[fic] Minho/Key – SHINee – Neverlasting

[rabenhorst]

Title: Neverlasting
Author: fonulyn
Rating: R
Pairing: Minho/Key
Warnings: Major character death. Mentions of death, blood, violence.
Wordcount: 10 217 words.
Disclaimer: I own no one, only my dirty imagination.
Summary: There are rules out on the streets; rules of never trusting, never feeling. Kibum ends up breaking every single one of them.
Comments: Please heed the warnings, the character death indeed is major character death. All in all, this isn’t very typical as a topic for me, but it really needed a way out so I had no other choice but to write it. And grow emotionally attached to it, haha. I hope you enjoy! :)

i. the beginning The city never sleeps. It’s such a cliché but it’s true, with the way the streets are never quite empty. Not even the pouring rain and the fog so thick one could cut it with a knife can keep people away. Some hug their coats closer to themselves, pretending they can keep out the moisture like that, some hurry further to get safely inside as soon as they can. Kibum, however, doesn’t care. He knows he’s going to be drenched no matter what he does, so he lets his coat hang halfway open as he leans back against the rough concrete of the wall behind him. For a second he considers lighting a cigarette but it’s no use, the last time he attempted it the cigarette ended up somewhere in the numerous puddles dotting the pavement and he has no desire in wasting another one of the expensive treats. Instead he pushes his hands further into his pockets and hunches his shoulders against the shudder that shakes his whole frame. Chills shoot up his spine, but he stubbornly stands his ground. “Hey, kiddo.” The low voice startles Kibum and he looks up automatically, already bracing his shoulders for a potential attack and preparing to make a run for it if he has to. The tall man standing only a few paces from him doesn’t seem to be threatening though, he has his hands in open view and his stance is so relaxed he’s obviously not there to kill Kibum. At least not yet, not before he gets what he wants. The man is young, though, looks like he’s about Kibum’s age. Maybe that’s what makes Kibum mouth off instead of acting according to his self-preservation instinct. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?” he sneers. “You can’t be older than I am.” At that the man moves closer, tilts his head and for the first time properly looks at Kibum. He takes in everything from the hunched shoulders and the protective stance, to how Kibum has tried to shrink into himself to look like he’s no threat to anyone. It’s the easiest trick to use to go unnoticed by anyone out here, it’s the way to go to avoid troubles and unwanted attention. All of this seems to make sense to the man as he shrugs, taking one more step closer until he leans against the wall. “Alright,” he says. Somehow it seems like he’s acknowledging his error, even though he offers nothing even close to an apology. “I might have a job for you.” “What makes you think I’d be interested?” Kibum asks. Now that the man is standing so close to him he gets a much better look at him. He looks actually quite charming, in that… regular person sort of way. There’s a scar on his cheek but other than that he looks like he doesn’t quite belong here, like he’s supposed to live in those aristocratic circles, among the only ones in the whole city who get enough to eat regularly. The man laughs. “Everyone is. Everyone is hungry, everyone is cold, everyone needs a job.” He cocks his head and fixes Kibum with a look, the deep brown of his eyes glimmering with something like curiosity. “You just happen to fit my purposes well. You have luck tonight.” Something in the way the man looks at Kibum makes his skin feel a size too small and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t really think, not before he already speaks out loud. “I’m not a whore.” Which is strictly speaking not the complete truth: a man’s gotta eat and when the hunger gets bad enough… well, anything is better than the slow death by starvation. Yet it has only been two days since he had a proper warm meal, he’s not desperate enough to swallow his pride for food. Not even if this man is incredibly attractive. “Good.” The answer startles Kibum again and he doesn’t answer. He simply stares dumbly until the stranger goes on. “There is something I need at the tavern, but I can’t get it alone. And I’m willing to pay you generously if you help me get it.” It seems like an innocent enough offer and Kibum only takes a second to think about it before nodding slowly. “Alright. I’ll do it.” The man grins, extending a hand for a shake. “Good. For the next couple of hours we’ll be partners, then. I’m Minho.” Kibum takes his hand. If Kibum has learned something during his time on the streets, it’s pickpocketing. It doesn’t even surprise him when everything goes according to their simple plan and he manages to empty the pockets of not only one but three thugs while Minho distracts them. He ends up with a few small fake coins, a piece of parchment, a cheap ring, and a lot of small knives and thick needles. He has no idea what of these is so important to Minho, but he figures he’ll find out as soon as they meet up again. He is the first one in the small motel room so he sits down on the edge of the shaky table and waits. The walls have such big gaps in them that they barely keep the rain out. The wind is rattling inside and making it as cold as the streets. Still, there’s a bed and it looks incredibly tempting to Kibum, and a part of him just wants to press his face into the dirty pillow and sleep for a week. It would be foolish, though. Minho would stab him in the back, take what he came for, and be gone in an instant. Kibum wants his money, and the only way he’s going to get it is to be alert when Minho finally arrives. Finally the door creaks open and Minho steps inside, before quickly closing it behind him again. He approaches Kibum slowly, like he has no care in the world, and only comes to a halt when he’s standing at the table. “Did you get it?” “Would have been easier if I knew what I was looking for,” Kibum points out, not without annoyance. He doesn’t gain a reaction with that, so he starts dropping the items on the table one by one. He keeps a careful eye on Minho though, on his expressions and gestures, wants to know which one of the items is the one that is so important Minho is willing to trust a stranger to get it. He’s not disappointed since as soon as he slams the piece of parchment on the table Minho’s hand twitches towards it. Kibum is quicker, though, and he grabs it back. “So what do I get for it?” he asks, for once feeling like he’s in control and has something he can use to negotiate with. Minho looks at him, amused. He digs a hand into his pocket and places a small piece of cloth on the table, slowly dropping three golden coins down on it, one by one. It’s more money than Kibum has seen in months. He hadn’t guessed the parchment is worth so much – hell, he isn’t worth even