Work Text:
"Cache code?"
"Check."
"Comms?"
"Up and secure."
"Flare gun."
"You said to be discreet."
Minho thumps him on his Kevlar'd back. "What d’you do when you're compromised?"
Jeongin steels his jaw and repeats what he'd been taught. "The founding principle of the Gwisin Program is disposability and plausible deniability. If I, Gwisin-8, am compromised, I must be prepared for evasion, capture, or self-termination. Failure to comply will result in disavowal and disposal."
Minho grins. "Good boy. See you on the other side."
“You’re driving me there,” Jeongin says, unimpressed, but Minho is already opening the driver’s side door to get in.
Jeongin turns around to give a thumbs up to Seungmin in the glass box at the far end of the garage. The door begins to lift with a low hum as Jeongin clicks his seatbelt on. This is it, the moment he’s been working towards for the past 6 years of his life. 6 years of OSHA violations that his CO likes to call a training program (“You’re not American and you don’t qualify for a labour union membership, shut up”) in the middle of the Danakil Depression, hundreds of bruises and hairline fractures, insults about Lee Minho’s lineage whispered to the darkness of his tent have all brought him here; in the passenger seat of a reinforced truck getting chauffeured to the drop-off point for his first field assignment.
“Remind me why I can’t drive myself to the drop-off point again,” Jeongin mutters a little resentfully as they weave through traffic in downtown Kuala Lumpur. It’s an overcast day and the Petronas Towers are bathed in a misty halo of vapour and blinking lights.
Minho makes a turn down a residential area and hums along to the radio. “Because you don’t have a driver’s licence.”
“I didn’t have time to finish the test.”
“Tragic.”
Jeongin gapes. “You know, you can have a little heart after robbing me of my formative teen years.”
“Talk to your recruitment officer,” Minho mutters, making another turn and almost clipping a child playing in the rain in a possible demonstration of dramatic irony.
“I can’t, he’s dead.”
“And the reason why you don’t have a driver’s licence.”
Jeongin rolls his eyes and looks out the window at the world awash with a lightless grey. Underneath all the bluster he’s glad he isn’t alone in the minutes leading up to possible death. Minho, caustic and cold, is at least company. The apprehension churning Jeongin’s gut intensifies a bit as they emerge onto a backroad and toward the waterfront. His briefing included only the barest details; Port Klang and a shipment slated to come in the dead of night, a vessel in international waters, a case of national security meeting mercenary ruthlessness in a reluctant truce.
It makes him a little uneasy. Government contracts imply plausible deniability and he’d shared these concerns with Minho early on. Minho had simply asked him to recite the Liability and Capture clause 8 of his own contract so really, he was disposable either way. Jeongin spends the next 30 minutes to Port Klang reminding himself how stupid he’d been for thinking a shoplifting charge as a minor was enough to ruin his life just because a guy in a suit told him so. A life of crime all because he’d been too scared to do some community service. Now that was an embarrassing origin story.
He realises they’ve stopped when the radio goes silent. Minho has parked in front of a 7-11 and is currently rummaging in the glove compartment for his wallet.
“D’you want something?” He asks absently, “It’s gonna be a few hours of waiting until the cargo arrives.”
Jeongin clicks his seatbelt off just as Minho locates his wallet. “I’ll get a drink.”
The air is stuffy and humid, peppered with the dregs of rain. Sweat immediately soaks the back of Jeongin’s neck and he checks his neckline to make sure nothing of the kevlar is visible before following Minho inside. A chime heralds their entry and Jeongin looks up to see a tiny bell haphazardly Rube-Goldberg’d to the strip of plaster above the door frame. It’s golden and quaint, clearly not part of the regular decor. Jeongin blinks up at it as Minho moves on into the aisles, enraptured by this anachronism in the heart of a stale convenience store.
“Sorry about the bell,” says a voice somewhere to Jeongin’s right. “It helps me keep track of new customers.”
The cashier is smiling behind the counter, a hand raised in hello. He’s wearing his red and white cap backwards, a thick swathe of dyed blond hair plastered to his brow underneath the rim. Jeongin slowly raises his hand in greeting.
“I put it there,” the cashier continues, “the bell, I mean. Sometimes I zone out and people get in and steal shit and management already hates my ‘lack of work ethic’ so I devised a li’l system to keep me alert.” He grins brightly, “Neat, huh? Wonder why they got rid of these things in the first place. So nifty. Sorry if the noise bothered you, though.”
