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Word spreads fast around the precinct courtesy of Han Jisung, who has the biggest mouth known to man, even if he’s unintentional in his gossip-mongering ways. Either that, or he’s learned to weaponize his big, Bambi-like eyes into convincing Seungmin that he didn’t mean to blab intentionally—“It’s just, I was surprised! And couldn’t hide it that well because Felix turned and looked at me with that expression he uses with his perps—the one that makes you feel like you’re telling a small child that Santa Claus isn’t real by withholding information and gets even the most hardened of criminals to blab?—yeah, that expression. So obviously I caved and told him, because I’m only human, and because it’s Felix and I’m basically in love with him and anyways, you get it. Really, I’m sorry Minnie. I don’t know how else word got around that your ex-fiancé is getting booked for JYP’s murder.”
“Alleged murder,” Seungmin feels the need to correct. “They haven’t found a body.”
Yet.
He’s not defending Minho, per se. Seungmin’s always been a stickler for the rules, knows the politics behind semantics, and is always cognizant of the power he holds as someone charged with upholding the principles of law and order. Which doesn’t stop Jisung and everyone else from looking at him like he is—defending Minho, that is, even though he’s not.
Seungmin just doesn’t like the way everyone has assigned guilt to an ongoing investigation that only broke last night and with little concrete evidence collected. There are still plenty of different theories floating around, dotted along a wide spectrum of plausibility, although Minho doesn’t do himself any favors, not so much tight-lipped but rather unhelpful when he does choose to speak, answering only in riddles and innuendos, if not settling for an outright smirk. People take one look at Minho’s sultry gaze, read a little too much into his cavalier attitude, and then reach the easiest conclusion that he’s the homme fatale responsible.
That, and the fact that he was caught burning clothes seeped in JYP’s blood. Which, Seungmin admits, is just a tad bit incriminating.
Jisung shrugs as he merges onto the freeway, turn signal blinking with the same cadence as Seungmin’s heart, before chancing a quick glance over at his partner. “Well they’re putting Bang Chan on the case, so if there’s a body to be found, he’ll eventually sniff it out.”
The two of them lapse into an awkward silence after that, stuck in traffic on their way to a morning briefing with the rest of the squad. Certainly, Seungmin suspects he’ll be taken off the case before he even steps foot through the door, the conflict of interest being too glaring and (thanks to Jisung) too out in the open for good protocol to ignore. Plus, Seungmin would have come clean about it anyway, just standard operating procedure, because he couldn’t possibly hide their association given the way that Minho, well–
He grips the material of his pant legs tighter.
His partner notes the way blood drains from Seungmin’s knuckles and the determined set of his jaw. “I’m sure this is all one big misunderstanding,” he says, hopeful and placating at once.
Jisung is also trying to remain objective, if only because of his soft spot for Minho stemming back to their beat cop days, when the two of them (Seungsung, as they are so dubbed by the whole of District Nine) were once bright-eyed rookies turned glorified parking ticket dispensers, subjected to monotonous neighborhood patrols with their one bright spot being Minho, who would wait for them in the park to pass off a much-needed pick me up at the end of the day, usually in the form of dinner which he would cook and pack before heading off to practice at the local dance studio at night.
(“Hyung, whatever hold Seungmin has over you, I promise it’s nothing compared to what I’m willing to offer for your hand in marriage. Just as long as you promise to cook for me, three meals a day.”
“I’m way out of both of your leagues. And as far as I’m concerned, this is charity work—supporting our men in blue, or whatever.”
Seungmin snorts. “You’re sure going above and beyond, sacrificing the rest of your life to marry one just for charity.”
He stares fondly down at the gold band adorning Minho’s finger.
“What can I say? I’ve always been too much of a giver.”
This was before it all fell apart. Or rather, when Minho unravels them like a ball of yarn, strewn across the empty apartment he leaves behind one day before Seungmin comes home from work. There are no traces of him left except for the load of unwashed dishes in the sink, because of course Minho’s last parting gift is the chore Seungmin hates doing the most. Although, looking back, he managed to find something like peace in the way the running water masked the sounds of Seungmin’s bone-rattling sobs.)
“I sure hope so, Hannie.”
They pull into the station after that. Jisung parks in Seungmin's customary spot towards the middle, indicative of his status as one of the newer detectives, but on the up and up due to an impressive rate of closing cases. Working on the team tackling JYP's case would have put him over the edge. As it stands, he’ll have to hear second-hand about any future developments from Jisung, whose relationship with Minho is tangential enough to warrant a pass. Seungmin, on the other hand, is not sure he’ll be able to even process some of the paperwork after the fact.