half of that – but he does know that no one in their right mind would start with the maximum offer. So, slowly Kibum leans back, and tightens his fingers around the parchment. “This is much more valuable than that. I bet I could get at least four times as much.” He meets Minho’s gaze straight, refuses to be the first one who blinks, and apparently he does something right as there’s that hint of amusement flickering across Minho’s expression again. “You have no idea who would want to buy it,” Minho points out. He smirks, the left side of his mouth lifting a little higher than the right, but the lopsidedness makes the expression somehow even more charming. Kibum sort of wants to reach out and trace his fingertips across Minho’s lips. Instead, he shrugs. “I could ask around.” Minho mimics the shrug. “And get your throat slit.” “It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” Kibum raises his chin, ignoring the way his heart is hammering in his chest. He is nervous, he can’t deny that, but it’s not because he’s scared of Minho. For some reason, he feels actually comfortable around him, as much as he tries to tell himself it’s idiotic. Suddenly, Minho laughs. He shakes his head slowly, but then digs out a handful of coins from his pocket, and carefully adds them to the three already on the table. All the while he keeps his eyes directed at Kibum, and he doesn’t stop until Kibum nods at the eleventh coin. Only then, he wraps the cloth around the money, ties the corners and hands the small bundle to Kibum. “Thanks,” Kibum says automatically, pocketing the precious parcel. He is going to be living off of that for weeks, for months if he’s careful, and an unbelievable sense of relief floods him. He hops off the table, knowing that there’s nothing left here for him. Their deal is done, there’s no reason for him to stay. Yet he lingers. Minho steps closer then, something unreadable in his eyes as he looks straight at Kibum. It feels like he’s assessing the situation, counting his options, and it’s easy to spot the moment when he comes to a conclusion. Still, Kibum doesn’t see it coming when Minho leans down and kisses him. Kibum is shock still for a second, cursing himself for being so stupid, so distracted, since if Minho had wanted to kill him he would be dead by now. It only takes him a few heartbeats to melt into the contact though, against every rational thought that screams at him to run as fast as he can. Instead he kisses back. He pours his everything into the contact, gives as good as he gets, and he doesn’t even remember when a kiss shot through him from head to toe like this. Minho brings a hand up, slow and unthreatening, tracing along Kibum’s upper arm and higher. The calloused fingers brushing over his jaw are surprisingly gentle, enough to startle a soft hum out of Kibum. When they finally break apart Kibum isn’t certain if he should be happy or disappointed that it doesn’t escalate any further. He swallows drily, searching Minho’s face for some sort of a clue of what’s going on. It’s only when something cold is pressed into his palm that he startles back to the present moment. It’s a coin, and Minho gently curls Kibum’s fingers around it before withdrawing his own hand. The gesture sends a surge of anger through Kibum and he bites his teeth together not to spit out anything nasty. Instead he opens his palm and pushes the coin against Minho’s chest. “I told you I’m not a whore.” With that he pulls his hand back, uncaring that the coin clatters onto the floorboards, and spins around to get the hell out of here while he can. Kibum’s fingers are already at the doorknob when he’s stopped in his tracks. “You know. I could have another job for you.” Slowly, Kibum turns around. There is nothing but honesty on Minho’s features, his gaze open as he studies Kibum and waits for his reaction. Kibum knows it’s stupid, it’s downright idiotic, and he should never ever trust anyone in this city. Especially someone he’s only just met. Then again being on the streets has also taught him that he should always trust his gut. Instinct has saved him from more than just one tight spot in his time. So Kibum stays. ii. the agreement The clean shirt feels scratchy against Kibum’s skin but he resists the urge to straighten the collar again. It’s such a treat to have fully laundered clothes, yet of course it has to be one of those form-fitting shirts made of fabric stiff enough to make anyone uncomfortable. He knows he looks stunning in it, knows that he’s equal parts eye catching and blending in. The attention he wants. From one very specific person. And he knows the exact second he gains it. From the corner of his eye Kibum sees the small party of men in expensive suits, entertained by a selection of women that each are more stunning than the other. There’s laughter, there’s alcohol, and there’s a lot of money thrown around carelessly. Briefly, Kibum wonders how it would be to have that much to spend, how it would be to wear clean clothes regularly and not only when the mission requires it. He straightens slightly as one man separates from his group, a drink in hand and eyes on Kibum. Carefully Kibum hides a smirk, ducks his head down for a second only to then look up at the approaching man through his lashes. He allows the smile to dance on his lips, drawing the man in successfully, if the quickening of his steps is any indication. “Can I buy you a drink?” the man asks as he takes the vacant seat next to Kibum. Not wasting a single second he already places a hand on Kibum’s thigh, his thumb rubbing slow circles on the inside seam of his pants. “For starters.” “Care to introduce yourself?” Kibum asks playfully, although he knows already before he speaks that the man won’t say anything to that. Why would a congressman willingly give his own name to someone he considers a prostitute? Kibum is right in his assumption as the man throws his head back and laughs, drunken and raucous, his hand slipping even higher on Kibum’s leg. “You don’t need to know my name for what I have in mind for you,” he winks lecherously, so close that Kibum can smell the staleness of his breath. Kibum knows better than to flinch, though, holds himself together and instead of pulling back he meets the movement until their lips are almost touching. If he’s good at something, it’s playing people like he wants to. He teases, allows the man to get close enough to almost kiss him only to then dodge the contact at the latest possible second. He always makes sure to do it with a smile, though, shows that he’s not opposed to the idea but simply wants more privacy, wants to retreat from the busy bar. Two drinks later, Kibum has the congressman wrapped around his little finger in all ways that matter. Playfully he tugs on the lapels of the man’s open jacket, pulls him closer to himself for a brief second of contact, and for that one moment their bodies are aligned. It’s enough to serve as a promise of more, together with the way Kibum darts his tongue out to wet his lower lip, his eyes locked with the