13; b1a4; commonplace love letters
commonplace love letters | r for depictions of murder, violence, death
cnu/sandeul
4k words
oneshot
for errant_evermore @ b1a4ss, original post here.
do murder victims really write the name of the killer in their own blood as they die? hmm.
Nothing is written about how he wants attention, or how he knows that he already has the eyes of the only person who matters. It’s just about a murderer and an escape.
Sprawled on the couch, Junghwan mumbles out a random tune and turns to the window. Spring days at twelve o’clock are like small previews of summer, comfortably warm and lazy, but not nearly as fun. “I’m bored.”
Eyes still trained on his book, Dongwoo puts on an amused smile. “Get a new hobby?”
In response, Junghwan hums, but then his eyes widen and slowly, slowly, he starts to smile. He sits up, throws his arms around Dongwoo’s shoulders, then says into the other man’s shirt, “Good idea!”
Dongwoo buries a hand in Junghwan’s hair, fondly ruffling it this way and that, still halfway through reading a line. “Holmes,” I said in a whisper, “a child has done this horrid thing!”
He tells himself not to flinch when Junghwan looks up, the other man’s eyes bright and affectionate and sharp like razor blades.
commonplace love letters
Inside a café, past one of its winter-frosted windows, Dongwoo spots a familiar face seated on one of the tables. It’s his rarely-seen neighbor, once-best friend, once-classmate Jinyoung, the edges of his face more defined than they were in college. Although Dongwoo can think of many other things to do, something about the changed, weary lines that make up Jinyoung, slouched, relaxed curve of spine but sharp horizontals and diagonals, makes Dongwoo approach with a wave and a smile.
To his relief, Jinyoung smiles back right away and beckons Dongwoo closer, so Dongwoo does.
It turns out that Jinyoung is waiting for someone who he supposedly has business to discuss with, but Dongwoo only smiles because who ever believes that? Jinyoung laughs back, and then they fall into a conversation as easily as they always used to, with Dongwoo largely listening and Jinyoung doing most of the talking. He describes his trip to Japan in words only an English major dropout like him can use, simple and lyrical and rich, but Dongwoo already knows that side of the other man. He’s more amazed by how an English major dropout living alone managed to go abroad in the first place.
Jinyoung smiles once Dongwoo asks, but when the door of the café opens, he turns to look, and Dongwoo files away the topic for another time.
Not a second later, someone new is bounding over to the table, words as lively as his steps. “Jinyoung!” he calls with a bright, sheepish smile. “Sorry, got held up-you know, the usual.”
“It's alright,” Jinyoung replies, waving a hand in dismissal. He turns to face Dongwoo, probably about to introduce him, but Dongwoo thinks faster and has already slung his bag on his shoulder, facing the door and about to make his exit. Dongwoo looks over his shoulder just in time to see Jinyoung make a face at him, and he chuckles in reply, raising a hand to wave.
But suddenly there’s someone else’s hand on Dongwoo's wrist, bare, no gloves in this weather. Cold fingers, and a voice that says, “Ah, at least-” along with a slightly tightening grip. Dongwoo makes a proper turn around to see a smile. “I'm Park Sandeul.”
So Dongwoo gives a smile back. “Shin Dongwoo.”
Sandeul's eyes slightly widen and nearly seem to sparkle, and it's only two months later when Dongwoo-
Two months later, the murders begin.
One month before that, Sandeul becomes Dongwoo's roommate.
Dongwoo doesn't quite remember how Jinyoung had managed to convince him to let a stranger live in his house for a while. Something about Jinyoung leaving the country for a while, and Sandeul being fresh from the countryside. Something about how Dongwoo would've felt guilty anyway until he accepted, Jinyoung says with a laugh. (How does Jinyoung still mess around with him like this?) But either way, Sandeul is under Dongwoo's care, learning how to live in the city, and Dongwoo has to admit: Sandeul learns fast and acclimates very, very quickly.
For example,
“Told you this street's really crowded at this hour, Dongwoo.”
and
“Uh oh, Dongwoo, the trash! Garbage truck will pass by in a few minutes,”
and
“Dongwoo?”
“Yeah?”
With puppy eyes and a pizza delivery flyer, “Please?”
“Ah, just because you're younger...” But Dongwoo does it anyway.
And although Dongwoo works full time in the library and Sandeul's work consists only of chores, Dongwoo doesn't have the heart to even be remotely burdened and Sandeul pays back with company, smiles, and those same glittering eyes always there, watching and laughing.
Those eyes are still watching when they learn about the second murder, the laughter in them more subdued but still there. Would subdued be the right word? Dongwoo’s not sure. He’s not sure about a lot of things, nowadays, like what he thinks of Sandeul’s presence in his house.
The murders so far have yet to stray far from the city, and they’re all equally theatrical, done with a pattern. There is always a cavity in the chest, a heart julienned like a carrot, and a page ripped out from one of the books from the local library. Always a line highlighted, like today’s vaguely romantic one lifted from Gide’s Autumn Leaves: “It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.”
