the bottom line [1 / 3]
Title: The Bottom Line
Pairing: ot12, really
Part: 1 / 3
Genre: Romance, Angst, Action
Summary: Kim Jongin is finally out of the asylum and Kyungsoo is a roamin' catholic
prologue; omerta
ground zero;
the point of destruction
To Kim Jongin, home is just an abstract idea. Home isn’t fighting over who gets the remote control or Friday movie nights or heartily-prepared meals. Twelve years of living in the outskirts of foreign towns and borderline insanity taught him that strangers are safer than friends, that the dark isn’t something to be scared of rather, something to embrace for its protection, and the lengths that people would take just to obtain money is enough to make one lose hope in humanity.
He should know this better than the rest since the only thing he’s good at is operating behind shadows and smiles.
But even though home is something Jongin can’t imagine himself having, the closest to the idea would have to be Sehun and his family. Oh Sehun, along with his underlings Jongdae, Tao and the deceased Minseok, ruled nearly half of South Korea’s underground society. They reigned quietly, under the veneer of respect and high intimidation, that even the police left them to their own devices. Admiring the gold-and-pink-coated horizon, Jongin could only be thankful for the unbreakable bond connecting him to others.
“As you could tell, Sehun still likes to keep it low,” Jongdae acts like a narrator of a children’s story book as he drives them closer to Sehun’s humble house. Jongin rolls the tainted windows down. His eyes looming over the familiar garden in front of them; a haven for white roses to grow perfectly. Sehun has an attachment for those things, including bottle caps and rubber ducks, HB pencils and peculiar things no one cares about. The thought of Sehun makes Jongin wish for Jongdae to park faster so he could finally see Sehun after years of separation; marked by lonely nights and unsent letters.
The car stops. Jongin violently opens it and runs as if it would kill him if he doesn’t. It probably will; considering how much his hands strain to hold Sehun in them and his eyes to take in the features he’d grown to love. When you long for someone, even your body makes it obvious.
Jongdae turns the engine off, shoves the key to his pocket and follows Jongin, taking his time because Jongin and Sehun are probably engaging in a make-out session he has no desire of witnessing. He’s three years older than Jongin, but all of them in their familia knew Jongin was the most experienced one out of them all. He walks inside Sehun’s white-washed house to see his boss and friend hugging each other fiercely like wrestling predators.
“Welcome back,” Sehun utters, and this is when Jongin smiles. The smile that Jongdae calls ‘Sehunnie smile’ because it only emerges whenever Sehun is within grasping distance. Jongdae’s dull eyes studies their boss as he makes himself comfortable in the beige couch. Deprived fingers linger over oblivious skin as Jongin and Sehun talk. Behind the glimmer of Sehun’s eyes and the heart-felt words coming out of his lips, Jongdae could catch something that Jongin doesn’t-and he feels sorry for the younger.
Jongdae wishes he doesn’t know how much Sehun means to Jongin, and how much Jongin doesn’t mean to Sehun.
༺
Kyungsoo is kind and relatively safe.
D.O. and Kyungsoo are two different people, living in the same body, covered with the same clothes and surrounded by the same people.
Kyungsoo is the one with a marvelous childhood composed of munching on lemon drops and wasting Friday nights with revisions for exams due next month. Kyungsoo cooks foreign dishes he can’t pronounce well, keeps his shirts color-coordinated and ironed, helps out his friends who can’t solve stuff on their own, and occasionally, Kyungsoo goes out for strolls on warm, sunlit parks and carefully maintained art galleries. Savoring the beauty in things, in every shape or form. Kyungsoo is etched with dorky actions and gum-showing smiles coming from a heart that can never love too much.
D.O. on the other hand, works for Luhan as his right-hand man. The most trusted in the family. D.O is the one with bitter experiences marked by the number of times it took for his face to be shoved against concrete and marble until he grew callous enough to flip the tables and give back the harsh punches. D.O’s eyes are as sharp as an eagle’s and just as able to see things from afar. D.O doesn’t believe in retaliation or apologies.
The man who walked inside Tomaso’s Casino and straight up to the third floor was D.O. A camera strap hangs loosely on his right shoulder. Dressed down in jeans and a gray shirt, D.O opens the fourth door to the right-a room he and Luhan usually visits to collect monthly increments from a group under their protection who lives off by being corrupt gun dealers. This little fraud and business is only one in hundreds that Luhan runs-but tonight, he sends D.O for a specific task.
“D.O,” Taemin greets, radiating a youthful aura through thick lips and dewy complexion that even the dimness can’t hide. D.O will miss him. Windows are closed, which might explain the stale feel of the air interlaced with strong, Italian tobacco, and something sharp-ethanol and chlorine. Polished wood, brass, heavy dark curtains decorate the room. D.O thinks it’s the perfect setting.
“Is there anything we could help you with?” Minho-the one in charge-speaks up, his voice suspended somewhere between surprise, annoyance and intrigue. The extravagant suit suggesting he’s off to somewhere top-notch. D.O feels sorry for whoever Minho has to meet.
“Come on, loosen up. I’m here for a silencer. Steyr GB,” D.O brings out a gun from his pocket.
Minho stares at its stainless steel exterior and asks, ‘The Austrian Piece, right?’ before walking away to retrieve something from one of the mahogany drawers on the right side of the room. They weren’t alone. Two men D.O recalled to be Kibum and Jinki were talking to themselves beside Taemin.
Nice and easy does it.
Minho reappears a few seconds later, cradling a black cylinder wrapped in now-transparent gun oil in his hand.
“Let me try it,” D.O instructs, eyebrows raised as if daring Minho to refuse.
Minho wipes the tube, tossing it to D.O’s waiting left palm. D.O loads the gun in the same way he does everything: quickly, efficiently, perfectly and without any unnecessary movements. He clicks the tube in place within the blink of an eye. It echoes throughout the walls. Contrary to popular belief, you don’t do it slowly, sensuously. You use light and fast pressure, a half turn, and it clicks like final jigsaw pieces.
The cold metal now weighs heavier in his hand, feeling more comfortable and balanced. A silencer works by dispersing the blast of gas slowly, weakening the recoil. D.O asks, “Now let’s see if it works.”
A Steyr GB has no safety catch. In order to fire, you need to pull a projected pressure of fourteen pounds. D.O flicks the gun in his hand, lifts it up to Minho’s face until the gunpoint is parallel to the space between Minho’s eyebrows. He pulls the fourteen pounds before Minho has a chance to react.
It wasn’t quiet; the shot was as loud as a teenager slamming a door shut with fueled rage. Not quiet, but quieter than it could be. Minho went down like that, tall legs giving out beneath him as he crashed backwards on the floor. Blood spurts out and seeps through fabric. Too bad, the suit looked professional. Savile Row, maybe?
Pin-drop quiet.
Not even Kibum had the courage to let another word fly out of his active mouth. They stare at him in shock and D.O didn’t waste another minute. He aims and shoots. Aims and shoots. Aims and shoots. Almost-muffled gunshots going off tediously like clockwork. The casino’s racket beneath them acted like soundproof walls, diminishing bangs after bangs. There’s an allotted eighteen rounds for a Steyr GB. D.O confirms that none of them gets wasted as he releases them into his victims’ chest until nothing came out. “Well, that wasn’t that quiet at all. But it seems to work fine.”
The low groans fade. Limbs stops struggling on the ground. The only breathing D.O hears is his and he smiles, reminding himself to get rid of the gun in a garbage bin on the road. He uses the Polaroid camera slung on his shoulder to take snapshots. When he gets out of the room, the merry sounds and loud catcalls of the casino drowns out his retreating footsteps as he disappears in the dark.
You see, when Kyungsoo gets hurt and trampled, D.O happens.
༺
Evening visits the skies, bringing with it the velvet indigos and white, promising stars twinkling in the distance. Jongin, Sehun, and Jongdae are inside Sehun’s modest kitchen. The chipped cupboards, unused stoves, and appliances inside the room did not change, even if the people in there did.
It’s nearly impossible to make up for memories unmade during two years. Nearly impossible, but Jongin still tries. Arms wrap around thin waists with his chin nestling against bony shoulders; Jongin tries. Fingers interlaced with pale fingers, Jongin tries. It’s almost comical watching Jongin act around Sehun. One glance wouldn’t betray the fact that he’s a trained assassin since his actions suggests childishness and fluffiness. Jongdae gags inwardly.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. I’ve been thinking about it lately because I know you’re going to be out,” Sehun speaks with a tone Jongdae grew to loathe. He throws Jongdae a look that has the latter scampering out of the room. “Jongdae must have told you what happened to Minseok.”
Jongin nods.
“It was Luhan’s right-hand man who personally did that. Did Jongdae tell you all the details?”
“No, just what they did.”
“You should know. What you’re going to do has something to do with all this.”
Sehun’s chosen tools for story telling was a hot mug of cocoa and two wooden chairs facing each other over the dining table. They almost looked like normal guys who talk about normal things on a normal day. Jongin’s gaze is glued on Sehun’s hand as it moves along with his lips, forming words that summarizes what happened: March 22. 10:32 P.M. Minseok was doing one of his monthly rounds over Cheongdamdong. You know, they have the greatest stash of heroin and steady cash. Everything moves fast there, and Minseok knew that. So did Luhan’s man D.O who was waiting for him outside of one of the joints. Minseok was unsuspecting. He was shot nine times and if it wasn’t enough, D.O ran over him with an Aston Martin. He did it out in the open. With people watching. Witnesses said that Minseok’s body looked like a nicely-pressed shirt after the car was done with him. And you know the police, what we do is something they don’t dare butt their noses in. Jongdae probably didn’t tell you this, but three days later, they left Minseok’s body in front of Jongdae’s doorstep, wrapped in a large red ribbon. Well, what’s left of his body, anyway.
