Hotel California Part 2
---
The house was quiet, but Sungmin hadn’t expected anything different. He entered the villa through the front door, past the neatly decorated hallway and foyer. He’d bought the villa without much care for its decoration. The only part of the house that mattered was the basement, after all, and he’d had that part completely refurbished.
He’d hired a maid. She came at night when he was sleeping with Kibum, for the upkeep on scheduled days, under the impression that no one was at the house and that Sungmin stayed out late at the studio to work.
Sungmin smiled to himself as he held out the present he’d gotten for Kibum. Kibum had always wanted a new watch, a fancy expensive one. Tonight they would relax. He’d put in a movie and they’d watch it together on the couch and everything would be perfect.
Yes...perfect.
As he walked he paused at the entrance to the parlor, hand resting on the doorframe.
One day...one day he and Kibum would sit in the parlor together like they used to do in Korea. Sungmin stared at the piano forlornly. If he closed his eyes he could almost hear the sound. He could imagine Kibum sitting there, fingers ghosting over the keys, producing that light airy music that made Sungmin shiver.
He opened his eyes with a shaky exhalation and tore his gaze away from the piano. He couldn’t dwell on that now. Soon. Soon, he promised himself. Soon. He slipped the watch back into his pocket.
The hallway leading down to the basement was dark. He didn’t really need the lights on, because he rarely spent any time on the first or second floors of the house anyway.
He pulled the key out from his pocket and slid it into the lock. The door opened smoothely and he closed it behind him, locking it once more, before he headed down the few steps that led him to the basement’s living room.
The TV was on, but the sound was muted. From the base of the stairs he could see the screen moving, some late-night drama. The living room was empty, and he reached the coffee table and grabbed the remote, turning the TV off.
He sighed to himself. In the beginning, Kibum had tried to lock himself in the bedroom, or bathroom, or any of the other rooms. It had ended with Sungmin removing all of the doors. Sungmin assumed that Kibum had probably gone to the bedroom to sleep. He slept most of the day anyway.
And that was when he noticed the bloodied handprint plastered on the white-washed wall next to the TV. He paled, spotting the shattered glass. “Kibum,” He called out loudly, heading for the bedroom. He wasn’t there.
Oh god, the bottle. Why hadn’t he thought about that? Why hadn’t he thought that Kibum would use the glass? He raked a hand through his hair, “Kibum!” he shouted frantically, checking the bathroom. Not there.
“KIBUM!”
The kitchen was empty as well. He was beginning to panic now. Where could Kibum be? What if he had...had...no, no, he wouldn’t do that. Kibum loved him. Kibum would never kill himself. He couldn’t...couldn’t.
He found him curled up in the corner of the art studio, sobbing against a plain canvas now covered in crimson.
“Kibum!” Sungmin dropped to his knees next to his prone form. He grabbed him, looking for wounds. His hand was a bloodied mess, but it only looked like it was all coming from a single cut. There was less blood than Sungmin’s mind made it out to be. The cut had already stopped bleeding for the most part. Sungmin’s fingers shook as he turned Kibum’s hand over. The mostly-dried blood brushed off onto his own skin.
“Kibum...” Sungmin buried his face in Kibum’s hair, taking a deep breath. The other man was shaking, crying silently. He thrashed, trying to break free, and Sungmin knew he wanted to yell at him...but Kibum never yelled anymore. He never talked.
Sungmin had almost forgotten what his voice sounded like.
I hate you. I hate you. Give it back! Kibum mouthed silently against the collar of Sungmin’s shirt. Give me my soul back. It’s not yours.
Sungmin crushed Kibum against his chest. Panic and releif were still overriding the anger, and he realized rather belatedly that he was crying. “Why would you do this to me?” He whispered raggedly. Kibum didn’t answer, merely continued to sob, bloodied hand pressed against the breast pocket of Sungmin’s white shirt, staining it, marking it. He could feel Sungmin’s heart beating against his fingertips.
Give it back. It isn’t yours. Give it back. I hate you.
---
Ryeowook made it back to his apartment around 9 at night. Physically he felt drained, jet-lag taking over along with it being so late as it were, but mentally he was stimulated. He had a lead. He could talk with Lee Sungmin and the two of them would be able to find Kim Kibum and through him, the truth.
He’d eaten enough hors d’oeuvres that night to account for a meal so he wasn’t feeling too terribly hungry. He’d flipped through his phone, checked his e-mail, and changed into his pajamas before finally building up the courage to call the number he’d been given.
