Chapter Text
If there was one thing Jongho had learned while living on Crescent, it was that nothing but trouble ever happened after curfew.
Even in the months he’s lived in the cramped little apartments by the bell tower, he can’t quite tune out the whispers, the ghost of footsteps he swears passes by on the empty streets though the shadows never seem to move when he works up the courage to peek around the shitty blinds blocking the dusty streetlights.
He’s too restless to sleep tonight, his thoughts turning and turning – dirt collapsing, Yunho slipping, frantic words and red-rimmed smiles, the goodbyes passing in a blink of an eye—
It’s dangerous being curious.
Jongho still remembers the searing burn of the explosions razing the field and the surface of his skin, Mingi taking his hand and Yunho pushing them towards one of the land transports as if the land itself wasn’t being mangled beneath their feet, track shoes and whatever naturally gifted athleticism rendered useless.
Once they were sure the ground wouldn’t collapse around them, Yunho had made them swear to never tell another living soul of what they’d seen. What they’d learned.
Mingi had been smart, he’d gone off-world to a completely different star system. Yunho had too. Jongho though, couldn’t bear to leave the familiarity of their star cluster, didn’t have the same nomadic childhood Mingi did, didn’t have Yunho’s bravery.
He brushes a finger over the watch wrapped around his wrist, the hourglass interface crooked and long broken no matter how many times he’s tried recalibrating it. Aside from his memories, the watch is all he has left of Yunho, the uranium glass within shining a faint calming turquoise. Jongho can pretend Yunho’s warm presence is still beside him as more than a ghost.
Thelea had fallen in a matter of days. He’s not sure if Yunho had still been one of its inhabitants or if the mining moon was just a pit stop on a much longer journey when they parted ways all those years ago. Jongho’s fingers itch to search up the inhabitant lists but he thinks he’d rather not know.
At least that way, he can still hope.
Jongho screws his eyes shut and continues pacing the tiny length of the living room and kitchenette. The walls don’t give him space to breathe, his footsteps echo too loudly on the floorboards, his heartbeat thrums through his body, pulsing fear and energy and the yearning for a different time and place into his blood.
He barely registers removing the deadbolt to his apartment. The concrete hallways float in his periphery.
An unforgiving gust of wind blasts him full force when he shoves the steel door to the rooftop open, tearing his mind back to his body. Elsewhere on the planet, Jongho estimates it’s early springtime where the icy fingers of winter are rescinding their hold on the flowering plants and native fauna. Here in Crescent where greenery only exists in safe bubbles of personal gardens, the world parallels the gray of the concrete and the structures rising above it.
It takes him a full minute of leaning against the steel door to blink away the past and even then, the vestiges remain at the corners of his mind, always scratching for another opportunity to overwhelm him.
Jongho sighs and then realizes he’s not the only one on the rooftop after the evening tolls. There’s another figure perched on the balcony, legs dangling over the seventy foot drop, fingers curved loosely around the railing without a care in the world.
“It’s past curfew,” Jongho says before his brain to mouth filter reconnects.
The stranger turns. Jongho freezes in place as piercing eyes burn into him. The young man hops off the balcony and in the limned lighting, his silhouette paints an hourglass against the rest of the colony.
Everything about him is sharp. From his features to his gaze to his clothing, aesthetically tight to illustrate the slimness of his waist. He radiates a presence Jongho isn’t sure how to place. There’s an inexplicable calmness to his unblemished features which clashes with gelled midnight hair and the intensity of his eyes.
Jongho straightens a bit, swallowing hard. “Aren’t you afraid of being caught?”
The young man raises a shoulder nonchalantly. “They barely have enough manpower to regulate the streets and the sublevels.” His voice flows quietly, the words rolling melodiously off his tongue and their softness catches Jongho off guard. “No one ever looks up to the skies.”
“Right,” Jongho mumbles and carefully steps up to the railing. He’s never visited the rooftop before despite the months of renting a tiny apartment below. The view isn’t anything impressive but the chilly winds have been blowing at incremental bursts, dispersing most of the pollution that tends to choke Crescent. The stars blink in greeting tonight.
“You’re not from around here, are you.” It’s not a question.
