(fic) these bright city lights (they're calling you home) [1/2]
exo | xiuhan | PG-13
Luhan learns from a young age that he isn’t exactly what you’d call your average human being. Metropolis is meant to be the end of his abnormality, but destiny seems to have other things in mind, and Kim Minseok is one hell of a catalyst.
word count: 12.4k
The most well-known legend involving the infamous Huang Zitao is that he took out eight guys single handedly when he was sixteen. A close-second is that he has close ties with both the Mafia and the Triads, and has never had to carry a single weapon with him because he’s faster than any bullet or blade. The latest update, however, is that he’s sleeping with Kris Wu, leader of the money-lending gang ominously known as M, dangerous boys who prowl the streets and back alleys of Metropolis, looking for trouble.
Luhan can’t quite confirm these stories. What he can definitely vouch for, though, is that Huang Zitao has been his best friend since they were children, and Huang Zitao is devastatingly good at aegyo.
“Bbuing bbuing ~”
“I’m going to hit you.”
The two of them are seated at one of the shadier cafes of the city, located right at the edge of the business district, right between the Southwest Bank and TechCorp building. It’s definitely out of place, with its’ vintage decor and cat motif wallpaper, but they serve pretty good coffee, so Luhan can’t complain about the distinct sandalwood drifting about the shop.
Zitao pouts, making his eyes wide and watery. Luhan wrinkles his nose.
“Please, ge? It’s a win-win situation! You’ve always wanted a place in Central.”
Luhan sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “Zitao, this is serious. I told you, no more jobs. Besides, I don’t even know this guy. What if he’s one of your crackhead friends?” He squints at the squiggly name in front of him. Kim Minseok, the card reads. It’s oddly familiar, so he figures Zitao’s mentioned him once or twice. Not exactly good for a potential flatmate, going by Zitao’s company.
His long-time best friend gasps, feigning hurt. “Ge! When have I ever set you up with someone like that?”
Luhan only has to answer with a pointed look and a raised eyebrow. Zitao bites his lip as the realization dawns on him.
“To be fair, Sehun was recovering?” He tries with a smile, having the decency to look sheepish. Luhan remains completely unconvinced.
“But look, okay, I swear Minseok’s clean,” Zitao continues, tone becoming earnest, “he always has been. I swear it on my feather tattoo.” He demonstrates by making two overlapping strokes with his finger over the inked skin on his forearm. It’s one of his favourite ones.
Luhan bites his lip, contemplating as he studies the price that has been scrawled on the scrap of paper in front of him. It’s a really good deal, a price he’ll probably never see again for an apartment in that area.
“You’re one of the best deviants I know,” Zitao says quietly. “I can’t work with anyone else.”
This is true, Luhan knows. They’ve known each other for as long as he can remember, and Zitao didn’t-- doesn’t have to buy his trust. Luhan picks up the card, turning it over his fingers. He exhales.
“We just got here, Zitao. You promised--”
“I know, I know, but this is urgent. You won’t even have to lift a finger, I swear. Just escort Wufan with me.”
“Wufan....?” Luhan asks, looking up.
“Sorry, I mean, Kris,” Zitao stutters slightly, cheeks turning a shade pinker. Huh.
“Please, Ge?”
After a moment, Luhan sighs, unable to bear Zitao’s puppy-dog look. He runs his fingers through his newly dyed hair in frustration, getting it on his fingertips. The purplish-brown stains his skin, mapping out his prints. He grimaces as he looks down.
“One job, and then no more,” he says, and Zitao punches the air in excitement.
“I’m going to regret this,” Luhan mutters.
“Trust me, this is going to be good,” Zitao says, practically bouncing in his seat. It’s hardly comforting.
Everglass Towers is a tall stack of apartments that glitter in the sunlight, located right in the heart of the city. Luhan’s only ever passed by the place once or twice on his paper route, and the interior morphs contemporary art pieces and marble floors with traditional eastern paper lanterns with flower motifs. It’s beautiful, that’s for sure, unlike anything he could have imagined.
The man who answers the door to Unit 18-05 is a good couple of centimeters shorter than Luhan, but his dazzling smile and elegant collarbones make up for it by a long shot. Luhan’s stomach does a fantastic set of aerodynamic flips in response. He tries not to gurgle.
“Hi, you must be Luhan,” he says after nodding in greeting at Zitao.
And you must be Minseok. “Minseok, hi...you,” Luhan fumbles out. Great, just great. Luhan, you have such fantastic people skills you deserve a medal.
Thankfully, Minseok lets out a delicate laugh, clearly amused. Zitao, meanwhile, sniggers beside Luhan. The older makes sure to ‘accidentally’ step on his toes.
“Come on in. Hope you don’t mind the slight mess, I’ve been organizing,” Minseok explains, gesturing to the cardboard box on the ground. Luhan spots several comic books strewn about as they enter the living room, most of them still in their plastic sleeves.
“You...collect comic books?”
“Collect them?” Zitao scoffs, “they’re his life.”
Minseok flashes Zitao a warning look before smiling apologetically at Luhan. Flip. Flip. Flip. “Do you mind?”
“No! No, not at all. I used to collect action figures too,” Luhan adds easily.
“They were Hello Kitty do-” Zitao inhales sharply when Luhan jabs an elbow into his ribs, effectively halting his speech altogether. He shoots Luhan a look and Luhan glares back.
“Great, cause there are some in the shower,” Minseok continues somewhat bashfully as he looks around at the mess, seemingly oblivious to the mental battle unravelling in front of him. “I couldn’t find any other place for them.”
“It’s fine,” Luhan assures, waving a hand in the air dismissively.
Luhan’s room is big, a lot bigger than he expected. There’s already a queen-sized bed, along with a desk, closet, and small bookcase by the bedside. The large glass window faces Metropolis’ picturesque Central Park, and he can hear the low rumble of traffic and citylife from the streets below as people bustle about their daily lives.
“Told you it was good,” Zitao says, smug as he sets Luhan’s luggage down.
Luhan huffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I know you’re thinking about the job,” Zitao continues, obsessively adjusting the lamp by the bedside, “don’t.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the job,” Luhan says slowly, barely audible since his back is turned. “I was thinking about...home.” Outside, the faint sound of a police siren wails in the distance. Luhan tries to shut it out.
“But ge, this is our home now,” Zitao persists, coming to stand by him. His tone is gentle, but the words are still difficult for Luhan to swallow. It’s clear Zitao’s convinced they won’t need to run anymore but for him...home is still a concept he can’t quite grasp.
Zitao’s watch beeps, the sky becoming tinted with purple as the sun begins it’s slow descent. Luhan notices a couple rain clouds rolling in from the North just as a black car stops in front of their building.
“Come on, it’s time,” he says, gently nudging Luhan as he hands over the black hoodie.
“No time to settle in, huh?” Luhan jokes half-heartedly, a grimness etched onto his face as he takes the material in with bony fingers. Zitao doesn’t respond.
Minseok’s seated in the center of a ring of Batman issues when they exit, calling about rain checks for dinner. He responds with an absentminded call of ‘sure’, never taking his eyes off the fiction surrounding him. Look to the right, and the numbers run up, the left, and they run down. It’s perfect.
“He really loves those books, huh?” Luhan observes as the lift doors shut, his voice bouncing off polished surfaces.
“Yeah,” Zitao murmurs, tugging his own hood up. They descend in silence.
