Fic: Facets, Chapter 10
Title: Facets, Chapter 10
Pairing: Jaejoong/Yunho, Yoochun/Junsu/Changmin
Rating: R-ish
Summary: AU fic! Yunho struggles with his feelings for Jaejoong, and wakes up in an alternate reality where he...also meets Jaejoong. Except this Jaejoong is quite different from the one he knows. Also involves secrets and grappling with the truth
Ahahaha! Things are finally starting to move along now (ahaha yoosumin, bb <3) and get a little bit exciting. Nearing the end now, really, it should all be done in the next two chapters, if not the next one. Thank you all for your comments, and I hope you like the new developments <3
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Oh, Changmin registers when Micky accosts him just outside the restaurant later that evening, drags him around a corner, a ploy- before Micky starts trailing open-mouthed kisses down his jaw to a spot on his neck and drawing the skin between his teeth, nipping and laving until Changmin groans, until he tilts his head back to allow the man better access. He wonders if this means they’re skipping dinner and heading right into what he’s come to term drunken folly (only they weren’t drunk the last time, and they certainly haven’t imbibed anything even remotely alcoholic this time, but oh, technicalities) when Micky pulls away to survey his handiwork and hums softly in approval before slinging an arm about Changmin’s hips. “Hmm. Let’s go, I’m starving.”
Changmin almost opens his mouth to protest before his stomach reminds him quite forcibly that yes, he is hungry, too, and besides, he can wait an hour or two, of course he can, it’s not as if he’s some sort of animal, plus he should actually get properly drunk this time-
The table off in the secluded corner is already occupied, he sees, the candles in small, shallow bowls on the table casting a warm yellow glow on the soft curve of lips, on dark strands of auburn, on a single, delicate silver cross half-hidden by hair. Changmin notes the crisp, form fitting white shirt, the dark coat, colour rich and obviously of quality; shivers when Micky moves to breathe into his ear, words drip, drip, dripping down his spine, slow, like honey, like rivers of melting chocolate, dark, dark, sweet.
“Dressed him up”, Micky confides, low. “Do you like it?”
Yes. Yes yes yes, he doesn’t say, but Micky seems to hear, all the same; laughs softly into his shoulder before drawing him closer to the table. “Look who I brought.”
Changmin attempts a reassuring smile when Xiah looks up, startled, even as his eyes insist on tracking the tantalizing glimpse of pale skin afforded by the open collar, the way his long fingers lace together, the red, red, red of his lips. “Sit down”, Micky urges, and he does, finding himself right opposite Xiah.
“Bathroom. Be right back”, Micky promises, and Changmin watches as Xiah’s gaze wanders from table to wall to lap, hands toying absently with the cutlery, and Changmin tries. “Hello, Xiah.”
Xiah looks up, eyes wide; ducks his head hurriedly again. “Sir.”
Changmin laughs, soft, unthreatening. “You don’t have to call me that anymore, you know.”
Xiah flushes. “Yes, si- Changmin.”
Well. This is awkward. Changmin sighs inwardly before forging ahead. “Have you been well? Is Micky treating you all right?”
“He is very nice to me”, Xiah agrees, and while he’d been sure that’s been the case all along, it’s still a relief to actually hear it straight from Xiah.
“I’ve missed you”, Changmin admits, although it’s silly, he knows, it’s only been a few days, except it’s also the truth, and he should have never, never been so foolish-
“Oh.” Xiah’s face is a mask, inscrutable. An impasse, he thinks this is called, and all that’s left to do is wait, wait for a move, a sign, only Xiah doesn’t, doesn’t give one, and it’s only when Micky returns, all smiles, that he reminds himself to breathe again.
“Shall we order?” Micky is saying, and Changmin finds himself nodding; tears his gaze away from the other boy’s with an effort.
Dinner passes without any incident once Changmin realizes that yes, he can live with the sight of Micky offering Xiah morsels off his plate (though he does end up stabbing at his peas quite a bit more viciously than necessary). It’s only during dessert -small tureens of fruit preserves with a tray of tiny, empty pastry cups- that everything starts to go downhill.
