SHINee Duets 2015: feixing & lucentic (Part One)
Title: Nothing But Vultures
Authors: feixing & lucentic
Pairing: Key/Minho
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, gore, character death, mentions of cannibalism
The subway ride home is always the same to Minho - too suffocating, too hot. He spends an average of forty-seven minutes on the ride home each day due to shitty maintenance works and the frequent overloading of the cabins, the air heavy with the smell of exhaustion and faint relief at the end of another day. He glares useless daggers at yet another dumpy woman who’s trodden on his scruffy sneakers but doesn’t have the decency to apologize, and tightens his grip on the hand rail.
He’s not a complete pessimist though. While half his head floats around replays of the days happenings and worries about the amount of homework he’s got piling up for the weekend, the other half of his consciousness wanders. Minho likes people-watching, to a certain extent. It’s the same general picture of sweaty, tired pressed-up bodies packed into a pathetic excuse of a high-speed subway, but you can always find something if you squint hard enough.
Like the girl in front of him, for instance. Minho allows his gaze to casually travel up the seated girl’s calves, lightly tanned from the recent summer rays, breaking contact mid-thigh when the girl happens to look up and almost catch his eye. He wanders, never fixating himself on a person for too long. Weird guy mumbling to himself in the far corner of the carriage - the only reason he notices this is because the man is actually taller than his six foot frame. Woman with the funky shawl over her straining tank top. Schoolboy with his head almost touching his knees from the lack of sleep. Businessman with-
shit. Minho looks away, hurriedly, after shooting a small smile in the general direction of the other male. It doesn’t happen so often, him catching someone on a bad day, and though the businessman is a good half a head shorter than he is, the stony stare he gets makes him feel a little guilty about his pastime.
Well, almost. When he has to shoulder his way out of the subway before the doors close on him and whizz him off someplace else, he finds the guy in the suit again. The other looks up just in time, jostled back into reality with all the pushing going on around him, and their eyes meet. Minho’s relieved to notice the small twitch of the corner of the other’s lips, and a more open expression before he lets himself be led out by the flood of people.
And starts moving a little faster once he’s out in the open because of the realization that the weight of the weeks’ worth of undone Calculus homework could very well be enough to stunt his soccer training opportunities.
♔
It’s quiet, today. Minho celebrates inwardly at the empty seat he’s managed to slide into, stuffing his bag between his legs on the floor with a satisfied sigh. Soccer takes a whole lot more out of him than he ever picks up on until he’s all wrung out on the field, with ugly grass stains on his socks (now thankfully balled up in his shoe bag). There’s no one sitting on either side of him, giving him even more room to spread out without worrying about getting into a fight with anyone who couldn’t stand sweaty, dirty boys.
He’s getting a little sleepy, with the rickety motion of the subway thrumming lightly through his bones, but he rummages in his bag and fishes out a slightly dog-eared copy of The Silence of the Lambs. It’s not as if he’s a bookworm or anything like that - he just has some readings to get done before he actually flunks that damned compulsory Drama and Theatre course he’s had to take up for extra credit.
He’s so engrossed in trying to keep his eyes open against the tide of swimming, shitty-fonted words that he doesn’t register the voice beside him until only after the subway jerks hard enough to make the book slip out of his hands. It falls to the ground with a hard thunk, the base of the spine denting slightly.
A hand reaches out before his does, and hands the book back to him. “Thanks.”
"You must really like reading."
"Nah, it's just-" the words die on Minho when he looks up to see who's been talking to him. He only remembers to shut his mouth when the other smiles.
"Good evening to you, too."
It's one thing to acknowledge a familiar stranger on a daily basis. It's another when they come up to you and strike an actual conversation. Minho's good with people, but right now he's all too conscious about the smell he's probably emanating next to this man in an expensive-looking suit. "Good evening."
"And you were saying?"
"I- uh-" the only thing he really wants to do right now is slap himself. "I don't really like reading. I was just trying to concentrate on not falling asleep."
The man hums, not looking at Minho and not noticing the way the college boy edges away from him, one slow careful inch at a time. "Pity. Pretty good book, that."
"I'm taking this Drama and Theatre course in school this semester. Just trying not to fail."
The businessman shifts so that his entire torso is facing Minho, and the taller catches a whiff of his cologne. Maybe it's the way he's always so impeccably dressed, but Minho just thinks it smells goddamned expensive. "So you haven't finished it?"
"No- not really. Not my kind of reading material." Minho shrugs, running his thumb through the pages of the book absentmindedly.
"Well, in that case, you might want to know that the sheep everybody keeps talking about, but never literally refer to, are us. Innocent little creatures with no idea that so much wool lies across our eyes that we don’t realize the amount of horrific propaganda in front of us."
