Chapter Text
.
They put Jisung in a nice room, all things considered.
Its good condition surprised Jisung, once he was inside, and able to see it. There was a simple, single bed positioned in the far corner of the room, tidily made, with the sheets tucked in tightly, like they might be at a hotel. The floors were carpeted, but tidy themselves, and though the room smelt vaguely musty, the mixed in scent of faded cleaning chemicals told Jisung it had been cleaned recently. To the right of the bed, a small bedside table with two empty drawers had been nailed into the wall. In the opposite corner, a large wardrobe had also been permanently fixed in place. It was empty too.
Windows were conspicuously absent. Without them, the four blank walls made the room feel smaller than it really was. The only light source was the fluorescent LED tubes fixed to the ceiling, right in the centre. There was only one door, one way in. One way out. Certainly no adjoining room, which meant there weren’t any bathroom facilities either.
Jisung wasn’t sure how they were going to manage that problem, when it appeared. He hadn’t eaten in several hours. He’d been offered a bottle of water, in the car, but of course Jisung hadn’t taken it. His hands had been bound, for one.
For two, he knew he couldn’t trust anyone. He wished he’d figured that out sooner.
“Are you hungry?” His captor asked.
Irritated, exhausted, scared, Jisung said, “Fuck you.”
It made the other man sigh. He was tall, or taller than Jisung at least, and slender. His hair had clearly been dyed. The artificial yellow-blonde of his hair contrasted sharply with the dark brown of his roots. It looked greasy, unwashed for at least a few days, and likely bundled up atop his head for that very reason. A weathered bandana, folded in half and tied around his face, obscured his nose and mouth. Jisung could tell just from his eyes that he was frustratingly good-looking.
It really only made Jisung angrier.
The guy said, “This doesn’t have to be this hard, you know?”
“Fuck. You.”
Jisung put his back to the man. It was petulant. It made him look like exactly the brat they’d likely expected. A tantrum, from a grown man, who’d always been protected by his mother. Jisung didn’t want the man to see the tears that stung his eyes. So far, he’d managed to keep them from falling. It was a losing battle though.
There was a hollow, gaping feeling in Jisung’s chest. It grew and it grew and it grew.
The man huffed.
“Fine. Well. I’m not gonna force you to eat. There’s food if you want it. Just bang on the door or whatever. Someone will be back to check on you in a few hours.”
Jisung remained silent. He stood right where he was.
For a moment, it seemed like this stranger might be ready to wait him out. He held all the power here, after all. Jisung’s silence, Jisung’s tantrum – it continued only because this man tolerated it. Because he couldn’t be bothered to put a proper stop to it.
And so, even when his captor relented, Jisung knew it wasn’t a victory.
“Whatever,” the guy said again. “Make yourself comfortable, I guess.”
He left Jisung then. The door opened and shut quietly. Much louder was the slide of the deadbolt lock on the other side. The sound of keys rattling as the man properly trapped him inside.
Jisung sat on the end of the bed. He didn’t do anything, for a little while, save for staring at the blank wall ahead of him. Then, when he was too tired to try anymore, he let his tears fall.
.
Earlier that night, Minho had tucked his thumb into the space right behind Jisung’s ear. He’d rubbed the skin there, softly, gently, and when it had made Jisung shiver, he’d smiled. Something about it had seemed sad.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he’d said quietly.
Jisung, whose lips were bitten red by that point, who could still taste Minho’s spit on his lips, said, “That’s stupid. Of course we should.”
He’d tugged Minho closer by the waist. They were tucked into one of the smaller rooms of the venue Jisung’s mother had hired. While she entertained three hundred and forty of her closest colleagues and friends in the large event room downstairs, Jisung had pulled his friend away and into the shadows. Minho clearly needed the breather. This was only his second time at a party of this scale. He wasn’t used to seeing such recognisable faces, the millionaires and billionaires that kept Jisung’s mother’s company, all standing around in one place. They were here to gossip, to gloat about all the money they’d made this year, through no real effort of their own. They talked about their third and fourth and fifth yachts, and their Caribbean holiday homes, and which of the Ivy’s their children would attend. Jisung had grown up with it.
It made sense that Minho would feel strange, kissing him here, in this sort of company. Even behind closed doors, there was a tension in the air. A performance that they were required to maintain.
