“Where the were you.”

It was a question, but it didn’t sound like one. The second Jongin pushed open the heavy door to his office, a stapler was thrown his way, along with a stiff growl fused with hidden anger.

He stepped aside and watched as the stapler collided with the carpet before looking up at Chanyeol, smiling resignedly at his calm exterior.

“What can I do to apologize?” Jongin asked, walking over to his desk where Chanyeol was sitting and leaning his elbows on it.

Chanyeol scowled at him and grabbed his collar.

“Do you know how much trouble you are in?” Chanyeol gritted through his teeth. “Do you know what the media are saying right now? Do you have any idea how much we went through to cover this up?”

“What are they saying?” Jongin asked.

Chanyeol gave a short emotionless laugh and stood up, circling around the desk and shoving Jongin. “That you’re having an affair with La Campanella’s boss. That he’s turned you into his little  and Rosacea will be no more, because you’ll willingly give the entire family over to them.”

“That’s not true,” Jongin said quietly.

“Does it matter?” Chanyeol spun around to face the window. “Does it matter? No, it does not ing matter. The media say whatever they want to say, and everyone, everyone, believes the media.”

“I—”

“Well,” Chanyeol cut him off, turning to look at him again. Jongin flinched from the resentment burning in his eyes. “You don’t have to worry about it, do you? You don’t have to worry aboutanything because all of us, your underlings, people you discard like scum, will take care of everything for you. We take the blame for you, and guess what?” He laughed again. “We can’t even do anything about it.”

“Chanyeol, I—”

“I really don’t want to hear any explanations right now,” Chanyeol said wearily, softly, almost as if all the energy had left him, taking a step towards the door. “Just—I’m not in the best mood right now, okay? We…We’ll talk later. Dinner or something. Or maybe breakfast. Yeah, breakfast. I’ll call you. I-I just need the day off. You can take over, right?”
Jongin hesitated for a moment before nodding, but Chanyeol didn’t see it; he was already out the door.






Jongin waits outside a local dumpling shop, face covered with a red muffler as he scans the streets for Chanyeol to appear. It wasn’t Christmas yet, but stores had already pulled out their Christmas lights and Santa decorations, and plastic snowflakes were plastered on every window. Obnoxiously loud Christmas carols blasted from the clothing store across the street from him, and Jongin longed for the soft, soothing vocals of Brooke Fraser.

“Hey.”

Jongin looked up from the concrete and his shuffling feet, and met Chanyeol’s wary, slightly apologetic eyes. He smiled.

“Hey.”

“So…” Chanyeol gestured at the door. “Shall we?”

Jongin laughed and pushed the door open, welcoming the warm burst of air that floated out, along with a hearty “Welcome!” They made their way to a table in the corner of the store in silence, Jongin’s hands shoved in his coat pocket as he keeps his eyes fixed in front of him. The noise the chair makes as it scrapes against the tiles seemed almost too loud.

As Chanyeol studied the menu, Jongin watched him, finger interlocked, until Chanyeol shifted and looked up at Jongin, eyebrows furrowed.

“Is there something wrong?” He asked nervously, placing the laminated menu down and tapping his fingers on it.

“Are you still mad at me?”

Chanyeol seemed startled by the question and quickly picked up the menu again, giving a small cough.

“No, not really,” he muttered, eyes determinedly looking at the menu and not at Jongin. “I wasn’t really angry at you or anything. It was just that you disappeared and didn’t say anything, and we were all worried, and after a while, when we figured you were probably fine, you still didn’t call us or anything, so it seemed like you didn’t care. And then all of the media started piling up, and there were phone calls almost twenty-four seven, and I guess all the resentment just built up.”

Chanyeol glanced up after his ramble, mildly embarrassed, and gave Jongin a weak smile.

“So, no, I’m not mad at you anymore?” He said, laughing a little.

Jongin grinned and leaned back in his seat, arms crossed.

“That’s good. Now I can eat a big breakfast and not worry about getting a chair thrown at me.”

Chanyeol scowled and threw a chopstick at Jongin. “Go order your stupid meal.”