He swallowed, phone resting against his ear as he listened in the relative silence to the static-filled tone. Once. Twice. The ringing continued for what felt like an eternity, each bout of silence stretching. He wasn’t going to pick up. It was too late at night. He should have called earlier. He’d call tomorrow-
The soft click of the phone coming off of the receiver echoed. There was a soft exhalation, shaky, before a voice in stilted Italian, “This is Lee Sungmin.”
“Ah, hello.” Ryeowook began, not even realizing that he’d begun speaking in Korean instead of Italian. He heard Sungmin’s soft intake of breath before he continued, “My name is Kim Ryeowook.”
“Ah, Ryeowook-ssi.” Sungmin’s voice sounded far away, distracted, and Ryeowook could hear shuffling on the other end.
“I’m investigating the dissapearance of Zhou Mi and Kim Kibum.”
There was silence on the other end, Ryeowook could barely hear Sungmin breathing above the static. “...what?” A soft, breathless whisper.
“I know this is sudden.” Ryeowook continued, “But Zhou Mi was my friend and I wanted to find some answers. I was told that you were searching for Kim Kibum and I wondered if perhaps you knew anything, anything at all.” Ryeowook wondered if he sounded desparate. “I just really...want to know what happened.”
More silence, but this time it seemed contemplative rather than surprised. More unidentifiable sounds, another soft breath, it sounded almost like Sungmin were saying something away from the phone before he was back. “Would you like to meet tomorrow?”
Ryeowook swallowed, momentarily stunned. He hadn’t expected Sungmin to agree to talk with him. He’d expected him to brush him off, get irritated perhaps, defensive and hurt that he’d brought up something Sungmin wanted to forget.
“Ah, y-yes!” Ryeowook managed to croak out. “Yes.”
“How about tomorrow afternoon, then.” Lee Sungmin’s voice was more steady now, less of that shaky tremor that had laced it before. It became warm, welcoming. Ryeowook could imagine him smiling softly. “Do you know the cafe Les Pailottes?”
He didn’t, but he’d look it up later that night. “Of course.”
“Shall we meet there then?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I need to leave.” Sungmin’s voice was cheerful, but Ryeowook heard the haggard undertone again. Perhaps he was upset about what Ryeowook had mentioned? Being reminded that your ex-boyfriend was dead couldn’t be a very pleasant experience.
“Of course, of course.” Ryeowook found himself bowing his head, realizing only a few moments later that Sungmin couldn’t see him, feeling a bit foolish. He heard the click of Sungmin’s phone and then the dull buzz of the dial tone.
---
Sungmin liked it best when Kibum was sleeping. When Kibum was sleeping Sungmin could pretend they were still in love. He could hold Kibum and touch him without fear of rejection. There was no hatred or weary resignation, no dead, dull gloss. Kibum was just Kibum. His Kibum.
Sungmin closed his eyes for a few moments, focused on the soft puffs of breath against his collarbone. The side lamp was still on. Sungmin always waited until Kibum fell asleep first because then he could have these moments. He could maneuver Kibum into his arms and Kibum would press against him, seeking the familiar warmth, and Sungmin felt whole again.
This was the reason he couldn’t be angry, even as his eyes drifted to Kibum’s bandaged right hand. All he felt was fear, that primodiral terror that one day he would come home and Kibum wouldn’t be there any longer.
But all Kibum had done was cut his hand. He hadn’t tried to kill himself. He’d probably just slipped. He was just angry, confused, he would get better soon. He was just sick. He would get better. He would. Sungmin would nurse him back to health and Kibum would realize he loved him.
Sungmin gave a soft smile, craning his neck to bend down and place a kiss against Kibum’s forehead. He reached over with his other arm-the one not holding Kibum against him-and turned off the light, plunging the bedroom into darkness.
He blinked, light dancing beneath his eyelids, blinding him for a few seconds before the darkness took over and his eyes slowly began to adjust. If he strained his eyes he could just make out the outline of the ceiling fan above the bed.
He wondered if Kibum could hear his heartbeat.
They met at the freshmen orientation ceremony.
Sungmin had been a junior then, and had gone to the ceremony on a whim. Some of the other members of the photography department had been going and even though he rarely enjoyed meeting underclassmen, he’d found himself sitting in a chair in the balcony, swinging his legs.