Jeogin’s hackles, raised at the implication of him being a shoplifter, lower by the time the guy’s stopped speaking. He cracks a grin and shakes his head.
“No bother. Just wasn’t expecting it.” He crooks a thumb over his shoulder, “I’m just gonna go grab a slurpee.”
“Don’t you steal anything,” the cashier calls after him. Jeongin freezes up and turns around. The guy points two fingers in his direction, “I’m watching you.”
Jeongin replies with a strained smile and hurries off toward the slurpee fountain. Minho is leaning against the yoghurt fridge, his face inscrutable. Jeongin straightens up defensively, arms spread in invitation before he drops them abruptly, his neck growing hot. Minho watches him like a hawk, unmoving but for the gentle rise and fall of his chest under his shirt.
Jeongin grits his teeth. “What?”
“Focus,” is all Minho says before grabbing a drink and heading back toward the register.
Jeongin stands stiffly to let him pass, his jaw set, feeling like a chastised child. He glances toward the front of the store and sees the cashier yapping away to a silent Minho. Concerning. Jeongin quickly picks a snack and a drink and all but races to the register.
“...so we don’t see many folks here other than the regular ol’ seamen. Some dockers and stuff. Oh, can I get you a lighter? Sorry, I caught a look at yours when you got your card and it looks a bit banged up.”
Minho in Jeongin’s periphery looks just as still as before. “Observant guy.”
Jeongin's heart thumps as the guy grins and swipes a bright green Zippo from the box on the counter, adding it to Minho's bill.
“Eh, I get subscription boxes,” he admits, putting in the numbers, “Hunt A Killer? Stuff like that.”
Minho’s eyes gleam with interest as he takes his card and receipt. The cashier’s smile wavers and he blinks very fast a few times. Jeongin bumps Minho out of the way, grabs their purchases, and ushers them out over the sound of the cashier’s cheery goodbye.
“Chief said no collateral,” Jeongin mutters as Minho revs out of the rest stop. Minho snorts and Jeongin throws him an accusatory look, “I’m serious! You’ll get in trouble.”
“Better worry about yourself,” Minho replies easily, “You’re not impervious to corporate action, unlike me.”
Jeongin fights to keep his face straight. “S’cause I didn’t sleep my way to the top.”
“The fuck did you just say to me?”
“Chief Bang keeps telling me to stop. Sucking. ‘Cause I suck at my job. Gotta stop. Sucking, I mean. Pronto.”
They’ve pulled up at the side of a long seaside road, the sun glinting off the slick black asphalt. A warehouse looms in the distance, the shipping yard adjacent to it empty save for a stray dog sleeping past a chain link fence. Its tail lifts and swats at flies every now and then. The mundane still life makes Jeongin nervous for no reason. He can already smell the ash on the seabreeze. Sorry, boy. You’re gonna have to find a new place to sleep from now on.
Minho keeps the engine running, waiting as Jeongin collects his things. “Keep your eyes open. Finger off the trigger at all times. The absence of a cyanide tooth does not indicate life after love.”
Jeongin scowls. “You’re the envy of palliative care nurses worldwide.”
“Aw, you think I have a career in medicine.” Minho grins, “You’ve got more faith in me than my own mother.”
“It’s ‘cause I like to see the good in awful, awful, awful people—”
“Gwisin-8.”
“Sir.”
He can still feel his sphincter clenched tight as a fist, even as the world stabilises and his mind registers the lack of immediate danger. Minho isn’t smiling, his face a mask of stone, the moon that had haunted Jeongin’s nightmares in the desert. Jeongin breathes out, then in, blinks, and nods. Minho nods in return.
Jeongin exits the truck and slams the door. In the distance, the sleeping dog awakens and regards him with lukewarm interest. Jeongin shoulders his backpack and heads towards the warehouse.
The thing about the fast and loose lifestyle is that oftentimes it’s better than drugs. Safer? Debatable.
Oh, but the adventure, the adrenaline, the action! Jeongin had grown up in the seedier neighbourhoods of Busan, back when the streets weren’t teeming with a million surveillance cameras and the local druggist still kept a metal baseball bat underneath his counter for intruders because nobody was armed with more than a pocket knife at best. Jeongin had seen that beat up bat collide with many an elbow and shatter it on impact, its melee range allowing damage much faster and much greater than a puny little blade.
Skipping class to steal cheap gummy worms from the dusty back shelves was fun until it wasn’t. There were always better things to risk the bat for and Jeongin learned the price of prescription drugs and their resale value relatively early in life. The fast and loose lifestyle hadn’t failed him by then and it felt foolproof. Pretty foolproof.