Kris Wu is deadly, at least a hundred times more lethal than Zitao. A shadow in the underground, his orders only passed through whispers and strange symbols stolen from Egypt, Hong Kong, Iran. Luhan’s only been able to paint a picture of him in his mind because of Zitao, the times when Zitao murmurs in his sleep about tall, perfect blondes with sharp jawlines and pale skin that speak in foreign tongues.
“Drive,” he orders. Luhan tries not to think too much.
To Luhan’s surprise, Zitao remains by his side, doesn’t sit next to Kris on the red velvet seats across from them. The vehicle is too small to be a limousine, but it’s interior seems too large and luxurious for a car. The edges of Luhan’s sneakers nearly disappear in the shag carpet on the ground.
“I assume Tao informed you of the plan,” Kris says, voice low. It chills Luhan and he nods slowly, mechanically, as he recognizes Zitao’s codename. He keeps his head down, listening to the swishing of the wine in Kris’ glass. It’s starting to drizzle outside and he jams his hands in his pockets, keeping warm.
“Duizhang, is the journey long?” Zitao asks, and Luhan nearly snaps his head up at the hint of a casual, almost whiny tone. So it is true, then.
Kris only has to tilt his head up slightly, and the driver catches his cue through the rearview mirror. “Ten minutes, sir,” he announces in a beat as they enter an underground tunnel. The rings of light cast strange shadows inside the vehicle.
“How many of them?” He finds himself asking. His voice is soft, but definitely loud enough for everyone within the capsule to hear.
“Eight. All specially trained. Be on your guard.”
“Easy, we can totally take them,” Zitao smirks. Luhan remains silent, absorbing the information.
They pull up to an old, slanted brick building with a neon sign that quivers against the now-pouring rain. Kris steps out first, a suited man with a dark umbrella already ready to greet him, and Luhan climbs out after, left to fend for himself in the rain. The hoodie keeps him warm, but his toes curl as he stares at the ominous structure before him.
“Don’t,” Zitao murmurs again, catching onto his arm as they make their way towards the entrance. Luhan focuses, adjusts his hoodie until he’s sure his face is barely visible. The carpet of the establishment is bright red, gold chinese symbols printed on it and they flank Kris as they walk, more so out of habit than instruction.
The lights go dimmer as they walk, and Luhan keeps his hands in his pockets, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. The air is thick with tension and he breathes slowly, honing in.
“Zitao. Left,” Kris says, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
Zitao moves just as gracefully as ever, an easy raise of his arm and the snap of his wrist, and the form that lunges out at them freezes, suspended in time. He clicks his fingers and there’s a crash as the man shatters as if he’d been made out of glass. Luhan eyes Zitao from under his hoodie.
“Been practicing,” Zitao shrugs, and then, with the nudge of his chin, “your right.”
Luhan, in comparison, is rusty, a result of trying to live a completely human life. He’s forced to stop and push, slam the wall out of his mind onto the attacker, unlike Zitao who barely needs to look. It sedates the man, but Luhan doesn’t do anything more, feeling a little dizzy himself.
“Two hundred metres,” Kris says, and as if on cue four shapes jump out from the shadows, each brandishing a different weapon. Luhan snaps back to attention and dodges the first strike easily before kicking at his assailant’s gun, wrapping a force around the man’s neck and then pulling until the oxygen is cut off. He keeps a hold on the phantom rope and swings, slamming the second man into the first, effectively knocking the both of them out against the wall.
He catches the flash of silver just as Zitao isn’t looking and he wraps his mind around the man’s wrist, yanking backwards. There’s a sickening snap as he exerts too much force and Luhan winces, breaking out of it. His opponent is already curled up in agony by the time Zitao realizes, and he aims a swift kick and the man’s head. A second snap. Luhan’s holding his own temple.
“Peace peace peace, boys,” a voice tuts as the lull of combat rings in Luhan’s ears. Kris has stopped walking. The man in front of him looks elderly, but Luhan can’t be sure because of the fedora hat that’s been angled such that it casts a shadow on much of his face. His clothes are baggy but noticeably new, and they hang off him in a way that suggests he’s just inherited them.
“I hope you understand. Security needs to be...extreme, here,” he explains slowly. Luhan’s pace matches Zitao’s as they step forward. A migraine is already starting to creep towards his temples and he tries not to flinch.
“That’s why I have security of my own,” Kris says, almost stern. He holds out his hand. Luhan watches Zitao nearly take a step forward, his eyes widening slightly.
“The file, please,” he instructs.
“Ah....well you see...” The man tilts his head up slightly, and Luhan catches the slyest of smiles. Not good.
Zitao jumps forward before he does, the blades thrown at them halting in mid-air, centimeters away from Luhan’s nose. With a sweep of his hand they fall down, clattering at their feet.
“We had a deal,” Kris growls.
“I’m sorry, Wufan. I changed my mind,” the man shrugs, gesturing to the remaining two. Luhan guesses they’re the ones Kris had warned about. He catches the corner of a manila envelope peeking out of the man’s jacket as he waves his hand.
“So much for not lifting a finger,” he murmurs, drifting the words to Zitao’s ears. Zitao snorts loudly and the four of them lunge forward.
Luhan’s not a freak.
He’s born like every other kid, in a room with masked men and women, under harsh lights and the heavy smell of antiseptic hanging in the air. He learns to crawl, and then stand, stagger, walk. He learns how to count, how to speak, how to paint and write and read. He grows.
Luhan’s not a freak.
But when he’s eleven, his father leaves. His mother takes up two jobs, and starts communicating with him only through notes on the counter. His school hours drag longer, and the buses get more crowded, and the people grow distant.
Things change.
They say that you can cure yourself of things like cancer just by believing that you are getting better, that you will be able to wake up tomorrow and the next day and the next day and the next. Your arteries and veins and heart and lungs believe the signals sent to them by the brain, and then, you start to breathe easier, your vision becomes clearer, lights become brighter.
Except...Luhan isn’t sick.
He never falls sick.
But once you spend your days in solitude long enough, and the world feels like it’s closing in on you...Luhan starts to dream, starts to push, starts to believe he’s greater than he is.
So his brain gives the order, and his body grows.
He doesn’t know exactly how long it takes, but eventually, the book falling off the shelf isn’t a coincidence anymore, and the door suddenly slamming shut during History class isn’t his imagination.
Luhan’s not a freak.
He’s just...
de·vi·ant
n.
One that differs from a norm, especially a person whose behavior and attitudes differ from accepted social standards.
The building plunges into darkness when Zitao gets thrown against one of the circuit boxes. Luhan stumbles, disorientated by the sudden lack of direction. He swings blindly, knowing his opponent is somewhere a couple meters in front of him, but his hands catch onto nothing.
“Zitao?” He yells as his eyes adjust to the darkness.
“They’re frozen,” Zitao rasps out. The panic sinks in slowly that he could be hurt, badly hurt. Luhan had seen flashes of silver from across the room during their struggles.
“Where are you?” He calls out, hesitantly taking a step forward. His foot finds something bumpy in the dark and he kicks it away, gulping. He’s not afraid of the dark, but in a situation like this, he’s fucking terrified. He can’t lose Zitao, not like this.
“Don’t distract me,” Zitao hisses, but the lack of sting in his tone makes Luhan realize he’s probably getting weaker with each new second. The longer he keeps a hold on the others, the faster his Energy drains.
“The old man has the envelope,” Luhan continues, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. He takes three tentative steps forward, all the while keeping a field in front of him. At this point, his eyes have finally adjusted to the lack of light, and he can make out the edges of the old man’s chair a few steps in front of him.