He spent most of the time pointing out people with his friends, laughing at nervous faces and odd hair styles. It took him a few minutes to realize there was someone sitting in the balcony that he didn’t recognize.
He was sleeping, face covered by a…was that a pink bunny hat? It was. It most definitely was. Sungmin was curious now. Who on earth-besides himself-would wear such a hat? He stood and walked past the few empty seats between them to where the boy was leaning against the wall, and sat down beside him.
He didn’t move, so Sungmin assumed he was still sleeping. Sungmin spotted the balls of fur at the end of the hat and swallowed, trying to resist the urge to tug them. He didn’t succeed, and found himself swinging one back and forth, giggling softly to himself.
“It’s rude to touch someone else’s things, you know.”
Sungmin blinked, because the bunny hat was talking to him. A hand reached up and pulled the hat off and Sungmin found himself staring into the most beautiful face he’d ever seen.
“It’s also rude to stare.”
His throat was dry. He tried to swallow to wet it but it felt like he’d eaten a mouthful of cotton. The other boy was staring at him curiously, his gaze guarded. His face was serious, brooding, the complete opposite of Sungmin’s usual cheerful personality.
“…sorry.” Sungmin managed, and his voice cracked at the end. The other boy either didn’t notice or had the decency to pretend not to. Instead, he tugged his hat back down and returned to slouching in his chair.
“I’ve never seen you before.” Sungmin continued. He didn’t know why he was talking to the other boy. He obviously didn’t want company and probably thought that Sungmin was some kind of freak. “What department are you in?”
“Visual Arts.” The boy muttered, not moving. There was a long moment of silence before, “You?”
“Photography.” Sungmin chirped. “I’m Lee Sungmin.” He held out his hand to shake, but then realized that the other boy couldn’t see his hand anyway and quickly retracted it. He didn’t make it far, however, as the other boy grabbed his hand, gripping it tightly.
He pushed up the hat with his free hand and gave a slow smile. “Kim Kibum.”
It was the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen.
---
Ryeowook shifted a bit uncomfortably on the wooden chair, busying himself with picking up his coffee and then placing it absently back down on the saucer before repeating the action, never quite lifting the cup up to drink.
“Ryeowook-ssi?”
Ryeowook looked up as his name was called and he found himself looking at whom he suspected was Lee Sungmin. He wasn’t that much taller than Ryeowook himself, with a cheerful, friendly face, and warm chocolate eyes. He smiled, and the look seemed to fit him.
Ryeowook pushed his chair out quickly and stood, holding out his hand as he bowed. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Sungmin took his hand and shook it, still smiling that easy-going smile. Ryeowook motioned to the chair across from his own. “Please sit down.” Sungmin did so.
There were a few seconds of awkward silence before the waitress came over and Sungmin ordered something that Ryeowook couldn’t catch. He looked down at his own coffee. He’d ordered the only thing he could remember the correct words for: plain coffee and a glass of water.
Sungmin eyed him for a moment after the waitress left with his order before he spoke, voice soft. “You’re Zhou Mi-ssi’s friend?”
Ryeowook nodded. “Did you know him?”
“I only met him once.” Sungmin confided, and his smile seemed a bit strained. “Kibum introduced us. I had gone to Ascoli Piceno to take photographs for my new exhibition and happened to meet up with them.”
“Did you...ever regret that Kibum was no longer with you?”
For a moment there was a flash of something in Sungmin’s eyes. His smile seemed frozen, almost feral, but it was gone before Ryeowook could blink and he wondered if he’d imagined it. Sungmin’s smile was a bit bitter. “Of course...I’ve always loved Kibum. That never changed. It still hasn’t.”
Ryeowook could hear the sincerity in his voice and he didn’t know if it made him uncomfortable because Sungmin was homosexual, or if it was because Sungmin was in love with the man that had been in love with Zhou Mi.
“I was...” Ryeowook began, trailing off because he wasn’t sure if he should continue. “Did Kibum ever tell you if he and Zhou Mi were having problems?”
Sungmin shook his head, “Kibum would never hurt Zhou Mi.” His tone became colder, “He didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.” There was a warning there.
Ryeowook took the hint. “I see. Sorry. I know this is a sensitive topic.”
“I want to find Kibum.” Sungmin continued, and the warning edge had softened a bit. “I don’t care about anything else, but if by helping you I can find him, I’ll do so in any way I can.”
