“Target spotted two streets away from the grocery store.”

The crackly voice from his earpiece startled Jongin out of his thoughts, and he tightened his hold on his gun, poised for attack.

“Is he alone?” Jongin asked.

“Yes.”

The answer was hesitant, and Jongin opened his mouth to ask. Suddenly, footsteps and drunken singing was heard, and he immediately quieted, moving closer to the edge of the wall to look around it.

Forty years old, average height, balding at the sides.

He recognized that man from the files that had been delivered to him with a red stamp across his name.

Eliminate.

Jongin adjusted his hold on his gun and the mask covering the lower half of his face, and darted out from behind the brick wall. He pulled the trigger, and a scream of pain rang out into the night. He stowed his gun away in his pocket when suddenly, bright lights flooded the area, and he could hear the screeching of car tires.

Crap.

“,” he muttered into his mouthpiece.

“What the hell, what’s going on Jongin? Why are there suddenly cars everywhere?” Chanyeol asked through the receiver.

“It seems like they were expecting us.” Jongin narrowed his eyes as the silhouette of a man walked closer to him.

“How is that even possible? This was classified information, no one aside from the selective few even know that we were acting tonight.”

“I don’t know,” Jongin replied through clenched teeth.

“What are you going to do now? Are you surrounded?”

Jongin glanced behind him, and he could see another group of men moving slowly towards him, guns pointed.

“Pretty much,” he admitted. “Bring the car around to the entrance of the alley and keep the engine on. I’ll fight my way through.”

“Are you sure? Do you need back up?”

“Don’t sound so worried,” Jongin chided as he dodged the first punch, bending down and feeling a grin spread on his face.

“I’m not worried, why would I be worried? It’s only my best friend that’s in a life or death situation right now. Just go ahead and plunge straight into danger.”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Jongin muttered, hearing the roar of a car through the earpiece. “You know we live on danger. Hell, we eat that .”

“Whatever, just keep yourself alive.”

Jongin heard a soft click, and the static in his earpiece disappeared. He estimated that the time for Chanyeol to drive the car from where it was parked two streets away to the entrance of the alleyway should be about ten minutes.

Only ten minutes. He could do that. He could hold these men off for ten minutes.

A foot connected with his chest and he stumbled back a few steps, nearly losing his balance. Years of training kept him on his feet, and he spun around, letting his leg swing into his attacker’s side. Another man charged at him, and he grabbed his wrists, snapping them upwards and hearing the satisfying crack and piercing scream. He dropped him carelessly to the floor and looked up at the rest of the men surrounding him, as if daring them to try and hurt him.

One of them pulled out a gun and aimed it at Jongin, and Jongin felt a humorless smile light up his masked face. The gun was fired, and it was only instinct that led Jongin to drop low, the bullet missing the side of his head by millimeters. He gritted his teeth and ran forward, hand slicing through the air and connecting with the shooter’s arm, twisting it into an impossible angle. The gun fell to the floor, and he picked it up in one swift move, bringing out his own pistol from his coat pocket. Two quick fires from the muzzle, and Jongin could hear the distant roar of a familiar engine.

Car lights flashed behind him, and he was momentarily distracted by the opening of car doors. Another gunshot was heard, and suddenly, there was a sharp, searing pain spreading through Jongin’s shoulder. With a curse, he turned back to his assaulters, looking directly at the man holding the gun.

He stood angled to Jongin, the moonlight throwing shadows over his face. He was wearing a black fedora that was pulled low over his face, and a fancy Cartier watch strapped around his wrist, peeking out form under his sleeve. Jongin’s eyes narrowed as he took in the familiar stance that he couldn’t quite place. The man fired again, and Jongin dodged to the side, eyes never leaving the man as he ducked the next bullet, and the next, and the one after that.

“Jongin!”

He heard Chanyeol’s voice call out his name, and his eyes glinted with amusement and exhilaration as he realized that the man shooting was just barely a stone’s throw away from him. Jongin ripped off his mask and grinned, raising his hand that was loosely holding the gun. He let it drop onto the cement with a clang as he ran towards the car, sliding in the backseat, and the driver gunned the accelerator.

