Work Text:
It plays out the same way every single time.
Blood, in Mingyu’s mouth. A fist, colliding with his jaw, nearly dislodging his front teeth.
Mingyu, plummetting into a cold alleyway.
“You weak, filthy traitor,” the words are punctuated by a boot pressed to the nape of his neck, flattening him to the frostbitten concrete. A cut is forming at the arc of his cheekbone, and Mingyu can’t help but stutter out a derisive laugh.
It’s ironic, the accusation being spat out at him - the accuser in question having embezzled at least 500 million won from his own company. However, Mingyu’s good humour is hardly well-received, is rewarded only with another vicious kick to his shins, another blow of a baseball bat against his splayed-out hips.
Mingyu gnashes his teeth against the searing pain, but he knows. He knows it's only a matter of time until the pieces slot into place. It's only a matter of time, until-
A sharp gust of wind, and then: a deft set of hands wrangling his attackers off him at lightning speed, a voice bellowing, “You're under arrest for violating the Criminal Proceeds Regulation Act, Buhjangnim .”
Another flash of a half-second, and the same deft set of hands are pulling Mingyu upright from the frostbitten concrete, shaking the dirt out of his hair, skimming fingers over his chest to examine any latent bruises.
“Took you long enough, geomsa-nim,” Mingyu smirks around the blood in his mouth, shivering partly from the January air, partly from the deliberateness of the touch on his goosepimpled skin. “Almost worried me for a second there.”
Lee Seokmin beams in response - perhaps a little too smug for four am on a Thursday night, a little too smug for a cold alleyway currently being overrun by cops and prosecutors alike, by Mingyu’s attackers being put in handcuffs, ushered into whistling police cars. But it feels precious, nevertheless.
“You have too little faith in me, Kim Mingyu,” and the glint of challenge in Seokmin’s eyes is unmissable, betraying a rush of adrenaline that is mirrored in Mingyu’s own quickening pulse. “We’re a team, aren’t we?”
And.
It plays out the same way every single time, a twisted rendition of fate, violence lurking at their toes.
But Lee Seokmin of the Seoul Central District Prosecutor’s Office fishes out a cold compress from his pocket, gingerly applies it to Mingyu’s left eye, clicks his tongue as he murmurs, “ You’re always such a troublemaker, aren’t you?”
And Mingyu wouldn’t trade the adrenaline for anything else in the world.
—
Strange that it is, they are a team.
Lee Seokmin’s dark-grey suit is always immaculate every time he meets Mingyu at their designated safehouse - a modest rooftop apartment twenty kilometres east of Seoul. His smile is always a magnetic mix of politely professional and darkly amused - a glint of a challenge always in its depths, but something softer too.
Mingyu always feels oddly self-conscious in his own shabby brown leather jacket, in his threadbare sneakers that are coming apart at the seams, but he reciprocates Seokmin’s smile nevertheless. Attempts to reciprocate the challenge in it too, but ends up skewing more towards the softness instead, heart shivering under the weight of it.
“They’ve been moving large amounts of money across the Han River,” Mingyu rattles off the most recent intel he’s gathered, something inexplicable buzzing in the pit of his stomach, desperately seeking Lee Seokmin’s approval. “I think it’s exactly what we expected, geomsa-nim. It’s the Soonyang Industries slush fund, they're planning to smuggle it out of the country.”
Seokmin’s eyes harden by a smidgeon, but he inches closer to Mingyu regardless, straightens the collar of Mingyu’s shabby brown leather jacket, “Good work, Mingyu-sshi.”
And this is adrenaline too, the tingling of Mingyu’s spine at the slightest hint of Lee Seokmin’s touch, at the way Seokmin’s thumb separates the strands of Mingyu’s dishevelled hair, at the way he leans in to whisper, “You know what to do next, don’t you? Help me intercept that money, Mingyu-sshi.”
“O-of course,” the stutter on Mingyu’s tongue is pathetic, the persistent tingling of Mingyu’s spine is pathetic, the indefatigable need for Lee Seokmin’s approval is pathetic, and-
And yet.
They are a team.
Mingyu is the inconspicuous mole at the centre of the country’s most notorious money laundering ring, and Seokmin is the puppeteer who holds his strings. Lee Seokmin, of the Seoul Central District Prosecutor’s Office, the wielder of Mingyu’s loyalties, the decider of how Mingyu’s fate will play out every single time.
Seokmin’s smile is magnetic, even in the lull of an abandoned rooftop safehouse. Seokmin's touch is spine-tingling, even when they're hunched over a crumpled map of Seoul, plotting out attack strategies and escape routes.