That quirks an eyebrow out of Minho. "Wow, thanks. That takes out quite a lot of work for me."
The man laughs, fingers flying over the screen of his phone for a few seconds before he puts it away to look at Minho. "You're welcome. So what's your kind of book?"
"Usually the sports sections on the newspaper.. And the occasional autobiography. On sports players." By now, Minho's already concluded that he gets stupider with each passing second.
"Sports?" He gets a once-over, followed by a thoughtful nod. "Should've guessed so. I like my literature a little twisted, sometimes fantastical."
His choice of words are a little hard to keep up with, him being surrounded by yelling jocks and the majority of the bone-headed population in school most of the time, but he manages. Even if he doesn't really know what he's talking about. "I wouldn't have pegged you for someone who likes fiction."
"Why, because of this?" The stranger gestures at himself, to which Minho cannot help but laugh and nod - the shine of his shoes, the sharp lines of his tailored suit and the way that not a single strand of hair is out of place on his head really does make him look like your average human drone. "I did mention that those were my choice of literature. I keep up with the news when I have the time."
"You can't exactly blame me."
The man shrugs. "I work in a bank."
"Bank-?"
The announcement system drowns out Minho's questions, and with a start he realizes that they've come to his stop. It's a mad rush for his bags and his books and the door, the words of a hurried apology spilling haphazardly out of his mouth as he accidentally treads on the stranger's- ugh perfectly shined shoes. Not that the man seems to mind, though, for Minho catches something that looked remotely like the words see you soon coming out of the shorter's mouth. He slumps by the glass of the subway barriers, waving weakly as the vehicle picks up speed and zooms out of sight.
♔
"You know, if you're going to chat me up all the time, maybe I should know your name," Minho says without much thought when Mr. Bank Employee speaks to him for the third time on the subway.
There's a loaded, unspoken remark in his eyes that catches Minho off guard, especially since it disappears just as quickly as it had come.
Minho is about to disregard his own request when the man speaks.
"Kibum."
For some reason, the simplicity of the name surprises Minho, and he parrots the name back to Kibum.
"Is that your name too?" Kibum asks, just a hint of sarcasm as well as amusement in his tone. Minho can't help but wrinkle his face at him.
"I'm Minho," he introduces.
Kibum repeats his name once, twice.
♔
"So, how's your reading going along?"
Minho turns around to find Kibum standing next to him. He hadn’t seen Kibum for a few days, and was starting to think that Kibum had had a change of schedule at work.
"Hey," Minho replies, "the book was surprisingly good after I was able to get through the first few chapters."
Kibum flashes him a smile, "that's good to hear."
Minho shrugs in response, and there is silence for a while. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, per se. Minho did want to speak to Kibum, but he was not sure what he could say without the book as a conversation piece. Kibum was an older, working adult after all, and Minho was still a college student.
"Would you want to read another book like that?" Kibum asks, breaking the silence.
"I can't say I would mind," Minho replies. There was something about the book that had captivated him. Besides, he wanted an excuse to speak to Kibum as well. Something about the older man captured his attention, and Minho had always had a strong sense for curiosity, a nose for the unknown.
"I’ll pass you one the next time we bump into each other then," Kibum pauses for a moment, maybe a moment too long, and turns so that he is facing Minho directly, "or would you be willing to meet me outside of the subway?"
"Outside of the subway?"
Kibum clicks his tongue. Minho thinks he sees Kibum tense his forehead in annoyance, but it was probably just the way the streetlights outside hit his face in the cramped cabin.
"Maybe that wasn't worded so well. We could meet for coffee and I'll pass you the book."
Minho gapes like a fish, not really believing what the other man just said. “Sorry, what?”
The businessman raises an eyebrow. “Or we could not.”
“No that’s not what I meant- I mean, us, and coffee? Like, we meet up outside of this subway?”
Kibum nods patiently, waiting. The infuriating part is all Minho, with his stupid replies and dumb reactions and tons of uncertainties and-
“Okay,” he hears himself saying. “Okay.”
Kibum only nods, but his expression visibly loosens up, and Minho sucks in a grateful breath.
♔
They meet for the first time outside the subway in a little cafe. It's not a place Minho would frequent himself; he has never been one for overpriced coffee and tiny cakes the price of two full meals, but he really cannot see Kibum in one of those noisy canteens he frequently patronizes. They had exchanged numbers following the conversation, and Minho had noticed that Kibum had not bothered to save his number as a contact. No matter, he’s just meeting him for coffee and to collect a book.
He has a good time - no - a great time. Kibum is the same as he has been in their limited conversations, but there's something about him that gets more and more charming the longer Minho spent with him, and maybe something sinister as well.