Jongho’s spine stiffens and he clamps down the urge to turn though he isn’t sure if he would face the young man or simply run. Everything is written in his eyes, the gaze still resting on him feels too knowing already. If he leaves, the stranger will know his answer too and have more suspicions.
This is exactly why Jongho shouldn’t leave his apartment. A few years isn’t far enough into the past, not when the lust for power and potential treasure was on the line.
“I – apologies. It wasn’t my intent to make you uncomfortable.” Jongho notes the young man has an interesting lilt that isn’t unpleasant. Out of the corner of Jongho’s eyes, he’s rubbing a sheepish hand against his neck, a little awkward, the movement painfully relatable and human. He turns his gaze back towards the sprawl of Crescent below.
“You’re right, I’m not. But neither are you,” Jongho observes, knowing as he speaks that his gut is right. His presence is too vivid for a place like this where everyone tends to keep their heads down unless there’s something to be gained. “What gave it away?”
The young man hums. “It’s the way you hold yourself. Like you’re still your own person?” He pauses and Jongho risks a look that gets caught on thin delicate lips pulled into a slight frown. “Everyone else seems to walk like they’re two steps from the grave unless they’re a peace keeper or someone who hasn’t lived here for years.”
Now that he points it out, Jongho realizes it’s true. Crescent has a way of strangling the spirit, of squeezing exhaustion into bone and marrow until it weighs so heavily, only embers and ashes remain. Jongho crosses his arms and fully faces the young man. “So are you a peace keeper ready to turn me in?”
The young man lets out a light scoff. Jongho doesn’t expect the twin dips that accentuate his slightly crooked smile. “There are people far more dangerous than the cowards that patrol the streets, believing that curfew will keep the spokes from turning,” he says cryptically.
His words send an unnerving sear of adrenaline through Jongho’s stomach but it’s not because of the young man before him though he’s starting to understand he’s more dangerous than the cute dimples and silvery voice let on.
Apart from his regular routine of visiting Yeosang and Seonghwa’s restaurant, this is the most interesting conversation Jongho has had in months. Jongho is far too curious and unhealthily intrigued by this young man. He’s always been too attracted to open flames, to puzzles and challenges and buried secrets. It’s why he came to Crescent of all places with no credits to his name and only his dignity and his willingness to work in manual labor. It wasn’t to get attached to another enigma that might spill worse consequences than before.
“Well, who do I have the pleasure of city-watching with tonight?”
He debates giving a false name or perhaps just the one he’s been using to register for work, the one his manager and his landlord know him by, but what comes out is, “Jongho.” It might as well be an alias with how few people still alive in the universe know it.
“No family name, Jongho?” And although his expression is once again neutrally guarded, Jongho swears his tone is lighter.
Never mind how refreshing and exhilarating to hear his name drop from the young man’s lips. “Stick around a bit longer and maybe you’ll be privy to it,” Jongho replies drily though it comes out more honestly amused than he hoped.
“Choi San.” A smile dances over sharp eyes and it paints youth and brightness across his face.
“It’s uh, nice to know I’m not the only one trauma-dumping to the stars.”
San hums. “You know, the stars watch over one another but Crescent only has itself. It can get a bit lonely.”
Somehow, he doesn’t think San is talking about Crescent at all. Even though the stars are bright, Jongho thinks San shines as his own burning celestial flame.
✧•*``•.¸✯
He doesn’t mean to make Choi San a part of his regular routine. It just sort of…happens.
On nights when his mind dredges up every shard of loss to drag over the brittleness of his heart, when his body shakes from a rough day on the construction site and sprinting through the sprawling colony to try and chase the emptiness away, to beat the monotony of the stone slab establishments out of his head with the pavement beneath his pounding strides, to paint over the smell of fresh dew on grass and the tingling of laughter in his veins, Jongho finds his way to the rooftop.
San isn’t always there. Sometimes, Jongho is alone, staring up at the galaxies spiraling overhead with an awe dampened by time and the desolate pathway he’s chosen for himself.
The skies are more welcoming when San is there, leaning over the balcony with his head craned or sitting cross-legged in the tiny alcove by the ancient heating system, tracing patterns in the metal only he can see.
