Archive of Our Own

He’s late.

Renjun checks his watch for the sixth time in as many minutes. When he’s sure it isn't broken, the second hand moving as steadily as ever, he flips open his burner phone and dials the first name on his contacts list.

The line connects almost immediately. “What?”

“He’s late,” Renjun says.

“Okay, and?”

Renjun feels a stab of annoyance. What he would give not to speak to anyone from tech support ever again. Even this particular individual. Especially this particular individual. “And this is the first time he’s been late,” he grits out. “Ever.”

“People aren’t on time every single day of the week, y’know. Maybe he got sidetracked.” Donghyuck sounds indifferent; bored, even. Renjun can hear the steady pew pew pew of his computer game in the background. He resists the urge to grind his teeth together ‒ no surprises that Donghyuck is slacking off on company time. “Hey, do you think he got hit by a car on the way to work? Or maybe he got mugged and is bleeding out in an alley somewhere. Wouldn’t that be lucky for you ‒ ”

Barely ten seconds in, and Renjun can already feel the onset of a headache. “Can you just pull up the feed?” he interrupts, cutting Donghyuck off. And then, before Donghyuck can bitch him out about his lack of manners: “Please?”

There’s a pause. Renjun listens carefully; on the other end of the line, Donghyuck’s game has stopped.

“Well,” Donghyuck says haughtily. “Since you asked so nicely.”

Renjun murmurs his thanks, but it’s drowned out by the noisy clacking of a mechanical keyboard. For a couple of seconds, there’s nothing but the sounds of Donghyuck breathing heavily into the phone, his mouse clicking furiously as he checks the cameras leading from the target’s apartment all the way to the little French bakery where he buys his breakfast. Renjun absentmindedly scratches at an itch on the inside of his wrist while he waits, keeping his eyes trained on the side street below him.

There’s a rustle on the other end of the line as Donghyuck adjusts his hold on the phone. “Target’s still at the patisserie.” His voice is tinted with amusement. “Looks like he’s flirting with the cashier.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Renjun rolls his eyes so hard his eyeballs hurt. “Great. I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

He hangs up before Donghyuck can offer to give him live commentary on the target’s movements, or worse, strike up some small talk. Renjun takes a deep breath to re-centre himself, and double-checks his sniper rifle. He could’ve made a handgun and a silencer work ‒ he’s only three stories up, squatting in an abandoned building overlooking the small side street the target traverses daily from the bakery to his place of work ‒ but Doyoung hadn’t wanted there to be any room for mistakes.

“The client is paying a lot of money for this,” Doyoung had said, fingers steepled under his chin. “They want it done quickly. Quietly. Discreetly.”

They were in Doyoung’s office, the one in the corner of their building with large windows spanning from floor to ceiling. Not that he could see the view, though, since Doyoung always kept the blinds tightly drawn. The fluorescent lighting was sterile and, on that particular visit, gave off a low, incessant hum. It made Renjun physically uncomfortable.

“Understood. Do you have any information on the mark?”

Doyoung wordlessly handed over a thin manila file, and Renjun flipped it open.

Marks were rarely attractive ‒ usually old, doddering men with too much money and too-tight suits ‒ but this one was. The photograph included in the file was a candid shot, showing the mark’s face over the roof of a car. He had bleached blonde hair and rounded features, but a defined jawline. Silver earrings studded both his ears, winking brightly in the sunlight. His gummy smile, directed at someone off-camera, looked both pleasing and wicked in a way Renjun hadn’t thought was possible. Renjun thought that his eyes, hooded and curved into crescents, were nice, too.

Too bad he’d have to put a bullet between them.

Liu Yangyang, read the information sheet tucked beneath the glossy photograph. Renjun scanned over the rest of the papers quickly ‒ 22 years old. Enrolled in a computer science programme in one of China’s top universities before dropping out for ‘personal reasons’. Last spotted in the streets of Manchester, England.

Interestingly enough, nothing about what someone so young had done to piss off someone so much that they were willing to pay the agency six figures to end his life.

Renjun closed the file. He could read the rest of it in detail later. “Manchester?”

“Manchester,” Doyoung affirmed. “You leave tomorrow ‒ Jisung will set you up with your kit.”

Renjun cocked his head. “I’m going alone?” He was often tagged to an older agent, like Johnny or Jaehyun, on overseas missions like these.

“Discretion ‒ remember, Huang?” Doyoung answered mildly. He had already turned back to his computer, tapping away at the keys. “Take as much time as you need for reconnaissance, but keep in mind that the client wants the job done by the twentieth.”

Renjun did the maths in his head ‒ that was in less than two weeks. Sure, he had done a lot more for a lot less, but this would be the first time he’d be doing it alone.

Trying not to let his nerves show, Renjun tucked the file under his arm and bowed before making to leave the room. He had just gotten one hand on the doorknob when Doyoung stopped him.

“Oh, and Renjun?”

When he turned around, Doyoung’s sharp gaze was trained on him. He had stopped typing, fingers hovering over his keyboard.

“Be careful,” Doyoung had said. “Get him, and then get out.”

Now, less than two weeks later in a city on the other side of the globe, Renjun repeats the words to himself over and over again: get him, and then get out. Get him, and then get out.

If only Liu Yangyang would stop flirting with the damn cashier and show up, already.

Renjun hates to admit it, but he’s starting to get restless. It’s now ten minutes past the time Yangyang normally walks down this street, a coffee in one hand and a croissant in the other, sneakers squeaking on dirty pavements studded with gum. What the fuck is he doing down at the patisserie? Trying to get the cashier’s number? Renjun had scouted the bakery a few days ago and saw the ghostly blue digits slowly ticking down on the cashier’s wrist. There had been a promise ring adorning her fourth finger. Unavailable, in every sense of the word.

He’s always managed to keep his cool in the moments leading up to a hit, but this time, there’s an unfamiliar buzz just beneath the surface of his skin, his blood hot and thrumming. His hands tingle a little, too, but it subsides when he shakes his hands out. Renjun scowls ‒ it’s probably just the nerves and anxiety of his first mission alone catching up to him.

It’s too hot for spring. A bead of sweat forms, then rolls down the back of his neck. Not for the first time, Renjun curses their all-black ensembles and standard issue face masks. He can barely breathe in the muggy air as it is. The heat is making the prickling sensation on his left arm flare up again, and while Renjun scritches a fingernail through the fabric of his long-sleeved top, it does little to alleviate the itch.

God, it’s so fucking hot. How much longer until he’s put out of his misery?

It’s right then that he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Renjun immediately crouches down, manoeuvring the gun so the stock is nestled against his shoulder and its nozzle is resting lightly on the windowsill. Once he’s settled, he peers through his scope at the figure that’s appeared at the mouth of the alley, and his heart thuds loudly at the sight.

It’s Yangyang. He’s carrying two cups of coffee in a tray, instead of his usual one. There’s a paper bag dangling from his arm, stamped with the logo of the patisserie. The sleeves of his top are rolled up, and strangely, instead of his usual shaggy hairstyle, his hair is combed and gelled neatly off his face. It’s unsettling.

What’s even more unsettling is that Yangyang, after taking a few steps into the street, suddenly pulls up short on the balls of his feet.

Renjun’s heart leaps. He couldn’t possibly know that Renjun’s been tailing him for days, waiting for the perfect moment to pull the trigger.

Could he?

Renjun tenses as Yangyang continues to hover at the beginning of the street. He can practically see the hesitation rolling off him in waves, so palpable the air around him seems to shimmer. He can’t finish the job now, not until Yangyang’s passed his building and a falling body would be concealed by the taller, dilapidated buildings opposite and further down the alley.

“Come on,” Renjun whispers to himself. The rubber edge of the scope digs into the skin around his eye. “Move. Move.”

The world holds its breath along with Renjun. All of his senses zero in on the rush of blood in his veins, the stillness of the air, the figure of Yangyang slight through the lens of his scope.

The itch in his arm flares to a burn.

And then, after what seems like a small eternity, Yangyang finally shakes off whatever seems to have stopped him and moves, setting off down the alley and towards the building Renjun is perched in with renewed determination.

Any relief Renjun might have felt, however, is short-lived, because ‒ what is Yangyang doing? Instead of looking at his phone like he usually does, or walking like a normal person, Yangyang is turning his head eagerly in all directions. Renjun feels a spike of anxiety as Yangyang stops in his tracks again, spinning in a slow circle to take in the buildings flanking the alley. He looks down at his wrist, then back up to scan his immediate surroundings, then back down again.

It’s almost as if he’s looking for someone. As if he’s looking for ‒

Renjun’s chest seizes, first in realisation, and then in panic. The plan be damned ‒ he clicks off the safety, fingers fumbling to find the trigger, but it’s too late.

Yangyang looks up.

The moment their eyes meet through the scope of the gun, the burn in Renjun’s arm intensifies, then erupts. Renjun gasps ‒ it’s as if someone is pressing hot, molten metal to the inside of his wrist, branding him, his skin sizzling with it, his vision whiting out from the pain, and it hurts, god, it fucking hurts ‒

Renjun wrenches himself from the window and collapses, his gun clattering to the floor. He tears off his watch and throws it aside, frantically clawing at the cuff of his sleeve to pull it down, nearly ripping the material in his frenzy. Through the haze of tears he sees numbers, ashy grey and unmoving against the blue-green veins of his left wrist.

00:00:00:00

No way. No fucking way.

He doesn’t have time for this. Renjun blindly fumbles for his gun. He forces himself back up onto his feet and flattens himself against the wall next to the window. He counts down from five, giving him enough time to steady his shaking hands, and then, in one swift motion, turns and points his gun down into the alley.

Except ‒ it’s empty. There’s a fresh puddle of coffee beneath Renjun’s building courtesy of two upturned cups, the brown liquid seeping into the cracks between the cobblestones. The paper bag from the bakery lies abandoned, pastries spilling out into the street. All is silent, save for the muffled sounds of early morning traffic drifting over from the main road.

Yangyang is nowhere in sight.

Renjun stares for what feels like minutes. His breath comes out in pants, as if he’s just run a marathon, and he gradually lowers his gun. It’s only then that everything catches up to him, all at once: the searing pain that runs all the way from his wrist to his shoulder. The line of zeroes that have settled like a brand into his skin. A pair of eyes, earnest and bright and brown, looking into his own.

Yangyang’s eyes. His soulmate’s eyes.

Shit. Shit.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

Renjun knew, on some distant level, that he had a soulmate. Everyone did. It was a universal truth that was difficult to run away from, when everyone had glaring blue digits embedded into their skin to remind them of the exact moment they’d look into their soulmate’s eyes for the first time.

But Renjun had tried. He had tried a lot.

He wore watches and long sleeves to cover up the numbers. He busied himself with missions and training and didn’t interact with people outside of the agency as far as he could help it. When he did go out, he fastidiously avoided the hungry gazes of unmatched strangers.

Once, when he had been tailing a mark in London, the numbers had tumbled all the way down to mere hours. He had turned so pale that Johnny insisted that they return to their hotel immediately. Renjun had locked himself in the bathroom, refusing to come out until the numbers had climbed their way back up to years.

When he finally deemed the numbers high enough, he creaked open the door to find Johnny already standing on the other side, looking stricken. “I didn’t know you could control it,” he said, gesturing at Renjun’s wrist.

Renjun shrugged, pulling down the cuff of his sleeve. “I can’t. Not really. It’s just… easily persuaded.”

It wasn’t unheard of for the numbers to change, suddenly increasing or decreasing in time. Something to do with the butterfly effect, scientists hypothesised. But Renjun’s seemed to be extra-sensitive ‒ they changed frequently, affected by mundane things like whether he decided to have coffee over tea that morning and his mood. Sometimes, they would go up and down so quickly that it was dizzying trying to keep up with them. Up until he came to London, Renjun had always been able to keep them within the range of years.

Johnny’s eyes flitted from Renjun’s wrist, which was now covered up, to his face, his expression concerned. “Would it really be so bad to meet your soulmate?”

Renjun didn’t laugh, if only out of respect for Johnny and a sense of self-preservation. “Yes,” he answered. “Don’t you think it’s crazy that some arbitrary force out there decides who’s supposedly your perfect match?”

“A little, but…” Johnny bit his lip. “C’mon. You can’t deny it’s romantic, that you’re fated to be with someone, and they, with you.”

Renjun was appalled. “Romantic? So you’re just supposed to meekly accept the person fate hands you, and you either like it or lump it? Is that it? Sorry, but that ‒ that sounds crazy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Johnny said, frowning. “Look at me. And soulmates are just like any other relationship ‒ you don’t fall in love at first sight, and things don’t just magically fall into place. You just have to… be open to it. Be open to working on it.”

Johnny had met his soulmate young, right before he joined the agency. He kept a photo of Taeyong in his wallet, one of those tiny ones people submitted for passports, the printer ink fading and patchy in some places. On uneventful stake-outs, Johnny liked to take it out and worry his thumb over the corners, a small smile on his face. Renjun hadn’t met Taeyong, but he knew from passing conversations that he worked with animals and made great brownies. Whether Taeyong knew what Johnny really did on all those trips overseas… well. It was none of Renjun’s business.

“I’m not sure most people would be willing to ‘work on’ a relationship with,” Renjun snorted. “And anyway, what would be the point of this entire soulmate thing? Why would you have an allegedly fated partner shoved on you if there are still going to be bumps in the road, or if it doesn’t work out in the end?”

Johnny retreated to his twin bed, sitting cross-legged on the unmade covers. The exasperation on his face was amplified by the dim light of the hotel room lamp. “Life isn’t going to be easy in the first place. The whole point is to have someone you’re destined to be with by your side to make the bumps smoother. What, you’d prefer it if you muddled through life spending time with someone you know isn’t your soulmate?”

“At least I’d have a say in who I decide to share my life with! At least I’d have a choice!”

The second the words were out of his mouth, Renjun felt stupid, childish, even. Johnny’s answering laugh indicated that he thought the same. “Man, you’re such a control freak.”