“They’re from La Campanella,” Chanyeol said as they sped down the streets of Tokyo, passing Chiyoda Ward at breakneck speed.

“That’s what I thought,” Jongin answered, looking out the window thoughtfully.

Streets of brightly lit lights blurred past him, and silence filtered through the minutes as he tapped his finger lightly against the cool window of the car.

“How did they know?” Jongin asked finally, voice quiet and low.

Chanyeol shook his head, letting out a breath and tightening his hands around the tails of his newly tailored suit. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, more to himself than to Jongin. “I don’t know.”






Some feuds last over generations. Some over centuries. Some have their beginnings blurred with time and their endings so hidden they seemed almost nonexistent.

Jongin had long given up trying to find out what had triggered the old rivalry between the two families,Rosacea and La Campanella. It was too long ago. All he knew was that no one in Rosacea was supposed to be associated with La Campanella.

Treachery was rewarded with death.

The next night, Jongin fired a bullet against his own kinsmen for the first time. As blood poured from the head wound and stained the cracks in the concrete, he closed his eyes and promised that it would be the last.

He didn’t know that he was going to break that promise.






“What may I get you tonight, sir?”

Jongin was startled out of his thoughts as an unfamiliar voice floated to his ears. His head snapped up, confused eyes scanning the face in front of him.

“Sir?”

“Ah—” Jongin composed himself quickly and plastered on a small, amicable smile. “A Manhattan please.”

The bartender nodded, bowing slightly, and reached for his cocktail mixer. A few minutes later, a martini glass is placed in front of Jongin, and a pair of curious eyes observed him worriedly.

“Sir, is there something wrong?” The bartender asked tentatively.

“No,” Jongin replied immediately. “No, not at all. I just—I just thought someone else worked here.”

The forced smile on Jongin’s face returned, and he grabbed the glass, grimacing at the cherry at the bottom of the bowl. After the few couple of drinks, Sehun had quickly picked up on the way Jongin would fish out the cherry and place it to the side. Soon, Jongin noticed that his drinks didn’t cherries anymore, but instead, a small slice of lemon. He had always preferred the sour, tangy taste of lemons rather than the sickly sweet juice of artificial cherries.

Jongin ignored the repulsive sugary taste that flooded his mouth and chewed, swallowing it immediately. He was grateful when the bitter, familiar taste of burning whiskey drowned out the cherry.

“Sehun took a leave last week,” the bartender said, watching as Jongin stirred his drink absently.

“Why?” Jongin asked.

The bartender shrugged. “Not sure. Just said something about wanting the break.” He thought for a moment. “Think he’s visiting his family and going on a trip by the sea or something.”

Jongin nodded, feeling something bitter that had nothing to do with the alcohol he was drinking seep into his mouth and heart. The bartender gave him a smile that he missed and turned to serve another customer. Hours passed and his glass is refilled countless time with the same mixture of vermouth, bourbon whiskey, and Angostura bitters. A cherry was placed in every glass.

That night, there were no cheeky smiles or sneaked champagne flutes with drinks he’s never ordered.

There was only Jongin with a feeling of loneliness that hung suspended overhead like a storm cloud, ready to thunder and rain. It was a feeling that he had associated with the very definition of his being, yet for some reason, it came onto him as something strange, something vastly unfamiliar, stiff and coarse from disuse. Almost as if it had faded for a period of time, and was now reappearing as poisonous ink droplets in his life.






It’s a week later and Jongin was back at Eldritch, staring glumly at the crimson drink brewed by that unfamiliar bartender that had introduced himself a few days ago. Jongin didn’t really remember the name, but it was okay, since he would re-introduce himself every time they met.

Jongin knew he should be grateful for the comfort and the incessant chatter, but for some reason, even with the endless stream of idle conversation, he still felt that there was something missing. The hollow pit in his stomach only grew larger.






Visits to Eldritch soon became daily as Sehun still didn’t appear. When he asked the new bartender—Baekhyun, he remembered the name now—he had only shrugged and replied that Sehun had extended his vacation.

And even though it was against the rules to take more than two weeks off, the owner of the bar had somehow let him go.

“It doesn’t matter,” Joonmyun, the bar owner, had said when they met on one rainy, spring night. “He’s Sehun.”