Minho chooses to completely overlook that.
The book Kibum passes him is different from how Kibum portrays himself. While Kibum is poised and polished, the book is dog-eared and yellowed, edge of the pages worn out by time. The contrast is surprisingly refreshing.
Coffee turns into dinner, and Minho lets Kibum pay for him (since Kibum had insist on a restaurant far out of his own price range).
When Kibum invites him back to his apartment to talk more and to show him his collection of well-loved books, Minho does not think twice before accepting the invitation.
♔
When he opens his eyes, there are two sorts of feelings that hit him like a loaded truck. The first is a heavy pull of fatigue, one that insistently tugs his eyelids down and makes his brain function slower than usual as he stirs and looks around enough to register his location. The second is confusion - confusion at his failed attempt to stir any more than a few inches all around and whatever that his eyes are taking in at this point of time.
He’s in a room - large, with a colour scheme of black and wine and gold. It’s tasteful, really, luxurious in the choice of furniture, yet anything but vulgar and suffocating. It’s dimly lit, and the curtains are drawn, so he doesn’t really get much information just by sight. What makes him sit up a little straighter (or at least try to, given the newly discovered bounds of rope chaining him to a straight-backed chair) is the large, oval mirror in front of him.
His eyes are open - anxious, but not afraid. Strangely not afraid, considering the current situation. Minho stares in slight fascination at how deeply the ropes are digging into his skin, such that his arms have weird, unsightly folds of flesh coming up where the ropes end, and how there is a knife actually fixed right in front of the base of his throat. It’s lucky that he didn’t struggle forward, for that thing, glinting as much as it does in the dull lighting, could’ve easily plunged itself into him and never resurfaced.
Someone clears their throat, and Minho whips his head in the direction of the sound, gasping a little as he moves a little too rashly and the knife nicks him, easy and precise over his exposed collarbones.
“Evening.”
“Where- am I?”
“My playroom.” The figure stands up and moves closer to Minho; with the extra light he makes out that it’s Kibum, only decked out in a different outfit than he remembered. Kibum crosses the room in calculated, precise steps, and it’s almost as if he’s a cat, circling his prey and seizing it up before going in for the kill. The wide-collared sweater showcases his own untainted neck and the line of his pale shoulders perfectly.
“I don’t understand.” Kibum stops in front of Minho, cold steady eyes fixing on his own. Minho finds himself stiffening when Kibum, still looking at him, slides himself easily over his bound thighs, and sits, straddling him sideways.
The silence in the room is deafening as Kibum’s hand reaches up to go for the knife, and Minho’s eyes cross themselves in his attempt to watch how the older man runs a finger across the blade, steady and quick enough to draw blood. He is stock-still, unmoving, and only wide-eyed when Kibum makes a small tch sound and runs the injured finger slowly, deliberately across his cheek. It makes a bright, wet stain across his cheek. “I get bored sometimes. Did you sleep well?”
“I don’t understand.”
Kibum throws his head back and laughs, low, teasing in his throat. It’s almost sexy, the way he moves, but Minho is too preoccupied with the kind of situation he’s in right now to be thinking about how hot Kibum could make him feel.
"Frequently Asked Questions 101 - why? I don’t understand.” He takes Minho by the chin, jerking him forward ever so slightly so that the tip of the knife sinks into the base of his throat. Just a little bit of it. “Not that I blame you, of course. Nobody expects to die in the hands of a stranger they met just a few weeks before.”
“D-die?” Minho croaks, breath shallow from the pain in his numbed limbs and lightly punctured throat.
Kibum only shrugs, and gets off, walking behind him, keeping his fingers entangled in Minho’s nicely tousled hair. “Like I said, I get bored. Sometimes stressed and then I have to find someone to take it out on. Can’t kill anyone I know at work.”
“You’re going to kill me?”
Kibum pulls his head back so he can look into Minho’s wide, staring eyes. “I brought a couple of shiny toys in here. Figured my carving could use a little more practice."
“So-” Minho is still trying to get his head around things, “We’re not- friends? You just talked to me so you could find someone to carve up?”
He lets go of Minho’s head, taking purposeful strides away from him to a table at the far end of the room, where the college boy, with eyes now adjusted, see that it holds a generous selection of knives. “Sorry, kid. It’s been really stressful at work.”
“I don’t get a say in this?”
“Nope. But if you want, I can help you write a couple of suicide letters. Get your last wishes fulfilled, whatever they might be, for a kid your age.”
“I’m not a kid.” Even Minho’s surprised at himself, noticing how his anger is directed at his captor treating him as less than an adult, rather than being angry at how irrational the entire situation is for him to die down here tonight.