But Jisung needed a breather too.
“No one’s looking for us,” he had reassured Minho, rubbing his thumb over Minho’s middle, an echo of the way Minho held him back. “We can just – take a break. For a little bit. We’ll go back in soon.”
Minho scanned his face. His hand dropped a little, his wrist coming to rest against Jisung’s clavicle as he caressed Jisung’s neck.
“Jisung,” he began.
Jisung shushed him.
“It’s fine, really.” Cheekily, he ducked in and stole another quick kiss before pulling back just far enough to look into Minho’s pretty eyes. “Come on. You trust me, don’t you?”
Minho had looked at him.
Jisung curled his hands into fists around the fabric of Minho’s jacket. He wasn’t brave enough yet to tuck his hands beneath it. This thing that he and Minho had discovered, or were discovering, was still fragile. Jisung didn’t know what the rules were. When you kiss your best friend, impulsively, because you really just can’t help yourself – and when your best friend kisses you back, and holds you tight, like he never wants to let go – well. Jisung’s not sure what the procedure is. The next steps.
What it all means.
“Do you really want to go back out there?” Jisung asked quietly, tugging on Minho’s coat.
Minho was quiet longer than Jisung had expected. His thumb moved again, this time cruising gently over the peak of Jisung’s collarbone. Jisung’s dress shirt was unbuttoned to the third, which meant he could feel both Minho’s skin on his own, and the heat of him through the cotton. His collar was crumpled beneath Minho’s touch. They’d have to right it, before they returned to the real world.
“No,” Minho murmured quietly.
Jisung grinned.
“So we don’t,” he said confidently, pulling Minho even closer – or closer again, so he could feel the warm line of his body against his front. It was exciting. Thrilling. He couldn’t believe Minho wanted him too. “Not yet.” He stole another kiss. This one he let linger longer than the last. It was a little softer, too. Minho slipped his tongue inside Jisung’s mouth. It was a kiss that meant something. Jisung was sure of it. It made him shiver again. “We can. We can have now be for us. Just for a bit. Can’t we?”
He pulled back again, so he could assess the look on Minho’s face. Maybe so he could make the plea plain that way too. He wanted Minho to see how much he meant it.
Another strange look passed over Minho’s face. Nerves, Jisung assumed. Worry that they’d be caught. Jisung understood why Minho might be nervous about that sort of thing. His mother was an intense woman. She kept Jisung on a short leash, certainly, but she wasn’t a psychopath. If they were caught, she’d probably be cross at Jisung for behaving thus at one of her events, and for risking embarrassing her in front of all these very important people.
But doors locked. When Jisung had pulled Minho away, he’d checked to see if his mother would notice them. When he’d found her in the crowd, it was with her attention fixed elsewhere. She was touching the arm of some investments man from New York. Jisung was the least of her concerns.
Minho still hadn’t said anything.
“You’re the one who told me she doesn’t get to keep all of me,” Jisung reminded him. His hold on Minho remained firm. Their bodies were pressed together, and Jisung liked it, liked swaying into Minho’s form and knowing he’d be there to keep him steady. He nudged his hip against Minho’s, playfully, a tease for what they might be able to get up to, in this little moment that was just theirs. “Remember?”
Minho swallowed. He smiled again, but it remained a tight thing.
Jisung wanted to smooth his worries away. He wanted to wrap himself around Minho and make it so that Minho forgot everything else. He wanted to ignore his mother, and her vile friends, and the waspish event she’d spent months and months planning. He wanted to stay here, with his best friend, who might be more than his best friend soon, if their kissing continued.
His hope was desperate. He tried not to let it run wild.
“Let’s just have this now, for us,” Jisung said. He watched Minho watch his lips and felt a great warmth swelling in his chest. “Just us. Does that sound okay?”
Minho kissed him again. It was desperate too, and it made Jisung feel wanted, and happy, and like maybe the world wasn’t so terrible, if he got to have this. Minho clutched at the back of Jisung’s neck, at the hair on Jisung’s nape, and tugged on his clothes too. Not to tear them away, but rather to tug Jisung closer, as if he could, as if there was any space left between them to close.