Of course, that was before the bat found its mark and the charges were pressed so hard that the world seemed to go out like a light for a long minute. Like a god blinking and resetting the rules of engagement. Juvie or community service? Options limited as flavours in those cheap bags of gummy worms. The man in the suit had descended much like the bat, except, he had an offer and a one-way street out of consequences-of-your-actions land. This time, Jeongin had presented his elbow with a smile.
But another thing about the fast and loose lifestyle was that it was a lot safer than whatever the hell happened afterwards.
The taste of metal creeps from between his teeth onto his tongue as Jeongin runs for the warehouse exit. The dog had disappeared at the first shot fired. Behind him, the sleek white cabin cruiser was on fire and drifting off on the water where the rope tether had burned off, men yelling and scrambling to put out the flames all around it. A bullet whizzes by Jeongin’s ear and he crouches to blow the man’s kneecap off before skidding out the door.
The shouting behind him grows in crescendo. Jeongin looks down at the armoured case under his arm and hitches it close to his chest. A sharp pain makes him almost drop his precious cargo.
“Fuck,” he curses, switches the case to his other arm, and begins to sprint towards the parking area nearby.
Think fast. Jeongin groans and slides behind the wheel of an old Honda, tossing the case in the legroom and applying pressure on his wounded arm. No time for a tourniquet. His good hand snatches and pulls at the wires until the engine thrums. He blinks dazedly at the powdery world illuminated in the car's headlights. Where the fuck do I go? The pick-up was still 24 hours away, a precautionary measure to put some distance between the incident and the agent. He has no choice but to lie low until he can go to the private hangar where Minho would be waiting for a debrief and his ride back home. His steely voice recites the Liability and Capture clause 8 in his head. Jeongin grits his teeth and floors it out of the dock parking lot.
The cashier's first words upon arrival are understandably, "Holy fuck, is that blood? Are you like, actually bleeding right now?" to which Jeongin simply nods before collapsing right there in the 7-Eleven doorway.
The bell jingles sadly. The cashier swears again and begins dragging Jeongin inside the store. Jeongin clutches the case in a white-knuckled grip all the way to the refrigerator where Minho had gotten his drink. He’s being propped up to sit as the guy peels off his jacket and takes a look at the wound, doesn’t so much as grimace before grabbing a first-aid kit seemingly out of thin air and beginning to tend to the bullet wounds.
Jeongin’s vision is beginning to spot out too much for him to ask any questions as he watches the guy work determinedly to staunch the bleeding, so he settles on the most elementary of queries.
“What’s your name?”
And right on cue, the blackness seeps in, leaving behind only a bone-white name.
Han Jisung.
He wakes up with a syrupy state of mind, groggy as if from a long, dreamless sleep. The ceiling feels miles away, cloaked in darkness that feels more a product of his own mind than anything intrinsic to itself. Jeongin shuts his eyes and opens them again.
The light is out but a small window lets in streetlights and illuminates a row of shelves with cleaning supplies. There’s a stained shirt with a 7-Eleven logo half thrown over a bucket. Jeongin sits up with a start and strains his ear to listen. Low voices drift in through the gaps under the door and between the hinges. Jeongin supports his throbbing arm, expertly wrapped in a bandage, and drags himself out of the cramped cot he’d been on. The whole room spins and he grabs onto the nearest shelf for support. What the hell had that guy given him? For all Jeongin knew he had an industrial strength sedative coursing through his system to keep him reticent long enough for—
He shudders and pushes up against the door. I can’t die here. Not in a fucking 7-Eleven. He slowly turns the knob and slips out, following the sound of Han Jisung’s voice. Han Jisung who likes murder mystery boxes and doesn’t have the good sense to discern how close he came to a horrible death at the hands of Lee Minho only a few hours ago. Han Jisung who saved his life. Han Jisung who now most definitely had the armoured case. The lights in the store are on but there isn’t anyone in the aisles. Jeongin slinks his way to the till, keeping out of direct sight. One pat at his ankle had assured him earlier that he’s been stripped of all weapons including his little switchblade so he stops by the small hardware display to grab the biggest wrench, tests its grip, and waits.
“No, listen, it’s not— okay, well, when you put it like that.” Exaggerated sigh. Tapping on plastic. “He’s not gonna like that. No! Oh my god, I can’t just—”
That was it. Jeongin counts to three and leaps out of his hiding place, swinging the wrench in a wide arc. Han Jisung, wide-eyed, startles backwards into the cigarette and condom wall behind him. Several blue packs of Dunhill and Durex cascade down his head as he gapes at the wrench in Jeongin’s hand.
