if i pay you, will you kill me?
even out here, in the backyard among the static of idle chatter, the bass is obnoxiously loud. inside the house, someone screams and more are quick to follow. soon, it’s like the whole city is shaking from the excitement, ready to drive a rift through the center of the planet, but none of it reaches kyungsoo. this isn’t his kind of scene. he’d much rather spend the night cooped up in his flat, nose-deep in textbooks or up to his elbows in flour and sugar. he wishes the plastic cup in his hand were a tea mug, giving off warmth that spreads from his fingers to his lungs. instead, he’s barely taken two sips of something he’s forgotten the name of; all he knows is that it’s bitter and does nothing to ward off the mid-winter.
there’s shuffling behind him, heavy footfalls and the clatter of sliding glass doors. something like silence fills the space, but only for a moment, because an easy “hey” makes his stomach flip. kyungsoo shouldn’t be surprised, and he tries not to let it show by keeping his gaze on the drink in his hands. the owner of the voice settles on the porch beside him. unlike kyungsoo, his feet actually touch the ground, and he houses a heat that speaks of just how long he’s been inside. it isn’t entirely unwelcome.
somehow, they start talking. chanyeol carries most of the conversation because kyungsoo has always been poor with words, but chanyeol knows how to ask the right questions, how to make the right comments. they talk about how kyungsoo’s classes are going, how he’s thinking of finding a place closer to campus so he doesn’t have to wake up at five to make it to his eight a.m. lectures. it would be nice to sleep in for once, to wake up to the sun pouring in through the window instead of having to watch it inch up the horizon. their conversation is so ordinary, so quaint, that it feels like whiplash when chanyeol poses a different question.
“if i pay you, will you kill me?”
for the first time that evening, kyungsoo turns to look at him. a myriad of emotions flashes across kyungsoo’s face—confusion, annoyance, concern, dread—but words evade him. they’ve run into each other more than expected since kyungsoo decidedly separated himself from the less than legal business, and somehow this always happens. it isn’t always out of the blue like tonight, but one way or another chanyeol will say something that brings them back to years ago. something’s different about this time, though, and kyungsoo is just about to ask if chanyeol’s run into trouble when the sliding doors sweep open and a voice asks, “soo, you out here?”
they hold each other’s gazes for several beats too long, too many questions left unspoken and yet more unanswered, but kyungsoo is the one who looks away first. leaning back far enough to be seen, he turns to his friend in the doorway with a nervous smile and says, “yeah, i’m here.” a moment of silence passes as kyungsoo’s friend glances at chanyeol, but his tone is playful when he suggests they head home. apparently the party’s gotten boring, and kyungsoo can’t disagree. nodding, kyungsoo leaves his drink on the porch and stands, eyes finding chanyeol’s once more. they may have chosen different paths, but he’ll still be there for chanyeol. kyungsoo hopes he knows that.
for the second time, kyungsoo is the one who breaks eye contact, and he sports a grin when he rejoins his friend, nudging them with an elbow and laughing out an “all right, let’s go.”
not even one week passes before the universe arranges for their paths to cross again. this time, kyungsoo has no choice but to listen to his shaky breaths, hands nearly numb where they’re bound with zipties behind his back. there’s a gun digging firmly into his temple, but it hardly hurts as much as what he suspects to be a broken ankle. they must have given him something while he was out, because everything feels so heavy and he can barely sit straight in the chair that his captors so graciously gave him. otherwise, he would have taken care of these thugs before they could even consider using his phone to contact chanyeol. fuck. he has to do something, but what?