“Lu...I can’t...dammit,” Zitao grunts and Luhan hears a soft thud, the sound of someone falling. His adrenaline kicks in and he springs forward, fingers finding the rough fabric of the old man’s clothes. Leathery skin wraps around his wrist as the old man snaps out of his trance, but he’s weak. He reaches inside the man’s jacket as he grunts, fingers finding the papery texture before hurriedly yanking the envelope out, slipping out of the man’s grasp.
He wants to yell, but the sound of his footsteps is probably already attracting the guards. In the darkness, Luhan’s fingers find a wall and he presses himself up against it, trying to keep as quiet as possible. He squeezes his eyes shut and searches.
Luhan learnt how to do this when he was eleven and got lost on one of his holidays in Hong Kong. Kowloon had been a sprawling labyrinth that seemed to touch the sky, filled with people who had better things to do than help lost boys and drivers who would run you down if you got in their way whether you were nine or ninety-nine. He’d pressed himself into a corner and clamped his hands over his ears, closing his eyes.
And then, he’d heard his mother’s voice.
It grew more distinct as he pushed the traffic away, pushed the crowds away, until the world was a muffled murmur and her voice, her thoughts, he later realized, were the only thing Luhan could hear.
Luhan reaches out in the dark, tiny ghost hands spilling from his mind and clinging onto any thought in the air. He’s quicker this time, after years of experience, and he picks up several voices almost immediately.
The guards are still on the far side of the room, helping the old man, who’s panicking loudly about his envelope. Zitao’s is weak, keeps slipping in and out. But their thoughts map out the room for Luhan, bouncing off the walls, telling him how high the ceiling is. He doesn’t even need to open his eyes as he creeps past the guards who have reached the old man and kneels beside Zitao. He’s just regaining consciousness.
“Hold on, Zitao,” he murmurs and slings the younger’s arm around his shoulders, hoisting him up. This triggers enough sound for the guards to pinpoint where they are, and Luhan wastes no time as he runs for the exit, half-dragging, half-carrying Zitao with him.
Once Luhan barrels out the door, gunshots ring out behind them and Kris’ car screeches into view, the car door swinging open. Luhan tries his best to make a shield around them as he bumbles forward but it’s difficult to concentrate. Zitao’s starting to find his feet again and he looks over Luhan’s shoulder.
Everything moves in slow motion.
Luhan senses the guard immediately. He turns, letting go of Zitao and pushing him to the car. He doesn’t think as he pushes a force forward, piercing it into the guard’s chest. It’s raining too heavily for Luhan to see the blood, but as the man falls back, Luhan sees the raw fear, the way his mouth falls open as the pain blooms across his body like a flower desperate for sunshine. And then he’s being pulled, and Zitao’s yelling his name as his sneakers scrape against the asphalt and he falls onto the warm, plush car seats.
The door slams shut. Everything fades out.
The world is a strange place when Luhan wakes up in a soft bed, the sunlight streaming in. For a moment, he can’t remember anything, not even his name. He blinks groggily, there’s a strange dark speck in his vision. He rubs his eyes a couple times before he finds Minseok’s curious face looking down at him.
Their closeness jolts him awake and he hurriedly sits up, colliding their foreheads together. Minseok immediately reels back with a yelp, groaning and clasping his head. Luhan hisses and falls back down, clutching his own. His head pounds, but he isn’t sure if it’s from the impact.
“Jesus Christ...” Minseok mutters. Luhan sees him set down a glass beside his bed as he massages his temples.
“You scared me,” he croaks out, closing his eyes. Immediately, flashes of last night invade his mind.
The job, the car, the lights going out.
An injured Zitao, hardly able to stand on his own.
The man dying at his hands.
He forces himself to stare at the ceiling.
“You passed out. Zitao had to carry you up,” Minseok says after a while. Luhan turns his head and is surprised to find that Minseok is still standing there, hands in pockets. His expression is unreadable. Today, he has on these large glasses with transparent frames, and he reminds Luhan of lab sessions back in school.
“Oh-”
“You were in shock,” Minseok adds, and then after a while, like he’s thought about it, “from the job.”
Luhan blinks at Minseok but doesn’t still in surprise. “You-”
“Know, yeah,” his flatmate shrugs slightly, cutting him off again. The corner of his mouth tugs up ever so slightly, and his downcast eyes tell Luhan that he’s sad, but Luhan can’t figure out why.
“I’ve known for a while. Drink some water,” Minseok motions to the glass before leaving the room.
The sunlight streams in through the large window and Luhan squeezes his eyes shut again, feeling the headache worsen. He’s kind of hypersensitive in the morning, and it’s even worse today, like he can’t shut off his Powers. He rolls over, squinting at the clock. It’s one in the afternoon.
Luhan’s whole body aches as he pushes himself up and shuffles to the bathroom, leaning against the door once it’s closed. The wood is cool against his cheek and he sighs, trying to steady himself. The man’s face flashes behind his eyelids again and he flinches, feeling the nausea hit him like a wave. He stumbles over to the toilet bowl, emptying the contents of his stomach with a shudder.
“Dammit..” he curses, breathing still shaky. His eyes sting and when Luhan blinks, he feels stray tears spill over. He wipes them away quickly.
After Luhan had found his mother in Kowloon, she’d scolded him for walking off without her, but her voice lacked the usual stinging quality, like she was trying to be angry at him but couldn’t. He’d nodded, lowering his head slightly in apology and then she’d embraced him, her arms wrapping tightly around him as if he was about to vanish once more. Luhan had slipped out of her mind by then, but he didn’t have to be psychic to know that she was weeping silently, the way she shook with each breath, and he’d hugged her back, assuring her that it would never happen again.
There is no such comfort now, though. Luhan rinses his mouth and brushes his teeth, keeping himself steady by gripping the sink. He counts the strokes, trying to get his mind off things. It hardly works.
He’s a possible murderer. His empty stomach churns once more.
Minseok is out in the living room, sorting his comic books again. Luhan wordlessly slumps onto the couch, hugging a pillow to his chest. The television’s been switched on and tuned to the local news network, but it’s been muted.
“How many-” he stops, clears his throat when his voice comes out all funny from the acid. Minseok looks up, watching his reflection through the shiny surface of the glossy cabinets surrounding the television.
“How many comic books are in that box?” Luhan finally manages to say. It’s hardly better. His voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard.
Minseok chuckles a little, shaking his head. “Told you to drink the water. And I don’t know, really.” He reaches in the box, sifting through the plastic edges with his fingers.
Luhan ignores his advice. “When did you move in?”
“About two weeks ago,” Minseok replies, taking out a few issues. Luhan catches the glimpse of a distinct blue and red character printed on the front.
“Spiderman?”
“Hm?” Minseok turns a little, and then looks down at the comics, wrinkling his nose slightly. “Oh, yeah.”
“What’s that?” Luhan asks, catching the micro-expression.
“What’s what?” Minseok blinks, confused.
“You..you did the..” Luhan grimaces in demonstration.
Minseok laughs lightly, and Luhan’s stomach does a different twist. He really likes Minseok’s laugh for some reason. “Nah, I just don’t like him very much,” he explains.
“So why’d you collect those then?”
“Money,” Minseok shrugs a little. “These are first editions. People go crazy for them. The first edition of Issue #1 of Superman was auctioned off last year for 2.2 million.”
Luhan whistles low. “You’re kidding.”
“Totally serious.”
They lapse back into silence after that. Luhan curls his toes and then uncurls them, watching the anchor’s painted lips move as she speaks.
“Sorry about your head, by the way,” Luhan mumbles, curling into the pillow.