Ryeowook nodded. He hadn’t expected anything different. “Do you...truly believe that he’s alive.”
“He is.” Sungmin answered back swiftly, and the finality, the confidence of his tone was uncanny. “He’s alive.”
---
He hadn’t meant to walk into him. He’d been staring at the scenery, looking around the town with the awed giddiness of a tourist. He supposed he wasn’t watching where he was going because one moment he was mentally deciding on the colors he would need to get that perfect shade of green and then he was flat on his back, bag beside him, paintbrushes rolling down the hill.
“Oh! Oh! I’m sorry!” It was spoken in Italian with a foreign accent so thick that Kibum could barely understand it. He found himself staring up at a large nose and a face framed in stylish, rectangular glasses.
And a beret.
“It’s alright.” Kibum managed in his own accented Italian. He wasn’t sure who butchered the language more. He blinked, just then realizing that his paintbrushes were still making their way down the cobblestone street. He leapt up, nearly tripping as he went after them.
Someone was beside him, ahead of him, long legs taking him further down the hill than Kibum in a shorter amount of time. By the time he reached the bottom the other man had already grabbed the brushes and was holding them out proudly.”Here you go!”
Kibum nodded, reaching for them.
“You should say thank you.” The other man pouted. “I ran all the way to grab them for you.”
“You were the one who ran into me in the first place.” Kibum shot back coolly, and the other man’s pout deepened. How was it possible for a grown man to look like a little child that had just been told Santa Claus wasn’t real? “Aish.” He looked down at his brushes, running his thumb along the frayed edges.
“Aish?” The taller man repeated, before a bright smile spread across his face and he began talking in Korean-a little more understandable than his Italian. “Are you Korean?”
Kibum blinked, before he nodded slowly. “…you?” He didn’t think so, but it didn’t hurt to ask.
The other man shook his head, still smiling brightly. “I’m Chinese. My name is Zhou Mi.”
“Kim Kibum.” Kibum didn’t know why he was introducing himself. He wasn’t a talkative person by nature. He blamed it on manners. It would have been rude not to respond after Zhou Mi had told him his name, right?
Zhou Mi’s smile stretched, if possible, even wider. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
Kibum nodded, and somehow found himself fascinated with Zhou Mi’s smile. It was contagious, making the corners of Kibum’s own lips tilt in a way they hadn’t done since he’d broken up with Sungmin. Kibum didn’t like painting people, but he found himself reaching out to trace the edge of Zhou Mi’s face and barely managed to catch himself. He pulled his hand back, surprised at his own actions.
Zhou Mi stared at him for a moments, his smile turning awkward and a bit forced. “…Kibum-ssi?”
“Can I paint you?”
Kibum woke up alone.
He hadn’t expected anything different. His gaze flickered to the alarm clock and then to the calendar beside it. His brow furrowed a bit in confusion. It was Saturday. That usually meant that Sungmin was home and if he didn’t have work, he rarely left Kibum alone.
Kibum merely pressed his face into the pillow; eyes clenched shut, taking a few deep breaths. He wanted to be alone, so why did he care if Sungmin was there or not? It was better this way. But it was disconcerting in its own way. When Sungmin became unpredictable he became dangerous, more dangerous than usual.
Kibum turned to look at the alarm clock again through half-lidded eyes, gaze traveling down to his bandaged hand. Sungmin had been scared the night before, hadn’t he? He’d thought that Kibum would kill himself…it wouldn’t have been the first time.
He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath. He hated himself for being such a coward. Too scared to die, wasn’t he? He convinced himself it was because he wanted revenge, because he wanted to make Sungmin pay for what he’d done to Zhou Mi, but subconsciously he knew it was because he was afraid.
He forced himself to sit up. He needed to take a shower, and wouldn’t it be better to do it now when Sungmin wasn’t there? He shed his clothing as he went, wondering belatedly if he should take off the bandages first or not. He realized he didn’t care and reached up to pull out his ponytail when he noticed something off in the mirror.
He blinked.
His bangs had been trimmed. He lifted his hand to brush them out of his eyes but they were no longer in the way. He swallowed. The last time he’d had his bangs trimmed…Zhou Mi had done it for him.
“Come on!”
“This is stupid.” Kibum murmured awkwardly. “I’m not doing it.”
