#316: spring is the mischief in me
prompt: #316
title: spring is the mischief in me
pairing: chenyeol
rating: pg
word count: ~5200
summary: Agent “Chen”, a corporate spy under the employ of the Intellectual Property Protection and International Cooperation Bureau, retires under the protection of the government. After years of learning how to lie, Kim Jongdae needs to learn how to tell the truth.
There’s a persistent knocking on the door.
Jongdae rolls over and squints at the clock face next to his bed: it cheerfully informs him that it’s a quarter to seven--and therefore entirely too early for visitors. Through the haze of exhaustion, he remembers submitting a report to the Ministry on the last case of his career, clipping his two weeks’ notice neatly to the folder.
He hauls himself to the door and squints through the peephole, only to see black suits, black ties, and white shirts. Friends from the office. Jongdae thanks God for a brief moment that they aren’t from the Multilateral Affairs Division and unlocks the door.
We accept your resignation, one of the suits informs him dispassionately. Jongdae steps back to let them pool into his house, the leader still talking. Report to the office tomorrow morning to receive your retirement package. We will have identity cards, your pension, and release forms for you there. As an afterthought, he adds: we appreciated your service.
In the business, it’s called “competitive intelligence.” Tortious interference. The rest of the world calls it by a simpler name: industrial espionage.
Jongdae is driven to the office, where he turns in a ring full of keys and three boxes of clothes. He knows they’ll be tagged for incineration within the week and squares his shoulders before handing in his badge. The seal of the ministry glints in the light--but he’s made up his mind. He doesn’t want to care about secrets, not like this, not anymore.
“We’ll drive you back home, of course,” the receptionist at the desk chirps, scanning in the badge. It occurs to him that Jongdae’s checked in past her desk for years, but never asked for her name. “It’ll be the Kia, I think.” Her expression is so effective Jongdae can feel himself grinning, too, in response to her picture-perfect office smile. He wonders how old she is.
The same suited man who’d knocked on his door drives him home. He doesn’t watch the car drive away, but unlocks the door to his designated apartment and waits for the his final debrief.
It’s really one thing to be a spy like a Bond movie, or those techno-thrillers he used to watch in college. What he is--was--sometimes doesn’t--didn’t--even count as spying: it’s really just a way of getting information that would be difficult to acquire otherwise. Just talking. He’s not into violence.
“You’ll remain Kim Jongdae, of course.” Another associate, whose badge identifies him as a currently employee of the General Affairs Division, stands in his living room with pressed grey trousers and a striped tie. Maybe they were co-workers.
Jongdae wears jeans and a T-shirt. “We’re assigning you to a town in on the coast under the Cultural Heritage Administration. You’ll be working to preserve the local sites--there’s a small hanok and a few buildings. Minor restoration, basic upkeep.”
“But I don’t know how to--”
“From what I understand,” his ersatz former-coworker interrupts smoothly, holding up a hand to pause his question. “You’ll be taught what you need to know. It’s an area very used to seasonal workers and, from the provided data, you will fit in just fine with this year’s crop. They’re about your age.”
Jongdae takes the statement just the way it was intended: a final evaluation, a character assessment.
It still feels like an assignment.
The train carriages are air-conditioned, seats with just enough space to provide the illusion of privacy in the open air. There’s a family of three near him, a single mother with two children, and the youngest daughter looks over at his seat with curious eyes. Jongdae waves. He settles in his chair, watching the scenery flow by. The mother chides her little girl quietly.
He closes his eyes and imagines it: the office had provided a package of identity cards, paperwork, and photographs of the locale. It looked sunny.
There were little dossiers of the people he’d be sharing the house with, too. Jongdae put them away at the bottom of his only suitcase.
“You’re Kim Jongdae?”
Whirling on his heel, Jongdae plasters on a smile and says, “Yes?” His voice pitches upward as he cranes his neck, staring up at a tanned stretch of jaw. “Uh.”
“Park Chanyeol. Hi.”
He can see a long line of even, white teeth gleaming somewhere in the stratosphere. Chanyeol’s dossier probably had his exact height; the precise color of his eyes and his top five favorite foods were probably there, too. “Air different up there?” Jongdae asks cheerfully, hefting his businessman’s suitcase. Chanyeol takes it from him with deft hands, brushing easily past him.
“S’clearer,” Chanyeol agrees. “Car’s this way.” Jongdae hurries to keep up until Chanyeol shortens his strides. “Hey, don’t strain yourself on my account.”
The second file in the packet is Park Chanyeol, age 28, DOB 271192.
Chanyeol makes for easy company, and Jongdae asks vague questions that open him up: what’s the area like? Good weather? How big is the house? He answers them cheerfully, going into enough detail about the house, its occupants, and the turbulent squalls that batter the town in the early summer evenings. Jongdae takes note about the way Chanyeol’s voice softens when describing Do Kyungsoo (file three, age 27, DOB 220193), resident beekeeper and begrudging cook, Kim Jongin (file five, age 26, DOB 140194), his soft-spoken sous chef. As they draw closer to town--home, Jongdae reminds himself--and shed the cityscape, he can feel himself relaxing.
“What’s our landlord like?”
Chanyeol snorts at the question. “He’s not much of one. Joonmyun-hyung is … around. He loves this place, I’ll tell you that. I met him, uh--nearly four years ago, wow. I was out of college, and he knew a friend of a friend. He likes magic tricks.”
Jongdae blinks. “What, like, to do?”
“Uh-huh. After a while, it’s not so bad. Don’t laugh at him outright when he forgets about the doves, though. I mean. It’s pretty funny, but laugh about it when he’s gone, okay?”
“Yeah. Of course.” A slow smile spreads across his face.
“Hey, you should smile more.” Blood: A type; prone to cheerfulness, embarrassing honesty. Perceptive, friendly.
Chanyeol drops him off at the driveway, a meandering dirt road leading to the distinctive roof of the hanok. Jongdae takes out his bags and lets the warm breeze hit him, taking deep breaths of the ocean air. The house is a cheerful, sprawling compound nestled against the hilly terrain. It looks exactly the way the pictures did: small clusters of fruit trees on the land, traditional roofing looking sun-bleached and the porch worn out from years of use.
It looks comfortable here, some scrap of country life clinging on to the earth. “Looks nice,” he comments. Chanyeol smiles proudly.
“Yeah, it does.”
The note of warmth stays with Jongdae while he watches Chanyeol shift the truck into reverse gear. His comment echoes in his head: you should smile more.
Jongdae hauls his suitcase up the dirt road and drops it at the foot of the porch stairs. The courtyard looks neat, as if someone swept it on a fairly regular basis--he likes the way the sunshine hits the area, groves of trees planted in neat rows and scenting the air with blossoms. “It gets really hot midday,” a soft voice comments. Jongdae covers his mouth to hide the yelp that escapes his throat, turning toward the source of his surprise. “Hello,” the soft-spoken man says solemnly. “I’m Do Kyungsoo. I’m supposed to be your guide today.”