“Okay,” Minho said, his lips pressed against Jisung’s, his voice muffled and low and hoarse. There was something else in it that Jisung couldn’t quite name. But Minho held him so tightly. “Okay. Just us.”
He pressed Jisung up against the wall, and drank him in, and Jisung gave himself over to it entirely.
.
A fool.
.
They blindfolded Jisung early.
He wasn’t entirely conscious for that part. He returned to himself already bound, and being moved. The sting of chemicals in this throat and nose made his eyes burn. He couldn’t see anything. There was fabric wrapped around his face, still moving, pulling as it was tied in place. The knot caught Jisung’s hair, which jerked his head, and cricked his neck. On the opposite side, scratched cotton dug into his nose. It hurt, but Jisung could barely pay attention to it. He was too busy panicking about all the rest.
Someone was pressed in close, tying him up. His hands and feet were fixed already. He heard doors sliding shut, and realised it was the same sound that sometimes heralded the mail’s arrival. The world began to move, and it made Jisung’s stomach roil. He was in a van of some sort. They were taking him somewhere.
Bile climbed in Jisung’s throat. His nausea made him dizzy. He couldn’t think.
By the time he’d remembered he should be paying attention to the turns they took, the lefts and the rights and the number of times they stopped, it was far too late. He was frantic. He said all the embarrassing things.
“Where’s Minho? Where are you taking me? What do you want? Are you going to kill me?”
The blood pounding in his ears drowned everything else out. Even if they had replied, there was too much rattling through Jisung’s frame for him to truly register it. His breathing was too quick. His lungs were too small. His hands were shaking.
When the van rocked, taking a corner too quickly, or breaking too suddenly, Jisung couldn’t anticipate it. With his vision blocked and his hands and feet tied he had no way of steadying himself. He tumbled wherever inertia pushed him, only to be caught by unfamiliar hands. Strangers, his kidnappers, pushed him back into place. Jisung didn’t know how many of them there were.
They hadn’t hurt him yet, but the knowledge that they could paralysed Jisung.
“Please,” he begged. “Please. What do you want?”
The words did not escape steadily. His hiccupped breath cut through them and his voice wobbled. Jisung’s tears soaked the fabric on his face, making it hot and salty and wet. He couldn’t use his hands to wipe the feeling away. It blocked his nose, which only made his breathing worse, only made him gasp harder—
No one answered his questions.
“Calm down,” an unrecognisable voice told him, from his left. It made Jisung startle, far more violently than the steady words warranted. The stranger put a hand on Jisung’s arm. From anyone else, it might have been an attempt at comfort. “You’re working yourself up, you have to stop. Breathe. Just breathe.”
Jisung heaved in air, taking huge, gaping breaths, and tasting none of it. He couldn’t put to words his terror, his indignance. If he weren’t so dizzy, or if he was a braver sort of man, he would have laughed. He was working himself up? That’s what was happening here?
A new voice appeared. It was gentler.
“We’re not going to hurt you, alright? We’re just—”
Someone else hissed, cutting them off. It started an argument.
“We’ve got to tell him something, hyung, look at him—”
“He’ll be fine. We’re almost there.”
“He’s hyperventilating!”
“Yeah. I have eyes.”
A hand landed on Jisung’s shoulder. Again, it wasn’t rough. Again, Jisung jerked. He did it with his entire body, cringing away from the touch. The man held onto him.
“Hey. Hey.”
He directed his words so decisively at Jisung that it made him jump again. Stars danced across his vision like television static, growing more and more agitated by the moment. The fabric over his face, dampened by his tears, made the air he did have access to feel musty and too-hot. Not nearly enough.
“You have to calm down. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
This time, Jisung did laugh. It was a reedy, panicked thing, but he managed to make it incredulous too. It did nothing to help his breathing.
The other, more reluctant voice said,
“Maybe we should call—”
A more severe hiss cut him off. It was more effective. The person who had started stopped, and this time remained silent.
Jisung swallowed. He was going to die. He was going to die.
Where was Minho? They’d been together, twenty minutes ago, or thirty – Jisung didn’t know how much time had passed since the cloth had settled over his mouth. Things went hazy from there. He could remember the acrid taste of sharp chemicals, which had flooded his throat and his lungs, and blurred his eyes, and clouded his thoughts. He could remember hands – softer hands, than the ones that touched him now. He remembered words, and a fading, familiar voice, which said: ‘Sorry—oh shit, I’m so sorry—’
“He’s right behind us. Another two minutes won’t hurt anyone. Let’s get him inside first, okay?”