Neither of them tend to initiate much conversation, greeting one another with nods, bidding farewells with the weight of secrets tied by mutual understanding.
Tonight, San doesn’t acknowledge him when he scuffs the agonizing way up the stairs, his thighs burning from lifting heavy machinery and the restlessness of running without ever feeling the same freedom he did so many years ago.
He comes to lean on the banister beside San. There’s substantial space between their bodies, as there always is, the distance almost carefully crafted in their pensiveness.
San doesn’t move and Jongho notices the way the heels of his palms press against his forehead, the shadows casting his features in star glow. They’re around the same height but like this, curled into his lithe frame, face tucked into the safety of gloom, San seems unbearably small.
Jongho doesn’t know how to breach the fragile silence. He focuses on the way their breaths mist out before them, dissipating into the atmosphere the way he wishes some of his memories would.
Time flows between them. A while later, San raises his head and flinches hard enough to startle Jongho too.
There’s a shattered quality to San’s eyes. Jongho’s heart twists painfully and the urge to brush his fingers over the wetness of San’s high cheekbones nearly overwhelms his best judgment. He recognizes that look, knows .
He sees it enough in the mirror.
And Jongho has never been great with words, with expressing his thoughts or the chaos of emotions and experiences, shovels his heart behind a blank stoniness and his feelings into mental boxes. He’s not like Yunho who knew what to say and when to speak or hold his silence, he’s not like Mingi who easily gave comfort through touch and made you feel like everything would be okay.
So Jongho starts a lullaby, one from his home planet where the rain would come in torrents and the flowers smelled sweet when they bloomed.
The lyrics unravel into the starlight. Jongho tries to keep his voice sweet like the melody calls for but he can’t deny the melancholy of the song either, the yearning of the piece and his own added wistfulness for a lost past.
He sings a couple of pieces, quiet and tentative at first, then fuller as San looks up at him and up at the endless yawning skies.
Once quiet settles over them, Jongho’s voice fading out into a rasp (his throat burns a little and he can’t remember the last time he sang, let alone for someone else), San stares at his fingers against the railing. He doesn’t look over though Jongho likes to imagine the diamond constellations reflecting contemplation in his eyes.
“Woo used to do that on bad nights, even when he was struggling too, even when we were so tired and there was still so much to do,” San whispers. He licks his lips. “I think your voice fits better though.”
Jongho has a half a second to feel his gut twist at another name before he registers San’s words. “Oh well, I’m not that good with words but music has always helped me,” he stutters.
“Music really is a universal language.”
“I’m sure your um, your friend – or partner – I don’t want to assume,” Jongho rushes out, “is a great singer too.”
“He is,” San says with a smile and the curve of his eyes still weigh with torment Jongho doesn’t know but there’s fondness in his gaze, a warmth that softens his features. “I’m lucky we were paired for so many missions. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend. But he had a choice. I didn’t.”
Jongho flips over the words and puzzles over San’s motivations, at his arrival to Crescent, at his daytime or likely, nighttime profession.
After a long moment, San murmurs, “You sing like you’re missing something too.”
Those simple words send a shock through Jongho’s spine because they’re so painfully true and so brutally accurate. He feels flayed open. He chose this path and maybe he’s destined to be alone because of it but San should have someone, even if it’s just a voice he can only hear in the sprawling darkness of night.
So Jongho clears his throat and sings another song and tries not to think about all that they’re missing, only that they’re alive and that maybe at the very least, San can be a little less lonely.
✧•*``•.¸✯
Jongho is nervous.
He can’t remember the last time he was this nervous to meet someone or cared enough about their perception of him to want things to go well.
At this point, he’s thinking of telling San that he’s feeling under the weather just to avoid the nerves twisting his stomach. But he doesn’t have San’s mobile. All he has is last night’s hesitant request to meet up outside of curfew and Jongho is weak. He’d caved within seconds at the hopefulness in San’s face.
And now he’s here, wandering the glossy architectural square for a building entrance to the sublevels an hour before curfew strikes, freshly showered and hoping the old cologne he’d scrounged up holds against the musty underground air.
