Archive of Our Own ^beta

Most times, Kun tries.

To do what exactly, he’s not quite sure himself. But that’s what he likes to tell himself. When waking in the morning or the crack of dawn is exhausting, when eating and taking showers is too exhausting, that is what Kun repeats.

Again.

And again.

Rinse and repeat—except in his case, there’s usually some extra scrubbing involved.

“Professor Qian, Yina’s vitals—“ and he’s already taking off down the hallway, past residents and interns and patients, nurses on their way for rounds and fellow doctors understandingly stepping out the way. A minute is all it takes. For him reach the doors and be greeted in the world of chaos, one that toes between life and death, a façade that lies in his hands, while actually belonging to someone much greater than him.

“Scrub in,” Minji says, Yina’s pediatric doctor, “they’re ready.” And so is he, in another minute more. Feet in, gloves on, and eyes focused ahead, one word of his is enough to quiet the room and start the ticking of time.

They don’t save her.

“I’m sorry,” he bows, deep. “We tried our best.” Kun’s eyes count the dots littered and embedded in the tiles’ designs, one by one, as a sob rips into the air, devastated and broken. He stands, but there is nothing more he wants to do than drop to his knees, truly express all the regret he feels.

It is moments like these, his greed waivers.

If.

If, he were something greater, than two year old Yina would be alive. If, it were up to him, no child would face what she did. Admitted since the day she was born, barely a week in her mother’s arms before she’s snatched away again.

But the fact of the matter is he is not.

Kun is just himself, and sometimes, that is heaviest thing to accept.

“Rough night?”

He doesn’t say a word. The world moves on its tilted way, his face pressed against the cool table and line of vision occasionally obstructed by the shot glass. Jaehyun doesn’t press, but he does bury his face in his hands and let out a giant sigh, while Sicheng sleeps beside him.

“How did yours go?” he finally finds in in himself to ask. Kun has to peel himself off, and poke Sicheng till he wakes up, Jaehyun barely having a change of face even when the lady brings over their order.

“The transplant worked,” he says, voice a little hollow, “he was—the son was supposed to come in today. For his check up.” Supposed to. Sicheng blinks, and then pours a glass, just as Jaehyun messages his temples, “he didn’t. Car accident—I just…I couldn’t believe the name I was reading in ER room. Fuck I—“ he downs it in one go, “how long, hyung?”

“Quit then,” Sicheng says, blunt, and it goes in one ear and out the other for all of them. Kun sighs, trying to get past chewing his food and swallowing it down, barely half a bowl in before his appetite dwindles to nothing.

Not scary?

Not at all, Yina.

“I think I’ll head out,” he says, and the two don’t protest, both still having shifts at the hospital. He pays his part, and then impulsively pays for theirs too, feet dragging as they take him outside. No matter what station he tunes to, he can’t seem to get anything right, white noise too loud and music even more jarring on his grated nerves. Kun wants to be home, with his bed and his cats, because that is all he can carve a space in his life for, everything else having left, bit by bit.

He reaches his building only to pause a bit, slowing down. The streets are empty and quiet in this part of the neighbourhood, most shops long closed and owners gone to bed. His eyes catch sight of the old tailor’s shop, shut down weeks ago only to breathe life in the middle of the night.

At first, nothing really strikes to Kun. And then he’s at his parking spot, the shadows of two figures moving baskets about, walls painted pink with soft green. He blinks, once and twice, before the burred figures in front of the glass clear.

Flowers.

That has him genuinely doing a double take.

Flowers. Here. In this street. Probably the most unhappening place in all of Seoul. It musters a laugh out of him—a scoff, really—at the business perspective of it all, parking his car and grabbing his bag, heading towards the entrance. Just as he opens the door, there’s a shout and laugh in the air, loud and happy, one that makes his lips twitch too.

*

[Presentor’s voice] Thank you for tuning to Neo city news. We promise to deliver the realest reports no one dares to. First on the list; Vice president of Tion Co-operations, Mr. G had been found dead yesterday afternoon. Police first suggested homicide due to the deep cuts found all over his body, but was quickly ruled out once a note and what seemed like a history of self-harm had been discovered.

Mr. G had been under suspicions of embezzlement and tax fraud, but after further investigations of his apartment, leads to an illegal sex trade have been discovered. These accusations are being taken with gravity, says the head officer, but it is important to note they had been previously made and dismissed last July, after the release of the STICKER file.

*

It is indeed, a flower shop.

Pollen Punk.

He will have to say…the name is…interesting.

And surprisingly, when he’s pulling out his car early in the morning, there is a crowd. A genuine bunch of six to ten people maybe, some needing to wait outside. Flowers of a range of colours stand proud and tall on its front, the inside brimming with it all even more. Kun doesn’t chance another glance, but the impression lingers all the way to the hospital, a new day, a whole new set of challenges.

He doesn’t have any surgeries today, which is a miracle because sometimes it feels like they’re the busiest and yet most understaffed department in the entire fucking hospital. It does not help the only other professor—Suyeon—tends to intimidate the hell out of all aspiring kids under her from cardiothoracic. Kun thinks they’re personally the best after pediatric (sue him, he’s soft for kids) so he’s hoping on every fibre of his being the two under him decide to continue here.

Which is why he dedicates a significant amount of time, talking to both. Their worries, concerns and doubts.

And most agonizingly, the what ifs.

It’s a strange mirror to the past, hearing it. What if I can’t save them? What if I freak out? What if I make a mistake?

You can’t. There is no if. You do your best, and leave the rest to fate.

Fifteen years, and it never fails to make him stop to consider, to think and yet end up at the same conclusion. Time is a teacher, but sometimes wisdom is timeless. One nugget of advice, that is never going to change.

“Last patient, sir.” He nods, cracking his neck this way and that. Checks his cat monitor, for a little pick me up. Louis curled on the sofa, Leon sniffing the windows. His heart is not so easily calmed, but it feels something close to it, watching that picture.

It also feels something else.

An ache. For what, he has given up naming. “Come in,” he says, when there’s a knock at the door, checking his monitor now for the chest scans and blood reports, mentally recalling all of what he’d read in her file. “Sit, miss. Your tests look fine…”

“You should really head out,” one of nurses says, seeing him stick his third pain patch of the day. “You have a surgery late in the afternoon tomorrow anyway.” Yes, well.

Well. Kun can’t really come up with an excuse anymore. Rubbing his eyes, rubbing his wrists. He gives her a smile, and she gives a sympathetic one back, feet automatically taking him on pure instinct, unfortunately the place he’d like to be the least.

PICU.

A glance, and there. One less bed, one less child. So many more still, waiting for all different things. Kun blinks, and it’s clear as day, promising her it won’t hurt at all, and losing her completely mid surgery.

He should get used to it.

Kun doesn’t like taking kids’ cases. But he can’t help it either. He doesn’t even drop by the ER to check on Jaehyun, or Sicheng’s office considering the pediatric department is just there. All he does is book it to his car, breathing in the silence of it, and yet again not able to decide on a single tune. Every story comes to mind—of all of today’s patients—and no matter how much he tries, it’s just always so hard to bury in.

The only thing that manages to pull him out of it, is the sight before him.

At an astonishing two in the morning, Pollen Punk is somehow…still open. With every little detail, he stands to be increasingly amused. Kun does smile this time, at the sight of it, throwing a glance its way as he parks his car, stepping out. There’s no customers (obviously) but there is someone at the cashier. Kun shuts his car door, watching as the man steps out, spraying the leaves and petals. He’s clad in a black hoodie and skinny jeans, sandals of all things, tugging the pots in, one by one.

In no way do any of them look light. Yet… well he shouldn’t judge. But he’s lithe, in the politest way. On the smaller side, in others. Has his hair pushed off his face with a clip, still a little far across the street to really make out much. A sharp side profile—though other than that, Kun is only left to guessing. Watch, as he brings in the last, not so much as a huff, before noting something on the counter. From here, it seems the shop goes deeper in, neon lights spelling the name, a collection of frames. The man glances towards it, and then suddenly, towards him.

Kun gaze meets his in the most miniscule of seconds, and yet it’s enough to send a shock of electricity down his spine, jolting him to look away before he seems suspicious. He turns and heads up the steps, through the doors, and stops right at his elevator, not once looking back.

*

Kun, in most ironic coincidences, needs flowers on the third day of Pollen Punk’s opening.

He’s late too. “Excuse me?” he heaves, no amount of running down halls enough to build his stamina running down six flights of stairs (yes, the elevator’s down). There’s sweat already collecting at his forehead, which is terrible because he just got ready. He hopes he doesn’t smell. “Is anyone here?”

The first thing he notices, are eyes. Beady and black, poking between giant leaves. They widen in realization, blinking twice before they disappear and reappear with a whole face and body this time. Kun takes a second more to really breathe, stepping in to be enveloped by the scents of sweet flora and—

Ink?

“Good morning!” the man chirps, mask still on. His hair brushes his brows, cheeks pushing up and turning his eyes into the slightest half-moons. Kun smiles, amused as he brushes his hands against his apron, clearly not expecting someone at the second he turns the sign. “How can I help you?”

“I uh, need to go to a wedding?”

The man stares. Then pulls down his mask, and Kun has to take a moment because wow. He’s nice. Great even. To look at. Objectively. “Are you not sure?”

Huh? Oh. “No I,” he rubs his neck, “it’s a reception. But I’m not really attending—I have plans—so I’d like to drop off something nice and meaningful. I’m also late.” The man ‘ah’s, gaze flitting over the entire shop, before he starts bustling here and there. In no time does a bouquet come to life under his fingers, a gorgeous combinations of pinks, yellows and whites. He wraps it up, the paper detailed with delicate designs, a bow to finish it off.

Kun glances at the time on his phone.

Two minutes. That’s literally all it took him. He hands it over to Kun with both hands, nails painted alternating shades of yellow and white, lined designs he doesn’t get to see on them too. “Is this fine?”

“It’s gorgeous,” and his smile beams a little brighter, without something shielding it away. He doesn’t have a name tag, so Kun glances about as he gets the bill, eyes falling to a card, simple black with pink lettering, a QR code for details at the back

Ten Lee.

An interesting name, once again. “Card or cash?”

“Card,” he hands it over, signing it off. Ten’s finger’s still have smears of dirt on them, in the smallest bits. Kun watches the way he tilts his head, reading something, before he looks up, smiling.

“Thank you for visiting Pollen Punk!” he says, “flowers and tattoos for all occasions. Hope to see you soon!”

Ta…ttoos? Is—is that the Punk? Kun smiles back, bowing his head, hesitant to ask lest it comes with a lengthy explanation he’ll be too polite to cut off and therefore delay him further or give in to the curiosity and—

“Sir?” He hums, “um, is there…something else?”

And he realizes with great horror descending on him, he’s just been flat out staring. “No umm,” he laughs, red climbing his neck, “thank you then. Have a nice day.”

“Same to you!”

Kun, in all his haste, makes sure to pocket a business card, just in case.

“There he is,” Jaehyun speaks up, standing straight from where he’d been leaning against the wall. “Our guest of honour.”

“Oh shut up, there was traffic.” They both roll their eyes simultaneously. Sometimes their friendship is so annoying Kun wonders why he’d bothered. “Not like I missed the movie.”

“Of course not, you’re just—“ Sicheng checks his watch, “thirty seconds early actually! Wow.” He gives a bright sarcastic smile and thumbs up. Kun pushes past both to head in, the two catching up. “So how was it?”

“However it could be,” he mutters. Thinks of the minimal but gorgeous decorations. The humble guest list. And the bride getting ready still, immediately leaving all to greet him.  “She seemed happy,” he says then, and Jaehyun swings an arm over his shoulder, patting him.

Yellow daffodils.

New beginnings. An apt gift, for a woman he'd seen dedicate her life for her partner, only to lose him anyway because Kun couldn't do more. As appearance was the least he owed, when she'd braved her heart all over again.

“Life needs to go on, one way or the other.” He hums, just as they step into the theatre.

________________________

[Presenter’s voice]; Good evening, viewers of Neo City news. I am your host Lee Taeyong, with our special segment: Digging Deeper. Today we discuss the growing online conspiracy theory of recent high profile deaths and their linkage to the STICKER files. Join me to dig deeper and find out whether truth will out.

________________________

With his  friends, there is no such thing as just the movies.

And for some supernatural curse or coincidence, Pollen Punk is open.

At like—he glances at his watch—two in the morning.

Is this man nocturnal?

Kun sways a bit, getting off the taxi before righting himself. He really shouldn’t have accepted the drinks—day off or not. But it felt nice to distress, and one thing lead to another and he’s positively buzzed. Not enough to be drunk, but definitely a little tipsy.

He stares at the sign. Blinks a couple of times to make sure he’s not hallucinating. And then he looks even more closely, at the sign, but it still says open—

“Are you okay there, mister?”

He glances around. Down. Oh. Kun smiles. “Are you like, real?”

Ten stares at him, confused, and a little amused even. He’s not sure. His hair’s tousled though. Apron tight over his sweatshirt. His boots are different; covered in mud, a knife in his hand browned. Had he been fixing the soils in the pots? He reaches a hand out, and Kun, for some forsaken reason, steps closer.

It’s like he has no will of his own, to be pulled until he’s standing there, and holds his hands. They’re freezing cold. “Pretty solid, don’t you think?’ Ten grins up at him, face transforming in that way most people’s do. But there’s something about it. Kun thinks it might be the dark, and the sign the only thing lit up other than the spaced streetlamps casting light around. Or just the alcohol, dulling and enhancing senses at the same time.

Kun glides a thumb over his knuckles, and lets go. Ten’s still staring up at him, hands dangling from where they rest on his knees. “Wash with warm water instead,” he says, unnecessarily, no filter, “you’ll get sick.”

“Hard to get blood out like that,” he scrunches his nose. Kun snorts.

“What, a rose thorn hurt you?”

“No, but seems like something did to you,” Ten scrapes something off his boot, “were the flowers well received?”

Right. That’s probably why he’s talking. Like, to get reviews and stuff. “Yes,” he says, softly, “I think they were.” Snowdrops. That’s what they were. In the middle, a new sight to him from what he ends up picking. “You’re good. At it.”

“My job?” Ten laughs, meeting his eyes. Kun wishes he wouldn’t look away so he can get to the bottom of it. What it is to him. “Thank you. Drop a review, like and share our instagram I guess.”