Changmin darts a sharp glance at Micky when he feels a hand on his thigh, when fingers start tracing patterns into the soft cloth of his pants, but Micky isn’t even looking at him. “Here”, Micky is saying, Xiah’s lips already parted obediently, and oh god he can’t be serious- Changmin doesn’t think he can watch, except he does, his eyes glued to the scene in morbid fascination as Micky feeds him with his fingers, as he tilts his hand just so to reveal a trail of juice, as Xiah bends his head to lick up the inside of Micky’s wrist, and goddamnit he can see everything from over here-
Suddenly it’s much too warm, his clothes stifling, the air thin, the light, teasing friction high up his thigh too much- He stands up so quickly he jostles the table, but can’t bring himself to care, not even when his voice comes out choked, strangled.
“I- Excuse me-”; pushes back his chair and flees.
---
Startled, Xiah looks up when Changmin stands abruptly, the taste of raspberry still strong on his tongue. They both watch as Changmin strides away in the direction of the bathroom, and Xiah jumps when Micky speaks.
“You know, he looked a little flushed. Maybe you should go see if he’s okay.”\
“I-” Xiah frowns, hesitation warring with his growing concern for the other man on his features until he shakes his head and sighs in resignation. “Okay.”
---
The water is cool and immensely refreshing on his overheated skin, and for once in his life Changmin can’t honestly bring himself to care when he splashes enough water on himself for his shirt to become half-soaked. It’s only then, blinking water out of his eyes, that he notices the faint bruising on the side of his neck. Cursing, he leans closer to the mirror, hand moving to tug open his collar. Damn the man for daring to leave a mark-
“Changmin?”
Changmin almost slips on the wet tile spinning around. “Oh. It’s you.”
Xiah moves closer until he’s standing close enough to touch, brow furrowed as he stares up at the taller man. “Are you okay?”
Clearly proximity isn’t helping. Changmin coughs and averts his eyes hurriedly as the scene with the tart blooms fresh in his mind. “I’ll be fine, I’m just a little warm-”
Except he’s more than just a little warm, now, even with his hair dripping onto his cheeks like this, when Xiah’s fingers touch the side of his neck, when he traces the purpling mark Changmin’s only just discovered seconds ago. Xiah’s voice is as soft as his touch; feather-light, hot enough to brand, to sear. “Who did this?”
Changmin’s throat feels dry as gravel, rough as sandpaper, and he has to force the words out in a breathy exhale of air. “Micky.”
“Oh”, and Changmin doesn’t think he’s ever heard any word so fraught with meaning, with uncertainty, with desperation, with wanting, and he’s not sure who moves first, only that he has his fingers in Xiah’s hair and Xiah’s mouth on his own, Xiah’s grip on his shirt tight, clinging, Xiah flush against him, Xiah mouthing unintelligible words into his skin-
“Glad to see you two making up. Or out, whichever.’
Micky’s back is to the sink, arms crossed and smile entirely too smug. “Well! I’ll leave you two to you fun. Since you owe me for this, Changmin, dinner’s on you-”
“You know”, and he can feel Xiah’s smile even if he can’t see it, “he told me about a few…tricks you’ve picked up.”
Changmin draws away to peer down into the shorter man’s face. “Did he? I might have taught him a few tricks myself”, and at his nod Xiah flows away, coming to a stop in front of a very surprised Micky already halfway to the door.
“Nobody said you could leave-” and Micky shudders when arms slip about his waist from behind, when Changmin bends to nip lightly at his neck, and Xiah laughs; muffles his gasp with his smile. “Stop fooling around”, he manages, when Xiah moves back enough for him to breathe, and Changmin moves to stand next to Xiah.
“Well”, Changmin taps at his lip, pretends to think, “we could all get drunk first, if you want-”
“Bastard”, Micky hisses, but without conviction; knows he’s lost (won?) when Xiah sinks to his knees, when Changmin bends down to steal what air he has left in his lungs.
---
“No”, and he only realizes he’s spoken aloud when Youngwoong draws away, visibly confused. “No”, he repeats more firmly, even when his nerve ending spark, scream, blood beating a steady, insistent rhythm in his ears, yes yes yes yes yes. Youngwoong’s fingers are lax on his shirt, gaze searching, imploring, and Yunho tries to explain.
