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“What's on your mind?” Jongseong looks up from his phone, catches Sunghoon staring unabashedly. There's an unlit cigar between his lips, an expectant look in his eyes. Jongseong sighs and tosses his lighter to him. “Nothing,” he says, not in the mood to let the conversation stretch.
“The sky’s orange.” Sunghoon, of course, doesn't allow silence to settle. He's occasionally like that; mischievous and teasing, sometimes at the most inconvenient timings, pretending like he can’t read the room.
Any other day Jongseong would've been more tolerant, and he knows Sunghoon knows this. But sometimes he plays the little vixen who seems to have ultimately decided it's his life mission to douse lemon juice on Jongseong’s tongue whenever he gets the chance.
“Any news from the cleanup crew?” He asks something more practical—it momentarily gets him away from the venom of his own thoughts. Sunghoon shrugs, and Jongseong notices just now that there's blood staining his otherwise immaculately white undershirt. “I'll change later,” Sunghoon answers the unspoken question with a coy smile as he closes the buttons of his black suit, but Jongseong could see the way it trembles at the edges.
“Heeseung-hyung said they're on their way five minutes ago. They should be there by now.” The last syllable sounded like a sigh; tired, and most of all, sad. None of them wanted to chase a colleague they’ve known and trusted for a reasonably good amount of time down an abandoned alley and put a bullet through his skull for betraying the mafia, but they had to, Sunghoon didn't have a choice but to pull the trigger. Jongseong didn't have a choice but to watch, making sure he did his job, or else it'd be him shooting Sunghoon dead, too.
It's a vicious cycle, a vicious life, one both men wished they could get away with, but couldn't. They took an oath, pledged incontestable allegiance to the mafia, their lives dedicated to an underground organization instead of being their own. Assassins first, humans second.
“The sky’s orange,” Sunghoon repeats, arms propped on the balcony’s railing, smoke puffing out of his lips and dancing across his cheeks with every exhale. It's mesmerising, to say the least, and Jongseong hates how he can't help but stare. It's a red flag in their line of work; so many implications, a dangerous tread. He really can't help but stare.
Noticing his silence, Sunghoon turns to him, meets his gaze and blinks in mild surprise when Jongseong doesn't avert his eyes. At times like this, it's weirdly easier to forget that Park Sunghoon is a sniper with an insane body count, easier to forget that Park Sunghoon is a walking death machine that could kill without so much as batting an eyelash; assassin first, human second. Here, under the sunset that makes his skin glow and his hair shine with notable streaks of auburn, it's easier to forget all those and just see Sunghoon for what he truly is; he is human second but most important of all, and he's the love of Jongseong’s life, his Patroclus, the air to his lungs, his everything.
Here, under the orange light blanketing the entirety of Seoul, it's easier to see Sunghoon’s flaws, see him at his most raw and unguarded moment, appreciate him for everything he is and isn't. There’s a fissure in his mask, invisible to the rest of the world but presented to Jongseong like an act of capitulation. He almost doesn’t know what to do with it, what to do about the fact that Sunghoon’s only ever going to be like this with him.
He wonders, as they continue to stare at each other in silence, if Sunghoon could also see through him with similar ease.
He doesn't wonder for long.