Jisung’s advocate gave in.
“Okay. You’re right. Sorry.”
“It’s okay, it’s fine. Just.” A frustrated, cut-off sound. Jisung’s kidnappers were stressed. Like they had that right. “We’ve got a plan. We’ve got to stick to the plan.”
Jisung hauled in another breath. It wasn’t enough. The hazy shadows that crowded his vision pushed in on him, closing from every angle. His body couldn’t fight them anymore.
A heavy hand landed on his chest.
“Breathe.” He was ordered. The hand pushed, a slow and steady pressure, as if the man could direct the heaving of Jisung’s chest himself. Jisung couldn’t shrink from it. There was nowhere for him to go. “Slowly, come on. Easy. Deep breaths. Just breathe.”
Guided by the stranger’s heavy hand, Jisung did as he was told. There wasn’t enough left inside him to resist.
“That’s it,” the man said. It made Jisung burn. “Keep breathing. We don’t want to knock you out again.”
But they would, he didn’t say.
He didn’t need to.
.
Jisung heard several things over the next few hours, and made little sense of any of them.
Doors opened and closed. A car horn outside was muffled, but still audible in the silence of Jisung’s small room. His cell. The sounds of raised voices echoed briefly, intermittently, bouncing off concrete walls. There was a staircase in this building. Jisung had been led up it, still blindfolded. He’d counted the steps, though he wasn’t sure why. What the hell did he think he could achieve with that? Would he be somehow able to escape, if there were ten stairs, or fifteen, or twenty?
Wherever the argument came from, Jisung was certain it was from the same building. The voices were sounds, more than distinct words, and were too close to have leaked through outside walls. What could they be discussing? Was it a question of ransom? Were they fighting about how to get the most money for Jisung, for his safe return? Or were they simply figuring out where they’d dispose of him, once his purpose had been served?
Although his hands were still bound, Jisung looked through his room enough to determine there was nothing here he could use as a weapon. It had been scrubbed efficiently, and stripped of anything that could have been of use. The drawers from the bedside table had been removed. The bar where clothes were supposed to hang in the wardrobe was also missing. Handles had been unscrewed, and all their component parts collected.
It was just Jisung, and the clothes he had on his back, and the bed where he couldn’t possibly sleep.
Jisung supposed it was a few hours that had passed only because that’s what he had been told. He knew they’d return, maybe to offer him food again, to see what he might do.
He hadn’t expected a knock.
The sound of it echoed through the room. Jisung let it. He blinked at the solid door that held him here, and frowned.
The knock came again.
Jisung said, “Are you waiting for me?”
He recognised the responding voice. His visitor had sat in the back of the van with Jisung. There, his voice had carried authority, and delivered sharp orders. Here and now, for some reason, he sounded awkward.
“I mean. Are you decent?”
What sort of kidnappers were these?
Jisung said, again, “Fuck off.”
His kidnapper laughed. The lock on the door clicked, as a key unlocked it. The sound of the deadbolt followed, sliding open.
Jisung tried to keep his chin up as the man stepped inside. It was probably useless. His heart thundered again, and his hands were still shaking. Just the sight of the stranger was enough to sting at Jisung’s eyes again, but he stubbornly fought his tears back. He’d been left with his thoughts long enough to get angry again. It was easier to be angry.
This man had a bandana tied around his face, a beanie pulled low over his head, and a paper plate in his hand. On the plate, there were noodles, and a collection of vegetables. They looked freshly cooked, still steaming.
“I brought you dinner,” the man said.
Jisung recognised the voice. The man had been angrier in the van.
Jisung said, “I’m not eating that.”
The man huffed, laughing again with an ease that offended Jisung. His captor chuckled like they were old friends. Like this was all some sort of easy joke.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s up to you, I guess. But.” He said it haltingly, but Jisung didn’t trust it. He couldn’t. “You’re going to get hungry.”
Jisung didn’t have the patience for pretence.
“What do you want?”
“Um,” the man said. He lifted the paper plate lamely. “I want you to eat?”
