(for everyone) A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Death

[parkourdeer]

For: Everyone
Title: A Gentleman’s Guide to Love and Death
Pairings: Kai/D.O
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 10,200
Warnings: Character death(s)
Summary: Kyungsoo doesn’t like answering questions. Jongin doesn’t ask anyway.
Author’s Note: so i ended up mashing two of your prompts together. i really enjoyed writing this, and i don't know if it will fit your taste, but i really hope you like it.



“Wait, is this thing on?” a guy with a voice sounding like it was affected by all the helium the Earth has to offer squints at the camera as he struggles with the buttons. “Oh it’s turned on. Perfect.” He continues walking, stopping only when he’s in front of his destination. The front door of the student council’s office looks friendlier on-screen than it does in person, and Jongin, who watches everything happening from his laptop, tilts his head to the side, wondering what the dumb kid has to do with the student council.

“What do you think about Do Kyungsoo?” Huang Zitao, the cameraman-slash-interviewer hands over a microphone that isn’t even plugged in and zooms the camera closer to Kim Junmyeon’s face, but the latter is already deep in thought, the gap between his eyebrows creasing to form lines to even bother.

“Hmmm… How do I even begin describing Do Kyungsoo?” He ponders, and Jongin thinks that the student council’s president is too nice to not tell off his best friend even though he obviously has a lot of better things to do than answer such a question.

The video cuts out before Junmyeon could give a reply and someone else is answering the question. “He has a really nice voice. I heard him practicing when I passed by the auditorium once, on my way to class.” Zhang Yixing, the president of the school’s official dance troupe says, nodding to affirm that his memory isn’t that rusty and is still reliable.

“What’s this?” A different face graces the screen, and the name of the person barely even registers in Jongin’s mind before it’s snatched away by another pair of hands. “Sehun you little piece of shit, stay away from my camera!” Jongin recognizes that as Zitao, probably suffering from a mental breakdown because he doesn’t want anyone touching his camera.

The camera’s focus is now adjusted well enough for Jongin to see the laughing face of someone he recognizes from his football class, someone who’s only a bit younger than him. “Now back to the question.” Zitao says in a grim voice, as if talking to this kid was bad news. Well, it probably was, Jongin thinks, knowing the kid’s reputation.

“He’s got a really nice butt.” Oh Sehun, the trickiest from the bunch of lined up freshmen sitting on a lunch table laughs heartily, his eyes disappearing into perfect crescents that Zitao is reminded of that guy from an anime show he’s been watching who seems to never open his eyes. “It’s really soft and squishy. Like his cheeks.”

The interviewer’s ears perk up in excitement, but nobody notices it because of the ridiculous fedora hat that he’s wearing, immersed in the belief that he is a detective that is giving such a big help in solving a really complicated case. Jongin doesn’t see it either, since he’s not really there and just looking at the event through his laptop’s screen, but he notices the enthusiasm in Zitao’s voice. “Really? Then you must be really good friends with him, then!”

Sehun continues laughing. “No man, I was just messing with him that time. I landed in the infirmary right after that. But it was worth it.” He receives an eye roll from Zitao in return.

“One time, he punched me in the face because I called him ‘over a hundred and sixty-eight centimeters of cuteness’. It was awesome.” Kim Jongdae, self-declared ballerina and dancing machine sighs dreamily. His best friend, Kim Minseok reaches over the table separating them to flick him in the nose. “Your nose almost needed replacement, and you still think it’s awesome?”

Jongdae rubs a hand on the spot where Minseok had hit him. “Yeah, of course. We’re practically block mates, but that was the only time he noticed me.”

“Kim Jongdae, you are such an impossible human being.” Minseok sighs, defeated and willing to give up life just to restore his best friend’s sanity. Zitao makes sure that he caught everything on camera.

“What about you then, hyung? What do you think about him?” He asks in broken Korean, accent sharp. Nonetheless, Minseok understands him.

“Well, he’s definitely not good news. He looks like a cute stuff toy that can be used as a punching bag, but you just didn’t know that it so happens that it was rigged to punch you back three times harder. I even heard once that he punched a guy in the face back in middle school, and that guy never woke up ever since.” Minseok shakes his head repeatedly and crosses his arms over his chest. “I don’t think that’s true though, that’s probably one of those rumors that got pretty exaggerated.”

Zitao steers away from the two best friends who started bickering about Kyungsoo’s ability to punch when he sees a figure enter the cafeteria.

“Do Kyungsoo? Who the hell’s th-Oh, Minseok! Come over here and let me love you!” Luhan, star player and captain of the football team runs after the love of his life who suddenly flees off faster than the speed of light, away from the impending doom to come. The interviewer shakes his head, thinking that he should clearly steer away from the path of obsessed football players chasing after the objects of their affection.

He turns to find a couple a few feet away, fighting over who has the best claiming rights over a cup of black soda the taller one is holding, and he approaches them to ask the usual question, wary of the carbonated drink threatening to spill from the cup, although it was closed. He prays that its lid was tightly put on, not wanting to send his clothes to the dry cleaner’s since it was his favorite ensemble.

“He is Satan’s hell spawn. He is the personification of evil. He-Ow!” Byun Baekhyun pinches Park Chanyeol’s side, earning a glare from the taller guy.

“C’mon Yeollie, he’s not that bad. He’s just-“

“Associating with demons. Even with Satan himself. Practicing the art of witchcraft even in his sleep.” Chanyeol cuts in.

“-Misunderstood.” Baekhyun finishes his sentence. “Really Yeol, it isn’t his fault that you got diarrhea.”

“But I got diarrhea right after I looked him in the eye for three seconds! He jinxed me!” Chanyeol flails his arms around like a mad man to prove his point, to the extent of almost hitting himself with his long limbs.

“Excuse him, he has issues” Baekhyun smiles apologetically into the camera. It wobbles up and down, going along with the bobbing head of the person holding it. “I… could see that…”

“Someone told me that he was the son of a penguin and a marshmallow and was genetically engineered to look like a human.” Wu Yifan confidently says into the camera, sure of himself. Zitao wonders how the hell the guy became the team captain of the basketball team. Probably because of his height. And the tattoo on his arm that could make anyone within a close range wary of his intentions.