Kibum doesn’t seem to have caught on his curious mood. “Suit yourself. You have about two minutes before I take out your intestines.” The businessman holds up a carving fork, slim and deadly in the dark. “Or maybe I'll take out your eyes, first. Whichever you prefer.”
“How many people have you- done the same to?”
Kibum shrugs, running the sides of the knife down Minho’s earlobe. It slices through, easily, not that Kibum is putting much thought into it. “A few. I keep a log book - I could make sure you’re never forgotten, if you like.”
Minho briefly contemplates how that idea feels to him, the smell of his own blood and cold stainless steel around him. And Kibum, a soft, unassuming scent. “That would be. Nice.”
Kibum raises a brow, and with one swift move switches his stance so he’s planting a highly polished shoe on top of Minho’s thighs, and pointing the tip of the blade directly at Minho’s eyes. It makes him feel light headed from trying to keep the knife in view, but strangely enough, he doesn’t feel as afraid as he should be.
“Stop fucking around with me. I’m going to make this quick, and clean - you’re lucky that I have a gala dinner to attend in about an hour so I don’t have enough time to fuck you up really badly.”
“I-” Minho’s not even sure what he’s about to say- beg for him to stop? Continue to reason with him? But all hazy thoughts die out in his throat as he watches Kibum bring the knife slowly to his chest, placing it directly in the middle of the base of his ribs, and a light gleams in the other’s eyes. There is the smallest of smiles too, raising the corners of his full, full lips up-
He’s jerked back into the present when he suddenly experiences a falling motion, and with a start he’s on his back, legs folded comically over the edge of the chair he’s still tied to. When he looks up, Kibum is upon him, straddling his chest, and it would have been pretty welcoming if his eyes weren’t filled with just one intent.
“What did you say,” Kibum says quietly, nudging the blade into a space under his jaw, digging it in and eliciting pained gasps from Minho, long and painful.
“What I-?” Minho isn’t even aware that he’s said anything aloud, his head full of the knife and death and Kibum-
“You’re not afraid of dying? You want me to kill you? Because nobody compliments their murderer before they die.”
“Who’s not afraid of dying? But from what you said that you’ve been- doing, it’s highly unlikely that I’d make it out alive. So I might as well remember the experience.”
“Don’t you have a family, or friends to think about?” Minho can feel more weight on his chest now, and it makes it a little harder to breathe, but he can see that the mood in Kibum has shifted- not completely, but enough to make him soften his predatory stance.
Not enough to stop him absently nicking him in the neck with his toy, though. “I do," Minho pauses to take a deep breath when the pain of his new wound registers in his head, "but who doesn't, right?"
Kibum raises an incredulous eyebrow at him, "Fuck," he manages to say after a long bout of silence, "I've never had anyone this calm." He presses the knife deeper into Minho's neck, and Minho cannot help the small groan that escapes his lips.
The last thing Minho sees before his vision turns to black again is the frenzied contemplation in Kibum's eyes.
♔
Minho wakes up free of the ropes. They have pressed unsightly blue and purple crisscrosses into his skin, but they now sit on the floor in a neatly bundled up heap. He presses his thumb against a particularly deep imprint on his wrist, and sucks in a breath when the pain radiates dully from it.
He finds the door and is almost surprised to find it unlocked. There's a flight of stairs that lead upwards, and Minho takes them.
When he enters the living room, Kibum beckons to him, a cat curled up on his sofa, so unthreatening a sight that Minho almost cannot wrap his head around the reality that he is in right now.
The older man points. “Are you not going to do anything about that?”
“What?” But Minho instantly remembers when he cranes his neck downward - the folding of sliced open skin brings back a sharp sting to him.
Kibum stands up, and goes towards him. Barefooted, the top of the banker’s head just barely makes it past the tip of his nose. “I’m only going to say this once. I have zero tolerance for mess whatsoever outside of my basement. And you’re still dripping blood on my Persian rug."
“I- sorry. I’ll go clean myself up right away.”
Kibum sighs, loudly. “You’d probably make an even bigger mess out of my house. Just- sit here, and don’t even think about moving an inch.”
Later, as Minho watches the movement of Kibum’s white, white wrists, the older man catches him looking, and it raises a smirk to his features. “You really are obedient, aren’t you, pup.”
And the protest that Minho puts up is barely any. He gets a lift home before Kibum gets to the other side of his dreary neighborhood for the gala dinner, and it is frightening how he actually smiles and Kibum before turning away and walking up the driveway.
But also convenient. He doesn’t notice the eyes and ears that follow him up to his room.
♔
And then some weeks later, in between coffee meetings and an overly-inquisitive Minho, Kibum leans in.
