the outline of the knife presses into his chest, a cruel reminder of what could’ve gone wrong.
“See, it’s simple,” Sehun says after they’ve dropped off the suitcase in front of a bare, grey-washed warehouse farther out from the city. The coldness in his voice has ebbed away, and Sehun’s undone his tie. This is the Sehun he’s accustomed to. “We’re only the messengers in the grand scheme of things.”
“What do we do afterwards when the real Mr. Park realizes he’s been duped?”
“We don’t do anything.” Sehun steps on the gas harder, lurching the car forwards on the freeway. They’re hurtling back home at a speed that’s nearly double the limit, but no one catches them, and it’s exhilarating, it’s intoxicating. It’s frightening. “We’re not responsible for the messes we make.”
Jongin wakes up to an unsettling stillness.
x
Sometimes, in his peripheral vision, Jongin sees a black van. It seems to follow him when he’s out on the main roads, slowing down when Jongin slows down and speeding up when he makes a turn and disappears around the corner. He can’t chalk it up to paranoia as usual because he’s been expecting this. Somewhere in Beijing, Sehun’s been expecting this too, but Jongin doesn’t actually know if he’s still there, networking and conducting business, or captured and trapped in some underground facility. Something tells him, though, that Sehun is reckless, but not reckless enough to get caught after going through the trouble of escaping.
He begins to take side roads more often, and he accumulates just enough spare change for the taxi every now and then without visiting the bank. Jongin’s careful about showing his face in public, so he buys oversized hats and scarves to conceal his face. He considers dyeing his hair back to black if the chestnut is too noticeable, but if Sehun can thrive in Seoul with his bright hair, then surely he can get away with a less incriminating color. A week passes without any new developments, and Jongin’s grateful the black van doesn’t appear again.
Still, he’s learned to err on the safe side. It’s advice that’s been pounded into him from the beginning.
Apart from the occasional text and phone call, he doesn’t see Kyungsoo for weeks. Kyungsoo feeds him details about his case sparingly, and Jongin doesn’t mind because he tries to push them aside anyway to keep his world from plunging back into definitive blacks and whites. In exchange, and to draw Kyungsoo back out of his long hours at work, Jongin tells him about the new collections of jazz albums they’ve recently received at the store. He tells Kyungsoo that the bars nearby are offering independent musicians time slots for gigs. Kyungsoo laughs when he does, as if Jongin were just kidding, but the longing edge in his tone tells him that it’s not too distant of a possibility.
Jongin still carries on with his routine, making disjointed trips between the restaurant, Blue Record, and his apartment, but the longer he goes without a change, without seeing Kyungsoo again, the more he craves a disruption. Perhaps, this is what he’s been searching for all along, he thinks-a kick of excitement from a disturbance-but he’s been away from the business for long enough to realize that Kyungsoo supplies him with an entirely different kind of rush. At the end of their brief conversations over the phone, and in the static-filled seconds before Kyungsoo hangs up-Jongin never hangs up first-he realizes that he’s grown dependent.
Don’t get attached, Sehun had reminded him. A conman isn’t supposed to have a conscience. Jongin’s tried multiple times in the past to silence his, but every falter and delay counted against him.
“Sehun,” he says to no one in particular as he shuffles Chanyeol’s playlist for the nth time, “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”
He’s closing the store for the night again. He misses the evenings when Chanyeol would sweep the floor and replenish stocks of CDs with him, all while eccentrically dancing or miming to an air guitar. Chanyeol had picked up a third job and Jongin doesn’t see him nearly as often anymore. Without him, the night shifts are hushed and soporific, and Jongin has to find solace in the music he blares from the speakers instead. He’s surprised when the bell rings at this hour, but Jongin stands up out of habit.
“Welcome,” he recites, and he stops when he sees Kyungsoo at the entrance. “Oh, it’s you. Long time no see.”
“It’s you?” Kyungsoo raises an eyebrow and takes off his hat to brush off the snow sitting in the fibers. “I thought you’d be more excited to see me since you don’t get many customers this late.”
“It’s more like we don’t get any customers at all at this time,” Jongin corrects him. “Except you.”
“Better late than never.” Kyungsoo shuffles his feet awkwardly, not quite stepping off the placemat and into the body of the store. “I was going to drop by and ask if you wanted to walk back together, but the storm suddenly picked up on my way here.”
“So you weren’t going to buy something?” Jongin feigns disappointment and Kyungsoo gives him a small frown that juts out his bottom lip. “It’s okay, I’ll still walk with you. A little snow doesn’t hurt anyone. I have to check over the inventory list before I close up first.” Jongin feels a little uplifted by the grin Kyungsoo gives him.
As he skims down the list of recent shipments at various quantities, he watches Kyungsoo fiddle with the stereo. There’s something child-like about the way he skips songs and fast-forwards through the beginning verses to get to the chorus.
“There’s a lot of Radiohead on here,” he notes, and Jongin glances up at him.
“Oh, that’s Chanyeol’s playlist.”
Kyungsoo stops fiddling and lets the current song take its course. “Chanyeol?”
“Chanyeol’s my coworker here. He’s a friend who knows a lot more about music than I do.” Jongin sets down his pencil and files the inventory list back into its folder.
“It’s funny, but I realize there’s still a lot I don’t know about you.”
Jongin starts to pack up his belongings. He intentionally does it slowly to prolong their conversation. “That’s not true. I told you things I’ve never told anyone before. Things about dreams, or my lack of a dream, I guess.”
“But something about you-” Kyungsoo hums in contemplation and Jongin freezes as he’s putting his water bottle back in his bag. “I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe it’s my detective’s instinct acting up, pushing me to want to know more about you.”
“I like being mysterious,” he reasons with him. “That’s all.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing else to it?” Kyungsoo asks with a lilt. Jongin shakes his head, but he doesn’t dare meet Kyungsoo’s eyes because he knows everything will be laid out in the open when he does. There’s a fluttering sensation in his chest, as if butterflies are trying to crawl up and fly out. He’s lied before in the face of danger, in a rough situation, in a heartbeat to avoid repercussions, but doing so in front of Kyungsoo gets increasingly more challenging the closer he is, the more Jongin lets Kyungsoo stick to him without the ability to pull away. Kyungsoo seems to have that effect on him.
They eventually make it outside, but they don’t spy any wandering pedestrians. The heavy snowfall has sent people scrambling for any available forms of transportation, leaving the stragglers on the street to fend for themselves. “Have you made progress on your case?” Jongin asks, trying to change the topic, even if it’s an unpleasant one. He zips up his jacket so it covers the entire lower portion of his face and sucks in his breaths slowly to keep the icy air from hurting.
Kyungsoo’s even more bundled up than usual, and his voice comes out muffled when he speaks. “We’re looking for several suspects currently, but they’re all in hiding and we don’t know much else.”
He attempts to conjure up a façade. It feels unnatural, sickening, a poorly fit disguise that threatens to unwind around him. Don’t hesitate, but then he thinks of Sehun, who’s supposedly lying low in Beijing. There isn’t much of a difference between being alive and being dead when you’re somewhere and nowhere at the same time. Jongin hesitates. “That sounds dangerous.”
They’re at the same intersection from the other night. The traffic light pulses steadily, seemingly broken. Without other people, without the commotion of high-speed travelers, Seoul feels a little emptier, as if the snow has wiped away their existences along with their footsteps and tire tracks. For a moment, no one’s there to see them, and Jongin thinks this peace is blissful.
“I didn’t see you tonight to talk about work,” Kyungsoo tells him, but the wind picks up and he has to raise his voice.
“What did you want to say then?”
In an instant-it happens faster than Jongin’s brain can process it-Kyungsoo reaches out to grab the lapel of Jongin’s coat. He tilts his head up and kisses him. His lips are cold and dry against his, and Jongin doesn’t think of anything, doesn’t try to maintain the mask that disintegrates all at once. He only senses.
Kyungsoo’s hood has fallen off and his ears are bright red when he pulls away. “I don’t-I don’t usually do this. God, I don’t even know you well enough.”
“Yeah?” Jongin licks his lips. Kyungsoo leaves no traces behind. His touch was feather light, tasteless, a wisp of cold winter air. It leaves Jongin yearning for more.
“I don’t know why I did that, honestly.”
“Really?”
“But I want to do it again.”
There’s no more indecisiveness in his actions when Jongin pulls Kyungsoo back to him. There’s a whisper of I think I might like you between their lips, and he’s not sure who said it first, but it’s quickly lost in the vanishing space between them. For once, Jongin allows himself to be greedy, to truly give in to his desires, because he can’t pine for Kyungsoo’s presence half-heartedly. He can’t lie to himself like he does to others when it’s finally clear as day that this is what he wants, this is what he’s been searching for.
