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It all happened in an instant. Well, this night was filled with many things that happened in an instant: an instant of that worrying message, of his decision to leave, of his decision to go to Do-hyeok’s house, his decision not to fight back. And now, something entirely out of the realm of Suha’s decisions: Jiwoon yanks Young-wu up by his collar and punches him, rage in his face like Suha had never seen before, that Jiwoon himself has never felt before.

Suha turned at the right time to see the first punch, the way Jiwoon’s fist flew like he would break Young-wu’s jaw with one hit. Like he wanted to break it. Young-wu’s neck went limply backward, yet Jiwoon’s grip remained firm. He pulls him up again.

“Sir!” Suha rushes to his knees, throwing himself at Jiwoon as he raises his fist once more. This was bad. Embarrassing. Confusing. Dangerous. “Sir, please—!”

Jiwoon looks down at Suha, face red with fresh soon-to-be bruises, lip cut and bleeding onto his shirt. All he can think of is how Young-wu did this, how Do-hyeok let the matter happen while rooting from the sidelines. Occasionally participating. How Jiwoon wasn’t there to stop it. The minuscule flecks of tears dotting Suha’s eyelashes.

“‘Please’ what?” Jiwoon says.

Suha can’t finish his sentence. He grips Jiwoon’s cotton cardigan. Shifts the fabric between his fingers. Please kill him.

Suha’s afraid he said the command out loud because Jiwoon uppercuts Young-wu hard. It’s certain; his jaw cracks.

Suha flushes—flushes? how was such a thing even possible in these circumstances? and why?—and falls back on his hands, watching Jiwoon like it’s a movie scene. He’s the handsome leading actor that girls will fawn over for decades and watch this fight scene over and over again and think, “If only that could be me, just to feel his touch once.” Suha, watching this, feels more like the actor’s wife, seeing the film at the premiere with her tall, gorgeous, rich husband beside her, whispering in her ear little anecdotes from the filming, secret deleted scenes and blooper cuts. Suha does not feel jealous.

He feels proud. 

With each of the bastard’s pained groans, Jiwoon’s rage only seems to heighten. He throws Young-wu down on the coffee table, standing above him and raising his fist again, slamming it down with another crack. There goes his nose, maybe the only pleasant feature on his startlingly unattractive face. His cheekbone. Three teeth. Jiwoon slides his non-offensive hand to throttle his neck, a desperate attempt to stop his galling groans. Another fist raised. Another tooth unlodged. Another choked hiss of a scream.

Suha crawls over to the bookshelf, watching from a distance as his sex friend? boss? something more than that? kills his rapist. Yes, “kills.” Once you get past ten punches with no sign of letting up, that’s killing. Especially with arms like Jiwoon’s, ones that can break bones just with one rage-fueled hit. It’s no longer that Suha’s afraid to tell him to stop. He doesn’t want him to. He should be disgusted with this reality. Shocked. He’s not. Rather, a small smile finds its way to his mouth. He’s giddy.

Suha doesn’t feel gravity until the slight sputtering stops, until it becomes apparent that Jiwoon was hitting nothing more than a slab of meat. Still, he grunts in anger. Still raises his fist as high and strong as he did when Young-wu was alive. It’s… touching. Was that wrong to think?

Still, Suha gently says, “It’s okay, Sir. I don’t want you to hurt your knuckles too much.” Suha gets off his knees, shaky from all the experiences of the day. He walks over to Jiwoon and holds his arm back gingerly. Somehow, that trust remained. Suha was the wife of the famous actor. After this scene, Jiwoon could go back to being her husband, gentle and kind as ever. As if it never happened. As if she never saw Jiwoon express that brand of rage.

With brutal clarity, watching Jiwoon stare down at Young-wu’s crumpled face and non-expanding lungs, Suha sees it as if it were obvious all along.

He’s done this before.

Jiwoon turns to Suha, panting, blood dripping from his fist. He softens when he looks at Suha, dips his head with shame. “I’m… I’m sorry. I understand if you need to call the police.” His throat tightens, the fear of what to come settling in. His strangling hand holds Suha’s loosely. “This is not your fault.”

