Work Text:
It’s date night and Bam’s been counting down the hours.
Granted, they spend time together nearly every day, but there’s always something special about sitting across from each other, sparkling glasses and sparkling eyes. A splash of red wine to stain his lips and make his head spin. An intoxicating prelude to the inevitable kiss.
Bam hums a song under his breath while he pushes through the main entrance to Khun’s apartment complex. He can’t remember the name of the tune. It’s some acoustic cover of an old love ballad, played endlessly in the coffee shop.
Then he starts thinking about the lyrics – about bright smiles and racing hearts – and starts taking the stairs two at a time. Whatever will get him closer to Khun’s door and closer to Khun’s open arms.
Second floor. Third floor.
The humming grows a touch more ragged, his breaths labored with each enthusiastic bound. Giddiness tapers into realistic exhaustion as he pants his way up the final flight of stairs.
Christ, Bam should have taken the elevator. What was he thinking – Khun lives on the fourth floor, after all.
Once outside Khun’s front door, he pauses longer than necessary to fumble for his keys. Even after finding the key Khun gave him, he waits for his embarrassingly loud pants to fade to more normal breaths.
(Khun loves it when Bam bursts into his apartment, breathless and eager. Says it reminds him of an adorable puppy.)
(Bam suspects he looks less like a puppy and more like a ‘90s sitcom character. Significantly less adorable.)
He shakes his head with a faint smile and unlocks the door.
“You’ll never guess who I sa—Khun!”
The startled shout bursts free from Bam’s mouth. He staggers to a stop, momentarily stunned at the sight before him.
Khun. Lying face down on the kitchen floor, his head angled towards the underside of the refrigerator.
Khun. Clothes soaked with deep crimson, his hair smearing more against the white tile.
“Khun! Khun!” The trance breaks and Bam rushes towards his boyfriend. “Oh my god – Khun, are you—”
Bam’s heartbeat pounds faster than it ever did while running up the stairs. His thoughts whirl, shred – like the fruit and ice cubes in the coffee shop’s industrial blender.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Did someone break in? Did someone attack him? What if—what if he’s dea—
And then Khun sits up and Bam nearly screams again.
“Bam—what are you—” Khun gasps, the sound jarring. It takes a moment for Bam to recognize it as laughter rather than a rattling death wheeze.
Bam gently grips Khun’s shoulders and pulls him closer. Close enough to see every fleck of sapphire in his eyes, every fleck of crimson staining his bottom lashes. He’s read about shock in one of Ehwa’s emergency medicine books. Maybe that’s why Khun’s laughing instead of howling in pain.
He gingerly repositions his grip on Khun’s shoulder, but the blood smears worse. Bam’s never had much experience with pools of blood, but this feels far too sticky and cold to be normal.
There’s blood everywhere.
Shit, he’s going to be sick. No time for that though.
His frantic gaze roves over Khun’s body, searching for a source. If he could find out where the blood was coming from, he could keep Khun alive. His fingertips skirt across Khun’s chest, dropping down to his abdomen and pressing against the taut muscle about his belt.
I—I can’t find the wound.
“Khun – look at me. You’re going to be okay, alright? I’ll call an ambulance and they—”
“Bam.”
“Whoever did this to you – they won’t get away with it. I’ll—I’ll—”
“Bam.”
“Aguero, please.” Bam’s voice cracks, his desperation mounting. “You shouldn’t talk right now. Save your strength. Please hold on—”
“Bam!”
Bam blinks and jerks his head back towards Khun’s face.
“I’m not hurt.” Khun’s still smiling, but now a touch of fond concern lingers in his stare. “Seriously. Everything’s fine. I promise.”
“You’re bleeding. You’re hurt.” Bam shakes his head in slow confusion.
Yes, Khun must be in shock. That’s what it is. Because Bam sure as hell knows he’s in shock right now – and he isn’t even bleeding.
“It’s not blood,” Khun counters. He stretches a hand towards Bam. “It’s fake blood. Stage blood. See?”
Bam swallows and takes a long look at the crimson staining the wrinkles along Khun’s palm. He still can’t be sure, but Khun’s sitting up now.