He finds the bar after the second wrong turn, nearly slamming into the bouncer who thankfully eyes him with indifference.
San is easy to spot, having grabbed a corner table next to the kitchen. Or maybe, Jongho’s gotten really good at finding his figure in any kind of dark background, the dimmed lights framing him and his drink.
San brightens when their eyes catch and Jongho’s stupid heart lurches inconveniently.
“How was your day?”
Jongho nods. The atmosphere is open, easy, like they’re friends meeting up after working long shifts when in reality, Jongho has no idea what San really does. “It was fine. Boring. Yours?”
“Same old, same old,” San responds, the most non-answer anyone can give.
He uses the lull in conversation to study the speciality menu on the wall instead of San’s casual outfit. The lack of sharp hugging fabric makes him softer somehow, looser around the edges.
After a long moment where he reads words that don’t make any sense, Jongho sighs and jerks his chin towards San’s drink, “I’ve never been. I’ll just order what you have.”
San blinks and his cheeks color. “You don’t want something alcoholic?”
Jongho eyes the drink already on the table, having interpreted the dark color as brandy or whisky. It seemed like San had ordered a drink more akin to a chocolate milkshake instead. Unwarranted emotions surge through him, something too close to affection. “Well, it has been a long day. I can order a bottle to share?” Jongho flicks the drink with a finger. “Unless your tolerance only extends to sweets.”
“My tolerance is passable,” San says indignantly. Which means it very much isn’t.
Jongho laughs and San grins too, lopsided and sweet. Conversation flows more easily after that. They never quite breach anything personal, the topic of family a bit stilted though it’s mutual at least, and pieces of their past carefully carved to the side.
But over terribly greasy fries and a variety of cocktails that range from too cloying to pretty good, Jongho learns about San, about how he grew up in a different star system in a countryside so achingly similar to the rolling plains Jongho misses near his home, how he has a plushie collection on his and Wooyoung’s starship though it’s not currently in Crescent ( “I’ll show you one day, I promise!” ), how he loves volunteering at the little library down the street and painting with the kids on the mornings of rest day every week, how he hates the corporate entities that rule Crescent and some of the other colonies.
And Jongho learns the things unsaid: how kind San is, how much he holds his friends dear, how passionate he is about making a difference for the better, for helping those who no one else would.
They’ve leaned closer throughout the evening as the bar became busier, clearly an establishment that catered towards curfew breakers. It’s how despite the swirling of alcohol in his system, he catches San’s shoulders tense.
The only warning Jongho receives is San’s gaze shifting to the left. The sharp crescents of his eye smile curves into a harsher intensity of his calculating stare but it’s different – Jongho can almost taste the danger thrumming beneath elegant fingers and marble features.
Then unwelcome drinks and several piles of muscle clutter their corner table, crowding them both. They’re not cornered exactly but a close thing.
Jongho tenses as one of the men knocks into his shoulder and sloshes his drink onto his and San’s hands. For his part, San looks unbothered, still lounging casually with crossed legs and elbows on the table. Perhaps he’s gotten better at reading him but Jongho swears he sees the first spark of anger glinting in his eyes.
“Are you the insider?” The guy who’d sat down first directs at Jongho. His breath washes over them and Jongho nearly empties his stomach.
“Who’s asking?” San cocks an eyebrow, almost mocking.
But the guy continues looking at Jongho expectantly, fingers rubbing impatiently against the rim of his unopened vodka bottle. “I’ve found it’s usually in your best interest to answer my questions,” he says with saccharine sweetness.
“I answered with my own,” San cuts in. Somehow, he manages to lean in across the reeking table. “Taking turns is a childish game, don’t you think?”
“Tell your whore to shut up before I teach him his place myself.”
When Jongho glances over, all he sees is the raging flame inside himself reflected in a mirthless knife-sharp smile, glinting of lethal promises.
With his slimmer frame, especially compared to the men around them and even to Jongho himself, and his sharp features that are beautifully delicate when he laughs, it’s not obvious San is the one the men are looking for. But Jongho has glimpsed the fire of his soul and his iron resolve. There are secrets in the depths of his eyes. He’s known for some time that San isn’t the person he presents to the world and decided he didn’t care, drawn to his brilliance anyways.