Jongin caught the chopstick and twirled it between his fingers, smiling satisfied.

“So, are you going to tell me where you went?” Chanyeol asked in the middle of chewing on his wontons.

“London,” Jongin said simply, poking at his dumplings.

“London,” Chanyeol repeated, confused. “Why London of all places? Why then?”

“It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got all the time in the world.”

Jongin stayed quiet and opted to steal a spoonful of soup from Chanyeol. To his surprise, Chanyeol didn’t protest, and when he looked up, he saw Chanyeol’s expecting look. He gave him a small smile, hoping that he would let it pass, but Chanyeol merely raised an eyebrow.

After a few more moments—

“No.”

“Yes?” Jongin tried.

“You did not.”

“I did? Wait, what did I do?”

Chanyeol’s eyes were wide, and his mouth was agape, opening and closing as he tried to find the right words to say.

“You were not with La Campanella’s boss,” he hissed, leaning over the table.

Jongin winced and edged away. “What if I was?”

Jongin didn’t think it was possible, but Chanyeol’s eyes seemed to grow wider still, and he cringed at his unmoving gaze.

“Holy crap.”

“Well, I know I’m godly and divine and all that, but I honestly don’t think my feces are holy or anything. I mean—”

“Holy crap you were with La Campanella’s boss. Holy crap the media’s right for once. How is that even possible?”

“Um.”

Suddenly, Chanyeol’s gawking expression returned back to his normal serious exterior, and his eyes narrowed.

“What were you and their boss doing?”

“Sehun,” Jongin muttered. “His name is Sehun.”

Chanyeol was silent.

“Sehun,” Chanyeol said quietly after a while. “Sehun. You’re on first name basis with our rival’s ringleader.”

“I—”

“Tell me you guys were not ing, please tell me you guys were not ing,” Chanyeol pleaded, eyes at the ceiling.

“Why are you using the past tense?” Jongin joked nervously.

There was a period of silence, and Jongin dared not to look up at Chanyeol.

“Oh God, Satan, someone, please save me what kind of did I get into.”

Chanyeol continued muttering under his breath as his gaze stayed trained to the ceiling, looking positively in pain. After a while, he finally lowered his eyes and drew in a deep breath, exhaling slowly.

“Okay. Okay. This is what you do,” he began shakily. “You’ll cut off all contact with him. You’ll never see him again. You’ll pretend the past week never happened.”

Jongin stared down at his hands and did not answer.

“Jongin—” Chanyeol began, borderline hysterical.

“I can’t.”

“What?”

“I can’t,” Jongin said simply, pushing the chair back and standing up slowly. He shook his head and threw a few bills onto the table. “Sorry, I-I have somewhere I have to go.”

Before Chanyeol could say anything, Jongin spun on his heels and rushed out of the door and into the biting winter wind.

He didn’t know where he was going, he only knew that he had to get away—from what, he didn’t know. All of a sudden, Chanyeol’s presence had become all too suffocating, and there was a nagging feeling in his stomach that was pulling him back to reality and away from the fantasy-esque life he had been leading for the past week.

The tiny voice in his head was telling him that he was doing something wrong, that he should stop, and that he should probably forget everything that’s happened. But a much louder voice in his heart that was telling him to ignore his rational, practical mind, just ignore it for once in his life, because if he doesn’t, he might spend the rest of his life—the rest of his existence—wallowing in regret and living the present with feelings of the past.

Suddenly, Brooke Fraser’s The Thief began playing out of the street side speakers, and memories of a cozy hotel room, and chocolate chip cookies, and giggles under blankets floated into his mind.

“Your eyes are full, full of the future of us. The air changes as you look across at me in that wondering way.”

Jongin found himself standing at the front doors of Eldritch, the much too familiar pulsing blue light greeting him. He took a deep breath, having not come here for a while, and steadied himself, making his way through the passages one more, wondering and wildly hoping that the man behind the counter would be one of sweet, secretive smiles.

He felt his heart drop as an unfamiliar face danced behind the servery.

“Jongin?”

Jongin spun around and came face to face with Joonmyun.