“Woah, wait, hold on,” Minseok doesn’t seem to have heard the delayed apology as he reaches for the remote, turning the sound back on. The lady’s clear voice fills their living room.
“...downtown Metropolis, where it has been reported a masked man has been rescuing citizens..”
Luhan scoffs. “You can’t be serious..”
”...I don’t know, Joan. I feel that the police should arrest this guy for doing their jobs. I mean we should leave the crime-fighting to the police. That’s the only reason we have them. Plus, they say he has some uh..superpowers? Definitely sounds sketchy to me. They don’t even have a picture of this guy..”
MASKED VIGILANTE APPEARS DOWNTOWN, the captions on-screen declare.
“Looks like you might have some non-fiction material on your hands,” Luhan tells Minseok.
Minseok shakes his head, but Luhan catches him smiling. “So this is what the news network has resorted to..” He says, muting the television once more.
“Woah, hey, isn’t that kind of stuff right up your alley?”
“Come on, you really believe that?” Minseok says, turning back to Luhan. For a moment, Luhan’s kind of stunned at how quick he is to dismiss it.
“Well, I mean...maybe your comic books aren’t that far off,” Luhan tries.
Minseok looks back at the plastic pockets in front of him. It’s a moment before he shakes his head again.
“These kinds of heroes,” he says, holding up a Justice League issue, “they’re only real in their universes. In our universe...well, you heard them.” Minseok gestures to the now-blank screen.
“Heroes in our world are criminals.”
INFORMATION ABOUT MASKED VIGILANTE WANTED FOR ARREST, the ribbon proclaims. Minseok switches the television off.
The problem about being a deviant, Luhan discovered when he was eighteen, is that they don’t have a purpose.
“There aren’t any icons, or history books, or training manuals,” Zitao had shrugged as they walked to a train station in Tokyo. They’d spent the past few days wandering, just exploring the cities and suburbs they happened to come across. “So we have all this power, and no responsibility.”
“Except ourselves,” Luhan had wondered aloud, and Zitao nodded.
“So, what does that mean, then? We just travel around the world, doing whatever we want? No, wait, we don’t have money..”
He trailed off as Zitao grinned, and Luhan remembered thinking then how much Zitao resembled a cat. Sly, quick, and maybe a little ambiguous. That was Zitao all over, he learned.
“Do you know how to fight?” Zitao had asked.
The following day, Luhan wakes up to an empty apartment, a post-it stuck onto the fridge. It reminds him of the notes from his mother that he used to come home to when he still went to school. Working late today, she’d write in her cursive handwriting that he sometimes struggled to read, and, just for good measure, she’d add a ‘:(‘ at the end, like it could be the note’s saving grace. Or the fridge is empty, you need to pick up these things:, and Luhan would have to navigate his way down the dark street to the lonely looking mini-mart a couple blocks down.
He picks it off the matte surface, feeling oddly numb. Minseok’s handwriting isn’t squiggly like Luhan’s mother’s, but it is tiny and he has to squint slightly to read it.
I had last-minute errands today, sorry if you wanted to get lunch together u_____u I should be back in time for dinner, though! We can walk around the city if you want, the night life around here is supposed to be pretty cool.
The last line bends off awkwardly, curling around the corner, like Minseok had been trying to cram in the last few words. Luhan smiles to himself and sticks it back on the fridge, getting out the orange juice. It’s oddly comforting.
Today’s edition of The Metro Times lies beside an empty, used breakfast bowl on the counter. Luhan picks it up as he drinks.
DOES METROPOLIS NEED SUPERHEROES? the front page screams.
“By the looks of it, yeah,” Luhan mumbles to himself. He runs a finger across the bold letters as he skims through the rest of the article. There’s a bar graph on the far right of the article, right under the title. Crime Rates, the header reads, and this year’s numbers are the worst. Averaging out to be three crimes per day.
He’s distracted when the doorbell rings and he goes to answer it, carton of juice still in hand. He blinks in surprise when he finds Zitao standing there, a miserable look on his face. There’s bandages on his forearms and Luhan notices Zitao fidget under his gaze, almost as he’s trying to hide his injuries, ashamed of them.
Typical headstrong Zitao.
“Hi, ge,” Zitao mumbles, and he practically throws himself at Luhan, burying his face in his shoulder.
“Z-Zitao?” Luhan blinks.
“I was really worried about you,” Zitao says, voice muffled. He’s taller than Luhan, but the way he’s clinging on reminds Luhan of their age gap. Zitao’s just a kid.
Luhan chuckles softly, wrapping his free arm around Zitao’s shoulders, squeezing comfortingly. “I’m alive, stop mourning.”
“Right, right,” Zitao clears his throat as he straightens up, and Luhan catches him wiping his eyes. He takes a swig of his orange juice as he leads him inside the apartment.
“Do you want tea?” He asks, before realizing they have none.
Zitao snorts at Luhan’s shift in expression, any trace of his sadness vanishing. “Nah, I had some before I came here,” he says, sparing Luhan the embarrassment. “Is Minseok out?”
“Yeah, uh, errands...Zitao?”
“Hm?”
“How do you know Minseok?”
There’s a beat before the strangest grin spreads across the younger’s face. Luhan turns his head away slightly, raising an eyebrow.
“How does anyone know me?”
“Well, considering your occupation...” Luhan says slowly.
“Uh huh.”
“Wait, are you telling me Minseok’s part of some Circle?” Luhan blinks in astonishment. He can’t even begin to imagine it. Kim Minseok, geekiest guy out there, with his thick-rimmed glasses and button-up shirts, sitting in a dimly lit room with powerful men smoking cigars and sporting the most elaborate of tattoos across their arms.
Zitao grins and presses his forefinger and thumb together, drawing a line across his lips. “That’s not my secret to tell.”
“I can’t believe you,” Luhan says, folding his arms, ignoring the nagging feeling that it might actually be true. Zitao’s grin only spreads wider.
“Why? Don’t you think he’s cool?”
Luhan snorts unattractively. “Do you want to marry him?”
“No, but you do.”
Luhan retorts very maturely by tossing the rolled up Metro Times at him. Zitao catches it easily, nearly doubling over in laughter.
“Told you you’d like it,” he says in-between gasps for air. Luhan doesn’t ask what he’s referring to.
“You came here to bully me, I can’t believe you.”
Zitao shrugs, calming down. “You seem fine, even after...” he trails off, and the mood changes completely. Luhan swallows.
“I-”
“You didn’t kill him, by the way,” Zitao says, and immediately Luhan’s attacked by the memory. He presses his lips together, keeping his eyes on the countertop.
“Yeah?” He manages out.
“Did you want to?”
“...no,” Luhan says softly, turning away and opening the fridge. He puts the carton back, fingers sticky, but he stays there for a while, staring at the shelves which hardly have anything on them. On the highest shelf, there’s a lonely looking jar of jam, half empty.
“No,” he repeats, louder this time as he shuts the door. “But I did want to hurt him.” His voice is laden with disappointment and regret.
“You were protecting us,” Zitao points out. “I would have done the same.”
Luhan thinks about it, and nods ever so slightly, but he isn’t convinced.
“Well you won’t have to worry about that anymore,” Zitao says, and he smiles at Luhan but he sounds sad. “No more jobs.”
Years and years of codenames, of jumping on trains and faking IDs and hiding from wanted men, it was all past them now. They’d severed all their ties, made sure all the trails they left behind came to a dead end, a car crash, an address to a house that no longer stood.
“No more jobs,” Luhan repeats, and he smiles. It’s as bittersweet as he’d expected it to be.