“You guess?” He cocks a brow.

Ten hums. Leans back against his palms, relaxed. “Isn’t that what business owners should say?”

He thinks it over. Ten’s hair is still all over the place, a few strands over his eyes. Kun’s fingers itch. “I suppose,” he mutters, “I don’t own a business.”

Ten nods. “Then you should head home,” of course, “wouldn’t want to be late for work tomorrow, mister.”

“Kun,” he corrects, “Qian Kun. Apartment across the street.” Ten nods, slowly, barely fazed. Maybe he’s already seen him. Kun’s not very subtle, or calm when he’s rushing into his car in the morning. Kun takes a step back, away from him and the shop, pointing back. “Then I’ll go.”

“You do that, Mr. Qian,” Ten waves, and he catches sight of something marring his wrist, as his sleeves lower, too dark to figure out what it could be, “have a good night. And drop by if you need some flowers again!”

*

Kun, like most things he does unnecessarily, thinks about him.

For one, he does visit Instagram. Scans the QR, taken directly to a very popular page. It has over two hundred thousand followers, a business and contact section. Kun swipes through the posts, of shops at a dizzying number of places, gorgeous flowers and even more gorgeous tattoos. They’ve done some for celebrities—events, designs—probably explains the popularity.

But what intrigues him, are the people. He’s not dumb—to have a…franchise? Like this means staff. But.

He’s barely there.

Only in a collection of highlights, does he finds glances. Never something full. His eyes, his hair, his silhouette. They talked that night when he’d drunk too much than he usually does, but he barely remembers the words.

Just something about the interaction, leaving him feeling a little light. Maybe even a little regretful. For what? He’s not sure.

“Whatcha’ looking at?”

He shrugs. Also throws a used glove at Sicheng for interrupting his break time. The other makes disgruntled noises, ones he ignores.

“Pollen Punk?” Sicheng reads over his shoulder, “I think there was one back home too. Pretty popular—they did decorations for Fan Cheng Cheng’s wedding.” What the fuck. “Is this the one that opened near you? The ghost place?”

“The what?”

Sicheng gives him a look, “you kept droning about it. Before we sent you off.” Oh. “Anyways, I’m sleeping here.”

“No you are not,” Kun gets up immediately, pushing him out the way, “I am sleeping. I have a six hour surgery next.” Sicheng trips against the table and nearly falls, many swears before he stuffs himself on the sofa, and the other tries to plant himself on top of him. It is a lot of wrestling, and then something shatters, which are his glasses and he is going to kill—

“Now, now,” Jaehyun says, “what do we say when we do something wrong?”

“Sorry,” they both utter in unison. Jaehyun pats both their knees before finally giving them their ramen. All three devour it in seconds with no shame. “So,” Sicheng wipes his face, “I have this friend in Neuro—“

“No,” Kun and Jaehyun say in unison. He scowls.

“Not for you,” Sicheng says, “for me. He’s hot. And annoying.”

“Everything Sicheng needs in a man,” Jaehyun mutters, earning a hard punch to the shoulder. “Who?”

“Professor Nakamoto.” Kun chokes. Wow. That’s like. The craziest thing he’s heard. And he’s friends with Jaehyun—the ER nothing but the epitome of the  crazy. This of course ensues an hour long discussion (which only five minutes because their breaks are finishing) and much debate on their side for how worthy he is of Sicheng’s attention (Jaehyun is jealous because he found him hot too and now Kun is reminded of his loneliness and need for cat company).

All in all, it’s a productive half hour.

“Oh,” Jaehyun stops him just when’s about to leave, “you still remember right? We have to attend Professor Kang’s wedding?”

“Wasn’t it a funeral?” Sicheng muses.

“All the same thing at this point,” Kun mutters. No, he had not remembered. He will have to dry clean his suit. This is exhausting. “Stop reminding me things.”

“And suffer alone? No thank you.”

*

“Meow,” he swats Louis away, “meow.”

“Okay, meow to you back, my gosh,” he rubs his eyes, the light in the room burning his eyelids when he opens them, “yes I’ll get you your food.” Louis, happy with this, kneads into his blanket and curls into a loaf. When he finally sits up, hair a mess and drool on the side of his face, he spots Leon on the floor playing with shoe.

Right, he forgot to take them off at the door again.

Kun yawns, stretching before getting up, filling up their bowls. They arrive at the speed of light, and he spends a few minutes in midst their company. Fingers carding through their fur, playing with them a bit, indulging the soothing sensation of their purrs. He pecks Leon, Louis never one to be affectionate, and then heads to the balcony, lighter and cigarette in hand.

Is it ironic? A doctor that smokes? But he places one between his lips anyway, lighting it before finally taking a deep lunful of it. It helps him relax—unwind. Something rebellious in the face of so much pressure.

The night’s cold. The breeze gentle. The air fills with clouds of his smoke, and he glances down the street to see, for once, Pollen Punk closed. It’s only nine, though, which is strange. But there’s not been one normal about the place, so it’s on him then, no?

But it gets him thinking. A trigger to recall. Something he’d forgotten in the cycle of work and repeat, the moment of something, gone and not leaving anything to name but a phantom of feeling. His eyes rake over the alley, seeing if there’s anything going on—

Wait a second.

He leans carefully further over the railing, height never a dizzying matter for him. Eyes squinting down, glasses pushed back on his nose to see a little clearer. Is that…

Ten?

He’s crouched down. At the end of the alley, right at the edge of where his building ends. As if staking out something, phone between his fingers before he looks around. And then saunters off, back to the direction of his shop, phone slipping into his pocket, a blur of movement and—

That knife. Again. Playing with it like it’s nothing. Is this why Jaehyun is terrified of his roommate Taeyong? One heck of a gardener—knows too many pointy tools for him to feel safe.

Kun’s eyes trail after him, the entire time. Ten’s feet are light, gait relaxed as he walks back to his shop. Surprisingly, he doesn’t switch the sign back to open. Just packs his bag, locks up, and leaves. Heading somewhere down the street.

Huh.

He doesn’t live here?

Kun takes another whiff of his cigarette, wondering when he’d become someone to be so invested in a stranger.

*

[Presenter’s voice] Good morning, and you’re watching Neo City news. There have been five new suspects identified in the ongoing investigation after Mr. G’s death. Names have not been released, but authorities say they will once suspicions have been confirmed. The investigation began after the death of Tion Cooperation’s Vice President, evidences of involvement of many high profile—known and unknown—individuals participating is multiple crimes…..

*

“Oh,” it’s uttered with the slightest surprise, “Mr. Qian, right? Come in.”

He fixes his suit, stepping in. The shop is a little busy today. There’s women talking near a pot of daisies, and a few kids eagerly staring up at Ten as he cuts an assortment of flowers. “Mister why can’t it be black?”

“You can paint it, if you want to,” he says easily.

“Mister why are marigolds also white?”

“Gold can be white too, sweetheart.”

“Mister why—“

Kun waits at the side, amused as he watches them send a barrage of questions,, Ten not once making face or getting off his rhythm. In fact he’s smiling, laughing at the more silly ones, a bunch growing next to him as he collect all that he needs. Nimble fingers make quick work of arranging them in groups, before he’s wrapping four up simultaneously, the kids finally quiet as they stare a little awed.

“Can I do this too?” a girl asks, “like you? It’s so cool.”

“Come here,” he gestures, and her eyes light up. Ten guides her to fold the cellophane, before helping her tie the ribbon. Kun’s heart melts in a puddle of goo when her smile grows wide and big, pearly teeth shining and eyes turning into sweet half-moons. Ten ruffles her hair, and hands the rest their bouquets. The two women pay up, taking them away, all of them waving him a bye.

“Sorry for that,” Ten says, then, sheepish as he glances over at him. “They have something at school. I can be quick, though—what’s the occasion?”

Kun cocks his head to the side. “Just a wedding. You can take your time.”

“Oh,” his smile is playful, “no more running on the second, Mr. Qian?”

He laughs, “no, I tend to be more put together than that. I feel like you’ve only seen me when I’m not.”

He hums, heading over to the back. “I see you across the street too,” he mentions offhandedly, “sometimes. Always on a call, usually very stressed.” Right. “I hope that didn’t come off as strange—it gets dull when there’s no one around.”

“Not at all,” if anything, it’s akin to making the score even. “You do them yourself?”

Ten pauses, for a second, confused. Then the realization clicks. “Oh, the tattoos? Mostly. The designs that is. We take them on appointment basis—if there’s not a lot of rush, then I do them alone. Otherwise I call a friend.” He brings over the flowers, arranging them how he wants, “would you be interested, Mr. Qian?”

“Me?” he echoes. A tattoo. Kun. “Umm,” he rubs his neck, laugh nervous, “I’ve never given it thought.”

“Is that so?” Ten pushes his sleeves up, bringing out the paper. Kun gets glimpses of it again, on the inside of his arm. “Well, give it some now. Do you think you’d be up for it?”

Would he? “it’s a big decision,” he says, “kind of permanent.”

“There’s ways to have them removed,” Ten shrugs, “but many things are big decisions, Mr. Qian. Something small, not with a lot of meaning.”

“I think I’d want a little meaning for something I’m getting inked in skin.”

“Those we don’t give meaning with words, make their own with time, Mr. Qian,” he combats, “wear your heart on skin, and see how many people actually find out.”

Kun’s lips twitch. “You sure do know how to garner business.”

Ten laughs, surprised. It’s a wonderful sound that makes his smile grow. “I just thought they’d look good on you. Maybe on your shoulder. Colours suit you well.” He hands him the bouquet, eyes bright when they meet his. The sun’s hitting them just right, two streaks of gorgeous brown amidst black.

Kun’s fingers brush his, when he takes it, a spark down his spine.

“Well,” Kun scans the QR code this time, sending in the payment, “they suit you even better. Get some more on my behalf, Mr. Lee.”

“You’re a tough nut to crack, aren’t you?” Ten checks his phone, the green tick appearing, “think it over—maybe I’ll cut you a discount too.”

Kun shakes his head, thanking him before heading out, something unbelievably light in his chest. The feeling grows tenfold when he reaches his car door, glancing over to seeing Ten still watching him, a wave of goodbye he reciprocates easily.

*

[Guest speaker’s voice; identity anonymous] “So,” she starts, “it was pretty dark. And I didn’t know what they were talking about. They said they’d take me to my son if I just listened and followed. But I didn’t—“ a wobble in her voice, “—he was dead already, by then, of course. They’re sick. They’re twisted and they serve the devil is what I say! They need to be put behind bars because too many of us have lost too much to keep count anymore. When will law punish those they stop us from?”

*

In midst of occasional visits, how a month flies by is beyond him. Kun’s taken to getting the cats out at night sometimes, after the vet gives him a very disappointed sigh hearing they barely get fresh air.

But not both together—that would be hell—alternating between both. The breeze pleasant, the night quiet for his thoughts.

It’s a busy, busy month. He’s lost count of how many emergency surgeries he’s undertaken, not to mention a few extra ones out the hospital. Kun needs something that is just. Calm. Or there. Something that is not filled with pressure condensed into every breath and tension taut in every inch of his body. Where his brain isn’t working overtime thinking three steps ahead just in case.

“Which cat is it today?”

He pauses, glancing over. Ten’s leaned against the doorway, smiling as he sees him. “Leon,” Kun answers, “shouldn’t you be closed?”

“Didn’t feel like it,” he shrugs. He gestures for him to come closer. Kun does, always unable to say no, “he’s a cutie.” That he is. Ten scratches behind his ears, Leon purring in Kun’s arms. They’d walked a good while before he’d picked him up, afraid he would go chasing something off again. Ten’s hair’s tied back today, the scent of flowers always clinging to every inch of him. His bangs are loose though; strands slipping forward.

Kun can’t help it. “Sorry,” he mutters, when Ten flinches the slightest bit, surprised by the sudden touch. Kun tucks it back, right behind his ear, ignoring the other’s gaze all the while.

“It’s fine,” he says, “just caught me off guard.” Ten’s smile is small, and when he shifts his own gaze, he’s not looking anymore. A shame—they’re very, very nice to read.

He’s not always there, either. When Kun steps out. That’s probably more on him—random hours, random shifts. But the times he is, Kun can’t really keep away. Always something to talk about, the cats to pet, the flowers to ask about. Ten’s seldom not in a state of alertness no matter what he’s speaking about, attentive and observant, playful and sometimes a joke or two that might have stung from someone else, but slides off when he mentions it.

Even now, asking if he can take Leon as if it’s a baby and not just his insolent fur child. “Sure,” he’s not too worried. Leon is very amiable. Ten’s face lights up when he barely protests, easily settling in his arms. “You like them a lot, don’t you?”

“I love all animals,” he says, “my parents had a big part in that. You know they like smelling flowers, right?”

“Do they?” That’s new. He scratches Leon’s head. “Should I get some?”

“Some are toxic for them,” Ten explains, “I’m not too fresh on which ones, so I’ll tell you next time. Is your neck better?”

Kun blinks, “yeah?” He remembers? It was an offhanded comment at best two weeks ago. Ten hands Leon over, before glancing back inside.

“You need to close up?”

Ten nods, “it takes a bit—gotta start now.” He hums, stepping away. He should turn back now; cross the street, and into his building. But Kun loiters; Leon’s still intent on playing around, after all. He tightens the leash just in case, watching him with random bugs and twigs, crickets chirping in the distance.

“You’re still here?”

“Didn’t feel like leaving.” Ten’s bag hangs off a shoulder, hood pulled up. “You live nearby?”

“No,” he says, “the subway. My friend picks me from there.” Friend. It’s never a name he gives. Always a friend that helps out. A friend that does this, a friend that does that.

He has a lot of friends, that’s for sure. Or just one person, he prefers everything with. Kun pushes the churn of something not nice down, watching his figure retreat in the distance, heading back to the building.

Maybe that’s it.

Ten talks, of course. About many things. But they’re never enough to divulge something deeper. Where he lives, who he is, what he’s done before. What’s with the odd timing of his shop, his random late night visits to alleyways. Is Kun strange? For being so fixated? But he’s intriguing.

Mysterious. A spark of something Kun can’t name lit up in his chest with every encounter. The leash tugs at his hand and he pays it little mind, tightening his own grip and the pull becoming very easy. So easy, he doesn’t realize how it’s become so utterly light too.

Shit.

Not again!