“You’re hiding something,” Jongin states when Sehun stopped to inhale deeply and stare at the window.
“What gives?”
“Everything. It isn’t like you to just talk about this calmly, even though you’re Mr. Po-po-poker face.”
Sehun laughs dryly. Jongin continues. “And since incidents like this don’t happen to us, I’m shocked that you haven’t reacted yet. Done something. Anything. We’re practically family. We don’t just sip lukewarm chocolate two months after one of our own got murdered. Brutally so.”
The crickets' song outside the window failed to be heard over Sehun’s unnerving chuckles. “Exactly. That’s what mannoia expects us to do. React. Take action. So that’s what we’re not going to do. Jongdae and I planned this for months. We took care of everything while waiting for that one vital instrument to carry out the mission that just might be mannoia’s downfall.”
“What were you waiting for?”
“You.”
༺
The rhythmic beating of the stereo pounds against the walls of D.O’s ears. If asked, he’d have requested for Acri’s Sleep Away or Chopin’s Mazurka in C minor to play as the background music in his office. But he isn’t asked and he isn’t the capo-Luhan is and Luhan has a bad taste in music. D.O dislikes that about his Chinese boss. Only loonies would listen to some crazy rap music sung and meant for people half their age.
“This is good,” Luhan comments, shuffling the Polaroid pictures capturing the condition of four people splayed out on the ground; a thick layer of blood covering wounded, soft flesh. D.O nods even though he already knows it. Of course, they’re good. He was the one who did it, after all. “I take it Jonghyun wasn’t there?”
“Gone. I made sure he wasn’t in the scene. It’d be tragic for all of them to die at the same time. One must remain to grieve,” What made D.O’s speech as lethal as the weapons he owns is the complete indifference in his attitude. People assumes D.O is fearless. He isn’t. Luhan thinks that D.O’s lack of apathy is the secret ingredient to the killer persona.
Luhan, having a penchant for mismatched furniture, transformed his office into something resembling a room identical to Alice’s wonderland. D.O sits down on a love seat patterned with pink hearts. His friends Baekhyun and Chanyeol decides it’s the perfect moment to bolt the door open. A noisy entrance accompanied by lion-like grunts and heated shoving and cries of "D.O can you kill Chanyeol so that I can DJ at his funeral?" Or "Luhan, do you remember the restaurant we ate in last week? The fancy one with the fancy French name? Baekhyun wants to be medium rare’d."
Nonsense conversation, typical snide remarks, Luhan’s smiles, the way D.O wrings a joke dry, Chanyeol’s shoulders as they convulse in laughter, Baekhyun’s attempts at threatening Chanyeol causes the thin cloud of seriousness clinging to the walls to subside. Somewhere between Luhan’s ‘I’m giving Chanyeol a k9 for his birthday” and Baekhyun’s barely audible muttering, the D.O facade wears down until Kyungsoo reappears with his goofy snorts and gum-showing smiles. Because moments like this seems so concrete, Kyungsoo feels like he could just reach out a hand to hold the liveliness between his fingernails and palms.
“What do you call a sleep walking nun?” Kyungsoo asks, bringing out immediate looks of panic and eye rolls.
“Have mercy on yourself, Kyungsoo,” Baekhyun cries.
Kyungsoo waves it off; a flake over his shoulder. He goes on, “A roamin’ catholic.”
Silence.
Luhan looks down on the floor, leather shoes rubbing against the Persian rug. Chanyeol bites his lower lip. Baehyun drapes a hand on Kyungsoo’s shoulders like a mother would. “No, just no.”
༺
Times like these makes Yifan sympathize with old people; their longing for open spaces and familiar faces.
Times composed of transparent glass and ringing phones with humans sounding like robots waiting on the other end, crossed-out agendas and crumpled post-its. With his lower back already aching by sitting for hours, Yifan refrains from snapping his head to the right in order to yell at the middle-aged woman and her baby to 'keep it down because god freaking damn it, I’ve just had a long day at work and I still have three more stops to endure so can you please make my life easier by stuffing that baby’s mouth with a cloth or something. Also, just because you have a child doesn’t excuse you for not taking care of yourself woman. I’ll gladly give you a shower set if we’re friends and if I’m filthy rich.'
Yifan diverts his attention to his hands, as to not feed that nagging voice inside his head-the one that nitpicks on microscopic details regarding every one and every thing that has ever graced this planet. Lay’s the lone human being who’d sewn himself a blanket of immunity against that voice.
Yifan is unfashionably resting on a cramped train with strangers when he wonders about them; which of these people has a home to go to, which one doesn’t. He looks around, thinking that maybe the girl with the messy bun and lazy eyes has a lover waiting for her at the next stop, and the guy dressed in all black is a painter-a hypothesis encouraged by the liquid yellows and reds underneath his fingernails. Conversations are exchanged through whispers behind cupped hands, Yifan wants to know if they’re talking about things that really matter (i love you’s, you’re beautiful, what’s next morning’s breakfast), and not just the trivial things every one fidgets non-stop about (debts, bills, sales, did you hear the winner of last night’s soccer match?).
The shrill cry of the baby beside him earns dubious looks. He ignores them.
The train, like time and every thing else, drags on forward. Yifan looks down at his wristwatch-which is rude enough to remind him he still has half an hour to spare before arriving home to Lay and his marvelous cooking. Yifan makes a mental note to tell Lay that if the whole police investigator thing doesn’t work out, there are hundreds of restaurants that would hire him.
༺
When the alarm clock and its constant rings failed to wake Jongin up, nature takes it upon herself to do it. Nine o’clock sunlight peeks through the slit between the binders, hitting Jongin’s closed eyelids with scorching light until they slowly blink open. Fuck, was the first word that he uttered under his breath on his second day as a free man. Sluggish thoughts and the faded sense of reality which always occurs the first few seconds of consciousness. He unwillingly parts with his bed as he waits for everything to make sense.
His name is Kim Jongin. He’s twenty-three and he kills for a living. Yesterday, he got out of the mental asylum he’s been confined to for two years-connections and strings were pulled to decrease the length of his stay there. He works for Sehun alongside Jongdae and Tao (where the fuck is he now), above tens and hundreds of people behind cashiers and bars, smuggling ammos and drugs, grenades and things slapped with fraud all over the surface. He lives in a nice and totally not-ostentatious house owned by their familia. And today, he’s going to see Oh Sehun who’s going to brief him about his first, and possibly grandest, task for the year.
By the minute he’s got it all sorted out, his teeth has already been brushed to lodge traces of the toast and coffee he had for breakfast, got his fingernails cut, worn a proper dress-shirt and trousers, covered his feet with socks and leather shoes. Ready.
༺
“I don’t understand your fascination with the mafia. Why would you want to involve yourself with them? Others just leave them alone. I don’t see why you shouldn’t do the same,” Yifan sneaks up behind Lay who’s engrossed in the avalanche of printed papers on his wooden desk.
Lay holds up two pictures and concentrates on them. Yifan’s previous remarks for the past hour dismissed like flies. Seven minutes of staring and sighing, the tall blonde man retreats to the soft couch, venting frustration under his breath. This is what a normal weekend is composed of: delicious dinner to be followed by a few minutes of making out before Lay would get too impatient and go back to attend his cases. Being in love with a private investigator is never easy, but Yifan does his best to get through it.
“Why didn’t the police did anything regarding the Kim Minseok case? It says here that there were a handful of eye witnesses who identified the suspect since it was done publicly. Why didn’t you get the suspect arrested?” Suspecting words slice the haze of silence. Yifan’s left hand clenches to a fist out of instinct.
“Leave it Lay, don’t bother yourself with that. The case has been closed.”
“But you’re a part of the Seoul National Police! I’m sure that you have the authority to look through this! Why didn’t you do anything?”
“There are some things that are better left untouched. Questions left unanswered. Give it a break, Yixing.” Heaviness stains Yifan’s voice as he speaks. He departs to their bedroom, leaving an enraged Lay behind. He knows that if he stays, Lay would prod the details out of him. Details that would anger his lover to the point of action.
༺
Lit mirrors against the wall, two strangers holding onto brushes, papers and photographs scattered over the couch and coffee table, Sehun’s brows knitted together; these things greeted Jongin when he arrived in Sehun’s house-otherwise known as their secret hideout.
“What’s going on?” Jongin sits down beside Sehun.
“This is how we’ll conduct your mission,” Sehun turns to Jongin, their faces so close to each other. Sehun smells like book pages and roses. A weird combination that Jongin finds intoxicating. “I’ll explain the details to you while Sungjong and Woohyun here take care of you. All you have to do is shut up, sit down and listen. Try to not interrupt, please.”
That explains the odd, waiting pair. Jongin walks over to them with a curt nod. Girly guy ushers Jongin to a tall chair, one that directors might use while filming.
Sehun fills him in as the pair maneuvers their hands over his hair and face, touching his features and examining Jongin as if he’s an antique that’s about to get displayed in a museum. “Jongdae and I arranged everything. We made sure that there won’t be any loopholes or blind spots in what you’re about to do. You might think of it as a suicide mission, but if you succeed, and I’m sure that you will, then familia Mannoia would be history.”
This time, the feminine guy is alone with blunt scissors in his hand and a thin comb on the other. After hushed whispers with his partner, he begins parting Jongin’s hair in sections. Running the comb over. Pause. Cut and swipe. Sehun goes on, “Minseok’s murderer was named D.O, after asking around about him from trusted and some not-so-trusted people, we discovered that he’s the second in charge of the familia after Luhan. Looks like he’s also a big deal. This is who you’ll kill.”