>>
Luhan learns from a young age that he isn’t exactly what you’d call your average human being. Metropolis is meant to be the end of his abnormality, but destiny seems to have other things in mind, and Kim Minseok is one hell of a catalyst.
word count: 12.4k
The most well-known legend involving the infamous Huang Zitao is that he took out eight guys single handedly when he was sixteen. A close-second is that he has close ties with both the Mafia and the Triads, and has never had to carry a single weapon with him because he’s faster than any bullet or blade. The latest update, however, is that he’s sleeping with Kris Wu, leader of the money-lending gang ominously known as M, dangerous boys who prowl the streets and back alleys of Metropolis, looking for trouble.
Luhan can’t quite confirm these stories. What he can definitely vouch for, though, is that Huang Zitao has been his best friend since they were children, and Huang Zitao is devastatingly good at aegyo.
“Bbuing bbuing ~”
“I’m going to hit you.”
The two of them are seated at one of the shadier cafes of the city, located right at the edge of the business district, right between the Southwest Bank and TechCorp building. It’s definitely out of place, with its’ vintage decor and cat motif wallpaper, but they serve pretty good coffee, so Luhan can’t complain about the distinct sandalwood drifting about the shop.
Zitao pouts, making his eyes wide and watery. Luhan wrinkles his nose.
“Please, ge? It’s a win-win situation! You’ve always wanted a place in Central.”
Luhan sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “Zitao, this is serious. I told you, no more jobs. Besides, I don’t even know this guy. What if he’s one of your crackhead friends?” He squints at the squiggly name in front of him. Kim Minseok, the card reads. It’s oddly familiar, so he figures Zitao’s mentioned him once or twice. Not exactly good for a potential flatmate, going by Zitao’s company.
His long-time best friend gasps, feigning hurt. “Ge! When have I ever set you up with someone like that?”
Luhan only has to answer with a pointed look and a raised eyebrow. Zitao bites his lip as the realization dawns on him.
“To be fair, Sehun was recovering?” He tries with a smile, having the decency to look sheepish. Luhan remains completely unconvinced.
“But look, okay, I swear Minseok’s clean,” Zitao continues, tone becoming earnest, “he always has been. I swear it on my feather tattoo.” He demonstrates by making two overlapping strokes with his finger over the inked skin on his forearm. It’s one of his favourite ones.
Luhan bites his lip, contemplating as he studies the price that has been scrawled on the scrap of paper in front of him. It’s a really good deal, a price he’ll probably never see again for an apartment in that area.
“You’re one of the best deviants I know,” Zitao says quietly. “I can’t work with anyone else.”
This is true, Luhan knows. They’ve known each other for as long as he can remember, and Zitao didn’t-- doesn’t have to buy his trust. Luhan picks up the card, turning it over his fingers. He exhales.
“We just got here, Zitao. You promised--”
“I know, I know, but this is urgent. You won’t even have to lift a finger, I swear. Just escort Wufan with me.”
“Wufan....?” Luhan asks, looking up.
“Sorry, I mean, Kris,” Zitao stutters slightly, cheeks turning a shade pinker. Huh.
“Please, Ge?”
After a moment, Luhan sighs, unable to bear Zitao’s puppy-dog look. He runs his fingers through his newly dyed hair in frustration, getting it on his fingertips. The purplish-brown stains his skin, mapping out his prints. He grimaces as he looks down.
“One job, and then no more,” he says, and Zitao punches the air in excitement.
“I’m going to regret this,” Luhan mutters.
“Trust me, this is going to be good,” Zitao says, practically bouncing in his seat. It’s hardly comforting.
Everglass Towers is a tall stack of apartments that glitter in the sunlight, located right in the heart of the city. Luhan’s only ever passed by the place once or twice on his paper route, and the interior morphs contemporary art pieces and marble floors with traditional eastern paper lanterns with flower motifs. It’s beautiful, that’s for sure, unlike anything he could have imagined.
The man who answers the door to Unit 18-05 is a good couple of centimeters shorter than Luhan, but his dazzling smile and elegant collarbones make up for it by a long shot. Luhan’s stomach does a fantastic set of aerodynamic flips in response. He tries not to gurgle.
“Hi, you must be Luhan,” he says after nodding in greeting at Zitao.
And you must be Minseok. “Minseok, hi...you,” Luhan fumbles out. Great, just great. Luhan, you have such fantastic people skills you deserve a medal.
Thankfully, Minseok lets out a delicate laugh, clearly amused. Zitao, meanwhile, sniggers beside Luhan. The older makes sure to ‘accidentally’ step on his toes.
“Come on in. Hope you don’t mind the slight mess, I’ve been organizing,” Minseok explains, gesturing to the cardboard box on the ground. Luhan spots several comic books strewn about as they enter the living room, most of them still in their plastic sleeves.
“You...collect comic books?”
“Collect them?” Zitao scoffs, “they’re his life.”
Minseok flashes Zitao a warning look before smiling apologetically at Luhan. Flip. Flip. Flip. “Do you mind?”
“No! No, not at all. I used to collect action figures too,” Luhan adds easily.
“They were Hello Kitty do-” Zitao inhales sharply when Luhan jabs an elbow into his ribs, effectively halting his speech altogether. He shoots Luhan a look and Luhan glares back.
“Great, cause there are some in the shower,” Minseok continues somewhat bashfully as he looks around at the mess, seemingly oblivious to the mental battle unravelling in front of him. “I couldn’t find any other place for them.”
“It’s fine,” Luhan assures, waving a hand in the air dismissively.
Luhan’s room is big, a lot bigger than he expected. There’s already a queen-sized bed, along with a desk, closet, and small bookcase by the bedside. The large glass window faces Metropolis’ picturesque Central Park, and he can hear the low rumble of traffic and citylife from the streets below as people bustle about their daily lives.
“Told you it was good,” Zitao says, smug as he sets Luhan’s luggage down.
Luhan huffs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I know you’re thinking about the job,” Zitao continues, obsessively adjusting the lamp by the bedside, “don’t.”
“I wasn’t thinking about the job,” Luhan says slowly, barely audible since his back is turned. “I was thinking about...home.” Outside, the faint sound of a police siren wails in the distance. Luhan tries to shut it out.
“But ge, this is our home now,” Zitao persists, coming to stand by him. His tone is gentle, but the words are still difficult for Luhan to swallow. It’s clear Zitao’s convinced they won’t need to run anymore but for him...home is still a concept he can’t quite grasp.
Zitao’s watch beeps, the sky becoming tinted with purple as the sun begins it’s slow descent. Luhan notices a couple rain clouds rolling in from the North just as a black car stops in front of their building.
“Come on, it’s time,” he says, gently nudging Luhan as he hands over the black hoodie.
“No time to settle in, huh?” Luhan jokes half-heartedly, a grimness etched onto his face as he takes the material in with bony fingers. Zitao doesn’t respond.
Minseok’s seated in the center of a ring of Batman issues when they exit, calling about rain checks for dinner. He responds with an absentminded call of ‘sure’, never taking his eyes off the fiction surrounding him. Look to the right, and the numbers run up, the left, and they run down. It’s perfect.
“He really loves those books, huh?” Luhan observes as the lift doors shut, his voice bouncing off polished surfaces.
“Yeah,” Zitao murmurs, tugging his own hood up. They descend in silence.
Kris Wu is deadly, at least a hundred times more lethal than Zitao. A shadow in the underground, his orders only passed through whispers and strange symbols stolen from Egypt, Hong Kong, Iran. Luhan’s only been able to paint a picture of him in his mind because of Zitao, the times when Zitao murmurs in his sleep about tall, perfect blondes with sharp jawlines and pale skin that speak in foreign tongues.