“Leon!” he shouts, as if the forsaken cat can understand, collar somehow having come close and undone right behind him. This is exactly why he keeps them in his arms! Stupid cat! Now he’s stuck running around like a mad man checking behind every car and shrub, checking the main road and glancing around to see no movement for miles. The panic starts to settle, Kun getting more anxious, heading towards the back of his building, hoping to hear even the slightest peep when the world seems to have fallen asleep—

“Move,” he gets shoved to the side, shoulder hitting a brick wall hard. Kun winces, disoriented, wanting to shout a string of profanities to glance behind and see the man already run ahead, stumbling and—

Blood.

There’s—there’s blood, on his clothes. “Wait!” he shouts, cursing himself. “Hey mister you’re hurt! I’ll call the ambulance!”

“Are you fucking insane?” he hisses, turning, “keep your voice down.”

Wow. “First you shove me into a wall and now when I want to help you’re getting angry? I’m calling the fucking ambulance.”

“You are not calling anyone!”

Before he can even process it, there’s a blur of movement, a flash of something metallic and all of a sudden a resonating blast that has him freezing in place. His heart stops, blood cold, eyes falling shut—

Another shout. A ringing in his ears as he’s stumbling to the ground. There’s the sound of more gunshots. Frantic hands pulling him aside, and clambering in his lap out of pure fear and familiar softness—

“Leon,” he whispers, horrified still. Kun’s heart is beating a mile a minute, and he’s leaned back against the wall. The man is long gone, but in place in someone else. Body covered head to toe in black, a balaclava obscuring his face as he searches him. “I—I don’t have—I don’t—nothing—I didn’t do—“

“It’s okay,” his voice is incredibly muffled, and quiet. A gloved hand meets his cheek, and he realizes he’s still trembling.

Fuck.

Kun almost got shot. “Thank you,” he manages, barely above a whisper. The man shakes his head, gesturing for his shoulder. Kun moves it, only to find the barest of pains. “It’s fine,” and there seems to be a breath of relief breathed out of him, for he deflates, before finally meeting his eyes.

It’s like an in ice cold shock to his system.

“Don’t get involved in things you don’t know,” he says, “get home.” And then before he can say anything, there’s the sound of a car pulling up, speeding down the street, slowing down the slightest bit as the passenger seat opens. The man jumps right into it, the door shut, no nameplate in sight as they disappear.

*

[Breaking news] This just in; Kim Yohan, previously assumed out of country and therefore unable to be legally trialed, checked in to Paradise Hospital at two a.m. last night. Reports say he had bullet wound, sustained serious injuries and had heavy bleeding. There are no clarifications on the cause of his state, but authorities promise to check in as early as possible.

Kim Yohan, son of CEO Kim Ryan, had been one of the twenty names exposed last August in the notorious STICKER files….

*

Kun can’t get himself to be normal about it.

He has to push back a surgery because he’s sure he’s messing up otherwise. Jaehyun’s too busy in the ER, Sicheng gone for outpatients, so it’s just him and the memories of the night before flashing through his head again and again.

It can’t.

But. But Kun felt it.

Ten.

It had to be. And how would a random stranger know about his freaking cat?! He needs to—he needs to talk. They need to. Or else he’ll lose his mind. So with that resolve he heads home, parking and stepping out to see the shop open, pushing open the doors and almost calling out his name before—

“Hello,” an unfamiliar face greets him, “welcome to Pollen Punk. How may I help you?”

“I…” his mouth dries, “Ten Lee…he’s…”

Recognition flits across his features. “Oh he’s taken the day off. Gotten sick—the weather and all. I’m his friend; Jungwoo.” Oh. Kun deflates, barely registering Jungwoo’s voice asking if he needs anything as he leaves.

Tomorrow, then.

But he’s not there, still.

Neither the day after.

Or after that. Until a week passes, and Kun is just.

He’s a mess, to say it politely. The incident fades away, the pain in his shoulder does too. The shock has left him after he’d processed it and yet.

Yet it’s the stupidest reason making him step into the balcony like clockwork, checking the alleys and the shop, every day after he leaves and comes from work. Louis picks up on his moods and stops trying to resist his affections.

Even his cat pities him.

Worst of all, he pities himself.

What is Kun even doing? So caught up in the wait of someone he barely knew? And yet he thinks. Too much when he’s alone. When he’s spread out on the bed, of his presence in the store, his voice as he teases him, his eager gestures when he’d see him out for a walk.

Jaehyun tries to press him into telling, but what is he to tell? So he accepts invites of hanging out, team dinners after a long while. How two weeks pass is beyond him, body too tired to even think of much else. It’s not until he’s being dropped off by a taxi to his house, his senior telling him to go home safely, does he register the streets’ got one more occupant, other than him.

“Hey,” Ten says, grinning up at him.

Kun stares.

Like honest to god just flat out stares.

Is it the alcohol? A trick of imagination. Ten’s on the sidewalk once again, knife twirling between his fingers, and Kun takes one step after the other until he can sit next to him, still staring. “Is there something on my face?”

“No,” Kun says, “but there should be.”

“Oh?” Ten props his face on a hand, “and that should be?”

“A fucking explanation, for starters.”

There’s a moment. Of something that waivers, in his eyes. In Kun’s mind, it’s his gotcha! moment. Where he can finally put an answer in the blank and forget about everything. His stupid shop, his stupid tattoos, and his stupid discounts and eyes. Yet.

“I was sick.”

Kun scoffs. Of course. “With a plague?”

“A terrible cold.”

“No cold terrible enough to last two weeks until you have like typhoid or something,” he stares at his shoes. They’re sleek and pristine, compared to Ten’s dirtied doc martens. “Do you then?”

“What?”

“Have typhoid?’

“Would that be a good answer?” Ten muses. Flicks the blade and it turns to land perfectly in the palm of his hand, unscathed. Kun feels very much like it. “Then I did.”

“You’re not funny.”

“And you’re drunk.”

It’s quiet after that. Kun stays there still, unsure of what to say. Of what should happen. “Go home then.”

“I will,” Ten says, “you should get going first.”

“So you can stake out someone again?”

He doesn’t get an answer. When he glances over, Ten’s staring down at his knife. It’s fine crafted; sharpened to a point. “I don’t do that,” he says, quiet, “I people watch.”

Kun doesn’t know what he could possible say to not make him sound insane. He’s not drunk enough to be excused for crazy, but he’s not sober enough to try and push for more. Dig a little deeper. “I do too,” he says, finally. Ten turns his head, nodding.

The lighting’s not great. Falling against his back, his face in shadows. But Kun sees it—the places where light does manage to creep in. In his eyes. On his knife. The glare reflecting on his cheek, his arms stretched out, tattoos in complete spotlight. He’s half tempted to trace them; feel warm skin, solid and real.

And just like that—those things with no names float to the surface. Always the sea, with someone like Ten. Dredging them up as if they never got the chance to really settle and sink down, away and out of sight. It’s longer than should be appropriate. The silence. There’s no need for either of them to keep the attention up, but he can’t find a reason to look away either.

It’s only them, after all. “You didn’t tell me about the flowers.” His voice is quiet. He’s not sure if he imagines, the way Ten leans in—leans closer. To hear him, to hear Kun.

“The flowers?”

“For my cats,” Ten smiles, a small little thing, like he’s incredibly amused by this. “Did you search?”

“I searched,” he says, “wanna’ take them home?”

Kun contemplates that. “Will you come with?”

Ten’s cheeks pink. It’s a sight that flutters against his chest. “That is very forward of you, Qian Kun.” Is it? Kun crosses his arms and rests them on his knees, leaning his head against them, watching him. It’s almost like he might disappear into thin air again, if he doesn’t.

“Just wanna’ people watch,” he explains, eventually, “after all, that’s all you do, right?”

“Shoes on the right.”

“Yours or mine? Because there is clearly no system to this.” Kun shrugs. If he were a little more sober, he’d care. He’s at the end of the hallway when he remembers to remove his own. Leon comes sauntering up immediately, Louis watching him in acknowledgement. He waits for Ten to join, and when he doesn’t immediately, he glances back—

“Put those back down,” Kun’s already heading back to him, distressed, “what are you doing?”

He puts down Kun’s sneakers. “It’s annoying,” his cheeks puff, “and is that a cloth rack or hoard?”

“I did not invite you to insult me.” Ten gives him the stink eye, before they have a cat sneaking in between them. This cat is Louis, and much to his surprise, he’s assessing him. Ten crouches, smiling as he lets him sniff all he wants, before carefully giving him scratches.

And Louis actually lets him.

Kun runs to get his phone, because that is a monumental moment. “How?” he asks, both now cross legged on the floor in the middle of his doorway, “he hates me.”

“Oh don’t say that,” Ten laughs as Louis swats his hand, “look, he’s playing just fine.” Kun gives him the stink eye back because what the hell, he’s already being betrayed by his cat. The tiles are cold when he leans his palms against them, watching Ten and Louis for some forsaken reason getting along. Maybe it’s because they’re both Kun’s headaches—one just tends to be in sight for longer than a few days.

“Keep the flowers,” Ten says, after a minute, “they’ll go bad.” Right. He pulls himself up, taking them to put into a vase he never found use for. The kitchen’s a mess, so he tidies it up after drinking some water, hoping he feels more focused. He doesn’t realize how long he ends up taking, until he takes a step back, only to bump right into something solid.

“Sorry,” Kun immediately holds Ten’s arm, the other getting misbalanced as Louis jumps out his hold, surprised.

“Are you a ghost?” he chides, “what the hell? Give a little warning.”

“I’m wearing socks,” he defends. Yes, because that makes a very big difference. Without his shoes, he’s shorter. Kun’s chest bubbles. “Are those empty bottles?”

Empty bottles? “Oh they’re the wine ones,” Kun reaches for one, “have to throw them out.”

“Then can I take them?” Ten interrupts, fast, “like if you’re gonna’ throw them out anyway? I like painting them.”

Kun takes a second. “You love it all, don’t you?” he’s already checking for a large enough bag, “art, that is. Tattoos, paint, flowers.”

“You love them too,” Ten counters, leaning over his shoulder to have a look. He can feel the warmth of his body seep in the space between, something new compared to the usual coldness. “I’ve seen the albums. In the living room. Are all of them music?”

“Some movies,” he corrects, glancing over to find his face inches from his own. Ten blinks at him. They’re sparkling; excited. Like a kid. “Most music. Do you want water?”

“Nothing,” he says, licking his lips, “unless you have chocolate.” Kun snorts, following the movement. They’re petal thin; pink. Kun looks away, stuffing the bottle in the bag. “What genres?”

“Classical, a lot. R&B, very little hip hop, ballads and the like.” He packs the bag up. “Don’t forget to take this.”

“Classical?” Ten repeats, “like a grandpa?”

Kun rolls his eyes, “I like playing the piano—picked up the taste in middle school. Also that’s discriminatory.” Ten hums, moving out his way when he turns. He follows closely behind him, like a lost duckling, heading to the balcony. He gestures Ten in first, picking up his pack and lighter, before joining him, door sliding shut.

“You’ve got a good view,” Ten whistles. The wind ruffles their hair, autumn drawing closer and bringing the chill with it. He leans over the railings, glancing down, “and height. Don’t you feel dizzy?”

Didn’t you, jumping into a moving car? “No,” he says, “I wanted to be a pilot.”

“Of course you did,” Ten steps back, only for his expression to turn incredulous, “you smoke?”

“Only sometimes,” he offers one to the other, and he shakes his head. Huh. “Helps me relax.” He places the stick between his lips, flicking the lighter open before bringing it to the end. The fire fizzles out, the smoke now there in its wake, filling up and burning his lungs and throat.

He takes another drag, before joining him against the railing. “It’s empty, usually, this late.”

Ten hums. But he can feel the weight of his gaze, occasionally graze him with glances in between. Kun takes another drag, breathing out in to the night air. “Do you want to try?”

“And get lung cancer? No thanks,” he rolls his eyes.

“Once won’t kill you,” he’s still hesitant, staring at it as if it’s wronged its family. Hopefully it hasn’t and Kun’s not being an insensitive jerk by giving it to someone with a dear relative who succumbed to an illness. “You don’t have to.”

“No I just.” He takes one anyway, seemingly copying him. The first mistake is he just bites it down in place, instead of letting it sit between the seams of his lips. Kun doesn’t say anything—it’s kind of funny. “And then,” his voice is muffled, of course, but he flicks the lighter, unafraid as he lights the edge and—

“Woah, woah,” Kun laughs, grabbing it before it falls off the balcony, “easy there.”

Ten breathes in a shit ton of it all at once, choking and dropping it in surprise. His face grows red, Kun thumping his back before he rubs gentle circles between his shoulder blades. He can feel each shift of muscle, and then his disappointed face rears itself in front of him. “What the fuck, Qian.”

Kun grins, “not my fault you did it wrong.”

“Maybe if you taught me, it would have worked,” he glances down to Kun’s lips, “how do you keep it in place?”

“With your lips, not your teeth,” he takes another drag. There’s a couple of things, that make it addicting. Hard to break off from.

There’s the intoxication, of course. Nicotine. When he sneaks a glance, Ten’s just as watchful of every movement of his.

And then sometimes, it’s the attention.

“You have to take it slow, not fast.”

Ten glares, “didn’t know I signed up for smoke theory 101; how to fuck your lungs properly.”

Gosh. “You’re so mouthy,” he says, but he’s biting down a smile. “Learn to breathe it in, before you get to lighting it up,” Ten nods. The city lights barely reach them here, yet whatever they do, they coat in unreal silver. “Take a deep breath in, and then exhale it out.”

“I’ll try,” he mutters.

“Just keep your mouth open instead of sealed shut.” And so Kun takes another drag, as much as he possibly can, breaking away. His fingers tilt Ten’s face towards him, heart beating a little too loud when he finally meets his lips.

They’re soft, for one. Not that it matters. Ten’s eyes slip shut, following, Kun pulling back just enough for him to exhale, still in his space, still with a pounding against his chest.

“Not that hard, is it?” He asks, voice dropping to a whisper, searching his face. Ten’s expression is a mixture of many things, but surprise is not as big as one he’d imagine.

Gosh. Kun just loves watching him.

“I thought I was going to watch,” Ten whispers back. His face grows a little flushed, and Kun’s sure pretty much the same. “You need a cue for these things, you know.”

