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So, this is the end, Park Jonggun thinks as he swirls his wine in his small glass, watching his breath turn to steam in front of his face. It’s not a bad one, by any means. The snow falling from the sky in ill-fated flurries that melt as soon as they touch his skin; the faint rumbling of Seoul in the background; Goo’s gentle breathing by his side.
If anything, Gun thought this whole thing would’ve ended a lot differently.
A knife fight, maybe, or some other sort of barely concealed violence– teeth gnashing, jaws snapping, claws scratching at each other’s throats. That’s how they met, after all. Standing alone in that junkyard, the sky pouring rain as if it was crying for them, blood dripping from their wounds, bones creaking from the effort of staying upright.
But this isn’t much better, Gun thinks. It’s unfamiliar. Suffocating.
It’s so antithetical, so fundamentally opposed to everything they are and were meant to be. Weapons are only supposed to draw blood, after all. Violence is all that they had ever known.
So why is it that all he feels, watching his rival and partner and best friend of four years sitting on the ledge beside him, watching the clouds split into pieces and fall to the earth, all he feels is something stirring inside– a deep, dark, primordial fear?
When will you leave? Will you really leave? Will I really have to kill you? Why did you do it, Goo Kim?
Gun has always been a man familiar with fear. It comes with the territory when you kill for a living. But there’s something strange about this fear; it’s raw, a little bit ugly, a little bit too rough for even Gun to enjoy.
But what’s worse is this: they accepted it so easily, as if it was carved on their bones, as if it was a script they’d both rehearsed; their end was an inside joke between friends– easy, familiar, funny. Even now, they both understand what kind of person the other is, what kind of choices the other would make.
It’s like they both already knew this would happen, from the second they laid eyes on each other. They’re not the type of people for happy endings.
Still, they stayed.
Did Gun expect a different ending? Was he trying to achieve a different ending in the first place? Goo Kim, what did you do? What do I owe you? Is this really what you wanted after all?
Is that why, when Goo asked him to drink, for the first and last time, he sounded so sad?
But once again Goo doesn’t answer any of his questions; once again, Gun is secretly glad he doesn’t.
They sit there under the roof of the old house, the snow still falling in clumps and flutters, its whiteness shining in the dim sunlight.
“Hey.”
The silence is broken when Goo finally speaks again.
“I think I’ve gotta be on my way now.”
Gun looks up from his hands, abruptly realizing how much time has passed when he sees the sun already setting.
“Taejin might start getting worried that you killed me if I’m not back soon,” Goo continues. He cracks a soft smile at his own joke and stares at Gun, as if expecting him to reciprocate the smile.
He does.
“Why don’t we finish this bottle first?” he replies, picking the soju bottle up again to emphasize his point.
“What, I thought you weren’t in the mood for drinking?”
“Mm, changed my mind,” Gun replies, and that’s the end of it.
They pour their drinks out and down it all in one shot again, like they did the last time. The alcohol burns pleasantly as it rolls down Gun’s throat, and he remembers why he likes it so much in the first place: it tastes like a fight.
He thinks he’s drawn to Goo in the same way.
They haven’t ever drank together, courtesy of Goo’s aversion to alcohol and all things that could be considered a “vice"; but as they sit there together, glasses clinking together, it feels as if they’ve done this a thousand times over.
They pour out another shot and down it again. And then another. And then another. The entire time, they don’t speak a single word, barely even look at each other. Perhaps this was exactly the kind of ending that was fit for their relationship.
The irony writes itself.
A violent, glorious start, filled with snarky threats and bloodied fingers; a peaceful end. Like the slow fizzling out of stars that were never big enough to go supernova. Was that what Gun and Goo were to each other?
Friends, colleagues, lovers that never were?
Lovers, Gun thinks, whispers silently, rolling around the word on his tongue like he’s trying to weigh it, trying to scope out its smooth edges and sharp corners. It’s heavy. Unbearably so. He doesn’t think it fits them, doesn’t think it ever will.
Love is a tender, tender thing. Gun and Goo haven’t got a single bone in their body made for tenderness. All of their bones are for breaking.
Gun looks over at Goo, only to find that Goo had already been staring at him for who knows how long. When Goo sees that he’s been caught, he doesn’t look away. Instead, he only grins.