“…Or you’re probably just really hungry.” Zitao mutters before the camera stops recording with a click.

The frame pans back to Junmyeon, hands clasped together over his desk. “Do Kyungsoo… Well, he seems to be a really nice guy.” Junmyeon finally answers. “Even if I’ve been hearing rumors circulating around the campus that he’s the next primo of some mafia, I highly doubt that he’s someone like that.” His smile is gentle, and Zitao is sure that this is part of the reason why he was elected as the president. “I don’t think he’s anything near being a bad person.” He gives a thumbs-up. “Okay?”

The camera bumps into a nose, zooming in on dark bags under heavy-lidded eyes, and the guy adjusts it so that he’ll look his best. Huang Zitao greets the camera enthusiastically, waving a lot of times before going directly to the whole point of what he’s supposed to say. “Hi! When you asked me to dig up information about Do Kyungsoo, the only thing I could think about is making something like a documentary. So here I am, making this!” his background is moving up and down but never changes, so Jongin concludes that he must be sitting on one of the seats on the swing set on the recreational area near the university.

Someone approaches the swing Zitao is sitting on from the back, but Jongin doesn’t know who it is, because all he can see are black pants and a black, long-sleeved shirt. The person grabs the chains holstering the seat and connecting it to the metal bars. That certain someone props his chin over Zitao’s shoulder his face looming over the camera’s lens and Jongin is surprised to see wide eyes greet him from the television screen. “Who told you to investigate about me?” Zitao suddenly jumps up in shock and falls down on his ass, but he somehow manages to save the camera from getting any damages. He disappears from the scene faster than you could say dishonor, and all Jongin could see is concrete ground, followed by the tap-tap-tapping sound of gold-colored rubber shoes hitting the pavement, muttering curses in Chinese.

“Oh dear god, I thought I was going to die.” He pants heavily, feet still on the move and camera still focused on the ground. “The things I do for our friendship. You owe me the latest version of a DSLR camera and a new pair of shoes, Kim Jongin!” the video ends there, and Jongin’s laughter bounces off the walls of his apartment, void of human occupants other than himself.

He fishes out his phone from his pocket, still laughing and hands shaking uncontrollably from too much laughter. He dials a number he has memorized by heart, the person on the other end of the line picking up after three rings. “Hello, Huang Zitao? I believe I owe you a camera?”

“And a new pair of shoes,” Zitao corrects. “Never forget the shoes.” Zitao corrects. But he, too, is smiling.

“I didn’t know you live here too.” A voice speaks up from behind Jongin, and he suddenly finds himself sprawled on the ground beneath him, maple-colored leaves crunching under his weight, face frozen in shock and mouth open in surprise.

He is staring up at the face of someone he never expected to see outside the four walls of a poorly air-conditioned room situated four doors from the stairwell of the third floor of the school building, painted in all white, windows covered with rows of green curtains, and he is instantly reminded of that time he took a peek at the scenery below, from where the window was overlooking a vast expanse of a garden and sees a well built from maroon-hued bricks as he stares up at those dark brown eyes, attempting to navigate its depths.

“What? Never seen a human before?” Kyungsoo says, taking his time and making small steps forward, but Jongin doesn’t detect any malice in the older guy’s voice, so he assumes that the guy meant it as a joke. He isn’t aware that his mouth is still hanging open until Kyungsoo squats down to his level and pushes his chin up with small, delicate fingers, saying “Better leave that closed, unless you want flies getting in it,” and Jongin is embarrassed because he sure did look much like an idiot. Way to go at making a first impression.

He clears his throat, still feeling the tingle from where Kyungsoo touched his chin earlier. “I-uhm… I uh… I’ve been living around here since last year.” He immediately dusts off the dirt that had gathered on his sweat pants. He instantly regrets ever coming out of his apartment wearing only the most comfortable clothes he could find and not the designer jeans that his mom bought him but never really wore because they were choking his balls and killing his thighs.

“Ah, is that so,” Kyungsoo nods, although he seems to be thinking about something else. “Well, I’ve only moved to this neighborhood around a week ago.”Jongin wants to ask him when exactly, because he’s sure someone would’ve tipped him off if someone moved in, especially if that person moved in alone. Even rich people liked to gossip. Especially those who lived around their area. “Care to show me around?”

“I-uh-what?”Jongin stutters and Kyungsoo’s cold guy aura fades as his lips crack into a smile, the expression making him look like a five-year old boy. “You seriously need to work out on your speech.”

“Sorry.” Jongin mutters an apology, head hanging low and cheeks flaming in embarrassment. He looks up when he feels a hand patting him on the shoulder, and is met with a warm smile from Kyungsoo that he never thought he’d see, most especially since all he thought the older one could do was brood, look blank and stare as if he would crush the whole world on your head.

“Here’s the deal: show me around town, maybe even help me with the architecture assignment?” Kyungsoo asks, and Jongin has to stop himself from nodding enthusiastically. “What’s the catch?”

“What catch?”

“I mean, what do I get in return for helping you?” Kyungsoo seems to contemplate about this for a bit too, but he settles for, “You’ll be graced by my ever cheerful presence. That’s enough of a deal, right?”Jongin isn’t convinced, but he agrees anyway because this is Do Kyungsoo, and he won’t let an opportunity like this pass up.

Later that day, after they’ve taken pictures of the old buildings in the city left to be preserved by the city government, he makes a call to Zitao, asking the older guy to “investigate” something (or rather, someone) for him.

“Why’d you take up architecture as an elective, though? It has nothing to do with music.” Jongin asks the second time they meet. It’s a Saturday, so most people are probably going to the mall to hang out with their friends.

The pre-autumn breeze sways the leaves along to its rhythm, and Jongin snaps a photo of a lone dandelion in amongst a sea of daisies. “I mean, I know that not all of the students in that class major in architecture, but I’m just curious. Since… well, you’re the only classmate I’ve ever talked to from that subject that doesn’t take up the course.”
He wonders how the flower got wind up there in the first place, but Kyungsoo’s laugh interrupts his train of thought. “Why, is it wrong to choose it? Is something wrong with architecture? Enlighten me please. You should probably know, since you’re the architecture major here.” He stands up from where he was squatting earlier to get a better shot of the flowers scattered around the clearing and finds that he doesn’t even have an answer to the question.