And Mingyu is drawn to it like a moth to a flame, never wanting to trade this adrenaline for anything else in the world.
—
Mingyu gets roped into the criminal underbelly of metropolitan Seoul at nineteen, when his father's gambling debt sinks his family into financial ruin.
He’s always had a head for numbers - had aced the CSAT math section, had prematurely dreamed of turning this into something more meaningful, into a career of building things.
Perhaps, that’s why he’d been such a prime candidate.
Perhaps that’s why, while getting bludgeoned against a wall by the debt collectors who’d begun hounding him after his father’s unexpected suicide, while begging and crying and wailing, “please, let me pay you back in some other way, I don’t have any money,” the bulkiest among them had said-
“He’s a smart kid, maybe he can be of use.”
And that’s how it happens, the sealing of his fate.
Kim Mingyu, abandoning any and all aspirations of making it to university, and instead, getting pulled into the country’s most notorious laundering ring.
Kim Mingyu, eternally sharp with numbers, soon put in charge of maintaining covert ledgers of how all the laundered money travels. How embezzled funds from big conglomerates find their way across shores, across international banks, evading the notice of regulatory authorities.
Mingyu had grown up in a tiny neighbourhood in one of the poorest districts of Gyeonggi-do - to him, money of this calibre, of this volume, had felt like a lucid dream. But it didn’t take long for the dream to turn into a nightmare. For the blood inherent in every 1000-won bill he catalogued to begin churning Mingyu’s stomach, keeping him awake every single night, tossing and turning in bed.
He was paying back his father’s debt bit by bit, his prowess with accounting earning him the respect of the higher-ups, raising him through the ranks. And yet every night, the nightmares were relentless, the guilt nestling deep into his intestines.
So, when Mingyu is twenty-five, and weary to the very tips of his toes, when a car pulls up to the pojangmacha he frequents on Tuesday nights, when a tall (strikingly handsome) man in a dark-grey suit emerges from it, flashes a badge with the words Seoul Central District Prosecutor's Office, and says-
"I think you and I can help each other, Mingyu-sshi."
-Mingyu only feels a strange sense of relief.
It takes all but ten minutes for Mingyu to make up his mind, even if his posture betrays none of that resolve. Even if what he says is: "Why should I trust you?"
Lee Seokmin's tie is loosened as he settles into the chair opposite Mingyu's, as he pours Mingyu a fresh glass of soju, as he leans forward, almost conspiratorial. "You want to go to university right? Want to study architecture? I can make that happen."
"You have a special file on me or something, Lee geomsa-nim?" Mingyu can't help but scoff, even if his pulse is roaring in his ear, chest feeling like it's been cracked open on searing-hot concrete. "Didn't think I was important enough to warrant such a thing."
Seokmin's eyes are inscrutable, pools of glittering bronze underneath the dim pojangmacha lighting. But there's something akin to a smirk forming at the corner of his mouth, rendering him even more rakishly handsome than he is with his immaculate suit and slicked-back hair.
"Maybe you're more important than you think, Mingyu-sshi," and perhaps it's this, the mellowing of voice around the important, how it makes Mingyu feel he could be something important. At least in Lee Seokmin's eyes. Lee Seokmin of the Seoul Central District Prosecutor's Office.
Perhaps it's this, the way their fingers brush just the briefest amount as they both reach for the bottle of soju at the same time. Perhaps it's the way Seokmin doesn't flinch away, but continues to let their fingers linger on each other, his glittering-bronze eyes anchored to Mingyu.
Seokmin doesn't even have to say: "Work for me, and in return, I'll make sure you get your freedom." Doesn't even have to follow it up with: "I'll make sure you finally get to go to university, live a normal life."
It takes all but ten minutes for Mingyu to make up his mind, to give over every inch of himself to Lee Seokmin.
—
It's relatively simple, giving Lee Seokmin what he wants.
Mingyu has perfected his ruse, flitting in and out of shadows, appearing as inconspicuous as possible as he overhears the exact conversations he needs to overhear. As he extracts information that will earn him a gentle pat on the shoulder, that will culminate in Lee Seokmin’s practised hands on his jacket, unruffling its folds. Good work, Mingyu-sshi.
(And Mingyu will cling to it, those three words, those miraculous syllables. Mingyu will cling to it, the adrenaline in his veins at the sight of Lee Seokmin’s smug, buoyant smile, deluding himself into thinking that perhaps, in that moment - they really are a team.)