“I’m not,” Renjun insisted. “I just don’t feel comfortable knowing that I have practically no free will in the matter of who I’m supposedly destined to be with.”

“Dude. That’s, like, the textbook definition of a control freak.”

Johnny was right. It was also like arguing with a wall. What did Renjun expect, really, from someone who had clearly won in the lottery of love and soulmates?

“Look,” Johnny said, face pinched. He sounded tired and a little pitying, which made Renjun’s hackles rise, because he didn’t need pity. “Let’s just go to sleep, yeah? We have an early day tomorrow, gotta finish the job before the mark catches that flight.”

Before Renjun could say anything, Johnny slipped under the covers and shut off the light, leaving him standing in the dark. He had to feel his way around the room until his toe stubbed the edge of the bed across from Johnny’s. With minimal cursing, Renjun managed to lay down on top of his sheets, still fully-clothed, and set an early morning alarm.

They didn’t say anything for a while, content to watch the headlights of vehicles passing by outside dance across the ceiling. As Rejun was inclined to do, he replayed their earlier conversation in his head, and felt a pang of ‒ annoyance? Guilt, maybe? ‒ at how dismissive he had been towards the entire concept of soulmates. He should’ve known better ‒ Johnny was the biggest romantic of them all. Who else would carry their soulmate’s picture with them like some lovelorn soldier sent off to war?

“Hey,” Renjun whispered, an olive branch of sorts. “Johnny?”

“Hm?”

“What is it like when you look at your soulmate for the first time?”

The sheets rustled as Johnny rolled over onto his side. “Why do you want to know?”

Why did he want to know? Renjun shrugged, even though Johnny probably couldn’t see him. “I was just wondering. I want ‒ I want to be prepared.”

Johnny hummed thoughtfully. “It differs from person to person.”

“But what about you? What did it feel like, when you saw Taeyong for the first time?”

Johnny took his time to answer; Renjun almost thought he had fallen asleep. But then he spoke, voice low and warm, and Renjun could hear his smile through the darkness. “It felt like relief. Like comfort. It felt like… I had finally come home.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■□

“You didn’t kill him.”

It’s barely been an hour since his botched attempt. Renjun tightens his grip on his phone. The inside of his left wrist twinges. “Sir, I can explain ‒ ”

“Save it,” Doyoung says, and Renjun falls silent immediately. He’s disappointed. Renjun hates to disappoint. “You should count yourself lucky. I talked to the client, and the hit’s been called off for now ‒ there’s been a change of plans. ”

“Change?” Renjun can hardly believe his luck. “What change?”

“Donghyuck has sent you the information.” Renjun’s laptop pings with a new notification, and he rushes to open the email. “Now that it’s become relevant, I suppose this is an opportune time to tell you that the mark had carried out a hack on our client’s trading platform, and managed to steal a considerable sum of money. Initially, the client thought he was working alone, but their investigations have revealed that he may be working in concert with other individuals.”

Renjun quickly scans over the email. “I see.”

“We have no further information on his accomplices,” Doyoung continues, his voice flat and static in Renjun’s ear. “Extract their identities from the mark, and once we have the all-clear, you are to eliminate all of them.”

Hang on. Renjun needs to get this right. “When you say to extract their identities from Liu ‒ ”

“Do you need a ten-step plan on how to engage with a mark, Huang?”

“No, I just ‒ ” God. Renjun scrubs his free hand down his face. He needs to get it together. “I just want to be clear of what I’m supposed to do. You want me to ‒ what? Get… close him?”

“In so many words, yes.”

Renjun’s throat constricts. “Sir, that’s Jaemin’s speciality. Don’t you think ‒ ”

“Jaemin,” Doyoung reminds him, “is not in Manchester.” Renjun has worked with Doyoung long enough to know what he really means: Jaemin is not the one who compromised a mission.

There’s no escaping the sinking feeling in his gut. Renjun exhales shakily. “I understand. I just ‒ I don’t want to screw it up any further.”

“Then find out the identities and locations of the other members of the hacker collective.” Doyoung’s voice is soft and dangerous. His words are an order ‒ a warning. “The client may be generous and patient, Renjun, but I can assure you that I am not.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■□□

“Hi, do I ‒ oh. Right.”

Yangyang stands up from his seat, ungainly. He’s dressed in another oversized sweater today, its sleeves so long they end just past his fingertips. Renjun sees the knit fabric bunch up as Yangyang clenches his fists into balls. He takes a deep breath, then starts over.

“Um, hi, everyone. My name is Yangyang.”

There’s a chorus of Hi, Yangyangs in response. Renjun murmurs the greeting just a fraction of a second too late. He slouches down in his chair slightly, trying to blend in. The group is sizable, but they’re sitting on chairs arranged in a large circle with a clear view of everyone else, and there’s nowhere to hide.

“Um.” Yangyang glances at the coordinator, who nods encouragingly. “Well ‒ I, um. I just had my soulmate connection, but it didn’t ‒ it didn’t go well. And I don’t think ‒ I won’t be seeing them again.”

A wave of sympathetic murmurs ripples across the group. “We’re really sorry to hear that,” the coordinator says. She’s so soft the words almost get swallowed up by the cavernous space. “First meetings can be difficult. Traumatising, even. Would you like to share more? There’s no pressure, of course ‒ ”

Yangyang’s hair is back to its unstyled mop today. The strands bounce as he shakes his head. “No, I think… I think I’ll take it easy for today and observe. If that’s okay?”

“Of course,” the coordinator says in that annoyingly soothing voice of hers, and Yangyang sits back down. He looks down at his hands, swimming in his too-long sleeves, then around at the rest of the attendees of the support group. Before Renjun can look away, Yangyang’s eyes meet his, and for one heart-stopping moment, he thinks he’s been recognised.

But then Yangyang’s gaze, blank and unseeing, sweeps right past him and on to the woman beside him. Renjun exhales quietly through his nose in relief.

The atmosphere is depressing, to say the least. Renjun spends the rest of the meeting tuning out people crying over their deceased or unfaithful soulmates and sneaking surreptitious glances over at Yangyang, who seems to grow more and more sombre with each sob story told. After another hour, the session finally ends, and it takes all of Renjun’s effort not to bolt for the door. Instead, he lingers, pretending to pack up, and when he notices Yangyang drift towards the snack table, Renjun seizes the opportunity.

“You’re better off with the tea instead of the coffee. Lord knows how long it’s been since they cleaned the machine.”

Yangyang wheels around from where he’d been contemplating the small selection of drinks, an empty styrofoam cup in his hand. It’s amazing how a mere month can change a person. The Yangyang Renjun had seen through the scope of his gun had been glowing, probably delirious with excitement at the prospect of meeting his soulmate. Now, up close, Renjun can see dark circles under his eyes, the exhaustion lining his face. There’s a split in his bottom lip from where he’d been worrying it with his teeth.

Even in misery, Renjun thinks idly, he still looks good.

“Oh.” Yangyang glances warily at the coffee machine. “Thanks for the heads up.”

“No problem.” Renjun reaches for a bag of Tetley. “Here, let me.”

He drops the teabag into Yangyang’s cup and fills it with hot water from the dispenser, then adds a splash of milk. When he hands the cup back to Yangyang, he makes sure to let their fingers brush against each other.

“Thanks,” Yangyang mumbles again, eyes dropping down to his tea. Shy ‒ Renjun files that away for later. “Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

Renjun pastes on a well-practised smile that Jaemin had called gentle, yet winsome. “Injun.”

“Injun,” Yangyang repeats, rolling Renjun’s fake name around his tongue like a boiled candy. It sounds sweet, coming from his mouth. “I’m Yangyang.”

“I know. I heard you introduce yourself.” Renjun would reach out to touch him, but judging by Yangyang’s guarded posture, he doesn’t think he’d appreciate it. He cocks a hip up against the snack table instead. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Yeah.” Yangyang toys with the paper tab of his teabag, dangling past the rim of his cup. “Today’s my first time.”

Renjun knows this, had seen Yangyang take a flyer from the community centre a week ago when he had been tailing him, but he nods like the information is new. “It was brave of you to come.” Renjun inches a little closer on the pretext of swiping a biscuit from the platter. “I’m sorry for what happened to you. Whoever they are, they’re an idiot.”

Yangyang huffs out a surprised laugh. It’s a bright thing in a sombre space, and Renjun sees a flash of gums and gleaming teeth before Yangyang quickly claps a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, that was ‒ that’s something I haven’t heard.”

Renjun is almost disappointed that Yangyang’s not confident enough to show his smile off. He shakes it off, and goes back to playing the game.

“Most people giving you pitying looks instead?” Yangyang nods, and Renjun scoffs. “It’s true, though. Look at you.” Renjun does, then, a quick but obvious sweep of Yangyang from head to toe. He makes eye contact with Yangyang before he pretends to catch himself staring, lowering his gaze in faux-embarrassment. “Who would give all of this up?”

Yangyang turns pink at the compliment, and Renjun feels a thrill run down his spine. With all of the bread-and-butter assassinations he’d been assigned to lately, he’d forgotten how fun it could be, working out what made a person tick so that you could tease out the desired response, so that you could press easily on all their most vulnerable spots later.

Almost like predators, Jaemin had once said, teeth sharp as he smiled, playing with their prey before going in for the kill.

A few more minutes is all it takes. Renjun leaves the session with a pocketful of stale cookies and Yangyang’s number stored safely in his phone.

Doyoung will be pleased.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■□□□

They text for the next couple of weeks, Renjun making sure to reach out to Yangyang first with a simple Hey, this is Injun from the support group :) Slowly, but surely, he chips away at Yangyang’s walls, their conversation moving past generic comments and questions to grow more intimate. It isn’t long before Yangyang starts to text enthusiastically, complaining about his hard-ass bosses and sending Renjun memes and photos of the cats he looks after every once in a while. On the other end, Renjun, as Injun, is always ready to soothe, and carefully crafts messages toeing the line between friendly and flirtatious.

It’s a simple application of the laws of supply and demand after that, really. Renjun makes sure to leave Yangyang on read for a couple of hours after a while, and is pleased to find that Yangyang still replies to his texts within minutes. He attends a couple more support group meetings, smiling at Yangyang sunnily across the circle, but gives the rest a miss. He continues to tail Yangyang to the venue every time, though, and is immensely gratified to see him hovering by the doors, looking up and down the street, only to slink inside in defeat when Renjun doesn’t show.

Missed you at support group today! Yangyang texts the minute he emerges from the venue.

Sorry, Renjun types back from his vantage point on the roof of the building across the road, something came up. I’ll try to make it for next week!

He doesn’t. He misses the one the week after that, too, and it’s only when Yangyang sends him a string of texts asking whether he wants to hang out one day, only if he’s free, for lunch or coffee or whatever, but no pressure!!! that Renjun knows he’s done enough. When the next meeting rolls around, he smugly flicks through his wardrobe and dons his nicest sweater, the one with the low neckline and thin material that hangs off his frame like cobwebs. Renjun doesn’t miss the way Yangyang’s eyes rove appreciatively over his exposed collarbones when they meet, and when he suggests ditching the session to grab coffee with him at a café around the corner, Yangyang readily agrees.

“We talked about how we could find fulfilling relationships outside of soulmates last week,” Yangyang tells him once they’re back at their table, drinks in hand. “Did you know that people are choosing to just… ignore their connections? It’s not, like, common, but it is happening.”

“I’m sorry to have missed it,” Renjun lies. “But don’t you find these sessions a little… depressing? I mean, I can only see the same people cry so many times.”

Yangyang smiles wryly over his drink. He’s ordered some vile concoction involving three different kinds of syrups, topped with a mountain of whipped cream. Renjun can feel his arteries clog just by looking at it.

“It’s a good thing you weren’t here last week, then. I literally couldn’t stop bawling. I was, like, so embarrassed afterwards. How can what I feel compare with someone whose soulmate of fifty years has just passed away? Or cheated on them?” Yangyang drags the wooden stirrer through his mug, the whipped cream cloying and dissolving into his coffee, and stares sadly at the mess he’s created. “I’m just… some guy whose connection didn’t work out. It happens. I don’t even know my soulmate; why am I so upset about it?”

Renjun wonders what Yangyang would say if he told him his soulmate has been staring him right in the face all this while, and, in a sick, twisted sort of way, feels the urge to laugh. He swallows it down along with a sip of his coffee. “That doesn’t make your experience or your feelings any less.”

“I know.” Yangyang laughs hollowly. “Believe me, with the amount of times my friends have said that, I know.”

Renjun wonders if it would be too much, too soon if he reached across the table and overlaid Yangyang’s hand with his own. “I’m so sorry I missed those last few sessions, I ‒ I wish I could have been there with you. For you. You didn’t deserve what happened to you.”

Yangyang shrugs. “It’s not your fault.”

If only he knew. “It’s not yours, either. I know I haven’t known you for long ‒ ” Renjun takes a deep breath, feigns mustering up every droplet of sincerity in his body “ ‒ but, like, you’re great, Yangyang. Even if you can’t be with your soulmate, it’s not the end of the road. I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who’re happy with people they aren’t fated to be with. Like you said, there are other options.”

“Why? Are you offering?” Yangyang jokes, and, well, it’s the perfect opening.

“I don’t know,” Renjun says. “Maybe I am.”

He pinpoints the exact moment he’s screwed up. Across from him, Yangyang freezes, his eyes widening in shock. Renjun’s skin burns all over, partly from embarrassment, but mostly from panic.

They each start to speak at the same time.

“Oh. I didn’t mean ‒ ”

“Oh my god, I overstepped, I shouldn’t have ‒ ”

“No,” Yangyang cuts in firmly. “It ‒ it’s okay, really.”

They stare at each other for a beat more, then both drop their gazes. An awkward pause follows, during which Renjun glares at the foam of his cappuccino and mentally berates himself. What was he doing, trying to flirt like some incompetent teenager? Sure, he thought maybe Yangyang would’ve appreciated it, with his frankly juvenile sense of humour and all the back-and-forth flirting in the preceding weeks, but he must have misread the situation, and seriously, there was absolutely no finesse to that. What was he thinking?

