FOR ALL THE GHOSTS THAT ARE NEVER GONNA CATCH ME

“does it matter?” she grits out through clenched teeth. “i’m here, and that’s all there is to it.”

lisa lets her cigarette fall to the earth, crushes it under her foot. reaches into her back pocket to pull out another one before realizing he’s got the lighter. he got his answer, so maybe he’ll let it go now.

yet somewhere in the back of her mind, lisa knows he won’t.

when jongin looks at her behind a veil of spiderweb thin smoke, she is a ball of ill-concealed anger. stiff jaw, balled fists and clenched teeth; she’s on defensive and offensive all at the same time. she speaks again and it’s full of vagueness--- she’s dodging the subject as if she were dodging figurative bullets, even if just barely. 

jongin scoffs, not satisfied with the answer. it is like an implied end of the discussion.

(an honest question: does it really matter?)

he takes a drag of his cigarette, the cherry burning at the near end of its life.

(perhaps not. probably not enough. whatever the case, it’s not like he’s letting it go just because lisa deems it to be irrelevant. but do not mistake this for caring--- there is destruction in showing such emotion so he distances himself from it but he’s slipping.)

“that’s all?” it would seem a genuine question if it weren’t for the incredulity that laces his words. knows he’s treading on dangerous waters but keeps on going anyway. this is them, palpable tension and poorly suppressed emotions, anger a smoldering spark in their veins ready to ignite and spread like a wildfire. resembles more a minefield: just one misstep and everything will blow up, only destruction remains. “you’re here, that’s great.” the cigarette is tossed away, crushed beneath the toe of his boot. he exhales the remnants of smoke. 

before jongin can protest, bogum pivots on his heel and heads back for the car, parked just a few meters away. “come on, help me grab the bags.” he opens the trunk and rummages through the scattered contents (blowdryer? clothes hangers?) for the gloves, masks, and bodysuits. he tosses one of the clear plastic suits to jongin. “suit up. don’t want to ruin that nice cologne you’ve got on tonight.” fortunately, they’re just here to collect their dead—no need to cut up the rest of the bodies to send off to the deep sea.

bogum zips up his own suit and snaps on the latex gloves perhaps a little too cheerfully. it looks as if he’s ready for his first day of school.

there is this one thing bogum doesn’t seem to quite grasp, or so it seems, and that is the concept of personal space. he comes and he goes, invading the area around him that is mostly an off-limits zone, pushes himself past the invisible walls and breathes into his ear. the basic instinct is to immediately pull away, to get further from the unwanted intrusion but then again--- this he is used to. so he stands where he is, head slightly tilted to the side, rolling his eyes but there is a ghost of a something that in some language could be described as a smile, pulling at the very edge of his lips.

“great. how thrilling.” this is feigned enthusiasm: the way his mouth curves into a humourless smirk, covering whatever residue of genuineness that could have reached his expression. he walks past the corpses; past the blood and gore painted bed they’re laying on. past this mess of a graveyard. catches the bundle of plastic thrown his way, giving bogum a look for his comment but doesn’t find the need to comment anything back, instead putting on the bodysuit, zipped all the way up. 

“you seem awfully cheerful about this.” jongin observes, raised eyebrows and ill-covered disbelief. needless to say, he doesn’t share the sentiment. “sure you didn’t choose a wrong career? you look like you were born to be a cleaning lady. pretty.” he puts on his gloves, sans the enthusiasm bogum possessed, and reaches for the bodybags, dropping them unceremoniously at their feet. mask forgotten, dangling between his fingers. 

And then it clicks.

“No shit! Jonginnie hyung?” He bursts into laughter, doubling over himself and trying to find his balance when he stands up straight – the smile he has on makes his bruise hurt but he couldn’t care less, not when looking at the person in front of him.

these are the three things jongin has learned during his time working at the club: 1) alcohol truly brings out the animals within humans; 2) people seem to think they have the right to let their hands roam around others’ bodies as if they were their own; and 3) he absolutely hates most of their drunken asses. 

on good days, they are all just noises in the background, faces in the crowd. they do not matter as long as they behave and abide by certain regulations; if they do not mind him, he will return the sentiment. but on bad days, they got his patience running thin and he has to restrain himself from doing something he would certainly regret later.

the radio resting on his hip erupts to life with loud static, then followed by a woman’s voice, coming off slightly annoyed, “hey jongin! there’s a fight at the bar, please go and take care of it!” the words are met with a sigh and a roll of eyes, a curt on it muttered into the radio before he’s on his way— it had been a little too peaceful for such a busy night. at least he gets to throw someone out even if there probably won’t be need for further violence. 