Mingyu has perfected his ruse, because after all, he’s just the trusty, unassuming accountant. The kid who always keeps his head down and crunches the numbers, is discreet about the numbers, who defers to his associates, always delivers on his end of the bargain. The higher-ups barely notice him, and those who do, are easily goaded by his exaggerated (yet disarming) sincerity.
Mingyu has perfected his ruse: being the mole, the informant, evading suspicion even after more and more consignments of laundered money start getting coincidently seized by the authorities. Even after the Seoul Central District Prosecutor's Office begins developing an uncanny knowledge of exactly where that money will travel.
He’s just the trusty accountant, and now, too, no one quite doubts him as he weasels the next drop location out of an associate, sweet-talking him over a conceded game of baduk.
More and more associates are eventually drawn to the baduk game, soju and Go-stop is added to the mix, and it slowly mutates into a rager of sorts, an air of post-work celebration overtaking the room. Once again, no one quite notices Mingyu as he melts into the background of the party, now that his intel has been satisfactorily gathered. No one notices Mingyu as he slips out of the warehouse altogether.
That is, until:
“You sure you know what you’re doing, Mingyu-yah?”
It’s Wen Junhui, out for a smoke, his shirt-collar upturned, his long blonde hair secured into a high ponytail. His sharp cat-eyes puncture into Mingyu’s very bones, and yet there’s no accusation in them, only a misplaced concern.
“I don’t know what you mean, hyung.”
This is a ruse too - the immediately summoned up sheepish smile, the added inflection of naiveté in his tone, and yet the words are like thick treacle on his tongue, tacky and onerous. Familiar pinpricks of guilt curl in his gut, settle into the hollows of his bones.
“I’m only heading home after a long day of work.”
But Junhui looks utterly unconvinced, his gaze still visceral with concern, and the pinpricks of guilt in Mingyu’s bones swell into something more unavoidable.
This is Junhui.
Junhui, the only member of this organisation who ever truly cared, who took Mingyu under his wing on his very first day and taught Mingyu how to navigate the intricacies of this world, what to avoid and where to intervene. Junhui, who is also in this out of necessity - defaulting to criminality because it’s the only work he can find as an undocumented immigrant, because this country devours and spits out foreigners like him on a daily basis.
Junhui, who deserves the truth.
But Mingyu has perfected his ruse a little too well, can only offer up another sheepish smile, can only say, “You should go home too, hyung. It’s getting late.”
Can only ignore the whispered “Be careful, Migyu-yah,” that shudders out of Junhui as Mingyu turns away, heading to a modest rooftop apartment twenty kilometres east of Seoul.
—
Tonight, Seokmin is far less put-together.
His tie is undone, dark-grey suit jacket swung over his shoulder, hair slipping out of its usual gelled-back volume. The bags underneath his eyes are barely noticeable, but Mingyu notices them anyway, sees the worry lines wrinkling at his temples, the loadedness of his exhales.
(Mingyu always notices Seokmin a little too much. It's an occupational hazard perhaps.)
"Good work once again, Mingyu-sshi," Seokmin says, but instead of that ever-present glint of a challenge, tonight, his softness perseveres. "You've brought me a real breakthrough this time. We can finally crack this case wide open."
The rooftop apartment is sparsely furnished, just a frayed couch and a coffee table. A dusty ceiling fan, its blades creaking as it turns in circles. On that couch, Seokmin's fingers ghost over Mingyu's wrist, the touch so fragile, it almost feels like an illusion.
"Things are hard at work, aren't they?" Mingyu can't help but blurt out against the clamouring of his pulse. And fuck, that's a boundary pushed too far, a layer of intimacy they have never dared to breach.
And yet, it's so obvious in every inch of Lee Seokmin tonight - his hunched gait, his subdued eyes, his indecisive hands.
Mingyu feels an inordinate urge to erase all of it - the exhaustion, the worry, the indecision.
He wants Seokmin's smile to be as smug and buoyant as it is in cold alleyways four am on a Thursday night, rescuing Mingyu from frostbitten concrete. He hungers for that challenge in Seokmin's eyes, and everything it dictates him to do, every morsel of danger it prompts him to run towards.
But instead, there are Seokmin's tentative fingers on his wrist, there's an aborted self-deprecating laugh, a battered sigh: "You're oddly perceptive, Mingyu-sshi. No wonder you're so good at what you do."
Mingyu's throat is dry, lungs seizing with the combined weight of the compliment (which sounds frighteningly honest, now that it doesn’t glint with a challenge) and the way Seokmin’s fingers travel to the centre of his palm, connecting with the base of his heartline.
