JongIn stares as Kyungsoo, who is now frowning at him in suspicion. JongIn doesn't quite see the way Kyungsoo has his hand on the door, aimed to shut it quickly it he needed to.
JongIn lets out an awkward laugh and it fills the silence, but there's nothing funny about the situation.

“Hyung, what are you talking about?” he shifts where he stands. “It's me.”
Kyungsoo frowns and his head to one side, looking a like a confused puppy.

“Hey, stop playing around,” JongIn laughs again and punches Kyungsoo lightly on the shoulder. “You know I hate it when you do that.”

JongIn waits for Kyungsoo's face to break into that gummy smile of his. He waits for the familiar twinkle in his eyes and sound of stifled laughter.

“Sorry, I don't—I don't know you,” he says finally.

JongIn feels like something hit him in the back of the head, hard. He suddenly feels like he's going to be sick at any moment. A wave of nausea washes over him, and his knees almost give away again.

JongIn shakes his head in an attempt to shake away the sense of disbelief that is hovering around him. It makes hims body shake, and he can feel his teeth chattering together despite the heating. “No. No, you do know me. Kim JongIn. We're--”

JongIn stops himself, because he can't believe he's explaining himself to the one person who knew him inside and out. The person he knows likes the color black even his personality is much brighter, who likes the sound of rain even if it drenches him from head to toe, the one who can melt anyone with his singing voice even if he says he's just playing around.

Kyungsoo takes a half step back, shaking his head slowly in what's meant to be an apology.

“We're friends,” JongIn manages to say. “We graduated from the same high school, we met at coffee shop. Why don't you remember? Did something happen?”
“Sorry, I--”
“Kyungsoo!”

A voice calls from somewhere in the room. It echos out into the empty hallway. Bass and gravelly, JongIn doesn't recognize a voice as deep as this one.

“Kyungsoo, who is it?” the voice calls again.

This time, the voice sounds like it's approaching, and there's the sound of socked footsteps coming closer. A few seconds pass and another boy sticks his head from around the door. He towers over Kyungsoo, even JongIn, who stands at a precise measurement of 182 centimeters.

He has jet black hair, cut short and clean, and extremely white teeth and big eyes.
“Oh, Kyungsoo, is this a friend of yours?” When he speaks, his voice rumbles, and JongIn almost jumps back in surprise at the way his baritone voice doesn't fit his youthful baby-face. He smiles and extends a hand. Kyungsoo opens his mouth to speak, but the much taller boy already introduces himself.

“Park Chanyeol.” he grins. “Nice to meet you.”

JongIn hesitates before taking Chanyeol's giant hand. “Kim JongIn.”

“Cool. Any friend of Kyungsoo's is a friend of mine.”

Chanyeol is obviously the friendly type, the one who starts new relationships and insists acquaintances that they come in. Come in, and make yourself at home, he says, we're about to have breakfast. Kyungsoo stammers in protest but Chanyeol pretends not to hear.

So, here they are. The three of them sit in the kitchen, around a little stone table meant to only seat two. Kyungsoo warily pours juice while Chanyeol pops in some leftovers in the microwave.

JongIn can't help but notice the way the apartment has changed. His clothes aren't the ones thrown about. The shoes by the door far too big. The sports drinks in the fridge aren't quite to his taste. JongIn sees fruits sitting on the counter top. He likes strawberries over bananas, but it's not like he can do anything about it.
“Sorry, these are just leftovers from last night,” Chanyeol says, setting down a microwavable container full of something steaming and delicious in front of him.

“Kimchi spaghetti.” JongIn says, and his voice almost cracks when he does. He doesn't say how the smell makes his heart pain with memories that seem to not exist.

“Oh!” Chanyeol grins. “You know it! Wow, that's cool, nobody ever hears about it. It's Kyungsoo's secret recipe. You really must his friend.”

JongIn nods.

Of course he's heard of the secret recipe. The one that consists of piles of extra cheese, one and a third cup of kimchi, sweet organic tomato sauce and 26 slices of ham.

“So....” JongIn begins and Chanyeol looks up from setting down plates. “You....live here?”

Chanyeol nods, “Yup. It gets stuffy at times, but whatever. It's home, you know. And besides, the company pays for it so that's a big pl--”

“Company?”