Jongho studies his nails just to slight the man. San leans forward, their heads close enough for the ends of their hair to touch.
“Usually, people don’t announce their intent to kill me. You really should have done your research before trying to throw your weight around,” San chastises. Although his words are casual and deceptively light, the icy edge is prevalent.
“Oh, for the last time—”
San cuts through the man’s growled frustration. Literally. There’s a knife in the table, between the tiny opening of the man’s fingers, tinged crimson with fresh blood. Jongho hadn’t even seen him wield it in his hand, let alone strike with it.
Tension crackles audibly in the air as San bows his head in mock greeting. “I’ll give you twenty seconds to convince me of why I shouldn’t kill you all right here, right now, for interrupting our date.”
It takes a moment to process, for all of them. Jongho’s brain though, isn’t fixated on any of the threats or how San’s delivery sends a chill down his spine in a way he’s not sure he dislikes. Instead, all he hears is Date?
Jongho has half a mind to realize he’s staring at San with eyebrows almost in his hairline. San sends back a small quirk of his lips, reassurance hidden in the shadows, which immediately hardens into irritation and disgust as he glances over the men who have come to the dawning realization they fucked up big time.
The harsh side kick strikes as lightning.
San sends one of the men crowding around them sprawling upon the floor, clutching his knee with a yell. It’s twisted at a sickening angle. Jongho thankfully doesn’t have time to think about it because San vaults over the table in one smooth step, one hand balancing on the wood and the other grabbing Jongho’s bicep and using his momentum to yank them both towards the entrance.
They make it a few steps before Jongho suddenly finds himself on the floor.
Something is pinning his legs and Jongho struggles to slam an elbow back with his shoulders restrained. The weight disappears a moment later. Jongho twists in time to catch San deck a man.
He plants his feet before Jongho, one arm held slightly out to the side as Jongho puts his weight back on legs that feel like jelly. They’re backed against a wall, the men fanning out before them with the leader stalking forward, lips curled into a nasty snarl while beyond, the bartenders hurriedly move to evacuate themselves, leaving the rest of the patrons to fend for themselves.
San stands his ground, staring them all down. Jongho can only catch the side of his profile and all he sees is a bomb primed for explosion. He’s glad San is with him and tries not to read too much into the almost protective stance he’s taken.
“Your strife is with me. No one else,” San says coldly.
A sneer. “Dead men can’t bargain.”
San shrugs, subtly pushing Jongho back towards the table against the wall. “Suit yourself.”
Then he spins in place and catches the man with a precise roundhouse kick to the jaw. Jongho watches dumbfounded as San throws himself into the fray, sidestepping and weaving between haymakers and boots reinforced with metal.
He fights like he was born for it, every hit quick and calculated. San ducks backwards under what looks like a taser and plants one arm on the floor. Barely pausing, he tucks his body to the side and sweeps his leg out.
It catches against the man’s heel, not enough to trip him but enough for San to spring forward and disarm the weapon. He throws it blindly to the side and something shatters.
He probably intended for Jongho to stay in the corner and honestly, Jongho probably would have, simply staring and desperately attempting to reboot his brain as San makes fast work of the men. Maybe it’s because Jongho is already looking so intently that he catches the strange twist of light catching in a foreign hand, sees the way San has his back turned, completely unaware while whipping out a sharp uppercut and dodging the cutting shards of a glass bottle.
His breath catches and he’s rushing forward.
Only when he’s jumped on the man’s back and is immediately bucked off does he realize having no plan was probably not the best idea. Still, he places himself between the firearm and San. The only good thing about his impulsiveness is that the firearm isn’t turned on him quite yet.
Jongho hurtles at the man from the side. The man reaches out to block Jongho’s strike but without anticipating the feint of his dominant hand. Jongho gathers all his strength into the punch he delivers.
Only when the man is collapsed unmoving on the ground does Jongho belatedly realize his left hand hurts like hell. Scrambling, he knocks the firearm to the side and then thinks better of it, casting it through one of the establishment’s curtains into a back room.
