Archive of Our Own

Wonwoo exhaled sharply in frustration as the clip of the thin necklace slipped out of his fingers again. Teeth digging into his lower lip, his hasty, slender digits picked up the jewelry again, painful redness visible around the fingernails. His eyes remained fixated on the gold while his knees bumped into the person it adored. Subconsciously, he had gradually inched towards the face in front of him—still out cold, the warmth of the body distracting. Through his work, he ignored that sharp jawline his fingers worked in front of, the long eyelashes shut, and hints of peach eye shadow long applied. Transfixed by the task at hand, by the scent of soft white flower intruding his senses, he clawed at the minuscule clip as if it was a lighter out of flint until one of his too-shortly clipped nails hooked itself into it sending a bolt of pain through his hand. The tiny thing dug itself stubbornly under his nail and freed the necklace from the loop. 

An audible shudder broke past his lips. The body on the floor stirred, sending the metal of the handcuffs clanging against the radiator. 

At the sudden sound, the bright eyes shot open, shaking in panic.

The priority of the mission was for it to be quick, clean, and painless for all involved… if Chan allowed it. For Wonwoo, it signaled this as an opportunity to conserve energy and store it for when the difficulty got bumped up. 

Comfort and luxury, like breadcrumbs, lead him to Chan. Wonwoo couldn’t fault him, having been integrated into him over the years. The behavior was more instinctual than predictable. A room at the Ritz and a target made out of gold, and bonds. Instead of trailing Chan around Montreal for days laying in wait ready to pounce, Wonwoo booked the room next to Chan's and arrived that morning. He allowed himself three hours of sleep (two he had planned, the comfort of silk sheets and a horizontal surface after hours on a plane tricked him into that one extra) and waited for Chan to leave for some party, function, outing, a masquerade. 

Having monitored Chan closely prior to his arrival, Wonwoo quickly put two and two together: Chan’s setup was a standard case of getting into an affluent, but shady guy’s good graces with sly touches until his dainty hands could unassumingly reach far enough into the pockets of the target.

He made quick work of sweeping Chan's room for bugs, cameras, wires, anything pointing to a person on the other end looking out for him.

Nothing.

It wasn’t his first rodeo though.

That was why he was shaking him down, under the assumption that it must be on his person as an in-ear or camouflaged as a pearl bead. 

While Wonwoo's target was out there, working on his own target, faux shily covering his smiles and coordinating accidental hand brushes, Wonwoo packed a duffle bag and waited, eyes glued to the door. 

Chan pried the door to his room open at 01:57 a.m. He was unconscious in Wonwoo's arms by 02:00 a.m. sharp, and the countdown in Wonwoo's head started. 

He had listened for the footsteps, ass numb having sat planted for hours, and carefully positioned himself right in front of the door, the small tranquilizing gun heavy in his hand, weighing where to aim. He fired the shot without a thought. A human tripwire activated by the door opening. As the bullet, intended to maim, collided with Chan, a panicked look that morphed into something softer pierced Wonwoo in return.

He pushed the look to the cortexes of his brain that were to not be touched and worked fast on cuffing Chan to a radiator, ignoring the familiarity of Chan’s wrists in his hand. He shifted to rummaging through his pockets, clinging to the thought that someone out there was looking out for Chan, fruitlessly searching for a wire.

Nothing. Again.

Wonwoo clicked his tongue. There were years of training and practice, and warnings sewn into them, so all logic stated there had to be a wire. Lastly, there was… well, weren’t they all each other’s life at one point? How much could have really and truly changed in a year? Had they let Chan, of all people, drift away to goddamn Canada for some chump change to get himself pinged the moment he landed? Since the cameras first spotted him at the airport, a small voice wouldn’t leave Wonwoo alone. Insisting that he wasn’t seeing the full picture.

When he had Chan cuffed, his eyes frantically scanned the room. He yanked a fruit bowl off the table, dumping everything out of it in the process, filled it with water, and got to work. 

"Annoying," Chan mumbled groggily, this time pointedly yanking the cuffs. Wonwoo, unphased, worked tentatively on getting a dangly earring out when Chan shook his head, squirming away. 

The bump in difficulty begins , Wonwoo thought, swallowing the urge to dignify him with a sigh. Firmly, he grabbed Chan by the chin, fixing him in place, face to face with glimmers of anger. He thumbed the earring and dropped it into the bowl. A whole personality floated in it, a mirrorball on the floor, countless pieces in full shine. 

"What the fuck," Chan barked, "is that my phone?!” Wonwoo wiped his hands on his jeans.

Everything he found on Chan he submerged in that bowl. Phone included.

"Where are your comms?" He demanded.

"No one to communicate with," Chan said flatly.

The confirmation of Wonwoo’s suspicion did nothing to settle his apprehensions. He bit back his criticisms and dropped the most mundane clothing he found in Chan's closet in front of his feet. "You need to change," he saw Chan lunge to open his mouth, "I will uncuff you," he held up the small keys in one hand, "but, you have to behave," Wonwoo warned, taking the gun out of his belt with his free hand.

He had the silence of the gun pressed to the curve of his back prodding that metal into the flesh over the bunched-up fine fabric. There he recalled earlier in the day, his head leaned against the headboard of the comfortable bed, how he listened to Chan get ready on the other side of the barrier. 

Mindlessly he fidgeted with the same gun in his hand. All the ammunition he had he had then neatly laid out beside his thigh. He listened for the undistinguishable hum, something catchy that wormed itself into Chan's mind. Last time he saw Chan his hair was blond, rough. 

Today, it had been styled purposefully ruffled, a soft chestnut color, kept a few inches too long. I would be soft to the touch. Chan's target liked soft things. Wonwoo's grip on the gun tightened, eyes burning at the back of Chan's skull.

Beforehand, he reasoned with himself: for his mission to go well, he had to familiarize himself with Chan's own. Military service evasion, the guy couldn't step foot on South Korean soil ever again, yet he fully believed he had impressed Chan with a few wads of Canadian dollars of all things. 

"Is this your idea of foreplay now?" Wonwoo could hear the cocksure smile in Chan's question as pieces of clothing were peeled off. "What did they threaten you with to agree to this?" Chan prodded, fingers quickly working the buttons of his flowy shirt. "Or do you just cower to them?" Wonwoos's eyes never faltered. The tad bit tacky painting decorating the room—a poor attempt at making it more sophisticated—held Wonwoos's attention, even when all his peripherals were milky skin.

The cuffs slipped back on as quickly as they came off, inconspicuously hidden away by the long sleeve of the hoodie Chan got himself into, "Get going, we have hours on the road ahead." Wonwoo instructed him, and instead of the door, Chan first bolted to the bowl and fished his watch out of it. 

It was the one from the Zhuazhou ritual… or what started as the ritual. Only the same, Over the years, they morphed it into an event unique to them. Except for them, instead of celebrating a child's first birthday, it was the nineteenth. And instead of determining the future according to which item they chose, it devolved into an organized criminal activity conducted for entertainment purposes. A solo, no in-ear hit, where a target was one of those Seoul chaebols loaded with useless things. It wasn't real per se, since it was child's play, but it was the biggest badge of honor.

The rules were as follows: you must steal. When it’s all said and done, it doesn’t matter what you steal (but it should be something fun). It can be as big or as small as you want, but you have to keep it in plain sight, you can't use any tools, and if you want a safe opened, you must crack it yourself.

Initially, what you chose was meant to speak for your role. That bit of the idea was soon dropped when “being good at something” didn’t translate into the person necessarily enjoying doing the said thing. (Case and point Jihoon, who could physically overpower the majority of them, but stuck with being their computer guy). 

With time, they got innovative with their rituals. Their technology improved. When Wonwoo had done it they still hadn't figured out how to hack into cameras to follow the hit. By the time it was Chan's turn, they had made it into an event with a betting pool of what would be chosen, and the timeframe. 

And people got creative. 

Jihoon was the first one to truly deviate from the rest. Ignoring the stale choice of jewelry, bonds, and gold, he came out of his with a flash drive full of names. A contact list that secured what would be their next hits for years and the banking accounts to finance them. During Soonyoung’s hit, while playing around, he accidentally discovered a cane that had a sword hidden inside it. It was confiscated from him two weeks later when he almost landed Seokmin in the hospital. Mingyu was the closest they got to having to intervene. He was the reason the 'No more stealing pets' policy was implemented. In his defense, the puppy went out of its way to make Mingyu’s job difficult.

For Chan's, they were all crowded around a large TV screen with jokes flying around about how Chan would be the first one to somehow get the cops called on him. Then suggestions of them being the ones to call the cops and the laughter that broke with it. It died down with the dawning realization that it was the last time they would have the opportunity to enjoy an event they had cherished for years but seemingly never enough. Alcohol was the most popular bet for Chan, then bonds. Jeonghan fiercely pushed for it, walking around with an air of conviction that Chan would follow in his footsteps.

Yet, Chan came out with an F. P. Journe watch—Tourbillon Souverain—it had a black, soft, leather band and half-exposed skeleton. There were only a few specimens in the world. On his wrist, it fit as if it had been waiting for him. Wonwoo knew, as one same adored his hand.

Just for most to groan, call him boring, and fuss over the last ritual not having a flashy ending. Someone offered to call the cops on him while Seungcheol showered him with kisses for securing his victory in the pool, the only one to bet on a watch. 

Wonwoo remembered at the time amidst the chaos, looking down at his clasped hands with a shy smile, his own F. P. Journe watch there.  

The imaginary countdown in his head ticked down, insisting they were on schedule. 

"You should go to sleep we—"

"I need to stay awake to keep track of all the exits we take," Chan cut him off, "so I can find my way back after I make a run for it." His knees were tucked under his chin in the passenger seat, the hood over his head obstructing a good part of his face. He sounded almost bored. He wasn't trying to provoke an argument, Wonwoo realized, he was recalling his training.

