This is turning into the Yixing Show. Sorry (not sorry). Chanbaek and Lay. A good grouping, imo.

DO NOT TRUST WHAT I WRITE ABOUT MURDER AND POISONS, I JUST DO RUDIMENTARY RESEARCH AND MAKE IT STORY-READY. I am the last person you could call a scientist. Don't try at home, I guess.

Please leave comments, on anything, from how nice the weather is or how bad my writing is. Feel free. I like reading them. And if you even think you have a ghost of a criticism, let me know.

Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them.

-Alice Sebold

A tall man shoved his hands deep into his pockets, threading through the masses of people out buying presents for the holidays. It was a stupid tradition, he thought. Being alive was really enough. No one needed face cream or leather gloves.

At the base of a plain apartment complex, he stopped and looked up.

This was the address given to him. It didn't look like much, though it was certainly better than the shack his target lived in.

He ran a finger over the ridges of his pocket knife. It was comforting to him, a habit he had acquired when he was just starting out, when blood and guts and sweat still fazed him. Of course, blood was nothing now. But the effect remained. 

The bounty promised to him for killing Byun Baekhyun was enough by itself to bring a gentler expression to his face. He knew nothing about the man, just that it was beyond his field of expertise and he didn't have to know about it. Which was enough. He didn't like knowing the senitmental stuff. 

There was one person in his way, though, from what he knew. A Park Chanyeol, whose family name was nearly household among those in his field. The patriarch was an amazing mentor to some of the best in the country. He didn't know anything about the son, though, beyond the fact that he knew his way around poisons.

Well, so do I.

The man smoothed down his freshly cut and dyed hair, giving a passing woman a polite smile. As soon as she passed, he touched the silver pendant at his neck. It was hard work, keeping in line with what his gods demanded while trying to survive in a dirty world.

Anyways, Park Chanyeol shouldn't be a problem. He was just a poison master with a gun.

Chanyeol was a nightmare in the kitchen.

"Which knife cuts meat again?" he called out from the other end of the counter.

Baekhyun rolled his eyes. "Which one do you think?"

Chanyeol looked down at the three knives by his hands and held up the cleaver.

"For Chr-st's sake. You know what, just let me do it." Bakehyun reached over to grab the carving knife. "You go, I don't know, whatever you do during your free time."

Chanyeol pouted and moved closer. "Can I watch you, then?"

"Sure."

Baekhyun made quick work of the chicken , and Chanyeol frowned down at the little cutlets.

"How come the big one wasn't good?"

Baekhyun held up the cleaver, and Chanyeol held his arms up in mock fear. "It's just not practical," Baekhyun said. "If you had ribs or something, this would get through the tougher parts, but this is chicken. You don't need to, like..." He made the motion of smashing something with the cleaver, and Chanyeol made a face.

"You're dangerous with that thing," Chanyeol said.

Baekhyun looked at the knives in his hands and pretended to grin maniacally.

"Oh G-d, don't do that!" Chanyeol leaned back against the island. "That's scary."

"Well, boo, I guess." Baekhyun put down the knives and went to wash his hands. "Just get those in the pan, and when they're cooked put the vegetables in."

"How do I know when they're done?"

Baekhyun gave Chanyeol a dirty look. "You're more hopeless than Sehun, you know that?"

"Oops." 

As Chanyeol tried to stir-fry, Baekhyun gave Yixing a call. 

The gentle older man didn't pick up, which was unusual. Baekhyun tried one more time--straight to voicemail--before calling Jongdae, starting to get worried.

"Hey, Baek," Jongdae said, less cheery than normal.

"Hi, Jongdae. Is Yixing there?"

"He just got home, but he was out all night last night, so he's tired. I think he's hungover."

"Hungover? Lay doesn't drink."

"Well, he's in bed right now with a headache. Says he's nauseous too. Oh, he used some of your essential oils."

"That's not a problem. Should I go back?"

Jongdae yelled something in the background before answering. "Yixing says to just stay there. He thinks it might just be a bug and he doens't want to get more people sick than necessary."

"Oh. Okay."

"Sehun's out right now, with some girl again."

"Okay. Well, then, I just wanted to check in."

"Of course." A bit of the usual Jongdae personality crept back in. "Tell Chanyeol that you're a , okay?"