“Kim Jongdae,” he manages, putting down his hands and offering one in a handshake. Kyungsoo has calluses on his hands. Birthplace: Seoul. Soft-spoken and reserved. Possibly anti-social. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too.” Kyungsoo indicates that Jongdae can pick up his bag, the professional black suitcase fabric already gathering dust. “Your room’s this way.” He slides a papered wooden door open and leads him into the house. Jongdae follows him inside as they escape the heat into the cooler interior; the low-ceilinged house makes him wonder how Chanyeol stays in the house. The brief image of Chanyeol relegated to outside lodgings, like a cartoon doghouse, makes him grin--Kyungsoo opens the door of a nondescript room and waits until Jongdae mentally catches up. “Here you are.”
“Here I am,” Jongdae agrees. “Thanks for showing me the, uh, space.” Kyungsoo sits in the silence and watches patiently as Jongdae puts down his suitcase on the floor of the room. “Is there more of the house?”
“Of course,” comes the brusque reply. “We’re just getting started with the day.”
“Right,” he says weakly. Kyungsoo’s eyes bore holes into his soul. He misses Chanyeol’s easygoing companionship already--or even the silent, professional calm of his old job. He can unpack later; Kyungsoo leads him outside again, to a wider courtyard that overlooks a low stone wall and the vast expanse of the sea. “Wow,” he breathes. “It’s really …” The water looks inviting, especially with the dead heat of the sun, but Kyungsoo doesn’t look bothered about it. The smell of fruit blossoms floats over and mingles with the scent of the ocean.
“We usually start working at about seven, so you’ll wake up at six. That’s when breakfast is, more or less. Uh. Sometimes it’s six-thirty, because it’s hard to get Jongin up at six. And then you have your assignments--we get repair requests in every few months, but since we’re at the end of that cycle all we have to do is just basic grounds maintenance. Weeding the garden, painting stuff. Any questions?”
“Do I need a uniform?” The question was meant to be a joke, but Kyungsoo ignores the cheeky tone with the impeccable timing of a bull aiming for red flag.
“No, we don’t have uniforms.”
“Um. Okay. Then thanks, I guess.”
“No problem.” A soft look dawns on Kyungsoo’s face--it lights up his entire body, drawing up his eyebrows and dissipating through his shoulders. He almost looks taller. “Joonmyun-hyung’s out of town until tomorrow, but when he gets back you’ll meet him. He runs the place.”
“That’d be nice. Thanks a lot for the tour.” Jongdae offers a tentative smile. “I’ll … Go unpack?”
“Yeah. You can do that. But watch out, since Baekhyun’s trying to fix the air conditioning.” Kyungsoo scowls at the idea. “If it gets hot in there, you should probably come outside. I don’t want to have to carry another body out to the sea.”
Jongdae stares.
“If you’re not dead, you and Baekhyun will get along like a house on fire. I’m joking. I’m joking,” Kyungsoo says without a hint of smile. Jongdae makes his way back to his room and considers opening the file on Do Kyungsoo, personality traits and possible weaknesses. He unfolds his clothes and shakes out the wrinkles from his shirts instead.
Jongdae meets Baekhyun--and true to Kyungsoo’s words, they do get along like a house on fire. A straw house on fire, at the rate Baekhyun and Jongdae have been exchanging jokes.
“City boy, go set the table.”
“Can’t find your own spoons, country hick?” Baekhyun flashes a smile with more teeth than mirth--Jongdae answers with his best but I’m innocent eyes and bats his lashes. Baekhyun’s raucous laughter rings in the tiny kitchen as Kyungsoo pushes both of them out, arms laden with dinnerware. Jongdae practically crashes his way through the tiny corridor, Baekhyun scampering down to set the table with familiar ease.
“‘scuse me,” a quiet voice mumbles. Jongdae stops in his tracks, eyes following the usual pattern--eye contact, slope of the shoulders, shuffling feet-- “Welcome to the house,” the boy says, face afire. “Very nice to meet you.” He tilts his head down to the ground, eyes shying away from Jongdae’s. For such a tall guy, he has remarkably poor posture.
Jongdae is charmed.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Jongin.” At his name, the boy’s head snaps up with surprise, posture suddenly cleaner than what it was before. “Chanyeol and Kyungsoo told me about you,” he adds cheekily. “Let’s be friends.”
“Jongin!” Kyungsoo shouts from the kitchen. “Dinner in an hour, let’s get going!”
“I have to go,” he mumbles, and turns away before Jongdae can say goodbye. He slouches toward the kitchen; Jongdae can hear sounds from both ends of the corridor, Baekhyun’s high-pitched cartoon character laughter and the mixed sounds of chatter from Kyungsoo and Jongin wafting out with the smell of freshly steamed rice. It sounds like home.
“So where d’you come from?” Chanyeol heads the gentle inquisition as he stuffs rice into his mouth. Kyungsoo snorts over his bowl of jjigae, chopsticks clacking over the shared plate of grilled mackerel as Jongin leans over with interest.
“Daejeon.”
It’s a multilayered truth. His birth certificate really does say so; that was one of the perks of his recruitment. “Oh, yeah? Where’d you work?” Baekhyun pokes at Jongdae’s bowl, spoon sneaking in a bite before Kyungsoo catches him and kicks him under the table.
“The patent office,” Jongdae says behind a mouthful of rice and soup.
“Paper pusher,” Baekhyun laughs.
They toast him at the end of the meal: toKim Jongdae, to new arrivals, to the creaky joints in the furniture, hey, speaking of creaky joints--to Kim Joonmyun, to the lovely house. Jongdae hasn’t heard his real name spoken aloud by friends in years; it’s almost like they’re toasting someone else. It feels nice.
“He’s home!” Chanyeol thunders his way across the seaside courtyard, abandoning his task of the hour and waving the bag of birdseed over his head. The seeds scatter like confetti as he shouts, “Joonmyun-hyung is home!”
“Chanyeol, put down the bird feed,” someone says behind him as Chanyeol takes the well-dressed man down with an enthusiastic tackle. Jongdae pauses sweeping the porch and watches as Joonmyun wheezes, Kyungsoo, get this giant idiot off me. The rest of the house gather next to Jongdae as they watch the little tableau, Baekhyun cheering Chanyeol on as Kyungsoo wrestles him away from their landlord while still wearing his beekeeping veil.
Jongin’s shoulders press warmly against Jongdae’s as they watch, Jongin’s arms crossed over his chest. “That’s him?” Jongdae asks under his breath. Kyungsoo trips Chanyeol with a well-placed foot and Joonmyun finally stands upright, dusting off his trousers.
“That’s Joonmyun-hyung.” Jongin’s voice is low, but Jongdae can read the look in his eyes--fondness, gentility. “He owns the house. I’ve been working here since the first winter break of my senior year.”
“Nice guy,” Jongdae ventures. Kyungsoo shoos Chanyeol back to the house as Jongdae winces at the sight of the courtyard--he’d have to sweep the entire area, at this rate.
“Hello,” Joonmyun greets. Jongdae forgets to fret about the birdseed. He extends a hand, the other still clutching the broom, with his usual businesslike shake.
“Kim Jongdae,” he replies, smile reaching to his eyes without much effort. “I’m your new recruit.”
“Well, work hard and we’ll make sure Kyungsoo doesn’t throw you in the ocean.” Jongdae laughs as Jongin opens the main doors to the house. Joonmyun ruffles Jongin’s hair--as he makes a mournful sound in answer--and exclaims, “Baekhyun, you fixed the air-con!”