“You’re…not Jaejoong. And I don’t want you to be, because- Jaejoong, Jaejoong is who he is, and you’re Youngwoong, and… You don’t laugh the same”, he tries, continues valiantly when Youngwoong continues to look lost, lost, lost, “the corners of your smile-”; fingers reaching up to brush lightly by the corner of the blonde boy’s lower lip, “-Jaejoong’s smile is wider, higher… and here, Jaejoong has a birthmark here-”; fingers dropping to trace the skin of Youngwoong’s neck, just below his jaw, pale, smooth, unmarred. “You’re stronger, fiercer, and-” Yunho flushes slightly, afraid he’ll be accused of mindless sentimentality, decides he doesn’t care. “Jaejoong…Jaejoong is like the sun, while you, you’re like wind and rain and tempests, I-” Yunho shakes his head, bites down on his tongue before he can go on. “You’re different, do you see? I-”; stops when Youngwoong kisses him again, soft, slow, sweet.
“I…think I do”, and Yunho is glad, because there is Youngwoong, and there is Jaejoong, and he’s never wanted Youngwoong to be Jaejoong, never-
“You can have me, then, if you want,” and Yunho is glad for that, too, because he finds he does want, and not for the way Youngwoong resembles Jaejoong, but for the brittle edges at the corners of his smile, for the way he fits against Yunho’s chest, for the look in his eyes, dark, dark, yielding-
“I do”, he agrees; feels the curve of Youngwoong’s lips against his shoulder; wonders how long he can keep this.
---
“Tomorrow”, they tell him over the phone, when he calls about Youngwoong.
“Tomorrow”, Yehsung repeats and hangs up seconds later; lies back on the bed and waits.
---
It is still grey out when Youngwoong slips out of bed, when he slips out of the room in search of pen and paper. He can see the sky lightening outside by the time he finishes and wanders back into the bedroom. The letter isn’t long, filled with the bare essentials: I’m sorry and a brief explanation, trained for this, I belong to them and, finally, be careful. Sufficient, he thinks, for Yunho to understand, perhaps even enough to forgive him for his deception.
He closes Yunho’s fingers over the small square of paper; bends down to kiss his forehead. Yours, he mouths against warm skin, yours; blinks furiously as he turns away.
It takes him another two hours to drive to the outskirts of the city, to traverse the confusing warren of alleys before he finally reaches the familiar redwood door, stairs leading up into the darkness suddenly forbidding, almost menacing.
The sharp dagger is a comforting weight in his pocket, and he fingers it nervously before starting up the steep flight. “Yehsung?” He ventures at the top, surprised to find his voice doesn’t waver. “Yehsung, I have to talk to you.”
The door is slightly ajar, he sees, and Youngwoong takes a deep breath before kicking it open and then dropping and rolling, surging again to his feet in the middle of the room. The room is oddly neat, dim, curtains still drawn, and he spins on the balls of his feet when he hears the click, the whirring, the voice, only it’s not Yehsung, not in the flesh, at least, only a holographic projection by the wall.
“I knew you’d come, Youngwoong”, the image of Yehsung is saying, smile knowing, sardonic, “we knew you wouldn’t be able to go through with it”, and Youngwoong can feel his blood running cold. “We’ve sent someone else, Youngwoong. You’re, how should I put this? Dispensable, now. I suggest you run, pet. I wouldn’t particularly relish watching you die, even now. We do have a…history, after all. Don’t even think of saving him, Youngwoong-ah. Too late, Youngwoong-ah, too late-”
Too late, and he can hear Yehsung’s derisive laughter in his ear even as he bolts down the stairs, too late too late too late-
“No, god, please no-”
---
Micky groans when the phone starts blaring out a cheerful tune, and buries his head deeper into Xiah’s shoulder. “Whose goddamn phone is that?”
Changmin grunts and sits up, rubs at his eyes blearily before reaching to fumble for it. “Mine, sorry- Hello?”
Xiah’s eyes crack open when Changmin starts speaking more rapidly. “Yes- yes, this is Dr. Shim- slow down, please, I don’t understand what you’re saying-”
Micky groans again, louder this time. “If it’s one of your little assistants calling to be all hysterical about a program that’s just gone wrong tell them to hang up now or I’ll wring his little neck with my bare hands.”
Xiah giggles softly, strokes at Micky’s spine soothingly. Changmin ignores Micky’s little outburst, prompting him to scowl balefully at the younger man. “I- Yes- what? Someone’s going for Yunho-”
Even Micky sits up this time. “Yunho? As in, Jung Yunho?”
Changmin waves him back to silence with a frantic hand. “Yes- yes, I understand- oh hell, yes, be there as fast as you can-”
Micky shakes at Changmin’s shoulder when he hangs up, when he starts dialing again. “What’s going on?”
