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Changmin dreams of Yemen.
He hates everything about that shithole — the sand, the heat, the government that’s as bad (if not worse) than the insurgents wreaking havoc everywhere. He hates how the civilians suffered, trapped in the middle of ugly political intentions and still trying to scrape by with what little they have left. The entire country is a ticking time bomb and even though he'd somehow managed to come off tour in one piece, some aren’t as lucky.
He thinks about the snipers he’d taken out too late, after too much damage.
Changmin dreams of Yemen and wakes up angry, mostly.
There’s an alarm going off somewhere inside his apartment. Changmin blinks at the ceiling, enduring the persistent beeps for several minutes before he untangles himself from the blanket and drops his feet onto the cold floor. Stretching makes him marginally more awake, chases away the last dredges of a nightmare swathed in blood-drenched sand. He stumbles into the kitchen, finds his phone on the counter and jabs at it to mute the alarm. A number of text messages sit in his inbox and he scrolls through them as he works the coffee machine. Siwon’s left him a few, something about briefings and a favour from SOCKOR.
“They want you there at thirteen hundred,” is the first thing Changmin hears when he calls Siwon. He almost hangs up. “Don’t be late.”
“I’m on medical leave, hyung,” Changmin whines, even though that’s a lie and they both know it. He pours coffee into a mug, the tips of his fingers tingling at the heat while the rest of his body is still cold. “Tell someone else to go.”
Siwon barks out a string of laughter. Changmin imagines the glittering whiteness of his teeth. “Get off your ass right now or you’ll be late.”
The line goes dead. Changmin sighs.
He dumps the coffee into the sink.
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The secretary is a pretty little thing in sedate blue and she smiles back when he grins at her. He thinks about asking for her number, but figures she won’t be looking at anyone in his paygrade when she’s already wearing that expensively-cut diamond ring. She gives him the go-ahead and Changmin knows he’s going to be involved in something highly-classified when he sees the number of uniforms inside the opulent office he’d just stepped into. He stands at attention and the door closes upon his entrance, made to wait as the higher-ranked officers talk shop to each other.
Thirty minutes later, they finally acknowledge his existence and gesture him closer.
In two hours, Changmin’s already sitting in the nearest airport, calling Kyuhyun just because he needs to yell at someone.
“Treat it like a vacation,” Kyuhyun says. Changmin can hear Siwon laughing in the background, another voice that’s unmistakably Donghae telling Kyuhyun to hang up. Changmin hates his team so fucking much. “Gotta go, Chwang. Don’t die out there.”
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Changmin sleeps right until the airplane hits the tarmac of the Ferenc Liszt International Airport.
He dreams of being riddled with bullets, bleeding out under the desert sun, and wakes up to see the worried face of the flight attendant hovering over him.
It’s a good thing he stops himself in time or she would’ve lost an eye. Or two.
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Customs takes a while as they process his papers and ask him questions about the rifle sitting in its locked hard case. His cover is an invitational shooting competition, arranged by a friend of a friend, and his permit checks out after a few calls. They ask if he’s any good and Changmin laughs, tells them he’s isn’t, not really. He’s getting a lot of practice at lying, post-Yemen. Arrival is packed by the time he emerges from Customs and a family of four jostles past him, the mother chasing after a runaway toddler. He’s about to make a beeline for one of the side exits before someone calls out his name, voice carrying through the din.
Changmin stares at the guy making his way towards him.
“I’m Jung Yunho, your tour guide.” A measured pause, lips pulled over white, even teeth. “Welcome to Budapest!”
The exuberance and wide grin throw Changmin off, even more than the man’s heavily-accented English, but he catches on quick. Their handshake is brief, perfunctory. He switches to Korean when he says, “Shim Changmin. You’re my contact?”
The guy nods, gesturing at Changmin to follow. He’s too used to the military‘s more reserved approach that he isn’t quite sure what to make of the cheerful spectacle in front of him. The whole idea is to remain inconspicuous and he has an inkling that inconspicuous is the last thing they are right now, especially with the offensively loud sweater Yunho chooses to wear. He hitches the duffel bag higher on his shoulder and follows Yunho’s lead through the airport to an attached parking lot. They stop right next to a small, electric car.
“This is it?”
Yunho squeezes Changmin’s duffel bag and rifle case into the back. There must be some kind of magic involved when nothing spills out and he grins at Changmin’s incredulous look. “It’s cheaper. Buckle up.”
The car is fast for its build. Yunho hums a nondescript melody as he zips through a complicated maze of road and traffic, doesn’t run over any of the pedestrians (surprisingly). Changmin presses his mouth into a thin line, shifts uneasily when Yunho makes a too-sharp turn and runs down a yellow light. It’s not unlike riding at the back of a transport truck, playing Russian roulette with IEDs. While Changmin isn’t in the habit of hanging out with covert field agents outside of his team roster, he’s pretty sure Yunho is not of the usual standard. He doubts many of them drive like a deranged go-kart enthusiast, for example.
“How long have you been in Budapest?”
Yunho glances at him and nearly hits an elderly lady crossing the road. Changmin winces. They veer into a small alley before he says, “Almost two years.”
There isn’t any more pedestrian around, so Changmin decides to risk another question. The worst that can happen is them running into a wall and maybe then he’d be able to sleep for more than a few hours. “And the target?”
“He runs an office downtown, but makes annual trips to some South-East Asian countries, like Thailand and Malaysia. He’s setting up similar shops over there.” The car swerves around a water fountain, before screeching to an abrupt halt in front of an old building. “And we’re here. Home sweet home.”
