he says it’s because he’s too lazy for the upkeep as he walks through the salon door. in his mind, of course, and he’s far lost in his thoughts as the stylist ushers him to his seat, no recollection of when she did the exact same less than three months prior. truthfully, wonwoo remembers little of their interaction, too, his focus on just about everything else. he thinks maybe they shared a little small talk, and if so, it’d explain why he hadn’t felt it important enough to regret forgetting.
it’s not a drastic change this time, just going back to his roots, but wonwoo chooses ( difficultly ) not to mention it to mingyu once again. the surprise is a gentle one, at least. he wonders if mingyu will end up missing the soft light caramel colour his hair had become over the last couple weeks, but he figures he’d miss wonwoo being comfortable more. he truly did really like the blonde, and the excuse of upkeep is a legitimate one, but recently, wonwoo had found himself craving some of his old comforts. he’s started looking in the mirror and wondering who the man staring back at him is and it’s kind of sad so it has to go, as pretty as it might be.
of course, it’s not his hair that’s making him feel so disconnected from himself— even for wonwoo, that’s ridiculous. between online classes and the pile of textbooks gathering on their dining table, he feels scared.
it’s not common that he does, at least not in general terms. he felt scared three days ago when he spotted a spider crawling around in the bath, but this is different — lingering. why is he scared? what is he scared of?
the winter air still bites at his skin as he walks. spring hasn’t quite started yet; not weather-wise, at least. it’s a little too cold for his liking when he doesn’t have the many layers necessary to keep him toasty warm, but as he nears the same empty shop as he had passed almost three months ago, it’s the least of his concerns.
unopened junk mail still litters the floor just inside the door, the entire building flooded with darkness. he still sees shelves living the walls, beanbags tucked into nooks and crannies and a tinny stereo playing piano tunes from the counter. it feels a little more real this time, mingyu’s excited smile one he’s genuinely seen on the older’s face for this particular dream of his, but it still makes his fingers tremble in the warmth of the inside of his pockets. it still makes his knees weak and his heart ache because even when it’s all within reach, getting closer even as he studies business, takes accounting classes, he still feels like it’s useless— that he’s selfish and there’s better things for mingyu to be doing with his life than making sacrifices for his own wants and desires. mingyu says he doesn’t mind, says he even loves the idea, but wonwoo doesn’t know. if mingyu’s so sure he loves it, why does wonwoo still feel so scared of talking about it with him? why does he still feel so selfish?
“I’m home, baby.” once again, mingyu’s already in the hall, having heard his keys jingle outside the door. “I’m back to normal.” he jokes, though it’s obvious his heart isn’t in it. “I didn’t look like me with blonde hair. I was too ‘bad boy’ when it’s obvious I’m destined to be ‘bookworm’.” tucking his nose into the older’s neck, he sighs contently. arms wrap around each other’s bodies’, mingyu’s fingers rubbing circles into his lower back. “I’m scared, gyu.” now or never.
he says it’s for mingyu when he walks through the salon door. in his mind, of course, and he’s far lost in his thoughts as the stylist ushers him to a chair. he’s almost silent for the entire time she works, makes no fuss, engages in lighthearted small talk despite the fact that he hates it more than anything else. ( not entirely true, but in the moment, it seems to be. )
truthfully, keeping the secret from him, despite its insignificance, is tougher than he expects. perhaps it’s that lack of importance that makes it so hard to bite his tongue, however. it flows so easily into general conversation that he almost slips up a few times, gives away that his extra hour or so of overtime that afternoon isn’t actually overtime, because he’s so used to telling mingyu everything. from the tiniest details of his work day to how endlessly tired he is, dry lips can’t keep any of it in. he remembers the times when he could barely touch the older without worrying he was crossing the unstated boundaries of their friendship; now it seems wonwoo has forgotten the meaning of the word.