“Hello? Yes, there’s been a security breach at Jung residences- yes, right now, it’s imperative that you send forces over- yes, thank you.”
Changmin’s face is grim when he hangs up, lips set. “Yunho’s in trouble.”
---
Yunho is too distracted by Youngwoong’s uncharacteristic absence to notice the way the glass is shaking in Junhwan’s hand when he enters the room, when he presses it into Yunho’s palm. “Your drink, sir-” his eyes too wide, terrified, except Yunho is staring out the window, except he doesn’t see. “Thank you”, Yunho mumbles as Junhwan backs hurriedly out of the room; raises the glass to his lips. The juice is sweet, cloyingly so, and he has a moment to wonder on the odd, bitter aftertaste when there is fire down his throat, in his lungs, when his vision starts to waver.
The door slides open again and he thinks he recognizes the boy that enters, except he isn’t so sure, with darkness creeping steadily in. “Heechul-”
The other boy smirks, leans down to grip his hair painfully. “That’s Rella to you, Jung Yunho.”
---
Too easy, he thinks, when the glass falls to the carpet, orange liquid spilling out over the ground. It’s going to leave a stain, he thinks, lip curling; steps carefully over the wet spot. It’s infuriating, this, how Jung Yunho still insists on calling him Heechul, as if they were all still college students together, as if Rella hadn’t openly pledged his allegiance years ago.
Hell hath no fury like Cinderella scorned.
“Oh, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho. You should have begged on your knees when you had the chance.” Yunho’s eyes are glazed now, blank, blank, blank, and Rella wants to laugh, to savour this, only he has a job to complete, a mission, almost a life’s work, if you will, and he relishes the thought of that, that it’s all coming to an end now, culminating in the ruin of one Jung Yunho-
Rella bends, positions his mouth close to Yunho’s ear. “Yunho. Jung Yunho.”
No response, but that’s only to be expected.
“When I say ‘go’, you’ll wake up and transfer all your holdings, including the Jungtech shares in your possession, to Choi Siwon. Immediately. Call a press conference to announce your retirement from society. Oh, and-” Rella takes a moment to reflect on the genius of this sudden thought, “-dispose of your pretty toy. Youngwoong. Also, forget you ever saw me. G-”
Rella bites down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood when the siren blares, when the voice booms over the loudspeakers. “We have you surrounded. Vacate the premises immediately, or we fire. I repeat, vacate the premises immediately-”
Siwon most certainly isn’t going to be pleased, he thinks vaguely when the door slides open, when the pretty blonde staff stumbles in. Rella bares his teeth, feral, as the boy approaches, eyes flicking towards Yunho, mouth dropping open in dismay.
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing he didn’t enjoy”, Rella leers, licks his lips lewdly, and the boy lets out a cry and launches himself at him.
Children, he thinks disdainfully when his arm connects solidly with Youngwoong’s jaw in a swiftly executed backhand, but dangerous children, all the same. He is out of the room before the other boy can pick himself up, out a discreet side door before anyone can notice him, in the chaos, up and over the wall in less than two minutes.
The tang of copper is still sharp in his mouth when he sprints away, when he dials the familiar number. “I failed”, he manages, the word bitter in the back of his throat. “Execute Stage 2.”
---
Too late, Youngwoong thinks wildly, lower half of his face throbbing, too late too late too late-
“Yunho-” but Yunho’s face is slack, his eyes empty, empty, unseeing, “Yunho-” his hands so cold, so limp, as if he’s a shell, a soulless, terrifying husk of flesh and bone and sinew, alive but dead, dead, dead, “Yunho, please-”
“Step away from Mr. Jung”, and Youngwoong hears them, only he can’t move, not now, his hands still trying to massage warmth and life back into Yunho’s palms. “Yunho- Yunho, it’s me, wake up-”
“Move away-” and there are men in uniforms, men with guns, men with callused hands and iron grips tugging him away from Yunho, Yunho whose eyes don’t flicker, Yunho who breathes but stays still, still, still, and Youngwoong struggles. “No- no, don’t you see- let me go, let me go!”
“Hysterical”, he hears, barely registers the officer’s nod before there is sharp pain to the back of his head and then black, black, black.