“Are you looking for Sehun?” He asked, giving him a kind smile. “Here, he told me to give this to you. He’s not coming back.”

Jongin took the folded note from Joonmyun’s hands and saw that it was still sealed. He bowed his thanks before heading towards the bar and sliding into one of the seats.

“What may I get you sir?”

Today was Wednesday. Wednesdays were Metropolitans.

“A Me—” Jongin paused.

“Sir?”

“A Stinger,” Jongin said with much conviction after a moment.

“Right away, sir.”

As the young man brewed him the drink, Jongin carefully tore open the seal. The message was short, but Jongin could already feel the heavy feeling in his chest lifting, and a smile appeared on his face.

There was an address and a phone number.

He ran out of the door, forgetting about his untouched drink.






The door opened to reveal a slightly stunned Sehun, but the shock quickly passed from his face, and his expression turned into one that was expecting.

“Come in,” he said quietly, smiling and holding the door open wider.

Jongin nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat, and wordlessly toed off his shoes. He followed Sehun through the foyer to the living room.

“Have a seat,” said Sehun. “I’ll go get you something to drink.”

Jongin watched as he pushed him towards the couches lightly, taking his jacket, and head off to the kitchen. He took out two cups and filled them both with water before returning back to the living room and setting on in front of Jongin. He took a seat next to Jongin.

“So…” he began uncertainly.

Jongin cut him off by placing his hand on Sehun’s, flipping it palm up so he could intertwine their fingers. He didn’t say anything and leaned back, eyes closed and face towards the ceiling. He leaned a bit towards Sehun.

“Just. Let’s just stay like this for a while.

Sehun chuckled low in his throat before tightening his fingers around Jongin’s and scooting closer to him so their shoulders were touching.

“Okay.”

They stayed like that for a long while, side by side, Sehun occasionally bringing Jongin’s hand to his lap and playing with his fingers. Jongin watched as the sun rose to its peak, sunlight bursting through Sehun’s large, glass windows. He wondered why the warmth seems to be not on his skin but in his heart. He thought it might be because his heart is where Sehun was, and maybe Sehun had long become something like the sun to him.

The sun was what kept Earth spinning; it’s the gravity binding the solar system together. Similarly, Sehun was like the gravity keeping Jongin stably bounded to reality, enabling him to get through the tedious tasks convoluted by human violence and cruelty. And just like the sun, he was what allowed Jongin to live. Without the sun, there would be no human life.

Without Sehun, there would be no Jongin.

“Do you want lunch?” Sehun asked, glancing at the clock placed on the side table.

Jongin didn’t answer him, and Sehun prodded him a few times. Suddenly, after the fourth or fifth poke, Jongin grabbed Sehun’s wrists, swallowing thickly, and turned to face him, gripping his hand. Sehun’s eyebrows furrowed at the sudden dark, seriousness floating in Jongin’s eyes, feeling more nervous than he should. He fidgeted a little, and Jongin’s arms shot up, holding him in place by his shoulders.

“Jongin? What’s wrong? Do you need something?” Sehun stammered worriedly. “Are you hu—“

“I,” Jongin started, eyes searching Sehun’s face with an almost desperate conviction. “I think I may be in love with you.”

His voice was low and his words came out hoarse and scratchy, raw with the emotions his eyes were pouring out. Sehun kept silent, and Jongin’s hold on Sehun’s shoulders loosened. His arms fell limply to his sides as he turned away from Sehun, eyes darting around the room and not quite meeting Sehun’s. He moved to stand up.

“No,” Sehun breathed quickly, hand reaching out to grasp the end of Jongin’s sweater. “No. Don’t go.”

Jongin dropped back into the seat, taking hold of Sehun’s hand again, holding it close to him and cherishing the soft warmth that seemed to radiate.

Sehun his lips nervously. “I-I’m not good at feelings and things like that, and honestly, I don’t really care for them, like love or happiness or whatever,” Sehun said. He turned to face Jongin. “But,” he smiled. “But I think I may be in love with you too.”