“He did no such thing,” Chanyeol grumbles. “I did that. He just smeared grease over his face to make it look like he was doing any work.” Jongdae jostles Chanyeol once hearing the comment just to elicit a brilliant smile on that face.
Dinner with Joonmyun and the rest of the house becomes the thing most looked forward to in the next few weeks. Jongdae learns how to weed a garden and pick fruits from laden trees, to find the small, sound apples that he can crunch between his teeth before picking out the vegetables that Kyungsoo wants for dinner. “Pajeon,” he says by way of explanation. “So give me as many as you can.”
The green onion pancakes taste better with the food he’s grown. Jongdae shares a plate with Baekhyun at the kitchen table, fingers instead of chopsticks, as Jongin mumbles the rice to water ratio for a pot of mixed grains.
“Here, pick a card.” Joonmyun offers Jongdae a deck while he takes a break from watering the fruit groves. He considers the pack, the autumn sun beating down on his neck and the fanned-out cards in Joonmyun’s hand. He chooses one at random and keeps it as he watches the cards move.
“Hyung,” Jongdae says thoughtfully--carefully. “I was wondering … How did a young man like you find a house like this?”
“Well, thanks for calling me young.” The distinctive snap-slap of shuffling cards punctuates the joke. “I went into business after college.” He shrugs, cards moving deftly. “My brother’s also in finance. My family does a lot of that. But I liked this property, and the government wasn’t doing much for upkeep.” Joonmyun looks gentle--but his eyes say something else, something that strikes Jongdae as familiar. “So I made a deal with the devil,” he laughs. “That’s how I got this house.” With the flair of a practiced magician, Joonmyun flashes a single card before Jongdae’s eyes. “Now, sir--is this your card?”
The nine of clubs. Jongdae regretfully pulls out the two of hearts out of his pocket and remembers Chanyeol’s advice. He doesn’t laugh until he’s alone in the garden, picking carrots for Kyungsoo’s curry.
Jongin is the quietest person in the house--unless it’s movie night, when they’re all sprawled out in the television room. The late autumn chill makes them huddle under blankets and pillows brought out from their own rooms, the worn coverlet of Jongdae’s bedroom covering Baekhyun, Chanyeol, and himself. Joonmyun’s arms and shoulders receive most of the burden as Jongin laughs, claps, and punches his way through the movie. At the point where Mr Bean feeds his necktie into the vending machine, Joonmyun shifts--and Jongin hits Baekhyun instead.
(Which works out well for both parties in the end: Jongin expresses his laughter in the most natural way he knows, and Baekhyun gets to guilt him into making request-specific breakfasts for a week.)
The secrets in the house shout out after him--the way Jongin works in the kitchen and the gardens, the way Joonmyun’s eyes looked when he’d said, a deal with the devil--so Jongdae focuses on the movie and settles in away from the blanket and closer to Chanyeol’s warmth.
“Watch out!”
Something cold splatters down Jongdae’s neck, the elastic remnants of a water balloon shell stuck to his collar. Overhead, he can see a familiar silhouette shadowed by the noon sun. Squinting, he can just make out the face when someone shouts down at him an apology in Baekhyun’s voice.
“Hey, watch it, jackass!” Jongdae can hear Baekhyun’s signature cackle and can see the heavy drop of something else thrown from the window. He ducks for cover, sprinting to the house and tries to remember how hard it is to flee the country--a plan he’ll have to implement once he throws Baekhyun out the window.
“Kyungsoo-yah!” Baekhyun shouts from the window.
Time freezes after the telltale splash.
Jongdae can feel the incoming wave of vengeance storming toward the house. Sure enough, when he sees the familiar bowl-cut hair totally soaked and approaching his direction, Jongdae abandons his initial plan and points the door.
“Thanks,” Kyungsoo mutters, shivering from the cold. The outraged squawk from retribution hitting Baekhyun with the full force of a truck is music--Jongdae goes back to work with a satisfied smile on his face.
“Late night laundry?” Chanyeol’s voice intrudes first in the silence. Jongdae starts, minimizing his surprise quickly as Chanyeol brings in a small bag of clothes. “Machine grease,” he grimaces. “It’s a bitch to get out.”
“I think Baekhyun put something in those water balloons.” Jongdae holds up a shirt, the light blue fabric partially stained another color. “He deserves to die.”
“Yeah, well. Keep trying to think of something that Kyungsoo hasn’t tried.” There’s a streak of engine oil across the front of Chanyeol’s shirt, the splatter of a late-night project evidenced on his fingers. He stuffs his clothes into the washer, Jongdae watching the easy lines of his arms. He focuses his attention back to his own stuff again until Chanyeol drapes himself over Jongdae’s shoulder, torso hunching down to wrap him in a hug. “How ya doin’?
“Get off me,” he laughs, and winces when he realizes the oil on Chanyeol’s clothes smears across his own shirt. “You did that just to get my clothes off,” he says, but it’s with a smile.
“Sure did.” White teeth, angled jaw--the same sight he saw at the airport. The washer drum clunks rhythmically. Park Chanyeol, elder sister: one; five years old, learnt to play his first instrument. Musically inclined, mediocre songwriter, terrible sense of clothes that belie a natural way of fitting in. Strong element of confidence. The notes culled from the time he spent with Chanyeol weigh on him, the sensation of prying something personal out of someone a familiar feeling--but Jongdae jerks away at the last moment, Chanyeol’s warm smile briefly freezing as he turns away. He grabs his laundry and scurries out of the room.
Jongdae folds his clothes on autopilot; he pushes the heavy wooden drawers shut and makes his way outside, the heady air of the house dissipating in the chilly air. The faint sounds of the night make a gentle soundtrack.
“They’re narrow-mouthed frogs.” Chanyeol looks apologetic and small, folding himself next to Jongdae on the porch. “The males make one kind of noise, the females make another. That’s how they find each other.”
“I thought they all made the one noise.” Jongdae looks surprised. “That’s kind of cool.”
“You think I’m cool?”
“No, jerk, I think the fact about the frogs is cool. You’re still a dope.” But Chanyeol’s grinning, because Jongdae’s grinning, too--and the early winter night is almost like summer again. The hour passes by without words, and Chanyeol goes to collect his laundry. Jongdae goes to bed.
A deal with the devil, Joonmyun had said all those months ago. Kim Joonmyun, business degree, finance family with a concentration in real estate, confident and personable, amiable to most, possibly a huge sentimental romantic. Usually inspires loyalty, despite his corny attitude. The secret of this house is--
Jongdae dreams in the middle of winter, a conversation between himself and the occupants of the house. It feels like he’s standing in court, and the naked truth tries to rip out of him, saying I used to find secrets for a living. I think I talk to you guys because I can’t break the habit. He wakes up in a cold sweat in the early pre-dawn hour, hands reaching out for dossiers he hasn’t looked at and intelligence he can’t file.
In the morning, the wind chimes jingle.
Christmas is a busy affair; Kyungsoo decorates the living room while Jongin and Chanyeol hand out cheerful cards. They’re all from the same pack of holiday-themed greeting cards that Baekhyun purchased last year. Jongdae receives one with two birds and a snowman, with Jongin’s handwriting scrawled over the envelope and Chanyeol’s holiday message.
He keeps it flat on the table in his room, tucked in between books and magazines like a secret. Jongdae wears layers of sweatshirts as he jostles for space on the laden dining table between Joonmyun and Jongin, with Baekhyun and Kyungsoo across.