Dongwoo is one of the first suspects, if only because he works at the library and the last murder was at the alley right next to it, but he always has an alibi, and he is definitely innocent. They even let him search through the archives to help with chasing leads. No one’s borrowed the book in the past two months, though, so no lead there.
“Let’s go eat already, Dongwoo,” Sandeul says, tugging on the other man’s sleeve. “I’m hungry.”
Dongwoo wrinkles his nose and thrusts his fists into his jacket pockets deeper, says goodbye to the library’s part-timer Chansik as the investigator on duty finally lets them leave the building. The smell of blood is laced everywhere into the library’s air, his appetite’s been murdered, and he can’t help a shiver when he remembers the letter written on the back of the torn page, color a dried brown-an O, the second letter, after a D.
D - O.
It’s too easy to jump to conclusions, but Dongwoo doesn’t because that’s just too much.
From the new cake shop down the street, they buy one of those taste tester boxes, with the small slices from almost each flavour of cake inside. Sandeul asks to try one the moment Dongwoo’s fingertips come in contact with the box’s handles, so Dongwoo complies, and Sandeul chirps an expression of gratitude once the strawberry shortcake piece is in his hands.
The color of the strawberries reminds Dongwoo of the blood that was all over the concrete, and he sighs, exasperated, but somewhat amused. “How can you eat after seeing a murder?”
Sandeul smiles, a small strawberry seed sticking to one of his front teeth. “This is this, that is that.” And then he takes another bite, not trying to be dainty. There’s a crinkle in the corners of his eyes that can only be a subdued laugh-or no, not subdued. Maybe suppressed, because it conveys the urgency and rush in his blown pupils better.
Something like an alarm clock rings in the back of Dongwoo’s mind, but he hushes the warning quickly. First guesses occasionally screw up, too. His first guess can’t be right.
N is for not being able to get anything done once he hears about the third murder.
It’s an exact whole week after the second, like how the second was a week after the first. Another part of the pattern. The differences in the situation this time around are that the location is the alley behind the cake shop and that murdered person is a lady named Soojung, her body arranged a bit more respectfully against the wall. This is just a slight difference from the male victims whose limbs were sprawled on the floor, but there is something about this that seems to say conscience and guilt instead of some kind of gender bias.
Or maybe this is just something his own brain came up with to fill in the blanks, because it can’t possibly be more than a coincidence that Soojung was the one manning the cake shop when they dropped by.
The quote this time around is from the ninth volume of Neil Gaiman’s Sandman, tone a bit more pained than the last. “Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.” It might mean something, but maybe little more than a horrible sense of humor, considering the state the victims are always in.
The reason Dongwoo can’t get anything done after he learns about the third murder from Sandeul is because “Where do you get all this information?”
Sandeul looks up from his instant ramen and answers, lips paused on the edge of his cup, “Ah, well, I made a friend who happens to be in the police, so.” He grins briefly before returning focus to his food, slurping up the soup.
N is also the third letter in the series. D - O - N, so far.
Dongwoo falls silent, because. Because something’s weird. Maybe the letters are weird. Maybe it’s because a policeman friend is too convenient, or maybe it’s just Dongwoo himself, mind racing and overreacting because he’s not used to the idea of Sandeul having a friend who isn’t him. It feels like Sandeul’s just here with him all the time.
(It takes him a while to finally, fully understand that Sandeul being with him all of the time has never been true.
By then, it’s too late.)
“You know,” Dongwoo says over dinner, munching on takeout noodles. “I’m not really feeling the murders, for some reason.”
There’s a momentary pause, and then Sandeul makes an exaggerated, disbelieving face, turning away from the television so fast that his hair fluffs momentarily. “Eh?! How can you not?” His chopsticks open and point accusingly at Dongwoo, noodles wound around them almost falling to the table. “They’re really gross! And creepy. The murderer’s somewhere in this city, too.”
“Ah, no, I mean.” Dongwoo swallows his bite, then readies another as he speaks. “It’s scary, yeah, but it’s like… trying too hard to be noticed? Chopped-up heart, prose straight from the library’s books, and then spelling out letters.” He brings another bite to his lips and chews, thinking.
Sandeul swallows his own bite and watches silently, chin resting on his palm and chopsticks opening-closing like scissors.
“This is gonna sound kinda morbid,” Dongwoo warns with a small smile, and he continues speaking when Sandeul nods back. “But it’s a bit like writing; more is less, unless you’re doing things for a reason. There has to be meaning.” He lets go of his chopsticks and reaches for his can of soda. “Don’t draw things out if you don’t have to, and there has to be something your readers can sympathize with. Something close to them, relatable, since expressing something relies on empathy.”
But Sandeul only laughs. “You put writing metaphors into everything, Dongwoo!” he says fondly, “Like that time when you said people should try to constantly ‘revise’ themselves. How do you do that?”
“Eh, it’s more poetic than just flat out saying ‘change’, right?” Dongwoo replies, words light with a rather unsure kind of amusement. “Like, people should seek to ‘change’ themselves before changing the others. Revision. You don’t revise your readers.”
“Sheesh, you’re so inspired today.” Sandeul pokes him as he answers, lips curled in a smile. “Is it because of the murders? Weird.”