Yunho, he thinks, before the all consuming darkness sweeps him away, Yunho Yunho Yunho-
Pairing: Jaejoong/Yunho, Yoochun/Junsu/Changmin
Rating: R-ish
Summary: AU fic! Yunho struggles with his feelings for Jaejoong, and wakes up in an alternate reality where he...also meets Jaejoong. Except this Jaejoong is quite different from the one he knows. Also involves secrets and grappling with the truth
Ahahaha! Things are finally starting to move along now (ahaha yoosumin, bb <3) and get a little bit exciting. Nearing the end now, really, it should all be done in the next two chapters, if not the next one. Thank you all for your comments, and I hope you like the new developments <3
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Oh, Changmin registers when Micky accosts him just outside the restaurant later that evening, drags him around a corner, a ploy- before Micky starts trailing open-mouthed kisses down his jaw to a spot on his neck and drawing the skin between his teeth, nipping and laving until Changmin groans, until he tilts his head back to allow the man better access. He wonders if this means they’re skipping dinner and heading right into what he’s come to term drunken folly (only they weren’t drunk the last time, and they certainly haven’t imbibed anything even remotely alcoholic this time, but oh, technicalities) when Micky pulls away to survey his handiwork and hums softly in approval before slinging an arm about Changmin’s hips. “Hmm. Let’s go, I’m starving.”
Changmin almost opens his mouth to protest before his stomach reminds him quite forcibly that yes, he is hungry, too, and besides, he can wait an hour or two, of course he can, it’s not as if he’s some sort of animal, plus he should actually get properly drunk this time-
The table off in the secluded corner is already occupied, he sees, the candles in small, shallow bowls on the table casting a warm yellow glow on the soft curve of lips, on dark strands of auburn, on a single, delicate silver cross half-hidden by hair. Changmin notes the crisp, form fitting white shirt, the dark coat, colour rich and obviously of quality; shivers when Micky moves to breathe into his ear, words drip, drip, dripping down his spine, slow, like honey, like rivers of melting chocolate, dark, dark, sweet.
“Dressed him up”, Micky confides, low. “Do you like it?”
Yes. Yes yes yes, he doesn’t say, but Micky seems to hear, all the same; laughs softly into his shoulder before drawing him closer to the table. “Look who I brought.”
Changmin attempts a reassuring smile when Xiah looks up, startled, even as his eyes insist on tracking the tantalizing glimpse of pale skin afforded by the open collar, the way his long fingers lace together, the red, red, red of his lips. “Sit down”, Micky urges, and he does, finding himself right opposite Xiah.
“Bathroom. Be right back”, Micky promises, and Changmin watches as Xiah’s gaze wanders from table to wall to lap, hands toying absently with the cutlery, and Changmin tries. “Hello, Xiah.”
Xiah looks up, eyes wide; ducks his head hurriedly again. “Sir.”
Changmin laughs, soft, unthreatening. “You don’t have to call me that anymore, you know.”
Xiah flushes. “Yes, si- Changmin.”
Well. This is awkward. Changmin sighs inwardly before forging ahead. “Have you been well? Is Micky treating you all right?”
“He is very nice to me”, Xiah agrees, and while he’d been sure that’s been the case all along, it’s still a relief to actually hear it straight from Xiah.
“I’ve missed you”, Changmin admits, although it’s silly, he knows, it’s only been a few days, except it’s also the truth, and he should have never, never been so foolish-
“Oh.” Xiah’s face is a mask, inscrutable. An impasse, he thinks this is called, and all that’s left to do is wait, wait for a move, a sign, only Xiah doesn’t, doesn’t give one, and it’s only when Micky returns, all smiles, that he reminds himself to breathe again.
“Shall we order?” Micky is saying, and Changmin finds himself nodding; tears his gaze away from the other boy’s with an effort.
Dinner passes without any incident once Changmin realizes that yes, he can live with the sight of Micky offering Xiah morsels off his plate (though he does end up stabbing at his peas quite a bit more viciously than necessary). It’s only during dessert -small tureens of fruit preserves with a tray of tiny, empty pastry cups- that everything starts to go downhill.