Wonwoo's hand gripped the steering wheel tighter. He rolled his shoulders back into the seat. Selective memory of the training landed Chan in the situation at present, but Wonwoo wasn't about to point that out.

Weeks prior, he poured over maps of Canada, memorizing exits, studying alternative routes. It was not as if keeping Chan in the dark was not one of several tactics that they discussed, then subsequently agreed upon. It was the only one they green-lit, and the moment it got compromised Wonwoo knew, the faint, ticking countdown in his mind would become one of a bomb, primed to take everything out in its vicinity. To protect himself from the shell shock, he had to play it safe, but contrastingly play it by ear. That demanded not using a GPS or motorways (dinky roads had fewer road signs). Radio was also out of the question since they did traffic control news and weather reports. If he allowed himself to think of it as a road trip, then it had a vintage, hipster vibe about it. Like something he would see scrolling social media and scoff at people unnecessarily making their life difficult to experience ‘the good old days’ or some bullshit. To Wonwoo, there was nothing about it to romanticize, it was tedious, but it bought whole minutes. The finite currency Wonwoo notoriously was poor at managing was now the only thing he dealt in.

"Are you wired?" Chan echoed the question from earlier, looking up through the messy fringe obstructing his view. He inched closer out of the passenger seat, shifting his body towards Wonwoo. The hands bound with metal found a place on Wonwoo’s chest, causing the muscles underneath to tense. Purposeful touches explored his skin, fingers slipping lower down the abdomen. 

On Wonwoo's ribcage, Chan traced a finger over the curved bones. He drew a clear circle waiting for an answer.

Wonwoo remained unmoved, eyes scanning for potholes ahead, ignoring the phantom burn of the fingertips over the fabric.

On the same spot, Chan then silently drew an X, looking at Wonwoo, searching. The fingertips pressed into Wonwoo for a second too long, refusing to take the answer he was given.

A guttural yell of frustration broke out of Chan's throat as he thrashed back into the seat, head harshly slamming into the headrest.

"You got sloppy." Wonwoo fanned the flames. 

Covering his mouth in an attempt to cover up his smirk, Chan's laugh escaped him, inappropriate and bubbly. "Something, something," he said, in a sing-songy voice, "rocks and glass houses."

“Don’t compare your incompetence to my adversity.” Wonwoo bit back, jaw tight. The spite that he had self-deceptively tamed rattled in its cage. It was as if he had been hit with a dialogue option that he thought wasn’t possible at this level, and instead of walking away from it until he gained more experience, he decided to take it head-on, leaving himself open to fatal blows.

“Did it ever cross your mind,” Chan drew his words out, purring, “that maybe , I just wanted to spend time with you?”

Chan disregarded what they had always practiced. Chan prancing around in full view of CCTV. The lack of wire. The lack of weapons in the room.

Wonwoo realized what he had missed was that sadly, perhaps, he had simply overestimated him.

Wonwoo let the question dissolve in the air. For the first time fully aware he was trapped with Chan in the vehicle just the same as Chan was with him.

The cuffed hands, pressed together, reached towards the radio, and Wonwoo swatted him away with one quick move.

“You don’t want to talk to me, you won’t let me listen to the radio,” Chan complained, “you must be at the top of the class in Torture Methods 101.”

“If your escape plan is to annoy me to death, you have to try harder.”  

Besides him, Chan chuckled, light, sudden, real—if Wonwoo had the capacity to recognize authenticity anymore—as if caught off guard by the familiarity of the banter. It seeped into Wonwoo, the vines of the past coiling around him. 

"Do you think they trust you?" Like an agitated snake, Chan jumped again. 

"No," Wonwoo had never even entertained the possibility. "Trust isn't a concept grounded in reality in this line of business." 

“What is the plan then? They make me a compliant government lapdog that, every once in a while, gets let out of a cage if he is a really, really good boy?”

Wonwoo nodded, tapping his fingers on the wheel, wasn’t too far off from the truth, “Sometimes they even give you a treat.”

“Is that what I am?”

There it was again, an attempt, a long-lost sensation resuscitated in Wonwoo’s bones.

“You’re a name on a list to the South Korean government,” Wonwoo said matter of fact. “You operated within a criminal organization for years and were engaged in a number of high-level thefts,” the familiar script left his mouth sandpapery, “and the only reason why you’re not returning in a box is because you are a potential asset, if,” he emphasized, “you behave.”

Jeon Wonwoo was assigned to deliver Lee Chan to the South Korean government. With charges brought up against him ranging from multiple counts of theft, forgery, and conspiracy, to aiding, and abetting murder. The fugitive was to be brought in alive for a trial with an offer of a plea deal in cooperation with the government. Permission to use excessive force. Permission to shoot.

In case of a successful operation, Jeon Wonwoo's sentence was to be reduced by two years.

That was what the official documents stated. There was a small, nevertheless fully dedicated, department assigned to only studying the people Wonwoo once fit in with like a puzzle piece. He thought, bemused, of how offended they would be if they knew how small the team working on finding the twelve of them was.

And Wonwoo played an integral part in it.

If a “part" was defined as a tool for specialized use, to be discarded once there was no need for him.

The people he worked for—working with would imply they treated him as an equal (which contractually he was)—never invited him for after-work drinks or asked about what he did for Chuseok, not that Wonwoo lost sleep over that. Even when he had worked with people whose company he wholeheartedly enjoyed, he still spent most of his time in seclusion. Still, these uptight, holier-than-thou assholes never engaged him in dreadful chit-chat about the weather or the new name badges they got. The criminal spreadsheet most definitely defined him in their eyes, but despite what they believed, a lack of human decency wasn't on it. Consequently, Wonwoo confined himself to the cubicle with his name on it and clocked in and out every day with polite greetings and reserved smiles. Passing the time until he got picked up out of the tool shed. 

The day Chan's location was confirmed, Wonwoo white knocked through the meeting, reminiscent of the days spent in a cell where he was worn down bit by bit. Deprived of the natural light, without a clock in the cold room, they distilled the torture to those components. Stop him from feeling like a person, and he will stop behaving like one. 

Wonwoo checked the rearview mirror to see nothing save  the bumpy road swallowed by the darkness. Nothing except acres of uniformly shaped forest on each side.

Information.

He recalled how, at the time, even the most trivial matters earned him bruises.

In the meeting, Wonwoo spoke, voice thick, about the social engineer whose first nature was loyalty and second self-preservation. How fucking contradictory. Stoic faces absorbed each premeditated word that he had deliriously rehearsed. There had been a Chan-shaped box in his mind labeled: ‘Break this carefully crafted story in case of emergency’. Chan was just another member of his ex-crew. He couldn’t recall any significant physical weaknesses. He gravitated towards single, male targets. He was the youngest. They weren’t that close.

The mission was handed to him without pushback with the conditions laid out. He had to sign them and spent a generous amount of time reading the fine print, wary of traps.

Even though he had expected the answer, he couldn’t help, but breathe in relief once he was out of their sight. They had invested too much into him not to use him. At times, reluctantly, they awarded him more freedom for the intelligence he would bring in. And, despite the moment of triumph, a pit opened at the bottom of his stomach. The dawning realization settled: he had to bring Chan in. 

The reasons for his assignment were countless. Chiefly, it was his information, combined with a few seconds of footage they had of Chan that the profilers devoted themselves to. According to them: Chan ranked the highest in value correlating to estimated ease of acquisition. An easy target in the simplest of terms. The idea was that the rest would crawl out of their holes to protect him, exposing themselves in the process.

If Wonwoo was the gun they could point at anything in their way, Chan would soon be the bullet that would rip through the list of their most wanted.

Out of the corner of his eye, Wonwoo recognized the look on Chan’s face. The same one that he sported when he would stand in front of a mirror, weighing if one earring or two complimented an outfit better. Or when he contemplated firing a gun. In the time lost, when Wonwoo’s soul still hadn’t understood Chan’s, he would get frustrated at how Chan refused to appropriately weigh the decisions he’d make. Even if poorly thought out, he always had plans spinning like thread in his head. It served as a reminder to Wonwoo of who was sitting next to him, deceivingly small in a hoodie one size too large.

But the scale of decisions was always at work.

In that not-so-in-fact distant past, he knew Lee Chan.

When Chan attacked with words, it left a mark on the target. It was precisely why Wonwoo had to keep his answers short and diplomatic. What to one might be an unconscious choice of words, to Chan would present itself as an opportunity for the vulture that nested inside of him to peck at until all of Wonwoo was open and bleeding. And by Chan’s own accord, it left a mark on him too. He mentioned how the foul things that would roll off his tongue to further his goal, would stay in the back of his mind until he told himself enough times that it came with the job description.

In a one-on-one fight, any day of the week, Wonwoo had the upper hand.

He had trained longer, physically he was bigger, stronger, and of a wider breadth. He was the one who had taught Chan how to block a move, how to gain on someone. And he knew the battles Chan would engage in would not be fought on Wonwoo’s terrain.

A long time ago, Wonwoo had dabbled in books, of all kinds. He read a lot. For fun, out of boredom, and begrudgingly it was also out of hope that he would improve, in the whole ‘social engineering’. Then he turned around in realization that none of the people who were exceptional at what he was trying to improve in ever consumed anything more than an occasional Manga issue or the back of a ramen packaging.

So Wonwoo stuck to the metal and the blood spatter it left behind. His quiet understanding of human nature poorly translated to gaining something out of it.

“Toilet,” Chan broke the silence at 6:47 a.m. By that point, he had been awake for an hour, sat in silence as Wonwoo wrestled with himself in the simmering discomfort. Physical and emotional. They had run out of somewhat adequate backroad like Wonwoo knew they would. But he counted on Chan not having suddenly, in the past year, accumulated knowledge of small Canadian towns.