They close the estate down for the holiday, Jongdae sweeping snow off the sidewalks until Kyungsoo comes to get him. Joonmyun piles gifts underneath the plastic evergreen, one for each worker, and Jongdae selects his mittens and scarf set first, the last sheen of his newness wearing away.
Kyungsoo’s secret is the most obvious one: he doesn’t have any at all. Jongdae likes that about him, the fact that he’s exactly what he appears to be. As they tidy up the decorations and carefully wind up the Christmas lights, Jongdae chats at Kyungsoo while he makes nods and the occasional agreeable noise.
(In his dreams, Jongdae thinks that Kyungsoo might have been an agent like him--or someone in a different division, from the Multilateral Affairs Division to do the cleanup work. Cauterizing loose ends.) He passes him ornaments to nestle into boxes layered with newspaper, Kyungsoo’s careful hands steady as a surgeon’s despite the obvious plasticity of the little baubles. “Sehun, a seasonal worker here--he’s a good friend of Jongin’s--he broke a good majority of the glass ones by accident last year,” Kyungsoo says by way of explanation.
“Ah. This is the Sehun who blunted your fillet knife?”
“Yeah. That’s him.” Kyungsoo scowls at the memory. “Bled all over the counter, too.”
“I’m sure he means well,” Jongdae soothes, watching Kyungsoo relax his death-grip on a novelty ornament. “Joonmyun-hyung wouldn’t let him keep coming back if he didn’t.” He thinks he can hear Kyungsoo mutter something about blindness, but he waves it away and continues to box up the coils of Christmas lights. “Come on, let’s see if we can’t finish this by the time Jongin finishes making lunch.”
He has nightmares after the New Year about receiving a message with a familiar Ministry letterhead and watermark. Addressed to him, maybe Jongin handing over the envelope with politely-hidden curiosity as he reads:
Agent CHEN [status: REACTIVATED]
Your last assignment’s relevancy has become unique to the Bureau. The Multilateral Affairs Division has a 48-hour activation period. Relevant data on the acquisition of listed property needed...
After the fifth time his dream-self reads the letter--Kyungsoo hands him the letter, Baekhyun ribs him about the contents, Chanyeol passing the envelope over and leaving a hint of dark machine oil printed on the paper--Jongdae wakes in a cold sweat, rubbing at his eyes. He doesn’t sleep again, instead choosing to wander into the kitchen and boil corn and barley tea on the stovetop.
“Can’t sleep?” Joonmyun’s voice is quiet, barely rising above the sound of the warming kettle. He fishes his own cup from the cabinet and sits next to Jongdae at the table, shoulders brushing as they sit companionably, waiting for water to boil.
“Yeah. I had … a weird dream.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Jongdae watches Joonmyun wrap his fingers around an empty cup. “I mean, you don’t have to. But friends ask after each other, and stuff.” He considers the weight of it, saying I was a corporate spy employed by the patent office, and the last company I investigated is due to go under. I burned the alias I knew best for it. The kettle starts to whistle.
Jongdae snags both cups from the table, long fingers careful to tug Joonmyun’s away from his hands, and pours the steaming tea. “I don’t know, it’s a pretty dumb thing.”
“Well, if you’re not sleeping over it, it clearly isn’t dumb.” Joonmyun looks earnest, and Jongdae can’t help but think about the way he’d look in a suit right now, honest eyes and honest air.
He sits back down in his seat, mirroring Joonmyun’s posture. The innate curiosity developed by the Ministry prods at his own memory, a question circling overhead--possible distraction, definitely crude, but still effective. “Hyung, why aren’t you in finance, too?” he blurts out.
Joonmyun looks down at the contents of his cup. Jongdae closes his eyes, the still night air outside somehow chilling him. He thinks about denying the question, about adding a you don’t have to answer that when Joonmyun goes beyond his expectations--again. “My brother,” he starts. “He’s very good at what he does. And we--my family has certain ideas about what their sons should do, and be--I lost something. Well, mostly everything: my immediate assets, my share of the inheritance, the weight of the family name. I was living in an apartment that went for 5,600,000KRW and I was homeless, you know?” He laughs--but Jongdae notes that the sound isn’t bitter at all. “My family had property holdings, but I wanted something that they couldn’t touch. So I asked a few friends to help me out. They found this place. I bought it with what I had left, and it’s been mine ever since.” The touch of wonder tinges his voice at the memory.
Jongdae sits in silence as Joonmyun sips on his tea, stunned at the ordinary elements of the story. He fits the pieces together rapidly, elder brother muscled him out of the market, cutthroat finance family and the scraps of his inheritance used to fund a house even the Cultural Heritage Administration didn’t care about--strength in character, still keeps a keen eye for business--I can’t lie to him. “I used to work for the patent office.”
“I know,” Joonmyun says, smiling. “You’re still a government employee.” The implication stops Jongdae in his tracks. “You don’t have to tell me everything because I told you something about me,” he adds. “After all, I trust you. We’re friends.”
Jongdae flounders. Joonmyun finishes his tea and pats him on the shoulder before putting his cup in the sink and going back to bed. Jongdae refills his cup and watches the sun rise.
Jongdae watches the last of the winter slush melt as he nibbles on spinach leaves, the sesame oil spreading flavor across his tongue. He can see the newspaper Joonmyun was reading earlier--the February headline describes a prominent Korean technology company under investigation for violation of patents and copyrights, new fiscal year doomed as stocks plummet--left out on the dining room table.
“Hey, woah, what’re you smiling at?” Chanyeol drapes a damp towel over his head, still-wet hair dripping water over the yoke of his work shirt. “Having a good morning already?”
“Yeah. Something like that.” Jongdae spoons rice out of the steamer and obliges Kyungsoo before he can ask for the kimchi plate. “I just have a feeling about the day, is all.”
Oh Sehun--DOB 140494--arrives on a March Thursday, when the house’s occupants are sharing a plate of dried fruit. Jongdae steals the last piece of persimmon in the distracted scuffle, Jongin practically flying off the porch shouting Sehun’s name.
He brings a guest, someone Jongdae doesn’t recognize but can place by description. “Hi, Luhan? Kim Jongdae. Nice to meet you.” Startled brown doe eyes and a flash of laughter later, they settle Luhan in Sehun’s old room and put him in with Jongin, who doesn’t stop smiling until the next day, when Joonmyun casually remarks that he needs a haircut.
“Woohoo! Take it off!” Baekhyun hoots, ducking Chanyeol’s attempts to kick him in the shins. The sun reflects off his plastic granny visor, casting a pink-tinted spectrum on the earth.
“But why are we at the beach? It’s barely April,” Kyungsoo sighs, lugging a cooler of food and glaring over his sunglasses at anyone brave enough to meet his eye. “I mean, Sehun realizes that our house overlooks the sea, right?”
“Let ‘em have their fun today, and you can keep them working until the summer.” They watch as Sehun and Jongdae run to the water, Sehun turning away at the last minute as Jongin runs into the sea. Chanyeol laughs so hard he cries, leaning against Jongdae for support.
It feels good to be home.
