things to leave

in another life, she would have been envious of that. but in this one, she’s just glad to see her best friend. “minsik and jaewook are busy at the office so they couldn’t join but — “ she settles down across from siyeon, her smile morphing into something along the lines of a smirk. “ — i’d say it’s about time we girls have some time to ourselves, huh?”

constants don’t exist in her life.

her childhood is best defined by bouncing from place to place, never settling down long enough to put roots anywhere. she used to think the transience was normal. later, when she realized it wasn’t, she convinced herself that a lifetime of adventure is a good thing, that ultimately, she’s lucky to be able to live the way she does, free and unencumbered by any kind of attachments or anchors.

and yet—

lucky, sure, but a part of her still wants something steady in her life, even if it’s just a place to come home to. jihae might be a person and not a place, but she’s the closest thing siyeon has to a harbour—with her, siyeon feels like she can lay her head down and just rest. it’s a lot to leave at someone’s feet, so she’s never said as much out loud, but, well, jihae has to know. siyeon doesn’t bother keeping it a secret; she wears her affection on her sleeve, laid bare for everyone to see.

her eyes sparkle as she leans forward at jihae’s words. “something for little ‘ole me?” siyeon lets out a contented, breathy sigh, hands clasped in front of her chest. “you’re too good to me, jihae.” it’s always a novel feeling to be on the receiving end of jihae’s care, maybe because siyeon isn’t used to it. she accepts it all with open, greedy arms, ready to take whatever jihae sees fit to give. “i can’t wait to dig in. you make the best food, you know?” she continues, accepting the chopsticks from her outstretched hand.

she’s desperate to tear off the lid and devour the contents, but siyeon isn’t a complete animal. or, not a complete animal in public for the sake of preserving her friend’s reputation.she feels like she shows admirable restraint while opening the lunchbox and taking her first bite, but all decorum flies out the window as siyeon swallows and lets out a low moan. “gods, much better than convenience store ramen.” much, much better than the pathetic excuse for meals she’s been eating at home. she doesn’t know how jihae does it—infuses every single bite with so much care.

(maybe home isn’t a place or a person, but a lunchbox lovingly made and offered.)

as a child, he’d wished often for a treehouse, for a retreat nestled in the canopy of a thick, imposing elder tree. he daydreamed of it during class—of rickety ladders leading up into the base, a sign propped up outside the window reading NO GIRLS ALLOWED!! (the best treehouses were always exclusive, after all), a collection of board games and assorted toys piled up in the corner next to a shelf containing every kind of junk food your parents would definitely have a problem with you eating too much. it would be an escape, a clubhouse, the place everyone wanted to visit, with jaewook as the kid everyone wanted to be friends with to gain entry.

but there had been no treehouse in the middle of seoul. the closest thing jaewook had to one growing up was the high-rise he lived in, with its cold grey walls and concrete base, a not-so-delightful view of the city skyline if you could manage to squint past the pollution in the air. no board games, no toys, no snacks, no friends. he’s past the point where ancient hurts have the power to weigh him down, but sometimes he thinks, if i had the treehouse, i would’ve had everything.

he builds one in his dreamscape. with painstaking care, jaewook creates the base for the treehouse first—an ancient california redwood—then puts up plank after plank with his own hands. the interior’s changed now that he’s older; there’s a tv, every relevant gaming system with a cartridges lined up on a shelf, a mini fridge filled with beer and soju, convenience store snacks, and no sign in the window (jihae and siyeon would likely chew him out if he dared say no girls allowed). it’s comfortable, warm, and homey—not so much a way to entice people to like him than a place for his friends to take refuge in.

(friends. who would’ve thought?)

the treehouse comes to life around him as he slides into minsik’s dreams, the previous dreamscape molding itself to jaewook’s wishes. he’s more comfortable here than he ever is out there. dressed in a denim jacket with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, he slumps into a beanbag chair with an oof! as the setting solidifies around them. jaewook stretches his legs out to their full length (still regrettably limited; he still can’t change his height in here) and tilts his head back to peer up at minsik.

“hey,” he says, a grin slowly forming on his lips. minsik still looks the same here as he does outside—jaewook’s always envied that about him, a little. he feels like minsik would fit in and feel comfortable anywhere he goes. “isn’t this a weird time to be asleep at?” he continues, crossing his ankles. he can’t remember when he forced himself to fall asleep. everything outside of this dream, this moment, is hazy.

“hope you don’t mind hanging out here—i could always take us somewhere else if you want, but,” he lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “i thought this would be, uh, comfortable. the beanbags give it a ‘90s backyard clubhouse feel, don’t they?” his fingers pick at the stray threads of his jacket as the dreamscape momentarily ripples around him, poised to transform into something else at a moment’s notice.

he’s infinitely more at ease here, but there are times when the nerves flare up regardless, when jaewook wonders if this is good enough for the people he calls friends. one day he won’t second guess himself so frequently, but until then, his smile gains an uncertain edge as he straightens the baseball cap.

oracle pissed off a god and now most visions of the future & prophecies they get are false but people keep believing them anyway

high ranking demon of hell summoned & tied to a fragile human and they’re very, very put out about it

ghost whisperer (??) who can hear ghosts but can’t see them, haunted by their best friend

idol industry veterans (and secret exes) end up on a we got married style variety show

alien enthusiast who believes in sentient alien life with their whole heart meets an actual alien who crash-landed on earth

archaeologist discovers ancient spell/curse/etc and accidentally brings back [ye olde deity or spirit] from the past

mutant who makes most of his money at an underground mutant fight club, hates to lose a fight

person discovers their recently adopted pet dog/cat is actually a witch/wizard cursed to maintain an animal shape during the day but reverts back to human at night

superhero saves ordinary civilian and now the whole city (and all the supervillains) think superhero and civilian are a thing