“Hang up,” Jeongin grunts, feeling his hot blood soaking his arm. He breathes hard and jerks the wrench as threateningly as he can.
Han Jisung’s wide eyes go from the blunt metal to Jeongin’s arm. Slowly, he says, “I’ll call you back, ma.” and raises both of his hands up to his ears.
Jeongin steps back.“Come out. Nice and slow.”
Jisung complies. He leaves his phone on the counter and climbs over it at a snail’s pace. He lets Jeongin do a one-handed half-ass pat down and says nothing when some blood smears on his uniform. Exhaustion and lightheadedness are making it impossible to not sway on his feet but Jeongin grits his teeth and points the wrench at him again.
“Who’s ‘ma’? Your handler?” He barks, “Who’re you working for?”
Jisung blinks. Blinks again. “Ma’s my mom, bro. I work for my uncle, though.”
“Family operation, huh?” Jeongin barks, “What d’you hawk? Speed? Guns? People?!”
His voice is rising to a panicked squeak the more he talks and Jeongin realises he’s actually terrified out of his mind. He’s fucked up the mission, lost his cargo, injured himself to the point of blackout, and landed himself in the hands of a family running a racketeering or trafficking ring out of a fucking 7-eleven.
But Jisung only looks mildly confused. “Hardest thing I’ve sold today is seltzer, my guy. My uncle owns this branch, he got it off the lottery money that he— actually, fuck it, that’s a long story and you look like you’re bleeding out.”
He tentatively reaches out a hand, not even flinching when Jeongin swings the wrench again in a panic.
“Here, let me patch you up. You messed up your bandages.”
Everything has been a bad dream since he tripped a wire and set off the alarm. Heads snapping in his direction, voices shouting, the hard scream of bullets on surfaces dangerously close to his body. Jeongin remembers a man, big as a boulder with a Triad mark on his right cheek, weightlessly leaping over containers, yelling threats that made the hair on the back of Jeongin’s neck stand on end. He remembers his heart fighting to claw out of his chest, vomit curdling up his throat. The man seemed like he had memorised Jeongin’s scent. Even now, in the relative safety of this slow 7-eleven, Jeongin thinks the man will come barging in with his red face, nostrils fluttering like laundry in the breeze.
He gasps and tries to pull away when a sharp pain shoots up his arm but Jisung’s grip is firm as he cuts through the gauze and unrolls it off. He has his first aid kit again and the next time Jeongin blinks his arm is wrapped anew, comfortably tight. He stares at Jisung who is putting things back into the box.
“You do this a lot?”
Jisung looks up, looks back down at Jeongin’s arm, and shakes his head. “Not as much as I'd like to.”
Jeongin baulks. “As much as you'd like—”
“No, it's not like— I mean, that's—,” Jisung searches the back of his neck, looking a bit sheepish. “I trained as a first responder. Paramedic. I went to school for it.”
He looks at Jeongin as if gauging Jeongin’s interest. Apparently, it is adequate for him to continue.
“I was only there a few months. Ma got sick and needed help. I'm an only child,” he points to himself brightly, “so you know. Anyway, it's history. I like it here. I get free slurpees on top of the pay and I dictate my own shifts. Besides, we're not very busy anyway.”
Jeongin doesn't answer, still waiting. A few seconds pass.
“Okay,” Jisung says, deflated, “you got me, I made that up. I just watch a lot of YouTube.”
“It's not that I wouldn't buy it,” says Jeongin placatingly, “I just wouldn't buy it from you.”
“I can literally stab you right now.”
The air stills. Jisung's hand loosely holds the pair of scissors that Jeongin now realises he is yet to put away. Jeongin's eyes dart to the side where the wrench lies a few inches from his fist. Before he can lunge for it, Jisung laughs and gets to his feet.
“I gotta head out. Next shift is about to start.” He looks down at Jeongin and holds out a hand and shrugs when Jeongin doesn't take it, “unless you wanna let him see you like this—”
Jeongin, having retrieved the wrench, aims it at Jisung's shin and swings. Jisung yelps and stumbles back into the sea of Durex packages on the ground. Jeongin climbs on top of him and, in a moment of incredibly quick thinking, grabs Jisung's balls. Jisung squeaks.
“Where's the case?” Jeongin demands and squeezes tighter.
Jisung squirms and arches his back. He lets out a little wheeze. “Here. It's—here.”