Through the dark veil of cascading chunks of hair, Jongin could see Sehun handing him a picture. It’s of a man looking sidewards, the angle betrays the fact that a hidden photographer took it. The guy has a haystack of black hair framing a small face with soft features; upper lip a little bit too puffed, thick eyebrows cast over large, dark brown eyes that look like a child’s-trusting and innocent. The one in the picture seems like he can’t even hurt a fly, or ant, much less shoot someone nine times.
“Peculiar little thing, isn’t he? Don’t be deceived, though. That is D.O,” Sehun goes on talking confidently. The hands on Jongin’s hair are gone. They were now fussing over opening bottles and pouring contents over a plastic bowl. “While you weren’t here, D.O started to work for Luhan. We don’t know where he’s from, just that he rose like an eagle over Seoul, assassinating certain individuals that were too important for their underlings to handle.”
“He’s a hitman too,” Jongin nods, more to himself. “Is he better than I am?”
Sehun raises an eyebrow, watching as the two men applied some mixture on Jongin’s hair. “You’ll have to find out for yourself. This is where your mission will begin and end. With D.O. Kill him, sabotage their familia, and bring Luhan to me. I’ll deal with him myself.”
Whenever Sehun is hiding something, his lips would twitch to the left. Jongin knows this, just like how he knows almost all of Sehun’s quirks and habit. Sehun’s lips move to the left, but Jongin doesn’t ask anything. “You make it sound easy, why would this be a suicide mission?”
“Because,” Sehun stares at him straight in the eye. “You’re going to be joining their familia. They’ve never seen you, which makes you the perfect ally. No one knew Kim Jongin. But it’s cool since you won’t be him anymore. You will be Kai. And Kai, would avenge Minseok and save all of us.”
༺
Mirrors never lie. They might distort or change your perspective, but they’ll never lie. The cold glass in front of Jongin shows him a man who looks like he should be sashaying down a runway somewhere in Europe, not fidgeting in a clean bathroom somewhere in Seoul. The brushed-back chocolate hair and shaded brows, layered clothing, hid traces of the easy going guy underneath. He looks and feels different. Jongin turns his body to the side, then tilts his head, as if doing that would help him locate evidences of the person he used to be.
He takes a deep breath and leans forward. This is it. Kai. Not Kim Jongin. Kai. Going to infiltrate enemy ground. Kai. Kill D.O
For a second, he stops in his chant and wonders if what he’s about to do is worth it. Then he hears Sehun’s voice somewhere beyond the door and it strengthens his resolve. This is what he was meant to do. This is what will make Sehun happy and he loves Sehun. Enough to do something that could potentially put his life in great danger. For Sehun.
He smiles. The reflection follows. Kai follows.
༺
Two days later, Yifan whispers the dark deeds of the mafia to Lay’s ear as the later drapes an arm over Yifan’s bare chest. Six in the morning finds the two of them tangled in pillows and limbs, above white sheets with creases caused by heated bodies, struggling lips and wandering fingers. Somewhere between Lay’s passionate kisses and volatile pleading, Yifan sighs and tells him all about the two rival families Blanco and Mannoia-who they are, what they do, and what the authorities don’t do about them.
Yixing’s sharp gasps reminds Yifan why he hid it from his lover and best friend for five years in the first place. Having been surrounded by a family with officials devoted to justice, Yixing somehow inherited a portion of let’s fight for what is right gene, causing him to seek for retribution and fairness in the dirty alleyways of Seoul. Yifan spends half of his life wondering whether or not he should love this about Yixing.
“I can’t believe this. You’re just letting them get away with murder and smuggling and devious crimes,” Invisible fumes slithers out of Lay’s ears and nose like a train preparing to embark.
Yifan trails kisses from Lay’s temple to his lips, then down to his sensitive neck. “You have to understand. Some things work unplanned, and not following the status quo could put everyone in danger. If only you knew.”
One thing that Lay can’t be with Yifan’s warmth so close to him is calm and coherent. Deciding to interrogate this certain, blonde man when he’s not having unholy thoughts, Lay smiles and accepts the invitation on Yifan’s mouth. A kiss there, a quick whisper here, a lick on the underside of his wrist, trails of love bites on his chest. Things like these has Lay scorching like skies on a July sunset.
“What? What did I do wrong? Why are you staring at me like that? Are you okay?” Yifan inquires after he sees Lay’s eyes glistening with tears.
“Nothing, it’s just..” Lay takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”
“What for? I didn’t do anything spectacular yet neither did I buy you anything lately.”
“No you dummy,” Lay reaches out his hand to trace the outlines of Yifan’s hard jaw. Lay takes his time, fingertips resting on defined bones as if he’s trying to commit it to memory. Lay likes how the reading lamp’s yellow lights hit Yifan’s face in just the right angle; emphasizing his golden hair and brightening his eyes. “Thank you because you’re here. I know that I’m not really the best person to be with, but I’ll have you know that I appreciate how you try to adjust so that we don’t have to fight. Thank you, Yifan. Thanks for calling my office every three-thirty just to tell me you miss me. Thank you, I love you.”
Yifan blinks back something like tears. 'I love you, too' he thinks, but locks his lips with Lay instead of letting them dance around the atmosphere. He never said those three words. But sometimes, when he stares at Lay smiling at him, Yifan knows that he knows it, even if the universe can’t grasp how much that love is.
༺
Jongdae struts down Seoul in the sea of unfamiliar faces while digging his fingernails against his palm because he can’t recall whether Minseok smelled like thyme or baby lotion.
He shivers and hugs himself even though the weather man said that it’d be in high thirties today. Liar. Maybe the weatherman is accurate, and the coldness in his marrows is just brought by fear. Jongdae isn’t scared of knives or kidnappings, threats or committing murder. He wouldn’t be in this business if things like that pulls him undone. What gets him on edge however, are t-shirts that are slowly losing the scent of its owner, journal pages that’d never get written down. Sometimes, death isn’t as scary as losing evidences of your existence.
He walks and walks, looking straight ahead until he arrived in Sehun’s house-where he realized that he could have saved himself all the trouble by taking his car instead of walking for half an hour. The defensive side of his brain reasons out that what he did was a good thing. Less pollution for mother earth. More exercise. Better environment, more fresh air. Other names for unhindered stupidity and excessive bullshit.
Jongdae’s eyes land on the built of a man who looks like Kim Jongin (but not really) as he walks around Sehun’s rose garden. “Jongin?”
“It’s Kai,” he grins and Jongdae mimics it.
“So you agreed, huh.”
Kim Jongin-aka Kai saunters closer to Jongdae and Jongdae could tell it was Kai because there’s a rehearsed cocky grin plastered on his stupid burnt face, and his hands aren’t shoved in his pockets anymore. Kim Jongin is reserved and can’t live without hiding his hands on his pockets as a habit. A stupid habit perhaps, but it was still Kim Jongin’s habit.
“It wasn’t like I had a choice. Come to think of it, it’s not like we have a say on anything,” he sighs as if he’s traveled the whole world and witnessed every misery it held. “My father was a Mafioso too. He worked for Sehun’s father here, but I was born in Japan and grew up there. I only went back when I was sixteen, and that’s when I was introduced to this universe.”
Sunlight makes the leaves on the garden appear dewy and fresh; it captures Jongdae’s attention as he leans closer to touch it. “I know that, you don’t have to tell me your history.”
“I know you know,” Kim Jongin slips both hands in his pockets, figuring that there’s no need to be pretentious around Jongdae. “Tell me something about Minseok.”
“He’s your friend, too. You know Minseok.”
Jongin bends down to inhale a whiff of a white rose’s petal. Sehun takes really good care of them. “He is, but I didn’t know him as well as you did. Don’t forget that I didn’t see him or you or anyone for two years. Tell me something about him.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask,” Jongin chuckles. “If I’m gonna go and do the equivalent of hanging my neck on a rope, then don’t I deserve the right to know a few stuff about one of the people I’m doing this for? I might be gone for more than a month, depends on the situation and strategy. So tell me something to remember him by.”
The melody of the birds’ songs and the rustling of leaves as they’re swayed by the wind interrupts the silence between them. Jongdae squares his shoulders before answering, “Minseok. Last year, he defeated more or less fifty men by himself in a room. Arm to arm combat, sort of like the dorky, human baozi version of Jackie Chan.”
“Big things are what makes us heroes, not humans. Tell me something small.”
“Erm, he hates cutting his nails. It’s the only feminine fetish he has. I hated those long fingernails. I once cut them short when he was fast asleep and when he woke up and saw them, he didn’t talk to me until they grew back again. Silent treatment for two weeks.” Jongdae shakes his head. “And now…. If I have one more chance with him, then I swear to the heavens that I’d let Minseok keep those cursed nails uncut forever and kiss them every single day of it.”
The birds keep on singing, the leaves on rustling. This time, no words shatter the silence because Kai knows he’s a part of a fire department that can douse a burning house, but never recover what was burnt down.
༺
“What’re you working on?” Chanyeol asks, but thanks to the toffee he’s chewing, it comes out as watch-ar-youu-er-ing-ern?
Kyungsoo doesn’t look up from what he’s reading on his phone, but he still replies because he hadn't been raised to be rude. Even if his sometimes-annoying, chihuahua-resembling friend deserves the cold shoulder. “Files about this guy named Kai. Last week, I’ve been hearing his name in some shops and casinos and got curious. Turns our he’s just released from a mental asylum because what he did was too psychotic and dangerous for prison. I wonder what he was sent in for.”
“Maybe it was mass murder or something. What have you got so far? And what are you planning?” Television lights reveal Chanyeol’s face and his snoopy-pattered pajamas in the dark. If you don’t understand the line ‘a child in an adult’s body’, feel free to come see Park Chanyeol.