He doesn’t look like he’s dying.
“Was this your idea of a joke?” Bam can’t keep the irritation from tinting his words. Truly, he’s relieved. Relieved but aggravated.
“Not a joke – scout’s honor,” Khun says with a solemn nod, tracing a sticky cross against his chest. “I got called in to reprise a role for this trashy sequel. They needed me in a flashback scene. Y’know, some dramatic moment where the hero’s nameless friend dies in his arms.”
Bam’s expression remains skeptical, his lips pressed in a tight pucker.
“We ran over because of technical difficulties. I had to rush back to put the chicken in before I could wash the blood out.” Khun scowls at the refrigerator, nudging it with a bloody shoe. “And then the damn olive oil cap rolled under the fridge and—”
“You could have told me sooner.” Bam swallows again, the dryness clogging up his throat. “Then I wouldn’t have had to—wouldn’t have had to walk into you…being there.”
Bam hates the tenseness still plaguing his voice, but damn – if he didn’t just see his boyfriend bloody and possibly dead on the kitchen floor. His racing heart still hasn’t settled.
Khun’s eyes crinkle in cruel delight. “You’re right. I should have said something when you first came in, but then you started feeling me up and it must have slipped my mind. And don’t think I didn’t notice that little Aguero you sprinkled in there. Cute.”
He laughs and Bam groans, a poor attempt to save his dignity. He climbs to his feet – his work shoes squelching in the fake blood – and totters towards the front door, still ajar from where he had thrown it open moments earlier. It’s a miracle Khun’s nosey neighbors hadn’t popped by with all Bam’s panicking.
“Why didn’t you text me then? Warn me about…this?” Bam gestures vaguely at Khun, still stretched out on the tile.
“I almost sent you a selfie but decided against it. I know your crazy manager won’t let you take calls while you’re working and, well—” Khun gestures towards himself now “—I didn’t think this was a ‘quick-text’ sort of story. I look like the victim from a low-budget slasher film.”
“Maybe so…” Bam’s wrinkled-nose scowl softens into a mashed-lip smile. He tries to imagine what his reaction would have been if he had taken a quick peek at his phone and saw Khun drenched in fake blood. He’s betting it would have involved shattered porcelain and a pink slip from Hansung.
Khun grunts while picking himself off the ground. He glares half-heartedly at the red grime under his nails and drops the olive oil cap back on the counter. “Truthfully, I thought I would have had time to wash this off before you got here, but Evan’s training a newbie who can’t work the camera right. Two extra hours, Bam. If I hadn't been stabbed, I might have died of old age.”
Khun’s shit-eating grin fades, his expression gentle. “Hey, Bam – I’m sorry if I scared you. If anything actually bad happens to me, you’ll be the first person I call.” He tilts his head and Bam feels the lingering frustration fizzle away like butter in a hot skillet. “Alright?”
“Okay.” Bam pauses, sniffs. “And promise you’ll warn me about the next time you have to die.”
“Of course.”
Bam reconsiders his desire to wrap his arms around Khun in a tight embrace. After all, he’s heard plenty of complaints from his star-studded friends about the perils of fake blood. He’s not about to ruin his favorite shirt.
(Besides, he still has to pretend that he’s irritated. It’s a matter of principle.)
As if sensing Bam’s thoughts, Khun glances down at his own chest and sighs. “Would you mind finishing up the dinner prep? I’m gonna try to wash some of this damn gunk out.”
Bam nods and Khun saunters towards his bathroom, grumbling under his breath. Bam waits for the bathroom lock to click – for the faint hiss of the shower starting – before turning back to the smears of blood against the cold, ivory tile.
Nope. Look elsewhere.
His gaze flicks back to the oven, to the timer, to the bottle of olive oil on the kitchen counter. Anything to keep his eyes distracted from the godawful stains. However, he can’t keep his stare from wandering.
It really does look like a murder scene in here. Or the site of a massacre.
Twenty minutes until the chicken needs to be checked. The other vegetables are already peeled and diced, a little pile of green and red cubes on the cutting board. There really isn’t much for Bam to do.