Complete contentment is a feeling he wouldn’t trade in for anything, even if it were temporary.
x
Jongin floats on cloud nine and Chanyeol notices immediately. There’s a foreign sensation that blooms inside of him, altering the colors and the sounds of the world so everything is a touch sharper, a little more vibrant. Jongin can’t tell if there’s an external change, but he figures there must be one when Chanyeol starts to loop cheesy love songs during their shifts together.
“So, new girlfriend?” Chanyeol grins from ear to ear and rests his arm across Jongin’s shoulders. “You should see how your face has been these past few days. You look love-struck.”
“No.” Jongin moves away to search up a barcode on the computer and dodges Chanyeol’s attempts to wrangle him in again.
“New boyfriend?” Jongin looks up abruptly and Chanyeol lets out an unrestrained laugh. “It’s cool. Whatever makes you happy.”
The truth is, Jongin doesn’t know what Kyungsoo is to him, and he has even less of an idea of what he means to Kyungsoo. He only knows that he’s no longer able to rinse out his vestiges. What started off as mere curiosity progressed into something greater, and now he’s breaking all the rules because Kyungsoo has stuck to him, has unknowingly pushed away and kicked at the wavering pieces inside of him to make room for himself. Jongin has delayed for far too long to resurface without inflicting damage, and he selfishly wishes that he doesn’t have to resurface at all.
That itself, he thinks, is a pipe dream.
The sky is clear tonight, veiling the city in a calm tranquility, and Jongin decides to take the longer route back to his apartment. He drapes his scarf loosely around his neck and briefly wonders if Kyungsoo is still in his office. He’s never been the kind of person to complain about working overtime because he’s still unyieldingly devoted his job, still stubbornly holding on to his notions.
“There’s more to it,” Kyungsoo had told him over the phone once. “People are pawns in that business, Jongin. They’re disposable. I can’t deny that it’s my goal to catch them, but I’m hoping that I’ll find the one who’s pulling the strings along the way.”
“And you still believe they’re worthy of justice?” Jongin had asked, holding his breath. Even after everything they’ve done.
“Yes,” he’d replied. “They’re not innocent, but they’re not completely at fault either. I think they’re misguided.”
Jongin turns onto a narrow side street where the shops are closed and the road is quieter. He can still hear the crunch of tires on pavement, but the sound disappears the farther down he walks. The light pollution is strong in Seoul, but if he squints hard enough while walking on a dimmer path, he thinks he can catch the faint gleam of individual stars in the sky, dust particles across midnight velvet.
“Kim Jongin?”
He startles, but before he can turn around, there’s a loud crack from something striking his skull, and an excruciating pain travels across the back of his head. Thousands of stars burst to fill his vision, bright and hot like fire. He sees them distinctly now as they flash before his eyes, obliterating the real night sky, until they finally fade to black.
Jongin wakes up to darkness, a pulsing headache, and the rumble of some kind of truck. He’s aware he’s moving on the road to a certain extent, tied up, blindfolded, and laid out on his side like a hunk of meat, but it doesn’t sink in until the truck hits a pothole and the bump aggravates his headache.
“Ah, so you’re awake.” Someone tugs sharply on his hair to get him to sit up and Jongin winces. The blindfold comes off to reveal the dismal, grey interior of a van. “It took you long enough.”
Jongin’s chest clenches at the sight of the man. All he sees is the ebony trail of a snake’s long body twisting around a scarred neck and face. It seems to come alive and loom larger when the man edges closer, and without warning, the man makes a grab at Jongin’s windpipe and squeezes.
“Do you have any idea of how long we’ve been trying to hunt you down, you little shit?” The man shakes him with his hand around his neck, and Jongin wheezes. He wants to desperately claw at something, anything to survive, but his hands are still bound behind him. Blackness edges into his view again, threatening to submerge him in murky waters.
“Boss, you can’t kill him,” someone in the front calls out. “We need to get information out of him.”
“Shut up and keep driving!” The man roars, spittle flying out of his mouth. He relinquishes his bruising death grip and straightens the kinks in his jacket from their one-sided tussle. Jongin gasps for precious air, the oxygen burning in his lungs. He drifts in and out as they proceed to an unknown location, but whenever he fights to keep his eyes open, he can only see the man who haunts him in his nightmares, the same one who has the soul-crushing power to destroy lives without resorting to murder. He keeps his eyes on Jongin the entire time, cold and calculating. He feels like he’s stuck in a limbo, a never-ending cycle of disbelief and despair.
Go in and pull out quickly. That’s how you avoid messes. But Jongin’s never learned what to do when worse comes to worst and he’s finally been caught.
“Get up.” The door slides open, letting in a chill. The driver, a smaller, younger looking man, drags Jongin out of the van and pushes him to the ground. The ice covering the dirt starts to soak into his jeans. It’s almost pitch-black in their new location; they must be far from Seoul at this point. He doesn’t have the option of running anymore.
“Let’s keep this short and sweet.” There’s a spark and a long exhale. The end of a cigarette casts a dim glow on the man with the tattoo. The orange embers flicker and radiate, throwing the snake into sharp relief. “I don’t want to waste my time on you.” Jongin’s tongue is dry. It sticks to the roof of his mouth, coated in something coppery, and it keeps him from speaking. The man crouches down until they’re eye level and yanks his chin forward. “Where’s Oh Sehun?”
When he doesn’t respond, the man lets go of his chin and backhands him. Jongin’s cheek stings from the impact. “I-I don’t know,” he finally croaks out, voice hoarse from disuse.
“That’s not the answer I’m looking for,” the man says, blowing his smoke into his face. “Let’s try this again. Where’s Oh Sehun?”
Jongin doesn’t know what Sehun’s done to warrant this kind of raw violence. He has an inkling that it’s another facet of the business, one that’s more poisonous than what they’ve dealt with so far. Maybe Sehun had been lured in, compelled to test the waters before fully diving in, but in the process of doing so, he’d upset a balance somewhere. Making the wrong moves has a domino effect. Someone has to be there to pick up the pieces of the aftermath, and Jongin’s been left behind to sink or swim.
“Boss, he’s not talking.”
The man with the tattoo smirks, and it’s the most intimidating expression Jongin has ever seen on another person. “We’ll make him talk.”
“I don’t know anything,” Jongin blurts, gasping to calm his rapidly beating heart. The panic is settling into his muscles and bones, and it hurts more than the bruises on his body. “Please, I don’t know anything.”
“Wrong.” The man takes the cigarette out of his mouth and twirls it around in his fingers. It smolders dangerously close to Jongin’s face. “I know you con people for a living, punk. What makes you think I’ll believe you without a bit of a struggle first?”
The first few blows and burns hurt the most, but Jongin grows number as they kick harder, until he’s slumped face-down on the ground, only hanging onto his consciousness by a thread. Even when he’s defenseless, curled in on himself, he convinces himself to keep hanging on for the sake of making it back home in one piece. If he’s held himself together for this long, then surely he can endure a few more hits. Time marches on at an agonizing rate.
“Just leave him,” he hears. It rings, distorted, in his ears, and at the same time, the pain stops building. He’s too tired to open his eyes again. “He’s a dead man anyway.”
“But Boss-”
“We already know Oh Sehun’s fucking around somewhere in Beijing. He’s not good at covering up his tracks.” The tattooed man throws down a cigarette butt close to Jongin’s face. He can smell the putrid smoke through the blood drying in his nose. “Either this punk over here is stubborn as hell or he really doesn’t know anything.”
The van drives off in a plume of exhaust. Jongin doesn’t move, doesn’t cry. He’s only able to lie down in the fragments of his mess and Sehun’s mess because he’s tired of cleaning, of carrying the invisible burdens. The pieces fall haphazardly into place, creating a picture of a thought that has crossed his mind an infinite number of times in the past-he’s done. He’s finally done.
x
Jongin finds it surprising that he makes it back to the city and miraculous that he’s alive at all. He manages to scrape himself off the ground and hobble down a roughly paved road towards a dilapidated bus stop sign. The bus driver barely glances at him when he boards and drops his change into the box, as if transporting scuffed up passengers in the late hours of the night were the norm. At the station, his legs threaten to give out, but one thing keeps him from stopping and giving in to the appeal of hazy rest; it gnaws at him, the oppressive residue of a realistic nightmare.
The way Sehun covers his tracks has never been particularly substandard. He’s rash, yet efficient, a strange marriage of characteristics that has boosted him to success. Jongin’s witnessed his impulsive behavior on multiple accounts, but Sehun’s never been sloppy-not until recently.
The banks have closed for the night, but there’s a lone ATM machine by the stairs. Jongin doesn’t know what to expect when he pulls up the information from their shared account, the one they use for the scams they collaborate on. The cuts on his hands sting when he touches the screen, but he wipes away the bloody fingerprints left behind to see the numbers.
Everything’s gone.
Feeling the high of anxiety rise within him, Jongin logs off and switches to his personal account. His fingers shake and he has to re-enter his PIN twice because he keeps pushing the wrong buttons. When the screen loads, all he sees are zeros and not the several hundred thousand won he’s been saving up: zeros tailing zeros, zeros at the end of long lists of transactions, zeros that sum up the net worth of Jongin’s efforts. There’s nothing left.