“Drive,” he orders. Luhan tries not to think too much.
To Luhan’s surprise, Zitao remains by his side, doesn’t sit next to Kris on the red velvet seats across from them. The vehicle is too small to be a limousine, but it’s interior seems too large and luxurious for a car. The edges of Luhan’s sneakers nearly disappear in the shag carpet on the ground.
“I assume Tao informed you of the plan,” Kris says, voice low. It chills Luhan and he nods slowly, mechanically, as he recognizes Zitao’s codename. He keeps his head down, listening to the swishing of the wine in Kris’ glass. It’s starting to drizzle outside and he jams his hands in his pockets, keeping warm.
“Duizhang, is the journey long?” Zitao asks, and Luhan nearly snaps his head up at the hint of a casual, almost whiny tone. So it is true, then.
Kris only has to tilt his head up slightly, and the driver catches his cue through the rearview mirror. “Ten minutes, sir,” he announces in a beat as they enter an underground tunnel. The rings of light cast strange shadows inside the vehicle.
“How many of them?” He finds himself asking. His voice is soft, but definitely loud enough for everyone within the capsule to hear.
“Eight. All specially trained. Be on your guard.”
“Easy, we can totally take them,” Zitao smirks. Luhan remains silent, absorbing the information.
They pull up to an old, slanted brick building with a neon sign that quivers against the now-pouring rain. Kris steps out first, a suited man with a dark umbrella already ready to greet him, and Luhan climbs out after, left to fend for himself in the rain. The hoodie keeps him warm, but his toes curl as he stares at the ominous structure before him.
“Don’t,” Zitao murmurs again, catching onto his arm as they make their way towards the entrance. Luhan focuses, adjusts his hoodie until he’s sure his face is barely visible. The carpet of the establishment is bright red, gold chinese symbols printed on it and they flank Kris as they walk, more so out of habit than instruction.
The lights go dimmer as they walk, and Luhan keeps his hands in his pockets, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. The air is thick with tension and he breathes slowly, honing in.
“Zitao. Left,” Kris says, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
Zitao moves just as gracefully as ever, an easy raise of his arm and the snap of his wrist, and the form that lunges out at them freezes, suspended in time. He clicks his fingers and there’s a crash as the man shatters as if he’d been made out of glass. Luhan eyes Zitao from under his hoodie.
“Been practicing,” Zitao shrugs, and then, with the nudge of his chin, “your right.”
Luhan, in comparison, is rusty, a result of trying to live a completely human life. He’s forced to stop and push, slam the wall out of his mind onto the attacker, unlike Zitao who barely needs to look. It sedates the man, but Luhan doesn’t do anything more, feeling a little dizzy himself.
“Two hundred metres,” Kris says, and as if on cue four shapes jump out from the shadows, each brandishing a different weapon. Luhan snaps back to attention and dodges the first strike easily before kicking at his assailant’s gun, wrapping a force around the man’s neck and then pulling until the oxygen is cut off. He keeps a hold on the phantom rope and swings, slamming the second man into the first, effectively knocking the both of them out against the wall.
He catches the flash of silver just as Zitao isn’t looking and he wraps his mind around the man’s wrist, yanking backwards. There’s a sickening snap as he exerts too much force and Luhan winces, breaking out of it. His opponent is already curled up in agony by the time Zitao realizes, and he aims a swift kick and the man’s head. A second snap. Luhan’s holding his own temple.
“Peace peace peace, boys,” a voice tuts as the lull of combat rings in Luhan’s ears. Kris has stopped walking. The man in front of him looks elderly, but Luhan can’t be sure because of the fedora hat that’s been angled such that it casts a shadow on much of his face. His clothes are baggy but noticeably new, and they hang off him in a way that suggests he’s just inherited them.
“I hope you understand. Security needs to be...extreme, here,” he explains slowly. Luhan’s pace matches Zitao’s as they step forward. A migraine is already starting to creep towards his temples and he tries not to flinch.
“That’s why I have security of my own,” Kris says, almost stern. He holds out his hand. Luhan watches Zitao nearly take a step forward, his eyes widening slightly.
“The file, please,” he instructs.
“Ah....well you see...” The man tilts his head up slightly, and Luhan catches the slyest of smiles. Not good.
Zitao jumps forward before he does, the blades thrown at them halting in mid-air, centimeters away from Luhan’s nose. With a sweep of his hand they fall down, clattering at their feet.
“We had a deal,” Kris growls.
“I’m sorry, Wufan. I changed my mind,” the man shrugs, gesturing to the remaining two. Luhan guesses they’re the ones Kris had warned about. He catches the corner of a manila envelope peeking out of the man’s jacket as he waves his hand.
“So much for not lifting a finger,” he murmurs, drifting the words to Zitao’s ears. Zitao snorts loudly and the four of them lunge forward.
Luhan’s not a freak.
He’s born like every other kid, in a room with masked men and women, under harsh lights and the heavy smell of antiseptic hanging in the air. He learns to crawl, and then stand, stagger, walk. He learns how to count, how to speak, how to paint and write and read. He grows.
Luhan’s not a freak.
But when he’s eleven, his father leaves. His mother takes up two jobs, and starts communicating with him only through notes on the counter. His school hours drag longer, and the buses get more crowded, and the people grow distant.
Things change.
They say that you can cure yourself of things like cancer just by believing that you are getting better, that you will be able to wake up tomorrow and the next day and the next day and the next. Your arteries and veins and heart and lungs believe the signals sent to them by the brain, and then, you start to breathe easier, your vision becomes clearer, lights become brighter.
Except...Luhan isn’t sick.
He never falls sick.
But once you spend your days in solitude long enough, and the world feels like it’s closing in on you...Luhan starts to dream, starts to push, starts to believe he’s greater than he is.
So his brain gives the order, and his body grows.
He doesn’t know exactly how long it takes, but eventually, the book falling off the shelf isn’t a coincidence anymore, and the door suddenly slamming shut during History class isn’t his imagination.
Luhan’s not a freak.
He’s just...
de·vi·ant
n.
One that differs from a norm, especially a person whose behavior and attitudes differ from accepted social standards.
The building plunges into darkness when Zitao gets thrown against one of the circuit boxes. Luhan stumbles, disorientated by the sudden lack of direction. He swings blindly, knowing his opponent is somewhere a couple meters in front of him, but his hands catch onto nothing.
“Zitao?” He yells as his eyes adjust to the darkness.
“They’re frozen,” Zitao rasps out. The panic sinks in slowly that he could be hurt, badly hurt. Luhan had seen flashes of silver from across the room during their struggles.
“Where are you?” He calls out, hesitantly taking a step forward. His foot finds something bumpy in the dark and he kicks it away, gulping. He’s not afraid of the dark, but in a situation like this, he’s fucking terrified. He can’t lose Zitao, not like this.
“Don’t distract me,” Zitao hisses, but the lack of sting in his tone makes Luhan realize he’s probably getting weaker with each new second. The longer he keeps a hold on the others, the faster his Energy drains.
“The old man has the envelope,” Luhan continues, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. He takes three tentative steps forward, all the while keeping a field in front of him. At this point, his eyes have finally adjusted to the lack of light, and he can make out the edges of the old man’s chair a few steps in front of him.