Author's note: title and cut from the frost poem ‘mending wall’. the MOTIE (ministry of trade, industry, and energy) is a real establishment--the other stuff is made up.
title: spring is the mischief in me
pairing: chenyeol
rating: pg
word count: ~5200
summary: Agent “Chen”, a corporate spy under the employ of the Intellectual Property Protection and International Cooperation Bureau, retires under the protection of the government. After years of learning how to lie, Kim Jongdae needs to learn how to tell the truth.
There’s a persistent knocking on the door.
Jongdae rolls over and squints at the clock face next to his bed: it cheerfully informs him that it’s a quarter to seven--and therefore entirely too early for visitors. Through the haze of exhaustion, he remembers submitting a report to the Ministry on the last case of his career, clipping his two weeks’ notice neatly to the folder.
He hauls himself to the door and squints through the peephole, only to see black suits, black ties, and white shirts. Friends from the office. Jongdae thanks God for a brief moment that they aren’t from the Multilateral Affairs Division and unlocks the door.
We accept your resignation, one of the suits informs him dispassionately. Jongdae steps back to let them pool into his house, the leader still talking. Report to the office tomorrow morning to receive your retirement package. We will have identity cards, your pension, and release forms for you there. As an afterthought, he adds: we appreciated your service.
In the business, it’s called “competitive intelligence.” Tortious interference. The rest of the world calls it by a simpler name: industrial espionage.
Jongdae is driven to the office, where he turns in a ring full of keys and three boxes of clothes. He knows they’ll be tagged for incineration within the week and squares his shoulders before handing in his badge. The seal of the ministry glints in the light--but he’s made up his mind. He doesn’t want to care about secrets, not like this, not anymore.
“We’ll drive you back home, of course,” the receptionist at the desk chirps, scanning in the badge. It occurs to him that Jongdae’s checked in past her desk for years, but never asked for her name. “It’ll be the Kia, I think.” Her expression is so effective Jongdae can feel himself grinning, too, in response to her picture-perfect office smile. He wonders how old she is.
The same suited man who’d knocked on his door drives him home. He doesn’t watch the car drive away, but unlocks the door to his designated apartment and waits for the his final debrief.
It’s really one thing to be a spy like a Bond movie, or those techno-thrillers he used to watch in college. What he is--was--sometimes doesn’t--didn’t--even count as spying: it’s really just a way of getting information that would be difficult to acquire otherwise. Just talking. He’s not into violence.
“You’ll remain Kim Jongdae, of course.” Another associate, whose badge identifies him as a currently employee of the General Affairs Division, stands in his living room with pressed grey trousers and a striped tie. Maybe they were co-workers.
Jongdae wears jeans and a T-shirt. “We’re assigning you to a town in on the coast under the Cultural Heritage Administration. You’ll be working to preserve the local sites--there’s a small hanok and a few buildings. Minor restoration, basic upkeep.”
“But I don’t know how to--”
“From what I understand,” his ersatz former-coworker interrupts smoothly, holding up a hand to pause his question. “You’ll be taught what you need to know. It’s an area very used to seasonal workers and, from the provided data, you will fit in just fine with this year’s crop. They’re about your age.”
Jongdae takes the statement just the way it was intended: a final evaluation, a character assessment.
It still feels like an assignment.
The train carriages are air-conditioned, seats with just enough space to provide the illusion of privacy in the open air. There’s a family of three near him, a single mother with two children, and the youngest daughter looks over at his seat with curious eyes. Jongdae waves. He settles in his chair, watching the scenery flow by. The mother chides her little girl quietly.
He closes his eyes and imagines it: the office had provided a package of identity cards, paperwork, and photographs of the locale. It looked sunny.
There were little dossiers of the people he’d be sharing the house with, too. Jongdae put them away at the bottom of his only suitcase.
“You’re Kim Jongdae?”
Whirling on his heel, Jongdae plasters on a smile and says, “Yes?” His voice pitches upward as he cranes his neck, staring up at a tanned stretch of jaw. “Uh.”
“Park Chanyeol. Hi.”
He can see a long line of even, white teeth gleaming somewhere in the stratosphere. Chanyeol’s dossier probably had his exact height; the precise color of his eyes and his top five favorite foods were probably there, too. “Air different up there?” Jongdae asks cheerfully, hefting his businessman’s suitcase. Chanyeol takes it from him with deft hands, brushing easily past him.
“S’clearer,” Chanyeol agrees. “Car’s this way.” Jongdae hurries to keep up until Chanyeol shortens his strides. “Hey, don’t strain yourself on my account.”
The second file in the packet is Park Chanyeol, age 28, DOB 271192.
Chanyeol makes for easy company, and Jongdae asks vague questions that open him up: what’s the area like? Good weather? How big is the house? He answers them cheerfully, going into enough detail about the house, its occupants, and the turbulent squalls that batter the town in the early summer evenings. Jongdae takes note about the way Chanyeol’s voice softens when describing Do Kyungsoo (file three, age 27, DOB 220193), resident beekeeper and begrudging cook, Kim Jongin (file five, age 26, DOB 140194), his soft-spoken sous chef. As they draw closer to town--home, Jongdae reminds himself--and shed the cityscape, he can feel himself relaxing.
“What’s our landlord like?”
Chanyeol snorts at the question. “He’s not much of one. Joonmyun-hyung is … around. He loves this place, I’ll tell you that. I met him, uh--nearly four years ago, wow. I was out of college, and he knew a friend of a friend. He likes magic tricks.”
Jongdae blinks. “What, like, to do?”
“Uh-huh. After a while, it’s not so bad. Don’t laugh at him outright when he forgets about the doves, though. I mean. It’s pretty funny, but laugh about it when he’s gone, okay?”
“Yeah. Of course.” A slow smile spreads across his face.
“Hey, you should smile more.” Blood: A type; prone to cheerfulness, embarrassing honesty. Perceptive, friendly.
Chanyeol drops him off at the driveway, a meandering dirt road leading to the distinctive roof of the hanok. Jongdae takes out his bags and lets the warm breeze hit him, taking deep breaths of the ocean air. The house is a cheerful, sprawling compound nestled against the hilly terrain. It looks exactly the way the pictures did: small clusters of fruit trees on the land, traditional roofing looking sun-bleached and the porch worn out from years of use.
It looks comfortable here, some scrap of country life clinging on to the earth. “Looks nice,” he comments. Chanyeol smiles proudly.
“Yeah, it does.”
The note of warmth stays with Jongdae while he watches Chanyeol shift the truck into reverse gear. His comment echoes in his head: you should smile more.
Jongdae hauls his suitcase up the dirt road and drops it at the foot of the porch stairs. The courtyard looks neat, as if someone swept it on a fairly regular basis--he likes the way the sunshine hits the area, groves of trees planted in neat rows and scenting the air with blossoms. “It gets really hot midday,” a soft voice comments. Jongdae covers his mouth to hide the yelp that escapes his throat, turning toward the source of his surprise. “Hello,” the soft-spoken man says solemnly. “I’m Do Kyungsoo. I’m supposed to be your guide today.”
“Kim Jongdae,” he manages, putting down his hands and offering one in a handshake. Kyungsoo has calluses on his hands. Birthplace: Seoul. Soft-spoken and reserved. Possibly anti-social. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too.” Kyungsoo indicates that Jongdae can pick up his bag, the professional black suitcase fabric already gathering dust. “Your room’s this way.” He slides a papered wooden door open and leads him into the house. Jongdae follows him inside as they escape the heat into the cooler interior; the low-ceilinged house makes him wonder how Chanyeol stays in the house. The brief image of Chanyeol relegated to outside lodgings, like a cartoon doghouse, makes him grin--Kyungsoo opens the door of a nondescript room and waits until Jongdae mentally catches up. “Here you are.”