man’s. They stumble outside to the back alley and before Kibum manages to even properly close the door behind them the man has his hands undoing the string that holds Kibum’s pants up, obviously eager to get to what he wants. He’s breathing hotly against Kibum’s face and that is the moment Kibum’s perfect façade slips for the first time. He allows the seductive smile to drop, his expression morphing into a wicked grin. “Congressman Park. I hope you enjoyed yourself. Because this… this is the end.” “The end?” the man asks, his eyes widening before his face scrunches up in confusion. He’s obviously displeased, his fingers tightening to the cuff of Kibum’s pants to yank him closer. “But we’re only getting started here. You kept me hanging in there! You promi–” That’s as far as he gets before a thin blade is pushed through his throat from behind. A trickle of blood follows at first, followed by a gush and a spray that hits Kibum straight in the face. He laughs, a touch hysterically, as he realizes the first thought in his mind is that there go his clean clothes, instead of the fact that he’s watching a man literally drain out of life right before his eyes. At least he doesn’t need to put up with the unwanted advances anymore. The body is heaved to the side then, landing on the street with a thud, but it doesn’t take long before the space it vacated is taken up again. Minho is serious as he brings his hand up and wipes a smudge of blood off Kibum’s cheek. “You were quick,” he says, arching an eyebrow. The disapproving frown on his lips speaks volumes of how much he still hates it when they have to use this tactic. Even if it’s proven to be effective the numerous times they’ve done it like this, or with roles reversed. “I thought that was the whole point?” Kibum says. He brings his hands up to Minho’s chest, not minding the way he is now getting even more stains on his already blood splotched shirt. It feels good, having Minho’s firm body under his palms like this. In a way he feels like it makes him forget the touches he had to endure against his will mere moments ago, and when Minho places his palms on his hips he practically melts into the touch. “Next time,” Minho begins, but doesn’t finish his sentence before kissing Kibum. It’s possessive, it’s demanding, and it sends a thrill down Kibum’s spine like nothing else. He knows what his life has become, is very aware that he makes a living assassinating people in higher standing positions. Assassinating anyone, really, as long as there’s proper payment for it. Yet at moments like this, it feels like this is his reward. Not the heavy bag of coins waiting for them to deliver proof of the death. Not the easy survival the money will grant. Not the possible smidgens of trust he gains from the Organization when he isn’t even a part of it. But this. Minho’s mouth on his, Minho’s fingers digging into his hips almost painfully, as if reminding him that they’re both very much alive. When Minho pulls back, he locks his eyes with Kibum’s. “I will be the bait.” He sounds a bit too breathless to be as stern as he wishes he’d be, but the sentiment is clear enough, as is his determination. Something warm splashes in Kibum’s chest at that. He fights it down, reminding himself that this is only physical, no matter how passionate it’s still only physical. Minho might be jealous of other people getting to touch him but he shouldn’t read too much into it. Nevertheless he cannot fight the hint of a smile that stubbornly sticks to his lips. It feels like Minho cares, as much as he doesn’t dare let himself believe it. “No you won’t if you’re not the target’s type. You might be gorgeous but you’re not that good.” They both know that no matter the mission, failure is not an option, not with the way Kibum isn’t even officially working with Minho, who is obligated to take his orders from the leaders of the Organization. Kibum’s presence is like a public secret, known but ignored as long as he proves himself useful. One single error along their path might be what’s enough to doom him, if it’s severe enough. “Fine,” Minho says, a bit too easily. He only manages to hold off the grin for a few heartbeats more. “From now on, I’ll have to handpick the targets more thoroughly.” Kibum laughs and twines his fingers into the messy strands of hair long enough to curl in the perpetually foggy air. This time the kiss is less like an argument and more like a promise. iii. the fallen “Why the fuck did you take that fucking job!” Kibum damn near screeches as he finally manages to haul Minho inside. Carefully he deposits Minho against the cold stone wall, ignoring the pained groan even though it makes a flash of guilt punch him right in the gut. The vindictive part of him thinks that Minho deserves it, though, with the way he’d ran off by himself for a job he knew would be hazardous. Now he has to lock the door, before anything else, make sure no one is going to barge in and finish off what they started. His hands are shaking as he bolts the door in place, and a litany of curses fall from his lips as he pushes the heavy bookshelf over. He has to use his whole bodyweight to make it finally sway and fall against the door, all of the items scattering down from the shelves into random piles on the floor. He knows that it will be one hell of a workout to get it up later, but for now privacy is the most pressing issue on his mind, and the lock alone simply wouldn’t be safe enough. As soon as the room is secured Kibum kneels down next to Minho, all but ripping the stained shirt upwards and off. Again he ignores the pained sounds Minho makes as he’s being moved not at all gently, and frantically tries to find out the extent of the damage. He grabs a bottle of water and opens it with his teeth, pouring the contents down Minho’s side in a steady stream that washes away most of the sticky red liquid oozing from the wound. All these years Kibum has lived on the streets and he has never been afraid of blood. He’s never been afraid of cuts, of wounds, of people getting hurt. But right now he can’t keep his hands from shaking uncontrollably as they’re soaked in red. He feels like retching but he forces himself to be calm, pushes back the wave of panic that tries to take over. He needs to stop the bleeding and he needs to do it right now. Afterwards Kibum wouldn’t be able to recount how he manages to dig out the bullet from Minho’s flesh with the inadequate tools and way too unimpressive medical knowledge. Thus far he’s always been the one who’s been hurt worse, and Minho has taken care of him with near professionalism. But finally the bullet makes a sick squelching sound as it’s pulled out, clinking on the concrete floor a second later. Kibum has only a split second to turn before he doubles over and throws up. There’s a lot of blood even after Kibum does his best to mop it all up. Kibum knows when a human body has lost too much though, has seen it numerous times, and he knows that Minho will pull through. He’ll probably need weeks to recover, he will be too weak to work