Chan was supposed to be kept in the dark, but there were crucial items he was to be briefed on to… ease the process. They figured, after the catastrophes with Wonwoo and Jisoo, that perhaps kidnapping, bodily harm, and colorful torture methods were not the most efficient in creating government loyalists.

The dawn hadn’t yet broken over the permanently snowy, lonely peaks when Wonwoo pulled up to the first gas station they came across and killed the engine. Instead of unlocking the door, he took Chan’s wrists in his hand, pretending not to notice how his hand dwarfed the other’s, and felt him tense up at the sudden ouch. He cradled the wrists, brought them closer together, and with a soft click, slipped the handcuffs off. A thumb caressed the reddened skin.

A nonverbal apology.

Chan pulled back and jumped out of the car.

It was as much as Wonwoo could give, and even at that, his eyes prickled.

Wonwoo followed suit, slamming the door with a bit too much force. 

The words wouldn’t break past his lips. It wasn’t that his handlers would hear and think him compromised. They would think it was a play and he should, by all means, apologize to get Chan to comply, or whatever it took to make him listen. Chan had once said, ‘If you have problems lying, take the road paved with half-truths for an easier life’. Except… he wasn’t the one who should be fucking apologizing.

Chan took one of the stalls, and Wonwoo stayed in front of the sink, gripping a surface that, under a UV light, would surely light up like New York City. He ran the cold water under his fingers, took his glasses off, and dragged his wet hands through his hair and down his face. The eyes he met in the mirror were sunken (trouble sleeping because of the mission), cheeks hollow (trouble eating become of the mission). He stretched, lifting his hands and raising to his tippy toes, and too many of his joints cracked. At some point in life, that once satisfying sensation became painful, and Wonwoo comforted himself that it was the consequence of his lifestyle and not the natural process of aging catching up to him. With the lack of a radio, Chan sleeping, pretending to sleep, Wonwoo dreaded the hours he was about to spend again on the road. Canadian pine barrens and merciless asphalt made for a sad company. There wasn’t a part of his body that didn’t scream for a break.

“This must be exciting for you,” Chan spoke nonchalantly, slotting himself next to Wonwoo, washing his hands, “being a guard dog is the most control you get these days.”

Their eyes met in the mirror, and Wonwoo was about to open his mouth at the wit's end with Chan’s sly remarks. As if it wasn’t technically, in large part, his fault why both of them were in the situation at present when something bounced and slid across the floor. Wonwoo’s eyes darted in the direction of the sound.

His glasses. Fuck. What a cartoon fucking move. An arm splashed with water pushed against his throat, knocking him back against the wall. It pressed at his larynx while another dug into his back, grabbing for the handle of the gun. The sleepish haze dispersed as his hand reacted ahead of his brain by grabbing a fist full of hair and yanking Chan’s head back. He felt metal under his chin and halted, the image blurry in front of him.

“There are five bullets in there. Try not to miss,” Wonwoo spat out. 

It’s like Chan had smelled vulnerability.

The are that was on his throat pushed harder, the force making him cough. Wonwoo tilted his head back and tried to blink the fuzziness out of his eyes. He took a deep breath through his nose, clenching his teeth. His conviction from hours ago that he knew Chan mockingly rang in his ears. His chest rose with frustration at himself for letting himself believe that Chan had remained the same. That he would opt out for dirty tricks of batting his pretty eyes at Wonwoo until his deprived heart dissolved in the sugary sweet acid that stung so familiarly. The vision blurred, now out of fury at how he had let himself be blinded by the visions of Chan working in the cubicle next to his. How Chan would be there, in Seoul, and no longer would Wonwoo’s days be spent in bleak quiet. The antagonism, in his mind, would last only a few weeks. It would melt over bitter drinks and greasy food. He had let himself imagine Chan during meetings sneakily imitating their boss, puncturing cracks in Wonwoo’s stoicism. Or how at lunch they’d share a space, not necessarily talk but simply eat and exist in proximity, both still occupied but together. Together. Fucking together. His hand gripped the soft hair tighter, causing Chan to tumble an inch backward. 

It was all Wonwoo needed to hook one of his legs to Chan's. Pulling him closer to his chest, and simultaneously sending him back. Risking the gun blowing his head off. The upper hand Chan had was just an unfortunate combination of a bone-tired, pitiful man allowing himself to hope.

Chan lost footing and met the dirty tiles. Hard. In the same swoop, Wonwoo grabbed the gun and slipped one of the handcuffs on Chan’s left hand.

“You hesitated,” Wonwoo gritted out.

“I had a shitty teacher,” Chan groaned, sprawled on the ground, always finding a way to twist the knife.

Wonwoo only had the fundamentals down. He was never supposed to… teach anyone. Yet, when Chan asked to spar together for the first time, he didn’t refuse him. Then Wonwoo never refused again when Chat asked. He learned that Chan was insatiable. What he lacked in practice, he made up for it in eagerness.

One time, after a particularly annoying hit and a consequent, equally annoying meeting, Chan was there to quench Wonwoo’s desire and to pour out the excess stress. He had improved, but rarely deviated from the moves Wonwoo had taught him. Sparring with Chan was not dissimilar to playing chess with Chan. A tapestry of book moves and mistakes. Wonwoo was breathless after Chan had accidentally hit his lower abdomen too hard. In return, he knocked Chan on his back and with one hand pinned Chan’s above his head. He framed Chan’s body with his, panting, and looked into his eyes. He wanted him to stop squirming and admit defeat. To learn when to conserve his energy, and what was worth fighting. To just… let Wonwoo take a shower and lie down for three days. Instead, Chan buckled his hips up into Wonwoo’s crotch and tangled both of his legs between one of Wonwoo’s. With his core strength, he pushed Wonwoo off to the side and held him there with a satisfactory smile. 

Wonwoo swallowed hard, taking in the liveliness of Chan's eyes—the boy an untamed beast bathing in the glory of a small victory—their limbs tangled together. Too close, too conscious of the warm body against his, he spoke roughly, “That was good.

Chan reeled at the praise.

No matter what setting he tried, the shower that day wouldn’t get as cold as Wonwoo needed. He stayed too long in an attempt to extinguish the furnace in him that would reignite with flashes of the phantom memory of Chan grinding against him. He bit into his arm as he palmed himself through an orgasm, images of Chan underneath him bringing him to release.

 ***

The memories collected over the years now felt like someone else’s. Was that really it? The memories that, like a beacon, kept his beaten soul from succumbing to pain would never reach their continuation. A splotch of sweetness in all their years wiped cleanly. Had they regressed again to the fate of tolerating each other?

Mindlessly, he pressed down on the gas pedal. He was physically aware of his glasses being slightly crooked. At least they hadn’t been broken. It made him grip the wheel harder.

“Hyung,” Chan called.

They had beaten him and kept him, and then they made him give his life away and give up everyone he had cared about just for nine hours a day to be locked to a desk surrounded by people who all thought they were above him. They never forgot that he was a convict and treated him as if he was cosplaying a stand-up, tax-paying citizen, and Wonwoo wished at least once a week he could put his fist into one of them. He was the one who was alone, and everything he did was… to almost get shot in a gas station bathroom in the middle of fucking nowhere because he had hoped that things might’ve changed. Or still might be the same. He didn’t know anymore which one it was.

“Hyung!” The yell made his eyes focus on the road. He slammed down on the break.

Wonwoo had dragged him out of that bathroom by the handcuffs and sped out of the parking in humiliation and anger and mostly just hoping that the one surveillance camera he spotted was broken.

“Hyung,” Chan started softly again. 

The realization that Chan hadn’t called him that until now hit him like a phantom, suicidal truck coming straight at them from the other direction. The road became fuzzy with watercolor, making Wonwoo pull the car to the side.

Everything was too reminiscent of the petulant antics of their youth. Chan’s imposed avoidance only this time hurt more. On Wonwoo’s skin every punishment had been laid, and Chan’s decided distance was the only one that drew blood. 

It wasn’t Wonwoo’s fault. This time , it wasn’t Wonwoo’s fault. He sighed, shaking. His lash line wet with tears. It wasn’t like he had a choice. 

They had three hours to go, and the last stretch made Wonwoo scrunch up his face. He just wanted to rest. He hadn't spoken in so long, yet his throat was strained, worn out by the noise in his head and the silence in the car. He closed his eyes, “Had it been someone else, they would’ve put a bullet in you.” Wonwoo realized as he said it, and his anger took a different shape. 

“You left,” Wonwoo sniffled instinctively and cleared his throat, eyes still cast down.

“Hyung–” Chan had barely started when Wonwoo cut him off with a chiding finger, “Had it been you in my stead–” Wonwoo’s tight vocal cords wouldn’t let him get to the following words. He swallowed the lump and stared ahead. It was pointless going over a what-if because Chan must know. So why waste words? “When you revealed your position,” his sternum hurt from the shallow breathing, “I had you pinged in hours. What were you thinking?” he pleaded with Chan, finally meeting his equally crystal gaze. If he had only been more patient or stayed hidden wherever he had been for the past year, Wonwoo wouldn’t have been sent after him. He wouldn’t have to join Wonwoo in signing the rights to his existence. Wonwoo could have continued living with memories of the months they had had. And hadn’t Wonwoo been terrified of even his shadow touching Chan’s, they could’ve had years. But he had waited for too heartbreakingly long. In the end, he had been granted a little over a hundred days with Chan before there was nothing but a white room and harsh light.