His footsteps feel heavy as he trudges up the front steps and into the building, working his way through a crowd of reporters and then navigating the chaos of detectives shuffling back and forth in the hallways around the precinct. Everyone’s running around, going from their desks to lockup to the evidence room and back, doing as much prep work as possible before the briefing at 10.
When they enter the conference room, Bang Chan gives him and Jisung a nod of acknowledgement but makes no moves to do anything further. At least, as it relates to Seungmin’s conflict of interest and his participation in anything to do with the case moving forward. Jisung seems equally surprised, saucer eyes flickering between them both before Seungmin forcefully drags him to take their seats at the farther end of the table, where it’ll be harder to cast furtive glances in his direction throughout.
Slowly, the other detectives start filing in, similarly surprised at Seungmin’s presence but too polite to point it out. They all probably trust in his principles enough to trust that he will remove himself from the case after the meeting; won’t begrudge Seungmin his curiosity, at least, because they would feel much the same way, if it were them. (If the rumours were true….)
Bang Chan claps his hands and draws everyone’s attention to the monitor. “Alright, everybody, let’s get started.”
The facts of the case are this:
1. Some time yesterday, around 10:54 PM in Gangnam-gu, a neighbor on their nightly jog reports a disturbance coming from the Park household, described as “one blood-curdling scream, followed by several loud thumps, and then a car peeling out of the garage and off into the night.” The witness, frazzled, does not take down any numbers on the plate, but vaguely recalls the car being dark, with tinted windows, and a sizable dent near the gas flap.
2. Police arrive on scene approximately 15 minutes later to investigate the claim, but upon receiving no answer when buzzing the doorbell and seeing no signs of forced entry anywhere on the premises, can’t do much else except leave after taking down the witness statement.
3. An hour later, around midnight, oldest son Taecyeon comes home to discover his father’s study is ajar and signs of a struggle (see: Evidence #1). He calls the police. Forensics sweeps the room, but everything has been methodically wiped clean of fingerprints, blood, other potential DNA samples, etc. The family confirms that nothing has been taken, save for Park Jinyoung himself.
4. The witness statement, including the car’s description, is relayed to the family. They identify the vehicle as belonging to one Lee Minho, who has been observed coming and going throughout the household for a period of close to two years now, although the exact nature of his relationship to Park Jinyoung is still unknown. When a squad car is dispatched to question Mr. Lee, he is found in his backyard trying to dispose of compromising materials (see: Evidence #2). He is booked on subsequent charges.
Evidence #1: The crime scene—overturned desk chair, scattered paper files, and a small section of books on a bookcase ripped from its shelves.
Evidence #2: Linen pajama set found steeped with blood. DNA test results come back with a positive match for JYP. Splatter and hemorrhage patterns indicate one stab wound to the upper thigh area and, given his height and body proportions, predicted to have created an incision within the femoral artery. If untreated, estimation of time before bleeding out is around ten minutes.
And lastly,
Evidence #3: A picture, wallet-sized, salvaged and plucked from the fire. Two men in suits posed in front of billowing white curtains, cheesily posed for a portrait just as cheesily composed. Both are smiling so radiantly, you can’t even tell that only one of them is in love.
“Our engagement photo,” Seungmin finds himself saying, voice firm despite his wavering constitution. He ignores everyone’s thunderstruck gazes, his own trained straight ahead. “Mine and Lee Minho’s.”
?
There is a shared understanding that Seungmin will hang back after the briefing ends. He and Chan watch as the conference room empties, Jisung being the last to leave but not before giving Seungmin a reassuring squeeze. He bows once to Chan on his way out the door, who nods in acknowledgement and wishes him “Good luck.” Jisung is taking a crack at unearthing the nature of Minho’s relationship with JYP, buoyed by the hopes of success in the face of others who have failed before him, seeing as how both parties of interest are a mystery unto themselves.
Seungmin thinks he could have spent an entire lifetime trying to puzzle Minho out. Could have, would have, should have, except he wasn’t given the chance.
Finally alone, Chan makes his approach, pulling out a rolling chair next to Seungmin and carefully sitting down. He slides the case files over on the table. Seungmin notes that it’s only a few pages thick, just like the eggshells they’re walking on as far as the prosecution is concerned. Seungmin grimaces while flipping through the witness statement and crime scene report.
Chan drums his fingers as he talks. “This is a high-profile case. JYP was a household name so the news media is going to be all over this and all over us. We’ll need all the help we can get to crack it—to crack Lee Minho. And in the 16 hours we’ve held him in cross, the only time he showed any type of emotion was at the mention of your name.”
This information takes Seungmin by surprise, but he knows better than to let his expression convey anything other than pitch-perfect neutrality when Chan is watching him with a less than subtle side-eye. Still, he can’t help but wonder if the emotion Minho felt was regret, even though it was more than likely pity, because Minho has always had a kind heart. The kindest when it came to everyone else.