Home is a safe house, an apartment overlooking a river right across a café advertising fresh coffee and baked goods. Changmin can smell it all the way upstairs and he calculates the hours since he last ate. South Korea feels like a lifetime ago. Yunho shows him a room next to the kitchen and the linen looks fresh, if a little off-centre and creased. Changmin walks around the apartment and notes each emergency exit, approves the grilled and bulletproof windows. There’s another room sequestered at the back and when he tries the knob, he finds it locked.
“That’s my room,” Yunho says. He holds out extra pillows towards Changmin. “If you need anything, just knock.”
Changmin raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you sleep?”
Yunho’s eyes crinkle when he laughs. Changmin takes that as a ‘no’.
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Changmin dreams of Yemen, wakes up in Budapest with rain pelting the window and wonders if he should've retired when he came back from his last tour.
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The information amassed by Yunho is filed inside folders, not quite haphazard, but Changmin spends the better part of the morning re-organising everything. Yunho’s photographs are crisp though, centred on a middle-aged man flanked by armed bodyguards. Richard Park is third-generation Korean American, who graduated summa cum laude from Harvard Law and unfortunately decided that the straight-laced, nine-to-five life isn’t for him. What separates him from other garden variety scums is that he’s ruthlessly brilliant in his criminal undertakings. He keeps his circle of confidants small and moved underground for the first few years, slowly building his reputation through smuggling — human, art, exotic animals, anything that comes with an exorbitant price tag. His operation soon expands into weaponry and it’s when he graduates to selling military secrets in the black market that the South Korean government finally takes notice.
There were three agents sent before Changmin, each experienced and decorated.
Only two had been found: shot point-blank with their tongues cut out. The missing one’s marked as KIA.
He wonders how long Yunho has been sending home body bags.
Changmin cleans his sidearm as he reads the reports, always finds it easier to focus when he’s field-stripping his Daewoo at the same time. It’s like putting together a puzzle and this current assignment seems more complicated than he’d been led to believe. The body count is higher and if he doesn’t tread carefully, he’ll be part of that statistic. Reduced to a mug shot and redacted lines in the same report laid out on the table. It’s too depressing of a thought, too early in the morning. Once he’s done with the separate components, he puts the handgun back together and snaps its magazine into place.
He catches a sudden movement from the corner of his eyes and points the gun towards it, training kicking in when caught off-guard.
Changmin frowns. He lowers his gun. “Yunho?”
Yunho yawns and waves at Changmin, nonplussed, despite almost being shot in his own living room. The early morning light, muted from the rain, paints pastels over his skin and he pads into the kitchen, still in the thin t-shirt and shorts he must’ve worn to bed. Changmin’s traitorous mind points out that he’s actually very attractive, all soft and sleep-rumpled. He tells his mind to shut the hell up and starts to disassemble the rifle just so he has something else to concentrate on.
Since he can do the entire routine with his eyes closed, it doesn’t offer much distraction.
He should’ve taken Qian’s advice and gotten laid months ago.
“Pancakes?”
Changmin flips to the next page of the report and picks up the bore of the rifle. There are sounds of cupboards opening and closing, muted footsteps moving around the kitchen. Something clatters loudly, Yunho swears and Changmin can’t quite stop the grin uncurling across his face. “And coffee, thanks.”
He’s reached the end of the reports just as Yunho delivers a carafe of coffee and misshapen pancakes drenched in maple syrup, a generous half-block of butter on the side. Changmin stacks the folders on the edge of the table once he’d placed the reassembled sniper rifle back in its case, clearing out the surface. The smell of gun oil lingers between them, a reminder that this is business as usual. Yunho pours himself some coffee and drops into the couch, cradling his mug as he peers at Changmin over his knees. His hair sticks up all over the place and there are dark circles under his eyes, looks as if he’d been through the wood chipper once or twice.
“Rough night?” Changmin asks, forking a couple pancakes onto a plate. He eyes the way Yunho’s fingers skip over smooth porcelain, jittery. Like spider legs. “Are you the only one doing surveillance? Don’t you guys usually have partners?”
Yunho ducks his head. “I did.”
Changmin knows better than to question further. “Do you have anyone inside?”
“One, but he’s only in the fringe. Delivery boy.”
“Better than nothing.” The pancakes are too sweet, more dessert than breakfast, and he watches the way Yunho uncoil once he takes a large bite. It must’ve been awhile since he last cooked for someone. Licking syrup from his lips, Changmin fiddles with his fork. “So, what’s the game plan? They told me jack shit about what I’m supposed to do here and then put me on a plane next to the loudest snorer this side of the Pacific. It’s not actually standard briefing.”
Yunho’s laugh is bright, jubilant. “We’re going after him.”
“Yeah?” Taking down a criminal mastermind with an entourage as big as Richard Park’s usually requires a bigger task force than two field agents, one of whom is fresh out of a self-imposed exile. Last time Changmin checked with his CO, they still have his file flagged for psychiatric evaluation. He shouldn’t even be dragged into active duty this abrupt. “You must’ve been very disappointed that I’m the only one coming down for the party.”
“We’ll do fine.” The strength of conviction in Yunho’s voice makes him think of Siwon and that’s a comparison Changmin doesn’t need. Yunho leans forward, selects one of the folders and sifts through a stack of photographs. His shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of pale skin that makes Changmin’s throat run dry. A photograph of a nondescript building is shoved into his face. “It’s a private party; nobody’s supposed to know we’re here. Park keeps record of his alternative business ventures in his office downtown. We need to make sure they’re looking elsewhere while we slip in.”
“I flew all the way here just to play bait?”