Oh. Kun doesn’t say anything back. Just takes another drag, and this time Ten meets him halfway there, inhaling it deeply. They don’t say a word more—a back and forth, of lips slotting together, the exchange of smoke before the cigarette’s out, the stench of it no doubt going to stick to both. He burns it out against the railing, before throwing it to the side.

“You always come here?” Ten asks, after he’s done.

“Almost,” he asks, “I need it. Everything just—it gets too much.”

Ten hums, looking out over the view. “It does, doesn’t it?” The words are uttered with a careless heaviness. “What makes this easier for you, Kun?”

Kun. It rolls of nice, off his tongue. Without a prefix of familiarity. “The height,” he answers, elbows touching where he leans over to glance down, “the distance. So much noise and life—and I get to be detached. A bystander of no importance.” No expectation. Just to watch life be, at its realest.

Simple.

“And you?” he asks.

It takes him a bit. A little lost somewhere. “I think I like that,” Ten tells him, “I think I’d love to spend my life here too—someplace away, from everything. Just me and whatever’s in my bubble.” Vague. “Shouldn’t you go to bed, Kun?”

“Is there a curfew?”

He laughs, “no, but you always look in a rush in the mornings. Maybe be kind to your morning self—that hangover’s going to bite.” Right. He feels almost sober now. Or maybe he’s still drunk.

“What about you?”

“What about me?” He grins, “worried I might do something?”

He scoffs, “please.” But Kun wishes he had. He’d liked this—like it. Liked him, here. The cats are curled up on the sofa when they come back in, and Ten walks ahead of him with an ease to his movements, no awkwardness at all. He sees him off at the door, even when he laughs at him for being overly courteous.

There’s a moment, in between. Standing at the doorway, with Ten outside it. A second that could mean everything and nothing.

Tonight, it’s the latter. Kun watches him get on the elevator, before heading back in.

*

Kun lays in bed that night, eyes closed, bringing his fingers over his lips.

Warm. And soft, too. A hint of his chapstick, there was. Kun runs his other hand over the cold sheets, and feels his heart thud against his chest. Kun, and he’d said it so nicely, reducing him to a pitiable little human.

Yet this time—he’s content with that label. Falling asleep, to images that do nothing to help.

*

“Have you met someone?” Sicheng asks, during lunch, “like you’re a little too okay nowadays.”

“Wow, thank you,” his phone pings, and he glances at the preview.

Ten
stop by the shop today

Kun doesn’t open the chat, but his heart trips. “Just taking some time to myself.” Sicheng gives him a side-eye. But he doesn’t know what else to say.

The truth is the more the days pass the more the apartment walls he fell in love with try to claw at him alive. There is only so much he can depend on his cats before they start feeling little empty too.

But this? It feels new. Strange. Kun wants to keep it to himself, because he can’t give it a name. Can’t give whatever they did at the balcony one either. Can’t give him dropping by the shop most morning to needlessly buy flowers he doesn’t need a name. Can’t give the moments too long that lull between. Gazes held for a beat longer, words that want to be spoken but stay confined in instead.

Kun took his number, in the excuse of a maybe finally thinking of a tattoo. Instead he’d found something better; the sketches and sketches of pictures, the ones of Ten’s own, explanations and thoughts he reads over and over again because they build him up to be so much. Much more than what he wants to spell in the clear.

Freedom. Quiet. Growth. Change. He wonders if he’ll ever have something like that. To something he can name his own. Point and convey all of what he is and what he wants to be. “I have a transplant today.”

Sicheng whistles, “for Yona?”

“No,” his heart kinda’ sinks, hearing her name, “it’s for an older one. Mujin. But gosh—Yona needs one soon too.” She’s eight. On VAD for four months now. He finishes up the last of his food, before pocketing his phone. “Can you clean up for me?”

“Sure,” and then he’s off, watching the time tick. In anticipation for a nameless little thing, starting to grow its little roots.

“Oh,” Ten’s surprised, “well this is awkward. Didn’t you say you’d be late?”

Yeah well, the transplant wrapped up nicely, and his appointments didn’t show. Ten’s standing outside, shutter already halfway down. It’s still early in the evening; did he plan on coming again? “I could drop you.”

“Aren’t you tired?” he scrunches his nose, “I thought surgeons had lots of stuff do.”

“I have plenty,” he deadpans, “just a rare day off.” Not that he drove with an almost a laughable amount of fervor or anything. “Come on.” Ten contemplates the offer, thinking something of it before he shrugs, following. They walk together, shoulders occasionally bumping. “So?”

“Just,” Ten fiddles with the strap of his bag, “I wanted to see you.”

Oh. Kun tamps down the flutter the words come with. “For?”

“Wanted to tell you something,” he’s nervous. Doesn’t show it that much, but Kun can tell. It’s in the slight avoidance of his gaze, the hunch of his shoulders, hands buried in his hoodie pockets. He’s half tempted to reach out; to do what, he doesn’t know. But at least assure, he’s not one to be easily fazed.

“Yeah?”

“Hmm,” their pace is achingly slow, to the car. Kun opens the passenger seat, out of habit, Ten giving him an amused snort before ducking in. He heads over to the driver’s side, snapping the seatbelt in place, before turning the ignition. Ten’s fingers drum over his knees. “I’m going to be gone a while.”

Oh. “Like get a plague?”

“Typhoid, according to you,” Ten says, but there’s a smile in his voice. He fiddles with his fingers, “I wanted to let you know. Jungwoo said you asked. Take the next right.”

Kun doesn’t know how to describe what he feels. His heart doesn’t necessarily sink. “A left from here then?”

Ten hums, “there’ll be a café.” He’s seen it. Gone to it a couple time. Really deep into the streets, it’s quiet a way away from the shop. Not to mention, the apartments are smaller here. Kun’s fingers tap against the steering wheel, words swirling in his mind but unable to make it out.

“Will it take a while?” he asks, despite himself.

“I don’t know,” Ten admits, and time is a bitch when it wants to be, because they’re already here, Kun leaning back against car seat, head turned towards him. Ten makes no moves to leave either, catching his gaze.

He has a mole right under his eye. How is he just noticing?

They’re very delicate; his features. Sharpness that still softens with a smile. Or make him look a little evil, when ‘s playful.

Kun doesn’t want to—but he thinks he’s going to miss him. “Will you be okay?”

That, gets an amused quirk of lips, “I hope so. Will you be waiting?”

“There’s nothing to wait for,” he scoffs, but he thinks his tone betrays him. Of course I will be. “Get me a souvenier.”

“I’m not going on vacation,” he laughs, opening the car door, “drive back safe. And don’t pick fight with strangers.”

How would you know? If his job needs him to be secretive, then he’s terrible at it. “Can I text you?”

That has him pausing, “I might not reply on time.”

He shrugs, “any is better than nothing.” Ten doesn’t promise anything, but it’s not a rejection. Kun watches him go, not leaving until he’s all the way inside, before finally budging a muscle.

_________________________

[Presenter’s voice]; What is most interesting to note however, is the recent surge in suspected suicides of high profile individuals are of all those who have been found linked back one way or another to the STICKER files. There have only been two exceptions, but general opinion online seems to say it’s intentional….

________________________

Ten
send me more pics of your cats
also did you make that yourself

The thing is question is the crab dish, and he answers a yes before clicking a badly taken picture of Louis on the counter. Kun eats up, and waits—never more than a minute—before heading to bed, unsure of what he’s even doing anymore.

There’s nothing to name this thing, between them. If there even is one. So there can’t be expectations, neither pressure. In a way he’s glad, because Kun gets sucked into days of work before he had the energy to interact, his own efforts placed in a misplaced sense of time.

And yet, it works.

A week, and more. A month  then, and it settles to rountine. Kun has learned more about Ten now, than he could ever try to pry in person. Has learned his likes and dislikes in food, places, music and people. Has learnt he can’t help but doodle away on any surface that meets his pen. Learnt he’s really got an obsession with his cats, and learns he’s incredibly clumsy when he needs to be.

“How did you even mess up that bad?” Kun scolds, phone pressed between his shoulder and ear, going through his reports, “I told you to boil water not your hand.”

“How was I supposed to know the handles of this stupid pot aren’t heat resistant?!” the sound of water stops, “Kun I think I like literally ruined it.”

“Go to a pharmacy,” he grumbles, “I’m not sending you any recipes.”

“Hey then how am—“

“Come back, and I’ll cook something for you,” that quiets him, “Jungwoo isn’t good at business.”

That is a lie, and they both know it. But Ten’s sigh is soft, and his voice is even more so, lasting only a while more before the line goes dead. Kun doesn’t want it to take root—but it’s growing a little deeper. Deeper than he’s intended, and deeper than what the other might end up actually wanting.

Instead of mulling it over, he brushes it off.

After all, it’s not anything worth giving a name.

*

It’s the start of winter.

Everything is getting a little cold, and a little gray. The mornings flash by in seconds, and the nights stretch on to infinity. Jaehyun has too many people coming in the ER, and Sicheng’s in the honeymoon phase of whatever he has going on with Professor Nakamoto.

And Kun just sits, sometimes in the PICU, watching little hearts beat, some with their chests still open, others on support.

It’s always quiet here. More than any other place in the entire hospital. Calm. The constant beeping, nurses coming to check in now and then. Kun closes his eyes, resting his head against the cold metal of the crib, gratitude and relief in his own heart when the monitor shows a steady graph. Alive, and most of all, well.

He’s not in the mood to stay and check files, today. So Kun checks if he’s needed for anything, before packing up, promising himself to come early and have a look at them. The ride back is quiet, mainly because he’s in his own head, a phone call in the morning catching him so off guard it’s not left him even now, hours later.

He stops a little away from his building. Parks, and heads in to the café, not busy at this time of the evening, except for a few students cramming in work. It takes him back to his own university days, and how much he’d wanted to just grow up, not realizing the leeway immaturity of youth gives you in a so many things.

He’s waiting for his order, scrolling through his contacts. Mom. It sits right there and his stomach churns. She’d had quite a lot to tell him alright, and he’d heard every word with a nod of his head, unseen to her.

“This table taken?”

Kun glances up, and then just.

Pauses. “I hope not,” Ten answers his own question, pulling the chair across him before taking a seat, “I don’t really like being alone.”

He’s here. It takes a millennia to process, in his brain. Staring dumbly. His brown coat, his thin pendant catching the light against his skin, his hair reaching shoulder length, tucked back. “Kun?”

“You’re hurt,” he says.

Ten blinks, and Kun’s already leaning over, thumbing at the fading scar at his jaw. Ten’s skin is cold still, from the air outside. His cheeks tinted red, and nose the same. Kun’s missed him so much, it’s like the emotion explodes in his chest all at once. He shifts his hand to place it against his cheek, and not helping any of it all is Ten when he leans into it. “It’s been nearly two months, Ten.”

He turns sheepish, eyes averting. “Yeah, took umm. Longer than expected. A few causalities, or else I’d be back earlier.” He wonders if the scar is one of them—casualties. Wonders if there’s more, deeper, harsher. His heart squeezes. “Did you order?”

“Black coffee,” and Ten winces, making him smile, “what? I’m a surgeon.”

“So?” Ten grabs his wrist, his fingers still on the other’s skin, before pulling it away. In place, Ten’s hand comes to rest in Kun’s palm, skin of them rough, much like his own. “There’s a million things beyond soulless black coffee. I, for one, have ordered tea.”

Of course. Kun rubs a thumb over his knuckles, and just. Talks. It feels so nice to, having his attention all to himself, instead of fragmented conversations over call or text. Ten talks too, but about the mundane. He’d seen this, someone did this, he broke something, tripped over another and of course, miserably failed at cooking alone.

“Come over, then,” Kun says, once they’re done with their drinks, walking out, side by side, pressed so close together there’s barely space in between. “I’ll cook you something.”

“And take advantage of your labour?” Ten scoffs, “no thanks. You’ll goad about it.”

“What impression have I given that I would ever goad about something?”

He shrugs, “you’re a lonely old doctor who sadly drinks black coffee. Why wouldn’t you goad?”

Kun gapes, “if I remember, didn’t you say we’re literally two months apart? Also none of that is related!” He shoves him with his elbow, Ten laughing as he gets thrown back only to nearly slip off the sidewalk. Kun grabs his hand the last second, laughing as he tugs him back.

He doesn’t let go.

Their breaths create clouds in the air when he speaks. “Suit yourself, starve I guess.”

“So kind of you,” Ten teases, fingers slipping between the gaps of his. Kun rolls his eyes and squeezes his hand.  “My roommate is forced to feed me instead.”

“They have my pity,” now Ten shoves him, just as they cross the street, before he’s tugging him by just as a speeding car passes by. Ten’s barely fazed, keeping pace with him. Is he not heading home? Following up the steps to the entrance, standing at the elevator. Kun’s too scared to ask, lest he drive him away. The minutes aren’t enough, to drink up the sight of him actually there.

So he comes up.

“Oh you were not lying,” Ten practically moans, “this is heaven.”

“It’s just food,” Kun deadpans. He is incredibly amused though. Ten eats well; full cheeks, eyes lighting up, and very…relaxed. Maybe Kun’s just gotten used to seeing Jaehyun and Sicheng inhaling it at the speed of light. But he savours every bite, little hums in between before Ten’s glancing up, brows knitting together.

“Why aren’t you eating?” he says, around a mouth full of food. He feels his face warm, immediately going to his own plate. Takes both their dishes when they’re done, swiping a thumb against the corner of Ten’s lips just as he stands, sauce still left. The other makes an affronted noise, one that has him smiling as he cleans the dishes. “I’ll help too!” the chair scrapes loudly as he heads over, dusting his hands, “gimme!”

“You’re the—“

“Do not finish that,” Ten bumps him to the side with his hip, Kun nearly dropping the plate. He laughs as the other immediately snatches it, scrubbing it with a sponge, “you know how uncomfortable that’ll make me feel? Stand here and watch.”

“Shouldn’t that make you feel even weirder?” The logic is beyond him, but he wipes his hands, resting them against the edge as Ten shines the plates with remarkable speed. “Why are you good at this?”

“I eat so I clean,” he shrugs. This close, he gets a better whiff of it. Kun takes a breath in, as subtly as he can, Ten’s bodywash more citrusy than his cologne. His body radiates heat, nearly pressed next to his, the apartment quiet except for the clank of the dishes.