Thing is, there is another ruse that Mingyu has perfected. This veneer of aloofness every time he’s around Seokmin, the cocky banter, the charged back-and-forth. The pretence of professional distance, the transactional quality of his words. All of it is a ruse.
On the inside, there’s somersaults in his stomach everytime Seokmin’s fingers lazily caress his skin, there’s shooting stars in his chest every time Seokmin says, Good work, Mingyu-sshi. There’s hope, for a future Mingyu had never been allowed to hope for before he met Lee Seokmin. A future, full of smug smiles aimed in his direction, of his graceless hands taking apart immaculate dark-grey suits, tongue tracing the glorious skin beneath.
"I'm right, then?" is what Mingyu says instead, ignoring the shooting stars in his chest, like he’s used to ignoring by now. “Something is bothering you?”
For the briefest, imperceptible moment, Seokmin’s eyes widen, as if he’s taken aback by Mingyu’s persistent concern. After all, this is a boundary pushed too far, a layer of intimacy they have never breached, and perhaps should never breach. They don’t talk about themselves, not really. There are oblique references sometimes, throwaway anecdotes that slip out both deliberately and by accident, but never this. Never something so specific. Never something so personal.
Regret coats Mingyu's tongue all of a sudden, and he's about to take it all back, to shrug it off with a customary glib remark, but-
Seokmin smiles, albeit more wry than smug, his fingers now enveloping the entirety of Mingyu's palm. Their joined hands trembling on top of frayed couch-leather.
"Five years, Kim Mingyu." It comes out small at first, a stark contrast to his usual self-assuredness. There's another sigh mingled with it, a tad too jaded this time. "I've been going after these people for five years. Tax-evading conglomerates, siphoning laundered money with the help of organisations like yours. Five years, and I still barely have enough evidence to take them to court. I barely have enough of a case to topple the power and influence and the cycle of corruption these people have built."
A sucked-in breath, and now Lee Seokmin is staring right into Mingyu's soul, his gaze a little too incisive on Mingyu, his hand tightening around Mingyu's.
"Getting Soonyang Industries… one of Korea's big three conglomerates? That will be a game-changer, Mingyu-sshi." It's almost a whisper, sending Mingyu's stomach somersaulting all over again, Seokmin's breath tickling his neck.
There's that adrenaline pumping in Mingyu's veins again too, like a moth drawn to a perpetually doomed flame.
"If we get Soonyang industries," Seokmin continues, buckling forward just the slightest bit, their noses brushing just the tiniest bit, "I'll finally be able to prosecute. It'll set a legal precedent, will help me build a case against other corrupt conglomerates too. But-"
"But?"
"But, Mingyu-sshi," Seokmin turns their joined hands on the leather couch, fidgets with the tips of Mingyu's knuckles. A nervous tic, perhaps, another addition to Mingyu's personal directory of Lee Seokmin body language. "If I fail to get them this time, then this will be it. My bosses will shut down the investigation permanently. Chief Prosecutor's orders."
There's another aborted self-deprecating laugh, but this time, it's faux-flippance fails to land. This time, there's a resigned air to it, a tightness around Lee Seokmin's heart-shaped mouth. And.
For the first time since Lee Seokmin cornered him at the pojangmacha, since they became a team, the gravity of what they're doing finally sinks in.
It's been easy to think that the stakes are high only for Mingyu - the mole, the informant, always in the direct line of fire, constantly risking exposure. It's been easy to think, that Lee Seokmin with his immaculate suits and polished Seoul accent and equally polished civil service job was far removed from the consequences of such a thing. All Lee Seokmin has to do is argue in court, but it's Mingyu who is knee-deep in a million ruses, is bloodied-mouth against frostbitten concrete.
Yet.
Perhaps, Mingyu has been wrong. Perhaps, the consequences run equally dire for Lee Seokmin of the Seoul Central District Prosecutor's Office. Perhaps, Lee Seokmin is also shouldering his own share of risk, is wrangling a system that is more insidious than Mingyu could ever imagine.
"Then let's get it right this time, geomsa-nim," it’s almost a natural reflex, the way the words roll off Mingyu’s tongue, the way conviction stirs in his veins. The way he’s willing to sacrifice every inch of himself for Lee Seokmin, all over again. “Let’s get the fuckers.”