( he snickers at the notion at the wrong time, the stylist asking him an innocent question and he stumbles over the unfamiliar word of apology in a desperate attempt to ensure she doesn’t ‘accidentally’ dye his hair green or orange. )
admittedly, getting the job done at a salon is far more expensive than wonwoo should really be spending this close to christmas ( and their anniversary ), but he wants it done right and he doesn’t trust ( nor want ) anyone near his hair besides his boyfriend, and it’ll be hard to surprise him with the change when he’s the one that did it. he thinks of the older’s reaction as he observes the final result in the mirror, the stylist asking him if he’s happy with it, a mirror positioned for him to see the back. it’s the tidiest it’s been in months, but he has a feeling that won’t last long.
the wind seeps through his coat on the walk home and it’s moments like this that he has his rare considerations of learning to drive. it’s not on his list of things to do and likely never will be ( he’s not sure he’s the best person to introduce to road rage ) but when the bitter air bites at his skin, it’s hard not to wish he had some form of transportation besides the legs god gifted him with ( which are, in all honestly, not the strongest or most durable ). he contemplates getting a tea from a cafe he passes and the taste of betrayal only stains his tongue for a moment because all thoughts of warmth are gone as he notices the ‘for sale’ sign on the empty store lot next to it.
he stands before the small building for a moment, stares through the front window into the dark room. unread junk mail litters the floor around the door and dark shadows cast over the room but he doesn’t see any of it. he sees tall shelves lined with books, beanbags tucked into nooks and crannies, hears a calming piano melody playing over tinny speakers and mirrors a proud, fond smile on mingyu’s gentle features. he sighs, pursing his lips and clutching the strap of his backpack tighter. he adjusts it on his right shoulder as he turns to leave, thoughts and dreams heavy in his mind. maybe he’ll talk to mingyu about it. maybe.
( he makes any excuse for himself, that the time isn’t right, it’s too stressful for drastic change this time of year, and bites on his bottom lip so hard that by the time he gets home, key in the door, it’s bleeding just a little and he wipes it away in one clean lick before he pushes the door shut behind him with his heel. )
“I’m home, baby.” he calls out, but it’s pointless because mingyu’s already in the hall the minute his keys had jingled outside the apartment. “surprise! this is your anniversary present.” he jokes, a soft giggle escaping his lips that fades out a few seconds later. “I’m kidding, of course. mostly. I hope you like it.”
Life isn’t simple. It never actually turns out the way you’d think. I know, because so many things have changed throughout my journey. When I was little, I never expected things to fall apart. I thought that I would grow up with a mother (and a father), and I thought that I would live a normal life. Although, who can really be completely sure what normality is? Hell if I know. Hell if I ever knew. I’m not convinced anyone does, because, everything, every situation, every person, is different. I do know that most people would not classify being in a gang as “normal” and yet, it’s all that I know, as well as many others I’m surrounded by. Being normal is subjective. But, here’s the thing, I didn’t start writing this to get philosophical and to explain my view on the world, and what I think should be perceived as regular and what shouldn’t. When I started writing, it was simply because of one thing — one person, I mean. Who knew that Kim Mingyu, Ghost, an emotionally constipated hitman for an infamous gang, would ever find love? First of all, who ever thought that I’d live this long, right? I almost didn’t, and yet… here I am. Life… who can predict it? I want to say that I wish I could, but that would be a lie because it’s much more exciting as I’m living it and being surprised with things that I never could have imagined. I was driving down a road once, and it looked like it went on and on. Almost like it would never stop. However, as I kept traveling on, it looked like it was going to cut off; that it was a dead end. It wasn’t until I was right at the point that I thought it ended that I noticed the turn. That’s kind of how my life went. And then, that turn took me somewhere I never thought I’d go, and it was the most beautiful place I’ve ever been. It made me so thankful that it existed, and so glad that the dead end was just an illusion. A few months ago, my smiles were forced, and I hated my life and all that I was. Today? I look forward to what tomorrow will bring. I find myself anticipating dates and events that I once hated. I’ve been given purpose. More purpose, that is. I thought that I had it before, but back then, there was an expiration date attached. I thought that everything I lived for until that point was no longer valid, and I thought that my misery outweighed my potential. Things get heavy, too heavy, sometimes, but I’m so glad I had someone to throw me a life raft when I was drowning. I’ll never be able to express just how thankful I am for my savior. I couldn’t have made it this far alone, and I wouldn’t have, so I’m grateful that I wasn’t. Maybe I was just too hopeless, but I used to believe that I would never actually maintain true blissful happiness. I thought that I wasn’t worthy, kind of. I thought I didn’t have time for it. Thank you for entering my life. Thank you for loving me as much as you do. Thank you for finding me beautiful. Thank you for everything. Thank you for the soft touches, warm moments. Thank you for the gentle kisses. Thank you for taking care of me when I couldn’t care for myself. Thank you for your sacrifices. Along with that, thank you for sometimes being selfish. Thank you for wanting to hug a little longer, and stay in bed those extra hours. Thank you for never truly making me feel like an idiot. Except, you know, for when I am one and you wouldn’t be you if you didn’t call me out. Just thank you for being exactly who you are, and allowing me to know you. Thank you for this last month, and thank you for the months that are to come, from now until the end of time. I love you, Jeon Wonwoo. I love you more than I’ve loved anyone or anything. You are my lifeline and the best soulmate I could’ve asked for. You keep me going, so thank you.