“…what’s bothering you, squirt?” his voice is rough, but with a hint of softness dohyun might find unfamiliar, “what’s bothering you so much that it has you sending one of your serves straight to the back of my head?”

ever see your life flash before your eyes at the tender age of twenty? ever see a vision of your future laid out in front of you in full movie-montage style with a touching background score and think, wow, i will never have this because i’m about to be murdered in cold blood?

dohyun has.

like, right now.

the sound the ball makes upon connecting with kiyong’s head is fifty different share of ugly. silence descends in its aftermath; he can’t even hear the beating of his heart, nor a single thought in his head—though that last part might be because his head is empty. kiyong’s going to kill him. kiyong’s going to kill him and bury his corpse outside the school and no one will miss him except his mom and nari. maybe not even nari.

it’s a succession of accidents, really: he’s a collection of nerves frayed raw during his first ever official match. or, sort of official match. fine, it’s a practice match, but it feels like a lot more. the entire team’s hopes are on his shoulders, and while he won’t say it’s a lot of pressure—it kind of is, a little bit. when the referee’s whistle sounds, dohyun starts and makes his serve toss too early, and as a result, he doesn’t hit it right. he’s aiming for somewhere over the net, but serves aren’t his strong point on a good day, so—

i’m going to die, dohyun thinks. he makes his peace with it. at least he’ll die on the court. his soul’s already left his body when kiyong approaches, having ascended to nirvana the moment kiyong hissed at him. dohyun spreads his arms out, ready for the end.

except.

it never comes. instead, a question that nearly sounds sincere in its concern. if it came from literally anyone else on the team, dohyun would believe it. from kiyong’s mouth, it can only be… well. dohyun doesn’t know what it’s going to be, but it can’t be anything good. trembling, he lowers his arms and gives kiyong a baleful stare. “you’re—you’re being scary, kiyong,” he says. “you almost sounded like you cared for a minute.” totally, totally unnatural.

… though dohyun supposes he should apologize or something. it did sound like it hurt, and kiyong isn’t currently choking him to death, so maybe an apology with the promise of future grovelling will pacify him for now. it sounds risky, but dohyun could give it a shot. “sorry about the… ball….” he says finally, haltingly. “m’just a little nervous, i guess.” everything feels so new and overwhelming. “i got surprised by the whistle.”

tentatively, he reaches out, then quickly retracts his hand. even nice(ish) kiyong is objectively terrifying. “does it hurt a lot?” dohyun asks. he doesn’t want to feel guilty over this, but…! he’s starting to! it would almost be easier if kiyong did get mad; he feels like he’s being lulled into a false sense of security right now.

fuck.

a deep, emphatic, furious fuck.

there has to be a reason why these deals always go south—always, without fail. at this point, it would be more surprising for a meeting to go smoothly. if eikichi was less of a pessimist, he would’ve been unprepared to handle the jo family representative fucking them over, but his job is precisely to anticipate and prepare for situations like this one.

stay one step ahead of the enemy. a simple mantra his father inked into his skin as a permanent reminder of the only lesson he’d ever bothered to pass down to his son. a survival tip, as if that made up for everything else. it didn’t, for the record, and the tattoo gave eikichi an infection besides. he learned that lesson all on his own: his father offered cursed gifts.

still, he doesn’t see the shot coming. doesn’t register it until hanbin grunts in pain, until a bloody flower blossoms under his jacket. the scene stitches itself together slowly in front of his eyes. a flash of silver, the jo goon’s pleased grin, and blood once more, so fucking red—

acting on instinct, eikichi slides the gun from his belt. it takes a split second’s calculation to determine whether the enemy is better left alive or dead. the answer’s dead, and some of that is the rage talking, because no one shoots choi hanbin in front of him and walks away unscathed.

it’s almost rhythmic: aim, fire, watch the bullet connect. the jo goon crumbles, and his partner makes the mistake of crying out instead of firing back. eikichi is silent, deadly, uncompromising—a snake hidden in the grass, striking hard and fast, again and again and again.

the adrenaline is slow to fade as eikichi stares at the bodies before him. bile rises at the back of his throat, not a product of disgust but at the thought of how easy it is, how easy it still is for him to do these things like they’re of no consequence. he wants to feel remorse, or something that can remind him he’s not a monster.

it never comes.

unrest turns to concern as he remembers hanbin. eikichi throws the gun aside to crouch at his side, it’s a point of pride that his hands don’t shake as he holds his heart in his throat and gently probes for the wound. “tell me how badly it hurts,” he urges. “can you stand?” he’ll carry hanbin on his back if he has to, but it wouldn’t be comfortable for either of them.

hair falls over his face; eikichi pushes it back impatiently, not realizing his fingers came away sticky with blood until he’s done. a sharp, metallic tang fills his nose and he sighs, exhaustion crashing into him like a fist.

“you,” eikichi says tiredly, “have a knack for pissing the wrong people off.” his lifts his gaze to look at hanbin’s face for the first time in a while. a part of him is afraid to find it pale or twisted in pain—this part is the hardest, to see hanbin suffer and be powerless to fix it. or worse, to be the cause of it. everyone is determined to take advantage of hanbin’s youth; eikichi, meanwhile, is determined to not let them. each instance that ends like this, with both of them bloody on the floor, is his failure. “were you born with this skill or did you have to work on it?”