However, Kyungsoo was looking at him expectantly from beneath his eyes shadowed over by a black New York Yankees cap whose color was starting to fade, digital camera in hand that seems comparatively small to the DSLR camera whose strap hangs around Jongin’s neck, that he couldn’t even breathe properly anymore. And it’s not that Jongin’s insulting Kyungsoo, he just wonders how Kyungsoo could afford to live in their kind of neighborhood, where only the well-off could ever possibly live in, when all he wears to school are clothes that look a few sizes bigger than him that they seem to actually be second hand, all in different shades of gloomy colors but preferably black.

Jongin never seems to fail at stuttering at least once whenever Kyungsoo asks him a question or replies with a rhetorical answer. “I don’t-I didn’t-“

Kyungsoo laughs again, and Jongin is reminded of the daisies filling the meadow, of innocence and pure bliss. He thinks of himself as the dandelion, a lone species in an infinitesimal ocean of melodic laughter and squishy cheeks. “Nah, I was just messing with you,” Jongin inhales sharply, caught up in wishing that Kyungsoo would stop teasing him. “It was because I thought Architecture 101 was only about drawing stuff, y’know? And from the sketches I’ve made back in middle school, I think I’ve made pretty decent drawings. I just wasn’t expecting that old guy to give us something as boring as this to make up for fifty percent of the grade though.”

Jongin tilts his head to the side, his curiosity behind Kyungsoo’s statements itching to be noticed more than ever. “But taking pictures of places you’ve never been to isn’t really boring…” he mumbles. Kyungsoo bites down a laugh.

“Well it would’ve been, if it weren’t for you.”

Jongin tosses and turns in his bed that night, unsure of whether he heard Kyungsoo’s words correctly.

Jongin plants his feet on the ground to keep the swing from moving. They’re in a park a few blocks down Jongin’s apartment today, and they decided to stop by the playground and take a rest. Children are running about and chasing each other and playing catch even if they don’t know each other. It’s the perfect day to spend time with someone, Jongin thinks, and he smiles to himself, thinking of the boy beside him. “Kyungsoo-hyung?”

“Yep?” the lighthearted twinkle in Kyungsoo’s eyes and the vulnerably open expression in his face throws Jongin aback and makes him go tumbling for words, forgetting Kyungsoo’s violent tendencies whenever taunted and the blatant warnings of his delinquency from the people in Zitao’s documentary, because right now all he sees is the embodiment of an angel and all he can hear are the voices of hundreds of cherubs gathered to form an orchestra and sing songs of praise about the existence of such a creature as Do Kyungsoo.

What would you do if I told you that I like you? “Uh… Err… Nothing. Never mind.” He dismisses the thought away with a wave of a hand, but Kyungsoo isn’t one to easily ignore things like that. “Seriously, what is it? Just tell me already!”

“Tell me something about yourself!” Jongin says instead, sounding a little bit too excited than he’s supposed to be. Although if the change in the pitch of his voice is brought about by excitement or nervousness, Kyungsoo doesn’t notice, for he is too busy in trying not to drown in Jongin’s smiles.

Kyungsoo tilts back his head and laughs shortly, eyes glinting with amusement. “My name is Do Kyungsoo. I’m older than you by a year. I’m majoring in music and I live around here. I don’t know how, but I ended up being classmates with you in a subject that I barely know about.”

“No!” Jongin claps his hands over his mouth when he realizes the single word he had said might cause some misunderstandings between the two of them, a look of pure horror shading his features. Kyungsoo bites back down a laugh, because seeing the younger guy look mortified from his own doing makes him look his age; more youthful, even. “I-I mean… I want to know something about you that isn’t basic information. Not your name, but the story behind it. Not your age, but what you want to be when you become older. Not your course, but your dreams for the future. The things you believe in and don’t want to even think about considering as true.”

Kyungsoo gives him a small smile, and for a moment, Jongin thinks that the older guy would give him some cryptic bullshit quoted from a movie, like a wise sage would from some ninja flick that’s half fight scenes, one-fourth garbled words and one-fourth misleading plot even if the advice wasn’t needed or it wasn’t even relevant to the problem at hand, but his assumption was wrong. “Maybe next time kid.” He answers, even though he wants to properly answer Jongin’s question. With Jongin, Kyungsoo feels at ease, like he isn’t being judged for the slightest movements he does. But one could never be sure, right?

“Next time? Why?” Jongin asks incredulously. “Why not now?”

Kyungsoo shakes his head, pitying the younger male for the lack of sense. “If I told you my whole life story, then wouldn’t it take more than a month to finish everything off?”

Even if he’s known Kyungsoo for quite some time now, Jongin feels like there’s an invisible barrier between them, separating them and preventing them from further deepening their bonds. If you want to start a friendship with someone, aren’t you supposed to know at least a few things about him? Like, what color does he hate seeing? Would he choose a dog over a cat? Does he believe in soul mates and all that bullshit about love? Does he wear boxers or pajamas when sleeping? Or does he sleep naked? (Okay, that last one probably wasn’t important, but still. You get the point)

He feels like he’s an open book and that in the single month that had elapsed since they’ve started doing the project, Kyungsoo knows more about him than he will ever know about Kyungsoo.

And it’s a sad thing, but for someone who’s desperately trying to cling on to something just to keep themselves latched on to their hopes of being with someone they hardly even know, it’s enough.

Jongin’s not the reserved type of guy, but he’s getting the hang of just shutting up and taking everything in. Zitao, noticing this sudden change even goes as far as having a diviner throw out the “evil spirit” invading his body.
“He listens to me now! And even lets me finish my sentences! Surely a demon’s been influencing him!” Zitao cries at the diviner’s passive look.

The woman replies with a tired, “I’m a diviner. I tell people’s futures, not extract demons from their bodies. That’s what an exorcist does. There’s a big difference.”