A hand snaked out from underneath the water and grabbed him, wet fingers slipping but tightening their grip and then Kibum found himself pulled, still partially clothed, into the large bathtub. He sputtered, pushing water and soap out of his eyes to find Zhou Mi laughing, head thrown back, teeth flashing in the light streaming through the window.
Kibum wanted to be angry-and embarrassed, they had the windows open!-but he couldn’t do so with Zhou Mi laughing like that, looking so happy. It was impossible to stay angry at him. He shifted uncomfortably in the water between Zhou Mi’s long legs. They were pressed on either side of the tub and he looked like a sardine shoved into a small can. The entire position looked uncomfortable.
Zhou Mi simply leaned forward and brushed some soap suds off of Kibum’s nose with his thumb. “Now turn around so I can wash your hair.”
“I’m not five.” Kibum answered back, petulant, but did as he was told anyway, still feeling foolish. He felt a little more comfortable knowing that he was still wearing his underwear, except that it was clinging to the inside of his thighs uncomfortable and he was very much aware that Zhou Mi wasn’t wearing anything, especially when the other man snaked his arms around his waist and pulled him snugly back against his chest.
“…I thought you were going to wash my hair.” Kibum managed to mutter, even as his heartbeat sped up and his throat tightened.
“Mmm.” Zhou Mi murmured against his shoulder. “I will. Just let me hold you like this for a bit longer.”
“…I feel like a girl.” Kibum grumbled, grabbing for the shampoo, out of Zhou Mi’s death-grip. “You’d think you topped or something.” He knew that if he turned around, Zhou Mi would be pouting, so instead he simply squirted some shampoo into his hands and began working up a lather in his hair.
“I don’t treat you like a girl.” Zhou Mi whined. “We just fit nicely like this! I wouldn’t be able to fit into the bathtub otherwise!”
Kibum rolled his eyes, but didn’t comment. He let his hands drop from his scalp as Zhou Mi’s fingers replaced his own, longer, softer. He closed his eyes at the sensation and found himself leaning back, despite his earlier desire to put some distance between them.
He didn’t like to admit that despite whatever their “positions” in this relationship in terms of sex were, Zhou Mi always seemed able to manipulate him into doing what he wanted. He wondered if it was that damned addictive smile, or the fact that he always really was cheerful.
It could have been a million different things, none of which Kibum could pinpoint exactly. All he knew was that being in the same vicinity as Zhou Mi made his stomach do flips and his heart beat fast and he always felt like a goddamned schoolgirl.
No one would imagine he was the dominant one in this relationship. No one. Sometimes he questioned it himself.
But he found he didn’t quite care as Zhou Mi’s lips pressed against his neck, leaving soft kisses as he murmured Chinese into his skin and his fingers were no longer in Kibum’s hair but traveling down his chest, running along his stomach.
“I love you.” Zhou Mi whispered, and then repeated it in Mandarin and it was oddly more poignant in his native tongue, more meaningful.
I love you too, Kibum wanted to say, but a flash of someone else’s smile entered his head, bright, cheerful, in a different way than Zhou Mi’s, and he merely tilted his head back to meet Zhou Mi’s searching lips with his own, hoping that his kiss could somehow convey what he couldn’t say.
He was crying.
It was hard to tell because the water was scalding, but his eyes stung and it wasn’t from the shampoo running down his face as he bent over, shoulders shaking, legs unable to hold him up any longer.
He leaned his forehead against the tiled wall and let out a soft sob.
---
The police station was made of rust-colored brick, Polizia written in white atop the double-doors. Ryeowook shuffled the files in his hands, standing at the foot of the stairs. Hangeng had sent the papers over first thing in the morning-the fax machine had woken him up-and Ryeowook had tried to make sense of the paperwork with his limited Italian. He hoped that whatever Hangeng and Heechul had managed to pull together was coherent and correct.
He nodded his head at the policeman at the door, papers held against his chest.
The inside of the station was chaos. People were shouting in Italian, officers and civilians alike. There were men in suits, terrifying men, who looked up at Ryeowook and kept their gaze trained on him as he walked up to the front desk, trying to keep from making eye contact with anyone.
“Yes?” The man sitting at the desk looked up briefly from a file he’d been skimming.
Ryeowook placed the papers tentatively down on the counter, smoothing out the wrinkled edges with his palms. “I need to look over your files regarding Zhou Mi and Kim Kibum.”
The officer seemed to understand him well enough, though he shot him a suspicious glance before sntaching the papers and scanning them. “Polizia?”