"I have a proposition for you."
♔
The first time, Minho gets a lift home after soccer practice on the cusp of twilight, the tips of his ears slightly reddened with the number of cat calls and teasing voices that sound behind him, until the car doors close with a muted click. He is made to sit on a towel, because Kibum isn’t taking any chances with the amount of sweat and grass he has on him, and while the car is filled with easy jazz music Minho finds his palms cold, damp.
The first time, Minho is made to sit and watch. Not even anywhere near the basement, but from one of Kibum’s reading corners, where he sits with his knees bunched, the laptop resting the smooth leather seat. Freshly showered and clad in comfortable sweatpants, it’s almost as if he’s setting himself up for a cosy movie night.
Well, cosy for him, that is. He turns the volume down another two notches because this girl- what’shername- Jinri?- isn’t anything like him. He curls his toes when he sees Kibum look directly at the camera in which he’s hidden in the basement for this special occasion, and rolls his eyes, cold, deliberate.
It doesn’t take long before Minho can turn up the volume again to hear whatever Kibum is saying to the girl, voice now lost in the tank of clear, frothing water, feet chained to the bottom of the contraption.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Please! But Kibum isn’t even watching, expertly teasing the ends of his hair with his fingers, back turned away from the young woman who turns violently blue, then purple, and finally silent.
He should have felt horror, disgust, maybe a touch of helplessness. Instead, Minho feels a trickle of warmth done his spine, and his eyes are alert with intrigue. There was something about the contrast of the scene that had done something for him; the struggle of the girl fighting for her life, and Kibum's complete impassiveness.
♔
It’s a bit like playing God, Minho thinks, from his position in front of the big screen television. Watching, knowing, and seeing everything. Kibum’s put the living room under lockdown just so he could watch in larger life instead of his measly laptop.
Today’s plaything wakes up mounted onto the false wall Kibum had installed for this, and it is almost pitiful, the way he screams and screams and even looks directly at- not that he knows it- Minho a couple of times for somebody, anybody, to take him away from here.
Kibum has no patience for noise and the theatrics, but for the amount of effort he’s put into tonight, he’s not the kind to let everything go to waste. He’s a kind of artist, the way he carefully paints the wall red, every slash made with his throwing knives a calculated slice. He takes the stranger’s fingers, under the ribs, in each thigh, three in the stomach-
The list goes on, even when the last of the light leaves his eyes. Kibum doesn’t have a bad aim, and it is almost merciful, the way the knife rests in between the man’s eyes. And Minho watches, and wonders if the silence in the room sans Kibum’s even breathing is quieter than the cold, dead man.
♔
Minho is interrupted mid-joke during lunch with Krystal and the rest of the gang from his Physics lecture by his phone. Sliding his phone out of his jean pocket, he frowns at the text message.
It's from Kibum, which is strange on its own because he’s never received one from the older man. The other has always had a preference for phone calls, so that kids like him wouldn’t accidentally fuck the two of them up. Come over tonight, is all it reads.
Why?
The reply is almost immediate. You could always choose not to.
Goddamnit. Why did everything have to be so vague? Minho’s all up for adventure, but he doesn’t like being ordered around like a real pet all that much. But Kibum’s got his interests piqued, and he grinds his teeth as he taps out a quick what time? on his phone.
“Who’s that?” Minho jumps, violently in his seat, turning to see Krystal hanging halfway out of her chair, straining her neck to look at his phone, which he hurriedly holds out of her reach. “Why are you going over to theirs if you don’t want to?”
“None of your business you brat,” Minho scowls, shoving the phone back into his pocket. It’s getting kind of awkward now, with everyone else at the table staring at him, the sudden change in his mood apparent and uncalled for.
Luckily, Krystal doesn’t seem to pick up on his annoyance. “God, just asking. Can’t a friend be concerned about another?”
“Sorry,” Minho mumbles, just as Changmin drawls, “that your girlfriend or something, Choi?”
“You’ve got a girlfriend, Minho?” Krystal turns her large eyes on him, brow knitted and looking more than a little betrayed. “And you didn’t tell me about her?”
Minho suppresses a groan of frustration and throws his finished packet of milk at Kyuhyun, who laughs as he dodges it. “I’m not dating anyone.”
But amidst the relentless teasing and Krystal hanging off his arm and trying to reach for his phone for the remainder of lunch, Minho’s mind is a million miles away.
| Part Two >>
Authors: feixing & lucentic
Pairing: Key/Minho
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, gore, character death, mentions of cannibalism
The subway ride home is always the same to Minho - too suffocating, too hot. He spends an average of forty-seven minutes on the ride home each day due to shitty maintenance works and the frequent overloading of the cabins, the air heavy with the smell of exhaustion and faint relief at the end of another day. He glares useless daggers at yet another dumpy woman who’s trodden on his scruffy sneakers but doesn’t have the decency to apologize, and tightens his grip on the hand rail.