Zitao could only laugh to hide his shame, feeling his dignity go down the drain. “Then could you tell me my fortune instead, then?”

She shrugs, large hoop earrings hitting her shoulder. “I don’t know, can you?” Jongin regrets why he hasn’t brought his phone out in time to capture the look on his best friend’s face when the latter just got hit by a wave of something called “being out-sassed by someone”.

Jongin’s only mildly surprised with the fact that they went on with their transaction without anyone stopping to snap their fingers in a z formation.

Before they turn to leave after Zitao’s fortune has been told, however, the woman calls out to Jongin, telling him to be wary of whoever he lets in his life, for all ends would surely meet. His eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, but before he could ask her what she meant by that, Zitao is wheeling him away to the door, a grumbled thanks sent in her direction.

The door to the shop closes with finality, and the diviner picks up the paper bills Zitao had left on top of her table. “Poor kid, his future stinks of so much angst.” She says, thumbing through the bills to count them. “I wonder what’ll happen though? Especially if he learns to play his cards right.”

“That woman was a fake, and so was that wig she was wearing,” Zitao fumes on the ride home.

At least he’s keeping his hands on the wheel and his eyes are still on the road. Jongin thinks, not making any comment because he might get snapped at, even though he very much wanted to say that Zitao’s only saying that because she told him that he would never likely be a model for Gucci. “Try Prada, I heard they’re scouting now. Or maybe Chanel?” was what Jongin remembers as her comment after that.

“What’s up with you, though? The fuck she’s saying about endings? Like, what, you’ll be the cause of the end of the world?” Zitao scrunches his nose, distaste over the diviner and her predictions apparent in his voice. “Like, is that the new trend now?” And Jongin would’ve made a funny comment or a witty comeback, except he only says, “I don’t know.”

Zitao glances at his best friend, the thought that Jongin would’ve at least made a joke or remark about that making him want to ask the younger if anything bad had happened that his mood seems to have been put off. Jongin wasn’t one to start conversations, but he wasn’t the type to blatantly show disinterest, either.

Zitao is worried for his friend, but he decides to put it off for next time, feeling as if now’s not the right time to say anything, because he doesn’t know what’s part of the big picture yet.

And if Zitao finally realizes that the sudden shift in Jongin’s behavior all began when he started hanging out with Kyungsoo (even if it was in secret), he doesn’t say anything and just lets it be for now.

Jongin passes by a flower shop on the way home and he stops by, overwhelmed by a great wave of curiosity and the strange urge to buy someone a bouquet of freshly harvested white roses (“It’s just for decoration, I swear!” he argues with himself before getting in). The face of someone familiar greets him over the counter facing the general direction of the door, and he recognizes it as one of the guys from the video Zitao took. Of course, it wouldn’t need anyone glasses and a hawk’s perfect 20/20 vision to know that it was Yixing, the dance prodigy from school.

“Yixing-hyung! You work here?” Jongin greets, and the older immediately returns his bow with a ninety-degree one, something other than his dancing and musical abilities he was famous for.

“Oh, Jongin! It’s nice to see you around here,” Yixing smiles at him, deep dimples showing on his face without much effort. Jongin is reminded of campaigns for world peace and birthday wishes of happiness for everyone, but he shakes the thought away. “Actually my family owns this shop. I just come by on weekends to help.” He explains, putting away the pieces of construction paper that he was cutting earlier and placing them on top of a folder that Jongin passively glanced at and read as a category compilation of different flower species.

“Why’d you drop by, though? Need to buy something for a special someone?” The teasing in Yixing’s tone was light, and there was no need for Jongin to be guilty or defensive about anything, but he blushes bright red anyway, a face that he sees a few seats to his right on a weekly basis and encounters at different places around the city every weekend popping into mind.

“Maybe...” he opts for an open-ended answer, which intrigues Yixing. But the older guy doesn’t press on for details, firmly standing by his principle that if someone isn’t entirely ready of talking about something, you shouldn’t hold it against them.

A variety of purple flowers gets Jongin’s attention from his schoolmate, and he just had to ask what it was, or else… He doesn’t know either. “That’s lavender,” Yixing explains. “It’s usually used for luck. In floriography, it means admiration. Something as harmless as a puppy love”

Yixing leans closer to the counter and clamps a hand around the side of his mouth, as if what he’s going to say is purely top secret. But no one was around, so Jongin isn’t sure why Yixing is whispering. “Legend has it that if you need the urge to go back to the past, all you need is to take hold of a lavender.”

“And… do you believe in any of that?’

“I’m not quite sure. I think people are just saying that because the smell of lavender might have triggered something in them. Maybe something that reminds them of the past, of first loves long forgotten and unrequited love left to go stale over time.” Jongin picks one stalk up and holds it up to his nose, the smell of nostalgia coursing through his olfactory senses and leaving a deep impression of something regrettable, but not really. “But I do want to believe. Because if it was me, I wouldn’t want to lose hope.”

Jongin isn’t quite sure if he understands what Yixing means, but he buys a bouquet of the flowers anyway, the ghost of a heart-shaped smile playing in his mind over and over again.

The flowers end up in a vase on top of his kitchen table, serving as a centerpiece in his own abode instead of as a gift for someone he’s been aching to give them to.

Maybe next time, he tells himself. But somehow, he wonders when that next time will be.

“Can I stay over?” the question surprises Jongin who wasn’t expecting someone knocking at the door of his apartment at six in the morning to ask if he could stay in because he got kicked out of his own apartment. Jongin mumbles something, but Kyungsoo doesn’t quite catch it because his attention is focused on Jongin’s collarbones showing from the low cut shirt he’s wearing. He assumes it’s a yes because Jongin sidesteps to make way for him to pass through, and he slips through the door, not meeting any resistance from the guy he only knew for a few months.

“Wait, how did you know where I lived? Are you stalking me? And-“Kyungsoo holds up a hand to stop Jongin from asking more, because he isn’t really in love with the idea of answering a lot of questions. One of the reasons why he lets himself hang around Jongin is that because the younger doesn’t ask a lot of questions. Sure, he likes asking about this and that, but not much to invade personal space.