“Here I am,” Jongdae agrees. “Thanks for showing me the, uh, space.” Kyungsoo sits in the silence and watches patiently as Jongdae puts down his suitcase on the floor of the room. “Is there more of the house?”
“Of course,” comes the brusque reply. “We’re just getting started with the day.”
“Right,” he says weakly. Kyungsoo’s eyes bore holes into his soul. He misses Chanyeol’s easygoing companionship already--or even the silent, professional calm of his old job. He can unpack later; Kyungsoo leads him outside again, to a wider courtyard that overlooks a low stone wall and the vast expanse of the sea. “Wow,” he breathes. “It’s really …” The water looks inviting, especially with the dead heat of the sun, but Kyungsoo doesn’t look bothered about it. The smell of fruit blossoms floats over and mingles with the scent of the ocean.
“We usually start working at about seven, so you’ll wake up at six. That’s when breakfast is, more or less. Uh. Sometimes it’s six-thirty, because it’s hard to get Jongin up at six. And then you have your assignments--we get repair requests in every few months, but since we’re at the end of that cycle all we have to do is just basic grounds maintenance. Weeding the garden, painting stuff. Any questions?”
“Do I need a uniform?” The question was meant to be a joke, but Kyungsoo ignores the cheeky tone with the impeccable timing of a bull aiming for red flag.
“No, we don’t have uniforms.”
“Um. Okay. Then thanks, I guess.”
“No problem.” A soft look dawns on Kyungsoo’s face--it lights up his entire body, drawing up his eyebrows and dissipating through his shoulders. He almost looks taller. “Joonmyun-hyung’s out of town until tomorrow, but when he gets back you’ll meet him. He runs the place.”
“That’d be nice. Thanks a lot for the tour.” Jongdae offers a tentative smile. “I’ll … Go unpack?”
“Yeah. You can do that. But watch out, since Baekhyun’s trying to fix the air conditioning.” Kyungsoo scowls at the idea. “If it gets hot in there, you should probably come outside. I don’t want to have to carry another body out to the sea.”
Jongdae stares.
“If you’re not dead, you and Baekhyun will get along like a house on fire. I’m joking. I’m joking,” Kyungsoo says without a hint of smile. Jongdae makes his way back to his room and considers opening the file on Do Kyungsoo, personality traits and possible weaknesses. He unfolds his clothes and shakes out the wrinkles from his shirts instead.
Jongdae meets Baekhyun--and true to Kyungsoo’s words, they do get along like a house on fire. A straw house on fire, at the rate Baekhyun and Jongdae have been exchanging jokes.
“City boy, go set the table.”
“Can’t find your own spoons, country hick?” Baekhyun flashes a smile with more teeth than mirth--Jongdae answers with his best but I’m innocent eyes and bats his lashes. Baekhyun’s raucous laughter rings in the tiny kitchen as Kyungsoo pushes both of them out, arms laden with dinnerware. Jongdae practically crashes his way through the tiny corridor, Baekhyun scampering down to set the table with familiar ease.
“‘scuse me,” a quiet voice mumbles. Jongdae stops in his tracks, eyes following the usual pattern--eye contact, slope of the shoulders, shuffling feet-- “Welcome to the house,” the boy says, face afire. “Very nice to meet you.” He tilts his head down to the ground, eyes shying away from Jongdae’s. For such a tall guy, he has remarkably poor posture.
Jongdae is charmed.
“It’s nice to meet you too, Jongin.” At his name, the boy’s head snaps up with surprise, posture suddenly cleaner than what it was before. “Chanyeol and Kyungsoo told me about you,” he adds cheekily. “Let’s be friends.”
“Jongin!” Kyungsoo shouts from the kitchen. “Dinner in an hour, let’s get going!”
“I have to go,” he mumbles, and turns away before Jongdae can say goodbye. He slouches toward the kitchen; Jongdae can hear sounds from both ends of the corridor, Baekhyun’s high-pitched cartoon character laughter and the mixed sounds of chatter from Kyungsoo and Jongin wafting out with the smell of freshly steamed rice. It sounds like home.
“So where d’you come from?” Chanyeol heads the gentle inquisition as he stuffs rice into his mouth. Kyungsoo snorts over his bowl of jjigae, chopsticks clacking over the shared plate of grilled mackerel as Jongin leans over with interest.
“Daejeon.”
It’s a multilayered truth. His birth certificate really does say so; that was one of the perks of his recruitment. “Oh, yeah? Where’d you work?” Baekhyun pokes at Jongdae’s bowl, spoon sneaking in a bite before Kyungsoo catches him and kicks him under the table.
“The patent office,” Jongdae says behind a mouthful of rice and soup.
“Paper pusher,” Baekhyun laughs.
They toast him at the end of the meal: toKim Jongdae, to new arrivals, to the creaky joints in the furniture, hey, speaking of creaky joints--to Kim Joonmyun, to the lovely house. Jongdae hasn’t heard his real name spoken aloud by friends in years; it’s almost like they’re toasting someone else. It feels nice.
“He’s home!” Chanyeol thunders his way across the seaside courtyard, abandoning his task of the hour and waving the bag of birdseed over his head. The seeds scatter like confetti as he shouts, “Joonmyun-hyung is home!”
“Chanyeol, put down the bird feed,” someone says behind him as Chanyeol takes the well-dressed man down with an enthusiastic tackle. Jongdae pauses sweeping the porch and watches as Joonmyun wheezes, Kyungsoo, get this giant idiot off me. The rest of the house gather next to Jongdae as they watch the little tableau, Baekhyun cheering Chanyeol on as Kyungsoo wrestles him away from their landlord while still wearing his beekeeping veil.
Jongin’s shoulders press warmly against Jongdae’s as they watch, Jongin’s arms crossed over his chest. “That’s him?” Jongdae asks under his breath. Kyungsoo trips Chanyeol with a well-placed foot and Joonmyun finally stands upright, dusting off his trousers.
“That’s Joonmyun-hyung.” Jongin’s voice is low, but Jongdae can read the look in his eyes--fondness, gentility. “He owns the house. I’ve been working here since the first winter break of my senior year.”
“Nice guy,” Jongdae ventures. Kyungsoo shoos Chanyeol back to the house as Jongdae winces at the sight of the courtyard--he’d have to sweep the entire area, at this rate.
“Hello,” Joonmyun greets. Jongdae forgets to fret about the birdseed. He extends a hand, the other still clutching the broom, with his usual businesslike shake.
“Kim Jongdae,” he replies, smile reaching to his eyes without much effort. “I’m your new recruit.”
“Well, work hard and we’ll make sure Kyungsoo doesn’t throw you in the ocean.” Jongdae laughs as Jongin opens the main doors to the house. Joonmyun ruffles Jongin’s hair--as he makes a mournful sound in answer--and exclaims, “Baekhyun, you fixed the air-con!”
“He did no such thing,” Chanyeol grumbles. “I did that. He just smeared grease over his face to make it look like he was doing any work.” Jongdae jostles Chanyeol once hearing the comment just to elicit a brilliant smile on that face.