Ryeowook nodded.
The officer continued to eye him warily as he turned to the man sitting beside him, saying something that Ryeowook couldn’t follow. The other man picked up the papers and read them as well, face contorting into a mixture of annoyance and surprise. Finally he looked at Ryeowook and spoke, “Are you from Interpol?”
Ryeowook shook his head. “Investigatore privato.”
The man clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth before nodding, standing. “Come.” He ordered, and Ryeowook hurriedly followed as the man led him down the hallway. He led him to a room off of the main hall. It was relatively bare save for a table and a few chairs. He motioned for Ryeowook to sit down. He did so.
“I will get the files.”
Ryeowook was left alone in the room for a few moments, and it gave him some time to think. For Hangeng to get the proper paperwork and have it approved, he must have worked hard for this. Ryeowook would have to thank him later. He knew that both Hangeng and Heechul had been Zhou Mi’s friends and that the two were probably just doing what they thought was right. Still, it seemed like a lot of work.
The policeman returned with a box, which he placed on the table. “You must read it here. You can’t leave the room.” The man then pulled out a chair and placed it in a corner of the room, sitting down.
Well, Ryeowook supposed he couldn’t have asked for much more than that. They would watch and make sure he didn’t write anything down or take photos or any of the evidence in the box. Ryeowook lifted the lid, conscious of the policemen’s eyes trained on him.
He swallowed, flipping through the photographs of the crime scene. A pool of blood...so much, it wasn’t possible for that much blood to come out of a body, was it? His fingers trembled as he ran them along the edge of the photograph, tracing the blood pool with his eyes.
Some part of him had been hopeful that maybe Zhou Mi were alive out there somewhere...but the amount of blood made that impossible. This obviously wasn’t the sight of the murder. Zhou Mi’s body...or rather, whatever it had been transported in had been taken from the origin of the murder.
The tarp that the body had been wrapped in was found in a warehouse near the docks. They’d traced it back to the art studio and found the blood pool...and somehow from all of that they’d assumed it as a suicide? There had been another blood on the sight, enough to confirm another death, but it was too contaminated for proper DNA analysis so it couldn’t be confirmed as Kim Kibum’s.
But how had Zhou Mi gotten rid of Kim Kibum’s body, killed himself, and gotten rid of his own? It wasn’t possible. There had to be an accomplice of some kind. Someone else had to be involved. Nothing added up...how could the police have just dropped the case and dismissed it so readily?
Ryeowook’s gaze went to the man in the corner, who was glaring at him impatiently. He quickly averted his eyes back to the files. He couldn’t look at the photographs anymore, if he did he would start to imagine Zhou Mi’s body lying in the blood, mangled and pale. He swallowed.
A warehouse worker had found the tarp and reported it. He had no direct connection to any other part of the investigation and had been let go without much questioning. Aside from him, no other witnesses were questioned.
“Why was no one else questioned at this time? Other people they knew?” Ryeowook looked up at the officer.
The man grunted. “I wasn’t on the case.”
“Could you bring in someone who was? If I could talk to them-”
“We have enough to deal with.” The officer snapped angrily. “We do not have time to investigate the death of every foreigner here. We have problems of our own.” He stood, “It is time for you to leave.”
Ryeowook nodded slowly, placing the evidence back in the box. The officer led him out to the door, practically shoving him down the steps. Ryeowook managed to catch himself and sighed before picking up his phone and dialing.
It rang twice before the other man answered. “Yes?”
“Lee Sungmin-ssi, this is Kim Ryeowook. I think I might have some more information for us to look at. Can I bring it over?”
“Ah...yes.” Sungmin murmured. “Do you need directions to my home?”
---
Kibum didn’t know how long he stood under the water, only that somehow he managed to dry himself off and get dressed. He was still drying his hair, sitting on the edge of the couch when he heard the sound of someone moving upstairs.
Sungmin was probably home.
Kibum swallowed, reaching for the remote to turn on the TV, to drown out the soft creaking of floorboards, the sound that continually mocked him-you are trapped, you’ll never be able to walk outside again.
It was cruel, terribly cruel, for Sungmin to make the doors only soundproof from this side. He could still hear everything that happened above him, even if it was muffled.
Kibum blinked, as the front door opened and he heard Sungmin’s distinctive, “Good afternoon,” in Korean. In Korean. Someone who spoke Korean was there. Kibum dropped the towel onto the couch.