He points at the space below the countertop next to the till. The case is there, placed snugly next to a Switch and a dozen wrappers of Kinder Joy. Jeongin rises shakily to his feet and grabs both the case and Switch. He breathes heavily and waves the Switch in Jisung's face.
“Collateral.”
It's nearing dawn as Jisung helps him out to his truck. The world is powder blue and brittle, the only sound Jeongin’s hoarse breathing, the crunch of his feet dragging against the gravel. Jisung says nothing, humming a little tune as he deposits Jeongin in his backseat where Jeongin lies low until the shift change arrives, exchanges pleasantries with Jisung and takes over. The radio is on, soft sounds of an old Malay classic filling the increasingly tense silence. Jeongin hugs the case close to his chest, the Switch under his good arm, and thinks of home for the first time in several years. His mother is nothing but a lavender haze shaped like two warm hands, nondescript and plain. They could be anyone's. The truck clatters over a speed bump and Jeongin closes his eyes desperately to summon a memory from his childhood. School. Getting up for school. Breakfast laid out. Mother drinking warm water first thing in the morning as the slices of Spam shrieked in the hot oil. She turns around and her face is Irma Vep’s. Maggie Cheung as Irma Vep as Mother.
More rice? And this time it's Minho. He has a gun in his hand and he is pointing it at 10-year-old Jeongin trying to eat breakfast in record time so he can catch the bus. Minho doesn't care. Minho shoots.
Jeongin shudders awake but doesn't open his eyes immediately. He is still in the truck but it is slowing down, rolling to a stop. Jeongin peers at Jisung through eyes narrowed to slits as he parks the car and pulls at the handbrakes.
“Home sweet home,” Jisung mutters and looks over his shoulder. Jeongin pretends to blink himself awake and sits up slowly. They're parked in a regular neighbourhood bathed in the early morning quiet. There will be people out soon, going to work, mowing lawns, school children running around, chattering on their way to the bus.
More rice?
Jeongin grunts and pushes the door open and Jisung scrambles to help. Jeongin shakes him off and follows him to the door which Jisung unlocks slowly. They step into silence inside. To the left is the living room, still blue in the gloom, empty. Jisung guides them to a room at the back of the house and flicks on the light switch. Jeongin enters and fatigue the size of a large animal settles on his back. He shakes his head and blinks hard. Jisung is talking softly, puttering around and clearing things up off the floor, making room, pushing clothes and electronics off the bed and onto a computer chair in the corner. Jeongin’s mouth twitches.
“You sure there isn't a rat around here somewhere?”
Jisung looks up, offended, clutching a can of Coke and what looks like a container of peanut butter. “Well, sorry for the lack of room service, your majesty.” He goes back to vigorously picking up things that seem to emerge out of thin air, “I wasn't aware you'd be visiting.”
Jeongin makes for the door. “I could just leave—”
“No! I mean— where are you gonna go anyway? They're probably out hunting for you right now.”
A cabin cruiser goes up in flames. A dog barks in the distance. Minho's face hardening like setting plastic. Jeongin sits down on the bed and holds the briefcase and Jisung’s Switch close to his chest. Somewhere in the room a clock ticks at a snail’s pace. Time is honey passing through a sieve. Sleep begins to pull at Jeongin’s fragile mind.
“It's morning,” comes Jisung's voice from far away. He's suddenly in Jeongin’s field of view, standing near the window with the curtains pulled back. The rising sun spatters his nose and cheek like an egg yolk. He turns to look at Jeongin and smiles. Jeongin finds himself smiling back.
“I think I'll just…” he lies back a little, sitting up against the pillow. He isn't there, he isn't anywhere. Nowhere. He doesn't exist. “Just… resting my eyes…”
He’s aware he’s dreaming this time and it’s horrible because Minho is standing over him haloed by the bright lights of an operating theatre. When he speaks it is Song Kang-ho’s voice, cut off the ankles and hang them over the bathtub.
Minho raises a rusty bonesaw. Let gravity do the rest.
Jeongin wakes up screaming to a darkened room again but this time a light flicks on immediately. Jisung is there right next to his face, his hands wrapped around Jeongin’s shoulders. His mouth is open to say something but before he can say a word there comes a thud from deep within the house. Jisung’s brow furrows and he turns to look at the door. Jeongin catches his breath and registers the golden light of Jisung’s study lamp, a beacon in the dimness. Outside it is dark again. Panic begins to rise within him at the prospect of having slept the whole day away. He tries to stand but Jisung pushes him back down and turns fully to look at his closed door.