there is a circle of people around the bar; they shun the men who speak in the language of violence, with fists, knuckles against bone. quite a mess they have made, spilled drinks and small splatters of blood adorning the counter, shrapnels of glass on the floor. he is pleased when people give him enough leeway to approach the scene, just in time to catch the other man’s wrist in a tight grip before fist could meet cheekbone. there’s no struggle when he pulls him away from the other guy, his hold only tightening as he escorts him outside. behind them, the ambiance returns back to normal as the tension slowly melts away, the scene soon a forgotten image in their drunken hazed minds.

jongin releases the man once outside, letting him stumble with his feet. the cool breeze of night air is a pleasant change to the heat of the club and for a moment he lingers there in the doorway, breathing in and out, eyes then falling to the approaching figure. there is something painfully familiar about the man, he observes, something about him that makes him think way back, of home in that poor, shitty neighbourhood when he was just a boy, of mother, and—

no. it can’t be.

jonginnie hyung?

he freezes, tension building on his shoulders. inside him, there is a turmoil of emotions; a deluge of suppressed memories threatening to surface. hoseok laughs and it sounds all so familiar and foreign at the same time. and then he smiles, fuck, he smiles and it reminds jongin of the time when they were kids, of quiet moments and shared dreams. hoseok smiles, and he cannot bring himself to mirror the gesture. 

he opens his mouth but no words come out— he is at a loss and he hates it. he hates that all it takes is a face from the past for the walls he has spent years building, to tremble and crumble. (knows he was trained to be better than this.) 

instead, he reaches for his pocket, tosses hoseok the lighter he asked for. considers silence but speaks anyway. nearly surprises himself with the steadiness and impassivity of his voice. “quite a scene you made back there.”

Keep reading

this is how they talk--- or, how they just don’t: they speak in silences, in vague gestures and unspoken words, in poor attempts that never reach the other so both stop trying. they fall into a routine of quiet (mis)communication and prolonged, flat stares.

jongin looks at him and he looks right back; expression unreadable, withdrawn. he sees his own, faint reflection in those similar, dark irises, but he is not quite sure what it is that he really sees. a boy, a son, a spitting image of the man in front of him. something familiar, something dark; something distant that seems like it’s dead.

the imaginary glass wall sitting between them cracks under the tension; crevices running across the surface before it shatters into pieces. something twists in father’s eyes, dark and guarded, before the eye connection breaks like the invisible glass. he turns his back, but jongin’s gaze doesn’t budge. silence sticks to them like glue, strong and swallowing every sound that threatens to escape.

guns on display on the table, the man disassembles them with learned precision, handles them with skill. sometimes he looks through the scope of his sniper rifle, straight at jongin and pulls the trigger; there is no hesitation there. but nothing ever happens; he looks at the boy, his eyes locked with him and he sees nothing but pure boredom and disinterest anyone else would find to be creepy. however this time the back stays turned on him, silently disregarding him and his presence.

when jongin finally relents and wills himself to look elsewhere, a movement in his peripheral catches his attention, brows knitting together until he recognises that bush of hair, those eyes peeking inside. snaps his head to the other side where his father is cleaning his guns, showing no indication, no signs of awareness of another’s presence--- but he doesn’t really know that man; how he functions and what sets him off, so he jumps off the bed, worn-out sneakers padding against the floor as he swiftly makes his way to the door. the only sound is of a door opening and slamming shut, separating him from the stagnant silence that prevails inside.

but she’s drilled the importance of punctuality into jongin’s head, among other necessary social habits, and she is not one to play a bad influence in front of her former protégé. besides, she’d like to see if he manages a simple requirement like this, before she deems him a disappointment in a few minutes time. 

some things stay with you like grime, ingrained into your skin the way that doesn’t ever seem to completely come off. there are secrets under his skin, bruising and haunting. memories too, their edges grown as sharp as knives. his body is a temple of violence, of reigning chaos; his mind a wasteland, a holding cell for the demons he has been trying to outrun his whole life. in the middle, there are these memories that his body remembers but his mind doesn’t quite recall, that incise his skin but he refuses to bleed.

(they say time heals wounds but in truth time is cruel and unforgiving, and never stopping for anyone.)

jongin strides between tables, waiters and waitresses, avoids making any kinds of contacts with anyone. this is how he has always been: finding discomfort in large crowds and closed spaces— which is why he is absolutely delighted that xiurong had wanted to meet here, but he allows nothing to seep into his expression. he reaches the private room and steps inside unceremoniously, gaze falling to the figure sitting by the table. beside her is her boduguard, stiff as a stick but no doubt ready to protect her if needed. it has been a good while since he saw her last yet she has barely changed. her hair, still ebony black and her lips, covered in war paint. she is exactly the same as he remembers her: oozing elegance, holding her head high. she is beauty and she is powerful, and she bows down to no man. 