They said first kisses were magical—irreplaceable—for they represented the cotton-candy like fluffiness of innocent first loves. They said first kisses are impossibly sweet and shy, with just a tinge of underlying desire. They said no other kiss would be as memorable, as heart-stopping, as the first.

Jongin disagreed, because he knew that every kiss with Sehun would be as unforgettable as their first.






Jongin wasn’t sure how time passed for the next couple of months, because it felt as if he was living a dream, one he didn’t ever want to wake up from, in fear of facing the terrifying nightmare of strict reality.

His days were measured by dinner dates with Sehun, kisses and smiles peppering the hours and seasoning the minutes. Everything else seemed surreal and unimportant when he was with Sehun, even if they were merely sitting in Sehun’s living room, shades drawn and fingers entwined. It was a nice, homely feeling, albeit unfamiliar and slightly intimidating.

He would wake up in the middle of the night, or maybe early in the morning, when the sun was not yet out. He would attempt to clear his mind of the sleep-induced fog and wonder whether or not the body lying beside him was merely a figment of his imagination, and whether yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, was just a dream.

But when he reaches out to brush his fingertips along Sehun’s spine, he would feel the warmth of Sehun’s body, and he would remember that Sehun was real, he was real, and this was real. Then, he would be reluctant to fall back asleep, because suddenly, his dreams seemed to be less ideal.

It probably did occur to him that life was never easy and never ideal, and that this would all end one day. But he pushed it to the back of his mind, promising to deal with it when it came. He probably never expected that day when everything collapses to come so soon.






The apartment was empty.

The furniture was still there, the Modernist painting still hanging on the walls, even the two glass champagne flutes stood on the kitchen counter. But it was empty, empty of warmth, empty of love, empty of everything Jongin lived for.

The world began to break apart on that one Saturday.






One week later.

“Squad 13 was attacked.”

Jongin lifted his eyes to look at Chanyeol, who had just brushed in, door still swinging behind him.

“By?” Jongin prompted wearily, heart heavy with the answer that had been weighing him down ever since a week ago.

Chanyeol pressed his lips into a thin line. “La Campanella.”

Jongin closed his eyes and turned in his chair, facing the glass window looking out into New York instead of Chanyeol.

Chanyeol allowed him to stay silent for a moment before asking slowly, “What should we do now?”

Jongin eased his eyes open and gave a soft, imperceptible sigh, catching his tired, almost dead reflection in the window.

“Send Squad 5 and Squad 12 after La Campanella. We’re going to fight back.”






As months flew past like the last train of the day, Jongin began to forget what happiness looked like and what it felt like.

From time to time, he would get an inkling of memory as he passes a familiar landmark or comes cross a favorite line in a book, but the flash would disappear just as quickly, almost as if there was a monster deep in his subconscious, dragging all his memories down into the abyss it resided in. In the beginning, he had tried to grab onto the strands of past recollections, but after a while, it proved to be futile. There was nothing to sustain the withered happiness that would appear for a fraction of a second before fading into the harsh present. He gave up. He was tired.

Sometimes, just before he falls into an intoxicated slumber tinged with fiery whiskey, he would wonder to himself what had happened to that apartment.






“I’m sorry.”

Jongin had switched his old cell phone to a newer, more modern one, under Chanyeol’s insisting. But he kept the old one, not allowing Chanyeol to toss it out with the rest of his old electronics.

It was locked in the drawer where he kept the apartment key. On days when pain seemed better than the mundane routine-like reality, he would flip it open and read the only text message it contained.

From: Sehun
Sent: 09:23 January 13, 20XX
I’m sorry. Forget about me.

Jongin would sit in his bedroom, curtains drawn, the only light coming from the screen, and clutch the phone, falling back onto his covers. He would laugh, the chuckle coming out broken and drenched with so much sorrow it seemed almost indifferent and lifeless. Amidst escaping, hot tears and painful gasps of breaths that seemed to stab at his heart, Jongin would wonder why Sehun always made the most unreasonable requests.






Jongin always believed that there was a supreme force controlling the turn of events in one’s life. He always believed that there was a Something out there, Something with a capital S.