This time, Seokmin’s responding laughter is genuine, is far from self-deprecating. It’s not quite smug, not entirely buoyant, and yet, as its complete length and breadth settles on Mingyu, there is an unmistakable twinge of wonder in it. It’s punctuated with a thumb at the nape of Mingyu’s neck, ruffling the sloppy tufts of hair around it. It's caveated with their joined hands moving from frayed couch-leather to Seokmin’s lap, Mingyu’s upturned palm shuddering atop Seokmin’s thigh.
It’s.
“You really are such a troublemaker, aren't you Mingyu-sshi?” whispered into the liminal shadows of this rooftop apartment twenty kilometres east of Seoul, softness gushing out like an open faucet.
It’s adrenaline, pumping in Mingyu’s veins, unavoidable. It's shooting stars in his chest, somersaults in his stomach.
Mingyu wouldn't trade this for anything else in the world.
–
It plays out the same way every single time.
Or it should. It really should.
It is, after all, a perfected ruse, synchronised dancing in the moonlight, steps rote-memorised in every breath.
Mingyu knows what he has to do with razor-sharp precision, knows exactly what to infiltrate and circumvent, knows the inevitable conclusion. It is, after all, nothing he hasn't done before - even if tonight, the stakes seem higher than ever.
It should be straightforward. It should.
That is, until Lee Seokmin shows up at his doorstep.
His doorstep, not their usual rooftop safehouse twenty kilometres east of Seoul.
His doorstep, the one-bedroom he rents in a sordid Yeongdeungpo street-corner, where bullet-casings in back-alleys are more at home than civil servants in immaculate dark-grey suits.
His doorstep, where that familiar dark-grey-suited shoulder now lounges against the doorframe, breaching a million more boundaries that could never be restored to their status quo.
"Won't you invite me inside, Mingyu-sshi?" Lee Seokmin's smile isn't quite smug, isn't quite buoyant, isn't quite glinting with a challenge. Isn't anything Mingyu can recognise from the vast repertoire of Lee Seokmin smiles he has committed to memory.
Foreboding drums in Mingyu’s pulse, dread unwinding in his sternum. And yet, Lee Seokmin is on his doorstep - his, nobody else's - and Mingyu's voice trembles with a new kind of ill-conceived hope as he manages a half-hearted:
"What are you doing here? Are you insane? What if you were seen!! Do you have any idea how often gang members loiter around this area?? Our whole plan could be compromised!!"
And now.
Lee Seokmin's smile finally arranges itself into something legible. It's gossamer-fond, softer than any Lee Seokmin smile Mingyu has ever been privy to, punctuated with fingers reaching for the tousled strands of Mingyu's hair.
"I just wanted to see you, Mingyu-sshi." Seokmin says, refusing to relinquish his gaze from Mingyu's, refusing to do anything but stand on Mingyu's doorstep like it's where he's always belonged. "I wanted to make sure you ate well before…everything went down tonight."
And it's only then that Mingyu notices - the fabric-parcelled stack of containers in Seokmin’s left hand, the vague notes of soondae and gochujang hitting his nostrils. The embarrassingly loud rumbling of his stomach. How preoccupied he’d been all day to eat anything but a stale convenience-store kimbap roll.
This is worse.
This is categorically worse than midnight trysts on rooftop apartments twenty kilometres east of Seoul. Worse than every morsel of danger Mingyu would run towards, at Seokmin’s mere prompting. Worse than every boundary that they have already breached, that they should have never been allowed to.
And yet.
Mingyu finds himself nodding - even if it’s just the tiniest of nods. Finds himself throwing his door open, in more ways than one. Finds himself sprawled on the living room floor before his folding wooden table (its hinges creaking with disabuse), as Lee Seokmin gently undoes the fabric-parcelled containers, ladles glistening soondae-guk and kimchi and oi muchim into the only plastic bowls Mingyu owns.
There’s shooting stars in his chest, as Seokmin’s smile swings another shade softer watching Mingyu bite into the meat, watching Mingyu eagerly drain the broth from his bowl. There’s dread in Mingyu’s sternum, as he tries to reconcile with what all of this means - why Seokmin even cares enough to show up on Mingyu’s doorstep, to want Mingyu to eat well. Mingyu’s sole purpose in this arrangement is merely to execute his perfected ruse, to pounce into the line of fire for the sake of Seokmin’s commitment to justice. Tonight shouldn’t be any different, even if it alters the trajectory of Seokmin’s investigation forever, even if it alters Mingyu’s fate forever.
It should be straightforward. It should.
Shouldn’t it?