“Lu...I can’t...dammit,” Zitao grunts and Luhan hears a soft thud, the sound of someone falling. His adrenaline kicks in and he springs forward, fingers finding the rough fabric of the old man’s clothes. Leathery skin wraps around his wrist as the old man snaps out of his trance, but he’s weak. He reaches inside the man’s jacket as he grunts, fingers finding the papery texture before hurriedly yanking the envelope out, slipping out of the man’s grasp.
He wants to yell, but the sound of his footsteps is probably already attracting the guards. In the darkness, Luhan’s fingers find a wall and he presses himself up against it, trying to keep as quiet as possible. He squeezes his eyes shut and searches.
Luhan learnt how to do this when he was eleven and got lost on one of his holidays in Hong Kong. Kowloon had been a sprawling labyrinth that seemed to touch the sky, filled with people who had better things to do than help lost boys and drivers who would run you down if you got in their way whether you were nine or ninety-nine. He’d pressed himself into a corner and clamped his hands over his ears, closing his eyes.
And then, he’d heard his mother’s voice.
It grew more distinct as he pushed the traffic away, pushed the crowds away, until the world was a muffled murmur and her voice, her thoughts, he later realized, were the only thing Luhan could hear.
Luhan reaches out in the dark, tiny ghost hands spilling from his mind and clinging onto any thought in the air. He’s quicker this time, after years of experience, and he picks up several voices almost immediately.
The guards are still on the far side of the room, helping the old man, who’s panicking loudly about his envelope. Zitao’s is weak, keeps slipping in and out. But their thoughts map out the room for Luhan, bouncing off the walls, telling him how high the ceiling is. He doesn’t even need to open his eyes as he creeps past the guards who have reached the old man and kneels beside Zitao. He’s just regaining consciousness.
“Hold on, Zitao,” he murmurs and slings the younger’s arm around his shoulders, hoisting him up. This triggers enough sound for the guards to pinpoint where they are, and Luhan wastes no time as he runs for the exit, half-dragging, half-carrying Zitao with him.
Once Luhan barrels out the door, gunshots ring out behind them and Kris’ car screeches into view, the car door swinging open. Luhan tries his best to make a shield around them as he bumbles forward but it’s difficult to concentrate. Zitao’s starting to find his feet again and he looks over Luhan’s shoulder.
Everything moves in slow motion.
Luhan senses the guard immediately. He turns, letting go of Zitao and pushing him to the car. He doesn’t think as he pushes a force forward, piercing it into the guard’s chest. It’s raining too heavily for Luhan to see the blood, but as the man falls back, Luhan sees the raw fear, the way his mouth falls open as the pain blooms across his body like a flower desperate for sunshine. And then he’s being pulled, and Zitao’s yelling his name as his sneakers scrape against the asphalt and he falls onto the warm, plush car seats.
The door slams shut. Everything fades out.
The world is a strange place when Luhan wakes up in a soft bed, the sunlight streaming in. For a moment, he can’t remember anything, not even his name. He blinks groggily, there’s a strange dark speck in his vision. He rubs his eyes a couple times before he finds Minseok’s curious face looking down at him.
Their closeness jolts him awake and he hurriedly sits up, colliding their foreheads together. Minseok immediately reels back with a yelp, groaning and clasping his head. Luhan hisses and falls back down, clutching his own. His head pounds, but he isn’t sure if it’s from the impact.
“Jesus Christ...” Minseok mutters. Luhan sees him set down a glass beside his bed as he massages his temples.
“You scared me,” he croaks out, closing his eyes. Immediately, flashes of last night invade his mind.
The job, the car, the lights going out.
An injured Zitao, hardly able to stand on his own.
The man dying at his hands.
He forces himself to stare at the ceiling.
“You passed out. Zitao had to carry you up,” Minseok says after a while. Luhan turns his head and is surprised to find that Minseok is still standing there, hands in pockets. His expression is unreadable. Today, he has on these large glasses with transparent frames, and he reminds Luhan of lab sessions back in school.
“Oh-”
“You were in shock,” Minseok adds, and then after a while, like he’s thought about it, “from the job.”
Luhan blinks at Minseok but doesn’t still in surprise. “You-”
“Know, yeah,” his flatmate shrugs slightly, cutting him off again. The corner of his mouth tugs up ever so slightly, and his downcast eyes tell Luhan that he’s sad, but Luhan can’t figure out why.
“I’ve known for a while. Drink some water,” Minseok motions to the glass before leaving the room.
The sunlight streams in through the large window and Luhan squeezes his eyes shut again, feeling the headache worsen. He’s kind of hypersensitive in the morning, and it’s even worse today, like he can’t shut off his Powers. He rolls over, squinting at the clock. It’s one in the afternoon.
Luhan’s whole body aches as he pushes himself up and shuffles to the bathroom, leaning against the door once it’s closed. The wood is cool against his cheek and he sighs, trying to steady himself. The man’s face flashes behind his eyelids again and he flinches, feeling the nausea hit him like a wave. He stumbles over to the toilet bowl, emptying the contents of his stomach with a shudder.
“Dammit..” he curses, breathing still shaky. His eyes sting and when Luhan blinks, he feels stray tears spill over. He wipes them away quickly.
After Luhan had found his mother in Kowloon, she’d scolded him for walking off without her, but her voice lacked the usual stinging quality, like she was trying to be angry at him but couldn’t. He’d nodded, lowering his head slightly in apology and then she’d embraced him, her arms wrapping tightly around him as if he was about to vanish once more. Luhan had slipped out of her mind by then, but he didn’t have to be psychic to know that she was weeping silently, the way she shook with each breath, and he’d hugged her back, assuring her that it would never happen again.
There is no such comfort now, though. Luhan rinses his mouth and brushes his teeth, keeping himself steady by gripping the sink. He counts the strokes, trying to get his mind off things. It hardly works.
He’s a possible murderer. His empty stomach churns once more.
Minseok is out in the living room, sorting his comic books again. Luhan wordlessly slumps onto the couch, hugging a pillow to his chest. The television’s been switched on and tuned to the local news network, but it’s been muted.
“How many-” he stops, clears his throat when his voice comes out all funny from the acid. Minseok looks up, watching his reflection through the shiny surface of the glossy cabinets surrounding the television.
“How many comic books are in that box?” Luhan finally manages to say. It’s hardly better. His voice sounds like nails on a chalkboard.
Minseok chuckles a little, shaking his head. “Told you to drink the water. And I don’t know, really.” He reaches in the box, sifting through the plastic edges with his fingers.
Luhan ignores his advice. “When did you move in?”
“About two weeks ago,” Minseok replies, taking out a few issues. Luhan catches the glimpse of a distinct blue and red character printed on the front.
“Spiderman?”
“Hm?” Minseok turns a little, and then looks down at the comics, wrinkling his nose slightly. “Oh, yeah.”
“What’s that?” Luhan asks, catching the micro-expression.
“What’s what?” Minseok blinks, confused.
“You..you did the..” Luhan grimaces in demonstration.
Minseok laughs lightly, and Luhan’s stomach does a different twist. He really likes Minseok’s laugh for some reason. “Nah, I just don’t like him very much,” he explains.
“So why’d you collect those then?”
“Money,” Minseok shrugs a little. “These are first editions. People go crazy for them. The first edition of Issue #1 of Superman was auctioned off last year for 2.2 million.”
Luhan whistles low. “You’re kidding.”
“Totally serious.”
They lapse back into silence after that. Luhan curls his toes and then uncurls them, watching the anchor’s painted lips move as she speaks.
“Sorry about your head, by the way,” Luhan mumbles, curling into the pillow.