Khun’s distant hum floats from the bathroom, accompanied by a hazy whiff of vanilla soap. Khun will soon be fresh and clean, his hair silky not stringy.
He won’t want to get dirty again. Bam knows his boyfriend well enough.
Bam moves automatically for the bucket under the kitchen sink, snagging a spare sponge and a bottle of dish soap on his way. It takes nearly twenty seconds of a constant stream for the water from the faucet to grow warm.
Probably since most of it is running down Khun’s body. Down his neck and shoulders and chest and— Bam snorts then immediately flushes. Decides he better get to scrubbing to atone for his unclean thoughts.
He squats by the largest splotch. It must have been where Khun’s chest pressed against the floor while fishing for that elusive olive oil cap. He drags the sponge through the puddle, the deep red mingling with the soapy water in a pale pink slurry.
The blood that dribbled off Khun. When Khun looked nearly dead.
Don’t like that.
Bam scrubs harder as if he could scour the memory from his own thoughts. He grinds the sponge against the tile until his knuckles glow pink – perhaps from the friction, perhaps stained by the blood.
Don’t like that either, he muses, rocking back on his heels to scowl at the muted burn along his knuckles and palms. He’s spent hours scrubbing stubborn syrup stains and week-old dried coffee rings at the café. Why should this be any different?
(He already knows why, but it’s ridiculous – fake blood, fake fear – and he refuses to admit it out loud.)
Bam attacks another stain, this one a stringy smear against the base of the refrigerator. He belatedly realizes it must have come from Khun’s head – his crimson-soaked hair – while wriggling to reach the runaway cap.
“Jesus…” Bam murmurs, shaking his head. “He got it everywhere.”
A body disposal service would have been a more efficient solution. Personally, Bam doesn’t know any – wouldn’t (hopefully) ever have a reason to hide a body – but surely Khun has a few contacts.
Khun’s phone rings, a jarring sound against the rough skrich scratch of sponge against tile. Bam nearly knocks the bucket over – and wouldn’t that be a mess.
“Khun!” he calls, straightening up with a grunt. “Your phone!”
“Who is it?” Khun shouts back.
“Uh, hold on—” Bam cranes his neck. “It’s Evan. Maybe something about filming?”
Bam checks the time. It’s been five minutes since Khun’s retreat to the safety of the shower.
He wouldn’t even be finished with the first conditioning by now. Even without the extra blood mess. Bam’s become uncannily well-versed in his boyfriend’s intricate hair habits. There’s no way he’s coming out.
As expected, Khun groans. “Can you answer it?”
Bam rolls his eyes fondly, already moving towards the phone. He wipes his pink-stained fingertips against his thighs and accepts the call.
“Hello?”
A pause on the other end. “Bam…? Is that you?”
“Hi Evan! Yeah, it’s me. Khun isn’t about to come to the phone right now. He’s, uh…” Bam flicks a stare down the hallway, at the faint shimmer of steam sneaking under the bathroom door. “Getting a shower,” he finishes.
Evan snorts or maybe he chuckles. Bam can’t tell which, but he’s obviously amused. “I’m not surprised. That scene was a doozy.”
Bam’s grip tightens around Khun’s phone. “Khun seemed pretty annoyed by all the blood. It… kinda made a mess.”
“Yeah…” Bam practically hears the sigh in Evan’s voice. “Well, it seems like he’s going to have to do it again. The footage in one of the cameras got botched, so we have to shoot the scene again tomorrow.”
“Oh?”
“What’s he want, Bam?”
“Evan says you have to do the scene again. Something about the camera not working,” Bam calls back, sparing a quick glance down the hallway.
Khun doesn’t respond. Not coherently, at least. A frustrated growl rumbles from the bathroom door.
“He says it won’t be a problem,” Bam translates.
“Uh huh.” Evan’s tone remains dry, skeptical. “Anyway, it’s the same time tomorrow. Tell him to be at the makeup trailer by two-thirty.”
