love in the time of espionage; hankyung/kyuhyun
love in the time of espionage
hankyung/kyuhyun; pg-13
warning: character death
summary: au. hankyung is a chinese spy. kyuhyun has an acid kiss.
notes: for all of you. ♥ it's just a lame ficbit lmao. very short & not so sweet.
The building is partially collapsed, the glass doors cracked and the pillars crooked. He's pushing past rubble and dragging asphalt inside his lungs before he rounds a corner to avoid the roving red light positioned on some dripping pipe. Had he been any less quick, he would have been set aflame or be eating bullets in the wet cement.
He readies his finger on the trigger of his pistol as he kicks a few bodies out of the way - one over there, two over here, and oh, that one has a nasty little gash on his scalp with the bits of his brain strewn all over his forehead, but he shrugs and clears him out of the way.
This is what these trash-for-hire traitors get for daring to go against the Communist rule, he tells himself. In his first few missions, he does this to console himself, especially when's he high up in the government helicopter, watching buildings crumble to ash, and he'll have the urge to hurl whatever meal he ate the other day. If his superiors see the gunk of egg noodles splattered all over the expensive floor of the aircraft, he thinks it'll be okay to have his rank slip down a notch for the slight embarrassment.
He remembers that as a professional student spy many years ago, his first task was to do away with his roommate. The government suspected his unassuming, mousy roommate was sent out by the international bureau of Taiwan to incite defection among Chinese mainland students. He staunchly defended his roommate because he had grown close to him, and he was always with that endearing half-smile as he lent him his notes and gave him part of his lunch--
And he was wearing the same smile when he pulled a gun on him while he was in the shower and shot him on the shoulder. He had to climb out of the tub in record time whilst stark naked. When he slammed his heel on his roommate's abdomen and snapped his neck, tears fell from his cheeks and mixed with the blood and shower water on the tiles.
That was then. Now, embarrassment is defined as failure to complete the mission. No matter how many spears he drives through their hearts, if that is in the mission parameters, he has to do it. Nightmares and friends and families left behind be damned. It isn't his fault that people choose to go against the government. The government serves in the interests of its people.
That includes eliminating enemy spies.
Just another floor. Another floor and then--
There's a sudden spray of sparks from a dying live wire, and he evades the jerky cable before leaping one step up and crouching. He looks around. There's still no one so far, save for the soldier by the elevator with holes embedded into his level three bullet vest, his blood painting the walls behind him.
There's a cracking sound from above, and finally, yes, he can hear them. They're groaning, low and needy, and if he closes his eyes there's even begging and sobbing. They're calling out to him.
He positions his gun close to his side. He pulls his blade from underneath his combat shoe and stuffs it inside a pocket. He's close now, so close to the sounds that he can smell the dried blood, piss and shit. Days of being held captive by those rebels - did people not have souls anymore?
And then he sees a man, lying on a section of the floor, alive but gasping for air, as if it's the only thing that keeps his insides from spilling out.
He kneels and smooths the man's hair, matted with blood, away from his forehead. "Where are the others?"
This one is long past saving, he regretfully tells himself. It's the women and children and possibly some of the more able-bodied men that still have a chance, hopefully.
"They...they are..." he wheezes, his eyes bulging out, grotesque and bloodshot. "In the next... three rooms. Be careful. He's... waiting..."
When the man gives his last breath, he feels it his obligation to say a bit of prayer to the gods. He doesn't believe in them, but soldiers like himself are makeshift priests for the sick and dying they meet in their missions. With the lightest of touches, he smooths a gloved hand over the man's eyes, closing it with the tenderness he can muster, and mutters a quick prayer.
When he stands up, there's a slight whirring sound coming from the opposite room. He peers at it, comes closer and then flinches when the bright sunlight breaks through. It's half-open, so presses his back flat to the wall, then turns to his side and kicks it open.
There's a boy in tattered jeans and a torn shirt sitting on the floor, eyes wide and frightened. His face is pale and drawn, his hair is long and scraggly, but his lips--
His lips are red. Like the color of rubies or freshly picked cherries.