Changmin darts a sharp glance at Micky when he feels a hand on his thigh, when fingers start tracing patterns into the soft cloth of his pants, but Micky isn’t even looking at him. “Here”, Micky is saying, Xiah’s lips already parted obediently, and oh god he can’t be serious- Changmin doesn’t think he can watch, except he does, his eyes glued to the scene in morbid fascination as Micky feeds him with his fingers, as he tilts his hand just so to reveal a trail of juice, as Xiah bends his head to lick up the inside of Micky’s wrist, and goddamnit he can see everything from over here-
Suddenly it’s much too warm, his clothes stifling, the air thin, the light, teasing friction high up his thigh too much- He stands up so quickly he jostles the table, but can’t bring himself to care, not even when his voice comes out choked, strangled.
“I- Excuse me-”; pushes back his chair and flees.
---
Startled, Xiah looks up when Changmin stands abruptly, the taste of raspberry still strong on his tongue. They both watch as Changmin strides away in the direction of the bathroom, and Xiah jumps when Micky speaks.
“You know, he looked a little flushed. Maybe you should go see if he’s okay.”\
“I-” Xiah frowns, hesitation warring with his growing concern for the other man on his features until he shakes his head and sighs in resignation. “Okay.”
---
The water is cool and immensely refreshing on his overheated skin, and for once in his life Changmin can’t honestly bring himself to care when he splashes enough water on himself for his shirt to become half-soaked. It’s only then, blinking water out of his eyes, that he notices the faint bruising on the side of his neck. Cursing, he leans closer to the mirror, hand moving to tug open his collar. Damn the man for daring to leave a mark-
“Changmin?”
Changmin almost slips on the wet tile spinning around. “Oh. It’s you.”
Xiah moves closer until he’s standing close enough to touch, brow furrowed as he stares up at the taller man. “Are you okay?”
Clearly proximity isn’t helping. Changmin coughs and averts his eyes hurriedly as the scene with the tart blooms fresh in his mind. “I’ll be fine, I’m just a little warm-”
Except he’s more than just a little warm, now, even with his hair dripping onto his cheeks like this, when Xiah’s fingers touch the side of his neck, when he traces the purpling mark Changmin’s only just discovered seconds ago. Xiah’s voice is as soft as his touch; feather-light, hot enough to brand, to sear. “Who did this?”
Changmin’s throat feels dry as gravel, rough as sandpaper, and he has to force the words out in a breathy exhale of air. “Micky.”
“Oh”, and Changmin doesn’t think he’s ever heard any word so fraught with meaning, with uncertainty, with desperation, with wanting, and he’s not sure who moves first, only that he has his fingers in Xiah’s hair and Xiah’s mouth on his own, Xiah’s grip on his shirt tight, clinging, Xiah flush against him, Xiah mouthing unintelligible words into his skin-
“Glad to see you two making up. Or out, whichever.’
Micky’s back is to the sink, arms crossed and smile entirely too smug. “Well! I’ll leave you two to you fun. Since you owe me for this, Changmin, dinner’s on you-”
“You know”, and he can feel Xiah’s smile even if he can’t see it, “he told me about a few…tricks you’ve picked up.”
Changmin draws away to peer down into the shorter man’s face. “Did he? I might have taught him a few tricks myself”, and at his nod Xiah flows away, coming to a stop in front of a very surprised Micky already halfway to the door.
“Nobody said you could leave-” and Micky shudders when arms slip about his waist from behind, when Changmin bends to nip lightly at his neck, and Xiah laughs; muffles his gasp with his smile. “Stop fooling around”, he manages, when Xiah moves back enough for him to breathe, and Changmin moves to stand next to Xiah.
“Well”, Changmin taps at his lip, pretends to think, “we could all get drunk first, if you want-”
“Bastard”, Micky hisses, but without conviction; knows he’s lost (won?) when Xiah sinks to his knees, when Changmin bends down to steal what air he has left in his lungs.
---
“No”, and he only realizes he’s spoken aloud when Youngwoong draws away, visibly confused. “No”, he repeats more firmly, even when his nerve ending spark, scream, blood beating a steady, insistent rhythm in his ears, yes yes yes yes yes. Youngwoong’s fingers are lax on his shirt, gaze searching, imploring, and Yunho tries to explain.