a job for way too long, but he’s going to live and he is going to get better. That’s what Kibum keeps chanting to himself as he waits for Minho to wake up. He has only managed a fitful nap in between, but he cannot rest easy before he sees Minho’s eyes flutter open again. Only when it happens, together with the wave of relief comes the wave of anger. Minho barely manages a weak smile before Kibum punches his shoulder, hard. He does make sure it’s not the injured side, but he doesn’t take it easy, as proven by Minho’s weak gasp. “You fucker!” he sneers. “I told you not to take that job! I knew they were too much for one single fucking person to take on! Why don’t you ever listen to me!?” “Kibum,” Minho sighs, “I have my orders. I had to do it.” “You didn’t have to do it alone,” Kibum hisses through clenched teeth. He wants to punch Minho again, and this time make it hurt even more, but instead he grabs Minho’s head and leans down to smash their lips together. He doesn’t hold back and lets his anger show through the contact, but he’s certain that he’s pouring other feelings into it as well, everything from the all consuming worry and the blind panic from earlier. Kibum presses his forehead against Minho’s, his eyes closed as he finally exhales and allows most of the tension to seep off him. “You didn’t have to do it alone, you fucknut. Next time you pull a stunt like this I’ll kill you myself. Understood?” “Understood,” Minho nods, way too serious. There’s not a hint of mocking in his eyes. Slowly he slides his hands to Kibum’s sides and urges him to move closer, only satisfied when Kibum finally shifts to straddle his thighs. “Come on,” he breathes out, although in the silence of the basement it sounds oddly loud. “Take my mind off the pain.” As they keep kissing Kibum places a hand on Minho’s chest, right atop his heart. Maybe he imagines the strong heartbeats instead of actually feeling them but it soothes him down anyway, and his frayed nerves are marginally calmed as he finally begins to believe that they’re safe. For now, at least. Kibum doesn’t have it in him to focus on anything else but the present moment. For a while, he can allow himself to soak in the closeness, to be thankful of the way they still have this. They’re both out of breath by the time Minho pulls back from the kiss and breaks the silence, laughing despite the way his voice breaks. “Stop panicking, Kibum,” he says, with a little headshake. “I am not going to die from this.” He’s pale from the blood loss, his face streaked with dirt and his clothes cold with the mud that’s still sticking to them from earlier. Kibum knows he should help Minho into some dry clothes but he’s tired, he’s so tired, he doesn’t even know how he made it awake this long. He drops his head forward against Minho’s shoulder. “What makes you so fucking sure?” It lacks all heat, though, as they both know what the odds are. Still the way Minho sounds so sure, the way he speaks so flippantly, it makes the remains of anger still flare up weakly. Minho shrugs. “The only person in this world who can kill me is you.” Instantly Kibum lifts his head to look for any signs that Minho is joking. He’s not. There’s something eerily serious in his peaceful expression, and Kibum is plainly too exhausted to explore the meanings of that any further. So he exhales a weak sigh. “You’d better keep me on your side, then.” By way of answer Minho kisses him then, cradles his jaw in his palm in a touch way too gentle. It’s in crass contrast with the way Kibum is grasping on Minho’s shoulders, on his chest, in his desperate need to find more skin on skin contact. In his haste he almost pulls the bandages aside, and only realizes it when Minho bites back a pained cry. Kibum curses, long and loud, and pulls back enough to be able to check that the bandaging is still intact enough to do the job. Again Minho groans, but Kibum only spares him a stern look. “You deserved this, asshole. Now quit the theatrics. You’ll be fine.” He knows it’s not an act, if anything Minho is being more stoic than the situation would call for, but despite the relief he is still angry and he knows it won’t change anytime soon. Nevertheless, that only makes Minho laugh, low and throaty. “I know.” He leans his head back against the rough wall, a grin still dancing on his lips. “Now come here and take my mind off the pain.” He doesn’t stop for long enough to gain an answer but instead grabs Kibum’s hip with his good hand and pulls him closer the best he can. It’s not difficult, not with the way Kibum goes willingly. It’s so easy to melt into it and forget, let go of everything else. He loses himself in the touches, in the kisses, in the frantic need for more that keeps building up in them both. Kibum keeps his palms on Minho’s shoulders, his forehead pressed against Minho’s, as he rides him achingly slow. The cold air in the basement feels even icier against their sweaty skin, the tremors adding up to the waves of pure unadulterated sensation that pulses through them, from head to toe. Everything seems to take longer now, the world turning in slow motion despite the adrenaline fuelled urgency. Finally they’re lying spent in each other’s arms, the aftershocks fading with each heartbeat. Kibum counts every single one of them, his ear pressed against Minho’s chest. That’s how he feels it when Minho starts shivering, even though Minho tries to cover it up the best he can. With great reluctance Kibum forces himself to get up and rummage through one of the cardboard boxes they keep their emergency supplies in. He emerges with a thick blanket, and kicks a thin mattress down from where it had been leaning against the far wall. It’s not much for comfort, but it’s going to keep them warmer than if they’d crash on the bare floor. It’s going to be cold enough either way. “C’mon, Minho,” Kibum groans as he pulls one of Minho’s arms over his shoulder, dragging him towards the mattress. Minho is of only little help, if any, but somehow they manage to arrange themselves until they’re tucked neatly under the same blanket, sharing body heat. It doesn’t take long for Minho to fall asleep, exhaustion and blood loss finally knocking him out for the second time. Kibum stays awake for far longer. He stares at the shelf that’s still leaning against the door, even though he barely sees it in the darkness. He wonders if someone is after them, if they will be found out and slaughtered right where they lay. He is still angry at Minho for being so goddamn blind, so goddamn stubborn, such a self-sacrificing idiot. Minho thinks that by going on these missions alone he can keep Kibum safe, yet he never once stops to ask if Kibum wants it. He doesn’t understand that Kibum would rather they take the risk together. Despite his anger, he shifts closer to Minho anyway, presses into his arms and finally allows himself to relax into the warmth. This kind of intimacy is new to them, sharing space and being close without it being immediately sexual or target orientated. Still the way Minho’s arm tightens around