Bam runs a mental calculation, of clock out times and staff switches. He technically works then, but Wangnan owes him a favor and—
“Thanks for passing along the message. I’ll see you later, Ba—”
“Can I come too?” Bam blurts. “I—” He freezes, throws a look over his shoulder. Khun’s still busy in the shower, the cap to a conditioner bottle snapping open. “I would like to watch, if that’s alright.”
“Eh, sure. Why not.” Evan barely misses a beat. Bam wonders if Evan expected the request – or if the lead cinematographer is truly unshakable. “See you tomorrow then. Night.”
“Night,” Bam murmurs into the phone before hanging up. He sets the phone on the counter, next to the bleach spray and paper towels.
He doesn’t know why he’s so desperate to watch tomorrow’s filming. Maybe it’s a sick curiosity, a twisted desire to catch a glimpse of movie magic again.
Bam’s fingertips still burn from the rasping coarseness of the sponge. He curls his fingers into fists, trying to muffle the residual sting.
Maybe this isn’t a good idea.
Khun tries to convince him not to come. That this’ll be boring – “I’ll just be laying there… doing nothing” – and messy – “seriously, Bam… if you thought the dried blood was bad, wait till its fresh” – and a general waste of time.
Regardless, Bam shows up at the filming location at 2:15, still in his work shoes.
Khun shows up at 2:37, his blue hair far less shiny than Bam would have expected for someone about to be on screen.
Khun catches Bam’s stare and reaches up to fluff some extra life into his ponytail. “Why bother making it look good?” he asks with a shrug. “I’m going to be dead in a few hours anyway. You won’t be able to tell what it looks like under all the blood anyway.”
Bam wrinkles his nose. Khun laughs, a mangled mix between mirth and disdain. “What’s with that face?”
“I know you’re joking, but it still sounds weird.” He hesitates, frowning. “You saying you’ll be dead soon, I mean.”
Khun dismisses Bam’s words with a flip of the wrist. “It’s not a big deal. Hell, I’ve died half a dozen times at this point. Getting shot, getting stabbed – it’s all the same, really. You groan, squirm in agony a little, and then try not to sneeze when the blood capsule dribbles back up your nose.” Khun punctuates the last option with a sharp tilt of the head and a gesture towards his face.
“Er… right,” Bam says as if he understands. He’s never had to worry about dripping blood capsules before.
Khun’s smile dries up quickly, his gaze narrowing over Bam’s shoulder. “Though, speaking of agony…”
Bam turns to look, stiffening at the sight of a tall woman striding towards them. Her hair glimmers in the midafternoon sun, more silver than blue. Pale skin, cobalt eyes. All the shades of winter – the telltale signs of the Khun family.
(Khun’s like winter, too. But he’s cinnamon spice and warm blankets and the respite from the ice.)
(The other Khuns though…? They’re cold and austere and dangerous.)
Khun forces another smile, this one far less genuine. “Maschenny. I didn’t expect you to be here. You usually leave the small picture stuff to the crew.”
“That’s only because there’s usually someone competent in charge.” She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “It’s been problem after problem with this goddamn sequel. I’m here to make sure they don’t screw it up even more.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Maschenny’s gaze drifts towards Bam, who’s been trying his damnedest to stay as still and quiet as possible.
“Right,” Khun adds after another uneasy pause. “This is Bam. He’s—”
“Oh, I know who he is. The coffee shop boy,” Maschenny says with a smile that chills Bam worse than any blizzard gust. “That stupid romcom ended up being very successful. Maybe we ought to bring you back.”
“I’m just here to watch,” Bam sputters back. Thankfully, he’s spared from stammering through another excuse. On the set, metal creaks and a lightbulb shatters. Maschenny’s expression darkens as she stalks towards the commotion.
“Shit. That was worse than dying,” Khun leans close to whisper. Bam’s gotta agree.
“Everyone, shut up!”
“We’re about to start!”
The directors – two women Bam’s never seen before – shout in tandem. The blonde scowls at the tittering crowd while the pink-haired woman gestures towards the placard holder.
Two directors… Bam muses, watching them flit around in the background. They spend more time flicking nervous glances at Maschenny than watching their actors. I wonder how that works.
