Chapter Text
Wilshire is five colors. Blonde. Blue. White. Brown. Pink.
No Orange. There are no traitors in this operation.
I. BLONDE
Seunghyun likes fairytales.
Seunghyun is also crazy, which is why it is very, very important that the book be accounted for at all times.
This, like many things, falls to Jiyong. He doesn’t mind. Fifteen years is long enough for it to be more a habit than a conscious effort. He is Leader. This is what he does.
He throws the suitcase into the trunk. Climbs into the driver’s seat and checks the glovebox, second habit. The book is there. All is well.
Seunghyun is riding with him into the desert today. He crawls into the passenger seat, limbs too long for Jiyong’s sleek little beast. He turns the radio on without asking and jangles along in time to the music. Every rap song that comes on, he knows the words to, and no matter how hard the beats run they can’t outrun him.
Their oldest member is a savant who was considered an idiot at ten and killed his first at twelve. Even in their world of lions, people are afraid of Seunghyun. Jiyong isn’t. Seunghyun is older than him but Seunghyun is his little brother. People tell him behind Seunghyun’s back that he’s good at managing him. Leader stares at these people, straight-lipped. He doesn’t manage anything. Just loves Seunghyun fiercely even when he’s covered in blood, dazed and smiling.
Seunghyun tells him a long story about two people he saw on a train and Jiyong nods, half-listening. An hour into the drive he settles into the quiet steady rumble of ninety-an-hour. His huge hands make their way deftly into the glovebox and take out the little book. Dense German in Gothic print, illustrations in pastel and ink. Jiyong knows that Seunghyun does not know German. Nevertheless, as always, he starts at the beginning and thumbs his way forwards, looking fascinated.
Jiyong reaches over the dashboard without taking his eyes off the road and flicks the radio off.
II. BLUE
Seungri was born with a stolen silver spoon in his pretty mouth. Their crime princeling is not hardscrabble like the rest of them. He likes fast cars because they’re pretty; Jiyong likes them because they get him away when he needs to get away. He likes women because they’re pretty. Jiyong doesn’t like women, just respects the clever ones.
Seungri likes him, and Jiyong smiles tightly to himself.
They don’t get along in the beginning. They’re too different. Jiyong and Youngbae, they’ve worked to get where they are. When they were children they begged for weeks for the big suited men on the streets to take them in. In that desperate city there were swarms of boys who’d fetch your newspapers, polish your shoes, dispose of your bodies. You had to be smart to get ahead. They were, and worked hard, and had the instinct for the business—and they were loyal, knew how to keep their mouths shut and say their yes-sirs and no-sirs.
Today both Seungri and Jiyong wear suits, but only Jiyong has scrubbed the floors for them.
On the first day he’d told him, “Learn well and work hard,” and Seungri had scoffed.
Jiyong hadn’t hesitated to put him in his place. Seungri’s wealth and his bloodline mean nothing to him, although maybe they should—even his bosses have called him, once or twice, and told him in couched terms to take it easy on the young Seunghyun. But they don’t tighten the leash too much. So he continues to take Seungri into hand.
Some days Seungri is late. Jiyong goes up to his lush hotel room and kicks in the door. He ignores the naked shrieking girl who leaps up, clutching at the sheets, and focuses on smacking Seungri upside the head. Bewildered and naked, Seungri stares at Jiyong like he’s a god. He is obsessed. Jiyong breathes evenly but Jiyong is uncalm. Jiyong feels good.
So it goes. Jiyong does cocaine, but won’t let him; does morphine, won’t let him, picks out clothes for him, keeps an eye on his women.
“Don’t get messy over the maknae,” says Youngbae suddenly one day.
Jiyong laughs in place of an answer. Isn’t their maknae a wreck for him?
III. WHITE
Youngbae doesn’t kill on Sunday.
On Sundays he tucks his shirt in and goes to church and looks for god.
Once or twice, Jiyong wonders what would happen if he were to cross Youngbae on this holy day.
The thought moves aside. There is no point in thinking about it, because it will never happen. He and Youngbae are brothers sworn, and friends before brothers. He will face the steel muzzle and bark before he allows Youngbae to die.
IV. BROWN
Daesung comes from hill folk. Daesung comes from nowhere. Nobody knows who Daesung’s people are. Daesung is quick with a knife and a gun and a car. Daesung never misses his mark, and Daesung has a smile and a drawl that refuse to budge.
Seunghyun confides in Jiyong that Daesung has come down from the forest.
“The forest,” repeats Jiyong. They are on the bathroom floor. Jiyong’s heart is beating out of his ears and he’s listening in fifty-five directions for a footstep while Seunghyun bleeds onto the tiles.
His mind flickers to the book. He knows where it is without having to think about it.
“In the mountains,” rasps Seunghyun. Jiyong presses the wad of his shirt harder into Seunghyun’s side.
“From a town?”
“No,” says Seunghyun petulantly. “From the forest.”
“Oh yeah? He was raised by wolves?”
“Romulus and Remus.”
“Is that right.”
“He’s a spirit.”
“Like a fairy?”
“Dunno.”
“Is Daesung god?”
“Ask Youngbae.”
Jiyong laughs.
In eight minutes Daesung comes and helps Jiyong drag Seunghyun out. They spin their wheels into the night, and when Jiyong repeats what Seunghyun told him, Daesung laughs and laughs.
V. PINK
As Seunghyun has his little book, so Jiyong has his.
He writes at night, on the strength of exactly three cigarettes and cold barley tea afterwards. Not a journal, certainly—nothing that could be incriminating. Something like poetry. Sounds drift in him: engine roar, fire crackle, cards shuffling smoothly, sex, the desert shimmering and cracking midday, waves, neon hum, the quick hard heartbeat of a gun with a silencer, hair salon chatter, high heels, barking, floodlights turning on, gridlock, crickets. Jiyong runs his fingers through his hair until his scalp hurts and writes and writes and writes.
“Hey, look at this guy.”
Nine in the morning; Youngbae is pointing to someone on the television. Some pop star Jiyong doesn’t recognize. “GD, GD,” prompts Youngbae, but the name means nothing to him.
“Yeah?”
“Well—doesn’t he remind you of you?”
Jiyong looks. Maybe. The camera closes in on the singer. His eyes are heavy with makeup, empty and desperate, staring hungrily into the crowd.
Jiyong thinks he might look like that, sometimes.