Seungmin chokes down the dejection rising like ocean tides in his throat. “What is it, exactly, did you need me to do?” He knows his limitations. There’s only so much Seungmin is capable of without compromising himself.
If Chan can sense his hooebae’s inner turmoil, he doesn’t comment on it. “The situation’s not dire yet, but we are over halfway through the legal amount of time we can hold him without charge. He has a powerful lawyer on deck, who’s been waiting outside the interrogation room this entire time, but can’t come in because Mr. Lee keeps refusing him and hasn’t exercised his right to an attorney yet. So before he wisens up and does, I’ll send in a few more men, give it a few more tries, and hopefully wear down his defenses. And when we think he’s at his weakest, when he’s the most tired, that’s when you’ll come in.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Kim Seungmin.”
He can’t help it; even after a year, Seungmin still flinches at the sound of his full name. Like a reflex, deeply ingrained. He goes to argue, “I shouldn’t, it’s—”
“—Unconventional, I know. But I trust you to put objective fact and justice over whatever lingering, personal feelings you have towards Lee Minho.”
“I was actually going to say useless. Minho—or rather, Mr. Lee—won’t talk. At least not to me.” Seungmin muses bitterly, “If anything, he’ll only clam up even more. Out of spite.”
“But you were together for a while, right?”
For most of his life, actually. Seungmin settles for a simple, “Yes.”
Chan smiles and it’s surprisingly fond, dimples like craters appearing out of place in the midst of a murder investigation. He says, still smiling, “I’ve been with my wife for years. If I know one thing to be true, it’s that when you’re together for so long, who knows better how to get a rise out of them if not you?”
“I don’t know,” Seungmin replies, because if what he is saying is true, then it works the same in reverse. Even without their shared history, Minho is an expert when it comes to knowing how to nettle and provoke, and Seungmin’s skin is so much thinner than most. In that, Minho is an expert as well; has long since mapped the places where Seungmin is soft, his underbelly and neck. Seungmin’s tender heart. Minho could chart a course with both eyes closed.
“It can be off the record,” Chan offers. He looks entirely sincere. “Just you and him and the interrogation table between you. Nobody else will be listening in. What you choose to record or not will be up to you. What you choose to share with me afterwards will be, too.”
“And if I choose not to share anything at all?”
“I’m a man of my word, Seungminnie. Everything about the process and its aftermath, I’ll leave it entirely up to you.”
“Then what’s the point?” he asks, bemused. “Why send me in the first place if it might not yield results?”
Chan leans back in his chair, angling his body to face Seungmin straight-on. There is an openness to his posture and in his expression as well. “Well nothing we’ve thrown at him so far has yielded any results either. So I figure, what’s the harm? Maybe seeing you again will loosen Minho’s lips for the next guy. At the very least, it might provide you with closure.”
“I don’t need closure,” Seungmin insists.
“No offense, but you look like you do. Try unclenching first, Seungminnie. Any tighter and you’ll snap, or develop hemorrhoids, whichever comes first.”
“That’s gross, hyung.” Seungmin scrunches his nose.
“It’s the only advice I can give you right now.”
“It’s okay. I don’t expect you to be a treasure trove of wisdom when it comes to something like this. I mean, it’s not every day one’s ex-fiance gets booked for murder.”
“Alleged murder.”
Seungmin smiles despite himself.
⸮
They grew up together, him and Lee Minho.
Even as kids, the older boy is pretty. The kind of pretty that stops people in the streets, ushering in waves of uninvited stares, preventing him from moving unseen and unnoticed. As a result, Minho becomes a target for all of the neighborhood kids with fists promising violence, words like rubber pellets in the guns they aim at cattails and Minho, who is a stray as well—the offspring of a single mother, their slum’s busiest hookier, and an absentee father whose identity remains unknown.
The older boy is too pretty to be a fighter. Minho, with his big eyes, full lips, and aristocratic nose.
The older boy groans at the use of the word aristocratic in a sentence. He thinks it sounds pretentious. “Don’t be such a know-it-all, Kim Seungmin. It’s just a nose.”
Pettily, Seungmin sticks the cotton swab soaked in antiseptic deeper into Minho’s open wound. The older boy doesn’t flinch, but Seungmin sees the bone-white of Minho’s knuckles clenching around the fabric of his jeans, an inexpert attempt at masking his pain.
Seungmin likes to think he sees through Minho better than most, skimming a gentle finger over the veins protruding from the suntanned top of Minho’s closed fist. “You can cry out if you want, hyung. I know it hurts.”