He can't believe it. It's--
"Kyuhyun?" He lowers his gun and steps forward. How can this be? How can he be alive?
"...Hangeng-gege?" Kyuhyun still sounds like the boy he knew all those years ago at university, barring that moment when--
"You tried to kill me," he stated sharply, his gun aimed at Kyuhyun's general direction. "I killed you. You can't be alive."
"Help me, ge," Kyuhyun says, crawling towards him on hands and knees, and his lips are glistening with saliva.
"Is this some kind of joke?" he says, more to himself. Kyuhyun shouldn't be here.
When he was given Cho Kyuhyun's profile so many years ago, it said he was a South Korean native who defected at a young age and subsequently went to work for the Taiwanese intelligence. He was not so much trained in combat as he was trained at engineering and the defense networks. Before he roomed with him, Kyuhyun was suspected of penetrating into the military networks and putting spy chips on planes.
He killed Kyuhyun.
His mind whirls with all sorts of possibilities. "How can you be alive?"
"Ge, none of that now, please," Kyuhyun says, and every word underlines the hoarseness in his tone. "Please help me up."
"Why... why should I?" he asks, trembling despite himself. Why did Kyuhyun have to be here, of all times and places? Two doors down, people are moaning and pissing all over themselves trying to escape. He should be there, not with this boy, this boy he doesn't even know anymore. He reminds himself that Kyuhyun is dangerous and should not be trusted at all costs. He dares a breath as he looks Kyuhyun in the eye.
Kyuhyun pushes himself to his feet, crosses the few steps towards him, and he can't step back. Something holds him in place as Kyuhyun wraps limp arms around his neck.
"Ge, I missed you," Kyuhyun murmurs, hot, sweet breath against his neck. "It's been so long."
He stiffens.
Kyuhyun, by all appearances, seems to be unkempt and dirty. His face and hair are covered with soot and dried mud. His clothes look no better. But his lips, and his breath--
He jerks back in an effort to dislodge Kyuhyun, but his arms are like a vice around his neck.
"Let go, Kyuhyun," he demands.
"Only if you kill me," Kyuhyun answers, quiet and echoing around them. An explosion goes off into the distance, the lights sputter shut and open in a dizzying pattern. The screams are getting louder; the fingernails scratching on wood are more grating, more heartbreaking.
"I saw them lift you on a stretcher," he manages, and he keeps his eyes wide open in case Kyuhyun decides to make a move. His eyes are tearing up. "You were dead, Kyuhyun. You're supposed to be six feet under in Taiwanese soil."
"But I'm not, ge." Kyuhyun lifts bony fingers to his face, and he pulls away.
"Stop calling me that," he snaps, "you're not Kyuhyun. You can't be."
"If I wasn't Kyuhyun, then would I know exactly how many onions you chop when you make your fried rice? Would I know the time of day you'd sit and read a book by the benches? Would I know who your closest friend was in high school, the one who married a Catholic girl and broke your heart?"
"What are you--"
"Three, 4 pm and Choi Siwon," Kyuhyun whispers. "I'm Kyuhyun. Believe me, please?"
"You're dead." The screams are almost deafening now.
"No," Kyuyun says, and leans in closer. His sooty lashes contrast sharply with his deep red lips. "I'm here, and I'm alive."
Kyuhyun closes the space between them, and his heart pounds as their lips meet. The memory of this same kiss comes back, and it's burning at the back of his mind and he's crying at this sweet, blessed reunion. It hurts so much, oh, god, help. He writhes against Kyuhyun's hold as smoke rises up between them, the scent of burning flesh mingling with ash and blood and heat.
The gun falls from his hand.
Kyuhyun looks down impassively at Hangeng, appreciates the blood trickling from his lips. It's curved into a smile, something that he's missed, something that he's so familiar with.
He steps over him and makes a call to headquarters as he fiddles with the remote in his pocket. Just outside the building and past the railroad tracks is salty sea water. His senses, mechanically heightened as a product of his own engineering expertise, grow excited.