G is for medical student Gong Chansik, who used to work part-time at the library and spent the rest of the time studying, or making conversation, or making friends.
The worst thing about finding him is the slow recognition that sinks in like chillingly-cold fangs, and the fact that Dongwoo had been ignoring the lingering smell of blood, thinking that it was just his mind playing with memories of the last murder. This particular alley-and it seems alleys are part of the pattern too-is too close to Dongwoo’s home and safe zone, too close right now, too fresh and untouched and raw with the fact that, aside from him, it seems no one else has seen this.
He swallows a violent shiver, wondering if any place is safe at all.
Chansik’s medical textbooks are torn into pieces around him, except for a single page on hearts. There’s no highlighted line, but there’s an encircled illustration of a cross-section, next to it a messy real life replica.
No letter on the back of the page this time, though. Instead, an entire sentence,
I L O V E Y O U
in messy, blotchy red, and right below, as if written caringly with the tip of a brush,
i love you.
A few beats later, Sandeul arrives with plastic bag of cola and chips from the convenience store, which is the same store Chansik’s body is leaned against. The way Chansik looks, the way his hair falls against his pale face and his hands are flat against his lap, is too peaceful, and Dongwoo presses his hands into his eyes because there is too much blood and he can’t imagine, ever, ever, what it must have been like. Too close. Too close.
Sandeul holds tight onto the sleeve of Dongwoo’s jacket, plastic bag forgotten at his feet, and his face scrunches up as he cries, as if mad and frustrated and as confused as Dongwoo is now.
This is the part where Dongwoo is a hypocrite because, although he genuinely doesn’t understand all the killing, he doesn’t want to understand why he’s telling this to Sandeul, of all people. Sandeul, who is thoughtful and smiling and hungry all the time, looking for food at the end of each conversation. Dongwoo beats around a bush he said had to be cut down.
“I don’t understand murderers,” he says, appetite for instant noodles dead again as he watches the report on the television about the fourth murder. Chansik always joked about appearing on TV as a singer; at least he got the first part down. If you are doing this-and Dongwoo hopes that his first guess is wrong-then why are you doing it?
Sandeul looks at the television too, and then his face scrunches up again, just as it did in that alley, but with no tears or snot running down his nose. “Well, like you said, there has to be a reason. Not that having one makes it right, but it’s just…” He stares into his noodles like they have the answer. “It’s just how people work?”
Dongwoo feels like he’s about to go mad, since there are too many questions and his brain is taking too many convoluted routes to a single answer that might even be wrong. He beats around a bush he said had to be cut down because he’s not sure if he wants to know what’s on the other side, yet. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand them.”
Dongwoo practically locks himself inside his room for the next few days, taking advantage of all this turmoil so he has words to put onto his laptop’s screen. He’s always, only read until now, and never actually tried to write something of his own-maybe this is a good time to start.
He bans Sandeul from entering his room under the pretense of Dongwoo needing complete silence for concentration. Half-true, at least, because whenever Sandeul is around, Dongwoo’s heart starts to beat like a large, noisy ball bouncing anxiously against his ribs. The only communication Dongwoo allows during this period of time is an exchange of written notes, which pass between them through the crack beneath the door.
how are you? Sandeul asks, tentative, on the neat, small square of a post-it.
I’m alright, Dongwoo answers on its back, ignoring all the bits of dust that have stuck onto the post-it’s adhesive strip.
Then on the back of a receipt from a convenience store, is there any way i can help you?
To which Dongwoo writes a reply right below, No, I’m fine. You don’t have to.
but i want to.
Dongwoo writes his reply on a newly-unfolded paper crane that used to sit on his table. Thanks. I really appreciate it.
He doesn’t get a reply for several hours, but when he goes outside to check if the paper’s still there, it no longer is. The thought of Sandeul instead opting to keep the piece of paper makes him smile.
Then he remembers that he has no idea what Sandeul is doing during these several hours.
A few unrevised chapters later, he checks again, and his breaths lump into his throat when he sees a torn page lying at the foot of his door. Something breaks, like a discordant violin string.
In Sandeul’s handwriting, i want to tell you my real name
Then below it, a passage where a single line is highlighted and a certain phrase is encircled-“I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of daily life.”
Then neatly written in pencil, my real name is junghwan.
Breakfast the next day is quiet, and the quiet is fragile. The television is turned off and there are no cars passing by, no tires or bustle, because it’s three-thirty in the morning. (It seems neither of them got to sleep.)
Dongwoo has his spoon still submerged under his cereal when he speaks, words trying to be conversational. “I hope the murders stop.”
The way Sandeul-
The way Junghwan looks up, eyes watchful and all the laughter replaced by something like fear, makes Dongwoo feel. It’s close. Relatable. After a paused moment, he stands to reach for the remote and says, “After this.” He swallows. “They will, after this.”
And then he turns the television on.
W is for the policeman who was working and on his shift when he was killed. He’s been long suspected of giving out sensitive information, but now that he’s dead, the rest of the city believes that no one will ever know what went on.
“Please, don’t…” Junghwan looks at him, arms limp against his sides. “You can hate me, but please don’t leave me alone.”