Unfortunately, his addition to the fight doesn’t go unnoticed. One of the men on the ground is getting up, bruised and swaying a little yet mostly lucid and definitely very angry.
He pulls a knife and Jongho’s heart stutters into his throat. Jongho manages to duck the first slash, backing up and kicking a stool between them that’s easily batted away.
The glint of the knife distracts him from the fact that they’re still in a public setting with obstacles and other people, who had mostly cleared out of their area, but hadn’t bothered to clear out their belongings too. His foot catches on someone’s clothing as he twists out of blade’s arc.
Jongho thinks the fall probably saves his life, the knife glancing over his ribs in a fiery line instead of fatally embedding itself in his liver. Still, as he stares at the advancing blade, he isn’t sure how long he’s really been saved.
A blur of movement appears in his periphery.
San doesn’t slow as he runs, his feet taking him from the floor to the man’s knee and thigh for a fraction of a second so he’s balancing on top. His hand lashes out and the side of his palm catches the man’s carotid artery hard enough to elicit a wretched choking gasp.
On his way down, San snatches the man’s wrist. He wrenches it in a way that has the man letting go of the knife. The blade clatters onto the floor a moment after San lands with barely a hitch in his breath.
He’s vaguely aware his jaw is on the floor too as San approaches, quick and nimble, though his eyes are overcast with panic. He pats at Jongho’s shoulders and places a firm hand over a part of Jongho’s torso that spikes sharp pain from its previous dull ache.
“Can you walk? Jongho, I need you to speak to me,” San is saying, voice tight.
His brain kickstarts a little, thoughts churning sluggishly. “Yeah, um, yeah I’m okay.”
San gives him a dubious look and hauls him to his feet. They step over an unconscious body on their way to the entrance and Jongho wonders if he had been the one to punch the guy or if it had been San who graced the man with one of his elegantly executed moves, his fighting style as fluid as a dance.
The thought makes him laugh a little and San presses closer to his side though they don’t quite touch. Jongho feels a bit like he’s floating, a partial aftermath of the adrenaline rush. Still, even while dodging peace keeper patrols and the occasional late commuter rushing to complete their errands and sneak home after curfew, he notices San is distant on their trek home. When Jongho stumbles over uneven pavement, San makes an aborted move with his arms.
“I’m sorry,” he says when their building looms in the distance.
Jongho frowns. “For what?”
But San doesn’t seem to hear, his eyes firmly cast on the ground by his feet, his fingers tangled together and squeezing his knuckles white. “I understand if you don’t want to see me anymore. I’m not…you wouldn’t be safe.”
Oh, the irony. If only San knew how big the target on Jongho’s back really is.
San’s words weigh with guilt and the finality of a goodbye. He thinks he hears, You won’t be hurt again, but it might be Jongho’s imagination.
What definitely isn’t Jongho’s imagination is the way San grimaces as they pass through the foyer of their housing complex, the inconvenient one foot drop a tripping hazard no matter how many caution signs the management puts up for “safety”.
They approach the stairs and San lags behind. Jongho turns subtly to watch him climb the first flight. There’s definitely a limp in his stride, his lips a harsh line, brows sharp with stress.
He sighs out loud. San’s eyes snap to his but Jongho doesn’t care. The wound in his side has stopped bleeding and is more sore now than anything else. He’s tired. And he’s especially tired of San blaming himself for something that wasn’t his fault.
San watches him approach with confusion and a bit of wariness.
He lets out an undignified squeak as Jongho picks him up in his arms. Jongho will forever savor how quickly his expression morphs into shock and dark caramel. His pupils are dilated with an almost devouring intensity and Jongho doesn’t read into it. Focuses on moving up the stairs instead.
San is surprisingly light despite the lean hard muscle Jongho can feel through the thin layers of their clothing. He wonders if San is getting enough to eat, if he’s getting by okay.
It’s a bit of a struggle to open the deadbolt with a certain amount of juggling and shuffling inside Jongho’s jacket and San’s quick fingers. Jongho makes San sit on the couch while he digs up his first aid kit. He remains pliant and quiet while Jongho presses ice against his swollen ankle before applying balm and bandages.