He’s not a complete pessimist though. While half his head floats around replays of the days happenings and worries about the amount of homework he’s got piling up for the weekend, the other half of his consciousness wanders. Minho likes people-watching, to a certain extent. It’s the same general picture of sweaty, tired pressed-up bodies packed into a pathetic excuse of a high-speed subway, but you can always find something if you squint hard enough.
Like the girl in front of him, for instance. Minho allows his gaze to casually travel up the seated girl’s calves, lightly tanned from the recent summer rays, breaking contact mid-thigh when the girl happens to look up and almost catch his eye. He wanders, never fixating himself on a person for too long. Weird guy mumbling to himself in the far corner of the carriage - the only reason he notices this is because the man is actually taller than his six foot frame. Woman with the funky shawl over her straining tank top. Schoolboy with his head almost touching his knees from the lack of sleep. Businessman with-
shit. Minho looks away, hurriedly, after shooting a small smile in the general direction of the other male. It doesn’t happen so often, him catching someone on a bad day, and though the businessman is a good half a head shorter than he is, the stony stare he gets makes him feel a little guilty about his pastime.
Well, almost. When he has to shoulder his way out of the subway before the doors close on him and whizz him off someplace else, he finds the guy in the suit again. The other looks up just in time, jostled back into reality with all the pushing going on around him, and their eyes meet. Minho’s relieved to notice the small twitch of the corner of the other’s lips, and a more open expression before he lets himself be led out by the flood of people.
And starts moving a little faster once he’s out in the open because of the realization that the weight of the weeks’ worth of undone Calculus homework could very well be enough to stunt his soccer training opportunities.
♔
It’s quiet, today. Minho celebrates inwardly at the empty seat he’s managed to slide into, stuffing his bag between his legs on the floor with a satisfied sigh. Soccer takes a whole lot more out of him than he ever picks up on until he’s all wrung out on the field, with ugly grass stains on his socks (now thankfully balled up in his shoe bag). There’s no one sitting on either side of him, giving him even more room to spread out without worrying about getting into a fight with anyone who couldn’t stand sweaty, dirty boys.
He’s getting a little sleepy, with the rickety motion of the subway thrumming lightly through his bones, but he rummages in his bag and fishes out a slightly dog-eared copy of The Silence of the Lambs. It’s not as if he’s a bookworm or anything like that - he just has some readings to get done before he actually flunks that damned compulsory Drama and Theatre course he’s had to take up for extra credit.
He’s so engrossed in trying to keep his eyes open against the tide of swimming, shitty-fonted words that he doesn’t register the voice beside him until only after the subway jerks hard enough to make the book slip out of his hands. It falls to the ground with a hard thunk, the base of the spine denting slightly.
A hand reaches out before his does, and hands the book back to him. “Thanks.”
"You must really like reading."
"Nah, it's just-" the words die on Minho when he looks up to see who's been talking to him. He only remembers to shut his mouth when the other smiles.
"Good evening to you, too."
It's one thing to acknowledge a familiar stranger on a daily basis. It's another when they come up to you and strike an actual conversation. Minho's good with people, but right now he's all too conscious about the smell he's probably emanating next to this man in an expensive-looking suit. "Good evening."
"And you were saying?"
"I- uh-" the only thing he really wants to do right now is slap himself. "I don't really like reading. I was just trying to concentrate on not falling asleep."
The man hums, not looking at Minho and not noticing the way the college boy edges away from him, one slow careful inch at a time. "Pity. Pretty good book, that."
"I'm taking this Drama and Theatre course in school this semester. Just trying not to fail."
The businessman shifts so that his entire torso is facing Minho, and the taller catches a whiff of his cologne. Maybe it's the way he's always so impeccably dressed, but Minho just thinks it smells goddamned expensive. "So you haven't finished it?"
"No- not really. Not my kind of reading material." Minho shrugs, running his thumb through the pages of the book absentmindedly.
"Well, in that case, you might want to know that the sheep everybody keeps talking about, but never literally refer to, are us. Innocent little creatures with no idea that so much wool lies across our eyes that we don’t realize the amount of horrific propaganda in front of us."
That quirks an eyebrow out of Minho. "Wow, thanks. That takes out quite a lot of work for me."
The man laughs, fingers flying over the screen of his phone for a few seconds before he puts it away to look at Minho. "You're welcome. So what's your kind of book?"