"Mission accomplished," he says curtly, then flips the phone shut as he exits the grounds.
hankyung/kyuhyun; pg-13
warning: character death
summary: au. hankyung is a chinese spy. kyuhyun has an acid kiss.
notes: for all of you. ♥ it's just a lame ficbit lmao. very short & not so sweet.
The building is partially collapsed, the glass doors cracked and the pillars crooked. He's pushing past rubble and dragging asphalt inside his lungs before he rounds a corner to avoid the roving red light positioned on some dripping pipe. Had he been any less quick, he would have been set aflame or be eating bullets in the wet cement.
He readies his finger on the trigger of his pistol as he kicks a few bodies out of the way - one over there, two over here, and oh, that one has a nasty little gash on his scalp with the bits of his brain strewn all over his forehead, but he shrugs and clears him out of the way.
This is what these trash-for-hire traitors get for daring to go against the Communist rule, he tells himself. In his first few missions, he does this to console himself, especially when's he high up in the government helicopter, watching buildings crumble to ash, and he'll have the urge to hurl whatever meal he ate the other day. If his superiors see the gunk of egg noodles splattered all over the expensive floor of the aircraft, he thinks it'll be okay to have his rank slip down a notch for the slight embarrassment.
He remembers that as a professional student spy many years ago, his first task was to do away with his roommate. The government suspected his unassuming, mousy roommate was sent out by the international bureau of Taiwan to incite defection among Chinese mainland students. He staunchly defended his roommate because he had grown close to him, and he was always with that endearing half-smile as he lent him his notes and gave him part of his lunch--
And he was wearing the same smile when he pulled a gun on him while he was in the shower and shot him on the shoulder. He had to climb out of the tub in record time whilst stark naked. When he slammed his heel on his roommate's abdomen and snapped his neck, tears fell from his cheeks and mixed with the blood and shower water on the tiles.
That was then. Now, embarrassment is defined as failure to complete the mission. No matter how many spears he drives through their hearts, if that is in the mission parameters, he has to do it. Nightmares and friends and families left behind be damned. It isn't his fault that people choose to go against the government. The government serves in the interests of its people.
That includes eliminating enemy spies.
Just another floor. Another floor and then--
There's a sudden spray of sparks from a dying live wire, and he evades the jerky cable before leaping one step up and crouching. He looks around. There's still no one so far, save for the soldier by the elevator with holes embedded into his level three bullet vest, his blood painting the walls behind him.
There's a cracking sound from above, and finally, yes, he can hear them. They're groaning, low and needy, and if he closes his eyes there's even begging and sobbing. They're calling out to him.
He positions his gun close to his side. He pulls his blade from underneath his combat shoe and stuffs it inside a pocket. He's close now, so close to the sounds that he can smell the dried blood, piss and shit. Days of being held captive by those rebels - did people not have souls anymore?
And then he sees a man, lying on a section of the floor, alive but gasping for air, as if it's the only thing that keeps his insides from spilling out.
He kneels and smooths the man's hair, matted with blood, away from his forehead. "Where are the others?"
This one is long past saving, he regretfully tells himself. It's the women and children and possibly some of the more able-bodied men that still have a chance, hopefully.
"They...they are..." he wheezes, his eyes bulging out, grotesque and bloodshot. "In the next... three rooms. Be careful. He's... waiting..."
When the man gives his last breath, he feels it his obligation to say a bit of prayer to the gods. He doesn't believe in them, but soldiers like himself are makeshift priests for the sick and dying they meet in their missions. With the lightest of touches, he smooths a gloved hand over the man's eyes, closing it with the tenderness he can muster, and mutters a quick prayer.
When he stands up, there's a slight whirring sound coming from the opposite room. He peers at it, comes closer and then flinches when the bright sunlight breaks through. It's half-open, so presses his back flat to the wall, then turns to his side and kicks it open.
There's a boy in tattered jeans and a torn shirt sitting on the floor, eyes wide and frightened. His face is pale and drawn, his hair is long and scraggly, but his lips--
His lips are red. Like the color of rubies or freshly picked cherries.