“Injun?”

Renjun’s head snaps up. Yangyang is staring at him expectantly, clearly waiting for a response. “Huh?”

“What you said earlier.” Yangyang’s cups his mug with both hands, as if he needs something to hold onto. “Did you ‒ did you mean it? When you said you were, um. An option.”

Relief and ‒ something else ‒ bubble up in Renjun’s chest. His mouth moves before he can think. “Would it be too forward of me to say yes?”

Does he really mean it, though? It doesn’t matter ‒ Yangyang’s gone that lovely shade of pink again. “Oh. Okay.”

He’s looking at Renjun like he’s truly seeing him for the first time, with an intensity that makes Renjun feel rooted to the spot. Yangyang’s eyes are oceans, cool and unfathomable in their depths, and Renjun is standing on the shore, ankle-deep, the waves lapping at his shins. He gets the distinct feeling that if he’s not careful, he’ll be swept away by the current.

Then Yangyang blinks, and just like that, his eyes are warm again. “I’m not saying no,” he says. “I’m just saying… I need more time.”

Renjun exhales steadily. Good. He hasn’t blown this mission ‒ yet.

He hitches on a small smile, hoping that it looks convincing. “You don’t have to give me an answer now. Take all the time you need.” Then, in a moment of calculated bravado, he reaches over, the pads of his fingers barely brushing the back of Yangyang’s. “If you need anything from me, anything at all… You can just ask. I’m here for you, you know?”

Yangyang’s hand twitches. He doesn’t pull away, though ‒ instead, in an encouraging move, he turns his palm up, capturing Renjun’s fingers in his.

Renjun’s heart soars. So that’s the other feeling in his chest ‒ hope.

Yangyang smiles softly. Renjun thinks of a wave in the moment it crests to its highest point, just before it quietly disappears into the shore. “I know.”

■■■■■■■■■■■■□□□□

Yangyang pulls back suddenly, confessing, “I’ve never done that with a guy before.”

Renjun takes a moment to savour the taste of alcohol and apples lingering on his tongue before he opens his eyes. Yangyang has only taken a step or two back, his hands still fisted in the front of Renjun’s jacket from where he had pulled him close. He’s breathing heavily, lips parted and red and swollen, eyes just a step shy of wild.

Renjun blinks, long and slow, making sure his lashes catch on his cheek. “Oh wow,” he teases, placing a hand over his heart. “Should I be honoured?”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Yangyang says. Even in the shitty light of the hallway, Renjun can tell he’s blushing. “I just, um. I just wanted you to know. So you don’t freak out, or whatever ‒ ”

“I’m not freaking out. If anything, it seems like you’re the one who’s freaking out.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Yangyang groans again, this time releasing Renjun and burying his face in his hands. His voice is muffled when he speaks next. “I wasn’t, but then we kissed, or I kissed you, and I remember I said I needed more time, and I didn’t know if I was going too fast, and I don’t want to give you mixed signals ‒ ”

A small smile tugs at Renjun’s lips as he watches him spiral. It’s strangely fun, this teasing, this back-and-forth, this verbal tug-of-war that amounts to regular conversation between the two of them.

“Yangyang,” he laughs, hands reaching up to loosely encircle Yangyang’s wrists. “It’s okay. I’m glad it happened.”

Yangyang peeks at him through his fingers. “You are?”

“Yeah,” Renjun says. “I am.”

Happiness blooms across what little he can see of Yangyang’s face, and Renjun takes the opportunity to gently pull his hands away. With his expression on full display, Yangyang diverts his gaze shyly. “Good,” he says to their intertwined hands, so quiet Renjun would’ve missed it if he wasn’t paying attention. “I’m glad it happened, too.”

They must look like idiots just standing there at the threshold of Yangyang’s front door, holding hands and looking anywhere but at each other. Well, Yangyang is ‒ Renjun stares unabashedly at him, cataloguing every twitch in his face, the way his eyes flit up to Renjun and then back down again, his lower lip caught between his teeth as he tries to stop himself from smiling too hard.

How endearing. Renjun raises Yangyang’s left hand and presses his lips to the delicate skin on his inner wrist, right on top of the zeroes scorched into his skin. “It’s getting late. I should go.”

“Oh.” Yangyang looks crestfallen. “Already?”

“Yeah.” Renjun leans in close, just so that Yangyang thinks he might kiss him again, but he stops just a hair’s breadth away, lips curving up, teasing. “Give you some time to recover from the shock, and all.”

Yangyang jerks away, slapping Renjun lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up,” he whines, but he’s smiling. “Can we ‒ can we talk tomorrow?”

Renjun smiles back. “Of course. We can talk whenever you want.”

He’s halfway down the hall when he decides to turn around. As expected, Yangyang is looking after him, door still locked, his keys dangling limply from his hand.

Yangyang jumps, like he hadn’t expected to have been caught staring. “What? Did you forget something?”

Renjun’s never been one to pass up on a good opportunity. “Oh,” he says, doubling back and ignoring the alarmed look on Yangyang’s face. “Just this.”

This time, it’s Renjun who takes Yangyang by surprise, drawing him down into a deep, passionate kiss. He sucks gently on Yangyang’s lower lip, and when his mouth falls open, he slides his tongue inside. Yangyang’s mouth is wet, warm and inviting ‒ Renjun loses himself in it, sinking beneath the surface, feeling the close press of their bodies and lapping at the inside of his mouth until they’re both panting, gasping, coming up for some much-needed air.

Yangyang’s hair is tousled from where Renjun had run his fingers through them. When Renjun lets him go, he sags against his front door, like his legs have given out beneath him. “Oh,” Yangyang says faintly. “I see.”

Renjun smiles up at him innocently. He presses one last kiss to Yangyang’s lips, still sweet and warm from the cider he had ordered earlier, and is satisfied to see him looking after him in wonder. “Good night, Yangyang. Sweet dreams.”

■■■■■■■■■■■□□□□□

“Do you know what he saved you as in his phone?” In typical Donghyuck fashion, he doesn’t wait for Renjun’s response before he says it. “Hwang baobao.”

Donghyuck’s screeching laughter fills his ears right after that, like it’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard, and Renjun has to hold the phone at arm’s length. When he returns the phone to his ear, he catches the tail-end of whatever Donghyuck has been saying: “ ‒ you really have him wrapped around your little finger, my god. Can you believe it?”

“We’re dating, so yeah, I can believe it.”

“You mean he thinks you guys are dating,” Donghyuck corrects. “And it looks like you’re doing a damn good job, too.”

Is he? Renjun’s no virgin, but he’s never had a real relationship before. Most people don’t date before meeting their soulmates, anyway. He’s had to rely on books and movies and pay extra attention to Yangyang, all the little details that make him up, to make the level of progress he’s achieved. Things like his family background (scattered across the globe), his hobbies (playing online games and basketball), and the way he likes his eggs in his ramen (boiled for three minutes, which Renjun privately thinks is a health hazard). And then things that aren’t so tangible, but equally important: the way Yangyang can’t seem to hold back a nervous smile when their conversation becomes serious; how he leaves food out for the strays living in the alley behind his building most days; how he’ll purposefully pick the scariest movies on nights in, just so he has an excuse to burrow closer to Renjun.

The thing is, though, everything comes easy with Yangyang. Renjun isn’t sure how much of it is attributable to the fact that they’re soulmates, and how much of it is simply due to Yangyang himself. Yangyang is open, honest, and wears his heart on his sleeve proudly for everyone to see. It’s a startling contrast to how Renjun lives his own life, through calculation, deception and control. When Renjun pushes, Yangyang pulls him back; when Renjun takes, Yangyang is there to give even more. It’s been a little over a month of days walking down streets holding hands and nights tucked in bed around each other, and Renjun is distantly, acutely aware of the slow-building sensation of being sucked in, of being dragged away, water slowly creeping up to lap at the back of his knees.

Renjun is grateful Donghyuck can’t see him in person. Grateful for the check-in, anchoring him as he starts to drift away. “Thanks, I guess.” He steps closer to the restaurant’s main entrance to avoid a woman pushing a pram. “So did you call me just to congratulate me, or to actually share some useful information?”

“Prat,” Donghyuck huffs. “The least you could do is tell me what a good job I’ve done, too.”

“I got Yangyang’s password and sent you all the files I downloaded almost two weeks ago,” Renjun points out. “A bit of a stretch to say ‘good job’, don’t you think? Does Doyoung know?”

There’s sullen silence on the other end of the line.

“I unearthed a group chat,” Donghyuck says, changing tack. “‘Dream Launch’ ‒ it was a tricky little thing to crack, but I managed to get inside. The conversation’s mostly in Mandarin, which I figure you won’t have any trouble reading, and some texts are in code.”

“And the hackers he worked with ‒ they’re in this chat?”

“Probably.” Donghyuck rattles off a list of names. “Nuonuo, Yongqin, Winwin, Xiaojun, Hendery. Aliases, obviously. Fuckers managed to block off their numbers, but I figured if they’re smart enough to rob a crypto exchange, they’re smart enough to make sure they’re virtually untraceable.”

Interesting. Renjun swivels his head to look through the glass windows of the restaurant, all the way to a table in the back occupied by four men, two vacant seats beside them.

There’s no way Yangyang could be so stupid. “So five more, huh?”

“Yeah,” Donghyuck sighs. “I mean, I’ll keep trying. I duplicated Yangyang’s phone, so I’ll see if I can ping their location when real-time messages come through ‒ ”

“You do that,” Renjun says, catching sight of a familiar figure walking towards him in the reflection of the glass. “I gotta go.”

He ends the call just as he feels a pair of arms slip around his waist. “Hey, you. Who was that?”

Renjun turns so he can face Yangyang properly. “No one,” he lies. “Just work.”

Yangyang tsks, lower lip jutting out into a pout. “Better put it on silent ‒ not sure how my ges would like it, if you kept looking at your phone.”

“God,” Renjun laughs. “I thought this was just dinner, not a trial by fire.”

“Maybe it’s both,” Yangyang jokes. “Why? You scared?”

Yangyang’s face is all lit up; he’s practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Seeing him like this reminds Renjun of that fateful day in the alley, and for some reason, his chest tightens. Renjun ignores it ‒ stamps it down ‒ and sways forwards, up onto his tiptoes, so that he can kiss Yangyang on the mouth. “Hardly. Bring it on, baby.”

They walk into the restaurant hand in hand and all the way to the table in the back. The four men seated there greet Yangyang in Chinese when they catch sight of him, standing up to ruffle his hair or pull him into hugs. Renjun stands awkwardly by the side, pretending not to understand the conversation going on around him, until Yangyang grabs his hand to pull him into the fray and introduces his friends one by one in English for his ‒ Injun’s ‒ benefit.

Renjun smiles and nods. He notes the matching bands on Kun and Ten’s ring fingers, the way Dejun and Guanheng have their seats drawn slightly closer together. All of their wrists, he realises, are bare and feature a string of black zeros. Renjun feels a pang of sympathy for Yangyang ‒ no wonder he’s so enamoured with the idea of soulmates, if this was the standard he’d been living by.

“And, um,” Yangyang finishes, face reddening slightly. “You all know who Injun is.”

This sets Dejun and Guanheng off. Even Kun’s face twitches slightly, his face dimpling. “Of course. Injun, it’s so nice to finally meet you ‒ we’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Have you?” Renjun’s eyes dart towards Yangyang, and he nudges him. “All good things, I hope.”

Yangyang grabs Renjun’s elbow before it can dig too deep into his side, and links their arms together. “Dude, of course. I think I did too good a job ‒ they’ve all been dying to meet you.”

Renjun isn’t too sure about that. Kun, Dejun and Guanheng look welcoming enough, but Yangyang’s last friend leans back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Ten looks at Renjun with keen, narrowed eyes, and Renjun realises he’s going to have to do a lot more than laugh at his jokes and sit pretty in order to win him over.

Dinner is a delicious and rowdy affair. Renjun doesn’t feel remotely out of place even though, for all intents and purposes, he’s putting on an act. Yangyang’s hand is warm and grounding on his thigh, and Renjun catches him smiling his way more than a handful of times throughout the evening. Yangyang’s friends are lovely, listening to him attentively and even translating for him whenever one of them accidentally slips into Mandarin. Even Ten seems to thaw a little when Renjun helps a struggling Yangyang peel his prawns, carefully placing the deshelled meat on his plate.

“Glad you finally have someone to help you with that, baby,” Ten laughs. “I used to do it for him back in university, he was so squeamish about getting his hands dirty.”

Renjun’s ears prick up at the offhand comment. “I didn’t know you guys were uni mates.”

“We all were,” Dejun says, nodding around the group. “Kun was Yangyang’s tutor, and Ten-ge and I had a class together.”

“Oh? What did you study?”

“Computer engineering,” Dejun answers. “And Heng here did a degree in finance, which I thought was utterly useless, considering he just ended up working for his dad’s construction company.”

“But it came in handy in the end, didn’t it?” Guanheng winks slyly at the rest of the group. He doesn’t elaborate, but Dejun lets out a little giggle, and they all exchange knowing looks, smiling into their bowls of rice.

It could be nothing, but it could be everything. The degrees and relevant experience appear to fit, and it’s clear that these are people Yangyang is close to, would work with. Instead of his usual rush of excitement, Renjun, curiously, feels his heart start to sink. He brushes it off, makes a mental note to send their names to Donghyuck later.

The rest of dinner passes uneventfully with no further suggestions as to what illegal activities Yangyang and his friends might or might not be doing. By the time they’re calling it a night, he’s exchanging his contact information with Dejun, and Renjun thinks he’s left a good enough impression on everyone.

That is, until Ten catches him by the sleeve before he can exit the restaurant. “Hey. Got a minute?”

Renjun pauses. He doesn’t exactly have a choice, what with Ten firmly planting himself between him and the front door. “Sure. What’s up?”

“It’s about Yangyang.”

Of course it is. “Oh?” Renjun says politely.