Thud. scrape. Muffled sounds of speaking. Jisung straightens up and reaches out into the space between his bed and the wall.
“What’s—”
“Someone’s in the house,” Jisung says slowly and pulls out a baseball bat wrapped all around with barbed wire. Jeongin looks on in a daze as he creeps towards the door and carefully turns the knob. The slice of corridor in Jeongin’s line of sight is dark. Jisung tells him to stay put, leaves the room, and shuts the door behind him.
Jeongin sits there in the semi-darkness, listening, waiting. His heartbeat spikes, his palms growing sweaty. He looks around frantically and finds the briefcase. He needs to get out of here before someone comes looking. The corridor outside isn’t completely dark. The moonlight silvers the floor in square patches through windows along the wall. He stands at the threshold, trying to locate the top of the stairs.
Before he can move, however, he hears footsteps thudding as someone runs toward him. He sees the flash of a blade and stumbles backwards, scrambling for escape as a man in dark clothing grunts and lunges at him with a knife. He feels a sharp stab of pain as the man finds his ankle. The briefcase is pulled out of his grasp. Jeongin blindly grabs at the man’s legs and screams when a heavy boot comes down and crushes his knuckles.
Any minute now, thinks Jeongin, mind and body weakened by his prolonged ordeal, any minute now Han Jisung will show up around the corner with a submachine gun and say something like Hey, fuckface! Eat this! Or Why don’t you pick on someone your own size! Or worse, Get away from him! After which he’ll pump the man full of bullets, throw his gun away and rush over to check on Jeongin. He’d crouch next to Jeongin and take him in his arms and ask, Are you okay, baby? (what?) and Jeongin would be too weak to reply so Jisung would say, I’ve got you, baby (again, what?) and lean in for a k—
“Hey!” comes a voice from the end of the corridor, “Eat shit, asshole!”
It isn’t a barrage but it’s a good number. Jeongin manages to count three before his ears begin ringing. Jisung is in front of him again, arms around Jeongin, his face a mask of concern. Jeongin’s heart clenches in his chest, each beat on the verge of dissipating into a complete stop. Jisung’s mouth opens and his lips move around words that could end Jeongin’s world right here and right now, the dreaded baby lingering in the around them and choking Jeongin on its heft.
Except, what Jisung says is an earnest, heartfelt, “Who did this to you?”
Jeongin’s heart slows down, his body going lax. He can feel his face slackening into a look of resignation. Jisung giggles and helps him up. Jeongin straightens up and aims a clumsy kick to the fallen intruder’s side, prying the case away from him.
“Sorry, couldn’t help it. It’s kinda like a movie isn’t it?” Jisung begins leading them back towards his room, “You like it when I kick ass for you, baby?”
It knocks enough wind out of Jeongin that he forgets to ask about the gun in Jisung’s hand, which while not a submachine gun, is bigger than a normal handgun one keeps for personal safety. It would have to wait along with everything else because the house is suddenly awash with sound and colour. Shots ring out, spaced out and precise as if whoever is aiming isn’t an amateur wasting bullets like Jisung. A man screams and then another, followed by breaking glass and the banging of a door. The moonlit corridor is invaded by car headlights as tyres crunch on gravel and the screaming of men is overlaid by the screech of rubber. The car quickly backs out and speeds away.
There's a beat and then Jisung, alarmed, calls out, “Mom? Mom!”
“I’m fine,” comes the reply and then a grunt as something heavy is lugged around. “Well, don’t just stand there now, I need help cleaning this up.”
It appears that ‘this’ is three men lying stone cold dead on Jisung’s mother’s kitchen floor and the mystery of who is responsible is solved immediately. Mrs. Han smokes a cigarette as she stirs the pancake batter. Jeongin watches her from his place on the table, the silence punctuated by the sound of her whisk and Jisung straining to move the bodies to the little room under the stairs. There’s an actual submachine gun on the counter beside Mrs. Han and Jeongin stares at it, transfixed. Everything seems like a dream. Maybe he never made it out of that boatyard. Maybe the big man caught up to him and tore him limb from limb and all of this is just his last moments playing out like a movie Jacob’s Ladder style. What could he possibly be doing here in this house in the dead of night in the middle of strangers who are both armed and perfectly capable of dispatching a handful of men all on their own. And follow it up with breakfast at midnight to top it off. Is it midnight? It’s still dark out. Maybe the sun will never rise. The house seems to be on an entirely different plane of existence with its bloody kitchen floor and the woman with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, her hair still in rollers, mixing batter as her son takes care of three dead men. There’s a fourth one upstairs, Jeongin wants to tell her but he can’t bring himself to move or say a word. This is a dream and he is seized with sleep. In this strange land Jisung calls him baby, he is fed pancakes at night, and Minho cannot reach him.