“Woah, wait, hold on,” Minseok doesn’t seem to have heard the delayed apology as he reaches for the remote, turning the sound back on. The lady’s clear voice fills their living room.
“...downtown Metropolis, where it has been reported a masked man has been rescuing citizens..”
Luhan scoffs. “You can’t be serious..”
”...I don’t know, Joan. I feel that the police should arrest this guy for doing their jobs. I mean we should leave the crime-fighting to the police. That’s the only reason we have them. Plus, they say he has some uh..superpowers? Definitely sounds sketchy to me. They don’t even have a picture of this guy..”
MASKED VIGILANTE APPEARS DOWNTOWN, the captions on-screen declare.
“Looks like you might have some non-fiction material on your hands,” Luhan tells Minseok.
Minseok shakes his head, but Luhan catches him smiling. “So this is what the news network has resorted to..” He says, muting the television once more.
“Woah, hey, isn’t that kind of stuff right up your alley?”
“Come on, you really believe that?” Minseok says, turning back to Luhan. For a moment, Luhan’s kind of stunned at how quick he is to dismiss it.
“Well, I mean...maybe your comic books aren’t that far off,” Luhan tries.
Minseok looks back at the plastic pockets in front of him. It’s a moment before he shakes his head again.
“These kinds of heroes,” he says, holding up a Justice League issue, “they’re only real in their universes. In our universe...well, you heard them.” Minseok gestures to the now-blank screen.
“Heroes in our world are criminals.”
INFORMATION ABOUT MASKED VIGILANTE WANTED FOR ARREST, the ribbon proclaims. Minseok switches the television off.
The problem about being a deviant, Luhan discovered when he was eighteen, is that they don’t have a purpose.
“There aren’t any icons, or history books, or training manuals,” Zitao had shrugged as they walked to a train station in Tokyo. They’d spent the past few days wandering, just exploring the cities and suburbs they happened to come across. “So we have all this power, and no responsibility.”
“Except ourselves,” Luhan had wondered aloud, and Zitao nodded.
“So, what does that mean, then? We just travel around the world, doing whatever we want? No, wait, we don’t have money..”
He trailed off as Zitao grinned, and Luhan remembered thinking then how much Zitao resembled a cat. Sly, quick, and maybe a little ambiguous. That was Zitao all over, he learned.
“Do you know how to fight?” Zitao had asked.
The following day, Luhan wakes up to an empty apartment, a post-it stuck onto the fridge. It reminds him of the notes from his mother that he used to come home to when he still went to school. Working late today, she’d write in her cursive handwriting that he sometimes struggled to read, and, just for good measure, she’d add a ‘:(‘ at the end, like it could be the note’s saving grace. Or the fridge is empty, you need to pick up these things:, and Luhan would have to navigate his way down the dark street to the lonely looking mini-mart a couple blocks down.
He picks it off the matte surface, feeling oddly numb. Minseok’s handwriting isn’t squiggly like Luhan’s mother’s, but it is tiny and he has to squint slightly to read it.
I had last-minute errands today, sorry if you wanted to get lunch together u_____u I should be back in time for dinner, though! We can walk around the city if you want, the night life around here is supposed to be pretty cool.
The last line bends off awkwardly, curling around the corner, like Minseok had been trying to cram in the last few words. Luhan smiles to himself and sticks it back on the fridge, getting out the orange juice. It’s oddly comforting.
Today’s edition of The Metro Times lies beside an empty, used breakfast bowl on the counter. Luhan picks it up as he drinks.
DOES METROPOLIS NEED SUPERHEROES? the front page screams.
“By the looks of it, yeah,” Luhan mumbles to himself. He runs a finger across the bold letters as he skims through the rest of the article. There’s a bar graph on the far right of the article, right under the title. Crime Rates, the header reads, and this year’s numbers are the worst. Averaging out to be three crimes per day.
He’s distracted when the doorbell rings and he goes to answer it, carton of juice still in hand. He blinks in surprise when he finds Zitao standing there, a miserable look on his face. There’s bandages on his forearms and Luhan notices Zitao fidget under his gaze, almost as he’s trying to hide his injuries, ashamed of them.
Typical headstrong Zitao.
“Hi, ge,” Zitao mumbles, and he practically throws himself at Luhan, burying his face in his shoulder.
“Z-Zitao?” Luhan blinks.
“I was really worried about you,” Zitao says, voice muffled. He’s taller than Luhan, but the way he’s clinging on reminds Luhan of their age gap. Zitao’s just a kid.
Luhan chuckles softly, wrapping his free arm around Zitao’s shoulders, squeezing comfortingly. “I’m alive, stop mourning.”
“Right, right,” Zitao clears his throat as he straightens up, and Luhan catches him wiping his eyes. He takes a swig of his orange juice as he leads him inside the apartment.
“Do you want tea?” He asks, before realizing they have none.
Zitao snorts at Luhan’s shift in expression, any trace of his sadness vanishing. “Nah, I had some before I came here,” he says, sparing Luhan the embarrassment. “Is Minseok out?”
“Yeah, uh, errands...Zitao?”
“Hm?”
“How do you know Minseok?”
There’s a beat before the strangest grin spreads across the younger’s face. Luhan turns his head away slightly, raising an eyebrow.
“How does anyone know me?”
“Well, considering your occupation...” Luhan says slowly.
“Uh huh.”
“Wait, are you telling me Minseok’s part of some Circle?” Luhan blinks in astonishment. He can’t even begin to imagine it. Kim Minseok, geekiest guy out there, with his thick-rimmed glasses and button-up shirts, sitting in a dimly lit room with powerful men smoking cigars and sporting the most elaborate of tattoos across their arms.
Zitao grins and presses his forefinger and thumb together, drawing a line across his lips. “That’s not my secret to tell.”
“I can’t believe you,” Luhan says, folding his arms, ignoring the nagging feeling that it might actually be true. Zitao’s grin only spreads wider.
“Why? Don’t you think he’s cool?”
Luhan snorts unattractively. “Do you want to marry him?”
“No, but you do.”
Luhan retorts very maturely by tossing the rolled up Metro Times at him. Zitao catches it easily, nearly doubling over in laughter.
“Told you you’d like it,” he says in-between gasps for air. Luhan doesn’t ask what he’s referring to.
“You came here to bully me, I can’t believe you.”
Zitao shrugs, calming down. “You seem fine, even after...” he trails off, and the mood changes completely. Luhan swallows.
“I-”
“You didn’t kill him, by the way,” Zitao says, and immediately Luhan’s attacked by the memory. He presses his lips together, keeping his eyes on the countertop.
“Yeah?” He manages out.
“Did you want to?”
“...no,” Luhan says softly, turning away and opening the fridge. He puts the carton back, fingers sticky, but he stays there for a while, staring at the shelves which hardly have anything on them. On the highest shelf, there’s a lonely looking jar of jam, half empty.
“No,” he repeats, louder this time as he shuts the door. “But I did want to hurt him.” His voice is laden with disappointment and regret.
“You were protecting us,” Zitao points out. “I would have done the same.”
Luhan thinks about it, and nods ever so slightly, but he isn’t convinced.
“Well you won’t have to worry about that anymore,” Zitao says, and he smiles at Luhan but he sounds sad. “No more jobs.”
Years and years of codenames, of jumping on trains and faking IDs and hiding from wanted men, it was all past them now. They’d severed all their ties, made sure all the trails they left behind came to a dead end, a car crash, an address to a house that no longer stood.
“No more jobs,” Luhan repeats, and he smiles. It’s as bittersweet as he’d expected it to be.
>>