Ten’s face is impassive. He stares down the slope of his nose at Renjun, eyes slightly narrowed, and he would look intimidating if not for his fingers twisting nervously at the artful fringe hanging off his jacket. “Here’s the thing ‒ Yangyang, he’s like my little brother. He was so excited about meeting his soulmate, and when… When it fell short of his expectations, he was really upset.”

Renjun doesn’t quite know where this is going, but like every time the topic of soulmates comes up, his skin begins to prickle uncomfortably. “Right.”

“I don’t know what happened, exactly, but I can tell he’s been through a lot,” Ten continues. “And I’d hate for him to go through anything more.”

There’s a steely glint in Ten’s eyes, and Renjun wonders if he means it to be a threat. He tips his chin up and lies right through his teeth. “I’m not going to hurt him, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Yangyang is already outside waiting for him. He’s chatting with the others, his face visible over Ten’s shoulder and through the window, bathed in the red glow of the lamps hanging over the awning of the restaurant. Yangyang turns around to peer through the glass, probably wondering what’s taking them so long. When he sees Renjun already looking at him, he grins, then pulls the silliest, ugliest face known to mankind.

It should make him laugh. Instead, Renjun’s heart, inexplicably, swells.

“And I ‒ ” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself, a wave rushing forth, bursting through a poorly-built dam. “I like him, Ten-ge.”

Ten’s fingers still at the admission. He looks about as surprised as Renjun feels. They stare at each other for a moment, the hubbub of the restaurant fading into white noise behind them. Renjun feels himself reddening, but he holds Ten’s gaze defiantly.

Eventually, Ten nods slowly and the spell breaks. He turns to open the door, and, after a pause, looks back over his shoulder at Renjun.

“I hope so, Injun,” Ten murmurs. He steps out into the night, but not before Renjun catches the last words he says, almost to himself. “I really hope so.”

■■■■■■■■■■□□□□□□

Renjun doesn’t know how he got here.

Here being, of course, the beach. As he had expected (dreaded), it’s crawling with locals and tourists and the odd seagull hoping to steal someone’s unattended food. There are far too many people for Renjun’s comfort, and he’s had to tell off more than one person for kicking sand onto their towel. Next to him, a child making a sandcastle stumbles, and her structure comes crashing down. She immediately bursts into tears, her sobs deafening and shrill.

Renjun grimaces. Now he kind of feels like crying, too.

“Hey!” A voice catches his attention. “Injun!”

Yangyang waves, ambling up the shore. It looks like he’s just finished with his swim ‒ his hair, dark at the roots now but still blonde at the ends, is matted with seawater and flops into his face. Sunlight winks off the droplets gathered on his shoulders, in his clavicle. Renjun’s eyes trail down further, past Yangyang’s chest, stomach, all the way to the yellow swim shorts hanging low on his hips, weighed down by the water and clinging to his thighs.

The temperature rockets up at least another ten degrees. Renjun is suddenly very grateful for the tinted sunglasses sitting on his face.

Yangyang flops down on the blanket next to him, then starts to shake like a dog, sending water everywhere. Renjun lets out a noise of irritation and shoves him onto the sand. “Watch it!”

Yangyang just laughs, unperturbed. “It’s gorgeous today,” he says, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “Why aren’t you coming into the water?”

Renjun shrugs uneasily. He hasn’t even taken his shirt off. God. He’s going to get terrible tan lines. “I don’t feel like it.”

“What? C’mon, babe, we took ages to get here!”

Five hours, three connections and four trains, to be exact. “I’m well aware,” Renjun says dryly.

“Yeah, so, y’know.” Yangyang flings his arms out, gesturing to the cloudless blue sky, the scorching sun, as if to say, look at this! “Let’s not waste this!”

“You go. I’ll sit here and watch our bags.”

Yangyang’s arms flop to his sides, and he turns and gives Renjun his best puppy eyes. “Injun.”

That’s not going to work. Renjun lowers his sunglasses and glares at him. “Yangyang.”

“Injun.”

“Yangyang, no.”

“Why not?” Yangyang wants to know, verging on whinging, and Renjun finally snaps.

“I don’t know how to swim, okay?” he says, just a little too loudly. He feels himself redden when he sees heads turn in their direction, and knows it’s got nothing to do with his lack of sunscreen. Renjun shoves his sunglasses back onto his face, then turns away to pretend to dig through his bag for a bottle of water.

A hand falls on his shoulder. “Oh, Jun,” Yangyang says, far too tender for Renjun’s liking. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Shame and regret burn in Renjun’s belly. He didn’t need to learn how to swim back when he was shooting people in the head from a safe distance, and no one ‒ not the orphanage, not the agency ‒ had bothered to teach him. “You were so excited to go to the seaside,” Renjun mumbles. “And you already bought the train tickets as a surprise, so...”

Yangyang’s face falls. “But this vacation is for both of us. I want you to have fun, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Renjun says, and the strange thing is, he is. “I didn’t mean to ruin it.”

“You didn’t,” Yangyang assures him quickly.

Renjun nods stiffly, and they lapse into silence. Overhead, seagulls circle the skies, their cries mingling with the muted crash of the surf. The sun continues to beat down on them mercilessly. Yangyang drags his fingers through the sand, thoughtful, and then opens his mouth.

“Look,” he says. “If you want, we can just, like, go. There are other things we can do this afternoon in town. But…”

He trails off, hesitating. Renjun cocks his head. “But?”

“I could teach you,” Yangyang says in a rush. “To swim. Just, like, the basics, so you can stay afloat.”

He rambles on, but Renjun doesn’t catch any of it. What he does catch, though, is the earnestness written all over Yangyang’s face, his animated gestures as he shows how to execute swimming moves. How bronzed his skin looks in the sunlight. The way his lips curve up, scrunching the apples of his cheeks and his eyes when he realises Renjun has been staring at him without listening to a word he’s been saying all this while.

Renjun says the first thing that comes to mind. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Yangyang says. “But I want to.”

He’s smiling fondly at Renjun, shielding his eyes against the sun, unaffected; open. Like the moment before a fall, Renjun’s heart lurches.

And then, like a tidal wave, like a tsunami, it rises, rises, rises.

“Okay,” he hears himself say. “Teach me how to swim.”

Yangyang’s mouth falls open a little, surprised. “Really?”

It looks as if he had been expecting a little more resistance. Renjun isn’t quite sure why he gave in so easily, either ‒ normally, he doesn’t. Now, though, he just nods before he has time to regret it. “But can we ‒ can we stay by the shore?” he asks, a trace of nervousness creeping into his voice. “Where it’s not too deep?”

“Of course. Will it help if I hold you when we’re in the water, too?”

All the air is squeezed out of Renjun’s lungs; his ribcage suddenly feels too small. “Yeah. Yeah, it’ll help.”

Yangyang’s face splits into that smile ‒ the one he had tried to hide that day by the snack table, the one reserved only for the people closest to him, the one brighter than the summer sun. Renjun basks in it, soaks it up, and when Yangyang stretches out a hand towards him, Renjun doesn’t hesitate in taking it.

The ocean stretches out in front of them, flashing azure and glittering invitingly. Yangyang gently tugs him towards the shoreline, shifting their hands until their fingers are interlocking. Together, they stand at the edge where the land meets the sea, soft, damp grains of sand sticking to and giving beneath their feet.

When a wave comes in, Renjun yelps at the cold that rushes against his toes, gripping Yangyang’s arm for dear life. Yangyang doesn’t laugh; doesn’t complain. Instead, he wraps a steady arm around Renjun and coaxes him forwards. The water laps at his ankles, then his knees, and maybe Renjun blanks out, maybe he’s too caught up in how Yangyang is literally with him every step of the way, holding him steady as the water rolls around them, but sooner rather than later, Renjun finds himself waist-deep in the sea.

“Is this okay?” Yangyang asks. His arm is still around his shoulder.

It’s not bad, it’s just ‒ weird. The water is cold, but so is the air above it, and goosebumps break out over his skin. Renjun suppresses a shiver and nods.

Yangyang tuts. He cups water in his hands then runs them up and down Renjun’s arms. Renjun shivers again ‒ maybe from the chill, or maybe from the feel of Yangyang’s hands on him. “I promise it’ll get better once we start. Ready?”

They start off slow. Yangyang teaches him how to blow bubbles and hold his breath underwater first. Once he’s got that down, Yangyang lowers himself into the water until his head is just peeking out above the surface, directing Renjun to grab at his shoulders and practice kicking. Renjun almost feels silly, like a little kid, splashing around and doing the basics while literal children are speeding past him and diving into the waves like they’ve been doing it all their lives, but he does it anyway to see the delighted grin on Yangyang’s face. He gets seawater up his nose more than once, and coughs a lungful of brine right in Yangyang’s face, but Yangyang simply wipes it off and laughs.

“Don’t ‒ ” Renjun loses his footing in the sand and slips, lunging for Yangyang. “Don’t let me go!”

Yangyang, ready and waiting, catches him. “I won’t.”

He stays true to his word. Even when Renjun is floating on his back, watching the skies colour, then darken, Yangyang is with him, a hand placed on the small of his back to support him. At this time of year, in this part of the world, the sky is streaked with reds and oranges so vivid it looks straight out of a painting. Renjun reaches up, fingertips tracing the colours he cannot reach.

Yangyang’s chuckle draws him out of his reverie. “What’re you thinking about?”

Renjun lets his arm drop back into the water, sending a fine spray over them both. “Nothing,” he says, only slightly embarrassed. He stares so hard at the burning sky his eyes start to water. “I was just thinking that… I don’t want this day to end.”

The hand on his back disappears. Yangyang moves fluidly, like water, his hands gliding up past Renjun’s waist and coming to rest between his shoulder blades, his other arm crooking around the back of Renjun’s knees. The next thing Renjun knows, Yangyang has gathered him up in his arms, pulling him close to his chest. Surrounding him, and buoying him up.

“Me neither,” Yangyang murmurs. He looks down at Renjun, mouth soft, eyes afire. “It was perfect.”

Shocks zing up Renjun’s spine. Something buried deep in the trenches of his heart rears its head. Yangyang is closer than he’s ever been, with miles of sun-kissed skin pressed up against him and nothing but saltwater between them. This close, Renjun can count each droplet of seawater clinging to Yangyang’s eyelashes and the fine hair dusted above his upper lip, and is suddenly gripped with a sudden, irrational desire to taste the salt on his skin for himself.

This kiss is unlike any of the others they’ve shared before. Renjun gasps quietly into Yangyang’s mouth at the first press of their lips, shockwaves rippling through his body like the start of an earthquake. He presses his tongue between Yangyang’s teeth to lick at the inside of his mouth, tasting salty-sweet. Lays a hand on Yangyang’s chest right over his heart, feeling it stutter in time with his own. Renjun should feel cold from the ceaseless beat of the waves, from the chill of the sea breeze, but he isn’t ‒ all he can feel is his core turning into molten liquid, heat burning through his veins, seconds away from consuming his entire flesh.

It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. This moment, this feeling, this sensation ‒ Renjun desperately wants to preserve it, cup it in his hands and pour it into his heart for safekeeping. Hold it close to his chest, and never let it go.

The day ends like this: with them kissing in the rays of a dying sun, swaying along with the current, cradled in the arms of the ocean. Yangyang tastes like brine, like sunshine, like a first love, and as the sun dips below the horizon, Renjun feels the last of his walls come crumbling down.

■■■■■■■■■□□□□□□□

Donghyuck calls when Renjun is in the middle of making dinner.

“You were right,” Donghyuck tells him. “Those four guys you met at dinner are part of the collective. It was easy once you gave me their real names and I found their social media profiles ‒ the IP addresses all match, looks like they route all their internet services through a place somewhere out in Trafford.”

Renjun sandwiches the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pops open the lid of the rice cooker, carefully spooning out the rice into two bowls. God ‒ that dinner where he met Yangyang’s friends feels like an age ago, back when he was still thinking about how to finish the mission and go home.

And now ‒ “I guessed as much.”

“Yeah. The last guy, though…” Donghyuck pauses. “Renjun, I’m gonna need your help on this. I literally can’t trace him.”

“What do you mean you can’t trace him?” Renjun places the bowls on the low folding table set up in front of the TV. “You just said they route all their shit through here.”

“What I mean is that he isn’t in the country,” Donghyuck snaps back. “And he hasn’t been active on that group chat, so you’re going to have to do your job and do a little digging, okay?”

Renjun bristles. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last few months?”

“Being a perfect little house husband,” Donghyuck says too quickly, like he’s had that comeback up his sleeve for a while now, just waiting for a good opportunity to whip it out. “Going on vacations with your boyfriend-slash-assignment. Trying out new recipes and giving him lunchboxes with sweet little love notes ‒ “ Renjun makes a noise, affronted “ ‒ what, don’t you know Yangyang overshares on social media?”

Renjun gnashes his teeth. He knows. Yangyang made him set up an Instagram account back when they were in Brighton, and while all Renjun has done is post a photo of the sunset taken when they’d finally pulled themselves away from the water, Yangyang abuses the story function daily like nobody’s business. “Doyoung asked me to do this, Hyuck. To go undercover for the mission.”

“He asked you to make contact,” Donghyuck retorts. “Not ‒ not whatever this is.”

This is an extra toothbrush in the mug sitting on the bathroom sink. Renjun’s clothes in the teak dresser, spilling over and mixing with Yangyang’s vast collection of Fear of God apparel. A copy of the key to the apartment Yangyang had given to him last week, hesitant anticipation written all over his face before being replaced by a relieved smile when Renjun had accepted, fingers closing around the cool metal.

And most of all, this is a feeling that has started to appear more and more ‒ a draw, a tug, a rip current sweeping him out to sea ‒ in Renjun’s chest, in his every breath, in his bones.

“Renjun?” Donghyuck’s voice is sharp, like the crack of a whip. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” Renjun swallows, searching for the right words, but comes up empty. He remembers the rice and turns back towards the kitchen, already thinking of what banchan he wants to put out for the night. “Okay. I’ll ‒ I’ll try, Hyuck.”

“Don’t try,” Donghyuck says. “Just do.”