“Fuck off.”
Trapped, stuck. Jisung had nothing to bargain with. He had nothing to throw. They hadn’t even given him a pillow.
So he shouted.
“What do you want?” he demanded, his voice breaking as he did, and turning wretched. “Why am I here? Why was—” He lost his breath, and felt dizzy again, and that gaping maw inside him stretched wide. “What do you want?”
The man assessed him. His eyes, the only part of him visible, tracked over Jisung’s face. He looked for something that Jisung was certain he couldn’t give. He wasn’t made for shit like this. He didn’t have the patience, he couldn’t get his head on straight. His anxiety had complete control of him, and it didn’t leave Jisung any room to think, or to try and be rational. He was fractured, split down the middle, and messy with it. He felt broken. He didn’t know what to do.
He couldn’t give this man anything. He didn’t know how to say that out loud. Would they kill him straight away, if he did? Or did they already know? They had to know.
The man sighed.
He disregarded Jisung, looking towards the bedside table, and setting Jisung’s food down there. His arms were thicker than Jisung’s. His shoulders were broader, and his stocky build certainly held the weight advantage. There was smoothness in his movements that telegraphed an easy confidence. Even if Jisung was brave enough to rush him, he knew he wouldn’t win the upper hand.
Jisung stayed where he was, stiffly sitting on the end of the bed. He watched the man set Jisung’s meal on the bedside table, then promptly put himself back between Jisung and the only exit.
“Right now, we really just want you to have that,” he said, nodding his head towards Jisung’s meal while he tucked his hands into his back pockets. He took on a casual stance, as if they were old acquaintances, and had simply run into each other on the street. “I can get you some water. I’ll take you to the bathrooms, too. I know you’re upset, but—”
Jisung made a strangled noise.
The man ignored him.
“—But, you’re going to be here for a bit. Just. Try and get comfortable while you can.”
Jisung swallowed. He curled his hands to fists, even though it was plainly obvious, given how he’d been tied. They’d taken the bindings off his ankles before they’d walked him up the stairs. His wrists remained bound in his lap.
“While I can?”
The man scrunched his face up briefly.
“While you’re here,” he said. “I didn’t mean—”
Three loud thumps came at the door, making Jisung and his captor jump. His kidnapper recovered faster, though his voice was sharp again, like it had been in the van, when he snapped,
“What?”
“Sorry, dude.” It was another new voice. Jisung was more than outnumbered. “It’s — We need you.”
“It can’t wait?”
“Uh.” Whoever was waiting outside paused long enough that Jisung could once again hear the sound of echoed fighting. They were arguing again. Then came a mighty crash. “No. Probably not.”
The man inside with Jisung huffed. He scrubbed a hand over his face, which pushed at his bandana, and briefly exposed dark, shortly cropped hair. This only seemed to irritate him further. He righted the fabric, studied Jisung for a brief moment, then sighed, giving in.
“Eat, or don’t,” he said to Jisung. It was a parting order. “It doesn’t make a difference to me if you starve. You’re only hurting yourself.”
He left with that. The door-locks clicked in quick succession.
But the sounds didn’t stop. Jisung heard the man, and whoever had come to collect him, stomp down the stairs. Their voices soon joined the muffled cacophony, frustrated tone over frustrated tone. None of the words were clear enough to make out. None of the voices were distinct enough to identify. Maybe—there, in amongst the mix, was a familiarly said word, but—
Jisung’s stomach lurched.
He didn’t eat.
.
Minho touched Jisung desperately.
He did it through Jisung’s clothes, because Jisung had told him they could do whatever they wanted in here, as long as their clothes remained in place. Jisung was sure that his mother hadn’t noticed them missing, and wouldn't bother to send anyone to find them, but in the unlikely chance that she did, he refused to be caught with his pants down. Or with his shirt off.
But he felt giddy, and so tempted to break his own rules.
Minho did as he was asked. He didn’t pull Jisung’s shirt free from his trousers, but grasped at him as if it weren’t there to begin with. His palm was heavy and warm through the fabric. He held Jisung like he was fragile, but pushed him firmly against the door. He bit and tongued at Jisung’s mouth, and buried a rough hand in Jisung’s hair, and used his hold there to guide Jisung where he wanted him.