him even in his sleep speaks volumes of how far they’ve come, how fast they’ve plummeted down this path. How they yearn for this now, even more than for the short moment of release. Most of all, Kibum is scared. He is terrified. He never used to be, not like this. Before, he had nothing to lose. iv. the hunted Logically, Kibum knows that this moment had to come, sooner or later. Even if they’ve never actually failed a job before, not entirely, it doesn’t mean they never would. There are way too many variables at the best of times, too many things to keep under control, and more than once they’ve been merely saved by sheer dumb luck. No one’s luck can last forever. Regardless of that, it feels like a solid kick on the nuts when Kibum realizes that they let their mark get away. He was distracted for a second, his thoughts not completely in it, and he missed his signal. There he was, completely in reach, all he would’ve had to do was grab his knife and finish everything with one swift stab. And he missed it. He screwed up. There’s really no way to run after the mark now that the moment is gone, not with the bodyguards back in control and the window of opportunity closing in a split second. If he even tries that he’ll end up dead on the floor before he can even as much as fucking get a scratch on his target. No one’s reflexes are quick enough, no one is going to overpower four bodyguards on their own. The worst part is the horror that flashes over Minho’s expression when he realizes the same thing. He did his part, the diversion and distraction, and everything was set up for Kibum – only for him to fail. Quickly, before anyone notices him looking terrified and out of place, Kibum slips out of the room. He ends up in the kitchen of all places, but thankfully no one seems to pay him any mind as he weaves his way through the busy workers towards the backdoor. This was not a part of the plan, either, but apparently the shock switched his brains straight into autopilot and every step he takes is robotically directed towards getting the hell out of here. Kibum throws the door open and cold air all but hits him in the face, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even bother closing the door behind himself, but keeps on walking. He keeps on walking. From that second on Kibum knows he’s a marked man. If it had been Minho to make the mistake, the Organization might’ve been lenient, they might’ve let it slide and allowed Minho to prove his worth again. It’s different for Kibum, though. He isn’t officially even one of them, he isn’t under no oath and no obligation to believe in their ideologies, and now… They have absolutely no reason to tolerate him any longer. The first attack comes only twenty six hours after the slip-up. Kibum is waiting for Minho at a downtown pub when there’s a thin blade pressed on his throat, close enough to apply pressure but not forceful enough to cut through skin. “I think,” a voice whispers in his ear, “that my boss would be pleased if I brought him your head.” Kibum doesn’t think. He uses his full bodyweight – the exact way Minho once taught him – to fall back against the attacker and it indeed causes them to stumble while the knife ends up further from his vulnerable throat. He spins around and in one swift movement buries the blade of his own much larger knife between the assassin’s ribs. The first thing he notices is the bright red lipstick, and the next second her eyes fly wide in surprise as she realizes she’s been stabbed. A laughter startles from her, but that’s all there is before she’s falling against the wall behind her. Kibum makes sure to catch her in time, to gently set her down on the bench lining the wall. This way, it looks like they’re almost embracing, and no one will pay any mind. The encounter leaves his heart beating like a drum. There’s nothing good about this. It’s so dark Kibum can’t even see his own hand where it’s resting on Minho’s chest. He slides his palm up, tangles his fingers into the dark strands of hair curling in the back of Minho’s neck. Minho’s hair is getting long again, Kibum notes distantly, before using the grip to pull Minho in. The kiss that follows is too harsh, not enough patience and way too much teeth, but it does nothing to slow him down. When they break apart Minho pulls back a little and Kibum can imagine the way he’s squinting at him through the darkness, trying to see his face to figure out what’s going on. “What is –” Minho begins, and Kibum panics. He doesn’t want to, he can’t, he just… isn’t prepared to talk about any of this right now. So he kisses Minho again. Shamelessly he licks into his mouth, nips a little on Minho’s lower lip, uses every single dirty trick he has learned during their time together as distraction. He can feel the exact moment when Minho’s focus shifts fully into the contact between them, and that’s when he knows he got off the hook. Easily, Kibum falls to the side, bringing Minho down with him. He parts his thighs, traps Minho between them, and finally allows the row of kisses to break for long enough to speak. “Shut up,” he breathes into Minho’s ear, clutching his shoulders to keep him close. “Shut up and fuck me.” Minho doesn’t resist. Throughout it all, Kibum clings to Minho like his life depends on it, like he might just float off into nothingness if he didn’t anchor himself into Minho’s skin, with his mouth, with his fingertips. He wants nothing more than to burn this fear out from inside of him with the sheer heat of what’s between them. He wants it quick and rough, but Minho has other ideas. Minho is infuriatingly tender, as if he has a point to prove. He takes his time prepping Kibum, waits until he has Kibum cursing and shaking, practically threatening him to get it the fuck on. When he finally pushes inside of Kibum it’s like an answer to all of his prayers and at the same time not even nearly enough. Every sound is amplified by the darkness around them, echoing off the walls to fill the small space. Even though Minho’s voice is a mere whisper it still seems unnaturally loud when he breathes out Kibum’s name, demanding his attention by coevally snapping his hips forward harshly, making a spark of pleasure explode in Kibum’s consciousness. It ensures that Kibum doesn’t hear what he says, though, the words turning into an incomprehensible murmur that regardless makes a shiver run down his spine. “W-what?” he gasps out, shaking his head a little as if to clear it properly. It doesn’t particularly help, but Minho slows down, allowing him some time to breathe. Minho presses their sweaty foreheads together. “It had to be you,” he says, in a hoarse whisper, his voice cracking on the last word. It sounds urgent, like he needs to get the words out, but none of it makes an ounce of sense to Kibum. He doesn’t have the time to ask, though, not before Minho repeats himself, even more quietly, barely audibly. “It always had to be you.” In all honesty, Kibum has a vague feeling he should know what that means, that it’s a reference to something much more than