The conversation remains at the forefront of Renjun’s mind, an ever-present nuisance like water he can’t quite get out of his ears, despite his best efforts to concentrate on the Netflix special Yangyang plays while they polish off dinner. It’s a new one, controversial in its content, about a pair of childhood friends who grow up, fall in love, and choose each other over their soulmates.

“Did you like the movie?” Yangyang asks, waiting to dry the dishes Renjun is washing.

Renjun hums, scrubbing a dish. “It was okay, I guess. Romantic in that cliché sort of way, don’t you think?”

“Meeting and spending the rest of your life with your soulmate is cliché,” Yangyang says. “But meeting someone who isn’t your soulmate, and realising you can ‒ will, want to ‒ love them? Choosing to love them in spite of everything else? Now that’s romantic.”

Renjun looks up from the soapy basin and smiles. “The movie really resonated with you, didn’t it?”

“Well. Yeah. I mean.” Yangyang twists the dishcloth between his fingers. He peeks up at Renjun from beneath his eyelashes. “I do have some experience.”

Renjun feels the smile fade from his face. Suddenly, the dish in his hands feels heavier than anything he’s ever carried. “What are you saying?”

Yangyang moves as if to pluck the dish from his grip, but his fingers wrap around Renjun’s left hand instead. “Shagua,” he says, his insult tempered soft and sweet. “I think you know what I’m saying.”

Renjun knows. Thinks, deep down, he’s always known, but that doesn’t lessen the enormity of Yangyang’s confession. It steals the air from his lungs, and Renjun’s heart, mind and body are thrown off-kilter, into a jumble. His heart is pounding in his ears. He isn’t sure which way is up and down. The only thing anchoring him is Yangyang, his hand steady in a basinful of dirty water, and the sincerity shining in his eyes.

Renjun feels his thumb sweep over his inner wrist, right over the numbers. Yangyang must be able to feel every stutter of his pulse. “I…”

The hopeful expression on Yangyang’s face flickers. “Do ‒ do you not…?”

The twinge to his heart catches him by surprise. The distress that blooms in his chest, seeing Yangyang afraid and apprehensive, sends him reeling. And in that moment, Renjun realises that Johnny, all those months ago, was right: sometimes, fate is inevitable. Sometimes, the world gets it right. Sometimes, happiness is not so elusive, and you can find it in a boy with a beautiful smile and whose love is as sure and steady as the turn of the tides.

I do, Renjun wants to say. I have. I always will.

“Come here,” Renjun says instead, voice hoarse, and crashes their mouths together.

Renjun kisses him with a fervour, wet hands slick against Yangyang’s cheek, hair, water dripping down his arm and onto the tiles beneath them. Yangyang gathers him in his arms, lifting him up and away. Renjun lets himself be pulled from the safety of the shoreline, caught up in the currents of Yangyang’s kiss, his love, and out into the open sea.

■■■■■■■■□□□□□□□□

Renjun hadn’t really wanted to meet him. He has errands to run, an apartment to clean, and is busy thinking of all the ways he can get Doyoung off his back about the last member of the hacker collective neither he nor Donghyuck has been able to track down.

But it would have looked far more suspicious to decline the invitation, even though he had the uncanny feeling that the second Jaemin laid those calculative, assessing eyes on him, he would know, and he didn’t want news to get back to the agency or Doyoung about what he was (or wasn’t) doing in Manchester ‒ so.

Renjun went.

“Don’t look so sullen,” Jaemin pouts, stirring sugar in his coffee. “I’m just passing through to Liverpool, not here to check up on you and your boyfriend.”

Renjun feels his eye twitch. “Not my boyfriend.”

It’s a rare clear day. They’re seated outside at Renjun’s favourite cafe, the sun dappling their iron table gold. If he were alone, he would’ve closed his eyes and tilted his face up to enjoy the weather. Now, though, Renjun doesn’t dare take his eyes off Jaemin, and watches the light glinting off the metal of his spoon as warily as one would a viper.

Jaemin rolls his eyes, then lowers his voice. “The mark, then. God. Can’t you keep up pretences? You never know who’s listening.”

“Donghyuck, in all likelihood.” Renjun nods at Jaemin’s phone lying face down on the table. “He’s hacked and bugged all our phones for the fun of it at least once.”

“I’m pretty sure mine’s been left alone.” Jaemin lifts his cup to his lips, a Cheshire smile peeking out from behind the rim. “The things I’ve filmed and stored on that thing would melt the eyeballs right out of his face.”

Renjun suppresses a shudder. “Don’t be gross.”

“Oh, get off your high horse, Renjunnie.” Jaemin gives him a condescending look, which quickly morphs into one of disgust when he takes a sip of the coffee. He sets the cup down on its saucer with a clatter. “Nothing wrong with having some fun with a mark, so long as you know where your priorities lie.”

Eliminate them all. Renjun looks down at his scone, appetite evaporating. “Right.”

Jaemin catches it. Of course he does ‒ he wouldn’t be good at his job otherwise. “Renjun? You do know where your priorities lie, don’t you?”

Renjun swallows down around nothing. He forces his head up, making sure to look Jaemin square in the eye. “Of course,” he says evenly. “With the agency.”

“That’s right. With the agency.” Jaemin leans back in his seat, his eyes narrowed. “And not that pathetic hacker you’re playing house with.”

Anger bursts in his chest, sudden and overwhelming. Before Renjun can do something foolish like tell Jaemin to fuck off back to Korea, he hears a voice behind him.

“Jun?”

Renjun knows who it is before he even turns around. He panics for a fraction of a second before smoothing his face into what he hopes is a surprised, but pleased, expression. “Oh,” he says, reaching up automatically to slide his hand into Yangyang’s. “I thought you were having lunch at Kun and Ten’s.”

When he glances back, Jaemin is watching them intently, his face carefully neutral.

“I was just stopping by to get coffee.” Yangyang’s eyes slide over to, then settle on, Jaemin. “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

He’s smiling with all of his teeth, the way he does when he’s anything but happy, lips stretched thin and pink. Jaemin matches him tooth for tooth, and the look in his eyes flips from mildly interested to predatory. Suddenly, Renjun feels like he’s been dropped into the middle of shark-infested waters, the shore miles away, and scrambles for an answer to Yangyang’s question.

Unfortunately, Jaemin beats him to it.

“Na Jaemin,” he says smoothly, all sugar-sweet and giving his real name like an idiot. “You must be Yangyang.”

Yangyang takes Jaemin’s offered hand gingerly. “I am. Jun’s never mentioned you before.”

“He’s that old friend I said I was meeting today,” Renjun cuts in. He shoots Jaemin a warning look. “I told you about it over dinner the other night. Remember?”

“Did you?” Yangyang blinks. “I don’t remember.”

Of course he wouldn’t remember, because Renjun had never told him. Jaemin, watching all of this unfold before him, looks as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.

“‘Old friend’? Is that all I am to you? I’m hurt.” Jaemin places a hand on his chest in mock-offence, then, before Renjun can stop him, tells Yangyang conspiratorially, “We had some fun together back in the day, didn’t he say?”

The smile on Yangyang’s face grows even more strained. Renjun suppresses the urge to stab Jaemin with his knife. “Is that right.”

“Yup,” Jaemin grins, popping the ‘p’.

Renjun laughs, belly-deep, just a touch too hysterical to be believable. “Very funny. He’s joking, baobei,” he tells Yangyang. Shut the fuck up, he mouths to Jaemin.

Jaemin's grin only grows wider, but mercifully, he stays quiet. Yangyang’s gaze flicks back and forth between the two of them, looking unsettled. He’s gnawing at his lip.

“Anyway.” Renjun lays a hand on Yangyang’s arm, conciliatory. “Why don’t you go and get that coffee you were talking about? You can get it to-go, and we can walk home together. Jaemin and I are just finishing up out here.”

Jaemin’s eyebrows shoot up. “We are?” He grunts as Renjun’s foot connects solidly with his shin. “I mean ‒ yes. We are.”

“Um,” Yangyang says, looking puzzled but relieved. “Sure.”

They wait until Yangyang steps over the threshold into the cafe before they let the pretence drop. Jaemin’s eyes glitter. “Baobei, huh.”

Renjun just glares at him.

“And you live together?”

“We do.”

“My God.” Jaemin laughs scathingly, all the sugar burnt off and leaving a charred bitterness in its wake. “When Hyuck said you were in deep, I didn’t think it would be this deep.”

Renjun flushes red. “It’s all part of the plan.”

“Is it? I saw his wrist.”

“And what about it? So what if he has a soulmate out there ‒ ”

“Injun. Renjun. Whoever you’re supposed to be.” Jaemin folds his arms on the table and leans forward. “C’mon. It’s just you and me ‒ let’s not lie to each other, hm?”

Renjun doesn’t get it. At least, not until Jaemin’s eyes flick down deliberately. Renjun follows his gaze, and realises that in the course of their conversation, the cuff of his shirt has ridden up to partially reveal the string of zeros tattooed into his skin.

His blood turns to ice.

In a knee-jerk reaction that’s probably more telling than helpful, Renjun yanks down his sleeve. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh.” Jaemin raises an eyebrow. “Don’t I?”

There’s a roaring in Renjun’s ears. He’s suddenly seized with a profound, bottomless terror, and it takes everything in him to gulp down another breath like he’s not drowning under the consequences of Jaemin knowing.

He only realises he’s stood up when the chair screeches against the pavement. His hands are trembling ‒ he balls up his napkin to hide it and tosses it onto his plate, on top of his uneaten scone. “You need to go.”

Jaemin pouts. “Aw, Renjunnie ‒ ”

“No.” The authority, the fierceness in his voice takes both of them by surprise, but Renjun keeps going. “No. We’re done.”

Jaemin doesn’t say anything for a long time. He fixes Renjun with that look, the one where Renjun feels like he’s nothing more than an interesting specimen under a microscope. Renjun simply glares back. Eventually, Jaemin sighs, giving in. “All right, then.”

Renjun watches anxiously as Jaemin gathers his things and tosses the rest of his coffee into a fake potted plant. His emotions must show on his face, because when Jaemin turns to say goodbye, his face softens, and the sympathy in his eyes is both obvious and odd.

“Don’t worry,” he says, more gently than Renjun’s ever heard him speak. “I’m not a fucking snitch. But remember this.” He steps closer, and Renjun flinches before he realises Jaemin is just pulling him into a hug. Nonetheless, Renjun still tenses ‒ he knows better than to think this is a display of affection, knows better than to relax.

He’s right. Jaemin’s breath tickles the shell of his ear when he speaks, his words carrying the promise of a storm. “I don’t care if he’s your soulmate or not ‒ the only thing worse than falling in love with a mark is what Doyoung’s going to do to you when he finds out.”

Jaemin releases him just as suddenly as he had hugged him. He cracks a small smile, and with a wiggle of his fingers, leaves. Renjun watches him walk away until he loses sight of him in the crowd, just another body in the city.

Yangyang doesn’t look too put out when Renjun tells him Jaemin had to go without saying goodbye. If anything, he looks rather pleased. He kisses Renjun on the tip of his nose and holds his hand the whole way back. Once they get home, Yangyang wastes no time in shoving Renjun up against the wall, possessive hands tight around his waist and ass. He fucks him like that, pants shucked down to Renjun’s knees and shirt half-unbuttoned, rough and mean and demanding just the way Renjun likes it, just the way Renjun deserves it, and it isn’t long before his head is emptied of every single one of Jaemin’s parting words.

■■■■■■■□□□□□□□□□

The all-clear comes in October.

“But ‒ ” Renjun presses the phone into his cheek, getting the sticky residue of egg whites all over his case. He struggles to process the instructions. “I don’t understand. I haven’t gotten to the last one yet. I’m sure I can ‒ ”

“No,” Doyoung replies coolly. “I’m not sure you can.”

“I have five of them already,” Renjun tries, hoping and praying that the desperation in his tone isn’t audible. “If we just had a little more time, Donghyuck and I could ‒ ”

Once again, Doyoung cuts him off. “It’s been months. The client is growing impatient, as am I. Better to eliminate the members we know of rather than let it fester, don’t you agree?”

It doesn’t matter whether or not he agrees. The decision has been made, whether by the client or by Doyoung, Renjun doesn’t know; doesn’t care. He feels blindsided, like he’s been walking along the shoreline only to have the sandy floor drop out from beneath him without warning, plunging him into icy-cold waves.

He swallows down what little air he can along with his protests. “I’ll need equipment ‒ ”

“We’ll bring it to you.”

“And…” Renjun’s breath hitches, and he fakes a cough. “You’ll need to make arrangements for after, when ‒ ”

“We’ll handle it.”

“And I’ll need time to plan the…” Renjun trails off in spite of himself. Hits, he means to say. Murders, the proverbial angel on his shoulder corrects.

If Doyoung notices, he doesn’t mention it. “You have time,” he says. “Just don’t take too long.”

This can’t be happening. Not here, not now, where there’s flour on the kitchen counter, down his apron, spilling like snow onto the floor. Where a recipe book borrowed from Kun is propped open against the backsplash, turned to a page showing Yangyang’s favourite kind of cake. Where the oven is humming away, working in spite of the busted light, filling the entire apartment with the smell of chocolate. It smells delicious.

It smells like home.

“I hope you’re not stalling, Huang,” Doyoung says, reproach clear as day even oceans away.

All the moisture in Renjun’s mouth seems to have evaporated. He licks his lips; clears his throat until he’s sure his voice won’t crack. “No. No, of course not, sir.”

“Good. Jisung will be in touch about your equipment.”

Doyoung hangs up abruptly, and the line goes dead. Renjun lets the phone slide from his grasp; lets himself slide down to the tiles. A drawer handle digs into his back, and the kitchen tiles are cool against the back of his calves, but he registers these dimly, like he’s underwater, the sensations filtered through a thin film separating him from the outside world, becoming refracted and distorted.

He should have seen this coming. He knew this was coming. That was the deal ‒ get close to the mark, extract information from him, and then eliminate them all.

How was he supposed to know that he would fall in love with Yangyang?