He was firm, and delicious, and everything Jisung had been waiting for.
“How long?” Jisung asked. He was breathless with his own happiness. Fuelled up on it, and puffed up, by the feeling of Minho’s body and the taste of his breath. It had been months now. All that time, Jisung wanted him. He thought — he thought Minho might not have been there as early as Jisung was. There’d been a caution in him that told Jisung not to push. But he thought — too, that Minho was there with him now. He wasn’t sure when it had changed. He was just desperately glad it had. “Was it—when I graduated, I thought—”
Minho had accompanied him to the ceremony. Jisung’s mother had been too busy to attend. She’d thrown him a party, the weekend following, and proclaimed her pride to several key company stakeholders, investors, and employees. Minho had kept to Jisung’s side through the entire thing, making jokes, charming the people around him as thoroughly as he’d charmed Jisung.
On Jisung’s actual graduation, though, Minho had bought him a cupcake. He’d put a single candle in it, and lit it, and said,
“Congratulations, Jisungie. You’ve worked hard.”
Jisung wanted to kiss him then. On the small park bench, which they’d found while they walked, basked in the light of nearby streetlamps, and the city of Seoul moved around them. The graduation ceremony had long since finished. They’d shared three bottles of soju, while Minho carefully cooked all of Jisung’s favourite types of meat. Bundled with lettuce and sauce, Minho had fed Jisung mouthfuls with his own chopsticks. He’d cupped a careful hand beneath Jisung’s chin, to make sure he didn’t spill anything.
Jisung thought Minho might want to kiss him too. He’d watched the way Minho watched his mouth and a stupid, stupid, hope bloomed in the deepest parts of him. He’d thought maybe this was falling in love.
Minho pushed Jisung backwards. He guided him, gently, but firmly, until Jisung’s body thudded into the nearest wall. His fingers curled around Jisung’s wrists, flexing there briefly, as if testing the give. Then he used the hold to guide Jisung’s arms up, bending them at the elbow, until he could press those against the wall too, framing Jisung’s shoulders.
Jisung was dazed, turned on, and dizzy with it.
He let himself be moved, and whimpered when Minho squeezed his wrists again, and bucked his hips helplessly forward, searching for friction.
Minho gave it to him, in a sense. He settled his weight against Jisung, letting the solid line of his body pin him in place. He looked at Jisung’s mouth.
Jisung said, again, “How long?”
“Too long,” Minho said. He rolled the balls of his palms, pressing Jisung more firmly into the wall. His breaths were short. Awed.
“You’d let me do anything,” he said.
Jisung laughed, a little embarrassed, but less so, because it was Minho. He didn’t feel as fragile when Minho was holding him. It wasn’t so terrible to own up to tender things.
Jisung said, “Well yeah. It’s you.”
Minho smiled. It warmed Jisung, but there was — a tightness, or something, there, that also threw him slightly off balance. He was still learning how to read Minho. Most people found Minho a difficult man to read. Minho said it came to Jisung strangely easy, compared to most people, but that didn’t make him an open book. Many of Minho’s pockets were still a mystery. One that Jisung enjoyed slowly unravelling.
“How long is too long?” Jisung asked. He couldn’t help himself.
Minho swallowed.
Jisung thought the edge in him might ease, with a little teasing, but it didn’t. Something else complicated passed over Minho’s face. He rubbed his thumbs over Jisung’s delicate skin.
“Too long,” he said again, and returned to kissing.
Jisung’s thoughts scattered. Minho held him tightly in his hands, and used all the rest of his body to crowd Jisung up against the wall. He was hot, and solid, and insistent. His tongue pushed inside Jisung’s mouth. He bit at Jisung’s lips.
Minho pulled back again, Jisung gasped for air. Dizzy again.
“It wasn’t supposed to go like this,” Minho said.
It took Jisung too long to catch up. He blinked. “What was? Us?”
Minho dragged his next kisses over Jisung’s face. He began at Jisung’s mouth, then moved over his plush cheek, then nibbled at the corner of Jisung’s jaw. He caught Jisung’s earlobe in his mouth, and toyed with Jisung’s earring for a moment, then moved his attention further down Jisung’s neck.
Jisung’s fingers flexed and curled helplessly, still caught against the wall.