This is the murderer.
W is for Dongwoo’s wish, which he hopes will be granted but can only be if there is one compromise. After this, just one, no more.
Dongwoo takes a breath to steady himself. Then he stands up, brushes a hand against Junghwan’s hair, down to the back of his neck, down to feel his spine as Dongwoo holds Junghwan close. He takes another breath, tired. “I won’t.”
A week later, a day past that, the day after, and Dongwoo is reassured. Definitely no more.
Junghwan is still there, eyes as they’ve always been, but the laughter that slowly starts to return is more sincere than before. Dongwoo is always thankful.
Jinyoung returns to Korea from his trip abroad, coat worn and tired, eyes narrowed, voice cheery as he greets, “How’ve you guys been?” He gives Dongwoo a pat on the shoulder, then gives Junghwan a chuckle and a hi-five when the other man raises his palm out for one. “Heard about the serial murders while I was gone.”
Jinyoung toes off his shoes as he shuts and locks the door of the apartment, and Dongwoo’s blood freezes into icicles right in his skin.
“I was careful,” Junghwan says, slight pout reminiscent of a puppy’s.
“Well, since you’re still alive, I guess you were,” he says with an impish smile. Junghwan gives him a joking, light slap on his shoulder, to which Jinyoung retaliates with a threat of a forehead flick, and they start a small game of chase which ends with Junghwan cornered against the wall, laughing while Jinyoung looms over him.
Dongwoo takes a step forward just as Jinyoung shakes his hand, loosening up his fingers-
A knife slides out from Jinyoung’s sleeve, slipping into his grip and then stabbing straight through Junghwan’s hand, pinning him to the wall.
Junghwan’s face cracks into a panicked, muffled yell, eyes wide and shaking frantically while the rest of him is frozen.
“Were you trying to leave behind a bit of mess for the rest of us to pick up after?” Jinyoung says, fingers still tight around the knife’s handle. He gives the blade a slight tilt, and Junghwan’s face scrunches up, this time from a drawn-out scream that no one hears. “Not a really good idea of a parting gift. I even went abroad to drop by our other branches, to see if there was someone skilled enough willing to take your place.” He yanks the knife from the wall then stabs it down onto the carpet, Junghwan getting pulled along with it and gritting his teeth. “No other job in the world is going to let you kill like this. Isn't that what you wanted?”
When Junghwan looks up, eyes glazed over from all the pain and breaths forcing themselves out in barely-controlled bursts, his gaze meets Dongwoo’s and Dongwoo realizes that he has to help, has to give back somehow, for all that Junghwan has ever-
He grabs Jinyoung’s skull slams it against the wall, then twists the other man’s knife arm against his back. A moment falls by.
Then the knife slips from Jinyoung’s fingers as easily as it had slipped into them, and when Dongwoo lets go, Jinyoung just collapses into a boneless pile on the floor and Dongwoo realizes that there are two sprays of blood on his wall. Only one of them is Junghwan’s. The other one is at where Jinyoung’s head had met the plaster.
Junghwan has a white-knuckled hand applying pressure on his wound when he approaches, breaths still harsh as he kneels down. He pokes Jinyoung so roughly in his stomach that it’s almost a stab, and then he hovers a cautious ear above Jinyoung’s chest, looking for something that’s no longer there.
“He’s dead,” he says, leaning back.
O is for Jinyoung’s left eye, open in his death. The last O, the last letter, is his right eye.
So Dongwoo’s a murderer, too.
On the patterned side of some used, creased origami paper, a few specks of blood on one of its corners, is Junghwan’s shaky, painstaking handwriting. come with me?
Right below it, Dongwoo answers, Okay.
Then on a new sheet of paper, clean short bond halved crosswise, Dongwoo writes again. I love you too.
Sprawled on the couch, Junghwan mumbles out a random tune and turns to the window. Here in Iowa, spring days at twelve o’clock are like small previews of summer, comfortably warm and lazy, but not nearly as fun. “I’m bored.”
Eyes still trained on his book, Dongwoo puts on an amused smile. “Get a new hobby?”
In response, Junghwan hums, but then his eyes widen and slowly, slowly, he starts to smile. He sits up, throws his arms around Dongwoo’s shoulders, then says into the other man’s shirt, “Good idea!”
Dongwoo is careful not to hurt Junghwan’s bandaged hand as he buries a hand of his own in Junghwan’s hair, fondly ruffling it this way and that, still halfway through reading a line. “Holmes,” I said in a whisper, “a child has done this horrid thing!”
He tells himself not to flinch when Junghwan looks up, the other man’s eyes bright and affectionate and sharp like razor blades. Instead, he leans down, briefly brushes his lips against Junghwan’s, and hopes as he lets the younger man rest against Dongwoo’s collarbone. This is a new beginning, like the foreword of a novel with no prequel. No one has to know what came before, and now that they’ve started, this is how they’ll live. Always seeking refuge, maybe from each other. Maybe even in each other.
This is the escape.