That, against all odds and all of the warnings, loving him would come so easily. That his resolve would crumble, not with a crash, not all at once, but by dissolving gradually and quietly into seafoam. That Renjun was prepared to let go of control and his heart, and place them in Yangyang’s steady, unwavering hands.

Renjun’s eyes burn. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, exhaling harshly through his nose, willing himself not to break down in the middle of Yangyang’s ‒ their ‒ kitchen. No matter how much he wanted it to be untrue ‒ prayed, wished for it, even ‒ Jaemin had been right. At some point, Renjun has to face up to reality. He can’t play house forever.

He can’t be with Yangyang forever.

He’s jolted out of his thoughts by the shrill ring of an alarm, and the unmistakable smell of smoke where the scent of warm chocolate had once been.

Yangyang’s birthday cake is burning.

■■■■■■□□□□□□□□□□

“I’m sorry about the cake.”

Yangyang huffs out a laugh; snuggles closer, kicking a little until the ends of the duvet wrap around his feet. “I haven’t even seen it yet.”

“It was kind of a disaster," Renjun says. Admissions are always easier in the dark. “I left it in for too long.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Yangyang says sleepily. “You made it, and that’s what counts.”

He says it earnestly, honestly. It’s so pure that Renjun wants to distil it and bottle it up, something to pull out for later, for bad days. Before he can formulate a reply, though, his phone beeps.

Yangyang groans, burrowing his head beneath the sheets. “You set an alarm? At this hour? I want to go to bed!”

“Of course.” Renjun tugs down the sheets until he can see Yangyang’s disgruntled face and grabs his phone from the nightstand. The timer he had set earlier starts ticking down. “Didn’t want to miss the big event.”

Yangyang peers at the screen, his expression morphing into confusion. The light casts his face in an eerie, muted glow. “Babe, what’s ‒ ?”

Renjun can’t help the small smile that tugs at his lips. “One minute.”

“To wh ‒ ” Yangyang breaks off, realisation dawning. “Oh my god. Babe, don’t tell me you ‒ ”

“I did.”

“For what!”

“For fun.” Renjun rolls his eyes as the clock ticks down to fifty seconds. “So I could be the first to wish you, duh.”

“Oh my god,” Yangyang says again, but he rests his head back on Renjun’s shoulder, and Renjun knows he’s secretly pleased.

Together, they watch the time tick down to thirty, twenty, ten seconds. When the numbers on the screen flash 00:00, Renjun locks his phone and puts it away, turning all of his attention to Yangyang.

“Hi,” he says.

Yangyang’s lips twitch. “Hey.”

“Happy birthday,” Renjun breathes, and leans down.

Here’s the thing: he knows how to tread along a body softly, how to tease pleasure out of someone, how to leave them dazed and pliant and susceptible. Knows how to persuade them to say things they normally wouldn’t (shouldn’t), how to put a bullet in their brain once they’ve outlived their usefulness. Renjun has been trained for this, has had this ingrained in him for as long as he can remember.

But for all of his training, for all of his experience, Renjun’s not prepared for this ‒ Yangyang’s hands roaming the planes of his body, caressing every part of him he can touch. The way Yangyang’s lips move against his, so deep and slow that it makes him breathless, makes him dizzy. The way Yangyang looks at him when they break for air, eyes heated and brimming with desire, sending wave after wave of lust, love or some messy mix of the two down Renjun’s spine.

They kick off the duvet as the temperature climbs, thoughts of sleep abandoned. In the midst of open-mouthed kisses, Yangyang pulls Renjun onto his lap, and Renjun settles into it like he belongs there. He threads his arms around Yangyang’s neck, sucks and nibbles on his lower lip, feels Yangyang’s hands fly to grope at his thighs, his waist, his ass, and back again. Yangyang pulls away, and when sharp teeth nip at the sensitive spot on Renjun’s neck, that familiar feeling intensifies, flooding his veins and pooling low in his gut.

Renjun gasps, hands flying to Yangyang’s hair. “Fuck me.”

He can feel Yangyang grin against his skin. “That’s the idea.”

He’s so goddamn cheeky ‒ Renjun both hates and loves that about him. He opens his mouth to bite back, but then Yangyang’s hands are dipping below the hem of his t-shirt, squeezing and gripping at the soft flesh of his waist, the tip of his tongue swirling around the bruise blooming at his neck, and Renjun whimpers.

It’s the sound of a lover well-known. Yangyang swallows it up greedily, mouth already back on Renjun’s. He knows how to kiss him now, knows which buttons to press and how to coax the filthiest sounds out of him. The knowledge is intimate, dangerous in the wrong hands ‒ Renjun shouldn’t have let him, but he has, and if he’s being honest, it’s difficult to feel guilty about it when Yangyang takes his earlobe between his teeth and bites down just right.

They take their time, exchanging languid, unhurried kisses as they peel off each others’ clothes, heat simmering with the promise that it’ll grow to a boil. The buttons of Yangyang’s cardigan are familiar under his fingers, and even with his eyes closed, Renjun is able to deftly pop them open one by one. The cardigan is soon lost to their bedroom floor, and Renjun grabs Yangyang’s bare shoulders for leverage to roll his hips down, hot pleasure flashing through him as their erections rub against each other.

“Fuck.” Yangyang buries his face in Renjun’s neck, shudders ripping through his body with each cant of their hips. He reaches up blindly, and Renjun gasps when he feels a tug at his hair, sharp. “Fuck, babe, stop teasing ‒ ”

“Patience, you.” Renjun catches Yangyang’s wrist, drawing it down. Presses a kiss to the numbers, a line of zeroes identical to his own. Trails his lips up to his palm, tongue tracing at the heart line before he takes two of Yangyang’s fingers into his mouth and sucks.

Yangyang swears, hips bucking up of their own accord, and Renjun has to stifle a laugh lest he choke. He guides a third finger into his mouth, tongue swirling around the digits, and blinks at Yangyang. It’s a green light ‒ Yangyang starts to fuck his fingers in and out, and Renjun can’t help but moan, spit pooling at the edges of his mouth. Yangyang takes that as an indication to move faster, deeper, his nails hitting the back of Renjun’s throat, and Renjun’s on the verge of gagging, but it’s so good, so hot, and he knows Yangyang is watching, so he closes his eyes, sucks, flicks his tongue faster, and takes everything he gets.

All too quickly, Yangyang is gently prying his jaw open to slip his fingers out. Renjun’s jaw aches pleasantly from the stretch; his eyes are wet. Still, it’s all worth it to see the look on Yangyang’s face, dazed but heavy and dark.

“God,” Yangyang says, almost dumbly, saliva dripping from his fingers. “You’re so…”

Renjun pushes him back against the headboard, crawling over him, challenging. “I’m so?” God, his voice is fucked.

“Yeah,” Yangyang agrees. “You’re so.”

He wraps his spit-slicked hand around Renjun’s length, hard and leaking, and Renjun’s mind whites out. For someone so impatient, Yangyang moves excruciatingly slowly ‒ his wrist flicks once, twice before stopping, then again, content to drag it out. When Renjun’s eyes flutter open to demand what the hell Yangyang’s playing at, he sees a devious smile directed right at him.

Renjun groans, dropping his forehead to rest on Yangyang’s. “Stop teasing, you shit.”

“Who’s impatient now?” Yangyang smirks, but he hears the underlying frustration in Renjun’s voice. He leans over to swipe the bottle of lube off their bedside table, and squirts out a generous amount. “C’mon. Lie down.”

This, too, is familiar ‒ Yangyang between his legs; stretching him open with sure, practised motions; distracting him from the discomfort by sucking bruises into his hips, his inner thighs. Renjun pants, glazing over from the burn. He feels like he’s floating, ascending, the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane the wet heat of Yangyang’s mouth around his cock.

When Yangyang presses fingers against his prostate, finding it easily, Renjun is rocked with a wave of pleasure. “Fuck,” he keens, loud and high, and his hands fly up to thread through Yangyang’s hair. Yangyang laughs, and with his dick trapped halfway down Yangyang’s throat, Renjun can feel every vibration and genuinely thinks he might pass out.

Yangyang pops off wetly and mouths at the crease of Renjun’s hip. He looks gorgeous like this ‒ chin resting against Renjun’s stomach, lips kiss-swollen and so, so red. He takes Renjun’s hand, twisted in the sheets, and interlocks their fingers.

“God,” Yangyang whispers. His eyes are pinpricks of brightness in the dark. Hungry, bottomless; Renjun could fall into them forever. “I want you.”

A steady pressure builds in Renjun’s chest, a dam going to break. “You have me.”

They meet halfway, Renjun bracing himself on his elbows as Yangyang crawls up and leans down to kiss him with more teeth and tongue than lips. Renjun wriggles a hand out from between them, pumping Yangyang’s cock up and down, velvet heat trapped in the palm of his hand. When Yangyang reaches towards their bedside table for a condom, Renjun catches his hand, drawing it up to his heart instead.

Yangyang whines against his mouth. “Babe, let me get ‒ ”

“No,” Renjun says, and his voice wavers, but he’s sure of what he wants. “Not tonight.”

Yangyang stills. “Are you saying…?”

It’s not a big deal. There’s no reason not to. They’ve been exclusive for months, and they were both clean even before they met each other. Honestly, if they don’t use protection, there isn’t really a risk. There isn’t really a difference.

But deep down, Renjun knows that that’s not true. He wants Yangyang to feel good, to feel amazing. He wants him closer than he’s ever been before. And above all else, some irrational, desperate part of himself wants to, needs to experience this with Yangyang, to give him something that no one else ‒ not the agency, not all his other marks ‒ has managed to take from him. This is for you, Renjun wants to say, heart and soul in his hands. Take this little piece of me, and make it yours.

He kisses Yangyang in lieu of an answer. Somehow, it manages to be both bruising and tender at the same time. He pulls away only when they’ve run out of air, but even then, he doesn’t go far.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his lips brushing Yangyang’s with every syllable.

“Yes,” Yangyang breathes back. His fingers slide up Renjun’s waist, chest, neck, coming to rest at his jaw. “Always.”

They rearrange themselves on the bed until Yangyang is half-sitting up against the pillows, Renjun straddling his thighs. Like this, Yangyang is spread out beneath him beautifully ‒ Renjun trails his hand down golden skin and trim muscles, appreciative, marvelling that it’s all his for the taking. He drops one last kiss to Yangyang’s chest, right over his heart, and they watch each other hungrily as Renjun lines himself up.

The slide is smooth, the sensation toeing the line between pain and pleasure. Renjun exhales slowly, willing his body to relax, to let Yangyang in, and even though he can feel his girth, the minute difference in temperature, it doesn’t really feel any different than normal to Renjun.

It’s a different story for Yangyang. His fingers dig painfully into the soft flesh of Renjun’s thighs all the way down, and once Renjun bottoms out, he turns to press his face into the pillows. Overwhelmed, maybe, by the intimacy of the act.

“How does it feel?”

Yangyang’s head lolls back to look at him. “Amazing,” he chokes out. “Fuck. Jesus, Jun, you’re so ‒ ”

He cuts off with a gasp when Renjun grinds down, circling his hips in slow, deliberate motions. Yangyang’s fingers slide up to his hips, squeezing so tight Renjun knows he’ll leave bruises, and he struggles to sit up, straining to close the distance between them. Renjun waits until Yangyang’s lips just graze his neck before he pushes Yangyang back down into the pillows, rough, ignoring the half-frustrated, half-surprised exhale that leaves his lips.

“Behave,” Renjun orders.

He throws his head back as he starts to ride him properly. Runs a hand up his torso as the other splays against Yangyang’s firm stomach for balance. Puts on a bit of a show, because Yangyang loves it and it’s his birthday. Through half-lidded eyes, Renjun watches Yangyang tremble, then writhe, lovely sounds spilling from his lips like water from a faucet someone has forgotten to shut off. Renjun pauses to lean down, drinking up all the noises like he’s dying of thirst.

“You feel so good,” Yangyang babbles in between kisses. “You’re so ‒ good to me, Injunnie. You’re so good for me.”

Affection, bone-deep and shattering, flares through him. Renjun’s throat closes. He pushes the feeling away; pushes himself back upright, one hand braced against Yangyang’s chest, the other curling around Yangyang’s throat, fingertips lightly resting on paper-thin skin. He picks up the pace, practically bouncing in Yangyang’s lap, Yangyang licking a stripe up his palm and reaching between them to jack Renjun off in time. Heat coils in Renjun’s belly, and at a particularly vicious tug, he tightens his grip around Yangyang’s throat and slams down with the full force of his weight.

Yangyang comes with a bitten-off gasp, teeth caught between his lips. Renjun’s not far behind ‒ his orgasm crashes into him with the force of a tidal wave, sudden and overwhelming, made all the more intense when he feels Yangyang pulse inside of him, something hot filling him up.

He sways forwards, bones like jelly, and collapses into Yangyang’s waiting arms. Distantly, he registers an ache in his lower back; sweat dripping down his forehead and getting into his eyes; the mess he’s made between them uncomfortably tacky against his stomach. Yangyang’s cum, wet and white and sticky, starts to leak out, running down the inside of Renjun’s thighs, and he should be disgusted, but right now, he couldn’t care less.

Since day one, Renjun had thought that he’d had Yangyang in the palm of his hand. Now, though, with Yangyang spread out beneath him, with Renjun’s ear pressed to his chest, listening intently to the quick, steady beat of his heart the way one listens for the sea from a shell, Renjun knows he’s gotten it wrong. Yangyang holds the keys to his heart, the tools to make him unravel and fall apart at the seams, and Renjun had forgotten that it was him who placed them willingly into his hands.

Some might say it was foolish. Others, that it was brave.

Yangyang sighs, oblivious, and cuddles him closer. “I love you,” he mumbles into Renjun’s hair.

Those three little words crack Renjun’s heart wide open. You only love me because you’re meant to. You only love me because you don’t know who I am, and what I’ve done.

Admissions are always easier in the dark. “I love you, too,” he says, so quiet he isn’t sure if Yangyang hears him.

