Kaisoo Ballet/Mafia AU twitfic [reposted] -->
Kim Jongin was not a bad boy. Growing up, all he had known was dance. He didn't move to Seoul intending to run with the wrong crowd. But things just had a way of unravelling around Kyungsoo, who wore innocence over his shoulders like a Vogue cover, who drawled an invitation around a mouthful of cigar smoke like the sharp end of a fishing hook.
"You can't say no to him," was what Sehun said, slipping Jongin a business card backstage, after the season's first performance, "There are three things that will always be above you. Sky, god, Do Kyungsoo."
Not that Jongin had a choice. The moment Kyungsoo rolled down the window to his Lamborghini and locked his eyes on him, Jongin had lost. By week's end, he was Kyungsoo's new plaything. Forget ballet. Forget the studio. All Jongin could know, from that moment onwards, was Kyungsoo. The weight of Kyungsoo's voice, the shape of his silhouette, the scent of iron and gunpowder and new bills that lingered after his steps.
This wasn't to say their relationship wasn't complicated. It was. Dating Kyungsoo meant watching Kyungsoo shake off a blood-stained jacket like a dirtied napkin, meant taking walks in the park in the proximity of a small army of body guards, meant flying to Switzerland with trousers stuffed with 1,000,000W bills. When you date Kyungsoo, the black-windowed cars start doubling overnight before your apartment complex. When you date Kyungsoo, you start to lose track of reality. How much is love worth? Can a billion won buy a life? When you date Kyungsoo, you begin to question human nature, begin to question yourself.
But even if Jongin could make heads of it, it was still hard falling in love with someone who divided relationships between burdens and profits. Hard, explaining to Kyungsoo why he dashed mad through the streets, shirt damp, vision blurred with worry, when Kyungsoo was an hour late for coffee. Telling Kyungsoo why he flinched each time segments about prosecutors played on the television, why he could never fall asleep before Kyungsoo, why he began going to church every Sunday and praying to a god he had never believed in.
They were the same age, but they had grown up on the two different faces of a coin. Jongin was all sleek, polished exteriors, with a gaze that could tear you apart and pick you to the bone, but Jongin was nothing more beneath it. Some days--most days--he was only another nearly-adult child who would rank his life's ambitions as sleep, manga, and food. For Kyungsoo, that exterior was innate. Kyungsoo spent his life learning to perform just as much as Jongin had. How to coax a naive, doe-eyed, glazed-over stare over a handful of murderous intentions; how to hide his fangs beneath an innocuous smile, donning on a sheep's skin in a den of wolves, playing the harmless, absent-minded boy. A boy who, at the end of the day, could have your neck in a heartbeat.
So, inevitably, there existed a chasm between them. As much as Jongin could play pretend, they didn't see the same future--which, for Jongin, was a simple one. All Jongin wanted was to live a good, uncomplicated life--maybe without all that money, maybe without all that power--just a few puppies, a comfortable, little place, and a pot of flower on the windowsill.
Kyungsoo, too, wanted a good life for Jongin.
Just not with him.
See, it wasn't a chasm that you could build a bridge across.
When there is a chasm, as it turns out, there is friction. There are earthquakes. Fights. Not difficult, of course, when you're in a physical relationship.
When they didn’t get it, all they had to do was fuck. Whenever they argued, they fucked. Whenever Jongin tried to ask Kyungsoo a question Kyungsoo knew he didn't want to answer, they fucked, and fucked, and fucked. It was the cure-all solution.
Kyungsoo shut his laptop and rolled up his sleeves and told the chauffeur, always in his cold, steel-smooth voice, to go buy a pack of cigarettes—no, don’t drive there, get out and walk—and before the door was even shut he would've pulled his tie and got Jongin pressed beneath him, his mouth swallowing down every word Jongin could possibly think of. Jongin always protested first, but when Kyungsoo had his fingers in his mouth long enough, the words went away.
A moan, a yelp.
A quiet, desperate whimper, quaking into his hold.
For Kyungsoo, he had never meant to have a healthy relationship. Not, perhaps, even a relationship. There wasn't anything between them. It was just Kyungsoo and another sweet young mess of hair and sweat. And it was convenient, was what it was. Bullet-proof, was what it was. Kyungsoo could kill himself falling in love, and Jongin would've never broken his heart, could've never broken his heart, because Jongin didn’t love him. Because Kyungsoo knew he didn't. He wouldn't allow him to.
Perhaps that was why they fucked. That was why Kyungsoo paid him even when Jongin told him he didn’t need it, why he bought him the Armani suits and the Shanghai flats and spoilt him a blink to rotten. If one day he stopped and Jongin was still there, then Kyungsoo will be weak and stupid and vulnerable.
And in this line of business, you are only allowed to be weak and stupid and vulnerable in a coffin.
“Kyungsoo,” Jongin said, gasping for air, flushed red, bite marks down his chest. He opened his mouth, lips in the shape of it.
"Kyungsoo, I love--"
But Kyungsoo flipped him over and fucked him harder into the leather seats, on his knees, slammed into him like an animal. Do Kyungsoo screwed every last breath out of him, so that Jongin wouldn’t say it. This way Kyungsoo wouldn’t have to be weak and stupid and in love, because god damn it, he already was. God damn it. God damn it, me too.
The sun was in Jongin's eyes, stirring a warm amber, like the earth beneath a crackling fire, "--you, hyung, always--"
Kyungsoo laughed. Laughed and yanked Jongin back by a fistful of hair, whispering into his ear as he came, "You just have to love me until I die."
And then the news broke out.
"We're looking at a lifetime in prison," Sehun told Kyungsoo over the phone, "Your little boyfriend, too."
"Baekhyun made it clear that he wasn't dicking around," Sehun groaned, "Well. We've had a good run, you and I. I'll see you on the death row, friendie."