“I’ve been asking around and all people tell me is that he’s an amazing hitman, but I don’t think he got sent to an asylum because he was busted. I’m curious because we could use an extra hand around here. We’re fine but it won’t hurt to have someone with me whenever I’m collecting incentives or debts or lives. You and Baekhyun have it easy, all you two ever do is to collect vigs from loansharking. And avoid making Luhan mad . . .. “ Kyungsoo trails off, losing Chanyeol somewhere between extra hand and debts.
༺
When word about Kai circulates through the thick walls of a high-end restaurant, twirling down to the wide, filthy streets with their rocky grounds and flickering street lights, Sehun knows he’s done his part quite well. Step one was to make ‘Kai’, and the second was to get his name familiarized in the same circle where familia mannoia comes lurking around. Now all they have to do is to devour the bait, and the rest is another chapter in the book.
As a self-proclaimed reward for the hours poured into working and polishing their plans, Sehun steps inside ‘Haven’-a particularly light and cozy coffee shop sporting unbelievably fluffy decorations such as stuffed animals beside the cashier, blackboards where menu lists are scribbled in pastel chalks, and the gayest out of them all: Kim Joonmyun who owns the place. If you ask Sehun, he’d tell you that Joonmyun must be in his forties, considering how he’s been running this place since Sehun was just an elementary kid with an awkward bowl haircut and an undying love for sugary drinks.
But no one ever asks Sehun because one look at Joonmyun and people assumes that the old fart is still shaking his bonbons in his early twenties. Their naivete is infuriating and incoherent and it drives Sehun crazy to the point where he makes it his life mission to proclaim ‘Kim Joonmyun is forty-three years old’ every single time his feet would rest on Joonmyun’s property. And that’s what he does now while inhaling the sweet scent of coffee and something like strawberries that perpetually clings to the wooden walls of the shop. “Kim Joonmyun is forty-three years old and has prostate cancer!”
A stuffed elephant flies to Sehun’s face. Customers chuckle at this childish display before attending their orders, going on with their non-miserable lives. Seeing Joonmyun’s annoyed face reminds Sehun why he cherishes this little shop so much. He could have gone to a fancier cafe, with owners who control themselves from flinging stuffed animals in your face and actually look like their real age, but Sehun doesn’t. Like a devoted fan, Sehun goes out of his way every Saturday night to drive for twenty-five miles just to visit Joonmyun. This place, in general.
“I already prepared your drink, I knew you’d be here. You look really happy today, it’s creepy to be honest.” Joonmyun shares.
“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” Sehun mumbles, walking past the counter to shove Joonmyun’s shoulder’s playfully. An avocado-flavored bubble tea waits beside the cashier, he grabs it with a smile before bending down to fit himself in the mini-cubbyhole under the counter. Wearing loose sweaters, casual jeans and a pair of Converse shoes while being squeezed under the counter of a cafe he considers gay, is out of character for Sehun.
Joonmyun knows who Sehun is and what he does right now, but they’re both aware that Joonmyun still sees the child version of Sehun. To Joonmyun, Sehun is eternally frozen at twelve-when he blushes over tiny things and adored white roses. The young Sehun who was connected to the hips of another young boy, who loved the red roses Sehun can’t stand. “How’s life, Sehun?”
“Good,” The avocado flavor of his drink spills over his taste buds. His tongue is now infiltrated with the sugary taste of heaven. “Joonmyun, do you think he’ll be able to find me?”
“Joonmyun, do you think he’ll be able to find me?” Oh Sehun, eleven years old and proud of discovering this wonderful hiding place, mischievously inquired.
“I’m sure he won’t. Maybe he will. I don’t know. Do you want him to find you?”
“No no! This is hide and seek! I would lose if I’m found.”
“I’m sure he won’t. Maybe he will. I don’t know. Do you want him to find you?” Joonmyun echoes the words of thirteen years ago. Every time, they seem to follow that script, that particular conversation they had before discovering that Sehun’s friend left for good, and Sehun changed for the worst. Started to hunt instead of hide, counted victims instead of seconds, drained hope instead of grasping for them, kissed strangers instead of lovers, grew white roses and promised himself they won’t ever be stained red again.
Joonmyun stops punching in cash when Sehun’s reply didn’t go like ‘No no! This is hide and seek! I would lose if I’m found’, instead he hears a whispered. “Yes, I want him to find me.”
༺
There are things that you can get used to easily: waking up to be greeted by sunshine and trees, having the opportunity to see the person you love everyday, sleeping whenever the fuck you feel like because no one’s around to scold you, being surrounded by walls without CCTV cameras operated by drowsy guards who are really just waiting for you to throw a fit or injure yourself so they will finally witness some action spicing up their otherwise monotonous lives.
Kim Jongin could get accustomed to drowning cups of coffee into his system before getting on with his new life as ‘Kai’. As hours morph into days and days into weeks, Jongin slithers back into the familiar routine of visiting Sehun’s house, coming out of the blue unannounced. He might have the Kai persona, but four in the afternoon calls out to Jongin’s nerves to sneak up at the second floor of Sehun’s house-an old habit the years withheld from him, and now Jongin is determined to appreciate every single second out of this stolen moment.
He climbs up the stairs with extra caution on his footsteps, conscious of how Sehun dislikes being disrupted when he’s playing. It takes fifteen steps to from the end of the wooden stairwell to Sehun’s music room. A short distance he’s more than willing to cover carrying his heart on his throat.
The melody of caused by pressed piano keys after another has Jongin coming undone. He’s as helpless as the keys underneath Sehun’s fingertips which keeps urging on a series of notes and raw harmony. Jongin wants to believe there’s a recorder inside of him, capturing the emotions through Sehun’s music that he never gets a chance to see through his eyes or hear through Sehun’s lips. Jongin wants to treat Sehun like the last air molecule inside an oxygen tank.
There are things that you can get used to easily, and caring for someone who might as well be a statue isn’t one of them. He slides down, with his back against the wall. He loathes how the empty space indicates there should have been another body beside him, sort of like how air bubbles can tell there’s still space in something that’s drowning. Sehun should have been closer, except that he isn’t and there’s nothing Jongin can do because you can never modify a statue or teach it how to love you back.
༺
It was D.O who discovered Kai five days later.
Revealed by the bleeding neons and yellows spreading throughout the dirty gravel, D.O sees Kai piercing the ozone layer with his cloud of smoke. It’s obvious in the awkward way in which Kai nestles his cigarette between his fingers that he’s new to what he’s doing. Strangers with even stranger faces drift past them like waves in the sea, but all D.O could register was the tanned man’s stillness in a place where everything was in constant motion.
D.O approaches Kai with an extra stiffness in his shoulders. He clears his throat. Kai turns. D.O finally understands his cousin who fangirls over superficial idols, especially when he inhales tobacco and heavy cologne. “Aren’t you feeling hot? It’s like above thirties tonight.”
“Not really, I feel cold inside. I’m Kai,” he smiles, but it comes out as a smirk and D.O doesn’t know what to make of him. Kai thinks that the pictures didn’t do any justice to D.O’s squishiness.
“I know. I’m D.O, but of course you already know that,” D.O smiles back and it’s only because he swears Kai’s smirk is contagious. Around them, cars zoom past with their dangerous fumes, people walk with even dangerous motives. It isn’t until D.O hears honking in the distance when he remembers what he originally came here for. He doesn’t look at Kai when he speaks, “You’ve got something I want.”
“Everyone wants something from me. I’m Kai,”
“Shut up or your name would be the last thing you’ll ever say,” D.O falters when Kai trains his chocolate eyes on him. “Let’s just talk about this some place else. I’ve got a proposal to make.”
༺
Beforehand, Sehun had made sure D.O knew where to find Kai and Kai would be right there. D.O’s lips move in the dark, and Kai knows that the gears are turned on; this is the point of no return. D.O dragged them into a dim attic inside an atramentous club, the beating walls alerting Kai to raise awareness. This is enemy ground and D.O is his best chance of survival.
“Were you listening to anything that I said?” D.O asks and stops himself from pouting because that is a Kyungsoo thing to do. Exposing his soft side to strangers is never good, even though they’re hot and pleasetakemehomerightnow strangers.
Kai moves up from D.O’s lips to his eyes, to realize that they’re both inside a cramped room and practically interchanging the same air molecules. His thoughts aren’t about capos or whether or not switch blades are better than swiss army knives, but on D.O’s cheeks and how they resemble soft, pallid lily petals-and where the fuck did he even get that idea, he doesn’t even like lilies. Kai doesn’t take the tiny gun behind his back to shoot D.O, it isn’t a part of the plan. The plan was to infiltrate and slowly break their family down, so thoughts about gunshots are temporarily banned. It takes Kai a while to reply, “No, I wasn’t listening well, but you mentioned something about proof, loyalty, and no invitations, right?”
“I did. What I wanted to tell you was that Luhan’s interested in you. But I’m sure that you know how things work around here, Kai. In order to be a made man, prove yourself,” D.O fishes for something in his pocket before producing a photograph. Kai wonders what’s up with mobs and their pictures. He takes it anyway. “That’s Lay. A detective. Normally, our family’s got a good grip on the authorities, but some of our associates reported that this guy is snooping around and asking questions he has no right asking. Luhan has this motto, you know, he keeps telling us that little snowballs would roll and turn into bigger snowballs that can cause trouble.”
Kai studies the sharp contours, determined eyes, the clean haircut. Lay. “The point is?”