“Huang Zitao.” And really, that’s the only answer Jongin needs. He curses his best friend for being too accessible to everyone’s whims, but he’s also thankful that it’s because of the guy that he’s now hanging out with the person he’s always wanted to talk to, but never had the guts to do so.

Jongin wants to know why Kyungsoo is asking him permission to stay over and why it’s his apartment out of all possible places, but he doesn’t ask because he feels like he doesn’t need the question to be answered anyway. He feels like he should just respect Kyungsoo’s decision to let his private life remain disclosed to anyone.

And Kyungsoo was only supposed to stay for a week or so until he has found a new apartment, but Jongin doesn’t let him leave, because, well, he likes the company. It’s been years since he’s last lived with his parents, and he kinda misses being nagged around. It gets quite lonely living the life of a bachelor, but Kyungsoo’s constant presence makes him forget any word related to loneliness.

But even though they’re now living under the same roof, Kyungsoo still remains an enigma, opting to leave for school earlier and even asking Jongin to never tell a single soul the current situation they’re in, never even meeting his eyes and returning the greetings he makes when they’re in school or someplace where their colleagues are also in.

And every day, when Kyungsoo arrives home a little past ten, Jongin would always call out to him, question at the end of his tongue, but he never asks anyway. Because he’s sure Kyungsoo would never want to answer.

Sometimes he wishes he doesn’t pretend to be sleeping the nights when Kyungsoo arrives a few hours past midnight when all he does is wait for the gentle pat of the older male’s footsteps before closing his eyes, but he knows he can’t because he’s scared-scared that Kyungsoo would be offended and leave him there to cope up with his feelings and frustrations.

He closes his eyes and touches his forehead to the cold cement of the lemon-colored wall, hand running over the smooth texture of the barrier. If he could only reach out and touch the person on the other side, then it wouldn’t have to be complicated. But then again, even if they’re near each other, even if they’re already sitting right next to each other, it will all still be the same.

(Except not really, because when he reaches out, he knows he might be able to touch Kyungsoo, but he wouldn’t be able to tell what he’s always wanted to say, anyways)

A rapt knocking came to wake him up from his afternoon nap, and he curses the person for disturbing him in his sleep, swearing that if it’s just one of those door-to-door salesmen, he wouldn’t hesitate to kick them out of the apartment complex.

But what greets him isn’t a man carrying a suitcase filled with books or dental apparatus and dressed to the nines with a great big smile plastered on his face, but a sweaty guy in camo pants and a cap worn on his head backwards. His muscles are more pronounced from the black wife beater he’s wearing, and he holds on to the door frame for balance as if it was his lifeline.

“Is Kyungsoo here?” he asks in a strained voice, and he winces, as if speaking itself was the cause of all his trouble. “Who’re you?” Jongin asks instead, eyeing the stranger from head to toe.

“Oh god, he still isn’t here, isn’t he?” the guy concludes.

Jongin decides to answer his question with another question, feeling protective. “What does that have to do with you?”

“It has everything to do with me, dimwit! Because I stole the boss’s money, but it was him who got blamed for it!” the guy half-screams.

Jongin’s blood runs cold in his veins. The rumors were right: Kyungsoo is part of a gang. “What.” Kyungsoo is part of a gang and he never bothered to find out.

So that’s why he’d been so secretive, Jongin concludes, the realization dawning in on him later rather than sooner. He just wishes that he found out beforehand, so that he could’ve convinced Kyungsoo to leave the group. So he wouldn’t have to be left in this situation anymore. So he wouldn’t have to suffer.

He must’ve looked menacing, with his smoldering eyes still red from sleep and messy hair, for the man started confessing in a rush. “It wasn’t completely my fault, okay!” he raises his hands in front of his face in defense, as if that would help him. “Things got shitty after a transaction and I decided to make a run for it and take the money with me. But Kyungsoo got in the way and… Well, he took the money with him and told me that I should make a run for it because the boss will kill me if he finds out what I did.”

“Where is he?” Jongin’s eyes are fully open now, wide with alert, sleep leaving his body for another victim.
“Well if I knew, then wouldn’t I have not asked you if he’s here yet?” the guy answers, and Jongin fists the man’s collar in his veined hands and lifts him up easily like a rag doll even if his body is a slightly bigger than Jongin’s, the former squirming away from his death grip.

“Don’t test my patience.” Even he surprises himself with the deadly calm in his voice, a storm brewing up inside of him, threatening to wreak havoc.

“Okay, okay! He’s probably at the warehouse right now. That’s where they usually meet up anyway. Twenty- third street, around the corner. Near that flower shop with the broken sign.” Jongin lets go of him and rushes back to his room to take out his jacket and change into a pair of rubber shoes, bolting the door lock before running away, a flurry of threats running out of his mouth before completely leaving the building.

The man that was the cause of all the trouble sinks down the ground, covering his face with his hands and trying desperately to think of a way out of the grave he dug around a friend that has constantly helped him throughout all of the shit that he has gotten himself into. “What have I done?” Nobody but the echo of his own voice reverberating against the empty hallway answers him back.

“This dumb bitch, leaving the door bolted instead of locking it,” Zitao shakes his head at his friend’s carelessness, but the scolding is reserved for later. He easily gets in the house and is bothered by why the lights are left on. He proceeds inside anyway, and immediately spots a disk on top of the table. Curious as to what it is, he procures his laptop from his backpack and opens it, waiting for the startup system to load when he turns it on.

He is greeted by a picture taken four years ago, when they were still in the first year of high school. Zitao admits that they looked horrendous back then, but he kinda misses those days, when they would always hang out together, even finding time in spite of days filled with the hustle and bustle of school affairs and meddling parents that were trying to get them into business school. A wave of nostalgia rolls over him, but he pinches the bridge of his nose, a feeble attempt at trying to make himself not cry. But strangely, it worked.