One day, while going through his files, he realized that he had spent more days in that room than he had calling Chan his. When he’d whimper, not knowing the time or day, he used to think and try and recall if he could still imagine the impossibly bright laughter. When he clawed at freedom, ready to talk, they wanted every bit of intimacy, and Wonwoo gave generously. He handed the information about the agency. All purple, swollen in face, he spoke brokenly of their past. The operating teams, Seungcheol’s injury, nothing was out-of-bounds. All of them be damned. Why didn’t they come if they didn’t want him talking? Why hadn’t they shown up when he had waited? “We all should've gotten caught. It might have knocked some sense in some of us.” He said flatly, “At least then everyone would be forced to face the reality.” He finished, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

But he never gave them those hundred days with Chan. He sheltered it pathetically, as you do with the last thing you have left. 

Some days when he would pass by a convenience store and hear a song playing that almost made him remember the laughter, he would wish he had never known those days. It would be easier. Not longing.

While the rest of the time, he replayed precious moments so often in his head that if they were film tape, they would have long worn out. 

Wonwoo turned and looked at him, Chan’s whole body faced him. He never wore a seatbelt, one leg on the floor, another flooded on the seat with him, and only traces of makeup remained on his face. He reminded Wonwoo of the Chan that existed in a time long gone, who would sheepishly crawl into bed next to him and breathe out the longest sigh as if every day he burdened the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

Wonwoo cleared his throat, rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger, “Why are you alone?”

Chan shrugged, fidgeting with the link between the cuffs, “There are twelve different answers to that question.”

Wonwoo’s heart ached at him still being counted.

“You take me in, and then what?” Chan asked. 

Good question. Panic, absolute body paralyzing terror, and a lot of meetings. “You get a contract, work your time, live a terrifyingly rigid life with almost every parameter controlled,” Wonwoo admitted, “but you take part in the society, go out without looking over your shoulder.” The silver lining.

“Do you get used to it?”

Wonwoo smiled at the question and shook his head in reply.

Both of them let out a sigh of different weight. The car engine hummed again, and Wonwoo tried to make up the distance, eager to let his worn-out bones find rest.

***

With a soft click of a dinky lock, Wonwoo pushed the door open and lightly shoved Chan inside first. He had a suspicion that strolling around with one of them in handcuffs raised some eyebrows, but it was not like that was the worst that a rundown motel in the middle of nowhere Chanda had seen.

The door clicked shut behind them, and Wonwoo hastily locked it pocketing the keys. It was getting annoying how many keys he had to keep track of. Chan strolled the small, predominantly brownish, space stuck at least fifty years in the past. He had his prim nose raised.

A cartoonish dust cloud formed around the duffle bag when Wonwoo dropped it on the floor. When he squatted to it his jeans so tightly hugged his thighs that the burn was almost comfortable. Sifting through the bag, he picked out pieces of clothing for both of them.

“There’s only one bed.”

He couldn’t find his toothbrush. “Hm?” Wonwoo mindlessly questioned without comprehending the words.

“There’s—” Wonwoo looked back to hear what Chan was saying.  

Oh .

The hours on the road—eyes slugging to keep focus and a brain in a tired battle against a complex thought—broke into his body.

It was then, a little over a year ago, where on the last mission with Chan, Wonwoo booked a room with a single bed. By then, they had been sleeping in a single bed for over a month. They moved too fast. Everyone’s timid questions were coated in care and clear concern. Advice was passed on with these awkward coughs and smiles, asking if they knew what they were doing. They knew. Thought, subconsciously, and perhaps misguidedly, they were trying to make up for the lost time. It made sense, though. Chan’s apartment was only a walk away from the office building, while Wonwoo’s was barely adequate for one person. Soon, Wonwoo had a pillow and a toothbrush, and slippers at Chan’s, and harrowingly easy did he take to thinking of it as theirs . 

And now, even enhanced interrogation techniques (e.i. torture) couldn’t rewire his brain. Apparently, the only way Wonwoo still knew how to book a room for him and Chan was with one bed in mind.

“I’ll take the right side,” Wonwoo casually said, ignoring how Chan’s eyebrows shot up at that.

He could have offered to sleep on the floor.

But then he might as well just offer to spend the night in the car. He was tired to his creaking bones. He was past the point of caring if Chan thought he had an ulterior motive. The desire for a relatively soft surface and five hours of uninterrupted shuteye overruled the rest.

And why feign modesty?

“Dibs on the shower,” Chan called out.

Wonwoo tossed rumpled mono-colored clothing on the bed. Without a word, he wrangled Chan’s hands and tugged him closer to get a good look at the lock. “Don’t get smart.” The tone more exasperated than biting, he replaced the metal bracelets with his slender fingers, holding Chan in place. 

Chan mustered a grin that didn't reach his eyes, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” His make-up had disappeared entirely. The road had worn him down too. Everything that’d been sharp hours ago now had a softness to it. Poorly estimating if he had accidentally held Chan for an inappropriately long time that crossed the boundary of what was supposed to be threatening into intimate, Wonwoo dropped his wrists eerily harshly as if he had touched a hot stove.

During the last stretch of the road trip, Chan made one more attempt at a plea. He abandoned the strategy of being coy (annoying) and took a shot at something that, to Wonwoo’s ears, sounded like Chan hadn’t tried it in a long time. Despite it being what he was made out of. Sincerity. The key to him becoming their youngest (and, in Wonwoo’s, somewhat biased opinion, their best) social engineer.

Chan showed up on their radar when he was still in high school. With Jeonghan at the time serving in the military, they were scrambling without the designated person who could talk their way into events or parties. Or to act as a distraction when needed. The team was just a bunch of socially awkward, fresh out of the military lowlives, who knew how to take apart a gun but not how to hold a conversation. In fairness, they did have Soonyoung, but… his career as a social engineer was short-lived, existed entirely out of peer pressure, and required questionable levels of intoxication. Luckily for all, he was relieved of that station the day Jihoon got a notification about some kid who, for months, frequented some hoity-toity country club. He wined and dined himself, all while introducing himself as a member of the goddamn Samsung family. And all the rich people just believed him because he knew the difference between good wine and expensive wine.

Someone had once joked if they hadn’t scooped him up, some casting director would have made him a film star.

That, and every other hit Chan participated in after joining, went without a hiccup. And it was amusing to Wonwoo how Seungcheol couldn’t wrap his mind around Chan’s methods. To the point that he would get angry with the youngest despite how well he did. He had been so conditioned to Jeonghan’s method of lying and lying and then lying some more that when Chan acted ditzy, teetered close to the truth, and in the end, always , still came out on top, Seungcheol would question humanity.

On one occasion, Chan once simply walked up to a security guard and asked if he could be let into the guarded premises. 

Seungcheol almost blew a fuse. 

It was the sincerity. Chan oozed it. It made all arguments more thorny. Rarely did he lie. (Thought in the cases he did, he breathed the lies until they became one with him and compartmentalized to become the truth.) So that was what he opted for with Wonwoo. Once they’d almost reached the motel, he outright asked Wonwoo to let him go, promising that he would never let himself be spotted again.

“Keep the door open,” Wonwoo said, stopping Chan in his tracks to the bathroom.

“Pervert,” he heard Chan mumble.

He went to open his mouth to jump into a lecture on safety precautions and caught himself before stepping into the obviously laid trap.

He was following a protocol.

It was a standard preventative measure to secure a target (hostage) from escaping. He didn’t say that aloud, but both of them knew it well enough. Wonwoo sighed, acknowledging that the agitated train of thought was a testament to how Chan already had his roots back under his skin. He rightly justified that the small bathroom window was a security hazard. However, he didn’t know how to justify why his eyes roamed Chan once the other pulled his hoodie over his head. Why his eyes trailed the line of his body, half obscured by the bathroom wall, from the curve of his waist up his shoulders to the nape of his back. Then, Chan stretched his hands up high with a yawn that came out as a low whine and threw his head back, exposing the curve of his neck and the prominent Adam’s apple.

A performance.

Wonwoo averted his eyes, cursing himself for not catching on sooner.

The closer you are to something, the less clearly you see, he reminded himself. Instead, he focused on the other door in the room, still half expecting some familiar face to burst in.

He listened for a gush of water and the way it got adjusted from a loud stream to a measured and steady one. He glanced at his wrist for the time and then double-checked it on his phone, swiping between the time zones of Montreal and Seoul.

Twelve hours.

The shabby bed creaked under him as he stretched on it. When you pay for motel quality in bum-fuck-nowhere, best believe that’s what you’re getting. It was a dangerous game he was playing, resting on the bed so tired, daring the sleep to come and catch him. Poor vision, the sharp dig of glasses at the side of his head, Wonwoo fixated his eyes on the large window in front of him, obstructed by a curtain.

In the worn-out state, a thought which he had disregarded years ago swam up somberly. 

Chan’s day would be exceptionally improved if, once he came back, Wonwoo was no longer there. Even if a group of agents were to close in on him. Wonwoo would get maybe half a day of a head start before they put a warrant out for him. They would take him in in less than ten hours. He preferred not to die in the Canadian wilderness, thought the pristineness of winter compelled him. If he moved through the less populated areas, he could find a spot with a nice view, where gunshots weren’t irregular, and the birds wouldn’t get too startled. 

His eyes kept blinking to sleep. He was so tired. Suddenly, it made him so sad how terrible the comforter under him was, and the dirt he could see on the carpet. 

If he got up then and started walking, he wouldn’t have to walk for long to sit down and rest. Somewhere, in the open, sheer cold, at the moment when the sun climbed over the horizon with its rays warm on his red face. Though, it would be ironic, if it was snow he died in, considering how mortified he had once been of dying surrounded by white cold. 

The shower pressure cut off. The complex thoughts pushed to the side in favor of basic human needs. Wonwoo couldn’t up and leave. Maybe it was the depleted reservoir of strength that wouldn’t let him. The farthest he could go was the shower. 