Jongin tries to rationalize. He leans on the machine to keep himself from keeling over and stares at the screen until the numbers resemble pixelated dots instead of digits. But the more he waits, the more apparent it becomes that he’s on the receiving end of a scam.
They’ve stuck together for years, traded checks for advice and meals, moved together as a unit since the beginning of Jongin’s career, but it’s not a career anymore; not for him. He’d claimed that he was cautious in the past, that he could manipulate lies well enough to get away with anything, and Sehun had helped him. At some point, though, those lies have consumed everything, and even the liar can no longer differentiate between what is real and what isn’t. Jongin had been so blindly trusting.
In a fit of anger, Jongin whips out his phone and scrolls through his contacts list. It’s a mistake, he wants to hear Sehun say. The loan sharks must have hacked us. But both of them know that while loan sharks don’t hesitate to resort to intimidation tactics and brute strength, they don’t have the resources to drain bank accounts. It would make their jobs too easy. Nothing is ever easy.
There are no traces of Oh Sehun left behind, and Jongin stops scrolling. He’s already forgotten.
Jongin’s not quite sure what happens next. He recalls tapping Kyungsoo’s name on the display and making a hasty phone call. Kyungsoo finds him a half hour later at the bottom of the stairs of the station, still in his work clothes, and at this point, the pain that Jongin had been suppressing before in order to find the answers he needed starts to kick in.
“What happened?” Kyungsoo asks, slinging Jongin’s arm around his shoulders to hoist him up. His movements are unhurried and merciful, and the tender way Kyungsoo handles him forces Jongin to blink back tears.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet.”
Kyungsoo takes him to his apartment. The place borders on immaculate and looks scarcely lived in. The only evidence of residency is the bowl of apples on the kitchen counter and the creases in the fabric of Kyungsoo’s sofa. It’s exactly how Jongin imagined Kyungsoo’s apartment would look like, and he thinks it’s unfortunate that the first time he visits has to be under these circumstances. Kyungsoo eases him onto the sofa, takes out a hefty first aid kit, and begins tending to his wounds with deft hands. Jongin sucks in a breath when Kyungsoo runs alcohol-soaked swabs over the long scratches on his hands and face, but he silently watches Kyungsoo tend to each wound with determination.
“Jongin,” he says, setting down the bottle of antiseptic. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“It’s-it’s a long story.”
Kyungsoo unwraps a roll of gauze and cuts out several squares. “We have all night.”
Right when Kyungsoo reaches out to smear ointment onto the cigarette burn on his neck, Jongin wraps his hand around his wrist to stop him. Kyungsoo looks at him, eyes dark and imploring. “I’m not innocent. You’ve probably figured it out by now that I’m not innocent. Why are you helping me?”
“I may have gradually pieced some things together. It started when I thought you looked familiar.” He shakes Jongin’s hand off and goes back in to apply the ointment and gauze. “You can’t stay mysterious around me, but I have to give you credit for trying.”
Jongin closes his eyes and sighs. He doesn’t deserve this, not after the mistakes he’s made. “I don’t understand.”
“Remember what I told you about justice?” Kyungsoo asks, cupping his hands around his face, careful to avoid the wound on his temple.
“I thought it was bullshit.” Jongin tries to smile, but there’s a sharp twinge from the throbbing injuries. They haven’t begun scabbing over yet.
“You did. You said something about how there’s no justice for people like you.”
Jongin’s eyes moisten, but he’s not sure if it’s from the swollen state of his eye or his emotions bubbling at the surface. “Because there isn’t.”
“I’m going to make sure there is,” Kyungsoo insists. “So please, let me hear your side of the story.”
Jongin doesn’t want to fall back on trust again. He has enough proof from tonight to believe that even conmen aren’t absolved from their own schemes, that even long-time friends can’t be entirely separated from enemies, and he’s afraid the same applies to Kyungsoo. He can finally taste the bitterness of the medicine he’s been dealing all this time.
“I don’t know where to start,” Jongin admits. Kyungsoo looks at him for a moment before reaching around him in an embrace, and Jongin slowly clings on to him, worrying that letting him go would cause all of his secrets to spill out at once.
“Just start from the beginning.”
He tells Kyungsoo everything because Kyungsoo is willing to listen. He tells Kyungsoo because he has the intention to help. Jongin starts from the beginning, making sure not to gloss over the details, and the story unravels on its own.
“It sometimes scares me to know that I’m such a good liar.”
x
“So you’ve actually taken money from people before?” Chanyeol lets out a low whistle. “Damn. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I never kept the money for myself, though. I had clients. The money was actually for them.”
Jongin finishes sticking price tags onto the newly released albums of the week. There’s always an influx of boy bands that debut around the new year, so shelving new music becomes more of a chore than usual. He straightens his freshly labeled pile and carries it over to the display at the front, almost dropping the album balanced on top of the pile in the process.
“Are you glad you left that life behind?” Chanyeol’s playing with the barcode scanner at the counter, aiming it in random directions.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I’ve never felt better.”
Jongin hadn’t gotten away scot-free. He was both a fraud and a victim of fraud, so Kyungsoo had tried to find a way to lessen his punishment. In the end, they’d reached a compromise with the police-Jongin would aid in the investigation in exchange for a lighter punishment. He’d been ordered to complete hours upon hours of community service, but he prefers that to actual jail time.
“What happened to Sehun?” Chanyeol asks. “Did he just disappear off the face of the earth or something?”
Jongin returns to the counter and Chanyeol aims the scanner at his chest. “I don’t know. They still haven’t found him yet.”
Chanyeol hums and puts the scanner away. He leans back in his chair and studies the ceiling. “When you first told me about what happened, I was worried you wouldn’t be able to work here anymore. I know I’m not here as much, but I get to work with you when I am here.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “I don’t know. Things would’ve been pretty different then.”
“Quieter?” Jongin offers, tipping the corner of his mouth upwards. “You would’ve missed me.”
“I would’ve missed the sound you make when you drop things on the ground. You’re probably the clumsiest employee Blue Record’s ever had.” Chanyeol guffaws as Jongin throws a crumpled receipt at his head.
“I don’t miss your annoying laughs,” Jongin says, but in truth, he really does miss everything about Chanyeol when he isn’t working the same shift as him. He finds comfort when they sit at the counter together and wait for customers to walk in sporadically, placing bets on which albums people buy. “But even if you don’t see me often, it’ll be worth it when you finally start going to school.”
“Actually,” Chanyeol remarks, lips spreading into one of his teeth-rich grins, “I’ve almost saved up enough for my tuition, so it looks like you won’t be working alone as often anymore.”
“As much as I miss having time to myself-congratulations.” Chanyeol’s smile is infectious and Jongin finds himself inadvertently mirroring him. “It’s good to have you back.”
Jongin leaves work a few minutes early to meet Kyungsoo. Although he chooses not to budge from his favorite places, he’s agreed to try something new. When he rounds the corner, he catches a glimpse of the setting sun, a rarity in the string of overcast days they’ve been having, and the way it saturates cement and steel with a tinges of warm tones seems to readjust the world so Jongin is seeing it at another angle. It’s not quite kaleidoscopic, but it’s definitely different.
Just as he enters the bar and allows his hands to defrost in heat of the venue, he receives a call from an unlisted number.
“Hey, it’s me.”
Jongin doesn’t make a sound. The chatter from the people at the bar blends in with the rush of blood to his head.
“I’ve been waiting for the right moment to call you,” Sehun continues. His voice crackles from poor reception and Jongin presses his ear harder against his phone. “It turns out Beijing isn’t all that safe either.”
“Were we ever friends?” Jongin cuts in harshly, and the other line goes silent. “Or did you spend all that time with me with the intention to rob me in the end?”
The static is piercing, and Jongin wonders if Sehun is calling from the top of high place where the wind is strongest. “We are friends,” he mumbles.
Jongin finds a vacant table towards the back and takes a seat before responding. “Don’t lie to me. For just once, don’t fucking lie anymore.”
“I don’t mix business with friendship,” he says plainly. “If you want to know the truth so badly, then there it is.”
The truth doesn’t sting like he’s expected it to; instead, Jongin feels instantaneous relief seeping into the fringes of closure “Then why did you call me? I’m not expecting you to undo the damage you’ve already done.”
“Because,” he replies, “that’s how the business works. Once you’re in, you can’t leave. So what’s your choice?”
A few months ago, when Jongin had first taken up Sehun’s offer, he would’ve adhered to that idea with indiscriminate confidence and blind loyalty. He would’ve known immediately that there were no options available when dabbling in fraud was as risky as it was. He’s wise enough now to avoid falling into the same destructive pattern.
“I’m done.”
“You can’t be done,” Sehun says a little more urgently. The crackling grows stronger, popping in the tension-filled air, almost drowning out his voice completely. “We won’t leave you alone.”
