i could use another cigarette;

i could use another cigarette;

"Don't look at me like that." Wonshik felt like he was saying for the millionth time, for two reasons; one, it was annoying as hell, and two, it was that all-knowing look that saw right through him and knew everything.

"Hakyeon will be at my house today as well. Is that alright?" Taekwoon asked.

The two of them walked along the sidewalk in the direction of their neighborhood, which wasn't too far from their school. They lived just a few blocks away from each other, but that space had them in nearly two different worlds; where Wonshik lived in a suburban, one-story house, Taekwoon lived in a two-story – well, Wonshik always saw it as a mansion. It was a damn nice house.

"Yeah, that's fine. Just tell him to lay off the smothering. I don't like it." he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "And whatever you do – "

"Do not let Jaehwan over. Yes Wonshik. You've told me over and over."

Wonshik huffed, scowling. "I just don't like the way he acts!"

The older teenager chuckled softly. "He's probably over at Sanghyuk's today anyway."

Wonshik almost shivered at the thought. Going over to Hyuk's was always an experience because it was like night and day in that place – the kid's dad was looming and cold, but his mom was really sweet and always fed them too much. He hoped his ( clingy ) hyung would be alright anyway.

The two came to the place where they parted ways and Taekwoon stopped and looked at the white-haired teen meaningfully. Wonshik scowled because dammit, he hated that look. "You make it look like I'm leaving to serve my time." he pointed out, scrunching his nose.

But as they parted ways, he laughed to himself bitterly. It wasn't like serving military time, more like prison time – or that's what he would compare it with anyway.

He opened his door and toed off his shoes, closely listening for any signs of anyone else being home, but there wasn't. He sighed and looked at the clock, figuring he had about twenty minutes before he had to face the music. With a sigh of relief, he dropped his stuff off in his room and undressed into basketball shorts and a graphic tee. His next stop was his sister's room, and to even more relief, none of her things were there. He was grateful for Taekwoon-hyung.

Homework be damned, Wonshik automatically started cleaning the house of its mess and forcing out the reek of alcohol and smoke. He laughed; it was a pretty impossible task because the stench was perpetual on everything in the house, save his sister's room – he never let her things be tainted like that.

He did the best he could with what he had and cleared away some of the empty liquor bottles and beer cans, and then after drowning his house in air freshener and skimming over the wooden floors with a mop, Wonshik bounced over to the bathroom and closed the door.

He took off his shirt and then looked at his well-defined torso and arms. What a mess. He grimaced and then turned to the sink to rinse off his neck and face from the layer of concealer he applied daily.

He had gotten better at it, and with his sister's ( guilt was written all over that situation – on his face, on her face, in the atmosphere, in the tears, the wails, the shrine in the back room ) help, the ugly yellow blotches that were much more angry a few days ago were like stage makeup themselves from everyone, including his friends. ( Sometimes even himself. )

( . . . Though maybe not Taekwoon, which was why Wonshik didn't look at him too much. )

The front door jiggled and Wonshik was quick to put his shirt back on and dry his face before making his way to his room and settling at his desk with his homework. He slipped in earbuds to make it look like he was listening to music.

For a while, he wasn't bothered and he didn't feel strung up like he used to a few years ago after the accident.

He heard his name echo through the house. He didn't move.

Again. He still didn't move.

And then there were heavy footsteps down the hall and he sighed to himself with a roll of his eyes, waiting. The door opened, and then there was a heavily irritated huff and more heavy footsteps across the wooden floor until a hand clutched tightly at his shoulder and swerved his chair around.

Wonshik was face to face with his dad, a man with the same slightly droopy eyes and long face, slightly strong nose and dark brown eyes, but black hair lined with stressed gray striking against Wonshik's curly platinum hair. Hah. They may have looked the same, but Wonshik didn't like this man.

"Where's Jiwon?" he asked coarsely.

"Where she is every – " ( He couldn't help the condescension in the word. Sometimes, it was just the little victories. ) "– Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. At school, doing her club activities." he replied in a level, matching tone.

Mr. Kim squared out his shoulders and gave Wonshik a piercing look, but the teenager only coughed a laugh. Did the old man really think that affected him anymore? "I have homework to finish, so," he said, nodding to the papers on his desk. "I'll make dinner when I'm done."

. . .

While Wonshik was in the kitchen, pouring over stir fry, steamed rice, and seasoned ramps, his phone vibrated in his pocket and he turned down the steamer slightly and cleaned off his hands to check his messages from Kakao. Messages in Starlight-Starbright were constantly going off, along with GOTCHA! and E-Planet. He cleared the messages except for Starlight-Starbright and went to see what was up.

But before he could read his sister's reply, a private chat alerted him. Taekwoon. Great.

Just because he wasn't around didn't mean he didn't know that Taekwoon was giving him that look again. ( Guilt. ) What was he supposed to tell his hyung? Wonshik made do with what he had, which was anything he needed if he really wanted – in this case, he just needed the old man out by a certain time so he could bring his sister home.

Taekwoon messaged a few more times ( Guilt. ), but Wonshik didn't feel like dealing with it. He plated the stir fry and bowled the rice neatly, then sneaked out of the kitchen and passed the living room where Mr. Kim was watching TV.

As soon as he hit the hallway, he rushed to his room and fished out the small key that he kept in a box of other things that no one would pay a second though to. He dove into his closet and in the farthest corner sat a small safe that the key unlocked – but it didn't open until he entered a six-digit code. Inside of it were lots of bottles and little baggies and thick wads of cash in dollars, yuan, yen, and won.

The teenager reached for one of the bottles labeled "sleepy food" and brought out a single capsule before he heard the old man's voice from down the hall, gruffly asking about dinner. Rolling his eyes, Wonshik hollered that he was using the restroom, and then he quickly put everything away, shutting the safe and hiding the key.

Nonchalantly, he waltzed back into the kitchen and then looked over the counter to see if the old man was still watching TV. He brought out a thick knife and used it to crush the pale blue capsule into dust on a piece of wax paper. He grabbed the small bowl of kochukaru¹ and quickly mixed the new powder into it before seasoning and mixing it with the chopped ramps on the old man's plate.

It was such a practiced thing that Wonshik figured one day he'd have to try it with a blindfold. The thing was, he couldn't say anything to anyone about it. It wasn't like it was poisoning ( Don't get me wrong, I'd jump at the chance. But you still have your uses. ), but he did this for a reason.

After settling two different plates and bowls, he made the table. "Dinner's up." he called before sitting down and beginning to turn over his clean food with his chopsticks. Mr. Kim joined him a few moments later, looking like he was saying a prayer ( what a joke ) before digging in.

Those first few times, Wonshik would watch with fear prickling at the corners of his eyes, but time changed things. He was confident now that he could probably even get to some high government official and not get caught.

Adjacent to the table was a portrait of a smiling woman with softly cascading black hair and shining brown eyes, and a smile that used to get Wonshik through the long nights when he had nightmares as a little boy. He had considered so many times taking that delicately framed photograph down because every time he caught it from the corner of his eye, his throat would get tight, he would sniffle, his eyes would start to water, or churning would happen in his stomach. That one photograph was the reason the powder was never poison. ( Guilt. )

( Are you disappointed in me, momma? )

Sometimes, when he would look at Jiwon ( it was a blessing and curse that she looked so much like momma ), he would get those same energy-draining feelings. ( Guilt. )

( This is all for you, Jiwonnie. )

Your name is Kim Wonshik, and you ing hate CCTV.