A cloud of steam followed Chan out of the bathroom. Wet hair slicked back with a swoop of his hand. And just a low towel that hugged his hips. Wonwoo averted his eyes for the hundredth time that day and winced, catching the other walk around the carpeted room wet and barefoot.

“Well, aren’t you going on?” Chan asked, choosing between the clothes.

Wonwoo rolled his eyes, “I need to cuff you to the bed,” it came out without a thought because that was what he needed to do. He couldn’t leave the… hostage unguarded while he went to take a shower. Nevertheless, it hit him how it sounded coming out of his mouth with practically naked Chan in front of him.

“Oh, have some class,” Chan played modesty, a smirk visible on his curved lips, and Wonwoo bit the inside of his cheek. “Go and change,” at last he remembered to speak, only to hear Chan cackle. 

The shower lived up to all the expectations Wonwoo had built up in his head. He only cuffed one of Chan’s hands to the cheap, intricate metal headboard and left him with a remote control in the other hand and a TV that appeared to have only two channels. In all honesty, even a single five-star hotel hardly measured up to the sight that was the ugly brownish-yellowish tile with visible mold stains. Because the shower was spacious enough and scorchingly hot, and at the moment he knew no better, so it was by all means a five star hotel. It didn’t matter how when he shut his eyes to shield them from shampoo, the first image that popped up was of Chan’s V line and how low the towel hung. The dip of Chan’s pubic bone. It allowed him to see the happy trail in full. His eyes lingered on him long enough to take in the newfound definition in muscle. The memories he had paled in comparison to the real thing. Wonwoo always thought him to be irresistible. There was uncharacteristic gentleness inherent to him. He even blinked prettily. How could a gorgeous person be oh so heartbreakingly charming drove him to insanity, particularly since Chan swatted away all compliments, interpreting them as puffery.

Sure, the cuteness was undeniable and devastating. But there was the cutting sharpness of his tongue rarely employed, for that much more valuable, always sending shivers down Wonwoo’s spine.

The heat in him rose, the temperature of the water not aiding the situation. Wonwoo pressed his forehead against the horrid tiles and let the water freely drench him. The rule he had established a year ago still applied, he reminded himself. Especially, when Chan was two feet away from him.

No jerking off to your ex-boyfriend. It was too sad.

But fuck , it wasn’t just that he was pretty, he was, incessantly. That problem had been plaguing him for years. He had learned how to cope with the sun shining in his eyes. It was that, when Chan strutted out of the bathroom, Wonwoo caught a glimpse of droplets still stuck to his body. And alone with his tormenting thoughts, yearned to be that close to him. His chest heaved with the memory. To leave wet marks on every inch of his body. As one of them made its way down Chan’s peck and stopped at the bud of the nipple, Wonwoo almost banged his head against the tile. His cock aching to be touched. He’d tease the sensitive mound to hardness, then drip over the hard curves of his ribs and travel lower, lower—Rapid, gunfire flashbacks of naked Chan forced his hand to turn the water icy. He paused under it, shivering under the stream until his erection went down. He had to douse it with the assistance of mundane thoughts about files (not Chan’s case files because that meant thinking about Chan again) he had left on his work desk. Past him was an asshole for leaving the work for the future/present him. 

“Oh, thank God. I thought you had drowned,” Chan fussed—attention on Law and Order reruns—as Wonwoo stepped out and rolled his eyes.

Before sitting down at the small, round table, he double-checked the lock on the door, then peered through the curtain as one more safety precaution. The Glock, wallet—everything that had made the pockets of his jeans heavy—laid out.

There were no email notifications with emergency briefings attached, no change of plans. He glanced at the watch on his wrist, then back to the device.

Eleven hours and seven minutes.

“Chan,” he called out. It couldn’t wait tomorrow. He was instructed to do it. It was not as vital as bringing in Chan, but a suggestion was a nicely wrapped demand. They advised him to brief, warm him up to what would be waiting for him once in Seoul, what’d be expected of him… a courtesy that hadn’t been extended to Wonwoo.

Olivia Benson’s character was on the screen also amid some briefing, “Chan-ah,” he tried again, this time successful at getting his attention. When he turned to look at Wonwoo, handcuffs and all, there were still broken images of the past of Chan in their old bed somewhere there, and it tightened Wonwoo’s heart.

“Yes?”

“About tomorrow,” Wonwoo swallowed, “please don’t struggle.”

Chan scoffed.

“Okay, thank you. Good talk, hyung.”

Not the best start.

“I don’t want you to get hurt.” Sincerity. Verbalization of it was painstakingly hard.

The characters on the screen were discussing some weird psychosexual, violent act per usual, and had all of Chan’s attention again.

“I’m just—”

“You shot me,” the voices from the screen muffled Chan’s own.

“What?”

“Hyung, you fucking shot me!” He looked at Wonwoo, nostrils flaring. The remote control tightly gripped in hand. “When I opened the door, I first saw the gun and then you,” he bit his lower lip considering the following words, “... I thought they had sent you to kill me.” With every word, his voice diminished in volume.

Wonwoo went to open his mouth.

“I thought—” Chan blinked a tear out of an eye.

He stayed as wooden as the chair he sat on, “I’m sorry.” It was all he could give.

“Me too,” Chan whispered, drying his face with the sleeve of his hoodie.

There wasn’t a nerve in his body that wasn’t screaming at him to reach further, take a step, go to him. He is right there. Just go to him and convince him that it will be… okay? Half-truths. And then there was a tinier, meeker voice with control over the rest, carrying wisdom the others lacked. Chan being at a reach was not a permission to act on it. To stumble and crash into him again. Wasn’t the point of him being the one to retrieve Chan some kind of protection?

Then there was no reason why it shouldn’t apply to protecting Chan from himself.

He endured hell without giving up what… who Chan was to him. A moment of temporary warmth—which wasn’t even guaranteed to be embraced—was not worth endangering the safety they could have if Wonwoo remained composed. Ten hours of a decent act was all that was needed to get them over the finish line. So right now, there could not be a difference between Chan and any other member of his previous team. Because otherwise, it was a weakness. Right? In their line of work, having someone you would risk your life for, wasn’t that what they classified it as?

The moment they sniffed it out, they would have a plan to capitalize on it.

Then they would use Chan to tighten the leash around Wonwoo’s neck.

His hand trembled. He balled up his fist. “The initial contract is ten years. But one of the caveats of the agreement is how, based on your behavior, the number of years could be subtracted or added.” The focus had to be strictly work oriented. Talk logistics. Talk about how the office space looks. Anything. Something real, yet meaningless. 

Chan just hummed, indifferent.

“They need someone of your caliber. You will be a great addition.” He was surgical and detached with the information he handed out. “It’s an office job, really. But great benefits, we have dental,” he nodded to himself, eyes focused on the clenched fists, “the cafeteria is decent. Korean food. I skip Fridays because it’s the seafood day, but I can show you—”

“You think they would let us work together?” Chan’s voice was thick with vexation.

Wonwoo’s mouth snapped shut.

It hadn't been discussed, but… Wonwoo assumed.

Because… it was what he wanted.

“Well, with us it would allow them to—”

“They are scared of us!” In an attempt to throw his hands up, Chan yanked the cuffs and winced in pain at the sudden constriction. “What’s the incentive to let us work together?” He soothed the skin around the metal.

Wonwoo’s tongue got stuck on the million reasons, knowing there was one nullifying all of them:  he would endanger every mission to protect Chan.

He had to continue the briefing on the logistics. His throat constricted. Chan should know about how the work was delegated and how it would be piles of paperwork, and Wonwoo couldn’t remember another thing about his work because Chan was right . His chest rose with a difficult breath he drew.

It wormed itself into his head how Chan was entirely right, and how naive had the one-track mindedness made Wonwoo that he lost sight of what was in store for them.

“You are going to take me in.” The sufferance in his voice made Wonwoo’s heart bleed.

He nodded. Another apology left unsaid.

“And they won’t let us see each other.” Chan was staring into blankness on the bedsheet, reconciling with the imminent future. Wonwoo suddenly feared if he blinked for too long, Chan would disappear.

“Right,” He strained out.

Chan looked at him, and a tear fell, darkening a spot on the bedspread. “Then why are you wasting time sitting there instead of kissing me?”

Up until that moment, the dancing around and the euphemisms left for plausible deniability. Chan was just an ex-coworker. Until now . Wonwoo’s efforts at preserving the farce to set the plans in motion for the rest of his life dissipated. Self-control dissolved, and when those words flew out of Chan’s mouth, there should’ve been a wave of hand, or a cover-up story. Some kind of way out of the situation because he had come so far without fucking it up.

Instead, there was nothing except a crash. Wonwoo lept, knocking that wooden chair backward. A man dying of thirst, stumbling into an oasis. He breathed Chan in and breathed for the first time in ages. Fuck! Chan’s lips were as soft and inviting as the last time and Wonwoo’s eyes pooled with tears. Chan moved against his lips like he was trying to make up for all the days missed. Fuckfuckfuckfuck. The openness of Chan’s request set parks off in his brain. Everything suddenly bright white and scorching hot to the touch. Chan’s free hand gripped his shirt, and Wonwoo chased more of him tasting the sweetness inside his mouth. The assurance of both seeking the same thing worked simultaneously on repairing and breaking his heart with the knowledge that nothing had changed. Chan still wanted him. It might be their last day on Earth together, but Chan was still there wanting him .

It was all it took for Wonwoo to throw away the poorly constructed mask of a dutiful soldier.

In need of oxygen, he pulled away, barely a centimeter, and Chan whined against his lips. His lungs refilled. Chan smelled like fresh soap. Wonwoo refused to open his eyes before diving back in, tongue gently prodding at the welcoming warmth, taking him in. He swayed into Chan lightly, his towering body kneeling on the bed, and the hand clutching at him slipped under his tee. Wonwoo’s skin flared at the touch. His entire body responded by bringing Chan closer until they were flushed together. Touch starved. Starved. His fingers coiled the collum of Chan’s neck, thumb over the carotid, making sure it’s not a farce. If his thoughts were coherent and not gasped as he drowned with a name on his lips, he could, perhaps, tap into what was in his chest. Thundering desire and love and desperate need so hurtful that it rattled his bones.