“No, you’re the hook.” Yunho refills his coffee. And Changmin’s. “You took two semesters of Computer Science while completing your degree, right?”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t like where this is heading. “That’s in my file. So what?”
Yunho doesn’t seem too perturbed by the edge of hostility seeping into Changmin’s voice, but his fingers have started skittering on the coffee mug again. He’d make a terrible poker player, Changmin decides. “You also ran with a couple of hackers for a few years back in high school, so we’re assuming you’re more than a little friendly with the process of installing backdoors into someone’s computer.”
His eyes narrow. “Am I in trouble for my youthful indiscretions?”
“No. Of course not. This entire trip hinges on your youthful indiscretions, actually.” The gleam in his eyes tells Changmin that he must’ve seen all the sordid details of Changmin’s file, including Yemen. “I’ll make sure they’re distracted. You get into his office, install the program in his computer and our tech guys will do the rest.”
Changmin cuts himself another large piece of soggy pancake. “That simple?”
“It’s taken us the loss of several assets to consider this the best course of action.” He might be trying to hide it, but Changmin knows the type — Yunho’s carrying a massive chip on his shoulder for those dead agents under his care and he might’ve well been the one to push for this indirect solution. “Not the most ideal, but it’s a lot less expensive than the alternative. If everything goes well, you’ll be on the flight home by the end of this week.”
“And you?”
“I’ll be reassigned to another case once I finish tying up any loose end here.” Yunho shrugs off the disbelief on Changmin’s face, carefully nonchalant. “There’s no rest for the wicked.”
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The weather takes a turn after the morning’s smattering of rain, clouds reluctantly giving way as a watery-yellow sun climbs higher across the sky without shedding much heat. Yunho lends Changmin one of his thicker coats and they walk down the streets with their collars turned up against the lingering chill. Budapest is as beautiful as the travel brochure had promised, and Changmin appreciates that the city doesn’t make a conscious effort to camouflage its flaws, which become more apparent the further away they travel from the city centre. Its architecture vacillates between old, charming facades and grandiose edifices built to simultaneously inspire and awe, a world’s apart from Seoul’s clinical cold steel and glass.
Yunho points out Richard Park’s office building.
“Nice,” Changmin says. He wrinkles his nose at the cheerful, slightly schizophrenic menagerie of modern art decorating its reception area. “Murder HQ.”
“Technically, it’s Trafficking HQ.” The hitch of Yunho’s lips is wry and he’s pushing back hair from his eyes. A woman walking her collection of dogs bristles past, levelling them a look for obstructing pedestrian traffic. “C’mon. There’s a place near the river that makes really good shortcakes.”
The shortcakes are great. The part where Yunho asks for a few to take home makes it even better. Changmin spends the night on the couch, rereading the files and poring over blueprints to figure out an entry and exit plan for the infiltration. This is usually Kyuhyun’s field of expertise — what Changmin does best is to point and shoot. Repeatedly. And with great accuracy. He misses working the familiar parameter and with people who know his quirks, who understand how much space they’re supposed to give him for things to fall into place. He has none of that in Budapest. What he has is a near stranger behind a closed door in a city that thrums quietly along a discordant heartbeat.
He waits for the light under Yunho’s door to disappear, but falls asleep over the drawn skeletons of countless buildings.
Loud, upbeat music pulsating through the apartment startles him awake, nearly makes him fall off the couch and he curses as Yunho laughs on his way to the kitchen for a breakfast of shortcakes.
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Changmin counts his heartbeats.
He stops at ten and starts all over again, the usual breathing exercise.
The heft of his rifle is solid and reassuring, a familiar constant. Changmin doesn’t question the morality of killing when the world is an ever-shifting warzones. The targets are of equal opportunity. He’s learnt to remove humanity in the split-second decision he takes — they are no longer people, just numbers on a piece of paper. Percentages. He tracks Park through his scope, thumb flicking through the numbers as he estimates the wind speed adjustments he’d normally make if he’s taking up a killing position. Urban areas create complex wind flow environments, harder to determine without the mobile weather station he keeps in his kit.
But he’s not here to eliminate a threat. Not this time.
He trains the crosshair on Park’s dark head, takes a deep breath and mimes pulling the trigger.
(Would’ve been his 57th.)
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Richard Park looks like any normal, successful businessman littering the party. He plays the part well, making small talks with other guests and laughing along with whatever the mayor says, like he isn’t single-handedly funding a home-grown terrorist cell right under their noses. His arm candy is a statuesque blonde with cheekbones sharp enough to cut steel, in a body-hugging dress that ripples in shimmering silver when it catches the light from the chandelier above. Changmin snags a flute of champagne from a passing server and catches the roll of Yunho’s eyes from across the room. The charity gala is a lavish affair, attended by the rich and the influential. And since it’s being held in Park’s building, it’s their best chance to carry out some much needed recon before the actual break-in.
Their invitation is addressed to a Baek Dohoon. Plus one.
Changmin doesn’t ask who Baek Dohoon is.
“I hope you’re not in the habit of getting drunk on the job.”
Changmin grins as he takes a sip. He eyes the platter of hors d’oeuvres gliding past and grabs a crostini topped with shredded duck confit. “It helps. You should try it.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.” Yunho’s mouth twitches, looks like he’s valiantly trying not to laugh. He checks his watch and says, mildly, “Shall we?”
Changmin chews, tips his champagne glass towards Yunho in a salute. “Sure.”