He repeatedly presses the right click button below the laptop’s glide pad and clicks the refresh option with the left button until he is satisfied. He takes the disk and flips it over, deliberating as to what wonders it contained. (Is it cartoons? Disney flicks? Or is it PORN? IT’S PROBABLY GAY PORN, RIGHT?)

In the end, he slips open the disk drive and places the disk there. He was rudely interrupted from sliding in the drive close when he promptly gets a call from Jongin.

“What do you want?” he answers, not bothering to add any formalities or any other form of greeting, knowing that it’s only Jongin. Knowing the guy, he’d probably retaliate with something short but witty, like “Definitely not you,” or some other lame joke he’s thought, but this time, he doesn’t.

“I’d be home later than expected. Can you do me a favor? Can you go buy food from the bakery? Promise I’ll pay you when I get back.” Zitao removes the phone from his ear and stares at it blankly, utterly confused of Jongin’s behavior. He’s never acted this sober on a daily basis. “Okayyy… What food would you like?”

“I don’t know… Probably something you think I’d like.”

“Is this a challenge, Kim Jongin?”

“It probably is.” He hears a short laugh from the other end, but it sounded empty. The call ends before he could respond.

He puts the disk back on the table and heads out, choosing to make use of the free wifi in a nearby café instead. Jongin might be home later than he promises.

Jongin’s memory is filled with soft whispers and shy smiles, of threats and cuss words coming from an innocent face that looks like he could never even harm a fly. Kyungsoo’s actions and appearance were contradictory, but Jongin never imagined seeing him kneeling on the floor, jaw dotted with bruises and blood trickling down from his lips. He sports a look of condemnation, and he would’ve looked confident-cool even-if it weren’t for the big black eye he’s currently sporting.

Jongin lithely moves from where he’s hiding behind a stack of wooden crates and reveals himself by stepping up in front of the scene, unarmed with nothing but his will of freeing Kyungsoo. “Let him go,” he grits his teeth.

One of the perpetrators-a muscular giant that has a scar running over his left eyebrow until the top of his lips-stops midway from grabbing Kyungsoo’s hair and freezes, looking across to where Jongin stands, and so do his two companions. Even Kyungsoo struggles to turn his body halfway around to look at who the person attempting to save him was, and his mouth falls agape when he sees Jongin standing there, hands clenched beside him.

“The fuck is this guy?” the bald one throws away the cigarette he’s smoking and steps on it. Jongin swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in nervousness because he knows that these people just might pulverize him that easily too.

Jongin knows he isn’t immortal, but he decides to try out his luck and give a take at being an action star even if the only fight he got involved in was a year ago, when he got too drunk during a party to remember that it wasn’t the zombie apocalypse yet (and he doesn’t even remember half of the people he threw salt at that night, yelling about witches and zombies out to eat his brains).

He lunges forward, flinging himself on the muscular guy and does what he assumes is a tackle, and the guy nearly stumbles but quickly regains his balance after recovering from the initial shock of what was happening. The man grabs Jongin by his jacket and throws him backwards, his back slamming hard on the floor and his breath being knocked out of him.

Kyungsoo springs into action, jabbing a punch right into the guy’s jaw, fist slamming hard against bone with a sickening crunch. He staggers backwards, the blow clearly forceful enough to leave him disoriented. The other two attack, and Jongin gets up despite the great deal of pain he’s feeling on his spine to help Kyungsoo out by trying to land in more blows on the enemy than getting some.

Yet the frenzy of the fight wears off when a gunshot is heard, ringing with finality at the end of someone’s life. Jongin stares in horror as he sees Kyungsoo fall down, blood blooming from the gaping hole in his chest. Jongin doesn’t even bother chasing after the three who run away in panic, accusations hurled at each other and hurried curses and blames of “What if someone hears that and tells the police?” and “Are you even thinking?”

Kyungsoo believes that people die twice; once when you stop breathing and the second time when someone says your name for the last time.

But for him, everything crashes down all at the same time, his heart stopping at uneven beats even when his own name echoes in his brain spoken from the lips of someone kneeling beside him, someone who is slowly turning into a ghost of a memory hanging in chains. He usually associates that voice with summer, but now all he feels is like he’s being trapped in an eternal winter. He remembers childish laughs and impish smiles, the blistering heat of the sun being left ignored for walks around the neighborhood to finish a project.

It all disappears before it takes form in his mind, only passing by in fleeting motions, and the curtains close down on him as he reaches the end of his performance. He imagines a soulful beat in the background instead of blaring screams and whimpers, ears falling deaf to his name being called.

The only thing he thinks is the moment when Jongin asked him to say something about himself, something that nobody else knows. He didn’t answer back then, because that would be the dumbest move to make, because he’d either have to lie his way off or reveal everything that he’s been hiding.

He has a lot of things he’s been keeping to himself for a long time, one of those being that maybe he has taken to a liking to the guy that let him in his home without prying for any details and just letting it be.

Kyungsoo’s breathing stops, and all he remembers hearing before he closes his eyes is his own name repeated on loop from Jongin’s lips.

Beside him, Jongin closes his own eyes and lets the tears flow freely, letting the world’s chaos fall into a dim whimper in the background. He opens his eyes again, wanting everything to be just a nightmare, wanting confirmation that no, this isn’t really all happening and that it’s all in his head- that if he tries to wake himself up from this dream, wide, owl-like eyes would greet him and ask why the hell is he even crying.

But Kyungsoo remains in his place, motionless; the color of life drained from his skin. Jongin reaches out to his jacket pocket to procure something to staunch the bleeding from Kyungsoo’s wound, because he believes he could still save the older if he’d just tend to his wounds immediately. But what comes out from his hand is a dried-up lavender, its scent overpowering his senses, waves of nostalgia hitting him home.

He recalls of nights spent sitting at the dining table, waiting for food to be cooked while they talked about the progress of their architecture project, of days running to the bathroom in a contest of who should shower first, of varying afternoons consisted of either quietly studying side-by-side or watching Disney movies.
Yixing’s words ring through his head, a conspiratorial whisper that seemed to be only meant for him.

So he closes his fingers around the flower, all form of reason telling him that this would never help ease the situation whizzing past his ears in a lapse. He’s not one to believe in myths, but he hopes, and hopes, and hopes…
And what god would decline him of his prayers?