Dinner with Joonmyun and the rest of the house becomes the thing most looked forward to in the next few weeks. Jongdae learns how to weed a garden and pick fruits from laden trees, to find the small, sound apples that he can crunch between his teeth before picking out the vegetables that Kyungsoo wants for dinner. “Pajeon,” he says by way of explanation. “So give me as many as you can.”
The green onion pancakes taste better with the food he’s grown. Jongdae shares a plate with Baekhyun at the kitchen table, fingers instead of chopsticks, as Jongin mumbles the rice to water ratio for a pot of mixed grains.
“Here, pick a card.” Joonmyun offers Jongdae a deck while he takes a break from watering the fruit groves. He considers the pack, the autumn sun beating down on his neck and the fanned-out cards in Joonmyun’s hand. He chooses one at random and keeps it as he watches the cards move.
“Hyung,” Jongdae says thoughtfully--carefully. “I was wondering … How did a young man like you find a house like this?”
“Well, thanks for calling me young.” The distinctive snap-slap of shuffling cards punctuates the joke. “I went into business after college.” He shrugs, cards moving deftly. “My brother’s also in finance. My family does a lot of that. But I liked this property, and the government wasn’t doing much for upkeep.” Joonmyun looks gentle--but his eyes say something else, something that strikes Jongdae as familiar. “So I made a deal with the devil,” he laughs. “That’s how I got this house.” With the flair of a practiced magician, Joonmyun flashes a single card before Jongdae’s eyes. “Now, sir--is this your card?”
The nine of clubs. Jongdae regretfully pulls out the two of hearts out of his pocket and remembers Chanyeol’s advice. He doesn’t laugh until he’s alone in the garden, picking carrots for Kyungsoo’s curry.
Jongin is the quietest person in the house--unless it’s movie night, when they’re all sprawled out in the television room. The late autumn chill makes them huddle under blankets and pillows brought out from their own rooms, the worn coverlet of Jongdae’s bedroom covering Baekhyun, Chanyeol, and himself. Joonmyun’s arms and shoulders receive most of the burden as Jongin laughs, claps, and punches his way through the movie. At the point where Mr Bean feeds his necktie into the vending machine, Joonmyun shifts--and Jongin hits Baekhyun instead.
(Which works out well for both parties in the end: Jongin expresses his laughter in the most natural way he knows, and Baekhyun gets to guilt him into making request-specific breakfasts for a week.)
The secrets in the house shout out after him--the way Jongin works in the kitchen and the gardens, the way Joonmyun’s eyes looked when he’d said, a deal with the devil--so Jongdae focuses on the movie and settles in away from the blanket and closer to Chanyeol’s warmth.
“Watch out!”
Something cold splatters down Jongdae’s neck, the elastic remnants of a water balloon shell stuck to his collar. Overhead, he can see a familiar silhouette shadowed by the noon sun. Squinting, he can just make out the face when someone shouts down at him an apology in Baekhyun’s voice.
“Hey, watch it, jackass!” Jongdae can hear Baekhyun’s signature cackle and can see the heavy drop of something else thrown from the window. He ducks for cover, sprinting to the house and tries to remember how hard it is to flee the country--a plan he’ll have to implement once he throws Baekhyun out the window.
“Kyungsoo-yah!” Baekhyun shouts from the window.
Time freezes after the telltale splash.
Jongdae can feel the incoming wave of vengeance storming toward the house. Sure enough, when he sees the familiar bowl-cut hair totally soaked and approaching his direction, Jongdae abandons his initial plan and points the door.
“Thanks,” Kyungsoo mutters, shivering from the cold. The outraged squawk from retribution hitting Baekhyun with the full force of a truck is music--Jongdae goes back to work with a satisfied smile on his face.
“Late night laundry?” Chanyeol’s voice intrudes first in the silence. Jongdae starts, minimizing his surprise quickly as Chanyeol brings in a small bag of clothes. “Machine grease,” he grimaces. “It’s a bitch to get out.”
“I think Baekhyun put something in those water balloons.” Jongdae holds up a shirt, the light blue fabric partially stained another color. “He deserves to die.”
“Yeah, well. Keep trying to think of something that Kyungsoo hasn’t tried.” There’s a streak of engine oil across the front of Chanyeol’s shirt, the splatter of a late-night project evidenced on his fingers. He stuffs his clothes into the washer, Jongdae watching the easy lines of his arms. He focuses his attention back to his own stuff again until Chanyeol drapes himself over Jongdae’s shoulder, torso hunching down to wrap him in a hug. “How ya doin’?
“Get off me,” he laughs, and winces when he realizes the oil on Chanyeol’s clothes smears across his own shirt. “You did that just to get my clothes off,” he says, but it’s with a smile.
“Sure did.” White teeth, angled jaw--the same sight he saw at the airport. The washer drum clunks rhythmically. Park Chanyeol, elder sister: one; five years old, learnt to play his first instrument. Musically inclined, mediocre songwriter, terrible sense of clothes that belie a natural way of fitting in. Strong element of confidence. The notes culled from the time he spent with Chanyeol weigh on him, the sensation of prying something personal out of someone a familiar feeling--but Jongdae jerks away at the last moment, Chanyeol’s warm smile briefly freezing as he turns away. He grabs his laundry and scurries out of the room.
Jongdae folds his clothes on autopilot; he pushes the heavy wooden drawers shut and makes his way outside, the heady air of the house dissipating in the chilly air. The faint sounds of the night make a gentle soundtrack.
“They’re narrow-mouthed frogs.” Chanyeol looks apologetic and small, folding himself next to Jongdae on the porch. “The males make one kind of noise, the females make another. That’s how they find each other.”
“I thought they all made the one noise.” Jongdae looks surprised. “That’s kind of cool.”
“You think I’m cool?”
“No, jerk, I think the fact about the frogs is cool. You’re still a dope.” But Chanyeol’s grinning, because Jongdae’s grinning, too--and the early winter night is almost like summer again. The hour passes by without words, and Chanyeol goes to collect his laundry. Jongdae goes to bed.
A deal with the devil, Joonmyun had said all those months ago. Kim Joonmyun, business degree, finance family with a concentration in real estate, confident and personable, amiable to most, possibly a huge sentimental romantic. Usually inspires loyalty, despite his corny attitude. The secret of this house is--
Jongdae dreams in the middle of winter, a conversation between himself and the occupants of the house. It feels like he’s standing in court, and the naked truth tries to rip out of him, saying I used to find secrets for a living. I think I talk to you guys because I can’t break the habit. He wakes up in a cold sweat in the early pre-dawn hour, hands reaching out for dossiers he hasn’t looked at and intelligence he can’t file.
In the morning, the wind chimes jingle.
Christmas is a busy affair; Kyungsoo decorates the living room while Jongin and Chanyeol hand out cheerful cards. They’re all from the same pack of holiday-themed greeting cards that Baekhyun purchased last year. Jongdae receives one with two birds and a snowman, with Jongin’s handwriting scrawled over the envelope and Chanyeol’s holiday message.
He keeps it flat on the table in his room, tucked in between books and magazines like a secret. Jongdae wears layers of sweatshirts as he jostles for space on the laden dining table between Joonmyun and Jongin, with Baekhyun and Kyungsoo across.