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quite happy with how this one turned out! will be posting my sncj santa fic too, but not anytime soon. it's undergoing some very, very heavy revision.
thanks for reading! :) leave a comment?
cnu/sandeul
4k words
oneshot
for errant_evermore @ b1a4ss, original post here.
do murder victims really write the name of the killer in their own blood as they die? hmm.
Nothing is written about how he wants attention, or how he knows that he already has the eyes of the only person who matters. It’s just about a murderer and an escape.
Sprawled on the couch, Junghwan mumbles out a random tune and turns to the window. Spring days at twelve o’clock are like small previews of summer, comfortably warm and lazy, but not nearly as fun. “I’m bored.”
Eyes still trained on his book, Dongwoo puts on an amused smile. “Get a new hobby?”
In response, Junghwan hums, but then his eyes widen and slowly, slowly, he starts to smile. He sits up, throws his arms around Dongwoo’s shoulders, then says into the other man’s shirt, “Good idea!”
Dongwoo buries a hand in Junghwan’s hair, fondly ruffling it this way and that, still halfway through reading a line. “Holmes,” I said in a whisper, “a child has done this horrid thing!”
He tells himself not to flinch when Junghwan looks up, the other man’s eyes bright and affectionate and sharp like razor blades.
commonplace love letters
Inside a café, past one of its winter-frosted windows, Dongwoo spots a familiar face seated on one of the tables. It’s his rarely-seen neighbor, once-best friend, once-classmate Jinyoung, the edges of his face more defined than they were in college. Although Dongwoo can think of many other things to do, something about the changed, weary lines that make up Jinyoung, slouched, relaxed curve of spine but sharp horizontals and diagonals, makes Dongwoo approach with a wave and a smile.
To his relief, Jinyoung smiles back right away and beckons Dongwoo closer, so Dongwoo does.
It turns out that Jinyoung is waiting for someone who he supposedly has business to discuss with, but Dongwoo only smiles because who ever believes that? Jinyoung laughs back, and then they fall into a conversation as easily as they always used to, with Dongwoo largely listening and Jinyoung doing most of the talking. He describes his trip to Japan in words only an English major dropout like him can use, simple and lyrical and rich, but Dongwoo already knows that side of the other man. He’s more amazed by how an English major dropout living alone managed to go abroad in the first place.
Jinyoung smiles once Dongwoo asks, but when the door of the café opens, he turns to look, and Dongwoo files away the topic for another time.
Not a second later, someone new is bounding over to the table, words as lively as his steps. “Jinyoung!” he calls with a bright, sheepish smile. “Sorry, got held up-you know, the usual.”
“It's alright,” Jinyoung replies, waving a hand in dismissal. He turns to face Dongwoo, probably about to introduce him, but Dongwoo thinks faster and has already slung his bag on his shoulder, facing the door and about to make his exit. Dongwoo looks over his shoulder just in time to see Jinyoung make a face at him, and he chuckles in reply, raising a hand to wave.
But suddenly there’s someone else’s hand on Dongwoo's wrist, bare, no gloves in this weather. Cold fingers, and a voice that says, “Ah, at least-” along with a slightly tightening grip. Dongwoo makes a proper turn around to see a smile. “I'm Park Sandeul.”
So Dongwoo gives a smile back. “Shin Dongwoo.”
Sandeul's eyes slightly widen and nearly seem to sparkle, and it's only two months later when Dongwoo-
Two months later, the murders begin.
One month before that, Sandeul becomes Dongwoo's roommate.
Dongwoo doesn't quite remember how Jinyoung had managed to convince him to let a stranger live in his house for a while. Something about Jinyoung leaving the country for a while, and Sandeul being fresh from the countryside. Something about how Dongwoo would've felt guilty anyway until he accepted, Jinyoung says with a laugh. (How does Jinyoung still mess around with him like this?) But either way, Sandeul is under Dongwoo's care, learning how to live in the city, and Dongwoo has to admit: Sandeul learns fast and acclimates very, very quickly.
For example,
“Told you this street's really crowded at this hour, Dongwoo.”
and
“Uh oh, Dongwoo, the trash! Garbage truck will pass by in a few minutes,”
and
“Dongwoo?”
“Yeah?”
With puppy eyes and a pizza delivery flyer, “Please?”
“Ah, just because you're younger...” But Dongwoo does it anyway.
And although Dongwoo works full time in the library and Sandeul's work consists only of chores, Dongwoo doesn't have the heart to even be remotely burdened and Sandeul pays back with company, smiles, and those same glittering eyes always there, watching and laughing.
Those eyes are still watching when they learn about the second murder, the laughter in them more subdued but still there. Would subdued be the right word? Dongwoo’s not sure. He’s not sure about a lot of things, nowadays, like what he thinks of Sandeul’s presence in his house.
The murders so far have yet to stray far from the city, and they’re all equally theatrical, done with a pattern. There is always a cavity in the chest, a heart julienned like a carrot, and a page ripped out from one of the books from the local library. Always a line highlighted, like today’s vaguely romantic one lifted from Gide’s Autumn Leaves: “It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.”
Dongwoo is one of the first suspects, if only because he works at the library and the last murder was at the alley right next to it, but he always has an alibi, and he is definitely innocent. They even let him search through the archives to help with chasing leads. No one’s borrowed the book in the past two months, though, so no lead there.