“Hey,” Suha smiles, squeezing his hand. “No cops. Well, we can frame it as self-defense…” He bites the inside of his lip, cheeks warming up. Young-wu’s face, unrecognizable, empty. His remaining teeth busted through his bleeding lip. His mouth a pool of gore and saliva. Blood on Jiwoon’s hand. Blood on Suha’s hand. “Or just no cops. You’ve… you’ve hid it before, right?”

Jiwoon looks away from Suha instantly, hands trembling. He sucks on his lower lip. “I… I didn’t want you to know. You shouldn’t…” His voice breaks, a tragic sound Suha has never heard before. Not even as children. “..have to deal with this. Someone like me.” His hand slips away. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“Sir,” Suha takes his hand again, leaning onto his shoulder. Suddenly, intimacy was the only thing that felt real. Intimacy with someone who doesn’t love you. “Does it look like I’m upset?”

“Alright, are you three done with your catfight?” Do-hyeok says, standing in the doorway holding a wine glass in one hand and the bottle in the other like he’s the puppeteer. He isn’t. Suha and Jiwoon turn to him, staring blankly. Do-hyeok sees the corpse. His lip trembles. He turns as quickly as Jiwoon runs, grabs his arm harshly and fiercely. Young-wu was only one of the offenders, after all. This night was just a minor offense compared to what Do-hyeok did. All the years of it.

Suha steps forward cautiously. He wants, in a sick sense, to help.

Jiwoon expertly grabs the bottle of wine as Do-hyeok attempts to hit him in the head with it, twisting his wrist and taking it as his own weapon. Jiwoon barely flinches as he harshly slams the wine bottle into the bookcase, shards of glass and an eruption of red ocean filling the room.

Suha ducks, gasping as even more carmine soaks into his plain shirt, a shard of dark glass narrowly scraping his ear. He backs into the bookcases, watching from afar. Waiting for an opening.

Do-hyeok curses loudly, glass shards embedded in his neck and face, red wine coating him like a bloodbath. Jiwoon, in the same situation, stays silent. He slams Do-hyeok against the side of the bookcase, holding the jagged edge of the broken bottle against his neck. Slowly pressing into the skin, a low whisper resonates through the room: “You deserve this. Scum.”

Do-hyeok snaps the stem of the wine glass with his thumb, a detached bowl of Cabernet Sauvignon falling to the floor and shattering. He pushes Jiwoon to the ground, landing on top of him. “Son of a bitch.” He elbows Jiwoon’s face and raises the wine glass stem, a thin poking rod, or dagger.

Just as Do-hyeok begins to bring the makeshift weapon down, Suha comes in from behind, striking him in the head with a dictionary. An inhuman sound comes from him as he does it, a sound like victory. Howling at the moon. This is something Suha always wanted but never wanted to admit. Do-hyeok, thrown to the side, concussed and head bleeding, groaning and cursing and clutching his chest for air, glass rod shattered and penetrating his hand.

Jiwoon looks up at Suha—a sobbing wreck, holding the book like a guilty child would a pistol—and smiles. “Thank you, Suha.” He gets up slowly, spinning the base of the bottle in his hand. “Do you want to take care of the rest or should I?”

Suha gazes into Jiwoon’s smile for a moment, bloodied with the fight but still wide, joyous. And then the slight crinkle in the corner of his eyes, the brightness of his pupils. He’s beautiful.

Just when Suha’s about to say, “You can,” Do-hyeok takes a hold of Jiwoon’s ankle, pulling him back onto the wine-slicked tile. Suha gasps at the sudden motion: another instant. Jiwoon struggles against him, smacking him over the head with the wine bottle, jamming it into his neck. He stands up again, huffing as Do-hyeok twitches, neck bleeding. Choking, he goes for the ankle again.

Suha slams the book on his head, letting out a scream of anguish as he cries, slam slam slam. He stomps on the base of the wine bottle, shoving the glass deeper into Do-hyeok’s throat. He covers his face with his hand, trying to hold himself back from shrieking as the blood flows everywhere, everywhere . He kicks the body in the ribs until he hears that snap. Hears what it’s like to be the handsome, famous actor. The one who kills.