what’s happening between them at this instant. Yet he has no patience for it, he has no presence of mind to focus on anything else but the sweat-slick skin and burning touches. So he hushes Minho, yanks him in for yet another kiss, and gets exactly what he wants. v. the goodbye Kibum curses the thick fog that seems to worm under his clothes and into every single pore, making him feel cold to the core. He’s always cold in this city and he hates it. He hates the buildings reaching towards the sky, like needles almost long enough to pierce through the heavy curtain of dark clouds. He hates the wide streets, the narrow pathways connecting them, the cobblestones rubbed smooth by millions of pairs of feet that have walked over them. A strong gush of wind grasps his jacket and almost yanks it off his form and quickly he wraps his arms around himself. At least it’s not raining yet. Maybe he can get inside before the skies rip open. For a moment Kibum still stays in the street corner, watching people walk by without even sparing him a glance. The city never sleeps, indeed. He pushes his hands further into his pockets and hunches his shoulders. So goddamn cold. Kibum is already on the verge of turning on his heels and leaving when he finally spots a familiar figure walking towards him. He could recognize Minho anywhere, from his posture alone, but this time seeing him doesn’t bring him the usual instant rush of relief. There’s a second person with him, and that alone is enough to make Kibum’s palms turn sweaty. The two men stop right in front of him, and Kibum acknowledges the small, skinny man’s presence with a nod. Kibum doesn’t even know his name, but he does know that this is one of the higher ups Minho gains his assignments from. He has no idea how high the man actually is in the hierarchy of the Organization, but obviously he is important enough to deal with the little criminals like Minho. And like Kibum. The silence doesn’t last long, the man only takes a second to size Kibum from head to toe with his tiny charcoal eyes. Then he turns to Minho, keeps looking at him even though he clearly addresses Kibum. “You have become a liability to our superiors.” He spares Kibum a quick glance. “Since you’ve helped us before, you are granted a choice.” That makes Kibum’s temper flare up. “A choice? What would that be?” Minho places a calming hand on Kibum’s arm but it’s shaken away angrily. Kibum knows that by now he has nothing to lose, and he is damn well not going to hide his temper. “Are you going to let me choose who kills me? You or one of your guard dogs? Or the method? Can I pick between a gun and a knife? How very generous of you.” The man looks at Kibum passively, not a single muscle even as much as twitching on his face. “Save it. You have a week. It’s more than you deserve.” Only the slight sneer betrays his distaste, with the way he otherwise looks like he’s way above dealing with any of this. Like Kibum isn’t even worthy of his words. “A week. Then someone will be sent after you.” Finally a realization dawns on Kibum. He stands there frozen, completely petrified. “You want me to kill myself.” Slowly, the man’s lips stretch into a thin smile. He almost looks like he wants to laugh, but not a single sound comes out. He turns and walks away. “Kibum. Kibum. Come on look at me!” The sound of Minho’s voice, the slight hint of panic in it, is what finally draws Kibum from his trance like state. Only then he realizes they’re in a hotel room, one with not even an actual bed in it. There’s a desk with a drawer, a mouldy carpet and a foldable camp bed that looks worse than the thin mattress back in their hideout. It’s such a typical sight, and yet it feels completely foreign to Kibum. “You are freaking me out,” Minho says finally, voice small and resigned. He’s been kneeling on the floor in front of Kibum but now gets up and gingerly sits beside him on the bumpy mattress. His palm is still on Kibum’s thigh, as if he cannot bear the thought of not having any contact with him. Kibum laughs. He knows it comes off hysterical. “I am freaking out. What else am I supposed to do?” He closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and it doesn’t really ease the wave of nausea that rips through him. It takes long, several heartbeats, before he finally manages to force himself to turn to look at Minho again. “We need to run away. We need to get the hell away from here, for as far as we can.” He doesn’t know what he expects, but it certainly isn’t the way Minho drops his head forward and runs his fingers through his hair, frustrated. Even after he leans his forehead against his palms, his elbows set on his knees. It looks like he’s barely holding on, and Kibum doesn’t know what to do with it. Minho is supposed to be the strong one. He’s supposed to stay calm and help Kibum through this. He’s not supposed to be as shaken. He’s not supposed to be as scared. Finally after what feels like an eternity Minho speaks, not looking up. “We can’t.” He sounds truly regretful, every word choked off. “We can’t. All we know is this place, if we’d run they’d send people after us. People who know the terrain, who are familiar with wherever we’d go.” He stops and looks up, swallows hard. Kibum only stares at his Adam’s apple bob up and down. This isn’t really happening. This is a figment of his imagination. “We need to stay here,” Minho continues finally, searching for Kibum’s gaze with his own. “We have a better chance. It’s safer.” Kibum laughs. It’s an ugly sound, echoing off the thin walls, and it seems that with each reflection it gains more hollow bitterness. “Safer for who!?” he practically shrieks. “For you!? Certainly not for me. Those fuckers want me dead. They won’t stop before I’ve bled out in front of them and you’re going to let them?” The worst part is the betrayal. It feels like a punch to the gut. Or, rather, like being thrown off a cliff. There’s a split second of hope at first but then everything comes crashing down, fast. Kibum honestly thought Minho would leave with him. No was never an option. He knows what Minho feels for him. At least he thought he knew. Slightly awkwardly Minho tries to circle his arms around Kibum but Kibum fights him off, pushes him away and scrambles backwards until he cannot get any further without falling off the bed. He stares at Minho from wild eyes, willing himself not to cry. “You are going to let them.” It’s a mere whisper, barely audible. Yet the way it makes Minho’s face fall tells it’s nothing short of impactful. Again Minho moves closer and this time Kibum doesn’t do anything to stop him as he grabs Kibum’s hands in his own. “I wouldn’t let them do that to you.” He looks straight into Kibum’s eyes, earnest and obviously meaning every word. “I’ll protect you.” Kibum wants to believe that. He wants nothing more than to believe that. Yet it’s not that easy. “Minho,” Kibum sighs. He wants to nod, to agree, but he knows the world doesn’t turn that way. He struggles to speak but he knows he has to force the words out now, or he never