“Let’s go eat already, Dongwoo,” Sandeul says, tugging on the other man’s sleeve. “I’m hungry.”
Dongwoo wrinkles his nose and thrusts his fists into his jacket pockets deeper, says goodbye to the library’s part-timer Chansik as the investigator on duty finally lets them leave the building. The smell of blood is laced everywhere into the library’s air, his appetite’s been murdered, and he can’t help a shiver when he remembers the letter written on the back of the torn page, color a dried brown-an O, the second letter, after a D.
D - O.
It’s too easy to jump to conclusions, but Dongwoo doesn’t because that’s just too much.
From the new cake shop down the street, they buy one of those taste tester boxes, with the small slices from almost each flavour of cake inside. Sandeul asks to try one the moment Dongwoo’s fingertips come in contact with the box’s handles, so Dongwoo complies, and Sandeul chirps an expression of gratitude once the strawberry shortcake piece is in his hands.
The color of the strawberries reminds Dongwoo of the blood that was all over the concrete, and he sighs, exasperated, but somewhat amused. “How can you eat after seeing a murder?”
Sandeul smiles, a small strawberry seed sticking to one of his front teeth. “This is this, that is that.” And then he takes another bite, not trying to be dainty. There’s a crinkle in the corners of his eyes that can only be a subdued laugh-or no, not subdued. Maybe suppressed, because it conveys the urgency and rush in his blown pupils better.
Something like an alarm clock rings in the back of Dongwoo’s mind, but he hushes the warning quickly. First guesses occasionally screw up, too. His first guess can’t be right.
N is for not being able to get anything done once he hears about the third murder.
It’s an exact whole week after the second, like how the second was a week after the first. Another part of the pattern. The differences in the situation this time around are that the location is the alley behind the cake shop and that murdered person is a lady named Soojung, her body arranged a bit more respectfully against the wall. This is just a slight difference from the male victims whose limbs were sprawled on the floor, but there is something about this that seems to say conscience and guilt instead of some kind of gender bias.
Or maybe this is just something his own brain came up with to fill in the blanks, because it can’t possibly be more than a coincidence that Soojung was the one manning the cake shop when they dropped by.
The quote this time around is from the ninth volume of Neil Gaiman’s Sandman, tone a bit more pained than the last. “Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.” It might mean something, but maybe little more than a horrible sense of humor, considering the state the victims are always in.
The reason Dongwoo can’t get anything done after he learns about the third murder from Sandeul is because “Where do you get all this information?”
Sandeul looks up from his instant ramen and answers, lips paused on the edge of his cup, “Ah, well, I made a friend who happens to be in the police, so.” He grins briefly before returning focus to his food, slurping up the soup.
N is also the third letter in the series. D - O - N, so far.
Dongwoo falls silent, because. Because something’s weird. Maybe the letters are weird. Maybe it’s because a policeman friend is too convenient, or maybe it’s just Dongwoo himself, mind racing and overreacting because he’s not used to the idea of Sandeul having a friend who isn’t him. It feels like Sandeul’s just here with him all the time.
(It takes him a while to finally, fully understand that Sandeul being with him all of the time has never been true.
By then, it’s too late.)
“You know,” Dongwoo says over dinner, munching on takeout noodles. “I’m not really feeling the murders, for some reason.”
There’s a momentary pause, and then Sandeul makes an exaggerated, disbelieving face, turning away from the television so fast that his hair fluffs momentarily. “Eh?! How can you not?” His chopsticks open and point accusingly at Dongwoo, noodles wound around them almost falling to the table. “They’re really gross! And creepy. The murderer’s somewhere in this city, too.”
“Ah, no, I mean.” Dongwoo swallows his bite, then readies another as he speaks. “It’s scary, yeah, but it’s like… trying too hard to be noticed? Chopped-up heart, prose straight from the library’s books, and then spelling out letters.” He brings another bite to his lips and chews, thinking.
Sandeul swallows his own bite and watches silently, chin resting on his palm and chopsticks opening-closing like scissors.
“This is gonna sound kinda morbid,” Dongwoo warns with a small smile, and he continues speaking when Sandeul nods back. “But it’s a bit like writing; more is less, unless you’re doing things for a reason. There has to be meaning.” He lets go of his chopsticks and reaches for his can of soda. “Don’t draw things out if you don’t have to, and there has to be something your readers can sympathize with. Something close to them, relatable, since expressing something relies on empathy.”
But Sandeul only laughs. “You put writing metaphors into everything, Dongwoo!” he says fondly, “Like that time when you said people should try to constantly ‘revise’ themselves. How do you do that?”
“Eh, it’s more poetic than just flat out saying ‘change’, right?” Dongwoo replies, words light with a rather unsure kind of amusement. “Like, people should seek to ‘change’ themselves before changing the others. Revision. You don’t revise your readers.”
“Sheesh, you’re so inspired today.” Sandeul pokes him as he answers, lips curled in a smile. “Is it because of the murders? Weird.”