“Goodbye, Sehun.”
Jongin hangs up first.
x
Instead of measuring his time in numbers on checks and contracts, colossal amounts poorly distributed among too few hands, Jongin measures his minutes by the number of times he can elicit a smile from someone, his hours by the number of truths that make it past his lips, his days by the number of times he can admit that he’s genuinely free.
“You look happier,” Kyungsoo notes when he meets Jongin at their table, cheeks flushed. “Lighter. Like you’ve found your pipe dream and brought it to life at the same time.”
“I think I’ve realized what it is a while ago.”
When their drinks arrive, Jongin notices that they’ve ordered the same two drinks they had when they first met that one November night in Woodstock. And like the first time, Kyungsoo takes his lime off the rim of his cup and sets it to the side.
“I’m curious. What is it exactly? You’ve never told me.”
“This is it,” he answers. “This is enough.”
part one
Blue Record is secluded in a row of clothing stores a few blocks away from Apgujeong station, and it’s a miracle the business is still thriving when only a handful of customers walk in and buy something. Chanyeol tells him that it’s not a store for everyone, so he’s not surprised by the low turnout, but Jongin only rolls his eyes and attributes it to the disintegrating sign outside. Advertisements are everything in this day and age.
Although most customers only come in to browse, a few seasoned music listeners return regularly, and Jongin’s able to pick out the devoted fans from the casual ones because they head over to the back wall as soon as they enter the store. Blue Record lives up to its name and boasts an impressive vinyl collection behind all of the regular CDs and DVDs. It easily outdoes Woodstock’s with music from numerous decades and places, and it’s the only collection Jongin’s seen that categorizes Sanulrim next to the Bee Gees. When Jongin heads to the shelves to clean the dirt off the cases, dusting the covers of the LPs with care, he’s reminded that most of the records have been sitting on the same racks for years, never once taken out and played. It’s a waste, a beautiful waste, but there are plenty of other things that are similarly glossed over and ignored.
It’s a slow afternoon, as usual. Chanyeol’s working the same shift as him today, but they joke that there really only needs to be one employee working at a time with the amount of traffic they’re getting.
“Even Jongdae doesn’t come in anymore,” Chanyeol says, pillowing his chin in his hand while he searches for the next song to play. Chanyeol refuses to put on Christmas music because all the other stores on their block are playing it, so instead, they’re looping Radiohead for the third time in a row.
“I heard he quit.” Jongin leans back in his chair, balancing on its two hind legs, and closes his eyes to take in the buzz of electric guitars. “The manager didn’t want to let him go because he’s the only who can alphabetize the stockroom correctly.”
“He said something about a temporary leave,” Chanyeol snorts. “But I know he’s not coming back. He got a scholarship at some conservatory, the lucky bastard.”
Jongin opens his eyes and leans forward again, bringing the chair back from its precarious position. “Wait, he’s studying now?”
“Or soon to be studying.” Chanyeol double clicks on something and a new song blares through the speakers overhead. “Have you ever thought about going back to school?”
Jongin thinks about towering stacks of textbooks, restless nights studying, and caffeine-driven stints at the library, but he has trouble integrating himself into each scene when the weight of an entirely different kind of commitment presses down on him. He shakes his head. “Not anytime soon. How about you?”
“I want to go,” Chanyeol doesn’t hesitate to say. “You get a taste of freedom you don’t get in high school. You can even study abroad and see things you only see in movies. Think about going to America.”
“You only know hello and goodbye in English.”
“It’s enough!” he proclaims, gesticulating wildly. He nearly jabs Jongin in the eye with his long limbs, and Jongin ducks away at the right time from experience. “I’ve already decided to go someday, but I need save up the money for tuition first.”
Chanyeol’s enthusiasm isn’t surprising. Jongin would choose him as the perfect candidate for university. He’s a well-rounded, congenial guy with a blinding set of teeth and a penchant for snapbacks, and although his eagerness is usually expressed by loud, obnoxious laughter, Chanyeol can probably immerse himself in the world of college, being the social chameleon he is, and never look back.
”How much is it?” Jongin asks, but he regrets it the moment he sees his colleague’s crestfallen face.
“It’s expensive.” Chanyeol laughs, but it comes out vaguely strained. “It’s going to take a while for me to find the money. I’ll find a way, though.” He looks down at his uniform and crumples the polyester fabric in his hands. “I guess I won’t be quitting anytime soon.
There’s a quick remedy on the tip of his tongue; it’s the same solution Sehun had offered him a few months ago. Jongin’s so close to letting the suggestion spill out because it might just benefit Chanyeol like it’s benefited him, and it will definitely save Jongin from yielding to the lies he’s long lost track of; however, he swallows the words down because Chanyeol has innocence preserved in the way he looks at things, in the way he taps out beats on the wooden counter and falls asleep towards the end of each shift. He isn’t cut out for a different life, and there have been times-more often than not-when Jongin’s wondered if he’s chosen the wrong trail to go down as well.
He rests a hand on his shoulder instead. “You’ll make it. It sounds clichéd when I say it, but I believe in you.”
The glimmer of hope in Chanyeol’s eyes stays with him for the rest of the day.
x
Jongin’s the only one left to close up the store again. He doesn’t particularly enjoy the late shifts when Chanyeol isn’t there to distract him, but they give him ample time to ponder away on his own and possibly squeeze in a few minutes of rest.
The bell attached to the door jingles just as the clock reads 10PM, and Jongin stirs from his nap at the counter, caught in a disoriented state, and attempts to stand to greet the customer.
“Sleeping on the job?”
Jongin’s heart lurches in a way he doesn’t understand when he sees and hears Kyungsoo. “People don’t usually come in this late.”
Kyungsoo loosens the scarf around his neck and glances around at the interior of the store. He stops to take a long look at the back wall with clear eyes, moving closer to it the more his eyes linger to read the titles of the albums. It must be snowing outside again because there’s a trail of slush coming from Kyungsoo’s boots, and it occurs to Jongin that he should prepare to close up soon and start by cleaning the floor like he normally does, but he stays, not minding if he has to leave a few minutes late.
“You promised me you’d show me the vinyls.”
“Right, I did.” Jongin hops over the counter and discreetly wipes away at any drool that might have dried on his face. “Obviously, you can see them now, but what are you interested in?”
“I like jazz,” Kyungsoo replies. “The classic kind. There’s a certain quality to the singers’ voices from that time, and it’s hard to describe what it is, but I’ve always liked listening to them sing.”
“For some reason, I’m not surprised you chose jazz out of everything else.” Jongin crouches down to reach the bottom shelf and skims through the first few vinyls.
“Is this another detective stereotype? We all have to be old souls?” Kyungsoo adjusts his trousers and stoops down so they’re examining the same shelf. Now that he’s closer, Jongin can smell a hint of something clean, probably from the laundry detergent on his neatly pressed clothes.
“Maybe. I haven’t met a detective who’s requested pop or heavy metal, but then again, I haven’t met many detectives.” He pulls out one particular vinyl. The case is tinted with age, but it’s free of dust from the number of times he and Chanyeol have cleaned the shelves. He hands Kyungsoo the vinyl and stands up. “How about this one?”
He’s an admirer of music rather than an expert-Chanyeol is more of an expert than he is-but he chooses an artist he’s sure Kyungsoo will know. Jongin doesn’t recall filing it away the LP in its proper spot, so it must have been sitting on the shelf since before he started working at Blue Record.
“Frank Sinatra.”
“Do you like his music?”
“I do,” Kyungsoo breathes out, the excitement evident in his voice. “I don’t own any of his LPs, but I like to sing his songs sometimes.” He gazes at the pastel blue cover and traces his finger along the cursive lettering of the name. After a few seconds, he hands it over to Jongin, who blinks in confusion.
“You don’t want to buy it?”
Kyungsoo’s lapses into silence, and without Chanyeol’s background music, it intensifies ten-fold into white noise. “Do you have a pipe dream, Jongin?” he finally asks.
“What’s that?”
“A dream you want to chase after but can’t due to various reasons.”
Jongin thinks of Chanyeol, who dreams of America and university. He thinks of his parents, who started living their pipe dreams the moment they opened the restaurant. He thinks of Sehun, who lets his actions speak louder than his words and has no dreams beyond what he does. Jongin draws a blank because it dawns on him that he’s not quite complacent, but he’s not unhappy either; instead, he hovers, directionless. “I don’t think I have one.”
Kyungsoo nods slowly, as if he’s disappointed, and Jongin can tell that he doesn’t fully understand. “I have one, but it’s useless to think about it now.”
“No, that’s not true.” Jongin holds out the vinyl again towards him and Kyungsoo takes it back with tentative fingers. “Is it singing? Is becoming a singer your pipe dream?”