The hallway gets progressively darker the further they venture away from all the merrymaking, conversations fading into silence. Yunho is half a step ahead and Changmin follows his lead, eyeing the span of empty spaces. Doors. Windows. Counting egress points. Making sure that the blueprints are accurate, so Changmin won’t be caught off-guard. Yunho marks the distance between the elevator and Park’s office, walks Changmin through other options, worst case scenarios. They’re about to head back when Changmin catches sight of two burly figures striding towards them, spearheaded by none other than their target. He shoves Yunho to the side.
Changmin doubts their invite include being this far inside the building.
“Don’t look, but he’s coming over.” Changmin presses the champagne flute into Yunho’s hand and uses both arms to bracket him against the wall. He grins, says, “How are you at improvisation?”
Yunho narrows his eyes. He doesn’t flinch under Changmin’s scrutiny. His posture remains open and trusting, and Changmin has a hard time concentrating on Richard Park and the two guards making their way towards them. Especially when Yunho leans into him to whisper, “Is that a challenge?”
It must be the champagne that makes the world tilt a little under his polished brogues, although Changmin doesn’t usually get tipsy after a few meagre sips. He lowers his head and presses his mouth to Yunho’s. The kiss is intended to be chaste, nothing more than a ruse to explain why two men are tucked away in a private niche in the middle of an extravagant party. Yunho stiffens for a half-second, but he catches on quick; he tilts his head to make the kiss appear deeper and pulls Changmin closer by his lapels. The sound of heavy footsteps slows as the guards round their corner and one of them makes a surprised noise, mutters a curse under his breath. Yunho steps out of Changmin’s arms then and performs a spectacular impression of a drunken stumble.
Right into Richard Park.
“Oh!”
The flute wobbles threateningly close to spilling over Park’s dove grey suit and the guards start forward, halted only by a look from Park. Yunho giggles and mutters something in Hungarian, punctuated by a smile that curls a little too friendly. Park doesn’t look too amused, but he’s a gracious host and he steadies Yunho with a hand on his back, herding him back towards Changmin. They exchange a few more words, all in Hungarian, so the only thing Changmin can contribute to the conversation is a nod once Yunho is returned to him. Who starts pawing at his chest, a besotted grin firmly in place. Changmin wraps an arm around Yunho’s waist, looking, for all intent and purposes, like they’re about to resume their interrupted tête-à-tête.
Derailing any question that might be forthcoming.
Park straightens his suit and breezes past, followed closely by his guards. One of them turns and shoots a suspicious look at Yunho, at the line of his jacket where his service gun is hiding beneath. Changmin circles round and shields Yunho from view in a stance that screams proprietary, holds his position until the sound of their footsteps fades. They wait for a few more minutes, just in case, and Changmin has to resist thumbing at Yunho’s lower lip to see if it bruises as easily as it looks. He pulls away once Yunho gives him the go-ahead, takes a step back to straighten his coat and maybe tell his fucking heart to stop beating so rapidly.
“Did you get it?”
Yunho holds up a small black box, designed to duplicate the radio frequency in the tag used by Park for his office. He taps the device against Changmin’s chest. “Of course.” He flashes Changmin a cheeky grin. “Good thinking on the diversion. I’d give it a solid six.”
It’s hard to keep a straight face, but Changmin manages. “I wasn’t even trying.”
In the cusp of shadows, the gleam in Yunho’s eyes almost feels like an invitation.
.
“Let me.”
Yunho stares at him, sceptical. He’d changed out of his suit and his apron sports a bright pink ‘kiss the chef’, which is unfortunately the only thing Changmin has been thinking about for the past few hours. He’s also holding a knife like he’s about to gut someone. “Are you sure?”
“I took culinary classes too.” Changmin puts on the spare apron and raises his eyebrows at Yunho. It’s a low blow, but he can’t resist saying, “Is that not on my file?”
Yunho laughs and surrenders the knife with all the grace of a well-trained murderer. He lingers in the kitchen though, peering over Changmin’s shoulder to make appreciative noises at Changmin’s neatly-sliced scallions and vegetables. It’s easier to cook without having to nudge Yunho out of his way every so often, but Changmin doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would. He dices the chicken into bite-sized pieces as Yunho chatters away about missing his mother’s cooking and her complaints that he doesn’t come home enough.
Changmin smashes a couple garlics under the knife. “Don’t you get holidays at all?”
“The last time I did was before I came here,” Yunho says, munching on a snow pea he’d stolen from the chopping board. “You were on active rotation. You know how it is.”
“But two years? That’s longer than all my tours combined.” Yunho’s hand reaches for another pea and it’s reflex that makes Changmin grab Yunho's wrist, pins him against the counter. Yunho blinks at him, eyes wide. His apron still reads ‘kiss the chef’ and Changmin has always been good at following directives. The kiss is quick and dirty and over entirely too soon. “Stop eating everything.”
Yunho’s mouth is a curving sweetness when he pulls Changmin back to him.
.
Changmin blames it on cabin fever.
Or temporary insanity. Whichever more convenient.
Yunho is running through surveillance cameras he’d planted in Park’s favourite haunts, making sure they’re not missing anything important. There are hours upon hours of footage, playing at once on three different screens. Changmin lies on his bed, traces Yunho's spine as he hunches over the screens, headphones blocking the world. His glasses reflect corner streets and closed windows and countless doorways, silhouettes crowding the peripheral. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t move when Changmin drops a kiss on the top of his spine, but he does smile. Warm and affectionate. Changmin replaces the kiss with a bite after a few seconds, hates to be ignored, and rolls them over when Yunho starts trying to squirm free.
He sinks into Yunho’s laughter and feels more alive than he’d been for months.
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Changmin thinks about his kills. 56 confirmed.