“I’ve been thinking, Kim Mingyu,” Seokmin’s smile is still soft, and yet, Mingyu doesn’t miss the way he fidgets with the hem of his suit-jacket, the way his eyelids lower in hesitation, just a minuscule amount.
“That’s never a good sign.” Mingyu doesn’t know how he manages levity, even with the dread in his sternum ballooning to critical mass.
A breathy chuckle escapes Seokmin, despite himself. Mingyu doesn’t know why he’s so oddly enthralled by the sight of it, why he’s so pleased at managing to amuse Lee Seokmin, even at a time like this.
There’s brief shuffling within the flaps of his briefcase, and then, Lee Seokmin is fishing out a glossy-pink brochure, spreading it out onto the small stretch of the wooden table not taken up by plastic bowls. Mingyu can barely read the English alphabets (he’s merely a numbers guy, not quite as adept at languages), but before he can request a translation, Seokmin saves him the trouble:
“University of Zurich has an excellent Architecture Department.” Seokmin’s eyes are still lowered, staring at a stray spot on his lap, “I think you’ll like it there, Mingyu-sshi.”
“Z-Zurich? I-in Switzerland?” And suddenly, Mingyu can’t summon up any more banter.
He should have seen it coming.
Two years since Lee Seokmin cornered him at his favourite pojangmacha, since they became a team (at least the semblance of one), since it took him all but ten minutes to make up his mind. Two years since he’s been pouncing into the line of fire for Lee Seokmin, every molecule of his existence surrendered to Lee Seokmin’s cause. Breathless with anticipation only for a Good work, Mingyu-sshi, uttered within the chipped walls of a rooftop apartment twenty kilometres East of Seoul -
Two years, and this is how it had to end. Of course this is how it had to end.
That future he had been foolishly hoping for: of smug smiles that only he could lay claim to, of graceless hands taking apart immaculate dark-grey suits, of tasting the glorious skin beneath freshly-starched shirts. Of drinking at a pojangmacha not just as a precursor to a ruse, but as something to come home to after a long day, fingers intertwining around a bottle of grapefruit soju.
All of it has been just that: foolish.
“We’ll arrange everything, of course,” Perhaps Seokmin has finally sensed it - the clamming up of Mingyu’s muscles, the bile rushing to the back of Mingyu’s tongue. He has the decency to avert his gaze, to stymie the earlier softness of his smile. “Your application, your visa, your changed identity and new passports and documents, I’ll take care of it. It’s the deal we made.”
The deal they made.
Of course. That is all he would ever be to Lee Seokmin from the Seoul Central District Prosecutor’s Office. A means to an end. A cog in a machine so complex, Mingyu still doesn’t know where he stands within it.
“Why Zurich?” It takes him a second, but he does eventually project some veneer of poise. Mingyu is, after all, the perfecter of ruses. “The terms of our original agreement said nothing about leaving Seoul.”
Seokmin looks up then, and, for the first time since Mingyu has known him, there's a tentativeness in his gaze, a flicker of uncertainty in the downward turn of his lips. It feels off, like a cardigan buttoned into the wrong buttonholes, like a key that doesn't turn in a lock.
Seokmin is still fidgeting, but more subtly now, nails drumming against the legs of the wooden table, socked feet curling back and forth. But at least he stares directly into Mingyu's eyes when he says, "It's for your own protection, Mingyu-sshi."
Mingyu has to physically hold back his scoff, even if the words unlock something terrifyingly forbidden, something he wants to shove down to the deepest tombs of his being.
"I can take care of myself, geomsa-nim. I have so far."
Seokmin's jaw tightens, the friction of nails-against-wood reaching fever pitch, deafening in the silence that stretches out between them. Mingyu tears into another piece of meat, raises his bowl to his lips to gulp down the final remnants of broth. At least it gives him something to do with his hands, something to prolong this particular ruse.
“Mingyu-sshi,” There’s a constricted quality to the way Seokmin says it, like he’s having trouble getting his words out. Like he’s choking on a fishbone. “If we’re successful with our plan tonight, they’ll know you’re working for me. They’ll most probably come after you for working for me. Seoul will no longer be safe for you, Mingyu-sshi.”
Mingyu almost wants to laugh.
Like he hasn’t been painfully aware. Like he hasn’t mapped out every possible outcome and conclusion for two whole years, perhaps even longer than two years. Perhaps from the moment he was roped into the criminal underbelly of metropolitan Seoul.
There’s no two ways about it. The country’s most notorious money laundering ring doesn’t take kindly to deserters. Especially not deserters who have been feeding the prosecution critical information, who have directly contributed to the arrests of countless operatives, to countless seized consignments.