There’s not much, they both want to watch. But it’s nice to uselessly squabble. To poke the other only for Ten to shove him hard enough he nearly falls off the sofa. Ten’s laugh isn’t necessarily loud, but it fills his entire being with joy, Kun drawn over and over until he wishes it was just.

Easy.

To close the gap. Because it’s getting a little hard, to dismiss the impulsive urge. To pull him closer, to feel his lips on his again. To take his hands, and memorise every inch of them. “You’re leaving?”

“Should I not?” Ten laughs, “I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

How does he tell him, it’s the exact opposite? “Then bring something over, next time.”

“Or you, show me something else,” Ten eyes twinkle, “should be worth going out of my way.” Kun rolls his eyes, leaned against the doorframe. He waves him a goodnight, and uselessly hopes for something concrete, in midst of nothing but fog.

*

Ten does bring something over.

It sits, with great fear, against the kitchen’s windowsill. Two glass bottles, painted in shapes of stories, flowers brimming in both. One each for each cat. Louis slaps Leon from throwing it down a lot.

“Now you can give me food,” he says brightly, excited by the aroma wafting through the house, bundled in two sweaters, a scarf, gloves and hat that apparently his friend (it had been Jungwoo all along) forced him into.

Kun wants to kiss him.

It takes everything in him, to not squish his cheeks and bring his face close and peck his pink, albeit now chapped, lips. But he fights it—pulls off the scarf, the hat, helps him out the sweater, Ten stumbling with how hard he pulls before steadying himself against Kun’s shoulders.

He thanks Jungwoo for the gloves—his fingers, for once, are not deathly freezing, pressing over the fabric of Kun’s shirt. “That was aggressive,” he accuses, Kun’s hand coming to his waist to keep him in place. Is it because of the late night shift yesterday? He’s half tempted to nuzzle against his neck, breathe him in.

Overwhelm his sense with just Ten, not knowing when he’d need to stock up before the other leaves. “And it was also not your size.”

“It’s not cold in Thailand,” he pouts, shifting his fingers up the side his neck, curving around his nape. He plays with the hairs there, distracted, “besides, I have you now. You’ll keep me warm.”

“Oddly presumptuous,” he accuses, making him smile. Kun slides his hands further back, near the small of his back, Ten’s fingers digging into the tense muscle of his neck, his shoulders. “But clean up—food’s ready.”

They sit at the coffee table in the living room, having to swat away the cats when they come for sips of the warm soup, Ten laughing when he gets particularly annoyed at Leon’s persistence. He glances back, envious of the way Louis has settled in the other’s lap, eyes instead falling at the slip of skin.

It’s warm sweater, but it’s not his. Slipping already at the edge of his shoulder, ink peeking through. Ten’s oblivious to the attention, pulling it up out of habit, slurping up the soup.

But.

More. There’s so much more of it, all over him, isn’t there? From his arms, to his shoulder, to somewhere else too, probably. How does the skin feel, where art has left its mark? “Where did you learn?”

“Cooking?”

“Hmm.”

He plays around with his spoon. “When I started college. It’s not easy travelling a lot—plus I didn’t want to put that much money in tickets. So I just picked it up. And then there were others like me—all stuck during different holidays, different stuff. Birthdays, New Years, and what not.” He shrugs, “just became a habit. Practice made it better.”

“So you’ve always been like this, huh?” Ten murmurs, voice light but quiet. Like this? “Did they ever give you something in return?”

Kun stares, “for?” In return? “I didn’t do it for a reward, you know. I did it for myself.”

“For yourself?” That has Ten’s eyes widening, “that’s new to hear.”

“Is it?” he’s done with his bowl, watching him. “Pretty typical, for us. When you’re homesick, tired, burnt out, who else will you go to except for those who feel the same?”

Ten blinks, “I’ve never been so I wouldn’t know.” Oh. He finishes the last of his too, wiping his face. Louis is falling asleep in his lap, and he scratches the cat’s head with a smile, “that sounds nice. I’ve always wondered how it would be like.”

Kun reaches for his bowl, stacking them up and putting them aside to wash later. Right now, he’s like a fish caught hook, line and sinker. “What would you have taken up?”

“Fashion,” he immediately answers, beaming, “I would do Fashion. And then I’d go to Paris and do my masters and have my own boutique and everything. Away from everyone, but with them at the same time—all my designs, worn by the world, but not one who could put a face to name.”

Kun’s incredibly amused, “have you thought this out?”

He turns sheepish, “yeah. It sounds idealistic, right? Jungwoo says it’s like, the most competitive thing I could take, if I wanted to. But I didn’t either way—does it hurt to imagine?” The way he says it—carefree, full of hope, like if he really tried, he could make it happen. It dissipates any sense of pessimism Kun might have tried to bring up.

Ten’s right, after all; it doesn’t hurt to imagine. “You’d be amazing.”

“Yeah?” his sweater slips again, and this time Kun pulls it back up, “would you wear my stuff?”

That has him snorting, “if you made scrubs and plain shirts, probably.”

“Bejeweled scrubs and funky shirts, got it.” He hits him on the shoulder, getting a laugh out of both of them. Leon then proceeds to smack Louis, and now they are fighting, running off. Kun sighs, Ten pulling him up to put away the dishes, already familiar with the general layout. Kun chides him for wearing a million layers but not socks, giving him a pair anyway because no way is he stepping out into the balcony barefoot.

They don’t smoke, but they do stare up. There’s barely anything there to see, aside from the barest twinkle in the sky. Ten points it out, even though Kun can see it clearly himself, complaining about pollution and hidden constellations and then going off on a tangent about tattoos he’s done of them.

Kun’s still a little lagged from the hospital, so he’s fine barely contributing. In fact, he’s glad. Lets him indulge in his favorite activity; watching him. He’s so…animated, when he wants to be. Kun can already imagine him, in some art school’s campus, larger than life with a swarm after him. Can imagine him knowing all and yet ignoring it even more, keeping himself hidden behind his works, rather than letting boasts place him alone on a pedestal.

It’s like building a puzzle piece, of a person, in front of your eyes. Kun’s drawn like a moth to a flame, unafraid of light or burns, as long as it meant getting even the tiniest bit more about him. It’s just never enough, for him.

“Already?” Kun asks, straightening, reaching out to push the strands curling against his neck back. He hopes he keeps it like this all winter—the longer style looks beautiful on him. “We haven’t even fought about a movie.”

“Do you want me to head home at two?” he scoffs, but his gaze is focused on him, leaning in. Kun’s almost tempted to retort that. Or you could just not go at all. Stay the night. But would Kun himself be able to handle that? “Drop me off, today.”

Oh. “Let me get the keys.”

As always, the ride feels too short. Hours with him, and yet he’s still so greedy. “Kun,” he says, in midst of unbuckling the belt, and he hums, blood humming a bit, like it always does, when he takes his name, “when are you free?”

Free? “This Thursday; just some appointments, and then I’m clear.” Ten nods, and strangely seems, nervous. Uh oh. He hopes it’s not—

“Then I’ll text you,” he meets his eyes, expectant, “lets hang out, hmm?”

It feels very sudden, considering he’d been thinking the absolute opposite set of words to come out Ten’s mouth. “Huh?” he says, like an idiot, and Ten laughs, short and quiet, leaning forward to place a hand against his cheek and—

Fuck. “Stop thinking,” he says, after pecking his cheek, “just be ready, okay? Goodnight.” And then he’s gone, in what seems like a second. Kun’s heart does a terrible, terrible job of being normal, but at least he’s not the only one a little flustered.

Considering Ten all but flees inside his building, not a single glance back.

*

It’s a date.

None of them say it, but it feels way too much like it, to be anything else.

He’s literally about to explode. Like no joke—Kun hasn’t gone on a damn date in like, what? A millennia? Gosh, what’s date etiquette even like, anymore? Ten had said semi causal, but is this semi causal enough? He’d had to badger Jaehyun, clad in a blue shirt and black blazer with suit pants to match, working with the little gel he has because he forgot to do groceries again. At least he has good cologne. He thinks. Kun uses a breath mint too, because who knows?

Especially, when he picks Ten up, breath caught somewhere in his throat.

It’s not like he’s done a lot. Just in a cream v-neck sweater, a green coat to match, hair falling forward and ears lined with silver. But gosh, something about his smile, small but a little nervous, gaze the same when he sits, and something sweet in air brought along with him—it’s the simplest of details, that have Kun at a loss for words.

“You clean up well,” Ten says, and it strikes him he’s only ever seen Kun in his half mess state, barely any effort to appearance at all. Kun feels his skin warm, following the directions on the GPS after Ten types in the address.

“I should, if I’m going out with you,” he manages.

“Please,” Ten laughs, “I’d be fine with you in scrubs too.” Something about that makes his chest warm. It helps break the tension, a bit, as Kun tells him about something at the hospital, the restaurant coming in to clear. He tells Ten to wait when he reaches for the door, who stares at him in confusion as he practically jumps out the car, jogging over to open the door.

Ten stares at him for a second; Kun with his shit eating grin waiting, before they both burst into laughter. “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but playing into it as offers his hand forward to take, Kun feeling his heart stupidly stutter when he grabs it, hand automatically coming above his head lest he hit it against the frame. He shuts the door close, grip turning firm as they turn to walk in the restaurant. Ten points a blob looking fish in the hallway’s aquarium, telling him that’s him.

Kun pinches his palm, and retorts he’s just like the prickly little rock at the bottom of it.

Dinner is not as quiet as he imagined it would be. In fact, Ten points out the different flowers arranged by the windowsills, interested in the colour combos. About the make of the tablecloth, how easy it is to stain, but just as easy to wash away. “You do?” Kun asks, a little surprised, and Ten shrugs.

“Isn’t it calming? Mundane,” he plays with the knife, twisting it so it catches the light, catches the reflection, “I love coming back home. So I love taking care of it just as much.” He gives him the stink eye, “if you gave it a try, I’m sure cleaning could be therapeutic.”

“I’m messy, not dirty,” Ten mutters something under his breath, and Kun kicks him under the table. “But it suits you—being a homebody.”

“Does it?” Ten places the knife down, meeting his gaze. There’s something unbelievably tender about it, “trying to figure me out?”

Kun smiles back, “I don’t think you’d give me the chance, even if I wanted to.”

It feels like the correct answer, because he smiles, thanking the waiter when he comes over with their menus. They go back and forth with it, before deciding what to order. Somehow, all  the nervousness fades.

Because it’s just him.

Ten, just in a different setting. In a different set of clothes. The room is warm, lit with gold all around, Kun shrugging off his coat to hang behind his chair, only for Ten to follow too but—

Gosh. He’s so freaking beautiful. “How’d you come up with them?” he can’t help but ask, staring at the line of tattoos all along his arm. It’s a sleeveless sweater, Kun’s eyes eager to memorise what each one looks like.

“I draw them depending on what I feel in the moment,” he says, “they’re nice to look back to, think about those times.”

“What if they’re not things you want to remember?”

Ten smiles, tracing the one on the inside of his arm. “Is there a lot you want to forget, Kun?”

Yes. It’s not even worth a thought. The first time they lost a patient, the first time his professor had berated him. His mother’s words, although hurt and from a good place, sharp enough to make his already tired heart bleed. So many actually—just words and words and more. “Wouldn’t you?”

Ten thinks it over, “but then what would there be to make me, you know? Our memories are who make us—if you lose that, who are you? Who will you be? The good doesn’t always help you grow,” he meets his eyes, “I think you’d know that best—how many times have you felt challenged from a surgery gone well, than one gone wrong?”

Kun bites the inside of his cheek. A point. “Still,” he says, “doesn’t feel great when you’re lying in bed and thinking of the four year old who called you boring.”

Ten snorts, “I think that’s a you problem—and also, he’s just being honest.”

“I am plenty funny.” Ten won’t agree, despite having laughed many times when he’s with him. The food arrives, and they talk all throughout. It doesn’t feel like its anything of substance; of the cats, of cat biology, of music—Kun going on a mini Jay Chou vent session—and then of places. The drinks come in, the waiter about to pour some for him before Ten stops him, wide-eyed.

“Who’s gonna drive then?”

Oh. He deflates. Ten stares up at the waiter with a pout, “how about you just give me his share too? Drinks are on him.”

“You’re such an asshole.” He giggles, the waiter biting down on a smile when he pours it anyway.

“This was a terrible idea,” Kun says, “I should have just taken us back.”

“But fish!” Ten reasons, pulling him along. Indeed, fish. Shouldn’t they have gone to the aquarium before dinner? Like don’t people do these things, eat and then have like, some romantic ending to the night? “Kun I have sooooo many to show you. There’s a blobfish too. It’s so freaking ugly—like no offence.” He laughs at his own joke. It’s cute. Kun lets him loop his arm with his, Ten extremely excited to show him everything. Kun doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s been here multiple times. There’s wondrous look on his face, both of them coated in blue, Ten taking his time to run his hand along the glass; it’s too precious, to shatter.

He grows quiet, when they step into the tunnel, instead watching the fish swim about, leaned against him. There’s a flush to his skin, an edge of sleepiness to his eyes. Kun’s heart warms and melts in a way that’s hard to describe.

“I was here,” he says, with no further explanation, pointing near the centre. “And then no one ever came for me. But I was okay. They saved me—I think. It’s better than being alone, right? To have someone at all.” That just opens a door to a hundred more questions, but the other doesn’t seem in the mood to answer any. They take a few pictures, before getting matching key chains after Ten spotted a kid getting a narwhal one.

It’s late.

When they step out, the night dark, the breeze having picked up, the streets and parking lot emptier. But gosh. He doesn’t want it to end. Not when it feels—

It just feels so nice. To have this, in a bubble away from the world, away from reality, grounded in nothing with a label of nothing. To not just have anyone—but to have him.

To have Ten. “I don’t want to go home,” Ten admits, quiet. He’s leaned back against Kun’s car. Hands in the lapels on Kun’s jacket, pulling him closer. Miniscule cuts, faded scars when he looks closely, along the skin of them. He slides them higher, along his shoulders, as if mapping him out, eyes hooded. “Gosh Kun I—“ he stops, licking his lips, “Kun I really like you.”

Goodness. “So do I,” he breathes, head knocking against his when he tugs at him, cold fingers curving around his nape, another hand against his cheek. Kun holds him, when it feels like he’s falling. Or maybe it’s a way to keep himself steady. I really like you. That’s so sweet to hear. Kun wants to hear it again and again because he thinks he’s gotten obsessed, instead.