After the last kick, he drops his hand, drops his body into Jiwoon’s arms, drops his thoughts where Do-hyeok lay, windpipe severed and skull caved in. Shaking. Jiwoon holds him silently, brushing back his hair and kissing the top of his head. After a few minutes of embracing, Jiwoon delicately comments, “...Did you enjoy that?”

Suha lifts his head, facing Jiwoon with not disgust, but with morbidezza. “Yes,” he says, pressing himself closer to Jiwoon. “It was amazing.”


Jiwoon sucks on Suha’s lip like a dream, savoring the blood and alcohol speckles in his mouth. Shirt undone again, pants in a crumpled heap on the wine-soaked granite floor. Jiwoon holds Suha’s legs up, lifted with pressure between Jiwoon’s body and the bookcase. They kiss absentmindedly, Suha’s hands entangled in Jiwoon’s hair. He moans softly with each tug of his lip, each flutter of tongue. Young-wu and Do-hyeok’s bodies rot slowly around them.

Jiwoon’s hand slips to Suha’s ass, blood-covered fingers sneaking between the cheeks. Suha shivers, letting out another soft whine with the touch. After focusing and relaxing his body, a finger slips in easily, wet and warm. Suha imagines the image of his lower half dripping with blood and presses his face into Jiwoon’s shoulder. “Hnn…”

Jiwoon gazes into Suha’s eyes as he plunges a second finger in, thrusting into him tenderly. He watches Suha as he throws his head back, overtaken with lust and emotion. Hazel eyes.

Jiwoon removes his fingers. “I like you.”

Suha straightens his neck instantly, bracing himself against the bookcase. He looks at Jiwoon’s utterly serious expression. Swallows.

Jiwoon tugs his belt loose, pulling down his trousers and taking his cock out of his underwear. “I’m not just talking about your body. Or any single aspect of you.” He leans forward to kiss Suha, lightly caressing his face, painting it with blood. No matter Suha’s response, the action is irresistible. “I want to be the person closest to you,” he prods Suha’s hole with his cock, desperation in his eyes. “I want to keep you by my side,” he slides in slowly, watching Suha shudder as he passes through the tight, bloodied walls. The dark liquid dripping down his shaft. Suha’s lips curled in pleasure, albeit confused, conflicted pleasure. “I want to live my life for you…”

“I love you, Hyung.”

Suha’s face drops for a moment. Do-hyeok. Behind the school. Brick walls. “Do you like me?”   “...? You love…”


Suha looks over his shoulder. “Oh…” Do-hyeok’s face bloodied and broken, his neck nearly severed in half. Covered in blood, glass, red wine. Dead by Suha’s own touch.

Do-hyeok can never come back. Not even in his wildest dreams.

“I…” Suha turns his head back, sees Jiwoon’s lips curl back in nervousness. As if they did not just kill together. As if there was a doubt in Suha’s mind. Suha lifts his arm, sliding slightly down the wall as he touches Jiwoon’s face. “...I do too.”

That light returns to Jiwoon’s eyes like a spark to a jerrycan. He smiles thinly, pulling Suha back up in his arms and kissing him deeply. As he does so, he thrusts forward, producing a harsh moan within Suha’s kiss. Jiwoon sucks on his tongue, gripping Suha’s ass for more leverage. Suha clings onto a bookshelf, letting out another desperate cry with a second thrust. The slow anticipation between Jiwoon’s movements kills him, but the actions themselves felt all the more intense.

Finally, Jiwoon picks up a rhythm, growling into Suha’s skin as the bookshelf shakes, luxury vases fall from it. The sickening slap of skin in the otherwise silent apartment.

Suha looks off to the side distantly, skin breaking at the seams with love and relief and incoming dread. “Mmm... Harder, Sir…” Suha looks at Do-hyeok’s lifeless, cold eyes. He smells the blood. “Yes…”