will. “I… To me, you’re worth more than anyone else in this world.” He finally meets Minho’s gaze, trying to show him how much he means it. “But no one is worth my life. Not even you.” He is not completely sure if that is even true. The heaviness in his heart begs to differ. But he’s not ready to die, he’s not ready to give up without a fight. If Minho isn’t willing to fight with him… then he is just going to have to figure out a way to do it on his own. The frustration is clear on Minho’s face as he bites his lower lip so harshly it nearly draws blood. “You just need to show them you’re an asset,” he says, “that you’re valuable to them. One botched job isn’t enough to negate all of the jobs you’ve done for them. You’re useful to them.” “I’m not,” Kibum laughs hysterically. The hollowness in his chest seems to be spreading to his limbs, aching all over. “I don’t believe in their ideals and they know it. A sudden reformation would do nothing. I’m a liability. I am disposable.” Silence. It only proves that there’s nothing to say to argue that. Minho keeps wringing his hands, focused on his fingers as if all the answers are hidden somewhere there. Kibum knows it’s in vain, but he pleads, one more time. “Please, Minho. Run away with me. We can… join the Lee gang.” It’s a long shot, he knows. He might have a chance at that but Minho would never be welcomed into that group after officially being in the Organization. Frantically, he scrambles for a clear thought. “We can get out of the country. We can…” “We can’t,” Minho interrupts. He looks up and his eyes are glimmering, yet there’s a stubborn set to his jaw as he has obviously made up his mind. “Don’t you see it!? They’d hunt us down no matter where we go. We’d be as good as dead. Our only chance is to stay here. You have to convince them you’re worth something to them. It’s the only way we can keep you safe.” Convince them? If these years he has spent working by Minho’s side, one job after another, never demanding anything for himself from the Organization itself… there isn’t really any way he could do a magic trick like that in the week he’s given. “Is that really what you think?” Minho seems almost relieved as he nods. “Yes.” “Fine,” Kibum says, swallowing hard as he tries to appear more controlled than he is. “Fine.” When Minho reaches out for him he allows it, sinks into the embrace and soaks in the closeness. One last time. In the morning Kibum is gone. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, not really, and Minho thinks nothing of it before it comes apparent that Kibum hasn’t come back in nearly a week. It’s longer than either of them has gone without seeing the other after their arrangement got regular. After their worlds started orbiting around one another. Through his contacts Minho finds out that no one has actually been sent after Kibum, yet at least. So he knows he’s alive, he knows he can look after himself, and he keeps waiting for him to come back. He stays in the same hideouts they always used, he lingers in the same bars and on the same streets, he hopes against hope that he’d catch at least a glimpse of Kibum. After eight months he’s beginning to doubt if that will ever happen. He forces himself to stick to routine, anyway. One day at a time. It hurts, more than he ever thought possible, but he has no other choice. After thirteen months he hears there’s a new hitman in the Lee gang. It’s the first time he doubts himself, questions his conviction. He shakes it off. By this point he needs to stick to his decision. It’s all he’s got left. After seventeen months he gives up on ever seeing Kibum again. At least he knows Kibum is alive. That is the thought he clings to. That is how he thinks life will go on, possibly forever. Thirty-two months after he last saw Kibum he gets a direct order: kill or be killed. He knows his fate is sealed. vi. the end “I didn’t think you’d show.” The low timbre of Minho’s voice is achingly familiar as he suddenly steps away from the shadows, into the light cast by one of the overhead lamps. He’s grinning, in that typical way that makes only one side of his mouth quirk up cockily. It instantly sends a sharp jolt of anger through Kibum, mixed with a myriad of feelings he determinedly extinguishes the second they appear. Instinctively Kibum reaches for the gun he’s tucked in his belt, the cold weight of metal grounding him in a way nothing else can. Not anymore. “It’s not every day that the infamous Choi Minho wants to meet you.” He shrugs, cocking the gun to be ready. “Or wants to kill you?” “Don’t be absurd, Kibum.” Minho steps closer, swirling his own gun as if to make it clear he’s not unarmed, either. “You should know wanting and needing to are polar opposites in our world.” His grin melts away. As soon as the cockiness is gone there’s a hint of vulnerability, something open in his expression. Something that reminds Kibum of the first time they met. Minho gives Kibum a sharp look as no answer is forthcoming, daring him to argue. There’s nothing to argue about, though, Kibum knows it as well as Minho does. In the lives they’ve chosen, it’s integral to survival to do what they have to, not what they want to. It’s a lesson he learned his first week on the streets and yet he still fell into the trap life set for him a few years later. A trap named Choi Minho. A trap that still makes a shiver go down his spine, still haunts him with memories of calloused hands travelling the smooth planes of his body. “You know,” Minho pauses, waits for Kibum to arch an eyebrow before he goes on. “We should get rid of the guns. We were always better at close combat.” The implications in the words make Kibum swallow but none of his inner turmoil shows on his expression as he lowers the gun and allows it to drop on the concrete floor of the underground garage. Minho follows suit right after, flexing his fingers around the handle of a large carving knife instead. Kibum had expected to be nervous, or furious, or heartbroken, or any number of things he could dream up for the confrontation, but he never thought he’d feel this eerie calmness. He bends down to snatch the knife he’s hiding in his right boot, all the while keeping his eyes trained on Minho to watch his every move. “The security?” “Gone.” The only answer Kibum gives is a nod. It feels like that’s all it takes to break the ice since the next second everything is a blur of movement, instinct taking over all the unnecessary thinking. Kibum is the one who first gets a hit in as he catches the side of Minho’s head with the handle of his knife, gaining enough momentum to be able to aim a knee to his crotch. What he doesn’t foresee is the grip Minho gets on the leather of his jacket then, and before he knows it he’s slammed right against the cold stone wall with a blade on his throat. There’s a trickle of blood on Minho’s temple as he leans in, brings his face mere inches apart of Kibum’s. “Sneaky little bitch,” he laughs and somehow it sounds like a compliment. “Do you think I don’t remember every dirty trick you have up