Chanyeol raises an eyebrow. “Huh? You didn't know?”
JongIn frowns. “Know what?”
Chanyeol nods at the poster on the wall next to their couch. It's huge and loud, with neon colors and words making loops. JongIn has never seen it before in his life, and he has to squint to make out the words. DO KYUNGSOO AND PARK CHANYEOL'S THIRD INTERNATIONAL TOUR.

“You guys are....singers,” JongIn says, but it comes out more like a squeak.

Chanyeol crosses his arms over his chest proudly, and Kyungsoo comes over to pass out chopsticks. He gives them to Chanyeol first, a pair or red ones first, then some over to JongIn.

“Sorry they don't match,” he mutters, slumping into the seat next to Chanyeol.

JongIn stares down at his chopsticks, one a light purple and the other a pastel teal, and thinks that they aren't the only things around here that don't match up.

---

The bus stop is exactly 612 steps down the street from Chanyeol and Kyungsoo's cramped Hongdae apartment. The bus is on time, for once, but it's packed, forcing JongIn to have to stand in the aisle. The ride takes twenty two minutes, which gives JongIn far too much time to think about things.

He sort of feels sorry for running out of the apartment unexplained. Sort of sorry he even came. He feels himself shaking with an anger he can't help. One that makes him slam his fist in the window of the bus and makes the driver yell at him and demand that he get off immediately. So he runs to the posh office building instead, his hands balled into fists, his knuckles white, but covered in blood and splintered glass.

“I'm looking for LuHan,” he demands, slapping a hand down on the counter top of the receptionist's desk. Once it does, an awful pain radiates up his arm. He grimaces, but he's far too angry to cry out.

The receptionist, Oh Sehun, JongIn recalls, looks up, both disgust and surprise obvious on his face.

“I'm sorry, but he's not here, he--”

“Where. Is. He.” JongIn grinds through clenched teeth.

Kim JongIn can be quite threatening when he wants to be. SeHun looks around nervously, as if someone will come swooping in to his rescue, but there's not one in the lobby. Even if there was, JongIn spoke quietly. Sometimes quietly is much worse.

“He left a few minutes ago,” SeHun says, trying to regain composure. He straightens out his imported silk tie. “He said he was going out for a drink. Don't ask me where, I—wait, where are you going?”

JongIn is already out the door by the time SeHun gets to his feet. Running so fast, his shoes kicking up dirt and gravel from the uneven pavement. Blood is pounding through his head, so loud, he can barely hear himself think. He throws himself down several flights of cement stairs. His lungs are gasping for air, but the last thing he wants to do is slow down.

The front of the bar comes into view. The blue door just barely visible among the crowds of people walking by. JongIn grabs the handle and yanks the door open with such force it makes the glass vibrate.

Several people look up when the door slams with a bang. One that makes everyone flinch.

“You!”

JongIn storms over to the figure at the bar. No one moves. No one talks.

Burgundy hair and a crisp white dress shirt, a ring adorned on his right hand. He sets down his glass, and the clink nearly echoes in the silence.

“JongIn,” he looks up, dead calm, and playing innocent. He pretends not to see the way JongIn is absolutely fuming where he stands.

“Questions already?” LuHan smirks.

“You little--” JongIn grabs LuHan by the collar with both hands and slams him, hard, against the wall. The wall shakes and several women shriek.

“What the hell did you do?!” JongIn roars. His face is only inches from LuHan's.

“JongIn--”
JongIn slams him against the wall again. His injured hand begins to bleed profusely, blood staining LuHan's white shirt. Some shards of glass still linger in the open wound.

“I said,” JongIn hisses, his voice menacingly low. “What. Did. You. Do.”

LuHan stares back, his innocent image gone, and replaced with one of a black heart and cruel, cold eyes.

JongIn draws his arm back and brings it swinging down. He feels his fist come in contact with LuHan's jaw, which shatters his hand into broken, excruciating pieces. He feels several bones crack, and more blood drips onto the floor.

The manager comes rushing out and yanks the two of them apart.

“Take it outside!” he yells at them. “I don't need trash like this in here.”

LuHan scoffs, but doesn't break eye contact with JongIn. JongIn is positively shaking with an insane kind of rage and the nerves in his eyes are bloodshot.

“Follow me,” LuHan says quietly, and disappears out the door. JongIn follows after him.

The drops of blood fall like drum beats.