“The point is, Lay is a small snowball, and Luhan wants you to melt him before it turns big.” Moving in closer despite the cramped space, D.O catches Kai off guard with a grin. “Get him down with a bang and you’ll go up with a whisper."
part two; one shot
Pairing: ot12, really
Part: 1 / 3
Genre: Romance, Angst, Action
Summary: Kim Jongin is finally out of the asylum and Kyungsoo is a roamin' catholic
prologue; omerta
ground zero;
the point of destruction
To Kim Jongin, home is just an abstract idea. Home isn’t fighting over who gets the remote control or Friday movie nights or heartily-prepared meals. Twelve years of living in the outskirts of foreign towns and borderline insanity taught him that strangers are safer than friends, that the dark isn’t something to be scared of rather, something to embrace for its protection, and the lengths that people would take just to obtain money is enough to make one lose hope in humanity.
He should know this better than the rest since the only thing he’s good at is operating behind shadows and smiles.
But even though home is something Jongin can’t imagine himself having, the closest to the idea would have to be Sehun and his family. Oh Sehun, along with his underlings Jongdae, Tao and the deceased Minseok, ruled nearly half of South Korea’s underground society. They reigned quietly, under the veneer of respect and high intimidation, that even the police left them to their own devices. Admiring the gold-and-pink-coated horizon, Jongin could only be thankful for the unbreakable bond connecting him to others.
“As you could tell, Sehun still likes to keep it low,” Jongdae acts like a narrator of a children’s story book as he drives them closer to Sehun’s humble house. Jongin rolls the tainted windows down. His eyes looming over the familiar garden in front of them; a haven for white roses to grow perfectly. Sehun has an attachment for those things, including bottle caps and rubber ducks, HB pencils and peculiar things no one cares about. The thought of Sehun makes Jongin wish for Jongdae to park faster so he could finally see Sehun after years of separation; marked by lonely nights and unsent letters.
The car stops. Jongin violently opens it and runs as if it would kill him if he doesn’t. It probably will; considering how much his hands strain to hold Sehun in them and his eyes to take in the features he’d grown to love. When you long for someone, even your body makes it obvious.
Jongdae turns the engine off, shoves the key to his pocket and follows Jongin, taking his time because Jongin and Sehun are probably engaging in a make-out session he has no desire of witnessing. He’s three years older than Jongin, but all of them in their familia knew Jongin was the most experienced one out of them all. He walks inside Sehun’s white-washed house to see his boss and friend hugging each other fiercely like wrestling predators.
“Welcome back,” Sehun utters, and this is when Jongin smiles. The smile that Jongdae calls ‘Sehunnie smile’ because it only emerges whenever Sehun is within grasping distance. Jongdae’s dull eyes studies their boss as he makes himself comfortable in the beige couch. Deprived fingers linger over oblivious skin as Jongin and Sehun talk. Behind the glimmer of Sehun’s eyes and the heart-felt words coming out of his lips, Jongdae could catch something that Jongin doesn’t-and he feels sorry for the younger.
Jongdae wishes he doesn’t know how much Sehun means to Jongin, and how much Jongin doesn’t mean to Sehun.
༺
Kyungsoo is kind and relatively safe.
D.O. and Kyungsoo are two different people, living in the same body, covered with the same clothes and surrounded by the same people.
Kyungsoo is the one with a marvelous childhood composed of munching on lemon drops and wasting Friday nights with revisions for exams due next month. Kyungsoo cooks foreign dishes he can’t pronounce well, keeps his shirts color-coordinated and ironed, helps out his friends who can’t solve stuff on their own, and occasionally, Kyungsoo goes out for strolls on warm, sunlit parks and carefully maintained art galleries. Savoring the beauty in things, in every shape or form. Kyungsoo is etched with dorky actions and gum-showing smiles coming from a heart that can never love too much.
D.O. on the other hand, works for Luhan as his right-hand man. The most trusted in the family. D.O is the one with bitter experiences marked by the number of times it took for his face to be shoved against concrete and marble until he grew callous enough to flip the tables and give back the harsh punches. D.O’s eyes are as sharp as an eagle’s and just as able to see things from afar. D.O doesn’t believe in retaliation or apologies.
The man who walked inside Tomaso’s Casino and straight up to the third floor was D.O. A camera strap hangs loosely on his right shoulder. Dressed down in jeans and a gray shirt, D.O opens the fourth door to the right-a room he and Luhan usually visits to collect monthly increments from a group under their protection who lives off by being corrupt gun dealers. This little fraud and business is only one in hundreds that Luhan runs-but tonight, he sends D.O for a specific task.
“D.O,” Taemin greets, radiating a youthful aura through thick lips and dewy complexion that even the dimness can’t hide. D.O will miss him. Windows are closed, which might explain the stale feel of the air interlaced with strong, Italian tobacco, and something sharp-ethanol and chlorine. Polished wood, brass, heavy dark curtains decorate the room. D.O thinks it’s the perfect setting.
“Is there anything we could help you with?” Minho-the one in charge-speaks up, his voice suspended somewhere between surprise, annoyance and intrigue. The extravagant suit suggesting he’s off to somewhere top-notch. D.O feels sorry for whoever Minho has to meet.
“Come on, loosen up. I’m here for a silencer. Steyr GB,” D.O brings out a gun from his pocket.
Minho stares at its stainless steel exterior and asks, ‘The Austrian Piece, right?’ before walking away to retrieve something from one of the mahogany drawers on the right side of the room. They weren’t alone. Two men D.O recalled to be Kibum and Jinki were talking to themselves beside Taemin.
Nice and easy does it.
Minho reappears a few seconds later, cradling a black cylinder wrapped in now-transparent gun oil in his hand.
“Let me try it,” D.O instructs, eyebrows raised as if daring Minho to refuse.
Minho wipes the tube, tossing it to D.O’s waiting left palm. D.O loads the gun in the same way he does everything: quickly, efficiently, perfectly and without any unnecessary movements. He clicks the tube in place within the blink of an eye. It echoes throughout the walls. Contrary to popular belief, you don’t do it slowly, sensuously. You use light and fast pressure, a half turn, and it clicks like final jigsaw pieces.
The cold metal now weighs heavier in his hand, feeling more comfortable and balanced. A silencer works by dispersing the blast of gas slowly, weakening the recoil. D.O asks, “Now let’s see if it works.”
A Steyr GB has no safety catch. In order to fire, you need to pull a projected pressure of fourteen pounds. D.O flicks the gun in his hand, lifts it up to Minho’s face until the gunpoint is parallel to the space between Minho’s eyebrows. He pulls the fourteen pounds before Minho has a chance to react.
It wasn’t quiet; the shot was as loud as a teenager slamming a door shut with fueled rage. Not quiet, but quieter than it could be. Minho went down like that, tall legs giving out beneath him as he crashed backwards on the floor. Blood spurts out and seeps through fabric. Too bad, the suit looked professional. Savile Row, maybe?
Pin-drop quiet.
Not even Kibum had the courage to let another word fly out of his active mouth. They stare at him in shock and D.O didn’t waste another minute. He aims and shoots. Aims and shoots. Aims and shoots. Almost-muffled gunshots going off tediously like clockwork. The casino’s racket beneath them acted like soundproof walls, diminishing bangs after bangs. There’s an allotted eighteen rounds for a Steyr GB. D.O confirms that none of them gets wasted as he releases them into his victims’ chest until nothing came out. “Well, that wasn’t that quiet at all. But it seems to work fine.”
The low groans fade. Limbs stops struggling on the ground. The only breathing D.O hears is his and he smiles, reminding himself to get rid of the gun in a garbage bin on the road. He uses the Polaroid camera slung on his shoulder to take snapshots. When he gets out of the room, the merry sounds and loud catcalls of the casino drowns out his retreating footsteps as he disappears in the dark.
You see, when Kyungsoo gets hurt and trampled, D.O happens.
༺
Evening visits the skies, bringing with it the velvet indigos and white, promising stars twinkling in the distance. Jongin, Sehun, and Jongdae are inside Sehun’s modest kitchen. The chipped cupboards, unused stoves, and appliances inside the room did not change, even if the people in there did.
It’s nearly impossible to make up for memories unmade during two years. Nearly impossible, but Jongin still tries. Arms wrap around thin waists with his chin nestling against bony shoulders; Jongin tries. Fingers interlaced with pale fingers, Jongin tries. It’s almost comical watching Jongin act around Sehun. One glance wouldn’t betray the fact that he’s a trained assassin since his actions suggests childishness and fluffiness. Jongdae gags inwardly.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. I’ve been thinking about it lately because I know you’re going to be out,” Sehun speaks with a tone Jongdae grew to loathe. He throws Jongdae a look that has the latter scampering out of the room. “Jongdae must have told you what happened to Minseok.”
Jongin nods.
“It was Luhan’s right-hand man who personally did that. Did Jongdae tell you all the details?”
“No, just what they did.”
“You should know. What you’re going to do has something to do with all this.”
Sehun’s chosen tools for story telling was a hot mug of cocoa and two wooden chairs facing each other over the dining table. They almost looked like normal guys who talk about normal things on a normal day. Jongin’s gaze is glued on Sehun’s hand as it moves along with his lips, forming words that summarizes what happened: March 22. 10:32 P.M. Minseok was doing one of his monthly rounds over Cheongdamdong. You know, they have the greatest stash of heroin and steady cash. Everything moves fast there, and Minseok knew that. So did Luhan’s man D.O who was waiting for him outside of one of the joints. Minseok was unsuspecting. He was shot nine times and if it wasn’t enough, D.O ran over him with an Aston Martin. He did it out in the open. With people watching. Witnesses said that Minseok’s body looked like a nicely-pressed shirt after the car was done with him. And you know the police, what we do is something they don’t dare butt their noses in. Jongdae probably didn’t tell you this, but three days later, they left Minseok’s body in front of Jongdae’s doorstep, wrapped in a large red ribbon. Well, what’s left of his body, anyway.