Jongin wakes up with a start, head pounding with pain and body slick with sweat. He blinks, adjusting his eyes to the brightness of the afternoon sun streaming through his windows. A loud knocking follows suit, and he curses, throwing his legs over the side of the couch and fitting his feet into his slippers, dragging his feet across the white-tiled floor from being deprived of his usual nap.

He briefly wonders who the hell is rude enough to disturb someone in their rest when he is greeted by a sweaty guy in a black wife beater and camo pants, a cap worn on his head backwards. He frowns, feeling as if he’s dreamt of this before, but doesn’t say anything anyway. “What do you want?” he asks, disdain evident in his voice.

The guy is still panting, wiping away some of the beads of sweat forming in his forehead with the back of his hand. Jongin would have envied the way his biceps looked bigger just with the simple movement (what more if he was flexing?), until he asks a question. “Is Kyungsoo here?”

“Who’re you?” Jongin’s mouth runs dry when the response comes out of his mouth automatically. This scene seems all too familiar, and he prays he’s wrong about what’s going to happen next.

“Oh god, he still isn’t here, isn’t he?” the guy concludes. “Listen, I understand that you’re one of the very few people that Kyungsoo trusts, so I need you to help him out.”

“You got him into deep shit, didn’t you?” Jongin doesn’t guess, he knows, and when the guy doesn’t respond, he punches him, once, twice-he couldn’t remember how many times.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you man?!” the guy tries to push him off as he tries to land another punch, but it doesn’t come because he stops his fist over the guy’s face, hovering there menacingly.

“I’m supposed to be the one asking you that,” he spits, voice laced with venom. He’s mad at the guy, for leaving Kyungsoo there and letting him handle the whole situation when he clearly couldn’t handle things himself. He’s mad at Kyungsoo for not telling him anything. But most of all, he’s mad at himself because he knows it’s going to happen again and he can’t do anything to help him.

He stands up, knuckles splattered with blood that isn’t his. “Twenty-third street, right?”

“How’d you-?” Jongin’s already rushing into his room to take out his jacket and bolt the door shut before the guy could even finish his sentence, a flurry of threats running out of his mouth before completely leaving the building, not even bothering to change out of his slippers.

The man that was the cause of all the trouble remains lying on the ground, covering his beaten face with his hands. Now look what you’ve done, the accusation looms over him like a cloud, and he realizes that maybe he did deserve that, because he himself dug a grave around a friend that has constantly helped him throughout all of the shit that he has gotten himself into.

A little girl appears from the door of the apartment next door, hair in a mess and expression openly shocked. “Are you alright, mister?”

The guy smiles crookedly despite the crack in his lips, shaking his head. “Not really. But I hope they will be.”

Zitao doesn’t drop by Jongin’s apartment that day and goes straight to the mall instead because he received a message not to, since Jongin said he went somewhere else and was probably going to arrive late that night. Or probably never, his gut-feeling tells him, but he doesn’t settle on the idea.

He takes a picture of a stuffed penguin he sees in one of the shops he enters and posts it on instagram. He squeals internally in triumph when he earns a hundred likes in the first few minutes that he’s uploaded the picture. But his grin is suddenly replaced with a frown when he remembers that penguins only ever fall in love with another penguin once, and that they treasure their other half for an entire lifetime.

But what if the other penguin dies?

This time, Jongin knows what’s going to happen, so he punches the muscled man instead of tackling, aiming for the jaw with an uppercut. He feels some of his knuckles crack at the pressure, but he just lets it be because the other two start attacking. Kyungsoo’s got his back and helps him finish off the job, but then he knows what was going to happen next, so he propels forward and uses himself a barrier, hugging Kyungsoo to cover him.

The bullet hits near his spine and he squeezes Kyungsoo one final time before letting go, a final act of defiance against fate.

Jongin crashes down on his back, a trickle of blood flowing freely from the side of his mouth. This time it’s Kyungsoo who’s running to him, kneeling beside him and not the other way around. Jongin, Jongin, Jongin. Kyungsoo chants, like a prayer bugging to be heard. Jongin don’t sleep. Don’t leave me here. A silent plea; a hidden request in the form of words phrased and strung together differently.

This is a better ending, Jongin thinks, and he looks up at Kyungsoo to give him a weak smile. His eyesight is starting to get blurry, but he doesn’t fail to recognize tears brimming around Kyungsoo’s eyes. But I don’t want to leave just yet.

Kyungsoo clasps both hands around his, firm and insistent. He hasn’t seen Kyungsoo this agitated before. “No Jongin, I wouldn’t let this happen. I’m going to save you,” he squeezes back with trembling hands, even though it takes him all of his strength just to complete the action. “No matter what.”

Kyungsoo knows he regrets a lot of things, but the thing he regrets the most, if not this moment, is that only day Jongin asked him to talk about himself. He’s had a long list of things he’s wanted to say that day, but he chose to keep his mouth shut. My dream is to be a famous and influential singer. Not just someone who a lot of people know, but someone who leaves a mark. Someone who people not only recognize, but they revere.

But of course, I’d want to be rich. Not just rich, but damn fucking rich. So I could spend every day doing nothing but I’d never have to worry about anything. If only he could go back to that day, he’d never leave anything unsaid and pour out everything about himself in every word he could. He just didn’t want to slip; to make the mistake of letting Jongin find out his involvement with underground gangs and illegal dealings, of seeing someone be erased from his life because that person doesn’t want anything to do with a criminal.

He knows he isn’t particularly good with words, but he would’ve wanted to try-would’ve wanted to give Jongin a part of himself that nobody ever knows about, something that nobody even bothered to know about. But it’s already too late. This might sound dumb, but I believe in fate. I believe in destiny. I believe that there’s a force guiding us; that a different outcome would have happened even if something such as a seemingly trivial thing such as tying your shoelaces in the morning or wearing flip flops instead, and it might cause such a drastic change in the way that things should have worked.