They close the estate down for the holiday, Jongdae sweeping snow off the sidewalks until Kyungsoo comes to get him. Joonmyun piles gifts underneath the plastic evergreen, one for each worker, and Jongdae selects his mittens and scarf set first, the last sheen of his newness wearing away.
Kyungsoo’s secret is the most obvious one: he doesn’t have any at all. Jongdae likes that about him, the fact that he’s exactly what he appears to be. As they tidy up the decorations and carefully wind up the Christmas lights, Jongdae chats at Kyungsoo while he makes nods and the occasional agreeable noise.
(In his dreams, Jongdae thinks that Kyungsoo might have been an agent like him--or someone in a different division, from the Multilateral Affairs Division to do the cleanup work. Cauterizing loose ends.) He passes him ornaments to nestle into boxes layered with newspaper, Kyungsoo’s careful hands steady as a surgeon’s despite the obvious plasticity of the little baubles. “Sehun, a seasonal worker here--he’s a good friend of Jongin’s--he broke a good majority of the glass ones by accident last year,” Kyungsoo says by way of explanation.
“Ah. This is the Sehun who blunted your fillet knife?”
“Yeah. That’s him.” Kyungsoo scowls at the memory. “Bled all over the counter, too.”
“I’m sure he means well,” Jongdae soothes, watching Kyungsoo relax his death-grip on a novelty ornament. “Joonmyun-hyung wouldn’t let him keep coming back if he didn’t.” He thinks he can hear Kyungsoo mutter something about blindness, but he waves it away and continues to box up the coils of Christmas lights. “Come on, let’s see if we can’t finish this by the time Jongin finishes making lunch.”
He has nightmares after the New Year about receiving a message with a familiar Ministry letterhead and watermark. Addressed to him, maybe Jongin handing over the envelope with politely-hidden curiosity as he reads:
Agent CHEN [status: REACTIVATED]
Your last assignment’s relevancy has become unique to the Bureau. The Multilateral Affairs Division has a 48-hour activation period. Relevant data on the acquisition of listed property needed...
After the fifth time his dream-self reads the letter--Kyungsoo hands him the letter, Baekhyun ribs him about the contents, Chanyeol passing the envelope over and leaving a hint of dark machine oil printed on the paper--Jongdae wakes in a cold sweat, rubbing at his eyes. He doesn’t sleep again, instead choosing to wander into the kitchen and boil corn and barley tea on the stovetop.
“Can’t sleep?” Joonmyun’s voice is quiet, barely rising above the sound of the warming kettle. He fishes his own cup from the cabinet and sits next to Jongdae at the table, shoulders brushing as they sit companionably, waiting for water to boil.
“Yeah. I had … a weird dream.”
“Wanna talk about it?” Jongdae watches Joonmyun wrap his fingers around an empty cup. “I mean, you don’t have to. But friends ask after each other, and stuff.” He considers the weight of it, saying I was a corporate spy employed by the patent office, and the last company I investigated is due to go under. I burned the alias I knew best for it. The kettle starts to whistle.
Jongdae snags both cups from the table, long fingers careful to tug Joonmyun’s away from his hands, and pours the steaming tea. “I don’t know, it’s a pretty dumb thing.”
“Well, if you’re not sleeping over it, it clearly isn’t dumb.” Joonmyun looks earnest, and Jongdae can’t help but think about the way he’d look in a suit right now, honest eyes and honest air.
He sits back down in his seat, mirroring Joonmyun’s posture. The innate curiosity developed by the Ministry prods at his own memory, a question circling overhead--possible distraction, definitely crude, but still effective. “Hyung, why aren’t you in finance, too?” he blurts out.
Joonmyun looks down at the contents of his cup. Jongdae closes his eyes, the still night air outside somehow chilling him. He thinks about denying the question, about adding a you don’t have to answer that when Joonmyun goes beyond his expectations--again. “My brother,” he starts. “He’s very good at what he does. And we--my family has certain ideas about what their sons should do, and be--I lost something. Well, mostly everything: my immediate assets, my share of the inheritance, the weight of the family name. I was living in an apartment that went for 5,600,000KRW and I was homeless, you know?” He laughs--but Jongdae notes that the sound isn’t bitter at all. “My family had property holdings, but I wanted something that they couldn’t touch. So I asked a few friends to help me out. They found this place. I bought it with what I had left, and it’s been mine ever since.” The touch of wonder tinges his voice at the memory.
Jongdae sits in silence as Joonmyun sips on his tea, stunned at the ordinary elements of the story. He fits the pieces together rapidly, elder brother muscled him out of the market, cutthroat finance family and the scraps of his inheritance used to fund a house even the Cultural Heritage Administration didn’t care about--strength in character, still keeps a keen eye for business--I can’t lie to him. “I used to work for the patent office.”
“I know,” Joonmyun says, smiling. “You’re still a government employee.” The implication stops Jongdae in his tracks. “You don’t have to tell me everything because I told you something about me,” he adds. “After all, I trust you. We’re friends.”
Jongdae flounders. Joonmyun finishes his tea and pats him on the shoulder before putting his cup in the sink and going back to bed. Jongdae refills his cup and watches the sun rise.
Jongdae watches the last of the winter slush melt as he nibbles on spinach leaves, the sesame oil spreading flavor across his tongue. He can see the newspaper Joonmyun was reading earlier--the February headline describes a prominent Korean technology company under investigation for violation of patents and copyrights, new fiscal year doomed as stocks plummet--left out on the dining room table.
“Hey, woah, what’re you smiling at?” Chanyeol drapes a damp towel over his head, still-wet hair dripping water over the yoke of his work shirt. “Having a good morning already?”
“Yeah. Something like that.” Jongdae spoons rice out of the steamer and obliges Kyungsoo before he can ask for the kimchi plate. “I just have a feeling about the day, is all.”
Oh Sehun--DOB 140494--arrives on a March Thursday, when the house’s occupants are sharing a plate of dried fruit. Jongdae steals the last piece of persimmon in the distracted scuffle, Jongin practically flying off the porch shouting Sehun’s name.
He brings a guest, someone Jongdae doesn’t recognize but can place by description. “Hi, Luhan? Kim Jongdae. Nice to meet you.” Startled brown doe eyes and a flash of laughter later, they settle Luhan in Sehun’s old room and put him in with Jongin, who doesn’t stop smiling until the next day, when Joonmyun casually remarks that he needs a haircut.
“Woohoo! Take it off!” Baekhyun hoots, ducking Chanyeol’s attempts to kick him in the shins. The sun reflects off his plastic granny visor, casting a pink-tinted spectrum on the earth.
“But why are we at the beach? It’s barely April,” Kyungsoo sighs, lugging a cooler of food and glaring over his sunglasses at anyone brave enough to meet his eye. “I mean, Sehun realizes that our house overlooks the sea, right?”
“Let ‘em have their fun today, and you can keep them working until the summer.” They watch as Sehun and Jongdae run to the water, Sehun turning away at the last minute as Jongin runs into the sea. Chanyeol laughs so hard he cries, leaning against Jongdae for support.
It feels good to be home.
Author's note: title and cut from the frost poem ‘mending wall’. the MOTIE (ministry of trade, industry, and energy) is a real establishment--the other stuff is made up.