“You’re hiding something,” Jongin states when Sehun stopped to inhale deeply and stare at the window.
“What gives?”
“Everything. It isn’t like you to just talk about this calmly, even though you’re Mr. Po-po-poker face.”
Sehun laughs dryly. Jongin continues. “And since incidents like this don’t happen to us, I’m shocked that you haven’t reacted yet. Done something. Anything. We’re practically family. We don’t just sip lukewarm chocolate two months after one of our own got murdered. Brutally so.”
The crickets' song outside the window failed to be heard over Sehun’s unnerving chuckles. “Exactly. That’s what mannoia expects us to do. React. Take action. So that’s what we’re not going to do. Jongdae and I planned this for months. We took care of everything while waiting for that one vital instrument to carry out the mission that just might be mannoia’s downfall.”
“What were you waiting for?”
“You.”
༺
The rhythmic beating of the stereo pounds against the walls of D.O’s ears. If asked, he’d have requested for Acri’s Sleep Away or Chopin’s Mazurka in C minor to play as the background music in his office. But he isn’t asked and he isn’t the capo-Luhan is and Luhan has a bad taste in music. D.O dislikes that about his Chinese boss. Only loonies would listen to some crazy rap music sung and meant for people half their age.
“This is good,” Luhan comments, shuffling the Polaroid pictures capturing the condition of four people splayed out on the ground; a thick layer of blood covering wounded, soft flesh. D.O nods even though he already knows it. Of course, they’re good. He was the one who did it, after all. “I take it Jonghyun wasn’t there?”
“Gone. I made sure he wasn’t in the scene. It’d be tragic for all of them to die at the same time. One must remain to grieve,” What made D.O’s speech as lethal as the weapons he owns is the complete indifference in his attitude. People assumes D.O is fearless. He isn’t. Luhan thinks that D.O’s lack of apathy is the secret ingredient to the killer persona.
Luhan, having a penchant for mismatched furniture, transformed his office into something resembling a room identical to Alice’s wonderland. D.O sits down on a love seat patterned with pink hearts. His friends Baekhyun and Chanyeol decides it’s the perfect moment to bolt the door open. A noisy entrance accompanied by lion-like grunts and heated shoving and cries of "D.O can you kill Chanyeol so that I can DJ at his funeral?" Or "Luhan, do you remember the restaurant we ate in last week? The fancy one with the fancy French name? Baekhyun wants to be medium rare’d."
Nonsense conversation, typical snide remarks, Luhan’s smiles, the way D.O wrings a joke dry, Chanyeol’s shoulders as they convulse in laughter, Baekhyun’s attempts at threatening Chanyeol causes the thin cloud of seriousness clinging to the walls to subside. Somewhere between Luhan’s ‘I’m giving Chanyeol a k9 for his birthday” and Baekhyun’s barely audible muttering, the D.O facade wears down until Kyungsoo reappears with his goofy snorts and gum-showing smiles. Because moments like this seems so concrete, Kyungsoo feels like he could just reach out a hand to hold the liveliness between his fingernails and palms.
“What do you call a sleep walking nun?” Kyungsoo asks, bringing out immediate looks of panic and eye rolls.
“Have mercy on yourself, Kyungsoo,” Baekhyun cries.
Kyungsoo waves it off; a flake over his shoulder. He goes on, “A roamin’ catholic.”
Silence.
Luhan looks down on the floor, leather shoes rubbing against the Persian rug. Chanyeol bites his lower lip. Baehyun drapes a hand on Kyungsoo’s shoulders like a mother would. “No, just no.”
༺
Times like these makes Yifan sympathize with old people; their longing for open spaces and familiar faces.
Times composed of transparent glass and ringing phones with humans sounding like robots waiting on the other end, crossed-out agendas and crumpled post-its. With his lower back already aching by sitting for hours, Yifan refrains from snapping his head to the right in order to yell at the middle-aged woman and her baby to 'keep it down because god freaking damn it, I’ve just had a long day at work and I still have three more stops to endure so can you please make my life easier by stuffing that baby’s mouth with a cloth or something. Also, just because you have a child doesn’t excuse you for not taking care of yourself woman. I’ll gladly give you a shower set if we’re friends and if I’m filthy rich.'
Yifan diverts his attention to his hands, as to not feed that nagging voice inside his head-the one that nitpicks on microscopic details regarding every one and every thing that has ever graced this planet. Lay’s the lone human being who’d sewn himself a blanket of immunity against that voice.
Yifan is unfashionably resting on a cramped train with strangers when he wonders about them; which of these people has a home to go to, which one doesn’t. He looks around, thinking that maybe the girl with the messy bun and lazy eyes has a lover waiting for her at the next stop, and the guy dressed in all black is a painter-a hypothesis encouraged by the liquid yellows and reds underneath his fingernails. Conversations are exchanged through whispers behind cupped hands, Yifan wants to know if they’re talking about things that really matter (i love you’s, you’re beautiful, what’s next morning’s breakfast), and not just the trivial things every one fidgets non-stop about (debts, bills, sales, did you hear the winner of last night’s soccer match?).
The shrill cry of the baby beside him earns dubious looks. He ignores them.
The train, like time and every thing else, drags on forward. Yifan looks down at his wristwatch-which is rude enough to remind him he still has half an hour to spare before arriving home to Lay and his marvelous cooking. Yifan makes a mental note to tell Lay that if the whole police investigator thing doesn’t work out, there are hundreds of restaurants that would hire him.
༺
When the alarm clock and its constant rings failed to wake Jongin up, nature takes it upon herself to do it. Nine o’clock sunlight peeks through the slit between the binders, hitting Jongin’s closed eyelids with scorching light until they slowly blink open. Fuck, was the first word that he uttered under his breath on his second day as a free man. Sluggish thoughts and the faded sense of reality which always occurs the first few seconds of consciousness. He unwillingly parts with his bed as he waits for everything to make sense.
His name is Kim Jongin. He’s twenty-three and he kills for a living. Yesterday, he got out of the mental asylum he’s been confined to for two years-connections and strings were pulled to decrease the length of his stay there. He works for Sehun alongside Jongdae and Tao (where the fuck is he now), above tens and hundreds of people behind cashiers and bars, smuggling ammos and drugs, grenades and things slapped with fraud all over the surface. He lives in a nice and totally not-ostentatious house owned by their familia. And today, he’s going to see Oh Sehun who’s going to brief him about his first, and possibly grandest, task for the year.
By the minute he’s got it all sorted out, his teeth has already been brushed to lodge traces of the toast and coffee he had for breakfast, got his fingernails cut, worn a proper dress-shirt and trousers, covered his feet with socks and leather shoes. Ready.
༺
“I don’t understand your fascination with the mafia. Why would you want to involve yourself with them? Others just leave them alone. I don’t see why you shouldn’t do the same,” Yifan sneaks up behind Lay who’s engrossed in the avalanche of printed papers on his wooden desk.
Lay holds up two pictures and concentrates on them. Yifan’s previous remarks for the past hour dismissed like flies. Seven minutes of staring and sighing, the tall blonde man retreats to the soft couch, venting frustration under his breath. This is what a normal weekend is composed of: delicious dinner to be followed by a few minutes of making out before Lay would get too impatient and go back to attend his cases. Being in love with a private investigator is never easy, but Yifan does his best to get through it.
“Why didn’t the police did anything regarding the Kim Minseok case? It says here that there were a handful of eye witnesses who identified the suspect since it was done publicly. Why didn’t you get the suspect arrested?” Suspecting words slice the haze of silence. Yifan’s left hand clenches to a fist out of instinct.
“Leave it Lay, don’t bother yourself with that. The case has been closed.”
“But you’re a part of the Seoul National Police! I’m sure that you have the authority to look through this! Why didn’t you do anything?”
“There are some things that are better left untouched. Questions left unanswered. Give it a break, Yixing.” Heaviness stains Yifan’s voice as he speaks. He departs to their bedroom, leaving an enraged Lay behind. He knows that if he stays, Lay would prod the details out of him. Details that would anger his lover to the point of action.
༺
Lit mirrors against the wall, two strangers holding onto brushes, papers and photographs scattered over the couch and coffee table, Sehun’s brows knitted together; these things greeted Jongin when he arrived in Sehun’s house-otherwise known as their secret hideout.
“What’s going on?” Jongin sits down beside Sehun.
“This is how we’ll conduct your mission,” Sehun turns to Jongin, their faces so close to each other. Sehun smells like book pages and roses. A weird combination that Jongin finds intoxicating. “I’ll explain the details to you while Sungjong and Woohyun here take care of you. All you have to do is shut up, sit down and listen. Try to not interrupt, please.”
That explains the odd, waiting pair. Jongin walks over to them with a curt nod. Girly guy ushers Jongin to a tall chair, one that directors might use while filming.
Sehun fills him in as the pair maneuvers their hands over his hair and face, touching his features and examining Jongin as if he’s an antique that’s about to get displayed in a museum. “Jongdae and I arranged everything. We made sure that there won’t be any loopholes or blind spots in what you’re about to do. You might think of it as a suicide mission, but if you succeed, and I’m sure that you will, then familia Mannoia would be history.”
This time, the feminine guy is alone with blunt scissors in his hand and a thin comb on the other. After hushed whispers with his partner, he begins parting Jongin’s hair in sections. Running the comb over. Pause. Cut and swipe. Sehun goes on, “Minseok’s murderer was named D.O, after asking around about him from trusted and some not-so-trusted people, we discovered that he’s the second in charge of the familia after Luhan. Looks like he’s also a big deal. This is who you’ll kill.”