G is for medical student Gong Chansik, who used to work part-time at the library and spent the rest of the time studying, or making conversation, or making friends.
The worst thing about finding him is the slow recognition that sinks in like chillingly-cold fangs, and the fact that Dongwoo had been ignoring the lingering smell of blood, thinking that it was just his mind playing with memories of the last murder. This particular alley-and it seems alleys are part of the pattern too-is too close to Dongwoo’s home and safe zone, too close right now, too fresh and untouched and raw with the fact that, aside from him, it seems no one else has seen this.
He swallows a violent shiver, wondering if any place is safe at all.
Chansik’s medical textbooks are torn into pieces around him, except for a single page on hearts. There’s no highlighted line, but there’s an encircled illustration of a cross-section, next to it a messy real life replica.
No letter on the back of the page this time, though. Instead, an entire sentence,
I L O V E Y O U
in messy, blotchy red, and right below, as if written caringly with the tip of a brush,
i love you.
A few beats later, Sandeul arrives with plastic bag of cola and chips from the convenience store, which is the same store Chansik’s body is leaned against. The way Chansik looks, the way his hair falls against his pale face and his hands are flat against his lap, is too peaceful, and Dongwoo presses his hands into his eyes because there is too much blood and he can’t imagine, ever, ever, what it must have been like. Too close. Too close.
Sandeul holds tight onto the sleeve of Dongwoo’s jacket, plastic bag forgotten at his feet, and his face scrunches up as he cries, as if mad and frustrated and as confused as Dongwoo is now.
This is the part where Dongwoo is a hypocrite because, although he genuinely doesn’t understand all the killing, he doesn’t want to understand why he’s telling this to Sandeul, of all people. Sandeul, who is thoughtful and smiling and hungry all the time, looking for food at the end of each conversation. Dongwoo beats around a bush he said had to be cut down.
“I don’t understand murderers,” he says, appetite for instant noodles dead again as he watches the report on the television about the fourth murder. Chansik always joked about appearing on TV as a singer; at least he got the first part down. If you are doing this-and Dongwoo hopes that his first guess is wrong-then why are you doing it?
Sandeul looks at the television too, and then his face scrunches up again, just as it did in that alley, but with no tears or snot running down his nose. “Well, like you said, there has to be a reason. Not that having one makes it right, but it’s just…” He stares into his noodles like they have the answer. “It’s just how people work?”
Dongwoo feels like he’s about to go mad, since there are too many questions and his brain is taking too many convoluted routes to a single answer that might even be wrong. He beats around a bush he said had to be cut down because he’s not sure if he wants to know what’s on the other side, yet. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand them.”
Dongwoo practically locks himself inside his room for the next few days, taking advantage of all this turmoil so he has words to put onto his laptop’s screen. He’s always, only read until now, and never actually tried to write something of his own-maybe this is a good time to start.
He bans Sandeul from entering his room under the pretense of Dongwoo needing complete silence for concentration. Half-true, at least, because whenever Sandeul is around, Dongwoo’s heart starts to beat like a large, noisy ball bouncing anxiously against his ribs. The only communication Dongwoo allows during this period of time is an exchange of written notes, which pass between them through the crack beneath the door.
how are you? Sandeul asks, tentative, on the neat, small square of a post-it.
I’m alright, Dongwoo answers on its back, ignoring all the bits of dust that have stuck onto the post-it’s adhesive strip.
Then on the back of a receipt from a convenience store, is there any way i can help you?
To which Dongwoo writes a reply right below, No, I’m fine. You don’t have to.
but i want to.
Dongwoo writes his reply on a newly-unfolded paper crane that used to sit on his table. Thanks. I really appreciate it.
He doesn’t get a reply for several hours, but when he goes outside to check if the paper’s still there, it no longer is. The thought of Sandeul instead opting to keep the piece of paper makes him smile.
Then he remembers that he has no idea what Sandeul is doing during these several hours.
A few unrevised chapters later, he checks again, and his breaths lump into his throat when he sees a torn page lying at the foot of his door. Something breaks, like a discordant violin string.
In Sandeul’s handwriting, i want to tell you my real name
Then below it, a passage where a single line is highlighted and a certain phrase is encircled-“I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of daily life.”
Then neatly written in pencil, my real name is junghwan.
Breakfast the next day is quiet, and the quiet is fragile. The television is turned off and there are no cars passing by, no tires or bustle, because it’s three-thirty in the morning. (It seems neither of them got to sleep.)
Dongwoo has his spoon still submerged under his cereal when he speaks, words trying to be conversational. “I hope the murders stop.”
The way Sandeul-
The way Junghwan looks up, eyes watchful and all the laughter replaced by something like fear, makes Dongwoo feel. It’s close. Relatable. After a paused moment, he stands to reach for the remote and says, “After this.” He swallows. “They will, after this.”
And then he turns the television on.
W is for the policeman who was working and on his shift when he was killed. He’s been long suspected of giving out sensitive information, but now that he’s dead, the rest of the city believes that no one will ever know what went on.
“Please, don’t…” Junghwan looks at him, arms limp against his sides. “You can hate me, but please don’t leave me alone.”
This is the murderer.