Minho grits out, “You don’t know anything.” Once again being too stubborn for his own good.
Seungmin rolls his eyes. “I can’t be a know-it-all who also knows nothing. Pick one, hyung.”
“My pick is annoying.”
He knows Minho is lashing out because he hates getting caught. Therefore, Seungmin doesn’t feel the need to forgive him because he doesn’t interpret the older’s actions as a slight.
Quietly, Seungmin finishes dressing the wound on Minho’s arm, pressing a kiss to the wrapped bandages for good measure, before moving on to the next one. It’s almost ritualistic. Muscle memory, by now.
Minho watches him with storm cloud eyes, thunder and lightning rumbling somewhere below the surface, deep down inside. “You should take it,” he says after a while, the words sounding mushy in Minho’s mouth.
“Take what?”
“That scholarship in America. At NYU.” Even mushier this time. How long has Minho been chewing on the gristle and fat?
Probably since Seungmin told him about the opportunity three weeks ago and how Seungmin is going to turn it down.
He revisits the possibility for a second, which doubles the amount of time that particular fantasy has played out since he first got the news. Even though the scholarship is a good opportunity, probably the best a kid like Seungmin could ever expect or get: a full-ride for undergrad and medical school, plus a small stipend for everything else. It’s all sounds so perfect, having fallen so easily into Seungmin’s lap, except—
“I’ve already enrolled for the police academy in the fall.” Seungmin is bound for Asan and The Korean National Police Academy in two months. He’s already booked a bus ticket and received his welcome and orientation packet in the mail.
“Don’t,” Minho scowls and hisses through his teeth. “Don’t go then. Drop out.”
“Why should I?”
Minho waves a hand over the litany of gashes—some new, some still healing—on his body. All bandaged with care. He says, “Your hands are more suited for a scalpel than a gun.”
“Both are technically weapons.”
“You’re too soft to pull a trigger,” Minho declares.
“Now who’s the one being a know-it-all?” Seungmin laughs.
The older boy does not relent. “You get winded walking up the stairs.”
“So what?”
“How are you supposed to chase down a perp? Better yet, how are you going to apprehend them?” Minho points an accusatory finger at the bruise blooming high on Seungmin’s cheekbone, sustained after he foolishly jumped in to defend his boyfriend despite Minho being the boxer between the two of them. Seungmin is functionally useless in those situations. “You can’t even fight!”
“That’s what the academy is for. To teach me how to do all of those things.” Seungmin wants to learn how to protect and defend the people he loves, to create a place as beautiful as the flowers Minho grows. To prevent Minho’s pain rather than waiting to heal what already hurts. He wants to learn, not how to shield Minho from the world, but rather how to build one that Seungmin would be proud to show him.
Minho yells, “You’re throwing your future away!”
“Says you,” Seungmin scoffs.
“Says everyone!”
They’ve been gearing up for this fight for a while, he knows; because Seungmin was so firm in his decision, he edges out any room for anyone to say anything else. As a result, Minho’s been biting his tongue and biding his time. Now, he’s simmering with the need to give Seungmin a piece of his mind for so resolutely making up his own, without consulting Minho first.
Seungmin sighs. “I’d much rather be with you.”
“Don’t be an idiot, Kim Seungmin. We’d still be together. Unless you were planning on breaking up with me for some American boy?”
Of course not is the answer. Seungmin will never love anyone else. It’s just a fact.
“I want to stay by your side,” he explains. “Not eight years later and countless miles apart. Especially when, at the Academy, I could get my badge and placement in less than six months, with a job that will pay enough to make rent on a small studio space. We could live in a decent neighborhood, for once. In America, I wouldn't be able to sit front row at all of your recitals and shows and buy you flowers for every birthday and holiday and on a random Tuesday, just because. I wouldn't be able to hold your hand and fall into bed with you at night.”
“But—”
“I’ve already made my choice.” Seungmin has no regrets, because when he imagines the rest of his life, he doesn’t find anything or a tiny aspect that lacks. “I’m choosing you, Minho-hyung. I’m choosing us.”
He lifts his hand to brush a lock of hair from Minho’s face, the love of Seungmin’s life.
“Choose better,” Minho says, but there is no bite to the command. His shoulders are slumped, the fight knocked out of him, and is now one blow from caving in.
So Seungmin blows Minho a kiss, flirty despite the older’s half-hearted complaints. It works to defuse the rest of Minho’s anger, that last remaining bit, before Seungmin leans in for a real one, giving the older boy a peck and smiling into Minho’s lips. Seungmin whispers with all of the sincerity he’s ever felt, “Any future I share with you is already the best.”
?