Jongin didn’t really understand what Joonmyun meant, but at that time, he didn’t care to understand. He just wanted to sit on his airlift barstool, waiting for Sehun to walk through the glass doors of Eldritch.






Weeks spanned into months, and even others began to perceive the difference in Jongin’s manner.

“I know you like acting all depressed and everything, but what’s with the constant long face?”

Chanyeol’s question was answered with a mere roll of Jongin’s shoulders, eyes not meeting his.

“Are you going back to Eldritch tonight?” Chanyeol tried again.

“Yeah.”

Jongin didn’t know why Chanyeol bothered asking. He should know that he was going to go toEldritch every day. Every day until Sehun returned.

Every day until he made sure Sehun wouldn’t leave again.






It was well into May when Sehun reappeared behind the counter, wiping wine glasses with a sort of professionalism that only belonged to him.

Jongin collapsed into his seat as he stared wide-eyed at Sehun, almost unable to believe that he was really there. Sehun returned his look with a wry smile.

“Hey,” Sehun murmured softly, hands setting out to prepare Jongin a Stinger. It was a Monday.

“You’re back.”

“I am.”

Jongin stared as Sehun bustled around, shaking the cocktail mixer. Just as Sehun was going to pour the drink into a sugar-rimmed margarita glass, Jongin covered it with his palm.

Sehun looked up at him with a confused expression, head cocked to the side. Jongin swallowed thickly as his eyes met Sehun’s. 

“I don’t want a Stinger,” he said in a low voice, slowly and deliberately.

Sehun’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“I don’t want a Stinger,” Jongin repeated, almost as if the words were physically painful to say. “Please make me a Bellini.”

Sehun remained unmoving for a few moments before nodding, expression still shocked, and slowly reaching for a clean cocktail glass. When he was done with the drink, Jongin grabbed the glass and drank it in one shot, his lips after and asking for another.

“Another Bellini?” Sehun asked.

“No. I want a Maiden’s Blush.”

Sehun wordlessly made the drink.

After a few more glasses, Jongin was finally beginning to feel tipsy, and he could feel the room spin around him. He grabbed hold of the counter, because god why does the room keep tipping over.

“I don’t think you should drink anymore,” Sehun said finally, pulling the glass in Jongin’s hands away gently.

“No,” Jongin slurred, eyes half closed. “I want another.”

Sehun sighed and filled his glass with iced water. Jongin frowned at the water for a minute before gulping it down. It seemed to clear his mind just a little. He watched as Sehun attended to another customer, making easy conversation as his deft hands poured the drink neatly into the champagne flute.

But even so, Jongin could tell that Sehun was distracted.

Their conversations had been one-sided, surprisingly with more talking on Jongin’s part. After the first ten minutes, Jongin had found himself mindlessly rambling to get rid of the awkward silence that seemed to plague him all of a sudden. Sehun’s eyes never met his, instead, focusing on the blue green tiles on the counter.

“What’s wrong?” He had asked Sehun.

“Nothing,” Sehun replied, too quickly to be natural.

“Where did you go for your vacation?”

“Oh,” Sehun said. “Just around.”

That was a standard answer, a placeholder, something one said when one wanted to avoid answering a question. Jongin would know. He lived off of them for the last two decades of his life.

But he didn't pursue the subject, because he didn't want to risk losing Sehun again.

“That’s a nice watch you have,” Jongin had commented instead. “Is that a Cartier?”

Sehun stiffened and pulled his sleeve down so it covered the watch just barely. “No, it’s a Charriol.”

Jongin didn't really think about how impractical it was for a bartender to wear a watch, let alone an expensive name brand watch until he was just about to close his eyes and fall asleep. When he woke up, he had forgotten all about the clear Cartier logo embedded in the face of the watch.





Two weeks later, Sehun was gone.

Jongin wasn't sure why he wasn't surprised, why he only felt a heavy weariness settle upon him, nothing like the initial shock he had experienced the first time. Perhaps it was the inevitable goodbye that seemed to hang with every word spoken. Perhaps it was the faraway look in Sehun’s eyes, the eyes that never seemed to meet Jongin’s anymore. Perhaps it was the unfamiliar distance that had suddenly gaped between the two of them.
The tiled blue counter had seemed like mini oceans, thousands of kilometers intent on separating Jongin and Sehun. And no matter how hard Jongin tried to bring Sehun back, tried to grab him, Sehun seemed to float farther and farther away. It was only a matter of time before he was gone completely, disappearing into the horizon, where the sky met the sea at burning orange hues.