“It’s stupid, isn’t it?” Kyungsoo has retreated into himself, gilding his words with a false smile, and Jongin wants nothing more than to draw him out of his shell again. “When I listen to Frank Sinatra and all these singers I look up to, I have to stop myself from thinking about the what-ifs. I’m working a job I like, but sometimes, it feels like I don’t like it enough. You wouldn’t think that enjoying a job would matter, right? A lot of people end up doing things they aren’t fond of anyway.” He sighs, and Jongin realizes it’s a pivotal moment because Kyungsoo is letting out something he’s been keeping deep within him. “I’m fortunate. I shouldn’t be complaining.”
“Kyungsoo-”
“I’m sorry I’m dumping all of this on you. You’re just doing your job like I am.”
“You know,” he says, gazing absentmindedly at the rows and rows of untouched music in front of him, “nothing’s impossible in the long run. I might not have a so-called pipe dream, but I wouldn’t give up on it if I had one. Besides, I thought you were all about optimistic theories.”
Kyungsoo bites his lip. “That doesn’t apply here.”
“It should. You can be a kickass detective and singer, and break all the stereotypes.”
“Shut up,” Kyungsoo replies weakly, but he has a genuine grin on his face that slowly chips away the walls he built up around himself moments before.
“Now, should I ring this up for you?” Jongin asks, waving the vinyl around. “I swear if you don’t buy it, I’ll take it out of my paycheck and give it to you.”
“Why would you do that?” Kyungsoo slowly takes the vinyl back into his hands.
“Your inner conflict is hard to watch.” Jongin heads back to the counter and smiles when Kyungsoo follows him. “That record needs a new home anyway.”
Because they’re walking home in the same direction, Kyungsoo waits for him to close up the store. Just as Jongin is turning the lock and stuffing the master set of keys back in his backpack, Kyungsoo’s phone rings. The sidewalks are still reasonably lit and occupied by late-night commuters. They walk unhurriedly, and Jongin watches the people pass by, upholding their schedules even as they waddle slightly on the icy ground in their bulky winter wear. Kyungsoo dangles his recent purchase at the crook of his elbow and exchanges hushed strings of speech with whomever’s on the other line. Next to the pedestrians, Jongin thinks that Kyungsoo’s a familiar face. It grows on him the more he sees him, and when Kyungsoo’s illuminated by both the Seoul streetlights and his own peculiarities, his one-shade uniformity melts away to reveal someone multidimensional-the real Do Kyungsoo.
“I’ll call the bank tomorrow to ask about the checks,” Kyungsoo mumbles, and Jongin catches it because those words sound eerily familiar. They stop at a crosswalk and Kyungsoo finishes up his conversation with a series of yes’s and noises of agreement.
“Work?” Jongin asks and Kyungsoo nods. The light turns red and they proceed to cross.
“There’s a new case I’m taking on starting today. It involves fraud, which is different from what I handle most of the time.”
Jongin burrows his hands into his pockets and balls them into fists as the adrenaline starts to pick up in his veins. “Fraud?”
“Check fraud, probably a conman’s doing. I’m sorry, but I can’t say much more. Confidentiality and everything.”
“It’s alright,” Jongin responds, clearing his throat. He’s foolishly forgotten his place. Although he’s considerably inactive these days, he can’t erase his past deeds. They’re phrases tattooed underneath his skin, containing secrets that only Jongin can see. Suddenly, walking beside Kyungsoo feels like a severe crime.
They’ve reached a less populated block, and Kyungsoo begins murmuring a melody that unwinds Jongin’s nerves. The notes flow out with the rush of his white breath, making it look like he’s pouring out a song into the air from his lungs. His murmurs form into vowels and consonants, his voice deepens and expands, and soon he’s singing, voice on the softer side, but it’s distinguishable from the sound of passing cars. He carves out a tune that’s somewhat recognizable. The name escapes him as it floats around in Jongin’s mind, barely out of reach.
When he finishes, tapering out the last note, Jongin takes his hands out of his pockets to clap vigorously. “Is that a Frank Sinatra song?”
“Yeah, he’s sung it before. It’s called ‘Come Fly With Me’.” He looks away sheepishly and rewraps his scarf tighter around his mouth.
“I wasn’t expecting the impromptu performance,” Jongin comments, rubbing his hands together to regain some warmth. “That was amazing.”
“It’s not really a performance, but I’m glad you enjoyed it regardless.”
Jongin lets out a long, content sigh. “Singing will take you places, even if you think it’ll take you a while for it to happen. If you think about it, it’s nice to have a pipe dream.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because,” Jongin hesitates, stalling for time because he doesn’t want his words to ring true when he utters them and can’t take them back. He licks his chapped lips. The skin is on the verge of breaking, and he should protect his face more if he’s walking home often in the frigid evenings. “Sometimes, I don’t know where I’m headed. I fall into routines easily, but I don’t know where they’ll take me and I don’t know where I want to go either.”
Jongin turns to look at him, anticipating a response, but Kyungsoo keeps his eyes forward. The headlights from incoming cars bounce off his face, brightening his cheeks and chin, but they keep his eyes indecipherable in the dark. “Maybe you should take your advice,” he says, “If it takes a lifetime to chase a pipe dream, then it might take half a lifetime to discover what it is first. You still have more than enough time to find where you’re going.”
They reach the next intersection where they have to separate. They’re the only ones waiting for the light to turn again to cross perpendicular roads. They both have their hands tucked in their pockets, and Kyungsoo’s standing close enough for their elbows to knock against each other. Jongin feels an unusual attachment to him, as if a thin, invisible string connects them. Perhaps, it’s a culmination of what he’s learned about Kyungsoo, that he still has his doubts and fears even when he’s practicing optimism and adhering to his philosophies-even when he’s potentially Jongin’s foil. He’s shed his shadow for something more substantial, something more human.
The light turns red and Kyungsoo’s leaving first, but Jongin sticks his hand out in the cold to hold onto Kyungsoo’s sleeve for a fraction of a second longer. He’s been reassured that he has years to find his dream, his motivation, but he finds that it’s the small moments that hold the most significance.
x
Jongin dreams of memories. They start off by flashing through his mind like a collection of photographs, cast in greyscale and sepia tones. His dreams are never ordered chronologically. Some nights, he dreams of sweet coffee, 10,000 won bills, and a weightlessness in his step every time he walks out of a nameless, brandless café. Other nights, he dreams of snakes, the ones with black scales and black eyes; those dreams are more like nightmares because he’s immobile as the reptiles crawl up his body and wrap around his arms, his legs, his neck. And when they all squeeze at once, Jongin wakes up in his dark bedroom, sweating and gasping for breath. His most vivid, recurring dream is more solid because it happens exactly the way he remembers it.
It’s his first con. Sehun receives orders from a nondescript higher-up to intercept a monetary exchange between two businessmen. He claims it’s an easy job, and that it’s virtually impossible to screw up.
“Unless you back out,” he warns, sliding a tiny, yet deadly looking knife into the inside pocket of his crisp blazer. “There’s no backing out in this business.”
Jongin balks, but gingerly takes his knife in the end because it’s too late to turn back, just like Sehun’s said.
They meet the man at the designated location inside a grungy hotel lounge. The smell of cigarette smoke is thick in the air, and it coats the back of Jongin’s throat in a sour layer every time he inhales.
“We’re Mr. Park’s representatives,” Sehun lies coolly, and Jongin doesn’t dare to breathe as he continues. “Unfortunately, he couldn’t be here today, but he sent us to carry out the agreement as previously planned.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The man nods furiously. There’s sweat gathering on top of his bald head, and he struggles to reach down and lift up his briefcase. “I’ve carried out my side of the deal, as promised.” He sets his briefcase on the table between them. When he cracks it open, Jongin’s head spins when he sees the amount of money wrapped up inside.
“This will do,” Sehun announces gruffly, shutting the briefcase before Jongin can count a rough estimate. Go in and pull out as quickly as possible, he’s been told. Don’t wait, don’t hesitate. “Mr. Park will notify you via private correspondence sometime within the next 48 hours. Thank you for coming today.”
Jongin bows stiffly when they’re about to leave. Formalities are important; always uphold formalities. His blazer feels tight around his torso, and the outline of the knife presses into his chest, a cruel reminder of what could’ve gone wrong.
“See, it’s simple,” Sehun says after they’ve dropped off the suitcase in front of a bare, grey-washed warehouse farther out from the city. The coldness in his voice has ebbed away, and Sehun’s undone his tie. This is the Sehun he’s accustomed to. “We’re only the messengers in the grand scheme of things.”
“What do we do afterwards when the real Mr. Park realizes he’s been duped?”
“We don’t do anything.” Sehun steps on the gas harder, lurching the car forwards on the freeway. They’re hurtling back home at a speed that’s nearly double the limit, but no one catches them, and it’s exhilarating, it’s intoxicating. It’s frightening. “We’re not responsible for the messes we make.”