This time, when Yangyang drifts off to sleep, Renjun lets him go.

■■■■■□□□□□□□□□□□

There’s a new text message on his phone from an unknown number.

You’re taking too long.

“Babe?”

Yangyang is already curled up in bed, sheets drawn over his shoulders. His eyes are half-lidded, sleep-soft from a long day’s work. He has to crane his neck to look at where Renjun is, standing by their dresser. “Aren’t you coming to bed?”

Renjun swallows, praying his voice doesn’t waver. “Yeah. Just give me one sec.”

He turns back to his phone; stares at the words for one, two, three seconds. Before he can stop himself, he swipes left, pressing delete with shaking fingers, then powers down his phone for the first time since the assignment started.

“There you are,” Yangyang mumbles as Renjun crawls into bed. He reaches blindly behind him for Renjun’s arm, pulling it over the dip in his waist.

The rest of it is muscle memory. Renjun moulds himself around Yangyang’s form, tucking his front close to Yangyang’s back. He presses his lips to Yangyang’s shoulder; his nose to the nape of his neck. Yangyang smells like their shared shampoo, like the lavender candle he’s taken to burning, like home, and Renjun is seized by the irrepressible urge to drown himself in these overlapping scents and live there forever.

“Yeah,” he says, barely a whisper. “Here I am.”

■■■■□□□□□□□□□□□□

Renjun makes provisions.

He wires money to an account in the Cayman Islands and secures a cottage by the sea, one that promises a view of cliffs and seagulls and all the sunsets that are to come. He tapes the handgun Jisung had dropped off to the underside of the sofa in Yangyang’s apartment, just in case. He invents an excuse that takes him away from the city for the day, and catches the train down to London until he’s knocking at a familiar forest green door.

Chenle stares long and hard at Yangyang’s photograph, the corner pinched between his fingers. He tosses it aside, then looks up at Renjun.

“Should I be asking why?”

“It’s none of your business.”

Chenle scowls. “You make it my business when you barge in here, unofficially, with no appointment, asking me to forge identification papers for you and some random dude.”

Renjun bites his lip. He thought Chenle would be willing to turn a blind eye, in light of the wad of cash still sitting on his desk. “I can’t tell you why ‒ ”

“Then no deal.” Chenle starts slapping the papers back together, stuffing them messily into the folder Renjun had brought with him. “Don’t think I don’t know shady shit when I see it ‒ ”

He stops abruptly. Renjun belatedly realises that, in the course of the last second or so, he’s leaned across the mahogany desk to grab Chenle’s arm.

“Renjun,” Chenle says once he’s recovered from his shock. His face is a mask, but his voice is pitched dangerous and low. “If you don’t let go of me by the time I count down to zero, I’m afraid this might be the end of our business relationship.”

Despite the warning, Renjun tightens his hold on his wrist. “I can’t ‒ ”

“Five.”

“Chenle, I wouldn’t ask if I ‒ ”

“Four.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I ‒ ”

“Three.”

“Listen ‒ ”

“Two.”

“Lele.” Panic rises, unbidden, a tsunami clawing at Renjun’s ribcage. “Please, you’re my last hope ‒ ”

“One ‒ ”

Renjun releases him, but not for the reason Chenle might expect. Before he has time to reconsider, before he has time to regret it, he shoves the sleeve of his sweater down past his wrist.

Why tell him when he can show?

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Chenle, and whatever he means to say dies in his throat. He stares down at Renjun’s exposed left wrist, at the blackened numbers stark against the paleness of his skin, putting two and two together.

“I love him,“ Renjun says simply; quietly. Desperately. “Please. Please.”

Silence stretches out between the two of them. For all of Renjun’s ability to pick apart others, Chenle’s expression is inscrutable. For a moment, time and fate seem to hang together in the balance, suspended just like the dust motes in the air, made visible only by the particular angle at which the sun slants into the room.

Renjun holds his breath and waits to see which way the tides turn.

Eventually, Chenle slumps back in his chair with a long exhale, running his fingers through his hair. “Another one bites the dust, huh,” is all he says, and then, miraculously, he draws the file to him once again. “Come back in twelve hours. Let me see what I can do for you by then.”

■■■□□□□□□□□□□□□□

He leaves Chenle’s office twelve hours later, new passports acquired. He boards the early train back to Manchester and curls up in his seat, watching the countryside flash past.

He thinks he can see the light at the end of the tunnel. A way out, both for him and Yangyang.

But here’s the thing.

Renjun forgot to account for emotion, and emotion is what will trip you up every time.

■■□□□□□□□□□□□□□□

Renjun is too impatient to wait for the elevator ‒ he runs up the three flights of stairs to the apartment, eager to get home and to put his plan in motion. His duffel bag bounces roughly against his thighs as he ascends, and Renjun hopes the papers Chenle’s prepared can take a little creasing.

He’s just gotten his keys out when the front door swings open.

“Yangyang?” he asks, taking a step back. “What’re you doing at home?”

From the looks of it, Yangyang hasn’t left the apartment at all. He’s still in his pyjamas, a ratty hoodie and sweats, even though it’s early afternoon. Yangyang blinks, looking equally surprised at seeing Renjun at the threshold. “I…”

And then that’s when Renjun notices it: Yangyang’s eyes are puffy, his nose red. His voice sounds hoarse and stuffy just from that single word. There’s a tissue crumpled up in the hand not holding the door open.

He’s been crying.

A wave of worry washes over Renjun. He steps into the apartment, toeing off his shoes and dumping his duffel on the ground. “Hey,” he says, reaching out for Yangyang. “Is everything okay?”

Yangyang looks ‒ dazed, for lack of a better word. “I, um.” He swallows thickly. “I need to sit down.”

Renjun leads Yangyang to the sofa, where he all but collapses. The rest of the space is taken up by various throw cushions and Yangyang’s laptop, so Renjun crouches in front of him, kneeling between his legs. He peers up at Yangyang’s blotchy face. “Hey. Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“I ‒ ” Yangyang shakes with the effort of trying to keep his sobs in. “I can’t ‒ ”

“Hey, shhh.” Renjun takes Yangyang’s hands in his, rubbing soothing circles over the juts of his wrist bones. “It’s okay, baobei, it’s okay. Let it out.”

A big, fat tear collects in the corner of Yangyang’s eye, then spills. It breaks Renjun’s heart. “I can’t ‒ I’m sorry, I ‒ ”

“What? Don’t be silly ‒ cry as much as you want, okay? You don’t have to talk about it now if you don’t want to.”

Another tear, then another. “That’s not it.”

Worry and anxiety collect, swirling like twin whirlpools to clog up Renjun’s lungs. “Yangyang, you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?”

A small sob escapes Yangyang’s lips. “Nothing, it’s ‒ ” He yanks his hands from Renjun’s grip and presses them to his mouth, trying to stem the flow of sobs, shoulders shaking. “Renjun, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m so ‒ ”

Yangyang keeps talking. Renjun doesn’t hear any of it. There’s a roaring in his ears, and suddenly, he’s struck with a cold, creeping dread.

“Yangyang,” Renjun whispers. “What did you just call me?”

It can’t be. It can’t.

It can.

Yangyang goes rigid. His eyes widen imperceptibly, then flick past Renjun’s shoulder to the corner of the living room where the door leading to their storage closet is.

The closet which, Renjun knows, is large enough to conceal a person.

The closet which Renjun has had his back to this entire time.

Renjun spins around just in time to block the blow with a raised forearm. There’s the sound of metal meeting bone, the force of the blow radiating all the way up to his shoulder from where the attacker had made contact, and Renjun cries out from the pain. He glimpses a glint of silver, and with a spike of chilling dread realises that he’s nearly been brained with Yangyang’s old baseball bat.

It’s then that Renjun’s instincts, dusty from disuse, finally kick in ‒ he sweeps his leg out in a wide arc, knocking his opponent off his feet and sending him crashing onto the ground. He goes down with a grunt, the baseball bat skittering away. Renjun gets up, making sure Yangyang is safely behind him, but by the time he’s turned his attention back to the attacker, he, too, is already on his feet.

The stranger is larger than him, probably stronger, too, but just by the way he draws his arm back, Renjun knows he’s more brute force than skill. Renjun blocks the punch, then immediately moves in while the stranger’s arm is outstretched, kneeing him in the gut once, twice, thrice, until the stranger is grunting and doubled over.

But then the stranger grabs him and suddenly the world is tilting forwards. They both go down hard, catching a spindly side table on the way and sending it clattering to the ground, the sound of glass shattering. Renjun’s chin makes contact with the hardwood floor, an ugly crack reverberating through his skull, through the entire room. Warm liquid spurts down his chin, his neck, and his nose fills with the scent of blood.

The stranger tosses him off like a ragdoll, and then he’s on him, pinning him to the ground. Renjun barely has time to brace himself ‒ the force of the stranger’s punch sends his head snapping to one side, searing pain blooming across his left cheek. Renjun tastes blood on the second punch, sees stars on the third, and manages to pull himself together by the fourth. He squirms until he gets a foot on the attacker’s hip and a knee in his gut, and kicks and kicks and shoves until the oppressive weight on him is no more.

There’s no time to waste ‒ Renjun hauls himself up onto his feet, swaying slightly. The stranger staggers upright, but before he can find his bearings, Renjun musters up all the strength he has and kicks him in his gut. The stranger stumbles backwards, but it’s not good enough. Renjun bears down on him, forcing him backwards and dodging poorly-aimed punches and kicks. Renjun continues to lash out with a knee, a foot, anything, and then, with a particularly vicious kick, he sends the stranger crashing into the bookcase lined up against the apartment’s wall. Books and knick-knacks rain down on him, and he collapses to the floor, groaning.

Renjun feels his heartbeat in his ears. Tastes metal in his mouth. The stranger’s down, but not for long.

He needs to get his gun ‒ now.

Renjun throws himself towards the sofa, sliding onto his stomach. He winces as his bruised cheek presses against the hardwood floor, as his shoulder twinges when he stretches an arm out, hand reaching underneath the cushions and closing around ‒

Nothing.

The click of a safety going off is as loud as a gunshot.

“Don’t move.”

Renjun freezes. Against his better judgement, and with slow, deliberate movements, he pushes himself up onto his knees, then raises his eyes in the direction of where the voice had come from. The first thing he sees is Yangyang, backed up against the counter separating their kitchen from their wreckage of a living room.

The second is the gun in his outstretched hands.

Renjun’s mouth goes dry.

“Yangyang.” He grips the arm of the sofa for support, slowly pushing himself up into a standing position. “What are you ‒ ”

Yangyang squeaks, flinching back. “Don’t,” he chokes out. “Don’t you dare come any closer.”

He looks ‒ he looks fucking terrified, gripping the gun with both hands, tear tracks staining his cheeks, and Renjun’s heart aches. Yangyang’s bottom lip juts out, trembling, just like when they watch horror movies together and are getting to the scary part. Renjun wants nothing more than to still it with a kiss.

But he keeps his distance, just like Yangyang asked. “Okay.” Renjun raises his hands in front of him, as if to say look, I’m not a threat, and Yangyang is a spooked stray with its claws out, backed up into a corner. “Okay, I’m just going to be here, alright?”

Yangyang shakes his head, jerky, back-and-forth movements that betray how tightly he’s holding himself. “Not good enough. On your knees.”

“Yangyang ‒ ”

“On your fucking knees!”

Yangyang’s voice slams into him with the force of a freight train. Renjun staggers back and, with his heart in his throat, complies. He bends one knee, then the other, leaving his hands out in front him. As he moves, he’s suddenly aware of how light-headed he feels. It’s either from the crash of the adrenaline high, or the fact that he’s staring down the barrel of his own gun. Maybe both.

He tries again. “Yangyang, please. You have to put the gun down. You don’t know how to use it ‒ ”

“No.” Yangyang’s voice trembles, but the gun remains steady in his grip. “No. You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

“You could hurt someone ‒ ”

“And you haven’t?” Yangyang fires back, hysterical and shrill, and Renjun flinches. “Look at what you did to ‒ oh my god.” Yangyang’s voice breaks on the last word, his eyes filling with tears. “Fuck, look what you did to Sicheng.”

Somewhere behind Renjun, the stranger ‒ Sicheng ‒ lets out a low, pained groan.

Renjun’s breath quickens. He’s aware that he’s choking, his lungs burning up from all the lies that are catching up with him now. Suddenly, their apartment feels too small, the four walls seemingly pressing in on him from all sides, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to get out of his head for just a second, to get himself together.

When his eyes flutter open, it takes a while for his vision to focus, but when it does, it’s the most inane things that catch his attention. Supermarket coupons they’ve been saving, strewn across their small dining table. Yangyang’s sneakers cluttering up their entryway, and Renjun’s boots tucked neatly on the mostly-empty shoe rack. The framed photograph of them lying in pieces on the floor, a casualty of the fight earlier.

And then there’s Yangyang ‒ Yangyang, who’s looking at him like a monster, like a threat, like he doesn’t know who he is at all.

“Yangyang ‒ ” Renjun’s breath hitches. He gulps down a lungful of air, steadying himself, praying that love and hope will see him through. “I’m not going to hurt you. I swear.”

It’s the truest, most honest thing he’s ever said. A tear spills down Yangyang’s cheek, then another, as if he knows how much Renjun means it, that Renjun truly does love him. He lets out a sob, a tremor running through his entire body, and then ‒ gradually, astonishingly ‒ lowers the gun until its muzzle is pointing towards the floor instead of Renjun’s head.

For a magnificent, fleeting second, Renjun thinks that Yangyang believes him.

But then Yangyang’s face cracks into a beautiful, brittle smile, and Renjun feels the phantom bubble of hope that’s buoying him up burst. “It’s a little late for that.”

A floorboard creaks right behind Renjun. He whips around, but it’s too late.

Pain explodes against the side of his head, and then everything goes black.

■□□□□□□□□□□□□□□□

Renjun wakes up in the middle of an argument.

“ ‒ can’t just leave him here, it’s murder ‒ ”

“He would’ve done the same to us. He was going to do the same to us.”