He can still quote the data on each: weapon used, round used, grains, distances, weather, wind, location.
Heads exploding in his scope site.
Grief does funny things to people. Sometimes it exhausts them to their bare bones and leaves them with nothing, but the empty shape of a person who used to be there. Sometimes it burns them up, lights up their hearts like Roman candles until they’re nothing but ash.
He’d read that somewhere and he still can’t quite decide which one applies to him.
“Are you ready?”
Yunho has his head tilted, watching with those feline-sharp eyes.
Waiting.
Changmin holsters his gun. Just before they make it to the door, he grabs the back of Yunho’s hand and presses his lips to it. At the startled, questioning stare he gets in return, he says, “For luck.”
.
“I’ll put the surveillance feed on loop once you’re inside, but you only have fifteen minutes before their system kicks me out. Be careful, Changminnie.”
The traffic sign changes and Changmin crosses the road, a twirl of scarf obscuring the lower half of his face. He takes his time, knows from experience that nothing good will come from rushing his way through. The receptionist smiles at him, pretty and pearl-white, and she goes back to pecking at her computer once she sees him tap past the employee gate. The copied tag digs into his palm and he finds an empty elevator, punches in the floor for Park’s office. It’s a quick ride. Too easy. The floor's empty except for a few heads bent over their own work and he breezes past them like he's supposed to be there. That's the trick — look like you belong and no one would think otherwise. Park's away at some other functions for his legitimate businesses and Changmin finesses the lock on his door, closing it shut behind him. He plugs the flash drive in, makes short work of the pedestrian security measures and installs the backdoor programme with several minutes to spare.
He’s already striding outside in another ten.
The sky is turning dark, temperature dropping again. Lashes of cold wind nip at his ears. “We should get a nice dinner to celebrate—”
“Hey!” Changmin stills, paranoia rearing its ugly head. Considering it’s an old friend that had kept him alive in more than one occasion, he’s more than willing to listen. “Hey, you!”
Fuck.
Changmin breaks into a run. There’s more yelling and he makes the mistake of heading for the deserted back alleys. He manages to lose his pursuers for a few minutes: clearly, exercise is not as high up on their list, but his moment of triumph doesn’t last when they start firing at him. The first bullet misses, but the second ricochets off a part of a building and he nearly bites his tongue off when he’s hit, body jerking back from the sheer amount of impact and shock. His shoulder burns, feels like it’s lit up inside out. It’s like Yemen all over again, being caught unaware and that’s a lesson he should’ve learnt the first time around.
“Changmin? What happened?!”
Changmin grimaces as Yunho’s voice crackles through the tiny earwig, hopes that he’s nowhere close to being out of range because then he’d be totally fucked. He turns into another alleyway when he realises that the panting and the adrenaline and maybe the blood loss are making him a little manic.
“I’m made.” Changmin slows to catch his breath, which is a terrible idea because he’s now doubly aware of the excruciating pain radiating from his shoulder. “I’d appreciate an extraction right about now.”
“I’m coming for you. Tell me if you’re changing direction.”
Changmin doesn’t know the city well enough to do just that, so he keeps to their agreed contingency route and prays for the best. There are voices behind him shouting and he’s not sure if they’re Park’s men or concerned civilians expressing outrage at a guy splattering blood all over their formerly-pristine streets. Eventually, the street crosses with another and Changmin hesitates for a few seconds to remember which he’s supposed to take. The decision is made for him when a bullet nearly clips his right arm. He makes a break for it, sprinting forward through traffic and narrowly misses being barrelled down by an ice cream truck.
The driver honks at him above the sound of gunshots.
Changmin kind of wants to call Kyuhyun and tells him that this vacation fucking sucks.
He can almost hear them laughing at him.
A jeep screeches to a halt at the mouth of the alley and Yunho greets him with eyes scarred with worries. Those eyes widen when he sees dark carmine seeping through the gaps of Changmin’s fingers and he scrambles to open the door, leaning back as Changmin stumbles inside. The upholstery is a shade of light brown, smooth to the touch and Changmin’s almost sorry to see his blood smeared in stark red streaks across it. He clenches his jaw as Yunho drives over a pothole, pain flaring bright and agonising, but what rankles him the most is the expression on Yunho’s face. Fear. He’s learnt to recognise that years ago — before Bahrain, before the sewers in Kiev, before Yemen. Usually sees it at the other end of a gun barrel and it’s never a welcomed sight.
Especially now. On Yunho.
"I should’ve made sure there weren’t any eyes on you." Yunho’s knuckles are white from his death grip on the steering wheel. His eyes flicker to Changmin. "What’s the damage?”
“Didn’t hit anything important, I don't think,” he says, tries to grin but everything feels a bit wobbly. He’s not sure if it’s the blood loss or the last dregs of sanity finally escaping his grasp, but he reaches out against better judgement. Brushes blood-stained fingers over the arch of Yunho’s cheek. “Hey, it’s not your fault.”
Yunho flinches at the touch, but doesn’t pull away. He makes a sharp turn to avoid incoming traffic and ignores the angry motorists flipping him off. If Changmin survives this clusterfuck, he’s going to have to talk to Yunho about maybe getting proper driving lessons so he doesn’t end up committing vehicular manslaughter in the future. “Just— don’t die.”
“That’s what they said.”
“They?”
“My team.” Changmin sinks deeper into the seat and throws the back of an arm over his eyes. He laughs, the sound coming out ugly and wet, and he has to clear his throat before he adds, “They’re a bunch of assholes. You’ll like them.”