Chan makes good on his promise to wear down Minho’s defenses by sending in Seo Changbin, a senior detective on Seungmin’s squad, who is as annoying as they get. The interrogation rooms are supposed to be soundproof and yet, if Seungmin listens closely enough, he can make out the shrill sound of Changbin’s yells. He almost feels sorry for Minho before remembering the crime that landed him there in the first place, on top of the one he committed when he left Seungmin behind.
It isn’t for several more hours that Chan makes the call.
Seungmin’s footsteps are hurried as he makes his way down the hall, hesitating slightly the closer he gets, before stalling completely standing outside of the door. His hand curls tight around the doorknob, willing himself to turn it, but Seungmin’s body refuses to obey even that simple command. His heart is beating so loudly inside of his chest cavity, echoing, it drowns out all other sounds.
What are you so nervous for, Kim Seungmin? You’re the one with the upperhand.
He repeats this phrase like a mantra, making sure to erase any evidence of vulnerability, before stepping inside.
The room is as it always is, standard fluorescents switched off in favor of lamplight, yellow like aged parchment, dangling overhead. Shadows and shapes linger in the corner of Seungmin’s eye, long stretches of darkness shrouding the edges like a vignette filter turned way, way up. In the center sits a metal table bookended by two matching metal chairs. Minho occupies one of them, back facing the looking glass that doubles as a one-way mirror, every camera angle trained on his body and on his carefully blank face.
Chan sends Seungmin a text to reassure him that the connecting observation room is vacant. There is no one looking or listening in.
Because of this, Seungmin takes his time and takes in his fill.
For someone confined to the same space for over a day at this point, with little allowances for bathroom breaks or a chance to stretch his legs and take in a few lungful of that smoggy outside air, Minho sure looks good. Annoyingly so, and without a hair out of place. Like someone carved him from marble and left him smack dab in the middle of Seungmin’s police station as a gift. Or a mean-spirited prank.
A part of him wishes that Minho looked like he’s been to hell and back instead of fresher than a springtime daisy while reclined in his chair; wishes he looked as bad as Seungmin feels—felt— the day he came back to that empty apartment and all those months afterwards, wondering where they went wrong.
“Sorry to interrupt your sleep,” he says, pulling out the seat from across from Minho and sitting down, trying not to wince at the sound of chair legs scraping against the floor, amplified in the silence of the solid concrete room.
“You’re not actually sorry,” Minho replies without opening his eyes. His face is tilted like he’s sunbathing beneath the lamp, cold-blooded and absorbing artificial warmth because he can’t generate it for himself; even though, to Seungmin, Minho used the warmest person in the world.
He watches each individual lash flutter open and close as Minho blinks twice to adjust to the light. His gaze is neutral as it zeroes in on Seungmin’s face. “Ah,” Minho hums. “I was wondering whether or not they would get desperate enough to resort to sending you in.”
“Did you guess right?”
“I was only speculating,” he shrugs. “I didn’t have any expectations either way.”
Good, the detective thinks, scowling. Since Minho has lost the right to have any expectations about Seungmin at all.
He feels the bitterness seep through the downturn of his lips, before clearing his throat and trying to remember that he’s still on the clock—is working against it, too, time trickling down to the final 24 hours of the allotted 48. Personal feelings aside, Seungmin has a case to solve and a team he doesn’t want to let down, especially with the public chomping at the bit for an update or any scrap of news. Seungmin can’t afford to let anything, clouded judgement or heartbreak anew, distract him from doing his job.
“Are you disappointed?” Minho asks quietly, interrupting Seungmin’s thoughts.
“About what?”
“Seeing me here?”
“I’m surprised to be seeing you at all,” Seungmin admits. “You left without a trace or goodbye. You seemed determined to never be found.”
Mino laughs a mirthless laugh. “I never even left Seoul, so let’s not pretend that you looked very hard.”
He feels a twinge of irritation at the fact that Minho seems irritated. Beneath the older man’s playful facade, Seungmin can see the undercurrent of annoyance that Seungmin didn’t come searching for him, didn’t come begging for Minho to come back.
“I was trying to hold on to my last bit of pride.” The rest he had laid down at Minho’s feet that night when Seungmin got down on one knee. “And why bother looking? I know what it is to be left behind.”
He wonders if Minho feels guilty for the way Seungmin’s face involuntarily twists, cracking open to reveal his ill-concealed hurt, dulled somewhat by time but the lingering cut still just as deep.
Not that it matters. Minho has never been one to admit to his faults, the type of person who makes up for them quietly rather than apologizing—preparing Seungmin’s favorite kimchi chigae for dinner or tenderness like artificial sweetener in a long, drawn-out hug. Only Minho can’t do any of that, confined to this room and forced to confront the fallout of his actions, and so he settles for changing the subject instead.
