Streetlamps painted the rain-slick roads orange, casting long black shadows that danced like dancers on a darkened stage. Occasionally, a car would come driving up, past the lonely bus stop, wheels flicking up droplets of rainwater. Yixing shivered when a gust of wind blew through, ducking his head against a sprinkle of rain that had come from nowhere. The ends of his scarf fluttered, a vivid red against the jet black of his outfit and he tugged it tighter around him, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips.

A hand touched his shoulder and he spun, his scarf flaring out around him.

“Junmyeon.” His voice lilted up in relief as warm arms s around his waist, pulling him against a firm chest. “It’s you.”

Junmyeon’s chin dug into his shoulder, as he squeezed him close, so tightly that Yixing could hardly breathe.

“I came as soon as I heard,” Junmyeon murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Yixing pressed his face into woollen fabric, hiding his face as the tears that he had been holding back began to fall, soaking into Junmyeon’s thick coat. A hand curled into his hair and held him as he wept, uncaring of the rain that had begun to fall.

The rain soaked them both, sinking into the delicate fibres of Yixing’s scarf and weighing it down like a moth’s wings drenched by dewdrops. Junmyeon cupped the back of Yixing’s head at last and gently pulled him away, pressing his lips to his forehead.

“Let’s get you home,” he whispered, reaching for the briefcase that had sat undisturbed at Yixing’s feet.

“Mn,” Yixing mumbled, shifting so that Junmyeon could move. He slid his hand into his back pocket, carefully hidden by his scarf and grasped the gun he had hidden there. Before Junmyeon could straighten, he had the barrel pressed against his head, his breaths coming out in harsh pants. There were no tears in his voice now, only steel. “I know it was you.”

Junmyeon froze, his hand closed tight around the handle of Yixing’s briefcase.

“What are you talking about?”

“Jongin’s death,” Yixing snapped. “You killed my brother.”

“He’s not your brother, Yixing–.”

“He may as well be! I watched him grow up, Junmyeon!”

“He was leeching off you and you were just too blind to see it!”

“Liar.”

Yixing’s hand shook, his finger curled around the trigger. His red scarf was clinging to him now, soaked through with rain. Rainwater ran down his face, both their faces and mingled with the tears there.

“Yixing, put the gun down and we can talk, alright?” Junmyeon said, his voice wavering. “You know I would never do anything to hurt you.”

Yixing knew that. He also knew that Junmyeon had never liked Jongin. From the moment they had met, Junmyeon had disliked Jongin. Jongin said he was jealous, that Yixing lavished so much time and attention onto him. But Junmyeon had never had a shortage of love. Yixing and Jongin had only each other, for a very long time.

“Why’d you kill him?” he asked, his voice soft, dangerous like a panther slinking through the shadows of the night. “I know you did it. No one else could have.”

“Xing,” Junmyeon said again, his tone heavy. “There are things that you don’t know–.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Yixing snapped. “Why? Were you jealous? You held my whole heart, Junmyeon. You didn’t have to kill him.”

Junmyeon stared back at him, without a single trace of regret on his face and Yixing’s heart trembled in his chest. He thought it had been hollowed out already when they pulled him out of his performance to ask him to identify his beloved brother’s body, thought it could not hurt more. But as it turned out, a hollow heart could still feel.

“I was trying to protect you, my heart.”

“I said don’t lie to me,” Yixing said, the hand holding the gun trembling so hard he nearly dropped it. He half expected Junmyeon to take advantage, to try and knock the gun from his hand, but Junmyeon stayed where he was, half bent over the briefcase.

“Jongin was dangerous,” Junmyeon said carefully. “I had men follow him. He was doing things I rather you not know.”

“He’s my brother,” Yixing answered, though the steel in his voice was wavering now. Junmyeon sounded so sure that it was difficult to doubt him. And he had never lied to Yixing before.

Junmyeon’s eyes darkened, and he shook his head, straightening to face Yixing fully. Yixing let him. The rain was pouring down in sheets now, Yixing’s scarf flattened to his back, ruined. It glistened like blood against the darkness of his clothes, a macabre sight.

“I don’t want to destroy whatever image you had of him, my heart. You loved him. Leave it be.”

“Then why did you kill him?” Yixing roared, shaken. Rain ran down his face, dragging mascara with it, painting his cheeks in trails of black ink.

“Because he would have killed you.” Junmyeon’s tone was like ice water, pouring through Yixing’s veins.  

“I loved you,” Yixing said, almost as if he was in a dream. “I really did, Myeon.”

“I know,” Junmyeon said, raising both hands slowly into the air. “I know, my love. I love you too.”

Yixing closed his eyes, sliding the gun back into his back pocket. He inhaled once before opening them, his gaze glinting like copper pennies in the light.

“You shouldn’t have told me that,” he whispered, shaky. Because he knew Junmyeon was right. All Jongin’s behaviour lined up. But Yixing would rather die than admit that. He loved his brother, still did.

“I didn’t want to,” Junmyeon said grimly. “I wanted you to keep your memories of him.”

Of course, he did. Yixing wanted to laugh, because even after confessing to killing his brother, it still could not mar Junmyeon’s image in his eyes. What sort of person was he, to love a murderer twice over?

“I never want to see you again.”