The last thing he hears before he surrenders into that lovely stretch of nothingness is Yunho’s voice urgently telling him not to.
.
Yemen is hot. And full of sand, with weather-beaten brown faces peering out of dilapidated buildings in perpetual fear. It’s the same old picture in every single village they’ve gone through so far. Changmin hefts his rifle over a shoulder, his backpack on another, and treks down the outcrop of boulders where he’d been standing guard since dawn. They’re moving to a new location in the next available convoy and he can’t wait to get out of the merciless sun. Siwon’s running point, Kyuhyun covering his ass and Changmin laughs when Minho stumbles over loose rocks on his way down. The kid is as graceful as a sixteen-wheeler with a malfunctioning brake.
“They radioed in yet?”
Changmin takes a deep drag from his canteen, eyes fixed on Siwon’s frown as the older man cradles the receiver between his ear and shoulder. His hands are preoccupied with tracing a route on their map. “Doesn’t look like it.”
“Maybe they’re stuck in traffic,” Minho laughs, a boisterous sound that draws Donghae and Hyukjae’s attention. He’s the newest in the team, joined straight out of the academy and seems to suffer from a state of inexhaustible energy. Changmin’s tired just watching him gesticulate at everything. “Do you know what I’ll do once we get back?”
“Masturbate to that Girls’ Generation poster we all pretend you don’t carry around everywhere?”
“No, hyung!” Minho punches his shoulder, the laugh lines around his eyes deepening. They just make him look younger, more endearing. His hair’s getting longer, peppered with dust and Changmin had reminded him so many times that he shouldn’t take his combat helmet off, the reckless idiot. “I’m gonna—”
Changmin knows he’s in the middle of another nightmare now because everything just goes quiet. The world holding its breath. This scene always plays out the same way, over and over again. Minho doesn’t get to finish that sentence because in the next second, he’s jerked sideways by the force of a 338 blowing off half of his head. The helmet goes flying. Changmin drops to the ground, a trained reflex, and rolls for cover. In his peripheral, he can see Donghae and Hyukjae doing the same. Siwon and Kyuhyun are already out of sight as a hail of bullets descends upon them. Changmin’s close enough that he still has Minho’s prone body in his line of vision. Brain matters and blood splatter over the sand and stones, drying under the baking sun. Minho’s eyes are wide open but nothing is there now — not the mirth, the childish delight, the joy, the sheer life he used to encompass.
Changmin grips his rifle and stares at Minho.
Whose blood-speckled mouth parts and he hears Minho’s voice say, strangely clear amidst all the chaos, “Why didn’t you save me, hyung?”
.
Changmin screams. And screams—
—and screams.
.
He jerks awake, heart pounding against his ribcage and horror-wrapped syllables lodged inside his throat. It’s that familiar, unpleasant process — surfacing from nightmares half-remembered, glimpses of faces that belong to the dead and it wouldn’t be long before he starts contemplating shoving a gun under his chin just to make it all stop. He blinks at the ceiling, tries to calm his choppy breathing. It takes several minutes for him to realise that he’s back in his temporary room and that he’s hooked to two large IVs. He can’t feel his shoulder, doesn’t even bother trying to rotate the joint.
“Changmin?”
His neck protests when he turns to the source of the voice. Yunho looks like he hasn’t slept in years. “Are you okay?”
Yunho’s face crumples. “I should be the one asking.”
Nausea makes Changmin swallow a couple times. “Water?”
“Wait here.”
As if Changmin is in any shape to move, even if he wants to. Yunho comes back with a glass of ice chips and he holds it to Changmin’s mouth, sitting on the edge of the bed like he’s afraid he’ll break something if he gets too close.
“You’re lucky it went clean through. And that he got you outside of the shoulder. Anywhere else and it could’ve nicked an artery. You could’ve lost that arm.”
“It still beats dying.” Changmin swallows what he can and leans back, wincing at the first throb of pain. “I’ve been thinking about retiring anyway.”
Yunho blinks, clearly blindsided by the confession.
Changmin is about to tell him it’s not a big deal, that retirement is probably the best option (considering the alternative), but the door cracks open and a young woman walks in, ponytailed hair swinging behind her like a pendulum. “Yundol, they’ve just called me in—” She pauses once she notices Changmin. “Oh, you’re awake.”
“Am I not supposed to?” he deadpans.
Yunho levels him an exasperated look. “She saved your life, Changmin-ah.”
The woman heads towards the bed. She’s a lot shorter up close and he doesn’t like the way she casually wraps an arm around Yunho’s shoulder. “It’s no big deal. I’m used to ungrateful morons in my line of work. How are you feeling, champ?”
Changmin’s expression flattens. “Like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
“Great.” She pats him on his unbandaged shoulder, perhaps a little harder than necessary. He might still be a little fuzzy from the painkillers because her smile seems more axe murderer than Florence Nightingale when she says, “Take the antibiotics. I’ll come back after my shift to make sure you’re not dead.”
Yunho grins, eyes crinkling. “Sleep. You’ll feel better.”
.
“Maybe they’re stuck in traffic,” Minho's laughing again. Changmin wishes he wouldn’t laugh so much so loudly. He drags the back of a hand over his sweaty forehead. “Do you know what I’ll do once we get back?”
“Masturbate to that Girls’ Generation poster we all pretend you don’t carry around everywhere?”
“No, hyung!” Minho’s punch on his shoulder doesn’t register. The kid is still not wearing his helmet, doesn’t matter how many times Changmin tells him to. “I’m gonna—”
One single bullet. The helmet goes flying.
Changmin stares at whatever's left of Minho’s head and hears,
Why didn’t you save me, hyung?