W is for Dongwoo’s wish, which he hopes will be granted but can only be if there is one compromise. After this, just one, no more.
Dongwoo takes a breath to steady himself. Then he stands up, brushes a hand against Junghwan’s hair, down to the back of his neck, down to feel his spine as Dongwoo holds Junghwan close. He takes another breath, tired. “I won’t.”
A week later, a day past that, the day after, and Dongwoo is reassured. Definitely no more.
Junghwan is still there, eyes as they’ve always been, but the laughter that slowly starts to return is more sincere than before. Dongwoo is always thankful.
Jinyoung returns to Korea from his trip abroad, coat worn and tired, eyes narrowed, voice cheery as he greets, “How’ve you guys been?” He gives Dongwoo a pat on the shoulder, then gives Junghwan a chuckle and a hi-five when the other man raises his palm out for one. “Heard about the serial murders while I was gone.”
Jinyoung toes off his shoes as he shuts and locks the door of the apartment, and Dongwoo’s blood freezes into icicles right in his skin.
“I was careful,” Junghwan says, slight pout reminiscent of a puppy’s.
“Well, since you’re still alive, I guess you were,” he says with an impish smile. Junghwan gives him a joking, light slap on his shoulder, to which Jinyoung retaliates with a threat of a forehead flick, and they start a small game of chase which ends with Junghwan cornered against the wall, laughing while Jinyoung looms over him.
Dongwoo takes a step forward just as Jinyoung shakes his hand, loosening up his fingers-
A knife slides out from Jinyoung’s sleeve, slipping into his grip and then stabbing straight through Junghwan’s hand, pinning him to the wall.
Junghwan’s face cracks into a panicked, muffled yell, eyes wide and shaking frantically while the rest of him is frozen.
“Were you trying to leave behind a bit of mess for the rest of us to pick up after?” Jinyoung says, fingers still tight around the knife’s handle. He gives the blade a slight tilt, and Junghwan’s face scrunches up, this time from a drawn-out scream that no one hears. “Not a really good idea of a parting gift. I even went abroad to drop by our other branches, to see if there was someone skilled enough willing to take your place.” He yanks the knife from the wall then stabs it down onto the carpet, Junghwan getting pulled along with it and gritting his teeth. “No other job in the world is going to let you kill like this. Isn't that what you wanted?”
When Junghwan looks up, eyes glazed over from all the pain and breaths forcing themselves out in barely-controlled bursts, his gaze meets Dongwoo’s and Dongwoo realizes that he has to help, has to give back somehow, for all that Junghwan has ever-
He grabs Jinyoung’s skull slams it against the wall, then twists the other man’s knife arm against his back. A moment falls by.
Then the knife slips from Jinyoung’s fingers as easily as it had slipped into them, and when Dongwoo lets go, Jinyoung just collapses into a boneless pile on the floor and Dongwoo realizes that there are two sprays of blood on his wall. Only one of them is Junghwan’s. The other one is at where Jinyoung’s head had met the plaster.
Junghwan has a white-knuckled hand applying pressure on his wound when he approaches, breaths still harsh as he kneels down. He pokes Jinyoung so roughly in his stomach that it’s almost a stab, and then he hovers a cautious ear above Jinyoung’s chest, looking for something that’s no longer there.
“He’s dead,” he says, leaning back.
O is for Jinyoung’s left eye, open in his death. The last O, the last letter, is his right eye.
So Dongwoo’s a murderer, too.
On the patterned side of some used, creased origami paper, a few specks of blood on one of its corners, is Junghwan’s shaky, painstaking handwriting. come with me?
Right below it, Dongwoo answers, Okay.
Then on a new sheet of paper, clean short bond halved crosswise, Dongwoo writes again. I love you too.
Sprawled on the couch, Junghwan mumbles out a random tune and turns to the window. Here in Iowa, spring days at twelve o’clock are like small previews of summer, comfortably warm and lazy, but not nearly as fun. “I’m bored.”
Eyes still trained on his book, Dongwoo puts on an amused smile. “Get a new hobby?”
In response, Junghwan hums, but then his eyes widen and slowly, slowly, he starts to smile. He sits up, throws his arms around Dongwoo’s shoulders, then says into the other man’s shirt, “Good idea!”
Dongwoo is careful not to hurt Junghwan’s bandaged hand as he buries a hand of his own in Junghwan’s hair, fondly ruffling it this way and that, still halfway through reading a line. “Holmes,” I said in a whisper, “a child has done this horrid thing!”
He tells himself not to flinch when Junghwan looks up, the other man’s eyes bright and affectionate and sharp like razor blades. Instead, he leans down, briefly brushes his lips against Junghwan’s, and hopes as he lets the younger man rest against Dongwoo’s collarbone. This is a new beginning, like the foreword of a novel with no prequel. No one has to know what came before, and now that they’ve started, this is how they’ll live. Always seeking refuge, maybe from each other. Maybe even in each other.
This is the escape.
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quite happy with how this one turned out! will be posting my sncj santa fic too, but not anytime soon. it's undergoing some very, very heavy revision.
thanks for reading! :) leave a comment?