A pause. Then: soft splashing. Renjun thinks it’s water, until the pungent scent of gasoline fills his nose.

“You don’t know that.” It’s soft; shaky. Yangyang, Renjun thinks groggily. “You can’t possibly know that ‒ ”

“Look at how he fucked up Sicheng!” the second voice hisses.

“That ‒ that doesn’t mean he was going to kill ‒ ”

There’s a dull, throbbing pain eclipsing his entire head. Renjun pushes past it, pushes past the slow-creeping dread in his stomach, and focuses on things immediately apparent to him without having to open his eyes: the rope binding his hands and feet together; the hard wood of the chair he’s sitting on; the soft clink, clink, clink of ‒ something.

Renjun’s brow furrows. Is that metal?

“I swear to god, Yangyang, you are so goddamn fucking blind ‒ ”

“Don’t speak to me like that!” Yangyang snarls. “I’m not a child. I thought about it, okay, and we can’t just leave him here without hearing what he has to say ‒ ”

“What part of this are you not getting?” Ten, Renjun’s mind finally supplies, and he wonders how many more of them are here. “He had a gun. In your fucking apartment ‒ ”

“He never used it!”

“He is a contract killer ‒ ”

“And if he wanted to kill me,” Yangyang says, voice climbing. “He would’ve done so by now!”

Renjun winces at the volume, and suddenly, everything goes deadly quiet.

“Well,” a third familiar voice says. “Look who’s finally awake.”

There’s no point in trying to pretend he’s still unconscious. Renjun lifts his head and opens his eyes.

It’s dark; practically nighttime. He’s in a room, long and narrow, the opposite end of it extending well beyond his line of sight. It looks like an office, table after table stacked with computers, some of them still switched on, stark white screens flickering in the darkness. The walls are red-brick; the floor, cement ‒ he must be in one of those repurposed mills or warehouses scattered across the city. Weak moonlight filters into the room through one of the large windows to his right, and Renjun has no problem seeing the three figures in the room with him.

Kun makes his way around the tables towards where Renjun’s tied up. He’s carrying a jerry can, which he tosses away the minute he comes within speaking distance, the plastic clattering hollowly against the floor. The expression on his face is calm, if wary. Ten is the opposite ‒ he looks downright murderous from where he’s perched on an office chair, glaring at Renjun over the back of his seat, irritably flicking the cap of a lighter open and close.

And Yangyang ‒

He’s curled up in another chair, feet tucked beneath his legs. He’s still in the same hoodie and sweatpants he was wearing earlier. He looks exhausted, eyes red-rimmed, lips cracked and peeling. He has a beanie on, but he’s shivering, and Renjun realises he must have forgotten to grab a coat to stave off the cold.

His lips part of their own accord. “Yangyang ‒ ”

“Don’t you dare.” Ten snarls, rolling his chair forwards until he’s practically nose-to-nose with Renjun. “Don’t you fucking dare say his name, you little cunt ‒ ”

“Ten.”

Ten shuts up at the sharpness in Kun’s tone. He moves a reasonable distance away, but he continues to glare at Renjun. Renjun ignores it. He looks past his shoulder, and catches Yangyang’s eye.

Yangyang holds his gaze for one, two beats, and then his eyes drop to the floor.

“Injun.” Kun’s voice is commanding, demanding Renjun’s attention, and he has no choice but to swivel his head in his direction. “Or should I say ‒ Renjun?”

Renjun flexes against the rope, testing. He grinds his teeth together. “You already seem to know who I am, so why bother asking?”

“Just seeking confirmation.” Kun shrugs. “Now, who sent you, and what do they want?”

Renjun fidgets with the rope as Kun talks, trying to slip out ‒ whoever tied him up did a good job. His hands are restrained behind his back, the knots tight and just out of reach, and the rope chafes against his skin with every movement.

Shit. How is he going to get out of here with Yangyang? Is Yangyang’s apartment even secure anymore? Is his stuff ‒ are the papers even there?

Renjun shrugs, faux-nonchalant, discreetly pressing the rope into the small of his back, trying to wriggle his hands out. “Your source didn’t tell you? Must be a shitty one.”

For some reason, that seems to infuriate Kun. He reaches a hand into his pocket and withdraws Renjun’s gun. Unlike Yangyang, Kun holds the gun with confidence; he clearly knows how to use it. He checks that it’s loaded, clicks the safety off, and steps forward until the nozzle is kissing Renjun’s forehead.

Dread settles into Renjun’s stomach like a stone.

“Don’t get cocky with me, Renjun,” Kun says softly.

Renjun breathes steadily through his nose, eyes locked with Kun, trying to quell the panic that threatens to rise up within him. Somewhere to his right, Yangyang lets out a soft sob.

Renjun can’t save Yangyang if he’s dead, so he talks.

“You stole crypto money,” he breathes. “A lot of it. Does that ring a bell?”

It must, because Ten immediately curses. “I knew it. I knew we shouldn’t have done that job ‒ ”

“Your client has the wrong people,” Kun says. His voice is as calm as ever, and if Renjun wasn’t paying close attention, he would’ve missed the way his face twitches imperceptibly. “We were just acting on someone else’s instructions. We’re not the ones your client should be going after ‒ we don’t have the money.”

None of this matters to Renjun. “So?”

“So tell your client to call the hit off.”

Renjun’s laughter echoes around the warehouse. “That’s not how it works.”

Perhaps he should’ve been less cavalier. Kun growls and presses his gun harder against Renjun’s forehead, and this time, Yangyang cries out.

“Kun, don’t ‒ ”

“Why do you care about him so much?” All of Kun’s composure has shattered. His expression is twisted with fury and fear, his knuckles white around the gun ‒ Renjun’s never seen him like this. “He lied to us. He lied to you. He’s been playing all of us for months ‒ ”

“There must be an explanation. If we just heard him out ‒ ”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Kun wheels around to yell at Yangyang, taking the gun with him. “He literally just admitted that he was sent here to take us all out ‒ ”

“But he didn’t!” Yangyang stands, pushing the chair back so violently it topples over. He takes a step towards Renjun before stuttering to a stop, anguished, his fingers pulling the strings of his hoodie taut. “He didn’t,” he repeats softly. “And there must be a reason why.”

Renjun’s mind is racing. The shape of the metal-mouth of the gun is still imprinted in his forehead, painful, urgent. He can feel phantom water rapidly rising up around him, past his chest, past his chin, fear clawing at his chest, making it difficult to breathe. It’s already night ‒ Donghyuck was scheduled to call today to check-in. He’ll know something’s amiss the minute Renjun doesn’t pick up. And that means the agency will be sending someone to look for him soon, that it’s only a matter of time before they find him here, all trussed-up and at the mercy of the very marks he was assigned to eliminate.

“Tell them,” Yangyang begs.

Renjun’s mouth is so very dry. “Tell them what?”

“Why you didn’t do it. It’s been months since we…” Yangyang trails off. He presses his lips together; presses on. “There’s a reason. There has to be a reason. Right?”

The look on his face is pleading; desperate. The strings of his hoodie are wrapped so tightly around his fingers that they’re turning white from the lack of circulation. Yangyang sways towards him, tipping forward on the balls of his feet ‒ Renjun can see him vacillating, standing on the edge of a precipice.

Which way he falls will depend entirely on what Renjun says.

Panic flares through him, white hot and blinding. It’s too much ‒ Yangyang’s life, in his hands, is too much responsibility. The minute the agency find them here, together, it’s over. Jaemin ‒ he was heading for Liverpool, the last time he heard. He might still be there. And if the agency sends him ‒ and they will send him ‒ Renjun might escape unscathed, but the rest won’t.

Yangyang won’t.

He hears Kun and Ten talking, beseeching Yangyang to step away, what are you talking about, don’t you know he tried to kill Sicheng and will try to kill us, but all of it fades into the background. He’s sinking into his own spiral with his hands tied, his thoughts going haywire, his mind going a million miles an hour.

They won’t let him go, that’s a given. He could try to escape, take Yangyang with him, but he knows that Yangyang would never leave his friends behind, now that he knows they’re in danger. And even if by some miracle they let Renjun come with them, the agency will know he’s betrayed them. They’ll hunt him down. They’ll hunt all of them down.

There’s no light at the end of the tunnel. No way of breaking the surface, no matter how much Renjun kicks and thrashes. He can’t see a way out.

At least, not for the both of them.

The realisation creeps on him slowly, more like the steady rise of high tide than a tsunami bowling him over. There is a way out ‒ just one. One in which Yangyang will be safe, will be free. If not forever, then at least for now, when time is of the essence and when it matters most.

How does that old saying go again? If you love someone, let them go.

The second Renjun stops fighting it, a sudden feeling of calmness and tranquility washes over him. The panic dissipates, dissolves, no air or hope in his lungs left to keep him afloat. He might be sinking, might see the light shrinking overhead, but with a bone-chilling certainty, he knows it’s the right choice. The only choice.

Renjun thinks of the papers granting them brand new identities tucked away in his duffel. A house by the ocean, with west-facing windows. Waking up in Yangyang’s arms each morning, with nothing but sheets between them.

A new life, just out of reach.

Renjun thinks of the only person he’s ever wanted, and lets them go.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “There was a reason.

“I was supposed to find all of you first.” Renjun’s voice comes out cold; comes out flat. It’s exactly the same way Doyoung speaks to him. “I wasn’t allowed to eliminate any of you until I located every single person in your little collective ‒ in case you’d tip each other off, or something. I didn’t find all of you, so I wasn’t given the all-clear.”

“What ‒ ”

“Ten is right,” Renjun continues, still flat, still unfeeling. “The gun in your apartment was to be used at some point. On you and your friends. The only reason I held off was because I was waiting for instructions to do so. But I was going to ‒ eventually.”

There’s a stunned silence. When Renjun finally lifts his head to look at Yangyang, he finds him already staring back, stricken, the light in his eyes rapidly dimming.

“You’re lying,” he finally whispers.

“I’m not.”

“I don’t believe you!”

Renjun curls his hands into his fists behind his back. “You asked for a reason. I gave you one.”

“No.” Yangyang shakes his head slowly, tears gathering in his eyes. How much would he let Renjun wring out of him, if he let him? “No, this doesn’t make sense. That day in the alley, it was you, I know it was, and you could have shot me then, but you didn’t, you ‒ ”

“Alley?” Kun says sharply. “What’re you talking about?”

Time they don’t even know is limited is running out, trickling through their fingers. Renjun has no choice but to escalate it, to hit where it hurts.

“Are you even listening to yourself?” he laughs, harsh. “See, this is why it was so fucking easy, Yangyang. You’re young. Naive. Gullible.” Stupid. “And it was so easy to lure you in.”

“Why ‒ ” Yangyang’s breaths are short, struggling to contain the emotions that threaten to spill over. “Why are you being like this ‒ ”

“Why am I like this?” Renjun sneers. “I was always like this. You were just too fucking dumb and in love to notice.”

When Yangyang shatters, it is both a divine and a terrible thing to watch. The hope in his eyes dims, then fades entirely. He crumples inwards, a marionette with its strings cut, clutching the front of his hoodie as he breaks down. Silent sobs rack his body, his breaths ragged and harsh in the quiet chamber of the warehouse, and Renjun feels as if someone has reached into his chest and squeezed, his heart splintering, fracturing under the pressure and the weight of Yangyang’s agony, a tiny gasp escaping from his lips before he manages to rein in the pain. Yangyang’s anguish is palpable, piercing, exquisite ‒ if Renjun feels it like it’s his own, maybe that’s because it is.

Still, he schools his face. Sits in his chair, unmoving and impassive. Clenches his fists so tightly his fingernails break skin and draw blood.

Of all the awful things Renjun has had to do in his life, this is by far the worst. Of all the awful things he’s had to do in his life, this is the one he regrets the least.

The ring of a phone cuts through the sound of Yangyang’s heartbreak. Ten picks up the call. “Heng?” He listens carefully. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re coming.”

He hangs up, mouth set in a thin line. His gaze flits from Yangyang, still shaking silently, to Kun, then jerks his head towards the exit. “Time to go.”

There are silent tears running down Yangyang’s face. He gives no indication that he’s heard Ten. His lips part, exhaling wetly, and when he blinks, his eyes meet Renjun’s.

Let me go, Renjun thinks desperately. Please, let me go.

”Hey.” Ten takes a step forward, reaching out to touch Yangyang’s elbow with a tenderness Renjun didn’t know he possessed. “Yangyang, it’s time to ‒ ”

“Wait.”

“Yangyang ‒ ”

Yangyang shakes Ten off, dragging a sleeve roughly across his face. He shuffles closer until he’s just an arm’s length away, face cast in shadow as he tilts his chin down to look at Renjun. Renjun aches to hold him, but he’s like those clouds, that day down by the seaside ‒ beautiful, out of reach, and never his to keep.

“Tell me.” Yangyang’s eyes are still glistening. His voice is wrecked. He must be tired; the desperation colouring his voice earlier is muted, bleeding into defeat. “Just ‒ just tell it to me straight. Was any of it real?”

Renjun raises his chin all the way up for one last look into Yangyang’s eyes, drinking in the sight of him like this ‒ heartbroken, exhausted, his. He flexes his left arm, feels the ropes chafe and burn into the blackened mark sitting on the inside of his wrist. The same mark that Yangyang had pressed his lips to, day in, day out, in the mornings and late at night and all the times in between. His own special way of saying, I choose you. I want you. I love you.

Was any of it real? The more appropriate question is whether any of it wasn’t.

Renjun finally unclenches his hands. He feels blood run down his palms, his fingers, pooling in his nailbeds before dripping onto the floor. Hears the impatient clink, clink, clink as Ten fidgets with the lighter, anxious. Closes his eyes, so he doesn’t have to see the look on Yangyang’s face when he gives his answer.

He’s not giving up, he tells himself.

He’s giving in.

“No,” he says. The final lie echoes around the warehouse, drags him under, and Renjun surrenders himself to the deep. “None of it was real.”

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Somewhere on the outskirts of Manchester, a warehouse begins to burn.