The knob of his door rolls easily and Hoseok pushes the door open, looking around the apartment quietly before turning to his friend with a nod and a smile – pushing the door wider and stepping in; closing it with a hushed ‘click’ and toeing off his worn-out sneakers. “Let’s go to my room, okay?” He knows Jongin understands the reason behind his whispering – Hoseok is simply happy to see a familiar face, having the other come to him first.

time passes by in a blur of motion around him; few people going out and about, wind caressing skin, blowing at his hair. the door in front of him seems more interesting that the rest of the world, with all its ragged planes and grime stuck on it, beaten up in time. the railing is squeaky and shaky underneath him, old and rusty. it sways along with his movements, vibrating through the entirety of its length.

brows knitting together, he glares ahead with a sudden spike of confusion. wonders what exactly had prompted him into coming here, to reach out to hoseok when it was usually the younger who always seemed to find him. he had barely noticed it, how his feet seemed to automatically lead him to the left instead of right, on hoseok’s footstep. it felt strange, to seek out someone as though he needed them; wanted to fill the void around him with their presence. (perhaps that is the case here. their neighbourhood is filled with the deprived, with people four times their age. loneliness is not an option but more an inevitability.)

he hears steps and thumps and his head snaps to the side, expression softening at the sight of his friend hoseok. jongin flashes him a small almost-smile that is gone a little too soon, flings his feet back and forth, jumping down the railing. he’s like a shadow trailing behind hoseok’s back, voiceless and only visible in the light. a curt nod is all he gives as an answer, stepping out of his shabby shoes and tiptoeing all the way to the next room, no words exhanged. he’s not much of a talker, mostly being a silent presence in hoseok’s life but he seems to be fine with it. most of their time spent together consists of mostly one-sided conversations mixed with jongin’s single-worded responses, or even rarer cases of him actually saying more than few words at a time.

she’s almost sad to see the silence leave when it does.

“the hell are you on about now?” answering a question with a question. “i’m fine. blowing through a pack of cigarettes. slowly freezing my ass off. couldn’t be better.” it’s not a lie though it certainly isn’t the whole truth. not that he needs to know that.

that was not what he meant. but then again, he’s not quite sure what exactly he had meant in the first place.

he shrugs, breaking his scrutiny by looking away. for a short while, he doesn’t answer and the silence returns but with tension.

“that’s not what i meant,” he turns his thoughts into words; understand his earlier question had been clearly vague yet he does nothing to elaborate further.

it had been peaceful until now, good— or as good they can ever be. jongin exhales a puff of smoke, watches it dissipate in the cool air. “what’s with this?” gestures around them, vague again. sighs in irritation, trying to come up with the right words but they are a mess in his mouth. he’s not good at talking--- or at human interactions in general; not like this, not with her. had it been any other situation he would have let it go, let the words turn to dust and die, but this time was different somehow. he was driven by this newly found curiosity that he’s unable to shake off.

(how irritating.)

a low rumble and roar fills his ear, the rising crescendo of a plane’s industrial scream overhead from incheon to better lands. somewhere in the buzz invading his ears, bogum picks up—belatedly—on padded feet against concrete. he turns around a little too late, and gets a face-full of… jongin. he’s visibly annoyed, having been caught off guard, but feigns amicable surprise.

“you got the call too?” he intones brightly, never mind the fact dawn is fast approaching and the world around them is otherwise deathly still. he places a firm grasp on the other man’s stiff shoulder. “couldn’t have asked for a better partner myself.”

just who thought it was a smart idea to give guns to kids who were stupid enough to think they could possibly handle them? this was by no means a playground for children. the weight of taking a human life was never light. in the end it was that foolishness that only got them killed. and if it weren’t for their incompetence, this all could have been avoided and he wouldn’t have to clean up someone else’s fucking mess this late at night (or early in the morning, depending on your point of view).

because a complete mess it certainly is, the sight that greets him upon arrival.

he moves gracefully, steps light— it has become a habit, one his father taught him that was now ingrained into his mind. there is another person on the scene; relief washing over him at recognition for he got himself a decent enough partner— someone who he knows, someone who doesn’t make him want to maim or kill them, to end up like these useless teenagers. 

“obviously,” comes the reply, simple and monotone, but not unkind. the hand on his shoulder feels more familiar than not, so he finds no reason to shrug it off.  he takes in the scattering of bodies around them, blood and brains. it’s a circus, only all the performers are dead.