“You’re…not Jaejoong. And I don’t want you to be, because- Jaejoong, Jaejoong is who he is, and you’re Youngwoong, and… You don’t laugh the same”, he tries, continues valiantly when Youngwoong continues to look lost, lost, lost, “the corners of your smile-”; fingers reaching up to brush lightly by the corner of the blonde boy’s lower lip, “-Jaejoong’s smile is wider, higher… and here, Jaejoong has a birthmark here-”; fingers dropping to trace the skin of Youngwoong’s neck, just below his jaw, pale, smooth, unmarred. “You’re stronger, fiercer, and-” Yunho flushes slightly, afraid he’ll be accused of mindless sentimentality, decides he doesn’t care. “Jaejoong…Jaejoong is like the sun, while you, you’re like wind and rain and tempests, I-” Yunho shakes his head, bites down on his tongue before he can go on. “You’re different, do you see? I-”; stops when Youngwoong kisses him again, soft, slow, sweet.
“I…think I do”, and Yunho is glad, because there is Youngwoong, and there is Jaejoong, and he’s never wanted Youngwoong to be Jaejoong, never-
“You can have me, then, if you want,” and Yunho is glad for that, too, because he finds he does want, and not for the way Youngwoong resembles Jaejoong, but for the brittle edges at the corners of his smile, for the way he fits against Yunho’s chest, for the look in his eyes, dark, dark, yielding-
“I do”, he agrees; feels the curve of Youngwoong’s lips against his shoulder; wonders how long he can keep this.
---
“Tomorrow”, they tell him over the phone, when he calls about Youngwoong.
“Tomorrow”, Yehsung repeats and hangs up seconds later; lies back on the bed and waits.
---
It is still grey out when Youngwoong slips out of bed, when he slips out of the room in search of pen and paper. He can see the sky lightening outside by the time he finishes and wanders back into the bedroom. The letter isn’t long, filled with the bare essentials: I’m sorry and a brief explanation, trained for this, I belong to them and, finally, be careful. Sufficient, he thinks, for Yunho to understand, perhaps even enough to forgive him for his deception.
He closes Yunho’s fingers over the small square of paper; bends down to kiss his forehead. Yours, he mouths against warm skin, yours; blinks furiously as he turns away.
It takes him another two hours to drive to the outskirts of the city, to traverse the confusing warren of alleys before he finally reaches the familiar redwood door, stairs leading up into the darkness suddenly forbidding, almost menacing.
The sharp dagger is a comforting weight in his pocket, and he fingers it nervously before starting up the steep flight. “Yehsung?” He ventures at the top, surprised to find his voice doesn’t waver. “Yehsung, I have to talk to you.”
The door is slightly ajar, he sees, and Youngwoong takes a deep breath before kicking it open and then dropping and rolling, surging again to his feet in the middle of the room. The room is oddly neat, dim, curtains still drawn, and he spins on the balls of his feet when he hears the click, the whirring, the voice, only it’s not Yehsung, not in the flesh, at least, only a holographic projection by the wall.
“I knew you’d come, Youngwoong”, the image of Yehsung is saying, smile knowing, sardonic, “we knew you wouldn’t be able to go through with it”, and Youngwoong can feel his blood running cold. “We’ve sent someone else, Youngwoong. You’re, how should I put this? Dispensable, now. I suggest you run, pet. I wouldn’t particularly relish watching you die, even now. We do have a…history, after all. Don’t even think of saving him, Youngwoong-ah. Too late, Youngwoong-ah, too late-”
Too late, and he can hear Yehsung’s derisive laughter in his ear even as he bolts down the stairs, too late too late too late-
“No, god, please no-”
---
Micky groans when the phone starts blaring out a cheerful tune, and buries his head deeper into Xiah’s shoulder. “Whose goddamn phone is that?”
Changmin grunts and sits up, rubs at his eyes blearily before reaching to fumble for it. “Mine, sorry- Hello?”
Xiah’s eyes crack open when Changmin starts speaking more rapidly. “Yes- yes, this is Dr. Shim- slow down, please, I don’t understand what you’re saying-”
Micky groans again, louder this time. “If it’s one of your little assistants calling to be all hysterical about a program that’s just gone wrong tell them to hang up now or I’ll wring his little neck with my bare hands.”
Xiah giggles softly, strokes at Micky’s spine soothingly. Changmin ignores Micky’s little outburst, prompting him to scowl balefully at the younger man. “I- Yes- what? Someone’s going for Yunho-”
Even Micky sits up this time. “Yunho? As in, Jung Yunho?”
Changmin waves him back to silence with a frantic hand. “Yes- yes, I understand- oh hell, yes, be there as fast as you can-”
Micky shakes at Changmin’s shoulder when he hangs up, when he starts dialing again. “What’s going on?”