- Gyu
“Kim Mingyu,” It’s silent in their apartment besides the soft sniffles of the younger hitman, a sound that used to be so rare from the shorter. He’s not exactly a crybaby nowadays, but a long period of emotional instability has left him sensitive, and his current feelings being a mixture of uncontrollable joy and happiness don’t help his case either. For a man who claimed to feel nothing but obnoxious pride for years, he feels an awful lot of everything else lately. “I can’t believe you— made me fucking cry— I’m so fucking ugly when I cry—” He barely gives Mingyu a chance to protest before he haphazardly headbutts his way to nuzzling his nose into the older’s neck, watery eyes squeezed tight against warm skin. It does very little to stop the flow (nothing at all, truly), and it’s not long before he’s tucking his arms around his waist, refusing to part enough for Mingyu to lay eyes on the mess he’s made of him. “I—” A hiccup stops him in his tracks, and a whine and a giggle distract him immediately after. He gets back to it, though, once he’s satisfied with the complaints he’s made, mumbled against Mingyu’s neck. “I know that…” He trails off, biting his bottom lip and giving in so quickly, as he comes out of hiding and takes Mingyu’s cheeks in shaky hands.
“I know that the last few months have been hard for you, and I know that life doesn’t always work out the way we expect it to. I know that you’ve been dealt some really shitty cards, and I hate that— I want everything for you, Kim Mingyu. You deserve the world, and yet— life was fucking cruel, but— Everything happens for a reason. At least— that’s what I believe.” He sucks in a deep breath, wipes his cheeks one at a time, before curling his fingers around the back of his neck when he moves his hands back, stroking the older’s jawline with his thumbs. “I believe that we were fated to meet, and meant to be together from the day each of us were born. I believe that this— this was what I was made for. Loving and supporting you is what I was meant to do, and loving and supporting me is what you were put on this God forsaken planet for, too. Not entirely here just to worship me, though I could see why you would, but… mostly for me, at least. You have plenty of incredible things in your future, Kim Mingyu, and I’m so happy to be one of them.”
He breathes out, uneven and ragged, eyes on the floor for a moment as he wills back more tears threatening to spill over. What a mess. What a mess that Mingyu loves, he thinks, and he can’t help but smile. “You’re welcome, Kim Mingyu. Thank you for always putting me first, for making sure I’ve eaten and gotten enough rest, for checking I got home safe even though I’ve killed more people than you have and can clearly handle myself,” he scoffs, then chuckles, “Thank you for making bad days go away with cuddles and compliments. Thank you for never giving up on yourself. Thank you for never giving up on me either. But… not thank you for making me cry— Fuck you, Kim Mingyu.” He laughs, though it only makes his following sobs louder as he crashes back into the older’s chest, arms tucked in and body held tight by strong hands. “I love you, too. I love you so much. Happy one month, Gyu; here’s to all the months to come. Here’s to forever.” Sealed with a kiss.