"What the f does that mean?"

Jongdae hung up, cackling, and Baekhyun tsked as he dropped his phone back on the counter.

Chanyeol hadn't burned the kitchen down yet, so Baekhyun assumed everything was alright.

He hadn't had a headache or dizzy spell in the thirty-odd hours he spent with Chanyeol, which was amazing. Baekhyun nudged the pillowcase he had brought all his things in: two shirts, a pair of jeans, his pajamas, his medicine, underwear, toothbrush. And the blanket, crumpled at the foot of the bed.

Speaking of clothes, he hadn't showered for the past day. He'd do that after dinner.

Chanyeol yelped from the kitchen, and Baekhyun groaned. "What did you do?"

"It's hot!"

Baekhyun walked in on Chanyeol doing some kind of one-footed dance in front of the stove, swearing at the crackling pan. "I was putting the veggies in and something burned me," the taller man whimpered. 

"It's a stove. It's got fire, of course it--aish." Baekhyun pushed Chanyeol aside gently. "You didn't add water."

"Was I supposed to?"

They had lunch on the table without incident, and Chanyeol stretched in his chair.

"Food always tastes better when you make it," he said, smiling winningly at Baekhyun as he set two bowls of rice down. Baekhyun scoffed, but his heart did a tiny flutter.

"You had corn flakes this morning, so of course this tastes better."

Chanyeol nearly choked getting the food down twice, and Baekhyun had to smack him on the back both times.

Yixing was not hungover. 

After Jongdae and Sehun were out of the house, Yixing clambered out of bed into the kitchen, throwing open the refrigerator and pulling out a small vodka bottle. Inside, though, was a different pungeant clear fluid, and he downed it quickly.

There had been cyanide in his food that morning, he knew it.

Shady diners weren't really his thing, but the Roadside Diner wasn't always a mess. In fact, when he and his friends were still young and stupid and free to do whatever they wanted, it was a safe haven. They hid there during finals, when Luhan's parents were fighting, when Yixing wanted to cry. 

And when Yifan was afraid. 

The head chef still recognized Yixing when he walked in at three-thirty in the morning, and they shared a long hug and warm greetings. There was a blueberry pancake on the house, and the chef still remembered Yixing's "usuals": a tuna salad sandwich, a glass of chocolate milk with too much sugar, and a garden salad with three grape tomatoes on top. 

Yixing slammed the refrigator door closed. It was the sugar in the milk that saved his life, probably, as well as his fast actions the moment he returned home, as breathless as a dizzy Baekhyun and swearing enough to make Sehun proud. He had a few things stored away that he took immediately (though he would have to find that dealer again soon for refills; he hated Tim), and just as a cherry on top, he took the little hydroxo-something that his mother's sister had developed and gave to him. Not that she knew why he needed it, but Yixing was good at bargaining.

He cursed at the tiny bottle in his hand. It was so early in the morning that it happened, and he could never remember anything when he ate. 

Someone knocked on the front door, and Yixing stumbled over, trying to scrape together presentability before opening the door--

--on Yifan.

Yixing tried to slam the door shut as soon as he saw the man's face, but Yifan was faster and in better physical shape. He caught the door and held it open, a sickeningly familiar smile crossing his face.

"Xingxing," he said.

Yixing snarled at him. "Don't call me that."

"Why?" Yifan leaned in, staring into Yixing eyes. "Oh, you're not in good shape now, are you?" He smirked. "Oops. Didn't mean to put the almonds in your milk."

"Get out of here."

"Well, I guess Byun's not home." Yifan shrugged. "Some old nutter promised me four hundred thousand for him. Can you believe that? Four hundred thousand!" He grinned, eyes going back to the crazed look they started taking on in the last days. "Just for cleaning up a little bit."

"Cleaning up. Go clean up your a ."

Yifan grabbed the front of Yixing's shirt. "You live among scum, Xingxing," he hissed, eyes wide. "You're becoming impure. And I need to protect you." He threw the shorter man back, and Yixing hit the wall hard.

"I'll protect you, Xingxing," Yifan said again, turning his back but staring over his shoulder at the man on the floor. "Just like the old days."

He slammed the door shut behind him, and the rattling of the wood echoed inside Yixing's chest.