Jeongin sways a little and an aborted laugh leaves his parted mouth. Mrs. Han looks over at him and clicks her tongue.
“Honey, are you okay?”
She has a glass of water for him and Jeongin dazedly takes it from her. It tastes divine, the way water has no right to be. Everything seems to melt away and then remade once again. Mrs. Han is saying something to Jisung and Jeongin only manages to catch the tail end.
—a mess! Didn’t you give him the pills I told you to?”
“I told you, he wouldn’t have liked that! They’re too strong anyway!”
“Well, look at him now, he looks like death warmed over.”
“I’m fine,” Jeongin croaks and clears his throat, manages to clog it even more and gulps down more water placed kindly before him by Mrs. Han. “Thank you for everything but I need to go, I’m really— honestly I don’t even know how long it’s been I need to go.”
He stands up too fast and the glass teeters dangerously on the edge. Jeongin reaches out to grab it, misses, and watches in dismay as it goes tumbling. Before it shatters the stillness of the night, Jisung swipes it mid-fall and deposits it back on the table. He and his mother stare at Jeongin.
“I think you need some rest,” Mrs. Han says slowly. She flips a pancake and prepares to pour another onto the pan, “It’s alright. I’ve called your folks. They’ll come retrieve you soon.”
The earth shifts and slips from under Jeongin’s feet. He wobbles and falls back onto his chair. “You— what?”
Mrs. Han opens her mouth to say something but is interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. She motions to Jisung to watch the pancakes, grabs the machine gun and leaves the kitchen. Jeongin’s head swims. His folks, she had said. He had no folks. He only had Lee Minho, the angel of misfortune and destruction. And if she had called him then Jeongin was currently counting his last breaths upon this ephemeral earth. He vaguely notices Jisung turn the stove off and rush to his side, patting his cold cheek and asking if he was okay. He looks concerned. Why is he concerned? He doesn’t know Jeongin. And Jeongin doesn’t know if he’s saved Jeongin’s life or made it exponentially difficult. Jisung’s face is too close, his mouth forming words Jeongin cannot hear. It’s a nice mouth, like a dollop of syrup in the middle of a golden pancake. Maybe it tastes just as sweet. None of this mattered now.
Life is fleeting, Jeongin thinks as he reaches out to touch a startled Jisung’s cheek and leans in, life is fleeting and I am about to die a virgin. Jisung’s lips really are as soft as they looked. Did he pilfer Nivea lip balms from the store counter in his free time? How many times would he be reapplying them? What flavours does he have? He seems to Jeongin like a berry guy. Or maybe cocoa butter. Oh, and he’s kissing Jeongin back. His hands are in Jeongin’s hair but they aren’t tugging, fingers just resting gently on Jeongin’s scalp. Lightly scratching. His tongue probes the line of Jeongin’s mouth and enters without delay. He is in my lap now, Jeongin realises with a cloudy hot rush up his neck, his thighs are warm. His dick is pressing against me—
“And here I thought you’d be Swiss cheese by the time I got here,” says Minho’s acrid voice from the vicinity of the doorway. Jeongin jumps and pushes Jisung off his lap and onto the floor with a loud thump. Minho rubs the space between his eyebrows, “Maybe it’s my fault for forcing celibacy on you.”
“This isn’t what it looks like,” Jeongin stammers, clambering to her feet.
Jisung’s eyes grow wide. “It’s not?”
“Shut your stupid mouth, Han Jisung.”
You know,” Minho interrupts tiredly, “it’s embarrassing enough being called by the Madame of the Han family in the middle of the night to come pick up my agent that shes’s somehow babysitting. Thank you, by the way,” he bows to Mrs. Han and she nods back. He turns back to Jeongin, his gaze steely, “I hope you at least recovered the package.”
Jeongin is already nodding furiously. “It’s here, look.” He produces the case from where it had been standing next to the table. Minho strides forward and takes it from him, checks the lock and puts in the code. Jeongin cannot see what’s inside but Mrs. Han’s eyes widen over Minho’s shoulder. Minho, satisfied, snaps it shut and holds it in one hand. With the other, he levels a gun at Jeongin’s head.
“You know the protocol, Gwisin-8,” he says and cocks the gun.