The metals unpleasantly clanked against one another, and this time Chan draw back. “Uncuff me.” He said, short of breath.

Wonwoo looked down at him, in the light of the muted television screen. His face cradled in Wonwoo’s hands, all still the same. Yes, a year was a short time in the grand scheme of life, but comfort pooled in his stomach at the realization that the merciless hours had done nothing to change his heart. That remained unaffected, and fear settled in. A vulnerability to be exploited.

Albeit, the three words were naturally exchanged between them. After years of acting on them, they naturally floated in the air, stitched into patched wounds. They were contained in pieces of food they’d mindlessly save for the other. Stored in the wires of telephone lines late at night. And recognized in a wordless gaze held for too long. He searched for them on Chan’s face, unsure if what he was seeing was his want projected, or another well crafted ploy set in motion. 

“It’s not a play,” Chan read his mind. “Please.”

Trust isn't a concept grounded in reality in this line of business. His own words mocked him.

Out of his pocket, he fished out the smallest key, and the cuffs came off, and stayed dangling from the bedframe. An exceptionally loud voice in his head called him a naïve moron and died the instance Chan’s newly freed hand found its way into Wonwoo’s hair and tipped his head closer for another kiss, drawing him in until they capsized on the creaky bed. He had earlier chastised Chan for forsaking all that training, just to turn out worse than him.

Desperate to touch more, to reestablish every second that he would not wake up in his apartment or worse, heavy with grief, his hands trailed from Chan’s chin to his hip, resenting the layers of clothing keeping them apart. Relishing in having become that droplet free to roam Chan.

The movement of their lips slightly weighed in haste. The rush of adrenaline developed into sustainable, steadfast fondness. Chan lightly, yet knowingly buckled his knee at Wonwoo’s groin. The faux innocent movement drawing a moan out of him, pushing him to retaliation as he pinned both Chan’s wrists above his head. “What was the point of uncuffing me, then?” The tilt of Chan’s head like flint set off a fire, and when he bent down for a kiss, his eye got caught on the metal on his wrist.

An array of curses jumped all out at once. Wonwoo scrambled to unfasten his watch while Chan made attempts at getting Wonwoo’s clothes off. Occupied with the small device Wonwoo didn’t budge, compelling the menace to slip a hand into Wonwoo’s sweatpants with a smile and his tongue poking between his teeth.

The watch flew across the room, as far as Wonwoo could toss it.

“What was that?”

“Wire.” Begrudgingly, Wonwoo mumbled.

“I fucking knew it.” Chan’s sharp nails dug into Wonwoo’s hip without serious malice. 

“Yeah, ye—” It got cut off when the hand grazed against his cock, and instinctively his own hand grabbed at Chan’s forearm, halting the movement.

“Hyung,” Chan’s expression darkened. His lips were all plump. “Let me,” and the grip on the forearm loosened. He devoted himself to lapping at Chan’s neck without measure in force. There was only a drive to touch more and lick the skin under him, savoring the taste. Chan’s hand palmed the shaft of his cock over the underwear slowly, the sensation making Wonwoo hiss, and the first time Chan grazed his cockhead Wonwoo buckled his hips into the fingers with a curse, hard cock chasing for more.

He hiked up Chan’s hoodie higher and higher, kissing from the revealed skin up. There were crevices of him he had to confirm were still there. When Chan freed himself of the thick piece of clothing, Wonwoo ceased his journey marked with small kisses looking at Chan with adoration.  For the first time that day, letting it happen without the urgency to keep up the poor farce of indifference. No longer fearful of what trouble a wandering gaze might cause. Devoid of thoughts anent pending doom. A cautious hand snaked around the lovely waist, fingers stroking the curve of the hipbone. His senses created archives and calibrated memories to be stored for later yet savored at present. The eyes took the most, captivated by the consummate complexion still unscathed. “I missed you,” Chan’s unexpected words knocked the air out of him, and as if it was the first time that he was seeing him again, Wonwoo allowed himself to smile. This time, instead of a crash, it was a flutter of butterfly wings how he brought himself down to recapture Chan’s lips. First, leaning their foreheads together, then with a tilt deepening the kiss, not in a rush but in an attempt to clench the hollowness within.

“I missed you too,” as he said it against his lips. There was a smile blooming on Chan’s rosy, kissed lips, and Wonwoo couldn’t not kiss him again.

His head dipped lower, teeth grazed over the collarbone, and Chan’s teasing hand that had been working his cock gave a harsher thug, consequently making him bite down harder, the pressure drawing a moan out of the other. His tongue trailed lower until it found the primary place of pursuit and left a faint lick over a hardening nipple 

“Please,” Chan whimpered.

“What?” He teased.

Softly he pressed a juvenile peck on the bud, relishing in Chan’s reaction as his back arched to chase for more. It wasn’t the night to slip into old habits. No unnecessary, prolonged teasing and drawn-out, delicious affliction. He kissed again and buckled his hips into Chan’s small hand. Wet and hard, Chan’s nipple glistened, and Wonwoo glanced up to see him close to blissed out with the pretty mouth hanging open, letting every moan break past his lips. He rutted into him again and hissed at the unpleasant friction of underwear. His lips wrapped themselves around the nub again, teeth grazed the oversensitive skin, and having neglected him for too long, the hand from the waist traveled lower, cupping Chan’s clothed, throbbing dick, causing him to whine into a near sob. It made Chan’s own hand go slack, forgetting himself, and with zeal, Wonwoo palmed him again, all of Chan responding in tremors under him akin to a livewire. “No, no, hyung—” panicky broke out the younger, and Wonwoo ceased all movement.

“Chan, what–” his hands cradled the other’s flushed face as his eyes frantically tried to read his expressions, “are you okay?”

“Not like that,” Chan mewled out, “Want t’ come with you inside,” and, Wonwoo, in a cocktail of relief and panic with a dash of frustration, dropped his forehead against Chan’s bare shoulder. “I don’t have lube,” he mumbled against the soft skin.

The fingers made for holding fancy silverware wrapped themselves around the wrist of his hand, and Wonwoo breathlessly watched as Chan brought it up to his lips, gingerly licking the index and middle finger before taking them in his mouth.

He wasn’t sure if the moan came out of his mouth or Chan’s. The sight cut all airflow to Wonwoo’s lungs as the tongue played between the two digits, Chan the entire time held intense, intentional eye contact. Lewdly, his cheeks hollowed and Wonwoo’s cock spurted precum. He wanted to see Chan take him like that, with tears glistening in his eyes. Wonwoo thought about how Chan would accommodate as much as he could, bobbing his pretty head and letting his fingers make up for the rest. At the wanton image, Wonwoo’s hips buckled, this time against Chan’s tight. A little drool dribbled past Chan’s lips. Under him, as Chan coated his fingers, his hips grounded against Wonwoo’s, needy cock demanding attention. They would have to try and reprogram him again to create someone who wouldn’t give in to every single of Lee Chan’s requests. He gave himself for the taking, served on a platter between Wonwoo’s legs, a cock that he knew ached for him. With the fingers in his mouth, he moaned, recognizing the hunger in Wonwoo, but dangling the meal in front of a starved man. He wished to devour him. So instead of losing himself against Chan’s leg, he hooked a finger into the other’s sweatpants and underwear, sliding it off.

Chan shivered and let Wonwoo withdraw his coated fingers. Instinctively, he spread his legs — the cock against his stomach leaking for Wonwoo—and elevated his hips. Wonwoo folded his legs back against his chest, kissing the soft skin of his inner tight, scattering kisses over his asscheeks. Lips inched close to Chan’s hole, and it earned him sounds, each growing more in desperation than the previous. Beads of sweat uncomfortably trailed down the side of Wonwoo’s face. Between the light kisses, he drew in saliva before spitting above Chan’s hole, letting it pool at the pucker. Before his equally wet digit teasingly circled the wet rim. He spit once, twice more, Chan fusses brokenly, desperate for release. At the sight of him, Wonwoo ached, he had practically soiled his underwear without release. His skin felt prickly to touch, the molten lava radiation of Chan’s body with his own body still clothed, he feared he might be the first case of sunstroke in Canadian winter. To live, his mind focused only on how wretched Chan must be. At last, the index finger acted on both of their desires, prodding to the first knuckle, feeling Chan’s welcoming warmth, listening for the obscene moan. Wonwoo’s eyes transfixed on how Chan opened for him watching, himself disappear, for the second time that night wishing it were his cock he could thrust.

In all black, still fully clothed, a striking profile enveloped the bare deity beneath him.

“Ah—Hyung—” The broken pants snapped him out of the trance.

“Channie?” Regardless of the amount of spit, he knew it was minuscule to what was necessary for comfort.

“More.” He choked out.

Wonwoo prodded further, the warmth enveloping him as he tenderly patted the walls until barely enough additional space had been made. More precisely, until Chan groaned, living up to the memories of impatience personified. Not selfish as much as bratty and maddeningly confident.  Wonwoo gave in. Always. Tonight no exemption.

The second finger slipped in with effort, the winking hole glistened with the sweat and saliva in the poor light of the room. He moved slowly, extending Chan time to get used to the intrusion before separating the digits lightly and moving deeper, with them Chan moved in tandem. “Deeper,” the cracked sob had him complying in an instant. “I really missed you,” Chan choked out with a breathless laugh.

“Oh, you must be really desperate,” Wonwoo teased with a sudden sharper thrust just to watch the other’s mouth slack open.