"Usually the sports sections on the newspaper.. And the occasional autobiography. On sports players." By now, Minho's already concluded that he gets stupider with each passing second.
"Sports?" He gets a once-over, followed by a thoughtful nod. "Should've guessed so. I like my literature a little twisted, sometimes fantastical."
His choice of words are a little hard to keep up with, him being surrounded by yelling jocks and the majority of the bone-headed population in school most of the time, but he manages. Even if he doesn't really know what he's talking about. "I wouldn't have pegged you for someone who likes fiction."
"Why, because of this?" The stranger gestures at himself, to which Minho cannot help but laugh and nod - the shine of his shoes, the sharp lines of his tailored suit and the way that not a single strand of hair is out of place on his head really does make him look like your average human drone. "I did mention that those were my choice of literature. I keep up with the news when I have the time."
"You can't exactly blame me."
The man shrugs. "I work in a bank."
"Bank-?"
The announcement system drowns out Minho's questions, and with a start he realizes that they've come to his stop. It's a mad rush for his bags and his books and the door, the words of a hurried apology spilling haphazardly out of his mouth as he accidentally treads on the stranger's- ugh perfectly shined shoes. Not that the man seems to mind, though, for Minho catches something that looked remotely like the words see you soon coming out of the shorter's mouth. He slumps by the glass of the subway barriers, waving weakly as the vehicle picks up speed and zooms out of sight.
♔
"You know, if you're going to chat me up all the time, maybe I should know your name," Minho says without much thought when Mr. Bank Employee speaks to him for the third time on the subway.
There's a loaded, unspoken remark in his eyes that catches Minho off guard, especially since it disappears just as quickly as it had come.
Minho is about to disregard his own request when the man speaks.
"Kibum."
For some reason, the simplicity of the name surprises Minho, and he parrots the name back to Kibum.
"Is that your name too?" Kibum asks, just a hint of sarcasm as well as amusement in his tone. Minho can't help but wrinkle his face at him.
"I'm Minho," he introduces.
Kibum repeats his name once, twice.
♔
"So, how's your reading going along?"
Minho turns around to find Kibum standing next to him. He hadn’t seen Kibum for a few days, and was starting to think that Kibum had had a change of schedule at work.
"Hey," Minho replies, "the book was surprisingly good after I was able to get through the first few chapters."
Kibum flashes him a smile, "that's good to hear."
Minho shrugs in response, and there is silence for a while. It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, per se. Minho did want to speak to Kibum, but he was not sure what he could say without the book as a conversation piece. Kibum was an older, working adult after all, and Minho was still a college student.
"Would you want to read another book like that?" Kibum asks, breaking the silence.
"I can't say I would mind," Minho replies. There was something about the book that had captivated him. Besides, he wanted an excuse to speak to Kibum as well. Something about the older man captured his attention, and Minho had always had a strong sense for curiosity, a nose for the unknown.
"I’ll pass you one the next time we bump into each other then," Kibum pauses for a moment, maybe a moment too long, and turns so that he is facing Minho directly, "or would you be willing to meet me outside of the subway?"
"Outside of the subway?"
Kibum clicks his tongue. Minho thinks he sees Kibum tense his forehead in annoyance, but it was probably just the way the streetlights outside hit his face in the cramped cabin.
"Maybe that wasn't worded so well. We could meet for coffee and I'll pass you the book."
Minho gapes like a fish, not really believing what the other man just said. “Sorry, what?”
The businessman raises an eyebrow. “Or we could not.”
“No that’s not what I meant- I mean, us, and coffee? Like, we meet up outside of this subway?”
Kibum nods patiently, waiting. The infuriating part is all Minho, with his stupid replies and dumb reactions and tons of uncertainties and-
“Okay,” he hears himself saying. “Okay.”
Kibum only nods, but his expression visibly loosens up, and Minho sucks in a grateful breath.
♔
They meet for the first time outside the subway in a little cafe. It's not a place Minho would frequent himself; he has never been one for overpriced coffee and tiny cakes the price of two full meals, but he really cannot see Kibum in one of those noisy canteens he frequently patronizes. They had exchanged numbers following the conversation, and Minho had noticed that Kibum had not bothered to save his number as a contact. No matter, he’s just meeting him for coffee and to collect a book.
He has a good time - no - a great time. Kibum is the same as he has been in their limited conversations, but there's something about him that gets more and more charming the longer Minho spent with him, and maybe something sinister as well.
Minho chooses to completely overlook that.
The book Kibum passes him is different from how Kibum portrays himself. While Kibum is poised and polished, the book is dog-eared and yellowed, edge of the pages worn out by time. The contrast is surprisingly refreshing.
Coffee turns into dinner, and Minho lets Kibum pay for him (since Kibum had insist on a restaurant far out of his own price range).