Gruff, much gruffer than Seungmin remembers Minho’s voice ever being, he asks, “How have you been?”
Seungmin flips open the case files on the table and glares down at them like if concentrates hard enough, the heat of his anger through his wire-rimmed glasses could set them on fire. “You don’t get to ask me that.”
Minho feels entitled for no reason. “I’d still like to know.”
Seungmin considers telling him that he’s already moved on, that he goes on plenty of dates with plenty of guys, been promoted twice, and that he’s finally moved into a nicer apartment and out of their old rooftop place. Seungmin thinks about painting the image, in broad strokes and abstract lines, that Minho was only holding him back, a deadweight that he’s fortunate to have lost, because Seungmin is meant for bigger and better things.
But Seungmin thinks the truth would hurt Minho more and so decides to tell him that. “I don’t know who I am without you, hyung.”
The honorific accidentally slips out, over a decade’s worth of familiarity coloring the shape of it in Seungmin’s mouth.
Minho flinches. “Seungmin-ah.”
A splintered fondness to match his own.
And maybe it’s how he strings those three syllables together, so familiar, or the habitual way Minho’s knuckles clench, bone-white, around thin air—his façade shifting ever so subtly, but just enough to get caught.
“You looked so different,” Seungmin says without thinking, the floodgates having opened, and a stream of consciousness and sentimentality spilling out. “When I was going over the tapes earlier, I couldn’t believe it was really you sitting there. A caricature of arrogance and a complete lack of remorse. The opposite of the Minho-hyung I knew. I caught myself wondering if you had actually changed. But then, just now, when you called my name . . . You’ve gotten better at hiding it, I’ll admit. You almost had me fooled.”
“Kim Seungmin.” His name is a warning and a plea all at once.
“You pulled this shit all the time growing up!” Seungmin explodes. “Holding back your pain because every time you got hurt, it hurt me even worse. Crying whenever my back was turned. Crying all by yourself. You’re so stupid hyung. I guess that part of you hasn’t changed.”
“Shut up. Just shut up!”
He reaches over the case files to grasp Minho’s hand; fists seemingly unblemished, except Seungmin knows every notch on Minho’s collection of criss-crossing scars. There are new ones that Seungmin hasn’t bandaged, that his lips haven’t touched. Has Minho been fighting since he left? Confusion furrows Seungmin’s brow. “You’re hurting, hyung. Why are you hurting?”
The table vibrates briefly. A notification lights up Seungmin’s phone.
A text from his partner.
Han Jisung
[photo attached]
OMG?!?!?!?! Minho is JYP’s illegitimate son!!! 4:47 PM
⸮
It happens more and more often that Minho comes home later than Seungmin these days, the latter being stuck with the graveyard shifts since he has the least amount of seniority on the team, patrolling the streets along with his partner and fellow fresh meat Han Jisung. They graduated from the Academy together and get along well enough, at least.
Seungmin asks Minho over a cup of coffee he’s brewing in the kitchen, right after his boyfriend slips in alongside the first morning rays, “Welcome back, hyung. Are you cheating on me or what?”
Minho pauses in the middle of toeing off his shoes, one hand on the doorframe supporting his weight as the other unknots his laces. Voice pitched low, Minho replies, “What?”
He takes a sip of his cold brew. “You’re cheating on me, right? That’s why you’ve been staying out so late?”
He’s joking, of course. Seungmin trusts Minho implicitly, which is why he also takes it at face-value when the older man answers, “I took up a side job as a substitute driver. That’s probably why I smell like booze and other men.”
“I don’t know,” Seungmin squints suspiciously. “That sounds a lot like something a cheater would say.”
“You’re insufferable,” Minho concludes, shuffling closer. He lets himself be tucked inside the cradle of Seungmin’s arms, looking weary and tired. He hooks his chin into the curve of Seungmin’s neck, an anchor to keep from falling over when Minho all but goes limp.
Seungmin kisses his forehead and ignores the smell of gunpowder sulfur and the metallic stench of blood. It’s just the lingering smell of work, of the back alley crime scene Seungmin had been assigned to help hold the line.
Minho mumbles, “I’m too tired to walk.” Which roughly translates to: You should carry me to bed.
Seungmin replies, “That’s too bad.” Which roughly translates to: Of course.
He scoops Minho up in his arms, a warm and familiar weight, cupped hands curved perfectly against the meat of Minho’s thighs; is then rewarded with a kiss, a lazy press of Minho’s lips to whichever body part is closest, in this case the corner of Seungmin’s cheek, and feels a puff of hot air against the shell of his ear from Minho’s small, contented sigh. Rather than depositing him on the mattress though, Seungmin plops Minho on top of the toilet seat instead.