“Why aren’t you scared?” San finally asks as Jongho applies the last of the bandages.
Jongho smiles. It tastes bitter and too much like sorrow. He probably should be. With the little that he’s seen tonight, San is lethal; he seems to have a reputation that incites violence. But he’s also kind to everyone around him and gentle with children and has soothing energy for long days and thoughtful words for long nights. San burns with contradictions and Jongho happily cradles the flames to his heart. “I’ve got nothing more to lose.”
“You have yourself.”
“But you would never hurt me.”
San stares at him with an expression that’s both glazed with emotions and piercing with honesty. “I can’t promise that,” he whispers.
“You don’t have to.”
Jongho turns to lift the edge of his own shirt as an excuse to break the weird tension buzzing between them. He would sooner throw himself out of an airlocked ship than admit his feelings and this feels too close to the edge, too close to plunging into the heart of a star.
Bandages appear in his vision. Uncertainty traces the sharp curves of San’s features and he’s paler than usual. Somehow even in the half-light, he still looks stunning.
“Let me help.” It’s a plea for more than just cleaning the light gash resting on Jongho’s ribs, so much more than just those simple words.
Jongho lets him. That night with San standing close and careful fingers resting on his torso, he finally acknowledges he does still have something to lose and he’ll fight like hell before he relinquishes his hold.
✧•*``•.¸✯
San starts walking with Jongho after his schedule is over for the day. It really isn’t anything special nor is it even a daily routine but Jongho’s heart always commits to a little gymnastic flip when he catches San’s slim frame leaning against one of the buildings near Construction Site Horizon.
There are more peace keepers on the streets and more than once, hostile eyes seem to slant towards them in the tenser atmosphere. Word must have gotten around their district. San, for his part, doesn’t seem affected, his own glare stronger than any of the gazes combined.
It washes some of the giddiness from his frame, their talks of research into sustainable plant life on spaceships floating in the air between them always tinged with vigilance. Only when they enter the lobby to their apartment complex does San’s shoulders unwind the barest hint, his expression softening into something more honest and open and genuine.
They wind up exchanging mobile contacts somewhere in between eating the terrible double-greased food at the mall together and Jongho teaching San how to deadlift in the cheap underground gym where the lighting unfairly accentuates San’s lines of hard lean muscle.
At this point, it’s inevitable that they’ve bumped into one another while walking, while cracking terrible jokes in the back of some ancient game shop, while staring up at the coldness of the sky with only the warmth of one another. Physical contact isn’t anything new. He can safely say their friends.
Jongho still finds his fingers tingling when San hooks a pinky around Jongho’s and only lets go at his doorway.
✧•*``•.¸✯
Seonghwa greets him with a tense smile when Jongho walks into his and Yeosang’s restaurant to pick up the food he’d ordered. Although Seonghwa’s gaze is upon him, the uncomfortable prickling of hair rising on the back of his neck welcomes his entrance in a way it never has in the past few months since he discovered this little niche of comfort.
Before Jongho can wonder if he’d heard about the bar some weeks back, if he could plead deniable plausibility at the involvement or the exploits, Yeosang circles around from the back. He scans the patrons seated within, his eyes going hard as they pass over Jongho’s right shoulder.
He’s never seen them both on edge.
Yeosang has a tender heart and is one of the sweetest individuals Jongho has ever known and Seonghwa may look at Jongho with worry sometimes (oftentimes) and ask pointed little questions of care but he’s thoughtful about them. They’re both kind in the way Jongho always feels strangely taken care of whenever he drops by but never overstepping. Both Yeosang and Seonghwa are definitely brighter lights in his otherwise colorless life.
It’s probably been a long day for them. Jongho tries to shake the unease in his gut with little success, the worry sticking like glitter to his skin.
When he tries to pay with his mobile, the machine beeps unhappily. Seonghwa taps something on his screen before rounding the counter. Yeosang takes Seonghwa’s place at the register though he doesn’t look down at the screen.
He assumes Seonghwa is coming to help him with the finicky machine. Seonghwa does step close, careful fingers closing around Jongho’s, but his movements stop there.