it’s left discreetly in your belongings. it doesn’t look out of place, in fact, it looks like it belongs there. you don’t notice it’s being falling out of your belongings until you reach for the said item. the tarot card falls like wicked grace on a mine field; scattered and beautiful. it’s a copper coloured card with a monochrome twist, the words ‘justice’ and a picture of lady justice herself is decorated upside down on the card.
on the back of it is a symbol. not one you recognise yet. but one you soon will. the symbol consists of a geometric scorpion with astral points connecting the dots. in faint kanji the words ‘scorpion’ had been written. it means nothing.. for now.
once the card is lifted up into the light, you can see a faint text. on further analysis, you realise that holographic ink decorates the card. the ink fades after sixty seconds, but you manage to read the words that had formerly faded.
“it’s not time for you yet. refine your skill further. we’ll be visiting you soon, but for now we will monitor you from afar.”
albeit the context, you understand this is an invasion. not something that you can analyse for now, but whatever you do with this card is solely up to you. the message, however, is something that burns deeply in your mind. paper can be thrown, sentiment cannot.
( tw !! death/murder mention )
honestly, when wonwoo first feels something out of the ordinary tucked into his pocket, he assumes very little of it. having sat in a shady bar for most of the night, scoping out a target before going in (literally) for the kill, he’s not surprised to feel a little slip of card in his (or not his, technically) leather jacket pocket. he’s proud to admit his mysterious good looks have gotten him a few business cards and scribbled phone numbers in the past, though he only ever throws them away on the way home, or reuses them in the future (he’s scribbled many a suitor’s number on the door of a bathroom stall, or passed them onto new strangers in new bars).
thus, when his fingers trace the edges when he dips into his pocket casually as he watches the man before him wither away, whimpering, he assumes it’s simply a business card to some sleazy club, or a business man or woman looking for attractive eye candy, or something ridiculous that makes wonwoo want to hurl. it’s not until he’s on his way back to his second home, that he finally pulls it from his pocket and inspects it before he decides what to do with it.
it’s a soft copper colour, art decorating both sides. he’s immediately aware this is not a business card, or a number scribbled on the corner of a receipt — of course, that doesn’t mean he does know what it is, but process of elimination will get him to some kind of conclusion eventually. truthfully, it feels like a very vague, and unnecessary threat. it feels like when someone comes to your door trying to sell you something, and won’t go away when when you say no, and shoves their foot in the door when you close it, proclaiming their product or service will ‘change your life!’. and people wonder why wonwoo never answers the door. (that’s a lie; it’s because he’s far too lazy to walk the distance.)
anyway— it’s pretty, sure, and it’s weird, but what puzzles him are the words. only visible when he tilts it around under the lamp post to see it more clearly; ‘refine your skill further’, ‘we will monitor you from afar’. was this a direct message? it couldn’t be. jeon wonwoo was the best in his field; there’s no way he wasn’t good enough for whatever this shit meant. even so, wasn’t it all a little... childish? petty? why was he being passed notes in class again? he’s twenty fucking years old. an (almost) fully fledged adult. he wasn’t about to spend more than a couple minutes pondering on a little piece of card left in his pocket, potentially by any kim, lee or park. for all he knows, it could be nothing more than an attempt to mess with him by a brave prankster. it could even have always been there, before he even put the jacket on.
whatever it was, wonwoo didn’t pay much attention to it before he lost interest. right now, freshening up and curling up in bed into familiar warmth was far more important than some dumb card and ‘what if’s.
therefore, when he does finally kick the door shut behind him, he tucks it into his jeans pocket instead, as he throws the jacket down onto the nearest surface, sighing out the tension in his body. he cleans, changes, stretches, and finally, yawns at the figure on the sofa, pointedly looking between him and the bedroom door. he’s tired, but he sleeps so much better with company, so join me, he asks wordlessly, and I’m coming is replied, in the welcoming silence of the apartment.
that night, he sleeps contently, having already almost entirely forgotten the cards existence.