Jongin wakes up to an unsettling stillness.
x
Sometimes, in his peripheral vision, Jongin sees a black van. It seems to follow him when he’s out on the main roads, slowing down when Jongin slows down and speeding up when he makes a turn and disappears around the corner. He can’t chalk it up to paranoia as usual because he’s been expecting this. Somewhere in Beijing, Sehun’s been expecting this too, but Jongin doesn’t actually know if he’s still there, networking and conducting business, or captured and trapped in some underground facility. Something tells him, though, that Sehun is reckless, but not reckless enough to get caught after going through the trouble of escaping.
He begins to take side roads more often, and he accumulates just enough spare change for the taxi every now and then without visiting the bank. Jongin’s careful about showing his face in public, so he buys oversized hats and scarves to conceal his face. He considers dyeing his hair back to black if the chestnut is too noticeable, but if Sehun can thrive in Seoul with his bright hair, then surely he can get away with a less incriminating color. A week passes without any new developments, and Jongin’s grateful the black van doesn’t appear again.
Still, he’s learned to err on the safe side. It’s advice that’s been pounded into him from the beginning.
Apart from the occasional text and phone call, he doesn’t see Kyungsoo for weeks. Kyungsoo feeds him details about his case sparingly, and Jongin doesn’t mind because he tries to push them aside anyway to keep his world from plunging back into definitive blacks and whites. In exchange, and to draw Kyungsoo back out of his long hours at work, Jongin tells him about the new collections of jazz albums they’ve recently received at the store. He tells Kyungsoo that the bars nearby are offering independent musicians time slots for gigs. Kyungsoo laughs when he does, as if Jongin were just kidding, but the longing edge in his tone tells him that it’s not too distant of a possibility.
Jongin still carries on with his routine, making disjointed trips between the restaurant, Blue Record, and his apartment, but the longer he goes without a change, without seeing Kyungsoo again, the more he craves a disruption. Perhaps, this is what he’s been searching for all along, he thinks-a kick of excitement from a disturbance-but he’s been away from the business for long enough to realize that Kyungsoo supplies him with an entirely different kind of rush. At the end of their brief conversations over the phone, and in the static-filled seconds before Kyungsoo hangs up-Jongin never hangs up first-he realizes that he’s grown dependent.
Don’t get attached, Sehun had reminded him. A conman isn’t supposed to have a conscience. Jongin’s tried multiple times in the past to silence his, but every falter and delay counted against him.
“Sehun,” he says to no one in particular as he shuffles Chanyeol’s playlist for the nth time, “I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”
He’s closing the store for the night again. He misses the evenings when Chanyeol would sweep the floor and replenish stocks of CDs with him, all while eccentrically dancing or miming to an air guitar. Chanyeol had picked up a third job and Jongin doesn’t see him nearly as often anymore. Without him, the night shifts are hushed and soporific, and Jongin has to find solace in the music he blares from the speakers instead. He’s surprised when the bell rings at this hour, but Jongin stands up out of habit.
“Welcome,” he recites, and he stops when he sees Kyungsoo at the entrance. “Oh, it’s you. Long time no see.”
“It’s you?” Kyungsoo raises an eyebrow and takes off his hat to brush off the snow sitting in the fibers. “I thought you’d be more excited to see me since you don’t get many customers this late.”
“It’s more like we don’t get any customers at all at this time,” Jongin corrects him. “Except you.”
“Better late than never.” Kyungsoo shuffles his feet awkwardly, not quite stepping off the placemat and into the body of the store. “I was going to drop by and ask if you wanted to walk back together, but the storm suddenly picked up on my way here.”
“So you weren’t going to buy something?” Jongin feigns disappointment and Kyungsoo gives him a small frown that juts out his bottom lip. “It’s okay, I’ll still walk with you. A little snow doesn’t hurt anyone. I have to check over the inventory list before I close up first.” Jongin feels a little uplifted by the grin Kyungsoo gives him.
As he skims down the list of recent shipments at various quantities, he watches Kyungsoo fiddle with the stereo. There’s something child-like about the way he skips songs and fast-forwards through the beginning verses to get to the chorus.
“There’s a lot of Radiohead on here,” he notes, and Jongin glances up at him.
“Oh, that’s Chanyeol’s playlist.”
Kyungsoo stops fiddling and lets the current song take its course. “Chanyeol?”
“Chanyeol’s my coworker here. He’s a friend who knows a lot more about music than I do.” Jongin sets down his pencil and files the inventory list back into its folder.
“It’s funny, but I realize there’s still a lot I don’t know about you.”
Jongin starts to pack up his belongings. He intentionally does it slowly to prolong their conversation. “That’s not true. I told you things I’ve never told anyone before. Things about dreams, or my lack of a dream, I guess.”
“But something about you-” Kyungsoo hums in contemplation and Jongin freezes as he’s putting his water bottle back in his bag. “I don’t know how to explain it. Maybe it’s my detective’s instinct acting up, pushing me to want to know more about you.”
“I like being mysterious,” he reasons with him. “That’s all.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing else to it?” Kyungsoo asks with a lilt. Jongin shakes his head, but he doesn’t dare meet Kyungsoo’s eyes because he knows everything will be laid out in the open when he does. There’s a fluttering sensation in his chest, as if butterflies are trying to crawl up and fly out. He’s lied before in the face of danger, in a rough situation, in a heartbeat to avoid repercussions, but doing so in front of Kyungsoo gets increasingly more challenging the closer he is, the more Jongin lets Kyungsoo stick to him without the ability to pull away. Kyungsoo seems to have that effect on him.
They eventually make it outside, but they don’t spy any wandering pedestrians. The heavy snowfall has sent people scrambling for any available forms of transportation, leaving the stragglers on the street to fend for themselves. “Have you made progress on your case?” Jongin asks, trying to change the topic, even if it’s an unpleasant one. He zips up his jacket so it covers the entire lower portion of his face and sucks in his breaths slowly to keep the icy air from hurting.
Kyungsoo’s even more bundled up than usual, and his voice comes out muffled when he speaks. “We’re looking for several suspects currently, but they’re all in hiding and we don’t know much else.”
He attempts to conjure up a façade. It feels unnatural, sickening, a poorly fit disguise that threatens to unwind around him. Don’t hesitate, but then he thinks of Sehun, who’s supposedly lying low in Beijing. There isn’t much of a difference between being alive and being dead when you’re somewhere and nowhere at the same time. Jongin hesitates. “That sounds dangerous.”
They’re at the same intersection from the other night. The traffic light pulses steadily, seemingly broken. Without other people, without the commotion of high-speed travelers, Seoul feels a little emptier, as if the snow has wiped away their existences along with their footsteps and tire tracks. For a moment, no one’s there to see them, and Jongin thinks this peace is blissful.
“I didn’t see you tonight to talk about work,” Kyungsoo tells him, but the wind picks up and he has to raise his voice.
“What did you want to say then?”
In an instant-it happens faster than Jongin’s brain can process it-Kyungsoo reaches out to grab the lapel of Jongin’s coat. He tilts his head up and kisses him. His lips are cold and dry against his, and Jongin doesn’t think of anything, doesn’t try to maintain the mask that disintegrates all at once. He only senses.
Kyungsoo’s hood has fallen off and his ears are bright red when he pulls away. “I don’t-I don’t usually do this. God, I don’t even know you well enough.”
“Yeah?” Jongin licks his lips. Kyungsoo leaves no traces behind. His touch was feather light, tasteless, a wisp of cold winter air. It leaves Jongin yearning for more.
“I don’t know why I did that, honestly.”
“Really?”
“But I want to do it again.”
There’s no more indecisiveness in his actions when Jongin pulls Kyungsoo back to him. There’s a whisper of I think I might like you between their lips, and he’s not sure who said it first, but it’s quickly lost in the vanishing space between them. For once, Jongin allows himself to be greedy, to truly give in to his desires, because he can’t pine for Kyungsoo’s presence half-heartedly. He can’t lie to himself like he does to others when it’s finally clear as day that this is what he wants, this is what he’s been searching for.
Complete contentment is a feeling he wouldn’t trade in for anything, even if it were temporary.
x
Jongin floats on cloud nine and Chanyeol notices immediately. There’s a foreign sensation that blooms inside of him, altering the colors and the sounds of the world so everything is a touch sharper, a little more vibrant. Jongin can’t tell if there’s an external change, but he figures there must be one when Chanyeol starts to loop cheesy love songs during their shifts together.
“So, new girlfriend?” Chanyeol grins from ear to ear and rests his arm across Jongin’s shoulders. “You should see how your face has been these past few days. You look love-struck.”
“No.” Jongin moves away to search up a barcode on the computer and dodges Chanyeol’s attempts to wrangle him in again.
“New boyfriend?” Jongin looks up abruptly and Chanyeol lets out an unrestrained laugh. “It’s cool. Whatever makes you happy.”
The truth is, Jongin doesn’t know what Kyungsoo is to him, and he has even less of an idea of what he means to Kyungsoo. He only knows that he’s no longer able to rinse out his vestiges. What started off as mere curiosity progressed into something greater, and now he’s breaking all the rules because Kyungsoo has stuck to him, has unknowingly pushed away and kicked at the wavering pieces inside of him to make room for himself. Jongin has delayed for far too long to resurface without inflicting damage, and he selfishly wishes that he doesn’t have to resurface at all.