…Gun doesn’t know what it was. Maybe it was the way the light bounced off the rim of Goo’s glasses and fluttered off his lashes like stars. Maybe it was the way Goo’s face looked especially pale amongst the snow, so pale that Gun thinks he’d fade away if he didn’t grab him. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the slight flush on Goo’s cheeks or the farewell that didn’t yet slip off his tongue or his annoying smile that Gun needed to wipe off his face. Maybe it wasn’t anything at all, but at that moment, it was so easy to just lean forward and take.
So he does.
Gun leans in and kisses Goo.
The moment is stretched thin to infinity, like time has just stopped. Goo makes a surprised, muffled sound and tenses, but the movement is brief. He eases into the kiss as well, as if he’s been waiting all his life for this, as if they’ve done this a million times.
The feeling of Goo’s perfectly maintained lips against Gun’s own chapped pair isn’t unfamiliar. Neither is the coolness of his glasses against Gun’s nose nor the way Goo shifts in his seat.
After all, they had spent the greater part of the last three years together, and they had needed to explore some more… primal urges.
But what is unfamiliar is the tenderness.
Gun and Goo’s kisses had always been tongues and teeth: a fight, a challenge, a dare. A battle for superiority, like everything else they’ve ever done. At the end of it, Goo always tasted like blood, whether it be his own or Gun’s.
The taste of Goo, unstained by blood or anger, is something softer, smoother, so much so that Gun hardly believes that it’s really the blonde that he’s kissing. Goo tastes like rain and home cooked food and dollar-store soju.
Is this what a goodbye tastes like?
If so, Gun thinks that he wants to say goodbye to Goo again and again and again. This is nice , he thinks. If the Earth stopped spinning right then and time stopped flowing, the fact that they’re there together in the first ever moment of gentleness they’ve ever shared would be enough.
Gun doesn’t remember who pulls away first. Maybe Goo did, judging by how he instantly moves to adjust his crooked glasses or rearrange his scarf; or maybe it was Gun himself, as he instantly moves to fix his hair.
The moment ends, and they both pretend like nothing ever happened.
Goo is the first one to acknowledge it.
“You know, you’re actually pretty good at this stuff when you’re not trying to eat me alive,” he says, and it sounds noncommittal, like a joke. As if none of that just mattered.
But the crack in his voice at the end gives him away.
“But don’t think that it’s enough to get me to stay.”
Yeah.
Gun knows.
Goo is a breezy, capricious person. His moods come and go like the wind. But when he sets his sights on a path to walk, storms on his brows and a hurricane in his steps, there’s nothing in the world that can stop him.
Gun isn’t any exception.
Still, it’s nice to know that he was at least a temptation.
Goo dusts off his dustless coat and moves to stand up. There’s still a bottle of soju left in the bag he brought, and he points to it.
“Anyways, I’m actually leaving this time. That’s a gift for you. Have fun drinking alone, loser.”
Gun snorts.
“Yeah, thanks. Have fun drinking with your secret friends as well, idiot.”
Goo smiles, but there’s no mirth behind it. There’s a swirl of other emotions there that Gun can’t quite put a finger on. Sorrow, melancholy, regret, but not wishfulness. They would’ve gotten to this point anyways, no matter what happened.
“I will.”
Goo turns to leave. Before he does, he gives a backwards glance at Gun, annoying smile still hanging off his face.
“Hey,” he begins, and he sounds a little sad. Just a little. “It was nice while it lasted, Gun Park.”
“Mhm.”
And Goo walks off into the sunset.
Except–
Gun doesn’t know what came over him, perhaps it was the alcohol again, but whatever painful, ugly, tender thing drove him to kiss Goo the first time drives him to cup his hands around his mouth and shout:
“Kim Joongoo!” he cries after the figure in the distance. “Stay alive until the next time!”
But Goo doesn’t turn around, doesn’t even acknowledge him. Gun can’t let it just end like this. No, he wants, he–
“Kim Joongoo!”
Did you hear me?
Can you do that?
Will we ever meet again?
(Of course they will. They’re bound at the bones, joined by their flesh and their tendons and by something far greater that won’t ever, ever let them leave the other. Like two stars bound by each other’s gravity, they’ll never truly be able to leave. It’s hard to tell where Gun ends and Goo begins.)
Goo turns around in the distance, and–maybe it’s a trick of the light– but he smiles back. It’s something small, reserved, and it’s entirely sincere and free of trickery. It’s something Gun thinks only he has ever seen.
And Goo turns back around and walks off. Gun looks at his retreating form until he is consumed by the snow entirely.