He can't believe it. It's--
"Kyuhyun?" He lowers his gun and steps forward. How can this be? How can he be alive?
"...Hangeng-gege?" Kyuhyun still sounds like the boy he knew all those years ago at university, barring that moment when--
"You tried to kill me," he stated sharply, his gun aimed at Kyuhyun's general direction. "I killed you. You can't be alive."
"Help me, ge," Kyuhyun says, crawling towards him on hands and knees, and his lips are glistening with saliva.
"Is this some kind of joke?" he says, more to himself. Kyuhyun shouldn't be here.
When he was given Cho Kyuhyun's profile so many years ago, it said he was a South Korean native who defected at a young age and subsequently went to work for the Taiwanese intelligence. He was not so much trained in combat as he was trained at engineering and the defense networks. Before he roomed with him, Kyuhyun was suspected of penetrating into the military networks and putting spy chips on planes.
He killed Kyuhyun.
His mind whirls with all sorts of possibilities. "How can you be alive?"
"Ge, none of that now, please," Kyuhyun says, and every word underlines the hoarseness in his tone. "Please help me up."
"Why... why should I?" he asks, trembling despite himself. Why did Kyuhyun have to be here, of all times and places? Two doors down, people are moaning and pissing all over themselves trying to escape. He should be there, not with this boy, this boy he doesn't even know anymore. He reminds himself that Kyuhyun is dangerous and should not be trusted at all costs. He dares a breath as he looks Kyuhyun in the eye.
Kyuhyun pushes himself to his feet, crosses the few steps towards him, and he can't step back. Something holds him in place as Kyuhyun wraps limp arms around his neck.
"Ge, I missed you," Kyuhyun murmurs, hot, sweet breath against his neck. "It's been so long."
He stiffens.
Kyuhyun, by all appearances, seems to be unkempt and dirty. His face and hair are covered with soot and dried mud. His clothes look no better. But his lips, and his breath--
He jerks back in an effort to dislodge Kyuhyun, but his arms are like a vice around his neck.
"Let go, Kyuhyun," he demands.
"Only if you kill me," Kyuhyun answers, quiet and echoing around them. An explosion goes off into the distance, the lights sputter shut and open in a dizzying pattern. The screams are getting louder; the fingernails scratching on wood are more grating, more heartbreaking.
"I saw them lift you on a stretcher," he manages, and he keeps his eyes wide open in case Kyuhyun decides to make a move. His eyes are tearing up. "You were dead, Kyuhyun. You're supposed to be six feet under in Taiwanese soil."
"But I'm not, ge." Kyuhyun lifts bony fingers to his face, and he pulls away.
"Stop calling me that," he snaps, "you're not Kyuhyun. You can't be."
"If I wasn't Kyuhyun, then would I know exactly how many onions you chop when you make your fried rice? Would I know the time of day you'd sit and read a book by the benches? Would I know who your closest friend was in high school, the one who married a Catholic girl and broke your heart?"
"What are you--"
"Three, 4 pm and Choi Siwon," Kyuhyun whispers. "I'm Kyuhyun. Believe me, please?"
"You're dead." The screams are almost deafening now.
"No," Kyuyun says, and leans in closer. His sooty lashes contrast sharply with his deep red lips. "I'm here, and I'm alive."
Kyuhyun closes the space between them, and his heart pounds as their lips meet. The memory of this same kiss comes back, and it's burning at the back of his mind and he's crying at this sweet, blessed reunion. It hurts so much, oh, god, help. He writhes against Kyuhyun's hold as smoke rises up between them, the scent of burning flesh mingling with ash and blood and heat.
The gun falls from his hand.
Kyuhyun looks down impassively at Hangeng, appreciates the blood trickling from his lips. It's curved into a smile, something that he's missed, something that he's so familiar with.
He steps over him and makes a call to headquarters as he fiddles with the remote in his pocket. Just outside the building and past the railroad tracks is salty sea water. His senses, mechanically heightened as a product of his own engineering expertise, grow excited.
"Mission accomplished," he says curtly, then flips the phone shut as he exits the grounds.