.
“What’s happeni— Changmin! Changmin, it’s okay! You’re safe—”
“—hold him still! Shit—”
A pinch on his forearm and Changmin is sliding back under, the ghosts going to bed inside his head.
.
Changmin wakes up again to the sight of Yunho at his bedside, mouth slowly moving as he reads something on his laptop. He’s in an oversized sweater, soft yellow, and it’s a rather nice view, so Changmin spends several minutes keeping very still and just— watching him. Sequestered from the rest of the world like this, it’s easy to pretend that they’re more than colleagues. Put together to serve a higher purpose than mere convenience, and he aches for something that could have been. Yunho eventually realises he’s awake and closes the laptop, puts it away. Changmin is too drugged up to parse the emotions flitting through his face, the way he chews on his lower lip as if sorting through a rolodex of condolences.
I’m sorry you’re fucked up beyond belief is one of the more familiar options.
Changmin decides to beat him to it. “Did it work?”
Yunho’s eyebrows crease. “What?”
He clears his throat. “Park. Did we get him?”
“Yes,” Yunho says, in a voice that’s raw and exhausted. It’s nowhere near triumphant. “It’ll take a while to dismantle his operation completely, but we have everything we need to take him down. Local office’s coordinating to keep him here until they’re ready to extradite.”
Changmin tries to laugh. The sound that comes out of his mouth is closer to breathless wheezing and Yunho’s face twists with concern. There’s also an underlying tension in the set of his shoulders, the restless way he’s picking at the knees of his jeans, and Changmin knows what’s coming even before Yunho opens his mouth.
“If you want to talk—”
“No, I don’t,” Changmin says, as steadily as he knows how. Yunho is shaking his head before Changmin’s even finished and he thinks, resentfully, what would you know? What the fuck would you know? “It’s no big deal.”
“You were thrashing around in your sleep. Hurting yourself.” There’s an uncharacteristic edge in Yunho’s voice. “How long has this been going on?”
“I’m fine.” Changmin looks at the hurt marring Yunho’s eyes and nearly capitulates. But then he remembers that Yunho is heading off to another part of the world as soon as they’re done (there’s no rest for the wicked, he’d said, without explicitly pointing out if he’s referring to himself or the guys on the other side of the fence) and whatever they have between them won’t survive two different flights out of the country. It’s easier to cut his losses now. “Leave it alone.”
“Changminnie—”
“Leave it, Jung.”
.
Changmin dreams of Yemen and Minho and the way Yunho reeled back, as if Changmin had emptied several rounds of .357 ordinance into his chest.
.
Recovery takes first precedence.
The tiny doctor reintroduces herself as Kwon Boa and offers nothing else. Changmin thinks she must be ex-military. Or an agent planted right around Yunho’s, in case of medical emergencies. There are always contingency plans in place because the military is well-versed in the history of best-laid plans going spectacularly awry. Her hands are quick and thorough, and she repacks the hole punched through his flesh without much preamble. She checks the dressing and tells him that he’s a lucky bastard — GSWs to the shoulder are almost always nasty.
“You’ve got someone up there looking out for you, champ.”
Changmin doesn’t tell her that he’s about as religious as the rifle sitting in its locked case. “Am I cleared to fly?”
“We can load you up on drugs and hope for the best.” Her lips twitch. He winces when she makes him lean forward so she can check his back. “As long as you don’t get a panic attack and start bleeding out again in a giant tin can hurtling cross-continent 35,000 feet above ground, you’ll survive.”
“That doesn’t sound like standard medical advice.”
“You’re not asking for standard medical advice.” She doesn’t seem uncomfortable or irritated, just amused, as if she finds Changmin endearing. “Why are you in such a hurry to leave? Stay a while. Visit the Buda Castle. Eat some goulash. Fuck a local.”
Changmin chokes on the pills he was trying to dry swallow.
“I saved your life,” Boa points out calmly. She’s now talking like a friend, instead of a stranger and that sets his teeth on edge. “Don’t waste it.”
.
when the hell are you coming back. siwonnie won’t admit it but he’s starting to worry.
Changmin chews on his lips. It’s slow, typing with his left. he's not my mother.
Kyuhyun’s reply chimes in after midnight.
be safe. come back home.
.
Yunho’s steps are measured when he makes his way inside. There’s a precision to his movements, as if to counteract some greater sway.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better.” It’s awkward, tentative and Changmin hates it. Yunho moves to the chair right next to the bed, close enough to touch. His expression is tight and miserable, a blankness Changmin can’t recognise. He knows he’s the one who put it there and the knowledge sits like an anvil in the hollow of his gut. He tries to swallow, but the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them. “His name’s Minho.”
Yunho’s eyes widen and he goes stock-still.
Changmin sucks in a breath through his teeth. The air in the room seems to turn to water around him, settling thick and heavy in his lungs.
“He’s a great kid. First tour. Said he’d always wanted to serve our great nation, just like his grandfather. And his great grandfather. Wouldn’t shut up about football though.” Changmin startles himself when he barks out a laugh. His shoulder hurts. His chest hurts. He thinks about Minho’s smile and everything inside him hurts. “He’s supposed to come home with us.”
Changmin waits for panic to kick in, because this is more than what he’d shared with his therapist, with anyone else in his team, but the only thing he feels is the kind of weariness that’s chiselled its way into his marrows. Yunho’s silence is deafening and his eyes flicker to the window in refuge: the light’s fading, the sky filled to bulging with the colour of honeysuckle and lavender.
Changmin misses the privacy (emptiness) of his apartment in Seoul.