“Aish, just let me go to sleep!” Minho whines.
“And let you blame me for being the reason you feel gross later on? Yeah right.”
He knows Minho inside-out by now, including having memorized his skincare routine, relatively low-maintenance because Minho can’t be bothered, but still more involved than Seungmin’s standard splash of soap and water. Gentle fingers massage cleanser, then toner and essence, and finally moisturizer across Minho’s face.
Sotto voce, Seungmin tells him about his day.
“...Oh, there was also another stabbing today in Sinchon. Some kind of drug deal gone wrong.” Minho stiffens, clenching briefly before relaxing his jaw. Seungmin doesn’t think he’s applying that much strength, but apologizes for hurting Minho anyway. “Jamie-sunbae said that gang activity’s been on the rise throughout Seoul and it’s only getting worse. She’s gunning to get more manpower on her team and told me that she’d put in a good word.”
“I didn’t know you were looking to transfer,” Minho mumbles under his breath.
“If I’m gonna make detective someday, I need to get a little closer to the crimes. Meeting monthly quotas on parking tickets is only going to get me so far.”
“Do you have to?” Minho opens his eyes. They look so dark staring up at him, oil seeping into ocean swells, something roiling just beneath the surface; and so serious, it’s enough to give Seungmin pause. Then after, with just a blink of them, the expression is gone. His boyfriend feebly cracks a smile. “Can’t you just issue parking tickets forever?
“I’d be miserable,” Seungmin decides.
“Miserable,” Minho repeats. “But safe.”
Seungmin cups and holds Minho’s face between his palms, thumbs sweeping an arc across Minho’s delicate cheekbones.
“Minho, we talked about this.”
Minho opens his mouth to object, “That was before—” and then, as if catching himself, immediately snaps it shut again.
Seungmin raises an eyebrow. “Before what?” he prompts.
“Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”
“Not if this is going to be a recurring conversation because you’re gonna dwell on it some more.” Minho loves to bottle things up until he can’t anymore, like Mentos mints in diet cola when he eventually explodes.
“What if,” Minho takes a shuddering breath and cloaks himself in that serious expression from before, just as black only the color is tinged with something bitter and hesitant, a hue unknown. “What if you could do anything else? Would you still be a cop?”
The answer comes immediately. “Yes.”
“Because?”
Seungmin takes a moment to collect his thoughts and Minho continues to watch him through those dark, dark eyes. “I know, deep down, no matter what I say or how many times I say it, you still think I chose this job to be with you. But you also know what I was like growing up. Walking around the neighborhood like I was your own personal defender, like I was your own personal knight. All I was missing was the suit of armor and horse.” Seungmin laughs at the memory, almost embarrassed looking back. “But now I get to be that white knight for the people around me. I like being a cop. I like protecting my community and doing my best to keep everyone safe.”
He knows it’s silly thinking he’ll be able to make a difference, especially when crime and violence is so deeply embedded in the heart of Seoul and its slums. But still, Seungmin wants to try.
“Okay,” Minho says at last, resigned. He shifts to press a kiss to the inside of Seungmin’s wrist. “My Seungminnie wants to be a cop because it makes him happy. It gives him a purpose. So I have no choice but to allow it, I guess.”
Seungmin laughs, affection cleaving his heart in half. “I love you, hyung.”
Solemnly, Minho responds, “I love you more.”
?
Seungmin stares down at his phone and at the collection of hangul characters deriving no meaning in his brain; processes each pixel of the photo attachment individually but short-circuiting when he pulls back and tries to view it as a whole. How can something make more sense out of context, then in?
“What does this mean? Is JYP really your dad?” He brandishes Jisung’s text and the accompanying picture of Minho sitting beside the media mogul taken from a few months back. Seungmin can’t ignore the same big eyes, full lips, and aristocratic noses sharing a frame. The similarities become more obvious when the two of them come close enough to compare.
Minho grimaces. “JYP was my dad,” he shares with little shame or remorse. Seungmin wishes he could muster up more enthusiasm for the confession and JYP’s death being all but confirmed, but is hyper focused on the way Minho’s body language tenses up considerably after muttering those words. Seungmin folds his arms across his chest as a mirror to how Minho defensively crosses his own. Warily, the older man says, “Trust me, it’s all a bit more complicated than that.”
“Trust me?” Seungmin scoffs, leaning back in his chair. What a poor choice of words.
“Do you not?”
“How about you tell me the full story first, and then I’ll be the judge of that?”
Minho remains, as ever, as always, frustratingly tight-lipped. “As I told you before, it’s complicated.”
“Hyung, please?”