That itself, he thinks, is a pipe dream.
The sky is clear tonight, veiling the city in a calm tranquility, and Jongin decides to take the longer route back to his apartment. He drapes his scarf loosely around his neck and briefly wonders if Kyungsoo is still in his office. He’s never been the kind of person to complain about working overtime because he’s still unyieldingly devoted his job, still stubbornly holding on to his notions.
“There’s more to it,” Kyungsoo had told him over the phone once. “People are pawns in that business, Jongin. They’re disposable. I can’t deny that it’s my goal to catch them, but I’m hoping that I’ll find the one who’s pulling the strings along the way.”
“And you still believe they’re worthy of justice?” Jongin had asked, holding his breath. Even after everything they’ve done.
“Yes,” he’d replied. “They’re not innocent, but they’re not completely at fault either. I think they’re misguided.”
Jongin turns onto a narrow side street where the shops are closed and the road is quieter. He can still hear the crunch of tires on pavement, but the sound disappears the farther down he walks. The light pollution is strong in Seoul, but if he squints hard enough while walking on a dimmer path, he thinks he can catch the faint gleam of individual stars in the sky, dust particles across midnight velvet.
“Kim Jongin?”
He startles, but before he can turn around, there’s a loud crack from something striking his skull, and an excruciating pain travels across the back of his head. Thousands of stars burst to fill his vision, bright and hot like fire. He sees them distinctly now as they flash before his eyes, obliterating the real night sky, until they finally fade to black.
Jongin wakes up to darkness, a pulsing headache, and the rumble of some kind of truck. He’s aware he’s moving on the road to a certain extent, tied up, blindfolded, and laid out on his side like a hunk of meat, but it doesn’t sink in until the truck hits a pothole and the bump aggravates his headache.
“Ah, so you’re awake.” Someone tugs sharply on his hair to get him to sit up and Jongin winces. The blindfold comes off to reveal the dismal, grey interior of a van. “It took you long enough.”
Jongin’s chest clenches at the sight of the man. All he sees is the ebony trail of a snake’s long body twisting around a scarred neck and face. It seems to come alive and loom larger when the man edges closer, and without warning, the man makes a grab at Jongin’s windpipe and squeezes.
“Do you have any idea of how long we’ve been trying to hunt you down, you little shit?” The man shakes him with his hand around his neck, and Jongin wheezes. He wants to desperately claw at something, anything to survive, but his hands are still bound behind him. Blackness edges into his view again, threatening to submerge him in murky waters.
“Boss, you can’t kill him,” someone in the front calls out. “We need to get information out of him.”
“Shut up and keep driving!” The man roars, spittle flying out of his mouth. He relinquishes his bruising death grip and straightens the kinks in his jacket from their one-sided tussle. Jongin gasps for precious air, the oxygen burning in his lungs. He drifts in and out as they proceed to an unknown location, but whenever he fights to keep his eyes open, he can only see the man who haunts him in his nightmares, the same one who has the soul-crushing power to destroy lives without resorting to murder. He keeps his eyes on Jongin the entire time, cold and calculating. He feels like he’s stuck in a limbo, a never-ending cycle of disbelief and despair.
Go in and pull out quickly. That’s how you avoid messes. But Jongin’s never learned what to do when worse comes to worst and he’s finally been caught.
“Get up.” The door slides open, letting in a chill. The driver, a smaller, younger looking man, drags Jongin out of the van and pushes him to the ground. The ice covering the dirt starts to soak into his jeans. It’s almost pitch-black in their new location; they must be far from Seoul at this point. He doesn’t have the option of running anymore.
“Let’s keep this short and sweet.” There’s a spark and a long exhale. The end of a cigarette casts a dim glow on the man with the tattoo. The orange embers flicker and radiate, throwing the snake into sharp relief. “I don’t want to waste my time on you.” Jongin’s tongue is dry. It sticks to the roof of his mouth, coated in something coppery, and it keeps him from speaking. The man crouches down until they’re eye level and yanks his chin forward. “Where’s Oh Sehun?”
When he doesn’t respond, the man lets go of his chin and backhands him. Jongin’s cheek stings from the impact. “I-I don’t know,” he finally croaks out, voice hoarse from disuse.
“That’s not the answer I’m looking for,” the man says, blowing his smoke into his face. “Let’s try this again. Where’s Oh Sehun?”
Jongin doesn’t know what Sehun’s done to warrant this kind of raw violence. He has an inkling that it’s another facet of the business, one that’s more poisonous than what they’ve dealt with so far. Maybe Sehun had been lured in, compelled to test the waters before fully diving in, but in the process of doing so, he’d upset a balance somewhere. Making the wrong moves has a domino effect. Someone has to be there to pick up the pieces of the aftermath, and Jongin’s been left behind to sink or swim.
“Boss, he’s not talking.”
The man with the tattoo smirks, and it’s the most intimidating expression Jongin has ever seen on another person. “We’ll make him talk.”
“I don’t know anything,” Jongin blurts, gasping to calm his rapidly beating heart. The panic is settling into his muscles and bones, and it hurts more than the bruises on his body. “Please, I don’t know anything.”
“Wrong.” The man takes the cigarette out of his mouth and twirls it around in his fingers. It smolders dangerously close to Jongin’s face. “I know you con people for a living, punk. What makes you think I’ll believe you without a bit of a struggle first?”
The first few blows and burns hurt the most, but Jongin grows number as they kick harder, until he’s slumped face-down on the ground, only hanging onto his consciousness by a thread. Even when he’s defenseless, curled in on himself, he convinces himself to keep hanging on for the sake of making it back home in one piece. If he’s held himself together for this long, then surely he can endure a few more hits. Time marches on at an agonizing rate.
“Just leave him,” he hears. It rings, distorted, in his ears, and at the same time, the pain stops building. He’s too tired to open his eyes again. “He’s a dead man anyway.”
“But Boss-”
“We already know Oh Sehun’s fucking around somewhere in Beijing. He’s not good at covering up his tracks.” The tattooed man throws down a cigarette butt close to Jongin’s face. He can smell the putrid smoke through the blood drying in his nose. “Either this punk over here is stubborn as hell or he really doesn’t know anything.”
The van drives off in a plume of exhaust. Jongin doesn’t move, doesn’t cry. He’s only able to lie down in the fragments of his mess and Sehun’s mess because he’s tired of cleaning, of carrying the invisible burdens. The pieces fall haphazardly into place, creating a picture of a thought that has crossed his mind an infinite number of times in the past-he’s done. He’s finally done.
x
Jongin finds it surprising that he makes it back to the city and miraculous that he’s alive at all. He manages to scrape himself off the ground and hobble down a roughly paved road towards a dilapidated bus stop sign. The bus driver barely glances at him when he boards and drops his change into the box, as if transporting scuffed up passengers in the late hours of the night were the norm. At the station, his legs threaten to give out, but one thing keeps him from stopping and giving in to the appeal of hazy rest; it gnaws at him, the oppressive residue of a realistic nightmare.
The way Sehun covers his tracks has never been particularly substandard. He’s rash, yet efficient, a strange marriage of characteristics that has boosted him to success. Jongin’s witnessed his impulsive behavior on multiple accounts, but Sehun’s never been sloppy-not until recently.
The banks have closed for the night, but there’s a lone ATM machine by the stairs. Jongin doesn’t know what to expect when he pulls up the information from their shared account, the one they use for the scams they collaborate on. The cuts on his hands sting when he touches the screen, but he wipes away the bloody fingerprints left behind to see the numbers.
Everything’s gone.
Feeling the high of anxiety rise within him, Jongin logs off and switches to his personal account. His fingers shake and he has to re-enter his PIN twice because he keeps pushing the wrong buttons. When the screen loads, all he sees are zeros and not the several hundred thousand won he’s been saving up: zeros tailing zeros, zeros at the end of long lists of transactions, zeros that sum up the net worth of Jongin’s efforts. There’s nothing left.
Jongin tries to rationalize. He leans on the machine to keep himself from keeling over and stares at the screen until the numbers resemble pixelated dots instead of digits. But the more he waits, the more apparent it becomes that he’s on the receiving end of a scam.
They’ve stuck together for years, traded checks for advice and meals, moved together as a unit since the beginning of Jongin’s career, but it’s not a career anymore; not for him. He’d claimed that he was cautious in the past, that he could manipulate lies well enough to get away with anything, and Sehun had helped him. At some point, though, those lies have consumed everything, and even the liar can no longer differentiate between what is real and what isn’t. Jongin had been so blindly trusting.
In a fit of anger, Jongin whips out his phone and scrolls through his contacts list. It’s a mistake, he wants to hear Sehun say. The loan sharks must have hacked us. But both of them know that while loan sharks don’t hesitate to resort to intimidation tactics and brute strength, they don’t have the resources to drain bank accounts. It would make their jobs too easy. Nothing is ever easy.