On some level, Mingyu has always been resigned to his fate. He’d just wished Seokmin would indulge his foolish hope a little longer, would let him remain in an endless cycle of rooftop trysts and the glint of that ever-elusive challenge that Mingyu is desperate to rise to.
He’d just wished Seokmin wouldn’t try to protect him , at least not like this.
“Switzerland is far enough away that they won’t be able to hurt you,” Seokmin somehow finds the wherewithal to continue, even if Mingyu is barely keeping the dread in his sternum at bay. “I know it will be difficult, in a new country, speaking a new language. But I promise you, Mingyu-sshi, it will be worth it. You’ll get to start over, have a normal life. That’s what you always wanted, right?”
No, Mingyu wants to scream. Mingyu wants to grab Lee Seokmin by the lapels of his immaculate dark-grey suit and shake him inside-out until he understands, until he sees Mingyu’s impetuously-bleeding heart.
I want you. Mingyu wants to say. I want to have a normal life with you. I want to tell you about my day and hear about yours. I want to know which senior prosecutors in your office get on your nerves and which paralegals adore you. I want to know what you ate for lunch, and what you want to eat for dinner. I want to know why you insist on meeting up with me every single time, even if most of our conversations could easily be had on a burner phone. I want to know why you risked your entire operation to come here tonight, to bring me food, to tell me all this in person. I want to push you up against a wall and wreck that fucking suit of yours and-
Instead, all Mingyu says: “Thank you for the meal, geomsa-nim.”
Instead, all Mingyu does: gathers up the empty bowls and chopsticks, turns away from Seokmin to pile them all onto the kitchen-sink. It’s cowardly, avoiding the ongoing tentativeness of Lee Seokmin’s eyes, avoiding the implications of everything Lee Seokmin has just pitched to him. But maybe Mingyu is a little bit of a coward, maybe that’s why he’s so good at perfecting his ruses.
Seokmin is quiet, letting Mingyu putter around the kitchen, washing the dishes, neatly arranging the empty containers back into the fabric-parcel they had come in. Seokmin is quiet, merely watching as Mingyu finishes up, then busies himself with tying the laces of his threadbare sneakers, shrugs on his signature shabby brown-leather jacket.
“Should we head out then, geomsa-nim?” He says, ruse once again perfected. “We should drive there separately though. Stepping out of a prosecutor’s car would blow my cover. And yes, I do have that listening device you asked me to wear, it’s hidden in the lining of my jacket.”
Mingyu even conjures up a half-smile, but perhaps it’s not convincing enough. Perhaps his misdirection is a little too obvious, his ruse cracking around the edges. Seokmin remains quiet on Mingyu’s living room floor, his tentative eyes a knife’s edge.
Behind them, stray droplets of water whittle into the kitchen sink - Mingyu's building has always had terrible water pressure. Outside, early sprinklings of November snow begin to fall, coating the already-dreary neighbourhood in an added layer of gloom.
Another excruciating minute passes, and then, Lee Seokmin is finally sighing, finally hoisting himself up from the floor, smoothening the creases in his dress pants. This time, when his eyes refocus on Mingyu, they’re less tentative, even if they pierce into Mingyu a little too squarely for his liking. There’s the slightest hunch in his shoulders, the slightest tremor in his right hand as he holds it up for Mingyu to shake.
“Alright, then, Mingyu-sshi,” he says, sounding more clinical than Mingyu is used to, “Let’s end this once and for all, shall we? Let’s get the fuckers. ”
Mingyu hates it, hearing his own words being repeated back to him. How contrived it sounds now, in the awfully prosecutorial way Seokmin pitches it. Or maybe that’s how Seokmin has always sounded, and Mingyu has overly romanticised the notion of him to the point of never noticing. Or maybe, Mingyu is merely a coward, has always been a coward.
He does shake Seokmin’s hand, however. He does revel in the feel of Seokmin’s neatly-manicured fingers against his, lingering a second longer than he should.
After all, Mingyu wouldn’t trade this adrenaline for anything else in the world.
—
They do drive over in separate cars. Mingyu in his run-down self-repurposed Kia Carnival, Seokmin in his slick government-issued SUV, trailing a polite kilometre's distance behind him.
Mingyu is glad for the distance, glad that Seokmin cannot see him like this, knuckles diamond-hard around the steering wheel, tears bristling at his eyelids. Like this, his body a powder-keg that whimpers rather than explodes, that seethes and crackles but emits no sparks.