your sleeve? Half of those I taught you.” He can’t hold the bitterness off his voice, not completely. “It hasn’t been that long since you snuck out on me.” Kibum hisses, his temper flaring up and thankfully drowning out all the other unwanted emotions. Anger he can deal with, regret and hurt not so much. Especially as he never expected to see the same longing he feels reflected back in Minho’s eyes. He forces himself to ignore it. He can’t afford to be distracted by anything, not right now. He squirms slightly, enough to get more leverage from his position against the wall, enough to reach the pipe that’s sticking through the concrete to his left. “A lot can happen in three years, don’t you think?” he practically purrs, ignoring the rush of blood in his ears as he leans in. The blade presses into his skin, sharp enough to pierce through it, leaving a red welt below his Adam’s apple. His lips are so close to Minho’s they’re sharing the same breath, inhaling and exhaling in sync out of old habit. It’s Kibum who breaks the standstill by capturing Minho’s mouth with his own. At first the knife presses more firmly against his throat but he suppresses the wince, focuses on the heat that bursts through him at the familiarity of the kiss. Suddenly Minho’s free hand is in his hair, pulling on the dark strands hard enough to hurt, and yet neither of them is willing to break the almost violent mesh of lips and teeth and tongue. It would be way too easy to get lost in the moment, to forget the real world and fall back into what used to be. Neither of them can deny that the need is there, the urge to run and hide and get back what they used to share. Yet neither of them is delusional enough to think it’s in the realm of possibilities. Not anymore. It’s kill or be killed, sacrifice your feelings to keep breathing in the first place. The knife on Kibum’s throat retreats, just the tiniest bit, and that’s when he takes his chances. He uses the grip he has of the pipe to level himself up and with all of his strength slams his knee into Minho’s stomach. It doesn’t gain him the freedom he’d been expecting as Minho manages to grasp him, making them both clamber on the floor in a heap of tangled limbs. They both lose their knives in the ruckus, and Kibum knows that he’s the underdog when it comes to a fight with their bare hands. It doesn’t mean he can’t land in some good blows though, and as long as they’re down on the ground he can use his shorter limbs as an actual advantage. Still neither of them knows how many hits they’ve dealt. Minho’s nose looks like it must be broken and Kibum knows he’s got a bleeding cut in the back of his head from having it bashed on the floor. Nothing slows it down. Not the broken ribs, not the bloody wounds, not the exhaustion kept at bay only by the flowing adrenaline. Somehow Minho ends up on top of Kibum, a large palm on his throat pressing down to keep him still. He might be saying something, but Kibum’s head is throbbing, every part of him aching as he tries to struggle for a dash of air in his burning lungs. His mind barely registers it when he manages to brush against the handle of a knife – Minho’s, he realizes as his fingers twine around it in a grip as hard as he can manage. Completely driven by instinct, without any finesse Kibum lunges the knife forward, twists it into Minho’s chest. He’s starting to see black splotches in the edges of his vision and he knows he needs to get out of the deathly grip if he wants to make it out of here. He doesn’t even realize when the pressure is gone, when he hits again, and again, until Minho is falling off of him with a thud. The first rush of air is painful but Kibum keeps his eyes closed only for a few heartbeats. He can’t afford to stay still, not when his life might still be hanging by a thread. Gathering the last of his strength he scrambles up, his knees shaky as he presses his side against the pillar. There’s a red handprint where he searched for support first, and he can still feel the stickiness on his fingers. Minho is lying on the floor, in a quickly forming pool of his own blood. It makes Kibum’s heart stop beating until he wills himself to calm down again. This is the sight he wanted to avoid the most, of all possible outcomes. He feels cold, so cold, as if the life is draining out of him instead of Minho. “I always knew.” The words are a mere whisper and Minho smiles. The blood on his face makes it a macabre sight, a mockery of the feelings it represents. His breathing is harder now, every inhalation a useless struggle to fill his lungs with oxygen. Kibum is still standing a couple of steps from him, frozen in place, as all he can do is stare at the man dying in front of him. He wants to go closer, wants to press his lips against Minho’s bloodied ones, wants to… It really doesn’t matter what he wants. The light has dimmed in Minho’s eyes and although his gaze is directed straight at Kibum he can’t focus on anything, not anymore. He tries to speak but it ends up a gurgle, forcing him to start coughing. It’s all in vain, the more he hacks the more blood spills out and again Kibum feels the need to reach out, to touch, to wipe away the smudges from Minho’s skin. His hand twitches on his side, fingers curling, and he yearns to feel that familiar warm skin beneath his fingertips again. He doesn’t move. When the coughing calms down, Minho laughs, an aborted sound that ends up making his body convulse. “It had to be you,” he mumbles, words so sluggish it’s hard to make any sense of them, “it always had to be you.” He laughs, even though it leads to another violent cough. He says nothing more. Kibum stays for as long as he can hear the rattling breaths, for as long as Minho’s ribcage moves ever so slightly. It almost feels as if he’s willing Minho to keep on breathing with the force of his gaze alone. He imagines every heartbeat, as he still remembers the course they used to take, the rhythm of it as familiar as his own. Until it’s all over. It’s silent. Finally, he lets the knife clatter to the ground, a shudder shaking him to the core. His hands are trembling and he shoves them into his pockets, ignoring the blotches of blood all over, the way his shirt is practically drenched with it. Something constricts in his chest, tightens and collapses, until there’s nothing left but vast, empty darkness. With quick steps Kibum leaves the underground garage, never looking back, holding his breath until he steps out into the shadows of the alleyway. ---

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I don’t usually write death and destruction, but this one needed a way out. So it’s a new genre venture for me, and I really hope it turned out alright!

Some of you might’ve read the drabble on tumblr (also available on lj) that this is based on (and from which I shamelessly nicked the title, too). Actually, the original drabble serves as the last part of this fic, with some minor alterations. I simply wanted to write their story, to explain how things came about and why it all turned out how it did.