When Jongin saw Baekhyun behind the servery in the beginning of June, he ignored the bright smile and enthusiastic wave Baekhyun gave him, and his heel, walking out the door and into the humid, summer air.






Weeks sped past, and Jongin didn’t step foot into Eldritch again. Afraid of the disappointment that was sure to taunt him, he sought solace behind his red-wood desk, with files after files of names to be erased as his only company.

He spun on death, letting it flow like ink from his fingertips. Life suddenly seemed like an unfamiliar term.

He’d like to say that he never thought of Sehun again, but in truth, he never left his mind.






As Jongin strolled down the winding side streets of Macau, he noticed that the trees were now stained crimson and golden, leaves floating to the light grey sidewalk in ethereal spirals. One landed on his shoulder, and he gently brushed it off, finger lingering on the fragile leaf for a moment.

“Jongin? You coming?”

He looked up from the leaf in his palm and smiled at Chanyeol.

“Yeah.”

A gentle breeze with hints of summer tickled his cheek as he turned back, eyes soaking in the gorgeous view of September. People trickled out of the subway station, monochrome jackets against a color splashed background. A figure caught his eye, but they were quickly swallowed by the sea of people, and Jongin sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Chanyeol asked, nudging Jongin slightly as they made their way to Hotel Okura, where their annual business meeting was being held this year.

“Nothing,” Jongin murmured, expression unreadable. “Nothing.”

When he closed his eyes, he could still see that same smile.






“This is stupid,” Jongin immediately deadpanned, pushing the two coat hangers away from his view. “Really stupid. Who the hell came up with this idea?”

Chanyeol frowned, laying the outfits on the king sized bed. “The CEO of LCEC.”

“Why does she want a costume ball? Why can’t we just have a normal dinner like last year. And the year before. And the year before that,” Jongin whined, glaring at the costumes with distaste. “I don’t want to wear a gold-trimmed outfit made for a damned duke.”

“Don’t forget the mask.” Chanyeol grinned. “It’s a masquerade-slash-costume dinner.”

“I cannot emphasize how ridiculous this is,” Jongin continued, dropping onto the bed next to the clothing and lying spread eagle. “I mean, this isn’t even a real business meeting. It’s the freakin’ Commission meeting of the head Mafias, for heaven’s sakes. Can’t we just sit through a few hours of boring talks and try not to shoot anyone?”

“Unless you want Miss Krystal putting a bullet through your forehead, I suggest you quit the complaining and go try out the outfits. Crimson or gold?”

Miss Krystal was the head of LCEC, an electronics company that was really a cover for the shady and feared Mafia, Le Cadeau de Chance, and the Capo di tutti capi. She was known for her calm composure when killing, and honestly, Jongin did not want to get on her bad side.

Jongin groaned and stared at the clothes glumly. “Crimson.”






The venue was the Ascot Hall at Hotel Okura, and by the time Jongin and Chanyeol arrived, the place was already milling with expensively dressed people, each complete with their own eighteenth century costume and extravagant mask. Jongin his own gold and crimson mask before snapping it on reluctantly.

Chanyeol in his emerald-trimmed black costume smiled and leaned over. “You look good,” he whispered.

Jongin eyed Chanyeol for a second before smiling. “As do you.”

Chanyeol did look incredibly dashing, the slim-fitting suit complimenting his figure. The black feathered mask only added to the ethereal beauty. Jongin, himself, felt awed by how at amazing Chanyeol looked tonight, with his easy smile and sparkling eyes.

“Oops, here comes Miss Krystal. Try not to get yourself killed, okay?” Chanyeol said softly. He patted Jongin on the shoulder once before disappearing, weaving in and out of the crowds of people.

Jongin gulped and plastered on a smile as he directed his eyes to Krystal.

“How do you do, Miss Krystal?”

Krystal sniffed indignantly. “Fine, and you?”