The question floats between them and ripples in the air. Poison on the lips, but honeyed to the ear. Seungmin rarely asks for things directly. Minho has always known, almost instinctively, what to give.
Eyes imploring for Seungmin to choose the negative, “Are you absolutely sure you want to know?” Minho asks.
“Why? Are you afraid I’m going to send you to jail?”
He is about to promise Minho that everything he says going forward is off the record and won’t be held against him. If a confession is made in confidence, is it really a confession at all?
But Minho replies, “No, your hands are too soft,” with a surety that shouldn’t exist, a surety that pisses Seungmin off because it’s true. His hands are too soft and Minho’s confession is a loaded gun delivered to a man who can’t pull the trigger.
Because Seungmin’s love is a rotten thing; his slime mold heart breaking down into organic matter, without constitution, and forming around the shape of Lee Minho. Death and decay and new life, again.
Not soft, but weak.
Minho begins, “I’ve known who my father is since I was 15. My mom had every intention to take that secret with her to the grave but couldn’t, coked out as she was in those later years, and without a firm grip on reality much less her own self. So I’ve always known, but kept that knowledge to myself. With a name like JYP, to go around claiming him as my father is the equivalent of little orphan boys claiming Superman is their father. And it’s not like I expected him to ever be a father to me until he showed up at my doorstep one day, while you were away in Asan, and took me under his wing.”
“But you were already an adult by then.”
Minho reaches over the table for the case files, thumbing languidly through the pages one by one with a mirthless little smile. He uses the contests as a sort of guide for his story. Tab 1, Person(s) of Interest: “Taecyeon-hyung is too public-facing,” he explains, “and Jihyo-noona as well. They both run JYPE as a day job but occupy higher-level positions in the underground operations. On paper, they’re strictly there on a consulting basis, since they can’t risk getting too involved in case things go south. So JYP is a man who rules a second Empire and getting up there in age, but finds himself without a legitimate heir.”
“And then you,” Seungmin whispers.
Minho nods. And then me. “It was just the little things at first. I would sit in on meetings, put faces to names, and get a lay of the land. A lot of the guys are pretty decent actually, dudes with good hearts that fell in with the wrong sort of crowd, or constructed with cruelty because of circumstances out of their control. There’s a misplaced sense of vigilantism and justice in the group, which is simultaneously admirable and dumb. Like, who the fuck believes in fair trade drug production and distribution? Seriously? But that’s a basic tenet of theirs, I guess. That, and the fact that they all eat organic.”
“I spent the first year or so trying to figure out how to leave when I already wasn’t given much of an option but to join. Taecyeon-hyung saw through me pretty quickly though and cornered me with a simple proposition: after the old man died, I would immediately step down and peacefully retire. Less harm, less foul. Taeyeon would take over and you weren’t supposed to ever find out about me. But before JYP could kick the bucket, Taecyeon started convincing him to dip his toes into the sex trafficking business. Suddenly, they started making all kinds of moves and I couldn’t—” Minho’s voice cracks out of absolute anguish. “Some of them were just kids, Seungmin-ah. I had to stop him. I had to do something, even if it meant taking power. Throwing away my future. But then there was also you.”
Seungmin blinks. Everything clicks into place.
Growing up, he’d always joked about Minho’s lack of interest in human beings. It wasn’t true, of course. Quite the opposite. Sex trafficking? What cruel irony, Seungmin thinks. He’s trembling in his seat; can barely keep up with what’s happening, trying to intake all of this new information at once, while also contending with how it feels like some external entity is physically squeezing Seungmin’s heart. Pumping it just enough to keep Seungmin alive. Barely, painfully.
Minho continues. “I asked you once, if you could do anything, be anything else, would you still choose to be a cop?”
Seungmin cries at the question, tears leaking from his salt-rimmed eyes, hating himself for the way he hated Minho. For claiming to love someone but managing to believe the worst in him anyway. “If I had known what you meant—Minho, if I had known what you were asking me, I would have chosen differently. I would have chosen to be yours.”
Seungmin knows this is coming too little, too late and quite uselessly besides. Minho would have left him anyway. It’s just who he is. The kind of person who will always put Seungmin first.
“You love your job,” Minho reminds him quietly.
“I loved you more.” Loves, still. Loves, always.
He smiles sardonically. Beautifully. “Just as cops exist, the bad guys they’re trained to catch must exist as well.”
“But you’re not a bad guy,” Seungmin protests.
The smile fades into honeysuckle sentimentality, pink and curved like the dipped edges of a Pitcher plant. A trap by any other name would smell just as sweet. “To you, I want to be the worst. That way, you’ll never forgive me.”
He cries even harder. “Which means I can’t forget you either.”
Only later Seungmin will realize that maybe, for Minho, that’s the point.