Yet, Mingyu is still the perfecter of ruses. With clenched teeth, he pushes past the bile at the back of his tongue, tries to school himself into his usual veneer of aloofness. To some extent, he does succeed.
By the time he nears Hangang Park, detours into a surreptitious left-turn that cuts a deserted path to the docks, the tears have been blinked away. His heavy breaths have been beaten into submission, his palms no longer clammy with their steering-wheel vice-grip (even if the splotches of red all across it are a reminder of the resultant friction). Dread still throbs in Mingyu’s sternum, but this time, Mingyu can ignore it, can subdue it.
It’s not like tonight can get any worse.
He swerves into a secluded spot, suitably hidden behind an overgrowth of gooseberry bushes, a part of the riverbank that is more glorified garbage dump than picnic destination. Their final reconnaissance point.
Seokmin’s SUV stops right beside his Kia, window rolled down, gaze impenetrable as it pierces into Mingyu in the driver’s seat.
Mingyu’s teeth clench even harder, but his shoulders unhitch with relief at how Seokmin doesn’t get out of the car. At how Seokmin doesn’t get close enough to notice Mingyu's red-flecked hands, the moisture still drying in the arc of his eyelashes. The last thing he wants is for Lee Seokmin to plough past the carefully-constructed margins of his ruse, especially now.
“You remember the plan, right?” Seokmin’s voice is awfully prosecutorial again, cold precision replacing any residue of softness, of soondae-guk tenderly splayed out on Mingyu's folding wooden table.
Mingyu wants to laugh again. As if he could ever forget. As if it isn't seared into his retinas, emblazoned into his bones. As if this isn't everything the past two years have been building up to.
"Yeah." Mingyu hopes that he sounds equally cold, equally mechanical. But the stinging of his still-red hands ruins the effect, the dread in his sternum ruins the effect.
"Then you must also remember what the conditions are." For what it’s worth, there is the slightest hint of an abrasion in that annoyingly formal tone of Seokmin's, only the slightest snag of hesitation. Mingyu only notices it because it's an occupational hazard, because he can never help but notice, even now.
"You're not an official civilian informant or government employee, Mingyu-sshi." A clearing of a throat, manicured hands fiddling with suit-jacket yet again. "If things go wrong tonight, then you don't have immunity. Then-"
"Then I'll be thrown under the bus, indicted for being an accessory to corporate corruption and money laundering." Mingyu does laugh this time, a hollow, strangled sound. More despondent than the nonchalance he aims for. "That is, if my gang members don't put a bullet through my brain first."
"Mingyu-sshi." Another clearing of Lee Seokmin's throat, Adam's apple bobbing in its aftermath, suit-fabric rustling under the weight of manicured fingers.
"And if things go right, you'll ship me off to Switzerland," Mingyu finds himself compelled to continue, compelled to muster up a nonchalance that doesn't quite land. "Either way, you'll be getting rid of me soon, geomsa-nim. Win-win, isn't it?"
"Is that what you think of me, Mingyu-sshi? You really think that I want to get rid of you?"
And maybe there's a challenge in the words now, but an entirely different one altogether. If it was impenetrable before, now, Lee Seokmin's gaze crystallises into something else. It’s a blade twisting into Mingyu’s jugular until it draws blood. It’s the stinging of Mingyu’s hands, the dread in his sternum.
"I've been part of a criminal organization since I was nineteen, and you've dedicated your life to fighting criminals." Mingyu laughs again, and it's still hollow, a half-aborted, fizzled-out whoosh of air. "We’re from different worlds, geomsa-nim. Maybe it's best if you do get rid of me. That's what our deal has always been, hasn't it?"
It feels like an eternity, the silence stretching out between them. Seokmin behind the wheels of his government-issued SUV, Mingyu squirming in his own car-seat, palms bathed in red. It feels like an eternity, them just sitting there, preparing for the inevitable.
For one hopeless, foolhardy moment, Mingyu almost wishes they were at their rooftop safehouse instead, hands lingering over faded couch-leather.
But, there's only this. Two cars, parked parallel to each other. The roaring of cicadas. The gurgling of the riverbed behind them, a constant white noise. A key turning in the ignition.
Lee Seokmin, saying: "I guess that is our deal then, Mingyu-sshi."
There's a smile in it somewhere, perhaps fashioned with the same nonchalance Mingyu has been attempting all this while.
But Seokmin has even less success with it, his glibness falling completely flat.
(Mingyu only notices because it's an occupational hazard.)