“All of it,” Minho said, before he bit a bruise into Jisung’s neck. “There’s—there’s things I haven’t told you. Things I need to explain.”
Jisung was too dazed to worry. Too cloudy to reach for his common sense.
He giggled.
“Hyung,” he said, arching into Minho, because the wall gave him just the right leverage to do so. “That sounds a bit dramatic. What things?”
Minho searched his face. He released Jisung’s arms, though he kept his weight in place, holding Jisung still, so that he could gently caress Jisung’s face instead. His thumbs smoothed along the line of Jisung’s jaw, pressed briefly into the plush of Jisung’s cheek, then plucked at his lower lip. His fingers curled beneath Jisung’s chin, and tilted his face upwards, so that Minho could scan him more closely.
Jisung didn’t know what he was looking for. He didn’t know if Minho found it.
Minho dipped in and stole another kiss, this one quick and fleeting.
He said, “Tomorrow. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
Jisung grinned, and said, “I don’t like secrets, you know.”
Minho nodded, and said, more quietly than Jisung expected,
“I know.”
.
Jisung didn’t know when he lost Minho, exactly.
They’d been together, in the room upstairs, hidden from the party at large. They’d kissed for a while longer, and teased each other, before Jisung realised they were probably pushing their luck a little too hard. They’d return to the main event downstairs, and Jisung would make sure he was seen for at least the next hour, and then he and Minho could sneak properly away.
He remembered straightening their clothes. He remembered sneaking in one last squeeze of Minho’s bum, which earned him a pleased, proud look, right before Minho opened and peeked around the door.
Jisung thought he made it at least down the first set of stairs. Minho should have been right behind him.
He couldn’t remember.
.
Jisung lurched when the van stopped properly.
Again, he was steadied by strangers’ hands. It made Jisung’s skin crawl, and he cringed in on himself, trying to pull himself free. The hands released him. By then the men around him were quiet, but there was something in their silence that screamed pity. How pathetic Jisung must look, tied and blind and terrified.
“It’s okay,” said that gentle voice, from earlier.
But whoever owned it was summarily shushed.
“Stop—talking to him. Just get him out.”
Jisung was jostled, and van doors were slid open, and firm hands took hold of Jisung. They hauled him to his feet before they remembered that his feet were bound, and swore when Jisung toppled. He landed heavily, on his knees, before they were able to steady him. Pain ricocheted through him.
Another of the men swore. Jisung was shoved again, and he fell into a stranger’s body, and the friction pushed at his blindfold. It caught his hair again as it snagged, and light flooded Jisung’s vision, in just one eye, where the fabric tugged free.
From a distance, but not too far, a shout.
“What the fuck are you—?”
But Minho was silenced. His voice was cut off before he could finish.
Jisung’s panic exploded a second time. He couldn’t make sense of his surroundings, the many large bodies that surrounded him, all dressed in black, and the vague outline of the van behind them. The doors were open, and through it, Jisung could see a huge, concrete room, like a hanger, or a huge and empty storage room, filled with looming shadows, and bodies, more than Jisung could have expected — all of them churning through the space, around Jisung and his captors, working cogs in a machine, except for one man — who was frozen, and staring at Jisung.
“Minho—” Jisung said.
His face was uncovered, just like the men who stood beside him. Shock was plain on his face.
But his hands weren’t tied.
And there was a gun in his hands.
Jisung said, or tried to say, much more quietly now—
“Minho?”
“Fuck!”
The men surrounding Jisung grabbed at him again, meaty hands that tugged on him from every angle. In their desperation to get the blindfold back over his eyes, they jabbed at his ears and pulled at his hair and scratched his skin. Jisung recoiled from it like an animal, nothing more than his deepest instincts, telling him to retreat. To hide. The men paid him no mind. They tugged the fabric back into place, and hauled him back to his feet.
“Someone fucking untie his feet,” the voice snarled.
While Jisung said, without thinking, said, “Wait—wait, Minho—Minho, what’s happening—?”
“Shut up,” a gruff voice told him. “And get him out of here. This is a fucking mess. What the fuck are you looking at?”
Jisung was blind, though. Blind, and hollowed out, and terrified.
They took him to his room.
.
So he’d never really had Minho to begin with.
.