“Do you?” he asks, eyes closed, voice below a whisper, “I wish you didn’t.”

His heart sinks. “Well I do.”

“I’m so much to deal with,” he tells, “nothing’s normal. Everything—everything is terrible, with me. What if I disappear? What if I take months?”

“I don’t care,” he pushes anyway. Because this? The proximity, the heat, the scent of him so close? His touch, his voice, his presence? It’s enough. One minute, or one year. Kun will drink all it up, however long he needs to.

“You should,” Ten says, “someone of your worth, should.”

This guy. “Are you really going to say that?” Kun asks, pulling back, “are you going to tell me all this when you keep pulling me closer? When you keep telling and showing me you like me just as much?” He curves his arms around the other’s back, Ten watching him intently, “do you want me, Ten?”

“So much,” he answers in a heartbeat, a little broken, already tilting his head, when Kun leans down to kiss him. Gosh. A breath of life, breathed right into his very soul. Ten’s lips are just as soft as he remembers, had imagined, over and over. For all of Kun’s talk, he can’t help but take his time—it’s soft, intimate. The gentleness in which the other’s fingers tangle in his hair have him melting against him, almost wishing to just become one.

Love.

Almost.

So close to it, grazing against the edges of the word. He breaks away, before it can prolong its stay. Ten’s slow to open his eyes, dazed but so lovely, under the lights. Want, it aches inside him. To not crave it, for so long, and now that he has something to, he wishes it never leaves.  “We should get going, don’t you think?”

“Huh?” Ten’s voice is hoarse, confused, and it makes him smile. He kisses his cheek, making them pink more than they already are. Kun’s no different, after all.

“It’s late.”

“It is,” he agrees, steps away, so he can open the door, “will you drop me?”

He doesn’t need to.

Just a second, and then Kun comes back from the washroom to see him passed out on his bed. He snorts, plopping down, right at his feet. “Silly man, isn’t he?” He asks Louis, who has turned into a loaf, watching the other intently.

Kun contemplates. But is there really any need to? The answer is in front of him. “You’ll be such a handful,” he mutters, under his breath, pulling off his shoes, his socks, thinking of his glassy eyes and broken voice. It makes his heart hurt, as much as he wants it not to. He glances up at his, hand at his ankle, absent mindedly rubbing a thumb over his skin.

He looks peaceful, like this. And on closer inspection; tired.

Something Kun can relate to very, very well. Should I? He could clean up, change. Just sleep here, comfortably. He’d lend him his clothes, and want him to not really give it back. Instead he climbs over the sheets, careful not to make sudden movements before lying across him. He’ll just let Ten sleep, and change himself later, after a few minutes.

Just a few minutes.

(Of course, he doesn’t. Kun falls asleep, and wakes like clockwork in the morning, ten minutes before the alarm, much warmer than he remembers.

It takes a second before the memories come back, and the tuft of black hair breathing against his neck makes a lot more sense, Ten’s feet cold and freezing where they’re shoved under his legs. His jacket’s thrown somewhere across the room, Ten so deep in sleep he barely moves when Kun slips from under him.

He tucks him in, properly, this time. Leaves a note, and a fresh change of clothes. Makes an extra plate breakfast, safe in the microwave away from the cats, and rubs Leon’s chin as he’s sniffing the flowers in the glass vase.

For the first time, in a long time, it is not bone deep exhaustion that follows him to work.)

*

“You have to spill,” Jaehyun says, scaring the shit out of him as he slams the door shut behind him, “like who the hell. What the hell. When even—like a date?”

“Can’t you come after hours?”

“Your appointments are done,” Jaehyun hisses, taking a seat across him. Kun pretends to ignore him by typing meaningless things in his computer. Jaehyun tugs his keyboard. And mouse. And then threatens to pull out the power cable.

“It’s just some guy,” he defends, unable to meet his eyes, “I don’t ask who you’re sleeping around with.”

“That’s because that’s all it is,” Jaehyun counters, “you though—that is not all there is. He clearly means something. A name?”

“Ten,” he says, under his breath, and horrifyingly, feels his heart flutter, recalling the kiss they shared. How it felt, to have Ten finally. Even for a second, even for a few minutes. Gosh. And then he’d texted, taking the change of clothes before heading back to his own apartment. Why couldn’t he have just stayed? “Happy?”

“You’re fucking blushing I need to call Sicheng.”

“Jaehyun—“

*

[Presenter’s voice]; But can we be sure? It has not been one incident alone where authorities have deemed an individual out of borders only for them to be hiding within the country, just under the law’s noses. How is the public supposed to trust a justice system that doesn’t seem to keep honesty in its priorities? Isn’t it valid then, for victims to want to take matters in their own hands? That is what online conspiracies say about the recent suicides, that are also being interpreted by many as heroic acts of homicides. The truth? Tune in to tonight’s episode of Dig Deeper.

*

There’s police around.

Rounding the streets at night, as he’s leaning over the rails for a smoke, the sirens quiet, cars unmistakable. The area’s deemed yellow—with a death of some guy not too long ago, in a hospital not far from here. Kun’s fingers feels like they might freeze off, but his mind’s busy.

“Hey?” Ten picks up, on the third ring. The shop’s still alight, and the neighbourhood is starting to fall asleep. “What’s up?”

“You’ll go home, today, won’t you?” he asks, breathing out the smoke, “it’s late. And dangerous.”

He’s quiet. “Alright,” he says, almost as if he’s sighing. It makes him smile. “And you? It’s not late for you?”

No. Not at all. “Not when I have the night left,” he answers, “and someone else doesn’t.” There’s a second of realization. Ten’s voice is soft, when he says oh.

That’s what Kun feels too. Thinks too. When he’s there, with a hand in the patient’s life or death, standing at a crossroads, it sinks.

Oh. They won’t make it, will they?

He doesn’t say sorry—Kun’s glad. He hates that word. He doesn’t say much at all, but he can hear his breathing a bit. Can hear the sound of the car passing by, too. Kun wants—

“Can I come over?”

Space. From all his thoughts, and all the silence, and all the smoke. “Please.”

(He opens a bottle of wine, and Ten doesn’t protest on the choice of movie. Instead, he takes slower sips, as Kun doesn’t pace himself, one word becoming too many and the movie turning forgotten. He thinks he blames a lot of things—in the end, it all just comes back to what it is.

He blames himself, most.

“It’s not in your hands.”

“Don’t you wish it was?” Kun leans against his shoulder, eyes droopy. Emotion swells so hard in his chest, it is hard to breathe, “don’t you wish you were more than human?”

“No,” Ten says, quiet, and takes his glass away, “and if you were, you’d not want to either.”

Why? To have life and death at his fingertips? Why do so many who don’t deserve it live? Why can’t he give them all away for the sake of all those who deserve it? One life, for the price of another. A fair bargain, one he’d let himself shoulder, if it meant this pain could stop.

“You wouldn’t,” Ten says, so sure it’s a little infuriating, “and be glad, you don’t need to. Be grateful for the lack of choice—and it’ll make living a little easier.”)

*

“Can I ask you something?”

“Hmm?”

“What is it that you do?”

“My flower shop?”

“No,” he thinks the words over, “really.”

It’s a long silence. “The opposite of you.”

Opposite. “Can you tell others?”

“No,” it’s simple, “so you can’t, either.”

Of course not. “You said you’d show me the designs.”

“Right! So…”

*

Ten meets his friends, in the most unconventional ways, at the flower shop.

Ten meets him more often, at his place. Ten comes over a lot more, and stays the night sometimes. They don’t do anything, for some reason, but they do everything else instead. Kun’s traced the lines of his tattoos, and Ten’s painted his nails when he’d fallen asleep (the kids were happy, at least, though he’d seen the nurses giggle at his sunflowers). Kun’s fed him so many things, and Ten’s given him token of thanks to litter his apartment with.

The rounds still happen, and the area fades to a lighter yellow, another week and it’s a green.

Ten’s kisses are just as he remembers—soft, a little slow. Even if they’re short, even if they’re a little meaningless; pressed into his nape, against his shoulder, the back of his hand, sometimes his temples. The word rings in his head like a warning sign, but he takes all the red and turns the world rose tinted with them.

If this is what drowning could feel like, why not have a taste?

He’s sinking anyways. He always is, at this time of the year. Kun likes to think of himself as air, to be light enough to stay afloat, to be brash enough to breeze over all of it. But he’s not.

The opposite.

A myriad of things, its meaning can hold.

And what puts him off most, is not even the possibilities.

Is that crazy? He thinks about it, in the operation theatre, fixing the heart of a girl who has a school dance, and asked him to seal her chest nicely so it doesn’t scar. He thinks about it, as her blood pressure drops, and there’s panic in everyone’s nerves but none in their voices or hands. Thinks about it when no matter what they try, none of it works.

Kun had promised her, she’d wear the sweetheart neckline with ease. Promised her, he knew a good scar clinic. And now, he’s closing her up. Now, his heart is turning numb and his footsteps are weighed with the possibilities of all she could have done and would have achieved and should have dreamt more for.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hollowed. Hollow, hollow, hollow. A hundred successes, and not one matters. A thousand more to come, and they will not matter..

Because tonight, she had not counted as one of them. 

Because tonight, Kun had failed at what he’d promised to do. And this is why he sits in his room, staring at his chat, at his gallery, and indulging in snapshots of memories his brain offers him in conciliation for the turmoil his heart is going through.

Ten.

In all his good, and maybe annoying. And possibly, his worst.

That, is what puts him off. In hurt, in pain, bleeding and maybe one day, ending up right here, under Kun’s hands—skilled, only in the face of fate. A job is a job—but what are the consequences of it? What are the demands of it?

And how much, is he willing to give?

Is he like Kun? He gives and gives until he realizes there’s no more of him left in the murky late night thoughts. On the weekends and time alone. Or is he selfish? Just in the middle? Kun wants to know everything—wants to know him more, with every tidbit he gives. For a thing he cannot—and will not—name, Kun wants. His heart beats, hard and erratic when he’s near, and slow and calm when he’s away but in sight. His hands don’t shake, but they feel like they’re seconds away in every touch reached out, always a sliver of fear in being rejected.

His heart soaks up all these little things, until it’s heaviest thing in his chest. When he parks and sees the shop and Ten at work, someone impatiently waiting before they’re paying and rushing off, Ten waving them a goodbye with a customer service smile. He’s cleaning up now, getting the stools and chairs sorted, before bringing in the pots, one by one until his gaze finds Kun’s, somehow.

Somehow.

Always, with everything about them.

 “Kun?” he calls out, standing, “why’re you standing there?”

He shrugs. There’s screams ringing in his ears. Maybe it’s the wailing. It gets kind of hard to think straight, when you’ve been up for nearly 48 hours. He takes a step, Ten’s eyes widening. “Wait, watch how you’re crossing!”

Why?

There’s a stillness in the air, loud enough for him to hear his own heartbeat. A flash of blinding white light, Kun turning, hand coming up to shield his eyes. His body locks in place; in shock, in fear? Accepting his fate, a second too late—

He hits the ground, hard. This time, it’s the tires screeching, his ears ringing and—

“What the hell, Kun?!” Kun blinks, palms stinging and ass a little too. The blaring horn fades into the distance. He feels a little dizzy, cold, and maybe a little numb. The fingers against his cheeks are icier, in a way, a shock of temperature, head being tilted up.

Ten. “I…” the words evaporate. What the hell. He blinks, and the realization sinks. Ten’s on him, knees planted either side, a glance and the fabrics scrapped on one side. He’s heaving, chest rising and falling in rapid speed, face flushed and eyes blown in—

Anger.

 “Ten,” he breathes. Kun’s heart is going crazy, and he can’t believe this happened twice. He huffs a whispered laugh, incredulous against the other’s shoulder.

“Where is your head, you idiot?” Ten murmurs, “if I didn’t pull you down you’d have been in the ER and not to visit your friend. Look how fast my heart’s beating, all cause of you.” But Kun can barely get himself to care. His hands shake now, when he brings them up, presses them against the other’s chest.

He’s right.

Kun breathes, or tries to, Ten’s cologne mixed with the scent of flowers. It’s nice, and familiar, and something in him cracks, at being able to use the word for something more in so long.

Familiar. “Kun?” Ten’s off of him, still crouched down, as his breathing turns shakier, and vision turns a little blurry. “Hey,” he can barely see him, “what’s going on?”

So much.

“We can talk about it,” Ten whispers, as if able to read his thoughts. He buries his face in his hands, and imagines. Unnecessarily. The girl and her hopeful eyes, and then very same ones, closed and lifeless. Skin sickly pale, but nothing out of the ordinary, and now blue and cold. Imagines so many more, imagines and imagines—

Will the next time I see my son be when I’m on your table?

“I tried my best,” he admits, and wipes his eyes, feeling a little pathetic to be doing this on the goddamn sidewalk. “I did. I just. I wanted her to live too.” You promised, Professor. You said she’d live.

You could have saved her, you could have if you tried a little more. You didn’t try enough.

But Kun had only said he’d try his best.

 “I’m not god,” he manages, a little broken, “I can’t fix what he won’t let me. Everyone says what they want, because I don’t say anything back. But I can’t either. It just—it hurts, so much.” Be grateful. He doesn’t want to be. He wants to be resentful. He wants to have a choice. If it meant not hearing words like those? Then he does.

Ten’s silent. He gets up, brushing his jeans, before pulling him up too. Kun can barely see anything at all, but he can feel the other wipe his cheeks, before holding his hand. “Come on,” he says, tugging him back, “its warmer inside.”

“You know,” Ten arranges the stacks of pretty paper, on by one in neat lines, shop door closed, pots brought in. “People say a lot of things, when they’re hurt.”

“I—“

“I know you’ve heard enough to know it yourself,” Ten cuts, gently. He also folds them into a roll, without creases, before slipping them to the back. He collects the cards next. “But you’re right—we’re not god. We’re only humans.” He looks up, meeting his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “And you know what? I hate it too. There’s nothing I can do, even when it seems like I can. I think it must be like that for you too, right?”

When he nods, Ten licks his lips, hesitant. “But there’s a little catharsis in thinking that way, isn’t it? We can blame things because we’re human. Because we can’t save everyone, or kill everyone, or fix everything. I’ll just do my job, and you do yours. And whatever others say, it’s their part in whatever big thing life is actually meant to be out.”