Through the dark veil of cascading chunks of hair, Jongin could see Sehun handing him a picture. It’s of a man looking sidewards, the angle betrays the fact that a hidden photographer took it. The guy has a haystack of black hair framing a small face with soft features; upper lip a little bit too puffed, thick eyebrows cast over large, dark brown eyes that look like a child’s-trusting and innocent. The one in the picture seems like he can’t even hurt a fly, or ant, much less shoot someone nine times.
“Peculiar little thing, isn’t he? Don’t be deceived, though. That is D.O,” Sehun goes on talking confidently. The hands on Jongin’s hair are gone. They were now fussing over opening bottles and pouring contents over a plastic bowl. “While you weren’t here, D.O started to work for Luhan. We don’t know where he’s from, just that he rose like an eagle over Seoul, assassinating certain individuals that were too important for their underlings to handle.”
“He’s a hitman too,” Jongin nods, more to himself. “Is he better than I am?”
Sehun raises an eyebrow, watching as the two men applied some mixture on Jongin’s hair. “You’ll have to find out for yourself. This is where your mission will begin and end. With D.O. Kill him, sabotage their familia, and bring Luhan to me. I’ll deal with him myself.”
Whenever Sehun is hiding something, his lips would twitch to the left. Jongin knows this, just like how he knows almost all of Sehun’s quirks and habit. Sehun’s lips move to the left, but Jongin doesn’t ask anything. “You make it sound easy, why would this be a suicide mission?”
“Because,” Sehun stares at him straight in the eye. “You’re going to be joining their familia. They’ve never seen you, which makes you the perfect ally. No one knew Kim Jongin. But it’s cool since you won’t be him anymore. You will be Kai. And Kai, would avenge Minseok and save all of us.”
༺
Mirrors never lie. They might distort or change your perspective, but they’ll never lie. The cold glass in front of Jongin shows him a man who looks like he should be sashaying down a runway somewhere in Europe, not fidgeting in a clean bathroom somewhere in Seoul. The brushed-back chocolate hair and shaded brows, layered clothing, hid traces of the easy going guy underneath. He looks and feels different. Jongin turns his body to the side, then tilts his head, as if doing that would help him locate evidences of the person he used to be.
He takes a deep breath and leans forward. This is it. Kai. Not Kim Jongin. Kai. Going to infiltrate enemy ground. Kai. Kill D.O
For a second, he stops in his chant and wonders if what he’s about to do is worth it. Then he hears Sehun’s voice somewhere beyond the door and it strengthens his resolve. This is what he was meant to do. This is what will make Sehun happy and he loves Sehun. Enough to do something that could potentially put his life in great danger. For Sehun.
He smiles. The reflection follows. Kai follows.
༺
Two days later, Yifan whispers the dark deeds of the mafia to Lay’s ear as the later drapes an arm over Yifan’s bare chest. Six in the morning finds the two of them tangled in pillows and limbs, above white sheets with creases caused by heated bodies, struggling lips and wandering fingers. Somewhere between Lay’s passionate kisses and volatile pleading, Yifan sighs and tells him all about the two rival families Blanco and Mannoia-who they are, what they do, and what the authorities don’t do about them.
Yixing’s sharp gasps reminds Yifan why he hid it from his lover and best friend for five years in the first place. Having been surrounded by a family with officials devoted to justice, Yixing somehow inherited a portion of let’s fight for what is right gene, causing him to seek for retribution and fairness in the dirty alleyways of Seoul. Yifan spends half of his life wondering whether or not he should love this about Yixing.
“I can’t believe this. You’re just letting them get away with murder and smuggling and devious crimes,” Invisible fumes slithers out of Lay’s ears and nose like a train preparing to embark.
Yifan trails kisses from Lay’s temple to his lips, then down to his sensitive neck. “You have to understand. Some things work unplanned, and not following the status quo could put everyone in danger. If only you knew.”
One thing that Lay can’t be with Yifan’s warmth so close to him is calm and coherent. Deciding to interrogate this certain, blonde man when he’s not having unholy thoughts, Lay smiles and accepts the invitation on Yifan’s mouth. A kiss there, a quick whisper here, a lick on the underside of his wrist, trails of love bites on his chest. Things like these has Lay scorching like skies on a July sunset.
“What? What did I do wrong? Why are you staring at me like that? Are you okay?” Yifan inquires after he sees Lay’s eyes glistening with tears.
“Nothing, it’s just..” Lay takes a deep breath. “Thank you.”
“What for? I didn’t do anything spectacular yet neither did I buy you anything lately.”
“No you dummy,” Lay reaches out his hand to trace the outlines of Yifan’s hard jaw. Lay takes his time, fingertips resting on defined bones as if he’s trying to commit it to memory. Lay likes how the reading lamp’s yellow lights hit Yifan’s face in just the right angle; emphasizing his golden hair and brightening his eyes. “Thank you because you’re here. I know that I’m not really the best person to be with, but I’ll have you know that I appreciate how you try to adjust so that we don’t have to fight. Thank you, Yifan. Thanks for calling my office every three-thirty just to tell me you miss me. Thank you, I love you.”
Yifan blinks back something like tears. 'I love you, too' he thinks, but locks his lips with Lay instead of letting them dance around the atmosphere. He never said those three words. But sometimes, when he stares at Lay smiling at him, Yifan knows that he knows it, even if the universe can’t grasp how much that love is.
༺
Jongdae struts down Seoul in the sea of unfamiliar faces while digging his fingernails against his palm because he can’t recall whether Minseok smelled like thyme or baby lotion.
He shivers and hugs himself even though the weather man said that it’d be in high thirties today. Liar. Maybe the weatherman is accurate, and the coldness in his marrows is just brought by fear. Jongdae isn’t scared of knives or kidnappings, threats or committing murder. He wouldn’t be in this business if things like that pulls him undone. What gets him on edge however, are t-shirts that are slowly losing the scent of its owner, journal pages that’d never get written down. Sometimes, death isn’t as scary as losing evidences of your existence.
He walks and walks, looking straight ahead until he arrived in Sehun’s house-where he realized that he could have saved himself all the trouble by taking his car instead of walking for half an hour. The defensive side of his brain reasons out that what he did was a good thing. Less pollution for mother earth. More exercise. Better environment, more fresh air. Other names for unhindered stupidity and excessive bullshit.
Jongdae’s eyes land on the built of a man who looks like Kim Jongin (but not really) as he walks around Sehun’s rose garden. “Jongin?”
“It’s Kai,” he grins and Jongdae mimics it.
“So you agreed, huh.”
Kim Jongin-aka Kai saunters closer to Jongdae and Jongdae could tell it was Kai because there’s a rehearsed cocky grin plastered on his stupid burnt face, and his hands aren’t shoved in his pockets anymore. Kim Jongin is reserved and can’t live without hiding his hands on his pockets as a habit. A stupid habit perhaps, but it was still Kim Jongin’s habit.
“It wasn’t like I had a choice. Come to think of it, it’s not like we have a say on anything,” he sighs as if he’s traveled the whole world and witnessed every misery it held. “My father was a Mafioso too. He worked for Sehun’s father here, but I was born in Japan and grew up there. I only went back when I was sixteen, and that’s when I was introduced to this universe.”
Sunlight makes the leaves on the garden appear dewy and fresh; it captures Jongdae’s attention as he leans closer to touch it. “I know that, you don’t have to tell me your history.”
“I know you know,” Kim Jongin slips both hands in his pockets, figuring that there’s no need to be pretentious around Jongdae. “Tell me something about Minseok.”
“He’s your friend, too. You know Minseok.”
Jongin bends down to inhale a whiff of a white rose’s petal. Sehun takes really good care of them. “He is, but I didn’t know him as well as you did. Don’t forget that I didn’t see him or you or anyone for two years. Tell me something about him.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask,” Jongin chuckles. “If I’m gonna go and do the equivalent of hanging my neck on a rope, then don’t I deserve the right to know a few stuff about one of the people I’m doing this for? I might be gone for more than a month, depends on the situation and strategy. So tell me something to remember him by.”
The melody of the birds’ songs and the rustling of leaves as they’re swayed by the wind interrupts the silence between them. Jongdae squares his shoulders before answering, “Minseok. Last year, he defeated more or less fifty men by himself in a room. Arm to arm combat, sort of like the dorky, human baozi version of Jackie Chan.”
“Big things are what makes us heroes, not humans. Tell me something small.”
“Erm, he hates cutting his nails. It’s the only feminine fetish he has. I hated those long fingernails. I once cut them short when he was fast asleep and when he woke up and saw them, he didn’t talk to me until they grew back again. Silent treatment for two weeks.” Jongdae shakes his head. “And now…. If I have one more chance with him, then I swear to the heavens that I’d let Minseok keep those cursed nails uncut forever and kiss them every single day of it.”
The birds keep on singing, the leaves on rustling. This time, no words shatter the silence because Kai knows he’s a part of a fire department that can douse a burning house, but never recover what was burnt down.
༺
“What’re you working on?” Chanyeol asks, but thanks to the toffee he’s chewing, it comes out as watch-ar-youu-er-ing-ern?
Kyungsoo doesn’t look up from what he’s reading on his phone, but he still replies because he hadn't been raised to be rude. Even if his sometimes-annoying, chihuahua-resembling friend deserves the cold shoulder. “Files about this guy named Kai. Last week, I’ve been hearing his name in some shops and casinos and got curious. Turns our he’s just released from a mental asylum because what he did was too psychotic and dangerous for prison. I wonder what he was sent in for.”
“Maybe it was mass murder or something. What have you got so far? And what are you planning?” Television lights reveal Chanyeol’s face and his snoopy-pattered pajamas in the dark. If you don’t understand the line ‘a child in an adult’s body’, feel free to come see Park Chanyeol.