“Hello? Yes, there’s been a security breach at Jung residences- yes, right now, it’s imperative that you send forces over- yes, thank you.”
Changmin’s face is grim when he hangs up, lips set. “Yunho’s in trouble.”
---
Yunho is too distracted by Youngwoong’s uncharacteristic absence to notice the way the glass is shaking in Junhwan’s hand when he enters the room, when he presses it into Yunho’s palm. “Your drink, sir-” his eyes too wide, terrified, except Yunho is staring out the window, except he doesn’t see. “Thank you”, Yunho mumbles as Junhwan backs hurriedly out of the room; raises the glass to his lips. The juice is sweet, cloyingly so, and he has a moment to wonder on the odd, bitter aftertaste when there is fire down his throat, in his lungs, when his vision starts to waver.
The door slides open again and he thinks he recognizes the boy that enters, except he isn’t so sure, with darkness creeping steadily in. “Heechul-”
The other boy smirks, leans down to grip his hair painfully. “That’s Rella to you, Jung Yunho.”
---
Too easy, he thinks, when the glass falls to the carpet, orange liquid spilling out over the ground. It’s going to leave a stain, he thinks, lip curling; steps carefully over the wet spot. It’s infuriating, this, how Jung Yunho still insists on calling him Heechul, as if they were all still college students together, as if Rella hadn’t openly pledged his allegiance years ago.
Hell hath no fury like Cinderella scorned.
“Oh, Yunho, Yunho, Yunho. You should have begged on your knees when you had the chance.” Yunho’s eyes are glazed now, blank, blank, blank, and Rella wants to laugh, to savour this, only he has a job to complete, a mission, almost a life’s work, if you will, and he relishes the thought of that, that it’s all coming to an end now, culminating in the ruin of one Jung Yunho-
Rella bends, positions his mouth close to Yunho’s ear. “Yunho. Jung Yunho.”
No response, but that’s only to be expected.
“When I say ‘go’, you’ll wake up and transfer all your holdings, including the Jungtech shares in your possession, to Choi Siwon. Immediately. Call a press conference to announce your retirement from society. Oh, and-” Rella takes a moment to reflect on the genius of this sudden thought, “-dispose of your pretty toy. Youngwoong. Also, forget you ever saw me. G-”
Rella bites down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood when the siren blares, when the voice booms over the loudspeakers. “We have you surrounded. Vacate the premises immediately, or we fire. I repeat, vacate the premises immediately-”
Siwon most certainly isn’t going to be pleased, he thinks vaguely when the door slides open, when the pretty blonde staff stumbles in. Rella bares his teeth, feral, as the boy approaches, eyes flicking towards Yunho, mouth dropping open in dismay.
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing he didn’t enjoy”, Rella leers, licks his lips lewdly, and the boy lets out a cry and launches himself at him.
Children, he thinks disdainfully when his arm connects solidly with Youngwoong’s jaw in a swiftly executed backhand, but dangerous children, all the same. He is out of the room before the other boy can pick himself up, out a discreet side door before anyone can notice him, in the chaos, up and over the wall in less than two minutes.
The tang of copper is still sharp in his mouth when he sprints away, when he dials the familiar number. “I failed”, he manages, the word bitter in the back of his throat. “Execute Stage 2.”
---
Too late, Youngwoong thinks wildly, lower half of his face throbbing, too late too late too late-
“Yunho-” but Yunho’s face is slack, his eyes empty, empty, unseeing, “Yunho-” his hands so cold, so limp, as if he’s a shell, a soulless, terrifying husk of flesh and bone and sinew, alive but dead, dead, dead, “Yunho, please-”
“Step away from Mr. Jung”, and Youngwoong hears them, only he can’t move, not now, his hands still trying to massage warmth and life back into Yunho’s palms. “Yunho- Yunho, it’s me, wake up-”
“Move away-” and there are men in uniforms, men with guns, men with callused hands and iron grips tugging him away from Yunho, Yunho whose eyes don’t flicker, Yunho who breathes but stays still, still, still, and Youngwoong struggles. “No- no, don’t you see- let me go, let me go!”
“Hysterical”, he hears, barely registers the officer’s nod before there is sharp pain to the back of his head and then black, black, black.
Yunho, he thinks, before the all consuming darkness sweeps him away, Yunho Yunho Yunho-