“I…” he takes a seat, after he’s done putting that away too. Now with nothing to do, Ten’s hands fidget. “I didn’t have parents. For most my life. And there’s—well, there’s a lot—but anyways. I met other people. I don’t think there’s anyone who doesn’t feel like us, at least once.” He smiles, sheepish, “I’m sorry, I’m not good at this.”

Kun, despite himself, smiles back. Reaches to grab his hand, meeting Ten’s eyes. His body is still weighed, and so is his heart. “Thank you,” he says, anyway, because it is enough to know, he’s not alone.

It’s enough to know, that he’s not the only one, with too many questions, and answers to almost none.  

*

And maybe he could say he understands, or gets it better, now.

Kun to have life thrusted in his hands, and Ten’s to have death. There is a reason the symbol of yin yang in a part of two, with smaller bits in between. Either to have whole is too heavy. Too burdensome. To shoulder so much with barely a taste of something else, to have the world and more’s expectations rest on him. To see hope brimming in people’s eyes at the sight of him, for the slightest dissipation of it to cause destruction behind.

Kun does not have a heart strong enough for the field he works in. But he tries. He gets too emotional, and he takes the responsibility not only to heart, but to soul. Works to a point to make up for so much that he leaves those that matter so much in his life to dust. Lets days and nights turn into one and lets other’s eat up even more of his limited time.

Kun is not built for greatness. He is built to be human. And this where he feels it most, right now, a sense of it so overwhelming and strong it crashes like a tidal wave all over his sense. Ten’s little hum of surprise is nothing short of welcoming, the absolute quiet in the air and the setting of the bedroom carving a whole new space of intimacy in his heart.

It is soft. It is nothing grand at all.

It is mediocre, to be described as their kiss, in the face of what they face—deal with—on the daily. And yet, it feels so utterly perfect. Ten’s skin soft under his thumb, under his touch. Warm and alive. No sense of urgency and barely any intensity. Yet his heart thuds loud and louder against his chest, even more when Ten’s hand comes up, creeps in the space between their bodies only for his palm to splay against his chest.

It is gentle. Not hard. Not rough. His fingers twist the fabric of his t-shirt, when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, and Ten sighs into it, in a way that relieves and soothes his soul. In a way he’d forgotten how the simplest things could.

They break apart, only to the beat of something unknown to both, breathing in the gap, foreheads touching. Kun loves every sound of it—his ragged breathing, his little smile. Eyes still closed, savouring the experience like it means every much as it does to Kun too. Kun pulls back, because really.

Ten is just too beautiful, for him to not to.

And he thinks—maybe, just maybe—there is something like that to him too.  Is Ten’s heart built for what he does? With all his gentleness when it comes to the petals, the fondness when he deals with the kids, the care in which he guides his customers and the tenderness in which he deals with those bearing through the pain under needles? For a soul that Kun has seen both of—in the most softest and the intense—he cannot help but feel, he’s somewhat like him too.

Seeking a middle, from an extreme that roots away from who he really is. Wants to be. Morally gray, maybe asking for a change of what white truly looks like, how bright it would be, if he could indulge in it whole.

“That was…” Ten trails off. He snakes his hand right over Kun’s heart, no doubt feeling the way it thunders, “gosh Kun I—I don’t think I’ve felt this way.”

“Like?”

He looks up, meeting his eyes. Thinking of the words. “Right,” he whispers, “like everything, for once, has fallen right where it should have. A click or—or just…” Ten bites his lip, “I don’t know, Kun. I think I just really, really like you.”

That makes him laugh, unable to tamp down the butterflies in his stomach. “Well,” he says, brushing his nose against the other’s, “then it’s a good thing, that I really, really like you too?”

“Perfect,” he closes the distance this time, fingers automatically curving around his nape, like they were meant to find their way there. Slipping between his hairs, body leaning closer and intuitively on its own. Either Kun has just been derived from some affection for too long, or really, there is a simmering deeper connection. Drawing them so much closer, eventually leaned back against the bed, no sign of wanting to stop. Shy touches skirting against exposed skin; Kun’s fingers grazing over his tattoo on his inner arm, Ten’s over his hard worn knuckles. Bolder ones, against fabric. To feel heartbeat, to feel heat, to feel warmth.

“Stay here,” he whispers, taking one of Ten’s hands, fingers interlacing with his. Not pulling back; just enough, to admire him, admire how the proximity coats him in a way that is hard to put it into words. “Stay with me, here. Just for tonight, Ten.”

A whisper. But in his mind—a plead. A beg.

And gosh, is it practically the sweetest taste of honey, to hear the words spill from his lips. “Okay,” he breathes out, “okay Kun. I’ll stay.”

*

Things were going a little too good for him, honestly.

He’s fast asleep, after a good near six hour surgery, and a longer shift before that. The entire area’s back to being green and jolly, no more police cars, but the news never shutting up to be on the lookout. As if anyone’s distressed about assholes getting what they deserve.

Kun hadn’t even brushed—just changed, and fell right under the covers, cuddled with his cats curled near his legs, lights still on. That’s probably why he doesn’t hear the incessant buzzing, until Louis is smacking everything to make it stop. Kun blearily peels his eyes open, barely managing to accurately swipe up.

“Ello?” he croaks, already drifting off, “hm’s it?’

“Open the door.” Ten. Gosh. He thinks of him instead, they’re in Everland or something, holding hand—“Kun.”

“Mm?” He gets up, nearly dropping the phone and then himself, still tangled in his blankets, “jus’ a sec. M’comin’, kay?”

Ten hangs up. Very apt of him, when Kun just cannot keep his eyes open, barefoot against freezing tiles as he heads to the door, opening it up and—

Oh. “Ten,” he says, arms crossed and leaning against the doorway, pretty sure he’ll fall otherwise. It’s him. Here. “Hey,” and the other laughs at him, even though he’s the strange one to be here in the middle of the night. “You here?”

“Yeah,” he’s in an oversized black coat. He’s not wearing a scarf, when he should, but at least he’s in layers underneath. Cheeks and nose pink from the cold, eyes wide and awake and a little bright to see him.

Kun really hopes he dreams of him tonight. “I’m leaving,” especially now. It’s enough to  make him blink, straightening. He looks nervous, a little guilty. “I know you’re tired, but I wanted you to know, okay? I’ll be okay—I just. I might take a while, but be careful, okay? And take care of yourself. Hang out with your friends—call home or something. Don’t—“ he steps closer, reaching up to touch his cheek. Kun leans into it, eyes falling shut, “don’t be alone, hmm? It doesn’t help. Send me messages—send me anything you want.”

“I just want you back,” he murmurs, “you’re going now?”

The moment he asks, Ten’s phone starts buzzing. He gives him an apologetic glance, and Kun understands, stepping back. He stays there, though, watching him head over to the elevator, wait as he taps his feet.

“Go sleep,” he says, and Kun nods, not budging. Ten rolls his eyes, hands in his pockets, swaying back and forth. His gaze is focused on the tiles, before the ping of the elevator sounds, doors opening. Ten chances once last glance at him, about to step in—

He turns, heading right for him, and Kun gets a last second epiphany to open his arms, catch him just as he reaches. “Sorry,” he says, arms wound tight around his waist. Kun snorts, melting into the hug, face buried against his hair, before he presses a sleepy kiss to it. “I’m going to miss you so much, Kun.”

God. “So will I,” he whispers back, “take care of yourself, okay? I want you in one piece.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going for.”

“Definitely not something ordinary,” he huffs a laugh at that. There’s something else, that almost slips on his tongue.

But he can’t. Not now.

“Happy Birthday,” Ten whispers, pulling back, leaning up to kiss his cheek, “I’m sorry I don’t have anything to give.”

It doesn’t matter. “I’ll be waiting for it, then.” Ten squeezes tighter at that, before letting go, stepping back, taking a piece of Kun’s heart as he leaves him empty handed instead.

*

[Presenter’s voice]; Authorities find a lead as to who released the infamous STICKER files—

“When will this whole thing end?” Kun asks, a little annoyed as he turns the volume down. Sicheng clicks his tongue, immediately raising it. Jaehyun merely ticks off his file. “It’s been what, like eight months?”

“Ten,” they both say in unison. Right. “I mean it’s the biggest cyber security scandal in history—not to mention the amount off dirt it digged up on like, every rich person ever.”

That’s an exaggeration, of course. “Doesn’t everyone kind of know, though?” he asks, staring at the screen, “like there’s no way people see these politicians and CEOs and think they’re all great, do they?”

Sicheng shrugs, “sometimes to have hope, you have to be a little delusional, don’t you think?”

“And also because not everyone’s pessimistic like you, Kun hyung.” Kun hits Jaehyun, who immediately frowns, now his doodle of a flower (?) at the corner of the page more deformed. “I for one, am loving this. It’s like the stuff you read in stories—at least someone was brave enough to release those files.”

Brave. “Rash, too,” he murmurs, though quieter, under his breath. A lead. What, some IP address? The person’s name? Organisation? They did the world a favour, and now the world is out to hunt them down and make them pay instead. “Some things are better off unsaid.”

“Don’t know how much I agree with that,” Jaehyun says, squinting at the television, “sometimes it takes one to save a thousand, you know. Imagine how many more lives would have been ruined? For all those people who kept getting shut down or quieted because they had no proof—now it’s out for everyone to see.” Someone calls his name, and he sighs, “imagine how many less people we’d get here, if everyone were just a bit less selfish.”

“There he goes again,” Sicheng says, and this time, Kun smiles, “who’s gonna’ tell him he wouldn’t have a job then?”

“You two pick your sides, I’m going for a walk.”

*

Happy Birthday.

Kun sits on his sofa, apartment quiet, staring down at his hands.

Months. Kun has waited months, without so much as a word of warning. He’s waited without a promise of return, of nothing at all, and he’s managed just fine.

Send me anything you want.

He has. He does. And yet. Kun thumps his head back against the cushion, closing his eyes, but it’s futile. Even then, all he sees is him. All he wants is him. It’s ridiculous—what has Ten done to him?—but the word he was so scared of.

It stares back, expectant.

“Fuck,” he whispers, and laughs, heart hurting in a way that he’s not even upset about.

*

Red.

Blaring and blinking, all around his tiny avatar on the map. It doesn’t affect his schedule—as a doctor, he’s still obligated to go to work. But it does mean a lot more checking on the way to and from, a continuous tiring affair where he’s tempted to snap more times than he can count but had to hold himself back.

Whatever. A step out in the balcony, and a cigarette later, it fades anyway. He presses the butt of it against the railing, peeking at the shop to see it long closed. He pushes down the feeling of disappointment, turning to head in—

Kun pauses, hand stuck midair where he’d been reaching for the handle.

He’s not sure he’s heard it right, the first time.

But then, he strains his ears. The wind whistles, and with it, it carries a shout of pain, a shout of—

Kun.

“Shit.” He bolts right out the doors, nearly tripping on Louis before he’s throwing on a jacket, pocketing a pocket knife when the last time he went out this late flashes back to memory. Stuffing his feet in his shoes and locking the door behind him, he’s down in under a minute, feeling a little ridiculous and way too paranoid.

Of course, he’s not fucking sure it was Ten. That night, or tonight. Or it was his name. Maybe someone shouted freaking raccoon and he misunderstood it.

But god—he doesn’t know why, he can’t get himself to believe otherwise. He’s not going to let a seed of doubt foil any chances of him being right either. He sprints down the alley and turns the corner, mind whirling on where possibly he could search in a street as empty and confusing as this, also avoid getting arrested by the stupid police—

Something clatters. In the silence of the night it’s much louder than it should be, a hiss before a stray cat’s running away, a groan of pain following. There. He doesn’t dare call out a name, or anything else, still petrified, heart beat thundering as a million what ifs flash through his brain.

Red and blue lights ricochet off walls, and he curses, rounding the corner lest he gets into more trouble, only to swerve the moment he hears what seems like a groan, peeking in the alley—

“Ten,” Kun drops to his knees beside him, fear immediately shooting through his veins, “oh my god—what happened?!”

“Kun?” he slurs, groggy. Mask torn off his face, slash to his cheek. Lips dribbling with blood, the fabric of his bodysuit ragged raw. Ten’s hands press down to his waist, fingers bloodied over, and when Kun removes them.

He nearly goes dizzy. “Gunshot,” he rasps, “I—you came.”

Kun’s sure his expression is as frantic as he feels. But gosh does a sense of white hot anger seethe to the surface. “Of course I fucking came,” he spits, wondering how the hell he was getting him out of here, “you piece of shit.”

“Thanks,” he smiles, only to cough, ragged and hard. Kun rushes to adjusts him, Ten wincing as his arm goes behind his back, head thumping against his shoulder. “Fuck Kun—it hurts so much.”

“It’s a freaking bullet wound Ten, not a sprain in your wrist,” he hisses, incredulous, on the verge of actually just. Breaking down. He shifts his other arm under his knees. There’s no way he can carry him on his back like this, but he’s also terrified on jostling him. They did not cover this in medical school. “Stay awake, okay?”

“Mmhm,” he whimpers, just as Kun stands, the jostle probably akin to a million pins and needles piercing through skin, “Kun.”

“Bear it,” he snaps, “what would you have done if I wasn’t there?” Kun takes his steps carefully, just glad the cars are further down the neighbourhood. He does not know what the hell he’d manage to bullshit if they asked what he was doing.  “What if your friends were late?”

“They won’t come,” Ten breathes into his shoulder, a hand clutching Kun’s other one, grip so tight its painful with the way his nails are digging in, “we don’t come back for the left behind. I’d die.”

What the fuck. “Sound like a shit load of friends,” the distance feels infinite. Does he live this far? Why won’t it come closer? An eternity seems to have passed by the time he reaches his building, Blood splotching against the tiles, Kun’s blood pressure shooting through the roof with how fast his mind’ whirring. He’s losing too much. “Stay awake.”

“It hurts so much,” Ten whispers, breathing getting shallow, “Kun it’ll—maybe if I sleep—“

“No,” he says, meeting his eyes. For the first time since they’ve met, Ten’s guard in nowhere to be seen. Just so much vulnerability it leaves him feeling overwhelmed and heavy with responsibility. Gosh. Nearly two weeks and this is how he gets him back? “Ten don’t you fucking dare.”

 Just a bit more. The numbers change in the elevator. Kun is realizing he will probably need to mop the building himself to avoid suspicion. “You might die, if you do, okay? And I draw the line at losing more than a person a day.”