"Wait, Sehun. Could they--cut Jongin something?"
"I don't think this is something you want to know."
Kyungsoo, more or less, saw it coming. Perhaps he saw it coming the day he first sat eyes on Jongin, leaping across the stage, like a bird soaring into the sky. Perhaps that was why he allowed himself to be caught in the first place.
So, one fine Sunday afternoon, Kyungsoo took Jongin out to a beach. It wasn't anything special. There were no quartets in the background, no rose-paved path to satin sheets, no century-old wine. There was just Kyungsoo, barefoot, hands stuck awkwardly in the pockets of his shorts, an old watch dangling off his wrist.
"I don't think I can make it to your next performance," Kyungsoo said, staring into the horizon, where the sun was sinking into the ocean.
"Because," Kyungsoo took a switch-blade out of his pocket, tossed it to Jongin, who barely managed to catch it. "One of us is going to die before then."
He pulled a gun pistol out of his pocket and slowly and steadily, screwed on the silencer. "Surely you saw this coming, Jongin. How do you think we keep secrets so well, this side of the city?"
Jongin was already crying. There were giant tear drops rolling down his cheek, dripping off his chin.
"Look at you. Shh. Don't be afraid," Kyungsoo said, pulling Jongin closer, grasp ever so gentle around Jongin's wrist. This would be the last time he could have Jongin so close. Jongin, so young, so innocent, with so much more to live, so much more to give. He guided the blade to his abdomen, right over his diaphragm. "See, a weapon like a knife, it has a very short range. So get up close when you stab me. If you can hear my heart beating, and see the sweat on the my forehead, even better. It's like playing golf, you get good hits with good form."
Jongin shook his head, his hand trembling hard. Kyungsoo clasped Jongin's fingers over the handle, wrapped them tightly around it. "And after you go in, twist. Twist, pull out, and let me go."
Jongin's jaw was quivering, his mouth opening and closing without a sound. Kyungsoo waited, with all the patience in the world.
Beside them, the ocean had already swallowed the last of the sun's rays. There was only a pool of violet and deep blue left afloat on the waters.
"H-hyung, I can't," Jongin began.
Kyungsoo pulled back the hammer and pressed the barrel into Jongin's temple. "But I can."
All Kyungsoo's life, there had been white hot adrenaline pumping through his veins, the bitter emptiness of rushing on empty pungent on his tongue. All adrenaline, but no soul in the blood. He didn’t join this trade with a death wish--not at first. All he wanted was to feel alive. Anything to feel that in the hills and dales and tide and prayers, he had a destination.
All these years, all these molehills he's made of cash, all these webs of power, these castles of cards, it was just so ironic that he couldn't find that destination until he strayed off path.
Jongin wasn't a bad boy. Growing up, all he had known was dance. He hadn't moved to Seoul intending to run with the wrong crowd. But things had a way of unravelling around Kyungsoo. Things had a way of falling apart.
"But I can," was what Kyungsoo said, as the gun slipped out of his hand. Jongin could feel the blood, hot and fast, sloshing out around his fingers, quickly growing sticky as it dried. It was odd. He couldn't really register what had--Kyungsoo had--the knife, it was--
"Oh," Jongin felt his chest collapsing, "God, no, no."
There between them was the knife Kyungsoo had given him. It was buried to the hilt beneath Kyungsoo's ribs. It was, totally--
"Jongin," Kyungsoo said, his legs buckling. Jongin caught him, nearly tripping over himself. Kyungsoo wasn't heavy. Wasn't nearly as heavy as he should have been. "I can only love you until I die... and that's... it's not... much, is it?"
"No," Jongin yelled, snapping out of a panicked daze, realizing that Kyungsoo was in his arms, that Kyungsoo was dying, that Kyungsoo had loved him. "No, wait, Hang on. I'll call an ambulance, I'll--"
"I'm sorry," Kyungsoo said, his hand cradling Jongin's cheek. His lips had gone pale and dry, the light snuffed out of his eyes, "I'm sorry you had to be mine."
"Shut up," Jongin said, furiously rubbing the tears out of his eyes, trying to see Kyungsoo clearly for the last time, "Don't say that. You've never apologized before. Do Kyungsoo doesn't apologize."
"But you," Kyungsoo said. And his hand slipped away. "You don't have to be, anymore."
Jongin caught Kyungsoo's hand and pressed it, hard, against his cheek. "Stop it, Kyungsoo--"
"I hope you meet... a decent guy... next time 'round," Kyungsoo said, his words cracking, falling apart at the seams. And there was this--tug--and Jongin's grip weakened and--
Kyungsoo's hand fell.
Slowly, slowly, his lids fluttered closed.
Jongin didn't leave, not after the sirens began filing the air, not after medics pulled Kyungsoo out of his arms, not after the police dragged him into the back of the ambulance, asked him if he knew who it was that was in his arms.
"A gun?" Sehun squinted, earlier that day, "Without bullets? You drunk?"
"Do I look drunk?" Kyungsoo snapped, quickly whacking Sehun over the head.
"You bastard," Sehun muttered, punching Kyungsoo back in the shoulder. He didn't look Kyungsoo in the face, but Kyungsoo heard his voice shaking. "Is love really worth dying for?"
"I don't know," Kyungsoo shrugged.
He honestly didn't.
But he knew that Jongin's little pouts, Jongin's notes on the fridge, Jongin's sneaky glances across the room, Jongin's flat jokes, Jongin's laughter, Jongin's eye-smile, Jongin bolting down a street, Jongin crying, Jongin hunched over, praying for a lost cause, Jongin waiting for him to fall asleep, Jongin kissing his forehead, Jongin snuggling up against him, Jongin calling his name, Jongin, in love, Jongin, all of him--was.