I believe that all of us are connected and the reason why we appear or walk out of someone’s life is because it’s written in the grand scheme of things in an attempt to pave a road for what happens next. I believe in soul mates and that if that person dies, a part of your soul is removed, going along with that of the other’s.Maybe next time, if what he believes really is right, fate will be kind enough to let them be together. But not like this.

The only thing that Jongin regrets is that even until then, he wasn’t able to break the barrier dividing the two of them. Maybe he should’ve said more; should’ve been braver to voice out his thoughts and ask the questions that’s been bugging him. He might say something wrong and he might get misunderstood, but he mostly just regrets the chances that he didn’t take, because what if Kyungsoo did understand? What if this time, Kyungsoo answered back? And what if his entire existence isn’t plagued by all the what-ifs that constantly whisper to him, telling him to do something?

Jongin closes his eyes, feeling death mulling over what time to completely take him out. But he decides to humor the symbol of mortality, thinking hard of the lavender still in his pocket and a single wish in his mind. I don’t want to die. I want to live; for Kyungsoo.

The last thing he hears before he completely loses consciousness is Kyungsoo’s voice, telling him to wake up.

This time, when Jongin wakes up, he immediately shoves his feet in shoes and wears the jacket, the lavender’s weight on its pocket not making a difference except for the secret it holds. He opens the door right after three insistent knocks, saying “Kyungsoo’s not here,” before bolting the door and rushing out.

“Hey mister, can you play dolls with me?” the man’s still confused when a little girl asks from the apartment next door, eyes shining with eagerness at the prospect of having a new playmate. “My friend wasn’t able to come because she was sick so…”

And he might feel like the most wretched man right now for leaving his friend in the hands of the other gang members to die, but he knows he can still change who he is and be a better person. “Sure, why not?” he answers, because there wasn’t anything wrong with starting early, right?

Fate must be eager to kill them, because even if they both managed to dodge the bullet, with it whizzing past Jongin’s ear and barely missing an inch, of course their opponents still had other weapons to get them by.

Jongin feels his skull reverberating, the bone cracking from the force of a well-aimed punch aided with brass knuckles. Another punch, and his lips are bleeding. Another swing, and his right eye closes in pain, and he is left lying on the ground with Kyungsoo, who was also bleeding badly from a stab wound.

But of course, Jongin would never want to give up, because no matter how many times he’s going to repeat this loop, no matter how many times he’s going to have to endure being beaten to death or seeing Kyungsoo get killed, he’ll do it just to get an alternative ending to the one predestined to them.

The lavender still remains in his pocket. With trembling hands, he digs in, fingers closing in on the flower and gripping it tightly, wish having been made up for a long time already.

Jongin reaches out to Kyungsoo and the smaller guy mimics his actions, fingers touching and hands almost making contact. But maybe the gods had decided that it’s time for their story to end, so before they could even say their ‘I love you’s and promises to be together until in death and beyond, their hands fall limply on the ground, barely touching but almost linking.

The lavender is crushed underneath the weight of Jongin’s hand pressed to the ground, with Kyungsoo’s fingertips brushing against his. Jongin closes his other eye and struggles with taking a deep breath, because now he’s reached another end of a loop with a failure. Yet still, there is that promise to be fulfilled, but maybe that should happen later. It was getting harder to breathe, anyway.

This is not the story of two star-crossed lovers. But rather, this is the story of two people who decide to take their fate on their own hands.

Jongin stills, chest immovable, lips parted as if to say something.

Kyungsoo stares without seeing, Jongin’s name the last one on his lips.

Zitao eyes the cd curiously, wondering what it was doing lying on top of the table. It probably belonged to Jongin, but all the more reason he wanted to see what it contained or what it was for. He shrugs, and places the disk in the disk drive of his laptop, closing it with a pop. A whirring sound could be heard as to where the device spins the disk, reading its contents. He glances at his phone, getting a weird feeling that someone should be calling him at this time, bugging him about something he doesn’t have an inkling about and leaving weird clues. He ignores it, pressing the right button below the glide pad and clicking play with the left.

Zitao sees Kyungsoo, bent over a flower, brows knitting in concentration as he picks the best angle to take its picture. “Hey hyung, what’s that?” A perky voice holding the camera asks, and it doesn’t take a genius to put two and two and recognize the cameraman as Jongin. “Stop bothering me Jongin, I’m working here.” Kyungsoo ignores his question.

The next one was of Kyungsoo taking pictures of footprints left in the mud, a trail leading deeper into the forest. Another was of Kyungsoo sitting on a swing, perpetually young and immortal. More and more videos add up to the pile, but Zitao holds his breath at one where he sees Jongin focusing the camera on himself for the first time since the footage started, eyes bright and exuding of happiness. He seems to be saying something, but the video’s on mute and Zitao hasn’t quite memorized Korean yet to be able to read their lips. The angle changes, and now it’s Kyungsoo glaring at the camera, probably saying curses or muttering enchantments, Zitao thinks. The camera shakes again as Jongin tries to steady his hands, and Zitao sees the two of them, walking side-by-side along a road filled with cherry blossoms in full bloom.

The video suddenly pauses at that frame out of its own volition (Zitao tries not to think that the disk’s haunted, but that’s really hard. Especially if you’re alone in a room on a Friday night), with Jongin’s smiling face and Kyungsoo’s amused on immortalized in the screen of Zitao’s laptop.

Zitao doesn’t know why, but he feels a strange feeling of finality and nostalgia, and a tear rolls down his cheek. He hastily wipes them away. Maybe he’s really a crybaby after all. But at least, nobody is here to see him.

He checks his phone, feeling as if he’s missing out on something big, but there aren’t any notifications of any messages arriving. He checks his inbox just to make sure, but the contents remain the same.

“Zitao?” someone knocks on the door. His heart jumps to his chest, hammering wildly, thinking that it’s death coming to take him to the netherworld. “Are you there?” He abruptly stands up when he recognizes the voice, but warily stands in front of the door, remembering all the deliberate warnings that came with meeting him for the first time. But oh well then, what are the odds? He seems nice enough.

So he opens it, recognizing the person at the other end and expecting what the person is going to say is about his best friend. “I need your help.”