“As well as ever,” Jongin replied, laughing nervously. “Your party is very…unusual.”

“You mean stupid,” she said flatly.

Jongin’s eyes widened, and he had to bite his tongue from agreeing with her.

“It is stupid,” she continued, not waiting for an answer from Jongin. She tugged off her mask and waved it about. “Who in the world thought it was a good idea to put a bunch of Mafioso in one banquet room—with no bullet proof windows, I might add—and expect them to socialize without anyone getting hurt?”

“Um,” Jongin stalled, unsure of how to answer. Wasn’t she the one who came up with the idea?

“No, I didn’t think of this crap,” she said, raising an eyebrow at Jongin’s expression. “My consigliere, Sulli, thought of this, and for some reason I cannot fathom, I agreed to it.”

She sighed.

“Well,” Jongin began after an awkward period of silence. “It was nice meeting you. Now, if you’ll ex-”

“I heard Rosacea was infiltrated by La Campanella,” she said, interrupting Jongin.

He stiffened. “Indeed. The traitor was a mere underling whom we took care of. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Krystal nodded. “Well, it was my position to ask, considering the alliance between Le Cadeau de Chance and Rosacea.”

“Of course,” Jongin said, bowing slightly, eyes flitting around the room. “La Campanella was also invited to the Commission meeting, correct?”

“Yes, they were,” Krystal replied softly. “Their newly instated boss greeted me this afternoon. Quite a clumsy fellow; not one you’d think would be the head of one of the deadliest Mafias. I did hear, however, that he’s one of the best.”

“Interesting. How long has it been since he took over?”

“He’s been working behind the scenes for as long as you’ve been head. It’s only recently that he’s appeared in the public. Oh, if you’re curious, there he is.”

Krystal pointed at the far wall of the banquet room before giving Jongin a nod and leaving for the refreshments table. Jongin glanced over at that direction, curiously searching for the fabled new head of La Campanella, and he felt his blood run cold.

A familiar figure was leaning against a velvet covered pillar, whispering in a laughing someone’s ear.

Sehun, Jongin mouthed to himself. He knew it was him, despite the shocking white and silver mask covering half of his face. Jongin felt his heart stop. It set off at an abnormal pace just a few moments later, his breath coming in gasps.

Jongin didn’t need to ask himself what Sehun was doing here, because he already knew. There was only one reason for a person to be here, on this day, with this group of people. They were either part of one of the world’s most feared Mafias, or working for Hotel Okura. And Sehun sure as hell did not look like a waiter.

Suddenly, Sehun lifted his head, and Jongin felt a tingle down his spine, and he just knew that he was looking straight at him. He met Jongin’s shocked expression, seemingly knowing it was Jongin too. Then, he shifted, turning to say something to his partner, and Jongin caught sight of the insignia embroidered on the sleeve of Sehun’s costume.

A silver bell, plated with gold thread.

La Campanella.

Oddly enough, Jongin felt a wave of light tranquility sweep over him, and he held Sehun’s gaze, not moving when Sehun bade his companion goodbye and walked towards him. Suddenly, Jongin found himself slowly pushing his way through the crowd, mouth whispering Sehun’s name silently over and over again.

They meet in the middle of chaos and bullets.

“Rosacea is not meant to associate with La Campanella!” A voice cried.

Resignation flickered over Sehun’s face, quickly replaced by a look of determination. Slender fingers close over Jongin’s slim wrist, and suddenly, he found himself being pulled through a haze of bullets.

He thought he should probably feel cold fear surging through his body, but he could only focus on the warmth of Sehun’s hand on his arm and the sureness of his grip. He let himself be led through thick crowds and loud screams, and mere minutes later, they were out of the large, chandelier filled ballroom, and in a dimly lit corridor, the only light being the faux torches that lined the walls.

Sometime during their escape, Sehun’s hand had found Jongin’s, and their fingers intertwined. Now, in silence and solitude, neither made to move away, and Jongin’s heart was pounding so loudly he knew Sehun could definitely hear it. Sehun pulled off his mask, his hair mussing from the ribbon, and let it drop to the ground with a light thud. Jongin swallowed as Sehun gently removed his hand and reached up to untie his mask. As Jongin’s fell to the ground to join Sehun’s, a small, almost dismal smile appeared on Sehun’s face.