There are no traces of Oh Sehun left behind, and Jongin stops scrolling. He’s already forgotten.
Jongin’s not quite sure what happens next. He recalls tapping Kyungsoo’s name on the display and making a hasty phone call. Kyungsoo finds him a half hour later at the bottom of the stairs of the station, still in his work clothes, and at this point, the pain that Jongin had been suppressing before in order to find the answers he needed starts to kick in.
“What happened?” Kyungsoo asks, slinging Jongin’s arm around his shoulders to hoist him up. His movements are unhurried and merciful, and the tender way Kyungsoo handles him forces Jongin to blink back tears.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet.”
Kyungsoo takes him to his apartment. The place borders on immaculate and looks scarcely lived in. The only evidence of residency is the bowl of apples on the kitchen counter and the creases in the fabric of Kyungsoo’s sofa. It’s exactly how Jongin imagined Kyungsoo’s apartment would look like, and he thinks it’s unfortunate that the first time he visits has to be under these circumstances. Kyungsoo eases him onto the sofa, takes out a hefty first aid kit, and begins tending to his wounds with deft hands. Jongin sucks in a breath when Kyungsoo runs alcohol-soaked swabs over the long scratches on his hands and face, but he silently watches Kyungsoo tend to each wound with determination.
“Jongin,” he says, setting down the bottle of antiseptic. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“It’s-it’s a long story.”
Kyungsoo unwraps a roll of gauze and cuts out several squares. “We have all night.”
Right when Kyungsoo reaches out to smear ointment onto the cigarette burn on his neck, Jongin wraps his hand around his wrist to stop him. Kyungsoo looks at him, eyes dark and imploring. “I’m not innocent. You’ve probably figured it out by now that I’m not innocent. Why are you helping me?”
“I may have gradually pieced some things together. It started when I thought you looked familiar.” He shakes Jongin’s hand off and goes back in to apply the ointment and gauze. “You can’t stay mysterious around me, but I have to give you credit for trying.”
Jongin closes his eyes and sighs. He doesn’t deserve this, not after the mistakes he’s made. “I don’t understand.”
“Remember what I told you about justice?” Kyungsoo asks, cupping his hands around his face, careful to avoid the wound on his temple.
“I thought it was bullshit.” Jongin tries to smile, but there’s a sharp twinge from the throbbing injuries. They haven’t begun scabbing over yet.
“You did. You said something about how there’s no justice for people like you.”
Jongin’s eyes moisten, but he’s not sure if it’s from the swollen state of his eye or his emotions bubbling at the surface. “Because there isn’t.”
“I’m going to make sure there is,” Kyungsoo insists. “So please, let me hear your side of the story.”
Jongin doesn’t want to fall back on trust again. He has enough proof from tonight to believe that even conmen aren’t absolved from their own schemes, that even long-time friends can’t be entirely separated from enemies, and he’s afraid the same applies to Kyungsoo. He can finally taste the bitterness of the medicine he’s been dealing all this time.
“I don’t know where to start,” Jongin admits. Kyungsoo looks at him for a moment before reaching around him in an embrace, and Jongin slowly clings on to him, worrying that letting him go would cause all of his secrets to spill out at once.
“Just start from the beginning.”
He tells Kyungsoo everything because Kyungsoo is willing to listen. He tells Kyungsoo because he has the intention to help. Jongin starts from the beginning, making sure not to gloss over the details, and the story unravels on its own.
“It sometimes scares me to know that I’m such a good liar.”
x
“So you’ve actually taken money from people before?” Chanyeol lets out a low whistle. “Damn. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I never kept the money for myself, though. I had clients. The money was actually for them.”
Jongin finishes sticking price tags onto the newly released albums of the week. There’s always an influx of boy bands that debut around the new year, so shelving new music becomes more of a chore than usual. He straightens his freshly labeled pile and carries it over to the display at the front, almost dropping the album balanced on top of the pile in the process.
“Are you glad you left that life behind?” Chanyeol’s playing with the barcode scanner at the counter, aiming it in random directions.
“Yeah,” he replies. “I’ve never felt better.”
Jongin hadn’t gotten away scot-free. He was both a fraud and a victim of fraud, so Kyungsoo had tried to find a way to lessen his punishment. In the end, they’d reached a compromise with the police-Jongin would aid in the investigation in exchange for a lighter punishment. He’d been ordered to complete hours upon hours of community service, but he prefers that to actual jail time.
“What happened to Sehun?” Chanyeol asks. “Did he just disappear off the face of the earth or something?”
Jongin returns to the counter and Chanyeol aims the scanner at his chest. “I don’t know. They still haven’t found him yet.”
Chanyeol hums and puts the scanner away. He leans back in his chair and studies the ceiling. “When you first told me about what happened, I was worried you wouldn’t be able to work here anymore. I know I’m not here as much, but I get to work with you when I am here.” He crosses his arms across his chest. “I don’t know. Things would’ve been pretty different then.”
“Quieter?” Jongin offers, tipping the corner of his mouth upwards. “You would’ve missed me.”
“I would’ve missed the sound you make when you drop things on the ground. You’re probably the clumsiest employee Blue Record’s ever had.” Chanyeol guffaws as Jongin throws a crumpled receipt at his head.
“I don’t miss your annoying laughs,” Jongin says, but in truth, he really does miss everything about Chanyeol when he isn’t working the same shift as him. He finds comfort when they sit at the counter together and wait for customers to walk in sporadically, placing bets on which albums people buy. “But even if you don’t see me often, it’ll be worth it when you finally start going to school.”
“Actually,” Chanyeol remarks, lips spreading into one of his teeth-rich grins, “I’ve almost saved up enough for my tuition, so it looks like you won’t be working alone as often anymore.”
“As much as I miss having time to myself-congratulations.” Chanyeol’s smile is infectious and Jongin finds himself inadvertently mirroring him. “It’s good to have you back.”
Jongin leaves work a few minutes early to meet Kyungsoo. Although he chooses not to budge from his favorite places, he’s agreed to try something new. When he rounds the corner, he catches a glimpse of the setting sun, a rarity in the string of overcast days they’ve been having, and the way it saturates cement and steel with a tinges of warm tones seems to readjust the world so Jongin is seeing it at another angle. It’s not quite kaleidoscopic, but it’s definitely different.
Just as he enters the bar and allows his hands to defrost in heat of the venue, he receives a call from an unlisted number.
“Hey, it’s me.”
Jongin doesn’t make a sound. The chatter from the people at the bar blends in with the rush of blood to his head.
“I’ve been waiting for the right moment to call you,” Sehun continues. His voice crackles from poor reception and Jongin presses his ear harder against his phone. “It turns out Beijing isn’t all that safe either.”
“Were we ever friends?” Jongin cuts in harshly, and the other line goes silent. “Or did you spend all that time with me with the intention to rob me in the end?”
The static is piercing, and Jongin wonders if Sehun is calling from the top of high place where the wind is strongest. “We are friends,” he mumbles.
Jongin finds a vacant table towards the back and takes a seat before responding. “Don’t lie to me. For just once, don’t fucking lie anymore.”
“I don’t mix business with friendship,” he says plainly. “If you want to know the truth so badly, then there it is.”
The truth doesn’t sting like he’s expected it to; instead, Jongin feels instantaneous relief seeping into the fringes of closure “Then why did you call me? I’m not expecting you to undo the damage you’ve already done.”
“Because,” he replies, “that’s how the business works. Once you’re in, you can’t leave. So what’s your choice?”
A few months ago, when Jongin had first taken up Sehun’s offer, he would’ve adhered to that idea with indiscriminate confidence and blind loyalty. He would’ve known immediately that there were no options available when dabbling in fraud was as risky as it was. He’s wise enough now to avoid falling into the same destructive pattern.
“I’m done.”
“You can’t be done,” Sehun says a little more urgently. The crackling grows stronger, popping in the tension-filled air, almost drowning out his voice completely. “We won’t leave you alone.”
“Goodbye, Sehun.”
Jongin hangs up first.
x
Instead of measuring his time in numbers on checks and contracts, colossal amounts poorly distributed among too few hands, Jongin measures his minutes by the number of times he can elicit a smile from someone, his hours by the number of truths that make it past his lips, his days by the number of times he can admit that he’s genuinely free.
“You look happier,” Kyungsoo notes when he meets Jongin at their table, cheeks flushed. “Lighter. Like you’ve found your pipe dream and brought it to life at the same time.”
“I think I’ve realized what it is a while ago.”
When their drinks arrive, Jongin notices that they’ve ordered the same two drinks they had when they first met that one November night in Woodstock. And like the first time, Kyungsoo takes his lime off the rim of his cup and sets it to the side.
“I’m curious. What is it exactly? You’ve never told me.”
“This is it,” he answers. “This is enough.”