He could hear them. Sungmin, and someone else. Their voices were muffled. He couldn’t make out the words. He pushed himself off of the couch, but his legs gave out on him after a few steps. He cursed his own weakness. How could he have gotten this helpless?
He crawled toward the stairs on his hands and knees. He’d wasted all of his energy in the shower and his strength seemed to leave him completely at the helplessness of his situation. No, nononono, he had to get to the stairs. If he screamed loud enough perhaps the other person would hear. Perhaps they’d get help. He had to try.
Climbing the stairs was painful. It felt like he was walking on needles, each step sending tiny slivers of pain down his limbs. He was out of breath by the team he reached the door. Even though he knew it was stupid he tried the door. It was locked, just like it always was.
“...ungmin-ssi, I brought over something...” The voices were becoming clearer. They were getting closer!
Kibum lifted up his hand and began hitting the door. The dull thump seemed cushioned, dissapearing into a muffled silence. Kibum swallowed and continued anyway. All he needed to do was make enough noise...just make enough noise!
Bam. Bam. Bam.
He coughed, trying to clear his throat, before he yelled out, “Help!” His voice sounded oddly hoarse, raw from disuse. He took a few deep breaths before he continued. “Help! HELP! HELP!”
Someone had to come. Someone. Please, why couldn’t the man hear him? Why?
Bam. Bam. Bam. “HELP!” It ended in a choked sob. He clawed at the door, hearing the voice on the other side of the door, so close, so close. Sharp pain in his fingertips, as a fingernail ripped off in the process. He didn’t notice the pain, or rather, it didn’t deter him. He continued screaming, digging his fingers into the door, pounding on it with his fists.
The wound on his hand throbbed, coming open with the harsh actions. “Please! PLEASE HELP ME!”
---
Ryeowook smiled softly at Sungmin as the other man opened the door and ushered him inside. He looked around the hallway as Sungmin led him to the living room, admiring the vintage paintings and photographs along the walls.
“Are some of these yours?”
Sungmin paused, turning to see what Ryeowook was looking at. He nodded, “A few of them. Some of them are Kibum’s.” He swallowed, looking uncomfortable for a moment before he motioned for Ryeowook to follow him. “Here, come into the living room. I’ll make some coffee.”
Ryeowook sat down on the red loveseat, and found his gaze trained on the piano across the hall in the adjoining parlor. He’d played when he was younger but hadn’t kept up with it. He wondered if he could play anything at all anymore.
Sungmin entered the room a few moments later holding two coffees and a plate of cookies. “Here you go. Help yourself please.”
Ryeowook nodded and grabbed the cup, hands barely brushing the porcelain when he heard a dull thump. He blinked. There it was again. “What...do you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Sungmin asked over the rim of his own cup. He cocked his head to the side and smiled. “Ryeowook-ssi, you said you had some new information?”
Ryeowook blinked, “Ah, yes.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a photograph. He knew he shouldn’t have taken it but... “This photograph.” He placed it on the table. “I think there’s a clue in this.”
Sungmin leaned forward and looked down at the photo. It was of the art studio. “What makes you think so?”
“Something seems off.” Ryeowook leaned forward and pointed. “Doesn’t it look like there should be something over in this corner of the studio?”
Sungmin ‘hmmed’ and peered a little closer. “I don’t know. Perhaps something was just moved...”
“Where could they have taken the body?” Ryeowook asked aloud, more to himself than to Sungmin.
“They?” Sungmin raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean they?”
There. Another thump, but it was gone and Ryeowook was shaking off the odd feeling that someone was screaming-through water, distorted-and answered Sungmin’s question. “There had to be more than one person. Zhou Mi would never kill anyone. If someone killed both Kim Kibum-ssi and then Zhou Mi he had to have dumped their bodies somewhere.”
“Kibum isn’t dead.” Sungmin murmured. “He’s alive somewhere. I’ll find him.”
Ryeowook swallowed. “The likelihood of finding him alive now is...”
“Maybe you should leave.” Sungmin stood. “I don’t think we’ll get anything else discussed today. I’ll look over the photograph and see if I can think of anything, alright?”
Ryeowook nodded, realizing that he’d overstayed his welcome. “Alright. I’ll call if I find anything else.”
“Goodbye.” Sungmin’s voice was frigid.