Wonwoo found safe ground on the hip bone, controlling his movement and spitting again on the pucker to accommodate for the third finger.

Catching his breath Chan’s one small, trembling hand clutched at Wonwoo’s shoulder, drawing him upwards to arrive face to face, “Shut u—ah” punched out of Chan as Wonwoo moved once more, curling his fingers since granted the opportunity to watch Chan fall apart so intimately, “you’re the one trying to prove something, still clothed,” it carried real annoyance behind it, getting a laugh out of Wonwoo.

“Careful with that tongue of yours,” he warned, retracing his fingers an inch for what must’ve felt like a pleasant, threatening burn.

“Ah–ah,” Chan grabbed at his collar, “Please, please—”

“Hm?” He halted to hear out the plea, fingers toying with his soft inside as an encouragement to choose his words carefully. They were short on time but not short enough that Wonwoo couldn’t indulge.

“Hyung, please fuck me—please, I can take it,” he nodded. How cute. “Please let me come.”

“What have I been asking of you all day?” Wonwoo asked, narrowly letting the smile break over his lips at the pretty pleas. 

The cogs worked their magic in Chan’s head at an alarmingly fast pace. “I’ll behave,” this time he nodded more frantically, “I’ll be good.”

“Yeah?” Wonwoo thrust inside him again, this time further than before, and Chan cursed, not missing a beat to move with him, one leg hooked on Wonwoo’s hip. “My good boy,” He drew the words out intentionally striking a chord within Chan that made him visibly tremble.

“Yea— s’ good, I promise.” He fucked himself back into the fingers. At last, with a curl of his fingers, Wonwoo tapped into the spot inside him deep. They moved in sync, Wonwoo chasing Chan’s orgasm as much as Chan himself, acting as if he had something to prove in his desire to be the reason Chan came undone. The thrusts had additional vigor in them with a fixed aim. Chan grew more incoherent, reaching for his cock, wet and angry in need of release as he pumped himself between the sobs, body moving with every thrust, legs spread obscenely, as the old bed almost comically creaked under them. And the broken pleas and promises with which Wonwoo ached at hearing once again. He touched Chan’s prostate once when Chan reacted to it as if he were about to die, Wonwoo did it once more. He captured the sobbed moan that came out of him, leaving his mouth open and eyes shut in pleasure, he kissed the lower lip, slipping his tongue inside. The fingers continually moved, fucking Chan through his orgasm until the sobs produced shiny beads which stuck to Chan’s eyelashes.

Wonwoo shed the layers stained white, wiped his hands on them, wiped Chan’s abdomen. Kissed Chan some more. The fringe stuck to his forehead with all the sweat gathered. was post-orgasm glossy and rosy with heat that had all gathered in him and all the kisses Wonwoo peppered him with. He sat on the bed the same as Wonwoo and brought back the memories of Wonwoo's gut-wrenching thoughts about a schoolyard crush at an age too grown for such a concept. How through a series of less-than-intelligent events it developed into love in his hands. As Chan’s hands roamed the mosaic of unremarkable stories that had been pressed into Wonwoo over time. The tenderness in the touches that matched the softness in the movement of his lips suddenly made Wonwoo’s lips twitch in a smile.

They would have to give it up again. But this time, there was, perhaps, a foolish conviction in his stomach that this time it would not last long either.

They showered again. Together. Chan, as if having read his thoughts, or simply the fact that he undoubtedly knew Wonwoo too well, reddened his knees on the ceramic, and took Wonwoo’s length into his mouth leaving Wonwoo an incoherent chatterbox of praise and curses. He hollowed his cheeks the same as Wonwoo imagined and took all of him in as if to prove Wonwoo’s imagination was a poor attempt at recreating the real thing when his moans vibrated against his cock. And the look in his eyes, which earlier had been pliant, turned dark as if asking: ‘Aren’t I good?’, ‘How much did you miss me?’

Yes. The most. Always. Every millisecond. Always.

At some point, they did actually shower. Wonwoo taking every chance to kiss his neck and shoulders. Chan casually referred to him as his boyfriend, and it was the shampoo that had Wonwoo’s eyes prickling.

The jelly-limbed bodies crashed together with only five hours left to share. They had to sleep, but neither could, scared to lose the imaginary game of who it was that truthfully missed the other more. Searching for the smallest anecdote to give to the other.

It shouldn't end so soon. They had just begun again.

And by all means, Wonwoo should have been asleep at least half an hour ago, but Chan laid his once more damp, post-shower, hair on his arm and worked mindlessly on leaving invisible lines from Wonwoo’s chest to his collarbone.

“When do we leave tomorrow?” He had a lot of questions. Most things which Wonwoo would have clued him into earlier hadn’t there been a more pressing matter to attend.

“At ten, to be at the location at noon.”

“The drop-off?”

“Collin’s Inlet.”

The name meant nothing to Chan. There was nothing remarkable about the place, just an unpopulated patch of land for a helicopter to land.

“What about a chip?” Chan asked, fighting off a yawn.

Wonwoo nodded. He turned the hand to show the inside of it and with a finger drew a small line above the wrist, “Here.”

“Does it hurt?”

Wonwoo shrugged, and Chan pressed his lips against the forearm of the arm he was resting his head on.

“The procedure is painless.”

“I lied, by the way.” Came after an undefined amount of time. The heavy-lidded eyes shot open when Chan spoke up and the sudden confession alerted Wonwoo awake, “No, no,” he hushed his panicked expression caressing Wonwoo’s cheek, “When I saw you, I was so sure I was dead,” he said it through a smile and Wonwoo’s tired heart clenched for God knows which time that night, “but I was so happy to see you weren’t.” The nonchalant confession made Wonwoo’s stomach do a funny flippy movement, and his arm curled, bringing Chan into his chest.

The younger tucked himself in Wonwoo’s neck and wrapped his hands around Wonwoo’s middle.

As he dipped into sleep, Wonwoo assured himself he had set the alarm.

Every piece of them was scattered across the floor. The watch with the minuscule listening device was alive in some corner. Wonwoo presumed since no one had busted in the moment he flung that thing that they were safe from the intrusion. He was also fairly certain that the said flinging did little to ensure privacy. The pile of problems awaiting future Wonwoo grew. Chan’s breathing evened in his arms. This one night was selfishness that belonged to him.

Gunshots would’ve been a more welcome sound than the blaring alarm not even three hours later.

It was that thing where you tunnel vision (except his eyes were still shut), so hard you prioritize removing a nuisance even over safety. When the thing stopped with the ear-tearing noise after he blindly thumbed at it, he stretched into the spacious bed, and the bloodshot eyes snapped open.

“Chan-ah?” He called out. Nothing.

He repeated, voice hoarse. His hand frantically tapped the empty bed like it would manifest him out of the covers. 

The silence of the room was all the answer he needed.

Moron.

Idiot.

He jumped to his feet, sifting through what he realized were only his clothes on the floor. The eyes, in a frenzy, scanned the room.

What did he think would happen?!

The gun was still on the table and his phone was the thing that woke him up, so it was there, and the car keys lay next to the gun.

His wallet nowhere in sight.

Of course. Wonwoo cursed. 

Chan probably assumed the car had been bugged too. And Wonwoo bitterly thought how if last night served as a testament to anything, it was to how he never had a need for a weapon as long as his mouth was free to spin a story.

So it was a wallet, some clothes, and probably a good two-hour head start.

Wonwoo let out a sigh past his clenched teeth.

It was a smart move.

The correct one. It was what anyone else would have done, and Wonwoo let himself be disarmed without a fight because he wanted to believe it was real so desperately. Sincerity. It rang back. Chan could make himself believe any lie if it resulted in his advancing toward his goal. Wonwoo knew all of it and ignored every blaring red sign at every step of the way that urged him to stop, turn around. Focus on the mission. Do your assignment. Stop looking at him.

Stop looking at him.

I need to stay awake to keep track of all the exits we take.

He played him every step of the way and when there were no more cards left, he pushed at Wonwoo’s forever regret of all the time squandered. The urgency with which he presented their quasi-heartbreaking star-crossed fate was the final thug necessary for Wonwoo’s malleable heart to let itself be served on a platter and devoured in his own imagination of wishing for it to be real.

And what a testament to the artistry it was, how real it had seemed.

His throat tightened along with his chest, and in reminders that he wasn’t having a heart attack (probably a panic attack and a terminal case of a broken heart), he eyed his phone.

He had only slipped his sweats on when the realization settled that there would be no catching up to Chan. And it was his turn to do the smart thing. At least once in the last thirty-fourish hours, he could say he had done the correct thing.

With shaky hands, he grabbed the device off the nightstand, and the bed wobbled under him just as his hands tremored while the other cupped his mouth.

They were likely not too far out. They had the ability to track the CCTVs. If he called it in, they would keep that in mind as a sign of good faith. No years would be shaved off. The whole ‘idiotically letting yourself get re-seduced by the target’ must have been a catalyst to that already. But this definitely guaranteed it. Worst of all was, fuck , they now had a thing to hold over him. The mission would be classified as a failure. But, still, if he called it in, no years would be added.

They could take Chan in.

They would.

The gradual integration process dead in the water. He would end up the same as Wonwoo.

He gripped the phone with too much force and rested his forehead against it. The vein on his forehead pumped against the metal.

He should call it in.

It was what anyone smart ought to do. For one second in life, act in his interest. A little loyalty goes a long way. Doom the rest of Chan’s life in the process.

Chan had promised he would never let himself be marked again.

But … if he gave him one more hour, there was a greater chance—“I’m sorry the vending machine robbed you blind,” bounced off the walls.

The phone thumped on the floor. The gasp of air in relief and shock shook his body again. Both his hands clutched at his head in, gripping tight.

“Hyung, hey,” the words reached him as if he were underwater. All air sucked out of the room.

