Chapter Text
All things considered, Dongho has a pretty good life.
That sounds incredibly naive - he's aware he was raised in the upper class, aware he never had to want for anything - but, somehow, things are good.
His parents' company is flourishing, meaning there's no need for him to be dragged step in. Boba's happy in America (even if he does miss her) and he gets twice-weekly updates from his butler. And, most importantly, MAYHEM's fanbase is only growing.
Things are going really, really well.
Everything, that is, except for one.
Jaewon.
Dongho's not blind - he can tell there's something happening to his dongsaeng, something that hollows his eyes and weakens his smiles, turning every breath into a deeper lie.
He's good at recognizing liars.
You have to be, when you're surrounded by wolves in sheep's clothing.
In the worst way, Jaewon reminds him of those other children - the one strung up as puppets for a dream not their own, the ones pushed to have perfect grades and extracurriculars and friends and to just be so damn perfect every second of every hour of every day. Jaewon looks like those kids - hollow eyes, brittle smile, a brilliant actor whenever it counts - and if Dongho wasn't trained in looking deeper, wasn't trained in acting himself, he'd believe it.
As it is, though.
As it is, Jaewon's hiding something, secrets locked behind chapped lips, and Dongho doesn't know if he should press or not.
Logic dictates yes - the part of him his parents made, the part of him trained to be a viper, the part of him trained to weasel information out of unsuspecting people so his parents can take them down says yes - but oh, Dongho doesn't know what he'd do with that information anyways.
He wasn't taught genuine kindness, wasn't taught how to handle things without the pretense of a chess game, and he's learning, but it's not quite quick enough.
Not quick enough for this.
Still - he looks at Jaewon, chapped lips bitten raw and nails digging into his thigh - and thinks.
Nothing to do with this information - superfluous. If this was a test, a dossier of sorts, he'd throw it aside - psychological trauma is commonplace, after all.
But.
It's not a test.
It's not a test, and Jaewon's here, struggling in front of him, and Dongho has to- has to do something, doesn't he? Isn't that the right thing to do if he sees people struggling?
But oh, he has no clue, stuck standing, paralyzed, trapped in his mind as he runs over hundreds of thousands of scenarios and comes up blank every time.
He doesn't-
doesn't know what to do.
And that scares him.
Minsoo could've had an excellent career as a drill sergeant, Dongho thinks, working a cramp out of his calf.
The leader barks orders at Daehyun and Jaewon - who still can't get down this one particular transition - and Dongho nearly suggests that they try it again, but slower, and then remembers that this is Lee Minsoo.
He holds his tongue.
Daehyun trips, landing on top of Jaewon and sending them spilling to the ground, and Dongho's lips quirk into a smirk as Minsoo screams something about "noodle limbs" and "fish-flopping" and "what the fuck are you doing, Kim Daehyun?"
Ah, the delights of working with Minsoo.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he fishes it out of his pocket.
It's an unfamiliar number.
Another spam caller, then.
He clicks his phone off, staring at the screen for a moment and catching his reflection in the darkness.
Wow, his hair is a mess.
"Hey!" Minsoo shrieks, and Dongho raises his head, nearly impaling his eye on Minsoo's finger. "If you're feeling good enough to play games, then you can come and practice!"
"This coming from you?"
"I focus when I need to!"
"Mhm."
"Hey!"
Dongho drops his phone on top of his jacket and stands, raking a hand through his hair. "Alright. What do you want to work on?"
Minsoo pauses, and Dongho sighs. "You didn't think about it."
"Well, I couldn't just let you play on your phone!"
"What do you think I use my phone for?"
"Cat photos!" Minsoo triumphantly replies, and Dongho sighs.
He isn't wrong...
"Are you proud of yourself?"
"Very."
"Wait for it, wait for it-"
"Hyung?"
Dongho hums, pulling his headphones off his head and letting them hang around his neck. "What's up?"
Daehyun leans against the door, something flickering in his eyes, and Dongho presses pause on his music, the tinny music cutting off in an instant. "Is everything okay?"
"...I'm worried about Jaewon-hyung."
Ah.
So Daehyun's noticed it too.
"Why?" Dongho asks, and Daehyun bites his lower lip.
"...is Minsoo-hyung here?"
Dongho tries to ignore the fact that Daehyun doesn't feel comfortable talking to him (he fails) and shakes his head. "He's getting soju. You can talk to me, if you want."
Daehyun hesitates for a moment longer before stuffing his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt, a silent war in his eyes. "...he looks so tired, hyung."
If Daehyun's noticing, then Jaewon's slipping.
Dongho cuts off the derision before it starts, instead opting to nod his head.
Jaewon's not a high-society viper.
He's a friend.
Dongho's still learning how to tell the difference.
"Hyung?"
Dongho blinks, jolting out of his reverie. "Yeah?"
"Were you listening?"
Dongho opens his mouth, then shuts it.
Daehyun stares at him with sad sad eyes, and it occurs to Dongho that maybe Daehyun's more human than he is, by this point.
Dongho's a viper, something born to destroy and manipulate and taint, and Daehyun's a sheep, gentle, soft, and kind.
"Never mind," Daehyun murmurs, turning towards the door. "I'll just call Minsoo."
Dongho watches him go, heart in his throat, but he says nothing.
Never does.
His phone buzzes in his pocket once more, and he hangs up without looking at the screen.
No matter how much he tries to argue, venom coats his lips.
"Prrow!"
Dongho grins, watching as Boba sniffs the screen. "Are they treating you right, baby girl?"
"Mrrow!"