It seemed right that the last meeting would be at Eldritch.

The bar was closed that Saturday, March 1^st—the first time ever at night and early in the morning. People had gotten word that there would be a face-off between Rosacea and La Campanella, and sure enough, as the clock struck two o’clock, sleek black cars began pulling up at the alleyway behind the club, closing off both entrances so its inhabitants were trapped in the narrow passageway.

As Jongin stood in the unfamiliar darkness of the bar, he smiled bitterly to himself, wondering if Fate, himself, had a hand in his affairs. He wondered if Fate and Life had conspired together, with Love their accomplice, to play a cruel trick on him.
When the first gunshots were heard, Jongin decided to give up. He decided to stop trying to fix the fault in the stars, stop trying to alter fate so it would flow along with his wishes. He stopped trying to dream a happy ending for him.

He smiled.

The end was near.






The silence of the night was tainted with gunfire and screams of pain that went on for hours, giving no indication that it would cease. Blood flowed like streams along the concrete, dying the gravel a deep crimson that told stories of hatred and love.

Jongin closed his eyes for a brief second, before opening them and smiling softly.

Sehun stood in front of him, sleeve pulled back and gun pointed at him. His hands were trembling slightly, but his gaze was steady and firm, face void of expression and eyes void of life.

“It was you,” Jongin said quietly, lifting his eyes to Sehun’s, recognition flooding his face resignedly.

Sehun gave no indication he heard and fired. The first bullet barely grazed Jongin’s cheek. He took a step forward.

“Come on,” he said shakily, voice growing louder. “Come on, you can do better than that.”
Sehun faltered, hesitation flickering through his eyes. He watched as Jongin pulled out his own gun, letting it fall to the floor before running a hand through his hair. His locks fell back into his eyes, and even in the darkness, Sehun could still make out every one of Jongin’s features.

Jongin’s smile grew wider. Sehun pulled the trigger.

Bullets lodged themselves in Jongin’s arms, his thighs, his torso, but he still staggered forward, smile ever present on his face. The last bullet found its home in Jongin’s side, and Jongin collapsed to the concrete. Sehun finally dropped the gun, now empty of bullets, and fell onto his knees, staring at Jongin’s broken body with horror plaguing his eyes as he realized what he had just done.

Another gunshot was heard.

Jongin’s eyes widened as time seemed to slow, moving at a sluggish pace. He watched as Sehun fell in slow motion, a gaping hole in his chest where the bullet had pierced through him. There was a dull ringing in his ears, chasing away the previous thick, tense, painfully loud silence. The pain from the hot bullets seemed to numb, and he felt his blood run cold. His eyes were fixed on Sehun’s lifeless figure, half expecting him to get back up and reassure him that he was alright. But he didn’t. He continued to lie there, and sick realization swept through Jongin as he finally grasped the fact that Sehun wasn’t going to wake up. Sehun was already gone.

There was a choked gasp, and then a scream.

It took Jongin a few moments to realize that the sound had come from him. He gathered his strength and pulled himself up to his knees, hand stretching the grab the gun lying by his side. He twisted around swiftly and fired.

Chanyeol smiled weakly, almost as if he had been expecting the bullet, and mouthed sorrybefore letting his eyes close. Jongin couldn’t see the I love you that followed.

“Your eyes are full of the future of us. The air changes as you look across at me in that wondering way. It is as if I knew you before we spoke. Do our hearts know something we don’t? Conspiring, converging, without giving us any say.”

Jongin felt his eyelids become heavier and heavier, and finally let them flutter shut. As he drifted along the brink of consciousness and unconsciousness, he reached out towards Sehun, taking hold of his hand and grasping it tightly, silently begging for the warmth to return back to the skin, because he needed the warmth in his heart. Tears burned his eyes and mingled with grime and blood and they streaked down his cheeks.

He briefly wondered if this was all a nightmare, and whether or not he would wake up and find himself with the same tear tracks, but remembering naught what had caused it.

He briefly wondered if the sun was about to rise soon.

He briefly wondered if it would warm his heart again.