“He knew the risks when he signed up. We all do,” Yunho finally says, after an eternity. He threads his fingers through Changmin’s and squeezes. His eyes are dark and solemn, solidarity in grief. Even though he doesn’t know Minho, wouldn’t even get the chance. Changmin thinks they would've gotten along and his throat closes around a sob. “And what we can do afterwards is to soldier on, because that’s what we do.”
Yunho’s ersatz smile widens.
“That’s the only thing we can do.”
.
Boa teaches him how to change the bandages and gives a curt, unsolicited advice about the perils of getting addicted to painkillers.
“I’m not an idiot,” he says. His luggage is packed and he hasn’t seen Yunho around the apartment since yesterday. There was breakfast on the bedside table when he woke up, but no note. No extra body.
Changmin knows what that means. He’d said enough goodbyes to last several lifetimes.
Something must’ve shown on his face because she looks at him thoughtfully. “Could’ve fooled me.”
.
Changmin hands the Customs officer his boarding pass and passport and goes through the shoes-jacket-x-ray dance as efficiently as possible. They ask him about the rifle case and he gives them the same story he did when he first landed. Friend of a fried. Shooting competition. They ask him how he fared. He tells them he fucked up his shoulder so he didn’t get to fire a single bullet and that earns him a round of polite laughter. They’re nice enough to wish him luck for his next imaginary competition and he wishes them ‘good day’ in mangled Hungarian, the only phrase he still remembers from the mini travel dictionary he left in the taxi that had deposited him to the airport.
He gets the aisle seat and looks at the window longingly.
“Are you gonna get in?”
That’s Yunho’s voice and that’s Yunho standing behind him, a light sheen of sweat making his skin glisten in the harsh artificial light.
It looks like he’d been running.
Changmin stares, open-mouthed.
“What are you doing here?”
Yunho’s eyes narrow. “Why the fuck do you think?”
It’s the first time Changmin sees anger writhe through Yunho’s expression, like he’s seconds away from punching Changmin in the throat and it does nothing to make him less attractive. The other passengers are starting to stare and one of the flight attendants clears her throat, nervously. Since getting thrown out is not part of the plan, Changmin scoots inside, mindful of his shoulder, and watches Yunho settle into his seat. They don’t talk as they sit through the pre-flight briefing, but Changmin feels like he’s sitting next to a furnace that’s spitting out anger instead of heat. Once they’re well in the air and the light on the seatbelt sign blinks off, Yunho twists towards him.
It’s only years of military training that keeps Changmin from leaning back.
“What were you thinking? Just leaving like that?” They’re descending into furious whispers now and this would’ve been funny if Changmin’s head isn’t spinning so much. He watches Yunho’s fingers curling and unfurling on the armrest. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“Because we’re done.” The flash of hurt that cuts across Yunho’s face feels like a knife sliding through his ribs. Changmin clenches his jaw. “You said you’re getting reassigned as soon as the op’s over.”
“Yeah, I was supposed to!” Yunho replies, tightly. “That’s why I had to hand in all my reports and talk to my CO. The next thing I know, Boa’s calling me saying that you’re on your way to the airport.”
“Wait.” Changmin licks his lips, trying to put his scattered thoughts into some semblance of order. “Wait. What do you mean you’re ‘supposed to’?”
It’s Yunho’s turn to be caught off-guard. He hesitates for a moment too long before he says, “My leave’s been approved.”
Changmin’s eyebrows hike to his hairline. “Leave?”
“Yeah? I’ve been thinking about what you said—” There’s a telltale flush of red creeping over his neck, his cheeks, “—that I haven’t been home for ages. And—” he’s nervous, Changmin’s mind gleefully points out as Yunho starts rubbing the back of his neck, “—I thought, y’know, maybe it’d be nice go back.” His voice drops, almost embarrassed. “With you.”
And then Yunho smiles, shy and sweet and so open it makes something in Changmin’s chest catch.
He garbles out an impatient noise and fists a hand in Yunho’s shirt to tug him in. His shoulder twinges in protest, but this is much too important for him to worry about fucking it up even further. He’ll do extra rounds of PT later. Yunho’s mouth parts in surprise and Changmin seals his lips over it, presses as close as he can with the armrest between them. Yunho’s fingers slide across his cheeks and into his hair, uses the grip to anchor him in place. The kiss gets a little slower, softer and Changmin finds it difficult not to be disappointed when Yunho steals one last kiss before pulling away.
He presses their foreheads together.
“I assume that’s a ‘yes’?”
Changmin drags his thumb across Yunho’s bottom lip. “Definitely a ‘yes’.”
The moment’s ruined by a smattering of applause from the fucking peanut gallery, a few wolf whistles thrown in and Changmin would’ve preferred getting shot all over again than having to endure this. The attendant from earlier catches his eyes and winks, gives him two thumbs up from where she’s leaning against a cart. Her colleague is surreptitiously dabbing at her eyes. Changmin wants to crawl into the cargo hold and stay there for the remainder of the flight. Yunho, however, is holding his hand and looks really fucking happy and Changmin realises that maybe—
—maybe it’s okay to start living again.
(He will always remember. He will dream of Yemen and Minho and the nightmares will never be truly gone, but Yunho will be there to remind him that the dead doesn’t begrudge the living for their borrowed time.)
“Hey.” Changmin nudges Yunho’s elbow, once the commotion dies down and he’s no longer hiding behind the in-flight menu. Yunho stops crunching on his third packet of complimentary peanuts to raise an eyebrow in question. Changmin grins. "Wanna join the Mile High Club?”
.