In a low tone, Seonghwa taps the back of Jongho’s hand. “Don’t look behind you,” he insists urgently. His shoulders are forcibly relaxed and Jongho would be fooled if it wasn’t for Seonghwa’s bloodless knuckles. “There are people who have been asking about you. They’ve been coming around near dinnertime these past few days and leaving right before closing.”
Jongho jerks his chin down and barely aborts the instinct to turn towards the weighted stares he felt upon entering and feels more heavily now. He focuses on Yeosang instead who has a polite smile plastered on his face, completely at odds with the chilling words he delivers. “They say you took something that isn’t yours. We obviously don't believe them. I tried to get more answers,” Yeosang winces slightly and it’s smooth how quickly he taps against the screen. All for show. “I think it boils down to you having something they want.”
His stomach drops through the floor. He almost wishes they were just the idiots who had approached him and San at the bar. “I see.”
“Feel free to turn us down but it’s probably best if you stay until curfew,” Seonghwa says gently. “We have an office in the back and some extra bedding. It wouldn’t be much trouble at all.”
Jongho’s mind crashes through a thousand scenarios, a million thoughts, most of them suffocating around the fringes.
He stays until the restaurant is closed, helping Seonghwa and Yeosang clean despite their protests. It’s really the least he can do. Even once the unfriendly patrons clear out, Jongho isn’t able to relax, the itchy sensation of being watched still crawling over his skin.
How long have they been scanning his every move? How much longer does he have on Crescent? Do they know about San?
Seonghwa and Yeosang clearly have questions but they don’t push. Jongho ends up telling them a cleansed abridged version of what he, Yunho and Mingi had witnessed, as vague with the details as the tenderness of the well-worn blankets and sheets beneath them. For whatever reason, Seonghwa and Yeosang decide to sleep in the office with him.
Jongho feels a little embarrassed. Mostly though, he feels safer than he has all night and wishes he could cradle the sensation into tomorrow.
“You don’t have to tell us more, Jongho,” Seonghwa emphasizes and his voice is warm despite the worry painting his brows. “Just please be careful.”
Jongho dips his head in acknowledgement and isn’t quite able to meet their eyes. “I’m sorry about the inconvenience.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Yeosang says simply. He leans back against the desk in the office with a light smile dashed over his lips. “If you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to come to us.”
The words twist at something in his chest and the yearning to reach out and connect and fall into their generosity and earnestness almost threatens to drown him. “Thank you,” he murmurs.
Seonghwa steps forward a little, his arms slightly open, as if looking to embrace Jongho. He wonders at the expression he’s wearing and bites down the burning in his eyes.
Jongho thanks them again with a hand on each of their shoulders. It’s the first time he’s ever initiated any kind of physical contact with them. Distress floods the usual softness of Seonghwa’s eyes and Yeosang looks back with unsettling shrewdness.
(He wonders if they know the touch to be the goodbye Jongho intends.)
When he’s sure they’re asleep, he pens a succinct note and leaves it on the desk. He kind of hates himself for it. For his own deception, for having to leave again, for being a worry for both Yeosang and Seonghwa who treat him with kindness, who put their lives on the line to lie and keep Jongho safe from his past even if only for a little while longer, more than he ever deserved. The shitty part is: he wants to tell them the truth. He thinks they’d understand, might even be able to help.
He can’t though. Not if he wants them to be safe. The net is tightening and Jongho will be damned if he lets Seonghwa or Yeosang get slashed in the tightening net of a conspiracy that only exists in the mind of three individuals outside of the entire deathly scheme.
He’s going to have to leave San too. As much as San thrives in fire, Jongho knows the violence haunts the ridges of his knuckles, the shadows of his eyes.
No, they will just be memories, warm keepsakes for cold nights in his future, of which Jongho is certain there will be plenty. He’ll need all the firewood he can dredge up to keep the loneliness and the sorrow from freezing his veins.
Picturing the curve of San’s smile drop away, the betrayal he’s certain will paint Seonghwa and Yeosang’s eyes at his note, hurts a part of Jongho he doesn’t want to think about. He sprints the entire way back to his apartment over the rooftops and pretends the salty droplets running down his cheeks are from the ache of his muscles and not the aching of his heart.