“I’ve been asking around and all people tell me is that he’s an amazing hitman, but I don’t think he got sent to an asylum because he was busted. I’m curious because we could use an extra hand around here. We’re fine but it won’t hurt to have someone with me whenever I’m collecting incentives or debts or lives. You and Baekhyun have it easy, all you two ever do is to collect vigs from loansharking. And avoid making Luhan mad . . .. “ Kyungsoo trails off, losing Chanyeol somewhere between extra hand and debts.
༺
When word about Kai circulates through the thick walls of a high-end restaurant, twirling down to the wide, filthy streets with their rocky grounds and flickering street lights, Sehun knows he’s done his part quite well. Step one was to make ‘Kai’, and the second was to get his name familiarized in the same circle where familia mannoia comes lurking around. Now all they have to do is to devour the bait, and the rest is another chapter in the book.
As a self-proclaimed reward for the hours poured into working and polishing their plans, Sehun steps inside ‘Haven’-a particularly light and cozy coffee shop sporting unbelievably fluffy decorations such as stuffed animals beside the cashier, blackboards where menu lists are scribbled in pastel chalks, and the gayest out of them all: Kim Joonmyun who owns the place. If you ask Sehun, he’d tell you that Joonmyun must be in his forties, considering how he’s been running this place since Sehun was just an elementary kid with an awkward bowl haircut and an undying love for sugary drinks.
But no one ever asks Sehun because one look at Joonmyun and people assumes that the old fart is still shaking his bonbons in his early twenties. Their naivete is infuriating and incoherent and it drives Sehun crazy to the point where he makes it his life mission to proclaim ‘Kim Joonmyun is forty-three years old’ every single time his feet would rest on Joonmyun’s property. And that’s what he does now while inhaling the sweet scent of coffee and something like strawberries that perpetually clings to the wooden walls of the shop. “Kim Joonmyun is forty-three years old and has prostate cancer!”
A stuffed elephant flies to Sehun’s face. Customers chuckle at this childish display before attending their orders, going on with their non-miserable lives. Seeing Joonmyun’s annoyed face reminds Sehun why he cherishes this little shop so much. He could have gone to a fancier cafe, with owners who control themselves from flinging stuffed animals in your face and actually look like their real age, but Sehun doesn’t. Like a devoted fan, Sehun goes out of his way every Saturday night to drive for twenty-five miles just to visit Joonmyun. This place, in general.
“I already prepared your drink, I knew you’d be here. You look really happy today, it’s creepy to be honest.” Joonmyun shares.
“I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” Sehun mumbles, walking past the counter to shove Joonmyun’s shoulder’s playfully. An avocado-flavored bubble tea waits beside the cashier, he grabs it with a smile before bending down to fit himself in the mini-cubbyhole under the counter. Wearing loose sweaters, casual jeans and a pair of Converse shoes while being squeezed under the counter of a cafe he considers gay, is out of character for Sehun.
Joonmyun knows who Sehun is and what he does right now, but they’re both aware that Joonmyun still sees the child version of Sehun. To Joonmyun, Sehun is eternally frozen at twelve-when he blushes over tiny things and adored white roses. The young Sehun who was connected to the hips of another young boy, who loved the red roses Sehun can’t stand. “How’s life, Sehun?”
“Good,” The avocado flavor of his drink spills over his taste buds. His tongue is now infiltrated with the sugary taste of heaven. “Joonmyun, do you think he’ll be able to find me?”
“Joonmyun, do you think he’ll be able to find me?” Oh Sehun, eleven years old and proud of discovering this wonderful hiding place, mischievously inquired.
“I’m sure he won’t. Maybe he will. I don’t know. Do you want him to find you?”
“No no! This is hide and seek! I would lose if I’m found.”
“I’m sure he won’t. Maybe he will. I don’t know. Do you want him to find you?” Joonmyun echoes the words of thirteen years ago. Every time, they seem to follow that script, that particular conversation they had before discovering that Sehun’s friend left for good, and Sehun changed for the worst. Started to hunt instead of hide, counted victims instead of seconds, drained hope instead of grasping for them, kissed strangers instead of lovers, grew white roses and promised himself they won’t ever be stained red again.
Joonmyun stops punching in cash when Sehun’s reply didn’t go like ‘No no! This is hide and seek! I would lose if I’m found’, instead he hears a whispered. “Yes, I want him to find me.”
༺
There are things that you can get used to easily: waking up to be greeted by sunshine and trees, having the opportunity to see the person you love everyday, sleeping whenever the fuck you feel like because no one’s around to scold you, being surrounded by walls without CCTV cameras operated by drowsy guards who are really just waiting for you to throw a fit or injure yourself so they will finally witness some action spicing up their otherwise monotonous lives.
Kim Jongin could get accustomed to drowning cups of coffee into his system before getting on with his new life as ‘Kai’. As hours morph into days and days into weeks, Jongin slithers back into the familiar routine of visiting Sehun’s house, coming out of the blue unannounced. He might have the Kai persona, but four in the afternoon calls out to Jongin’s nerves to sneak up at the second floor of Sehun’s house-an old habit the years withheld from him, and now Jongin is determined to appreciate every single second out of this stolen moment.
He climbs up the stairs with extra caution on his footsteps, conscious of how Sehun dislikes being disrupted when he’s playing. It takes fifteen steps to from the end of the wooden stairwell to Sehun’s music room. A short distance he’s more than willing to cover carrying his heart on his throat.
The melody of caused by pressed piano keys after another has Jongin coming undone. He’s as helpless as the keys underneath Sehun’s fingertips which keeps urging on a series of notes and raw harmony. Jongin wants to believe there’s a recorder inside of him, capturing the emotions through Sehun’s music that he never gets a chance to see through his eyes or hear through Sehun’s lips. Jongin wants to treat Sehun like the last air molecule inside an oxygen tank.
There are things that you can get used to easily, and caring for someone who might as well be a statue isn’t one of them. He slides down, with his back against the wall. He loathes how the empty space indicates there should have been another body beside him, sort of like how air bubbles can tell there’s still space in something that’s drowning. Sehun should have been closer, except that he isn’t and there’s nothing Jongin can do because you can never modify a statue or teach it how to love you back.
༺
It was D.O who discovered Kai five days later.
Revealed by the bleeding neons and yellows spreading throughout the dirty gravel, D.O sees Kai piercing the ozone layer with his cloud of smoke. It’s obvious in the awkward way in which Kai nestles his cigarette between his fingers that he’s new to what he’s doing. Strangers with even stranger faces drift past them like waves in the sea, but all D.O could register was the tanned man’s stillness in a place where everything was in constant motion.
D.O approaches Kai with an extra stiffness in his shoulders. He clears his throat. Kai turns. D.O finally understands his cousin who fangirls over superficial idols, especially when he inhales tobacco and heavy cologne. “Aren’t you feeling hot? It’s like above thirties tonight.”
“Not really, I feel cold inside. I’m Kai,” he smiles, but it comes out as a smirk and D.O doesn’t know what to make of him. Kai thinks that the pictures didn’t do any justice to D.O’s squishiness.
“I know. I’m D.O, but of course you already know that,” D.O smiles back and it’s only because he swears Kai’s smirk is contagious. Around them, cars zoom past with their dangerous fumes, people walk with even dangerous motives. It isn’t until D.O hears honking in the distance when he remembers what he originally came here for. He doesn’t look at Kai when he speaks, “You’ve got something I want.”
“Everyone wants something from me. I’m Kai,”
“Shut up or your name would be the last thing you’ll ever say,” D.O falters when Kai trains his chocolate eyes on him. “Let’s just talk about this some place else. I’ve got a proposal to make.”
༺
Beforehand, Sehun had made sure D.O knew where to find Kai and Kai would be right there. D.O’s lips move in the dark, and Kai knows that the gears are turned on; this is the point of no return. D.O dragged them into a dim attic inside an atramentous club, the beating walls alerting Kai to raise awareness. This is enemy ground and D.O is his best chance of survival.
“Were you listening to anything that I said?” D.O asks and stops himself from pouting because that is a Kyungsoo thing to do. Exposing his soft side to strangers is never good, even though they’re hot and pleasetakemehomerightnow strangers.
Kai moves up from D.O’s lips to his eyes, to realize that they’re both inside a cramped room and practically interchanging the same air molecules. His thoughts aren’t about capos or whether or not switch blades are better than swiss army knives, but on D.O’s cheeks and how they resemble soft, pallid lily petals-and where the fuck did he even get that idea, he doesn’t even like lilies. Kai doesn’t take the tiny gun behind his back to shoot D.O, it isn’t a part of the plan. The plan was to infiltrate and slowly break their family down, so thoughts about gunshots are temporarily banned. It takes Kai a while to reply, “No, I wasn’t listening well, but you mentioned something about proof, loyalty, and no invitations, right?”
“I did. What I wanted to tell you was that Luhan’s interested in you. But I’m sure that you know how things work around here, Kai. In order to be a made man, prove yourself,” D.O fishes for something in his pocket before producing a photograph. Kai wonders what’s up with mobs and their pictures. He takes it anyway. “That’s Lay. A detective. Normally, our family’s got a good grip on the authorities, but some of our associates reported that this guy is snooping around and asking questions he has no right asking. Luhan has this motto, you know, he keeps telling us that little snowballs would roll and turn into bigger snowballs that can cause trouble.”
Kai studies the sharp contours, determined eyes, the clean haircut. Lay. “The point is?”
“The point is, Lay is a small snowball, and Luhan wants you to melt him before it turns big.” Moving in closer despite the cramped space, D.O catches Kai off guard with a grin. “Get him down with a bang and you’ll go up with a whisper."
part two; one shot