He’s only ever watched one director work.
(And, considering that was Yuri, he doubts he could ever compare them. Yuri’s a special kind of director – not quite the mold.)
He certainly doesn’t envy them. It must be difficult – creative differences, a new crew, their intimidating boss watching like a hawk. Evan looks just as tired, eyeing the rookie camera operator from a distance.
So, he’s the one who blew the shot. The reason Khun has to, uh, die again.
Bam’s gaze darts to the set. A bulky actor stands along the edge, plucking invisible lint from his grungy leather suit. Khun slouches a meter away, picking at his nails. He glances up and offers Bam a cheery wink.
Bam smiles back with a weak wave. He isn’t sure what the proper protocol is for significant others being on set – much less, being the boyfriend of the extra who’s about to be horribly murdered.
“Action!”
Khun’s expression shifts immediately, the genuine adoration reserved only for Bam. Instead, he offers a plastic smile towards his costar, pretending to laugh loudly at something he said.
Clearly, he’s acting there, Bam notes with a twinge of smug satisfaction.
(It’s a far different expression than the faces Khun made while they were in that silly romcom. Bam would know – he’s watched the bonus features on repeat since it came out.)
A shadowy figure darts out from the set perimeter. A knife glints in the harsh sunlight; Khun turns, eyes widening. Then—
Khun!
Bam nearly topples out of the seat Evan had so kindly set out for him. It’s a miracle he didn’t shout, to cry “look out” as the enemy charged Khun.
Khun staggers back with a pained gasp, his hands clasped to his abdomen. The protagonist leaps into action and lunges towards the villain, but Bam’s stare remains glued on Khun.
He knows its all pretend. He knows the shiny crimson dribbling through Khun’s fingers or speckling his lips isn’t real blood. He knows Khun isn’t actually dying – that they’ll sit down to a nice dinner tonight and laugh about this whole thing.
Still, it’s damn terrifying the way Khun sways as his knees buckle. Bam digs his fingernails into the arms of his chair, willing himself to stay seated instead of rushing towards Khun. To catch him before he strikes the dirt.
As Khun gasps out his final breaths, Bam feels his lungs burn as his own inhales grow faster, shallower. He’s vaguely aware of eyes on him. Not Khun’s eyes – those are glazed and glassy, staring at nothing. It’s a different pair of cobalt eyes watching. Calculating, cold, amused.
“Nooo!” the hero bellows, finally refocusing on Khun’s limp body after pummeling the villain. He drops to Khun’s side and howls. Mumbles nonsense about how they were supposed to stay together. Begs for Khun to wake up.
(He never actually says the name of Khun’s character. Bam’s strangely enraged by that detail – that Khun didn’t matter enough for the writers to give him a proper name.)
Khun remains still, his head lolling to the side when the hero clutches him to his chest. Bam cringes. A few hours prior, he had been the one holding Khun tight. A quick squeeze to start their day. He’s impressed Khun doesn’t budge or try to wriggle free like an exasperated cat.
Instead, he lies there, motionless. Lifeless.
It’s simultaneously frightening and awe-inspiring to watch. Khun’s actually acting. Bam had never seen Khun perform before – not really, not seriously.
Bam waits – rigid, breathless – until the blonde director finally calls cut. While they cluster around the rookie cameraman and his rig, Khun sits up with a gusty groan. He rubs at his eyes with the meat of his palm, smearing sticky red across his cheeks.
Now Bam allows himself to run towards the set. He crashes into Khun and tangles his arms around him as tightly as he can. Tight enough to feel the fake blood seep through his favorite jacket and dribble down the front of his chest.
“Bam?” Khun’s torn between laughing and surprise. “You’re going to ruin your—”
“I don’t care,” Bam mumbles, burying his face in Khun’s warm neck. He can feel each rumble of Khun’s laugh.
The warmth, the movement – that’s what matters most right now.
It takes two showers and a thorough face scrubbing before Bam can officially declare himself blood-free. He slouches in his seat at Khun’s kitchen counter, damp towel draped over his hair and his chin resting against his folded arms.