Mrs. Han takes a step forward, “Hold on now—”
But it is Jisung who moves first. He places himself between Jeongin and Minho, unarmed with his posture loose. “You’re not hurting him.”
“This isn’t a movie,” Jeongin hisses, grabbing Jisung’s arms to move him. “He will fucking shoot you, dickhead.”
“Not if he wants to maintain the agreement with the Han family, he won’t,” Jisung tilts his head and grins, “Especially not if he’s on the Han family turf to begin with.”
Jeongin stares wide-eyed from Jisung to Minho who is unmoved. Eventually, he says, “Maybe it’s time we do away with exploitative agreements and stop owing imaginary protection fees to an organisation that doesn’t protect us anyway.”
“Oh? Saving your agent and keeping him alive isn’t what you pay us for?”
“If he failed his mission he’s as good as dead. Your help was unnecessary and unwanted.”
They stare at each other, each refusing to budge. Jisung reaches behind him and takes Jeongin’s quivering hand, Minho’s eyes following each movement and narrowing by degrees. Jisung grins.
“Then he’s under my protection now. I’ll induct him into the family and you can fuck off with your briefcase. How about that?”
Jeongin’s heart coughs and sputters like a jet engine about to crash. Minho’s face is hard as a rock and there’s a persistent twitch flickering on the corner of his lips. It feels like an eternity of staring each other down, guns akimbo.
And then Minho lowers his gun with a scowl. “Come on, shithead, we’re leaving. I need your report by tomorrow morning and don’t put in anything unnecessary.” He glances at Jisung as he turns around and bows to Jisung’s mother before swiftly leaving the house.
Jeongin stands there for a bit, rooted to the spot. He lived? He broke protocol and lived? What’s more, he made Lee Minho break protocol and lived. But there’s no time to dwell on it right now. He snaps out of his trance and stares at Jisung who is watching him quietly in turn.
“I guess this is—” is all he gets out before Jeongin grabs his face and smashes his mouth on Jisung’s. Jisung groans and they hear Mrs. Han sigh before her footsteps retreat down the corridor. Jeongin wraps his arms around Jisung, one hand cupping the back of his head and holding his waist with the other. When he pulls away Jisung is flushed and sweat has broken out on his forehead, making his hair stick in clumps to his skin. Jeongin brushes it away, panting and trying to catch his breath.
“Number,” he says hoarsely, “Gimme your number.”
—
Jeongin has acquired religion. There is a god, there are angels and demons. Hell is real and so is heaven. Oh, and there are ghosts and benevolent spirits. There is a whole plane of existence away from the prying eyes of human beings and everything falls into place in mysterious ways. Like Lee Minho getting written up instead of Jeongin because technically Jeongin was in his care and he was supposed to retrieve Jeongin after shit first hit the fan anyway. He’s glaring daggers at Jeongin as they sit across from each other in the boardroom and Chief Bang gives a long spiel about workplace safety and the importance of fostering trust between handlers and agents. He has his serious face on today. Jeongin is relishing this, gently rocking in his swivel chair. Minho looks like he’ll strangle Jeongin first before killing the Chief slowly and painfully.
“I expect better from one of my top agents—”
“One of? I am the best you have—”
“If you were, we wouldn’t currently be owing one to the young master of the Han Family.” Bang Chan lowers his head and massages his temples. Jeongin knows he’ll go bald in 6 months if Minho doesn’t poison his protein shake with boomslang venom first.
“Changbin’s handling it,” Minho snaps and gets to his feet, “Can we wrap this up? He fucked up, I fucked up, we’ll do better, I’m sorry Chief, yadda yadda yadda.”
Chief Bang blinks. “Did you just apologise?”
Jeongin watches, amazed, as Minho’s eyes widen a fraction and the very tip of his nose grows pink. “I’ll see you at home, bastard,” he snaps and storms towards the door before spinning on his heel, “You! You’ve got sparring practice with me in 5. Move it.”
Chief Bang is smiling as he gestures for Jeongin to go. He’s probably thinking something disgusting about Minho. Jeongin resists the urge to gag and makes himself scarce. The sparring room is one floor below. As he stands by the lift waiting for it to come up, his phone buzzes in his pocket.
raining here howz seoul
Jeongin bites his lip to keep from smiling as he types back.
Sunny and clear. Wanna come see?
He puts his phone back in his pocket as the lift arrives. It buzzes again and Jeongin finds himself smiling. He won’t read it now. Something to look forward to after Minho lays him flat on the mats like a pancake.