Ryeowook left as quickly as possible, wincing at the slight slam of the door on its hingest behind him.
---
Sungmin found Kibum on the stairs, sobbing softly, fingers digging into the bloodied grooves on the door that he’d carved into them. Sungmin knelt down, grabbing Kibum’s hands in his own. His fingertips were in shreds.
He didn’t pull away, too weak, tear tracks staining his cheeks. He looked up at Sungmin with dead, helpless eyes. Sungmin swallowed, grabbing Kibum and carrying him down the stairs, ignoring his weak protests. He seemed to have lost all of his energy, mumbling silent curses against Sungmin’s neck.
He placed Kibum on the couch and went into the bathroom. When he walked back out with the bandages and disinfectant, Kibum hadn’t moved. He was in the same place Sungmin had sat him down, eyes staring vacantly at the blank TV screen.
Sungmin bit the inside of his cheek, trying to ignore the anger that was building up at the sight of Kibum so hopeless, so lifeless. This wasn’t his Kibum. What had happened to him? Why had he become like this?
Why did Zhou Mi still own his heart even after his death?
He grabbed the bottle of rubbing alcohol and screwed off the cap, throwing it onto the table. It skidded across the surface before falling off the opposite edge. Sungmin gripped Kibum’s right wrist tightly and held his hand out, tilting the bottle.
The rubbing alcohol sizzled against his skin, and it soaked the towel that Sungmin had placed on his lap pink from the blood. Kibum tried to recoil in pain, but Sungmin held him still, grabbing his other hand and doing the same thing.
He knew it hurt. He knew it burned as Kibum gave a soft gasp (nothing more, he never spoke anymore) but he knew that as much as it hurt Kibum, it hurt him more. How could he do this to himself when he knew that Sungmin loved him? Sungmin only wanted to make him happy, why couldn’t Kibum see that?
Sungmin hadn’t realized he was crying until a tear slipped off of his nose and hit the palm of Kibum’s right hand.
“Why...?” he managed to gasp out. “...why are you so cruel?”
Kibum didn’t speak. He didn’t expect him to, and the silence made him even angrier for some reason. He needed to hear Kibum’s voice, to know that he was indeed alive and that Sungmin wasn’t just holding a lifeless doll.
“At least say you hate me.” Sungmin rasped. “Scream at me. Hit me. Don’t be like this. If we fight we can make up.” He swallowed back a sob. “We can make it work. We always do. So fight. Please, just say something.”
But Kibum didn’t. He wouldn’t meet his gaze, simply stared through him, past him, toward something or someone else. Zhou Mi, it had to be Zhou Mi. Zhou Mi wouldn’t let Kibum go. No matter what Sungmin did, no matter how much he loved Kibum, Zhou Mi had already stolen him away, hadn’t he?
Sungmin’s nails dug into the tender skin of Kibum’s wrist, turning it red, but Kibum didn’t seem to notice.
He hated this. He hated Zhou Mi. He would make Kibum realize that he still loved him. He would make sure that Kibum remembered Lee Sungmin. He pressed his lips to Kibum’s mouth harshly, his kiss brutal. Kibum stifffened at first, and tried to push him off, but Sungmin still held his wrists in his hands.
He bit Kibum’s bottom lip, feeling him tremble at the sensation. Kibum tried to pull away but Sungmin followed, shoving him down against the couch. He climbed atop him, pinning his hands above him.
“...don’t.” Kibum finally whispered, voice husky and dry from lack of use. Sungmin let the words rush over him, eyes closed. He needed more, more of that voice. He’d forgotten what it sounded like. Kibum was alive, Kibum could speak.
Sungmin bit the underside of his jaw, one hand leaving Kibum’s wrists-they were thin, thin enough that he didn’t need both hands, he’d have to feed Kibum more-and trailed along his stomach. He could feel Kibum’s ribs.
Kibum was shaking, crying, Sungmin could taste his tears as they drifted down his cheeks. He kissed them away, whispering against his skin. “I love you, I love you.” Hot, scalding, he wanted to brand the words into Kibum’s skin, to make him understand.
“I hate you, I hate you,” rang in his ears, countering his own words, and he didn’t know if Kibum was saying them or if he was simply imagining what he knew Kibum was thinking. He gripped Kibum’s hip and tugged his sweat pants down.
“I’ll make you love me.” He gasped out, ignoring the choked sob in the back of Kibum’s throat.
---
PART 3