The bathroom door opens a few minutes later, a swell of sweet vanilla and steam drifting towards Bam. Khun carefully shuffles out, his bare heels squeaking against the floor.
“Ahhh,” Khun sighs, his eyes closed in satisfied bliss while he runs a towel through the dripping silver-blue strands of hair. “That’s much better.”
Bam sits up with a faint smile. “You look better. Y’know, not dead anymore.”
Smudges of pink still stain the undersides of Khun’s neck. Perhaps an unfortunate consequence of concentrated red food dye. Or perhaps the residual flush from a shower that was too long and too hot.
Either way, it’s far less distressing than the blood.
Khun tilts his head, letting his towel rest around his shoulders. “So, does that mean you’ll stop looking at me that way?”
“What way?”
“Like I’m about to collapse at any second. You’ve been trailing after me ever since we got back. Hell, I bet you’d have followed me into the shower if I let you.” A pause, a moment of consideration. “Damn, I should have let you.”
Bam glances to the side with a faint huff. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Uh huh.”
“And even if I was following you, then it was just to make sure you didn’t smear blood all over the floor again. Like last night.”
“Of course. Makes sense.” Khun shakes his head with a breathy laugh. He moves around the kitchen counter, brushing a hand across Bam’s back as he passes. “Whatever. Let’s get dinner started. If you want to peel the vegetables, I’ll slice up the—”
“Wait,” Bam interrupts, the word sneaking past his lips automatically. Khun’s hand hovers over the knife block, his slender fingers mere centimeters from the glinting handle.
Bam’s gut clenches automatically. Glinting sunlight, glinting blade.
“I’ll do that part! You can sit and relax. You, uh, had a busy day today.”
“Seriously?” Khun scoffs, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. “I didn’t do much. I literally laid in a pool of fake blood.”
“It’s fine. I don’t mind,” Bam counters. He hops off the bar stool and hurries to nudge Khun away from the knife block.
He’s being silly now. Childish, even. Khun’s incredibly skilled at knives – his only kitchen skill that could rival Bam’s talent – but Bam doesn’t want him anywhere near them. Not after what he saw during filming.
“Well, if you’re doing that, then I’ll go ahead and start peeling the potatoes.”
Bam eyes the vegetable peeler. All those sharp edges and that slippery handle. How many times has he scraped his knuckles with an overly enthusiastic grate? How many times has he cursed when potato juice leaked into those tiny cuts?
“No, I got it.”
Yes, he’ll take care of dinner tonight. It’d be a shame if Khun were to accidentally nick himself after all that effort in getting clean.
“Okay….” Khun narrows his eyes – not in anger, more in suspicion. He speaks slowly, like he’s testing a theory. “How about I pour us something to drink? I think I’ll have to open a new bottle. Would you mind passing me the corkscrew?”
A wickedly sharp coil? Bottled up pressure? The potential for shattered glass?
No, thank you.
“It’s alright. I’ll take care of that, too. Please… you don’t have to do anything right now.”
“Oh?” Khun laughs – the kind of chuckle he makes when he’s figured out a particularly challenging crossword clue. “You gotta let me do something, Bam. How about I scoop out the ice cream for dessert? We also have that leftover cake from Isu. I can slice it up nice and evenly.”
By now, Bam suspects Khun’s just screwing with him. Playful teasing at Bam’s ridiculous protectiveness.
“I’ll do the dishes, too,” Khun continues, the sly grin plastered across his face. “I gotta be careful though. Weren’t you telling me about one of your coworkers slicing themselves on a chipped mug? Wangnan’s cousin, right?”
Bam forces a pained smile. Yes, Khun’s definitely screwing with him now.
Fortunately for Bam’s sake and sanity, Khun relents first. He presses his lips against Bam’s cheek for a quick peck and settles into the vacated bar stool.
Bam’s smile stretches, the strain shifting to joy. Warmth radiates from where Khun’s lips brushed his skin.
“What was that for?”
“A little reminder that I’m not actually dead.” Khun winks. “And that I’m still taking care of dessert tonight.”