"I'm so glad."
Boba sniffs the camera for a moment longer before sitting back on her haunches, and Dongho's smile turns softer as his fingertips brush the screen. "I miss you, baby."
"Mrow?"
"So, what's been going on in America?"
Boba's ears swivel from side to side, and a pang of pain shoots through Dongho's chest.
"I'm not there, sweetie. I'm still in Korea."
"Mrow?"
"I know, baby. I'm sorry. Next time we get a break, I'll come see you, okay?"
"Prrow!"
"We can go for walks, and I can give you your birthday presents. Doesn't that sounds great?"
"Mrrow!"
"I miss you too," Dongho murmurs, resting his chin on his hand as he stares at the screen. "I miss you a lot, baby."
Boba leans forwards to rub the camera, and Dongho frowns as he stares at her. "Have you lost weight?"
"Mrrow?"
God, Dongho wishes he could be there.
"I'll see you soon, sweetie," he murmurs, reaching up to brush the screen. "I have to go, though."
"Mew?"
"I know, sweetie. I know."
His fingertips brush the glass for a moment longer, and he smiles, something aching deep in his chest. "I love you, okay?"
"Mrow!"
"...thanks, baby."
The screen flickers to black nothingness, and he stares at his reflection, unsure of what to say.
Is there anything he can say?
Sometimes, when he looks in the mirror, Dongho sees his father.
Sometimes, when he looks in the mirror, Dongho sees someone power-hungry, someone with perfectly-pressed suits and cutting words and not an ounce of empathy in his cold eyes. Sometimes, he sees his father - his father, with his curled lip and sneer and diminutive way of talking, as if everyone is beneath him.
Sometimes, when he looks in the mirror, Dongho sees his brother.
Sometimes, when he looks in the mirror, Dongho sees someone desperate, someone drowning in ill-fitting suits and dreams he never held dear. Sometimes, when he looks in the mirror, he sees images scrawled over arms with permanent marker, smells sharpie fumes and smoke, tastes the bitterness loneliness and despair on his lips, and he wonders if they're that different, after all.
Once upon a time, Dongho dreamt of being his father - cutthroat, willing to step on anybody and everybody to make an extra buck - but as time went on, that dream turned to a nightmare.
Once upon a time, Dongho looked down on his brother - desperate in ill-fitting suits - and saw him as someone who'd never make it in a world he never wanted to be in.
And now, with his fingers brushing the cold glass of the mirror, he sees both of them, and himself.
When he looks in the mirror, all he can see is a liar.
Someone indecisive, someone who's only delaying the inevitable (he is going to take over the company he has to take over the company it doesn't matter when or how but he is going to take over someday) and who has betrayal written over every inch of their skin.
If he squints, he can see the wire tightening around his neck.
He's never been free.
It's always been nothing more than a beautiful illusion.
When he inhales, he smells the ghost of marker fumes.
When he swallows, he tastes venom.
Looking at his reflection like this, it's so easy to see he hasn't changed at all.
"So," Dongho mutters, "you're paying?"
"I am," Minsoo confirms, slapping his wallet on the table as if that means something. "Team dinner! The leader has to pay!"
Jaewon laughs, a little high, a little awkward, and Daehyun chimes in as if that'll make it better.
It doesn't, but Minsoo seems to appreciate the effort.
"So," Minsoo continues, slapping his wallet on the table once more, "what do you guys want?"
"Soju!" Daehyun cheers, and Minsoo throws his hands in the air.
"I'll drink to that!"
Dongho's no fool - he knows they just want to get Jaewon to loosen up, as part of their patented "aggresively-get-to-know-Jaewon-god-fucking-dammit" (working title) plan - but he'd really rather not drink.
Designated driver it is.
As the hours slip by, Minsoo quickly winds up very thoroughly plastered, and starts giving a soliloquy on the real meaning of life and how life is just the Sims and the universe is perpetually fucking with everyone, and Daehyun's dozing off and on, head resting on the table and occasional giggles slipping through his lips. Jaewon looks vaguely concerned, face flushed but still fairly sober, and Dongho's severely regretting ever agreeing to this meal.
Of course, he has to lug these dumbfucks home, too.
Dongho's phone buzzes for the umpteenth time, and he sighs, raking a hand through his hair. It's the same number as before, so it must be important.
He mumbles an apology to Jaewon and slips into a quiet area, pressing "accept" and waiting for the call to connect.
"Hello?"
"Is this Dongho Kang?"
"Yes," he edges, gaze drifting back to his groupmates. "What's going on?"
"At approximately ten thirty pm on Monday, your parents were involved in a fatal car crash."
His breath sticks in his throat.
"You were listed as the person who would take over Kang Industries in case of their sudden demise, however, we have not been able to reach you since then."
No.
No, no, no-no-no.
"They're dead?"
He sounds calm - years of practice drilled that into him - but he can't breathe.
He can't breathe.
They're dead.
They're dead, and everything he loved and dreamed of and cared about is slipping through his fingers like water.
"Yes."
He can't-
he can't breathe.
His mind whirls with thoughts, bits slipping in and out of his conscious mind, and he's only aware he's on the ground when his head hits the wall, his hand still gripping the phone for dear life.
"What do you need me to do?"
He can't breathe.
He can't- he can't-
"There will be a call tomorrow at 3pm EST to discuss it."
"I understand."
"I'll send you some paperwork that needs to be completed before then."
"I understand."
"See you then."
The man hangs up, and Dongho puts his head between his knees and tries not to have a full-blown panic attack in the middle of a bar at two thirty in the morning.