“Oh,” realization flits across his face, “oh I’m—I’m sorry. They were—they were—“

“Nineteen, died mid surgery. It happens and I move on.” He reaches the door, “can you get my keys? They’re in the front pocket.” Ten winces, heaving by the time he unlocks the door, and Kun steps in, kicking the door closed. He shoos the cats away, going for his bedroom without second thought, setting him down.

“I ruined your bed,” he says, voice sounding wet and Kun pushes back his hair to check—

God, please. “It doesn’t matter,” he thumbs his tears, a rush of determination surging through him, “I’ll clean you, and then I’ll treat you. It’ll hurt, and then I’m taking you for a CT scan.”

“No, no, no—Kun, you’ll get in trouble—“

“Shush,” impulsively, he leans forward, the barest press of lips against his head, “now stay awake. Stay with me, alright? I’ll get everything. I’ll do everything—but you need to stay with me.”

He raids his entire house and then takes a million more things because he’s scared shitless. He locks the bedroom door because the last thing he needs is the cats in here. He cuts up Ten’s top first, internally wincing as it peels away from the wound, so much blood, and he just hopes to god he doesn’t faint from it.

It takes over an hour. Kun gets the bullet out, cleans his wounds, and keeps prompting for Ten to babble whatever half-conscious nonsense he wants. He apologises so much it breaks his heart, and then he doesn’t even realize he’s crying.

We don’t come back for the left behind.

Is it the pain or the fear? The very real one he might have actually died? “Did you get him?”

“Huh?” Ten blinks, slow. Keep him awake. Keep him talking. “The like—the like target?”

He nods. “He was tall,” Ten rasps, “he was like so big and he was freaking creep. He did all–horrible, basically. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to be the one to do it. They said—they said it would be risky but then—“ he smiles, misplaced in the place of so much hurt. “I did. Kun I—I got to kill him.”

His stomach churns, “good job.”

“Yeah?” How he’s not passed out from the pain is beyond him. Kun’s given him a bunch of painkillers, but he’s not risking the night. If he shows the first signs, he’s dialing Jaehyun.  “Aren’t you disgusted? You’re a doctor. I killed a man. I’m happy I killed him.”

He sits, taking him in. Ten’s watching him with a sense of dread. Of helplessness. Of just.

Dejection. “Is that what you do?” he asks, carding his hair back and away from his face. Kun will wipe him down with a clean cloth too, in a bit. He’s already just in his boxers, blankets thrown on. Kun will need to help him into clothes. It’s too cold. Will heating be enough? Will anything be enough? Will—“You kill people?”

“Hmm,” his eyes flutter shut at the sensation, “I—we’re like the white hat hackers. But with killing. There’s this—this organization. I’m an orphan, Kun. I had no one. And then—then I had them.”

I was here. And then no one ever came for me. But I was okay. They saved me—I think. It’s better than being alone, right? To have someone at all.

He hums. “And they—they taught me everything. They were so nice. I grew up—grew up with them. We get rid of these people, Kun. We do—we do some good by doing the bad.” He meets his eyes, “life is so precious, Kun. It’s so precious. You know right? You’re a doctor—you must.” He’s not even sure if Ten sees him nodding, continuing, “they don’t deserve it. Use this one precious thing to just—just ruin. Everyone. Ruin kids. Ruined one of my friends and she killed herself.”

Goodness. “And now?”

“Now?” Ten’s breathing’s gotten a little better. But it still takes him a bit. “Now they—now I did my part. I don’t know—I might not get to go back.”

Something cold creeps into his heart, “they won’t…kill you, right? If you’re alive?”

Ten stares. It takes him a bit to understand. “No, no. He—he’s really nice. He doesn’t do that. But if he—if he knew you’d tell? Then he would. He comes to kill traitors personally. He has this cane. It’s really pretty. Pierces right through anything; even bone.”

Okay then. “I’ll get you a hoodie.”

“You’re going?” he panics, and Kun’s immediately there, holding his hand. Ten’s voice is pleading, “don’t. Please.”

I’m still here. But he sits, grip tight. “Okay,” he says, gently, “I’m here.” Ten nods, leaning back against the pillows, breathing much more even than it had been. He still sends a message to Jaehyun, hoping they can go first thing in the morning. Jaehyun bombards him with a bunch of questions, and he only answers the medically important ones, in case he missed something.

“Hello?”

“What the hell, Qian Kun,” Jaehyun seethes, “what is going on? Bring him here.”

I can’t. What if the police found out? What if Ten’s people think—

“Right now, that man is on the precipice of death. I don’t fucking care what lie you give to the people here for his files, but make up an excuse and get him here now. I’m not letting someone die on my shift.” Before he can say anything, Jaehyun adds: “and if you really need a cover up, we can just paint Sicheng’s car with blood and say he did it.”

Kun rolls his eyes, “be ready with a stretcher.”

*

[Presenter’s voice]; Good evening, viewers of Neo City news. I am your host Lee Taeyong, with our special segment: Digging Deeper. As most must of heard by now, tonight saw the death of CFO Yoon, one of the biggest names linked to the STICKER files. Authorities suspect all the deaths may have been linked to a pact made by the members of the nefarious organization…

*

 Jaehyun was right.

“Turn it down to 0.5,” he says, checking Ten’s vitals. Kun finally understands, how the people waiting outside his OTs feel—absolutely restless. It’s like time can’t go any slower than it already has been, crawling at an ant’s pace as he stares at the numbers on his phone screen. Two bags of blood later, and now one last IV drip, for Jaehyun to finally lose the crease between his brows, letting out a sigh.

“I’m sorry—“

“I’m not even going to ask,” Jaehyun mutters, messaging his temples, “he better be worth it.”

Kun nods, “don’t worry, I’ll make sure nothing happens. Even if someone asks—“

“I mean worth it for you,” he cuts, giving him a side eye, as if he’s dumbest person on the planet, “Hyung you’re so in love with him. It’s honestly astonishing. I—“ he bites his cheek, looking over at Ten. Aside from the bruises, he looks in blissful sleep. “I just want you to be happy, okay? I just want you to finally find something—or someone—that can do that. And if he can? Then it’s worth the risk. Though I’m sure with how the news went this morning, the authorities aren’t connecting shit.”

Kun thunks his head against the other’s shoulder, feeling somehow absolutely miserable and so—

So at peace. “Do you think he feels the same?”

Jaehyun looks two seconds away from hitting him, “not one moment, where he didn’t call out for you. You tell me, hyung.” He shoves him off, standing, “my shift’s over. I’m sending Hana.”

Kun nods, waving him off. Ten’s knuckles are red, as he takes them in his. Rubbing the skin of them, a comfort in the constant pulse of his wrist. He brings it to his lips, kissing them, eyes slipping shut, the exhaustion catching up all at once.

You tell me, hyung.

How does he tell him, uncertainty is a given, with a man as crazy as the one before him.

It takes two hours, one last bottle, and Kun napping, for Ten to blink awake. He’s thirsty, groggy, but his eyes soften when they see him, hand patting the space next to his. The machines beep, and he’s already taken the day off, pretty sure nothing’s getting done when he’s half out his mind.

“Where…?”

“One of the private rooms,” Kun explains, watching him carefully, “they uh. Upgraded you to it.”

They. It’s one word, and its enough for Ten’s eyes to flit with so much clear emotion it narrates a story in its entirety. “Did someone….” he pauses, unsure of how to finish that sentence. Visit? See him? Say something?

Kun hands over the card, name as familiar as day, plain white with black handwriting. Lee Taeyong, Head Reporter, Vision Media. He’d come in, a limp in one leg, in his suit, as neat as he’d looked on T.V. Took one look, and made his leave, thanking him for his time.

Ten flips the card over, staring at the numbers. He breathes a sigh, slumping back against the cushions, eyes closed. “Can’t believe he didn’t even say bye.”

Kun swallows down his words.

Can’t believe he didn’t wait for us.

It’s like they were two sides of the same coin. “How do you feel?”

“Everything hurts,” he drops the card, pouting as he looks over at him, “I don’t like it here.” Kun raises a brow.

“You’re in one of the best rooms—“

“I want to go home,” he says, uncaring, and then without a second thought: “I want to go to yours.” Kun almost wants to scold him—does he get a right to demand anything after the stunt he pulled? After what he put Kun through? Gosh Kun just—

Kun just wants to shake him. Ask him. He gets up from his place on the chair, sitting down on the bed next to him, reaching out to take his hands, now shaking a bit. Weakness? Anxiety? When will anything about him spell out in the clear? He’s so annoying—no wonder Louis likes him. “Okay,” he says, and Ten deflates with the words, sensing the ‘but’. He leans forward, pecking his temple, “but not now. When you’re a bit better. I’ll take you home.”

*

ONE YEAR LATER

“No,” Ten says, disappointed, “are you kidding me? Beige is so basic. Sky would be so much better.”

Kun throws his hands, “if you already know, why ask?” Ten rolls his eyes, muttering something about stupid men and their lack of tastes. He catches the eyes of the consultant over the table, the girl smiling knowingly. Ten proceeds to still ask him about colours, and fabrics, and textures, and then only goes with one choice of his.

“Alright then,” Ningning, it reads, as she takes the set of books, “I’ll draw up a rough estimate. Just give me a few.” They thank her, and Kun flops back against the sofa cushions. Ten looks over at him, shaking his head.

“You didn’t even do anything except give bad ideas,” he muses, “why are you tired?”

“I do surgeries for a living cut me some slack,” he tugs him back, and Ten goes easily, leaned against him.  “Why aren’t you tired?”

“It’s fun,” he says, easily, drawing circles on Kun’s knee, “I can already picture it. It’s going to look so pretty. I was thinking maybe we could do something with that extra room of yours.”

“The storage?”

“You do not need that much storage, it’s like half empty. We could divide it like 3:2, and make an office? For you and me. It’ll help you focus too—I’ll get those ergonomic chairs and some paintings?” Ten smiles to himself, thinking about it, “can we add some shelves too? And you should frame your certificates. I can’t believe you know how to drive a plane and don’t even tell.”

“We could add an easel too,” he adds, “add whatever you want to.”

Ten nods, quieting as he thinks it over. Kun’s heart bubbles with fondness, only paying half attention when Ningning is back, explaining the process, this area not much his expertise anyway. They go at it, until they’re finally leaving, the radio turned up as Ten rolls down the window.

It’s a sunny day; clear. They get lunch at an open-roof restaurant, ankles hooked under the table, Kun taking way too many pictures, Ten complaining but posing for all the same. But he can’t help it.

It just doesn’t sink.

A year, or maybe forever. When he steps closer, both of them standing on the near empty beach just outside the restaurant, waves lapping at the shore. Ten hooks his chin over his shoulder to get a look, warm and there. “Let me take a few of you too,” he insists, fingers brushing against his as he takes it, teasing him by taking a million selfies instead.

He can’t even be mad—not when he gets that smile in return. Bright and blinding, Ten grabbing his arm as he laughs, promising to take one for real this time. Even though Kun knows he won’t, well acquainted with his tactics. “Come on,” he pulls him, hands clasped in his, “its getting late.”

Most of all, it’s this.

Coming back home, with him. Taking off their shoes at the door together, a rhythm as if waiting to be found existing in the walls of the apartments, manouvering around the cats, cleaning up bits and pieces here and there. Talking in the kitchen, Ten sat on the counter as he watches, occasionally helping. (He’s not very much helpful. Just distracting. Demanding kisses for every little chore.)

Kun’s just.

“You promised,” Ten whines, “Kun come on. Please?”

“I want to sleep.”

“Just this movie! I need to watch it with you. It’s so horrible, you’re going to love it,” he snorts, settling against him on the sofa. It is horrible, and very enjoyable. Expectedly, Ten falls asleep midway. Kun tries waking him when it’s over, telling him to get up—

“Carry me.”

“No. And you’re a lot stronger anyway.”

“Sometimes it’s nice to not feel that way,” he reasons, staring up at him, two seconds from falling. Thankfully, Kun is the winner of this battle, both of them under the covers with no injuries. The mattress gives way too easily, so do the cushions. Ten snuggles closer, face pressed against his neck, breathing him in. “Did you like it?”

“Like what?” he traces the tattoo on his shoulder, Ten in a tank top with all of them in the clear. “The designs?” He hums. “You chose them, didn’t you? It’s all going to be good.” Kun doesn’t really care. It’s been what, like five years? Since he bought this place? It could do with something more than him. Especially if that something, is Ten.

Ten, obviously, didn’t go back. Or maybe he wasn’t allowed to. All he knows is, he wasn’t saying no when he’d asked if he could stay with him. Kun doesn’t like questioning too much—from what he knows, Ten has plenty money in his account, courtesy of ‘them’. And Kun makes more than what he knows to do with, anyway.

They could make it work.

And they have. “Stop worrying,” Kun presses a kiss against his hair, “sleep.”

“Goodnight,” Ten says, arms wounding around him. “M’love you.”

His heart skips a beat. Kun closes his eyes, and lets sleep take him as easily as it wants to. “I love you, too,” he whispers, “goodnight, Ten.”

Complete.

That’s what it feels like. A year later; a year of learning, knowing, trusting, understanding and—

Loving. The edges of him are there still—ragged raw, hurt, beaten down a bit, from life hitting this way and that. At least now, he has an equally jagged piece, to share it with.

*

[Presenter’s voice]; Good evening, viewers of Dig deeper. I’m your guest host Professor Kim Dongyoung, with the hottest news topics in the countries. Unsurprisingly, first on the list, is the STICKER file.

For those whose are unaware: On March 16^th , 20XX, an unknown user had leaked a zip file titled STICKER. What started as a game amongst coders to break open the heavy encryption, quickly turned into the country’s biggest scandal.

Twenty three corporations, six political parties and even more high profile individuals had been found guilty from crimes ranging from data theft to human trafficking. Meticulously collected and accurate evidences were all compiled in one place, exposing the leaders the public trusted to be the very ones stabbing them in the back.

Since then, seventy three of the eight four rumoured individuals have been either found dead, declared missing, or are under investigation.

While authorities race to trace clues behind these deaths, with the many of the suicides still suspected as possible homicides, the public rejoices instead. Indeed, vast public opinion remains the same; let it be a warning. Whether there had been a hand of third parties or not, there is no doubt in the people’s belief.

Justice does not need law, to be brought on to the wicked.