“It is you,” he murmured softly. “I thought…I thought I was wrong.”

Jongin shook his head, words caught in his throat as his eyes searched Sehun’s face. He watched as Sehun’s gaze landed on the dark red rose embroidered on his own sleeve. Sehun lightly touched it with shaking fingers, before looking up at Jongin again, eyes as deep as the ocean.

“Why?” He breathed. The question seemed not to be directed to Jongin, but to some omnipresent being that was with them, in this very room, mocking them and tangling their strings of fate.

Jongin swallowed again, and lifted his arms to pull Sehun slightly towards him, foreheads touching and lips mere centimeters away.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “But I don’t think I care.”

He let his eyes fall shut and closed the last distance between them.

At that moment, Jongin swore that the gun fires sounded more like fireworks.






It was a whirlwind romance, one fueled by exhilaration and the drunken taste of chance. Jongin found it similar to alcohol, sweet and bitter, mixed with a burning, fiery sensation building low in his heart.

Less than twelve hours after the fiasco at Hotel Okura, Jongin and Sehun were flying over Eurasia, heading for London. They left without so much of a farewell to their companions, and Jongin’s phone was loaded with text messages and phone calls from Chanyeol that he ignored in favor of stealing a kiss from Sehun. His lips tasted like danger, exciting and much, much too addicting.






Tuesday morning greeted Jongin with cold sheets and a bed larger than what he was used to. It was still dark out, and the digital clock on his nightstand blinked 3:34 in the morning. He shifted under his blankets and rolled over, and all of a sudden, he realized that the space next to him was empty, blankets neatly placed folded, as if there had been no one sleeping there earlier.

With a pounding heart, he sat up and flicked on the lights. Yellow light flooded into the hotel room, and he got up, slipping on a t-shirt and then a jacket as he made his way to the balcony. With a relieved sigh, he slid open the balcony door. Sehun turned around.

“Hey, why are you up so early?” Sehun asked, smiling slightly as he stepped away from the rails.

“I could ask the same of you.” Jongin rubbed his arms to keep warm and moved closer to Sehun, feeling the warmth of his body.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sehun replied simply as he turned back to face the River Thames, heavily burdened with fog.

Jongin slipped his arms around Sehun’s waist from the back and placed his chin on his shoulder, holding him close. He pressed gentle kisses along Sehun’s jaw, and smiled as Sehun squirmed in his hold.

“Stop moving,” he murmured, tightening his arms around Sehun.

Sehun stopped and pouted. “It tickles,” he whined.

Jongin’s grin widened, and he spun Sehun around so he was facing him.

“Does this tickle too?”

With a sly smirk, he let his lips ghost over Sehun’s, laughing as Sehun leaned up to kiss him.

“Shut up and order a Barcelona,” Sehun growled playfully, pushing Jongin back into the room.

“I don’t drink Barcelonas on Tuesdays anymore.”

Sehun raised an eyebrow. “You don’t? What do you drink then?”

Jongin smiled cheekily. “Whatever you brew for me.”






A week later, and the antique, Victorian-esque buildings transformed into modern, twenty-first century sky scrapers. As the airplane descended and the clouds parted, Jongin couldn’t help but feel as if the story was coming to an end, and the end of the book had been reached. The concluding words were written and blurred with hesitation, but there was a definite finality to it. He didn’t want to turn the page. He didn’t want to step off the plane.

But he had to, because a book isn’t a lifetime, it’s the golden age of one’s history, of one’s life. It’s the leaves pressed between photo albums, each holding paragraphs and paragraphs of memories inked between every vein.

They parted when they left the airport, fleeting kisses and hugs unable to make up for the lost time waiting in future tomorrows.

As Jongin’s taxi sped through the wet streets of New York, he replayed every scene from the last week, silently smiling to himself as heavy rain poured outside his window, droplets of water sliding down his window pane. He traced them as he remembered the afternoons spent in hazy love, drenched in the scent of fresh coffee.

“Sir, your stop.”

The taxi comes to a stop, and Jongin looks up, startled from his thoughts. He hands over the money with a weak smile and steps out into the cold, brisk air.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but he could feel an impending storm.