“Hyung,” Chan said, scared. The two words were repeated at uneven intervals until Wonwoo’s breathing evened.

When he opened his eyes, there were packets of chocolaty snacks at his feet and Chan cross-legged looking up at him, eyes filled with worry to the brim.

“I’m here,” the younger rested his palm on Wonwoo’s knee, “I’m sorry.”

The emotions still raw, he shook his head in overwhelming guilt and embarrassment.

“No,” a hand cupped Chan’s face, thumb brushing over the doughlike cheek, “no, Chan-ah. I should have just stepped outside instead —” Words that wouldn’t come to him got stuck in his throat.

“It’s okay,” he shrugged, always too quick to swallow everything. “I would have suspected me too,” he proudly flashed a smile. Nausea pooled in Wonwoo, unable to stomach the truth masked as a joke, “But really, hyung, I was just hungry. It’s not like you have been treating me to five-course meals.” Chan said with a teasing glint in his eye, and Wonwoo chewed on his lip, nodding.

“I’m sorry.” Wonwoo shuddered.

Chan shrugged and offered a lopsided smile, the corners of his lips curving uniquely to him, “It’s okay,” he persisted, “You’ll just have to treat me to a lot of meals when we get back home.”

Wonwoo’s heart dropped, shattering, to never piece it back together again. He couldn’t envision a future where he recovered from those words. Chan’s flippant ideas of their future were the worst thing he had ever heard. It erased the finality of last night and instead marked it as a new beginning, and Wonwoo almost begged him to take it back because a life with hope would be torture worse than anything he had endured.

He leaned down, fixing Chan’s chin in place, and captured his lips in a chaste kiss, signing off on whatever it was Chan had in store for them. “Anything you want,” he whispered against his lips.

The sick that had settled in his stomach didn’t subside after he drank water and, nibbled on a small cookie which had negative nutrition. Chan explained, apologized, how the vending machine stole five dollars from him (it was M&M’s he was trying to buy), and he dove into a list of all the Korean food he missed. The entire time, that small hand of his, gingerly rested on Wonwoo’s tight, emitting waves of assurance that hardly reached Wonwoo.

Chan asked about how closely monitored they would be outside of work. He mused smugly, speaking to himself out loud. How it was not as if they could keep them from seeing each other as civilians. A shiver went down Wonwoo’s spine. They definitely could. Somehow. Chan dazzled with his uninformed ideas of how the operation worked, and Wonwoo, maybe a little misguidedly, said nothing to correct him. Not wanting the brightness in his eye to go out.

In the morning hours the hotel, without its neon light shine, appeared even more bleak. The first thing Chan did when he got into that Ford SUV was turn on the radio and then get disappointed when there was one station, and it played commercials the entire time, sometimes interrupting them with a song.

The handcuffs were left behind, still dangling from the bedframe.  

The conversation never died, they picked it up intermittently with gentle pauses in between. Wonwoo braced himself for how his transgressions would be dealt with.

They were twenty minutes early to rendezvous, Chan’s knee restlessly bounced, and the car had barely stopped at the coordinates agreed upon when he jumped out. Wonwoo assumed the reality had dawned on him and followed him in step.

“Hey,” he caught Chan’s wrist, their bodies parked in front of the hood of the car, “I’m sorry.” It was good if he kept saying it, he had nothing else to offer, and he should get used to the words, sure that in the future there would be more to apologize for.

Chan shook his head, “Hyung, we’ll be okay.” There was maddening conviction in his voice and Wonwoo decided to not argue against it.

Then there was a sudden, mosquito bite-like, wincing pain in his neck, “It’s okay,” Chan repeated with a smile. He became blurry in front of him. Wonwoo blinked the fatigue out of his eyes. Then Chan turned liquidy. Recognizing the wrongness of the situation, Wonwoo panicked, drowsy limbs unable to reach for the tucked gun. His vision blurred rapidly. Wonwoo gasped for air. Only thoughts of the inability to protect Chan from whatever it was that they had ambushed them with swirling before he was out.

He blinked artificially induced sleep away once, twice, to take in soft yellowness. Some source of light was in the otherwise darkened room. Then the last conscious memory struck him, and his sleepy heart rate picked up.

It wasn’t white. The ceiling.

Perhaps, sure, the walls technically might be.

But it wasn’t blaring, incessant, bare white, and it wasn’t his tiny room either.

Groggy and weak, he stirred, shooting coursing pain through his left arm. There was a screaming urge for him to move, yet his limbs wouldn’t listen, and he was impossibly tired. Suddenly breathless from the most minuscule movement. In one more attempt that took out all the strength he had left in him, he moved the arm that wasn’t numb with pain and got stuck on something soft.

“Hyung?”

Whatever horse tranquilizer they had pumped him with fucked with him good. Chan’s voice was crystal clear in his ears.

Then a hand clutched his, and oh.

It was Chan. The dark under his eyes was deep, exhaustion written on his face, and a sheepish smile. But it was him. “You’re okay,” was the thing that left his mouth, and it was the last thing Wonwoo remembered before he found himself in this state. Chan said it a few more times without much elaboration, phrasing it differently, dripping with remorse, as he put another pillow under Wonwoo’s head and brought a straw to his lips to taste water.

Wonwoo could then see that the room was just a bedroom. Nothing about it creepily sterile, though a little minimalistic.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the plan,” he pulled the chair that he had earlier been sleeping in, half-folded next to Wonwoo’s lower body, and withdrew his hands back to his lap. The chemicals had done a number on him because Wonwoo had to repeatedly blink to hear, and that made no sense. “But you had a listening device, and nothing I did could alert them. The risk was too high.”

“Chan, wh— where am I?” Please don’t say Seoul. Please. It thumped in his chest. Seoul could only mean one thing.

Chan sighed, “Right,” he apologized again and cleared his throat, “it’s a safe house. Junhui hyung, Mingyu, and Seokmin picked us up,” Wonwoo’s eyes widened, “Jun hyung had to cut your arm open when you went down to take the tracker out,” tears pooled in Chan’s eyes. That explained the pain.

“We barely got out, and God hyung, you had more blood in you than any human ever,” he said shakily. “Junhui was all bloody patching you up, and they yelled at me a lot to not look at you.” He sniffled a sob and a laugh, and with an effort Wonwoo extended the unscathed hand to him. Chan only wrapped one hand around one of Wonwoo’s fingers, and a tear dropped down his chin before he could wipe it. “But everyone is here now though, asleep probably.”

Everyone.

“How long have I been out?”

Chan took a beat to think about it, days and time zones having blended, “Four days.”

Wonwoo wasn’t sure what he had expected. He couldn’t estimate if that were a long or a short time.

“I’m sorry for taking so long,” he sniffled again. Wonwoo tilted his head. “I was your mission because you were my mission,” it came out through a proud chuckle, and Chan dried his face with the back of his hand.

Oh.

It all cascaded in a line.

Chan’s disregard for surveillance while he paraded himself around Montreal.

He was bait.

They came for him, after all.

“It took so long, we would have done it sooner, really, but then Shua hyung came back and it took so long for us to regroup. But from the first day, I kept talking to them. I wanted to go back for you, but…” They could never go back home. “When this plan was developed, it had to be me, and you should have seen Seungcheol hyung’s face whenever I brought it up,” Wonwoo smiled, he had a hunch what that must’ve been like. Stern disapproving looks, lots of dismissive arguments.

“But, eventually, he realized it was the only way, right?” Wonwoo tried a smile.

He would have come for any of them. But by sending out Chan to draw him out not only did they guarantee it was he who would show up, but they had insurance that Wonwoo would be blind enough to not notice things out of the ordinary. Rationally, he always knew that they could never come into the country again. His anger with their lack of rescue was easier than enduring the crushing reality of how he got in that situation only because he got captured.

And he didn’t even know how to escape like Jisoo.

The scenes of their hours on the road replayed in his mind, “But,” he started confused, “why do the thing in the bathroom?”

“Oh, that,” Chan bit his lower lip, “I had to sell that I was trying to escape.” Another apology.

Wonwoo laughed at the confession, Chan still held his finger, and Wonwoo used it to tug him to his chest. It couldn’t have been comfortable, half still in the chair, half in the crook of Wonwoo’s neck, but he pressed him into himself tightly.

Memories played back, and Wonwoo shut his eyes at the embarrassment that struck him, akin to a brain freeze, “Chan-ah, please, please, tell me they didn’t hear us having sex.”

And Chan laughed his full body, brighter than the sun, almost comically perfect laugh, “No, hyung, only the whole of the South Korean government heard that, but not the team. I wasn’t wired. There was a listening device in my earring, but you drowned that thing.”

That he did, and it was no time to gloat about his thoroughness, but nevertheless, he was good at his job.

Sometimes. Most often. The assignment started extremely methodically… Wonwoo was sure everything going downhill correlated with the moment Chan woke up in that Ritz hotel room.

“Also, you know how I said the vending machine robbed me?”

Wonowo nodded.

“I used the money to pay the desk clerk to call Cheol hyung.” Chan was looking up at him to catch his reaction, and that he did get as Wonwoo burst out into a laugh. The same as Wonwoo had the small things he was proud of, so did Chan. The years of his life spent yearning turned into a handful of moments of undeniable, mutually obsessed love, and Wonwoo would work the rest of his life to never again have to spend a day where Chan was not next to him.

“You’re unbelievable.”

He pressed a faint kiss at the top of his head, “What about all that Korean food I was supposed to treat you to?” Carefully he phrased the question of their future together.

Chan shrugged, “I’m sure Shanghai has plenty of Korean restaurants. You pick the first one, I can pick the second.”

Shanghai. A new start. That could work. Wonwoo’s heart pounded like that of a small bird.

They had never had a date in Shanghai.