When Kibum invites him back to his apartment to talk more and to show him his collection of well-loved books, Minho does not think twice before accepting the invitation.
♔
When he opens his eyes, there are two sorts of feelings that hit him like a loaded truck. The first is a heavy pull of fatigue, one that insistently tugs his eyelids down and makes his brain function slower than usual as he stirs and looks around enough to register his location. The second is confusion - confusion at his failed attempt to stir any more than a few inches all around and whatever that his eyes are taking in at this point of time.
He’s in a room - large, with a colour scheme of black and wine and gold. It’s tasteful, really, luxurious in the choice of furniture, yet anything but vulgar and suffocating. It’s dimly lit, and the curtains are drawn, so he doesn’t really get much information just by sight. What makes him sit up a little straighter (or at least try to, given the newly discovered bounds of rope chaining him to a straight-backed chair) is the large, oval mirror in front of him.
His eyes are open - anxious, but not afraid. Strangely not afraid, considering the current situation. Minho stares in slight fascination at how deeply the ropes are digging into his skin, such that his arms have weird, unsightly folds of flesh coming up where the ropes end, and how there is a knife actually fixed right in front of the base of his throat. It’s lucky that he didn’t struggle forward, for that thing, glinting as much as it does in the dull lighting, could’ve easily plunged itself into him and never resurfaced.
Someone clears their throat, and Minho whips his head in the direction of the sound, gasping a little as he moves a little too rashly and the knife nicks him, easy and precise over his exposed collarbones.
“Evening.”
“Where- am I?”
“My playroom.” The figure stands up and moves closer to Minho; with the extra light he makes out that it’s Kibum, only decked out in a different outfit than he remembered. Kibum crosses the room in calculated, precise steps, and it’s almost as if he’s a cat, circling his prey and seizing it up before going in for the kill. The wide-collared sweater showcases his own untainted neck and the line of his pale shoulders perfectly.
“I don’t understand.” Kibum stops in front of Minho, cold steady eyes fixing on his own. Minho finds himself stiffening when Kibum, still looking at him, slides himself easily over his bound thighs, and sits, straddling him sideways.
The silence in the room is deafening as Kibum’s hand reaches up to go for the knife, and Minho’s eyes cross themselves in his attempt to watch how the older man runs a finger across the blade, steady and quick enough to draw blood. He is stock-still, unmoving, and only wide-eyed when Kibum makes a small tch sound and runs the injured finger slowly, deliberately across his cheek. It makes a bright, wet stain across his cheek. “I get bored sometimes. Did you sleep well?”
“I don’t understand.”
Kibum throws his head back and laughs, low, teasing in his throat. It’s almost sexy, the way he moves, but Minho is too preoccupied with the kind of situation he’s in right now to be thinking about how hot Kibum could make him feel.
"Frequently Asked Questions 101 - why? I don’t understand.” He takes Minho by the chin, jerking him forward ever so slightly so that the tip of the knife sinks into the base of his throat. Just a little bit of it. “Not that I blame you, of course. Nobody expects to die in the hands of a stranger they met just a few weeks before.”
“D-die?” Minho croaks, breath shallow from the pain in his numbed limbs and lightly punctured throat.
Kibum only shrugs, and gets off, walking behind him, keeping his fingers entangled in Minho’s nicely tousled hair. “Like I said, I get bored. Sometimes stressed and then I have to find someone to take it out on. Can’t kill anyone I know at work.”
“You’re going to kill me?”
Kibum pulls his head back so he can look into Minho’s wide, staring eyes. “I brought a couple of shiny toys in here. Figured my carving could use a little more practice."
“So-” Minho is still trying to get his head around things, “We’re not- friends? You just talked to me so you could find someone to carve up?”
He lets go of Minho’s head, taking purposeful strides away from him to a table at the far end of the room, where the college boy, with eyes now adjusted, see that it holds a generous selection of knives. “Sorry, kid. It’s been really stressful at work.”
“I don’t get a say in this?”
“Nope. But if you want, I can help you write a couple of suicide letters. Get your last wishes fulfilled, whatever they might be, for a kid your age.”
“I’m not a kid.” Even Minho’s surprised at himself, noticing how his anger is directed at his captor treating him as less than an adult, rather than being angry at how irrational the entire situation is for him to die down here tonight.
Kibum doesn’t seem to have caught on his curious mood. “Suit yourself. You have about two minutes before I take out your intestines.” The businessman holds up a carving fork, slim and deadly in the dark. “Or maybe I'll take out your eyes, first. Whichever you prefer.”
“How many people have you- done the same to?”
Kibum shrugs, running the sides of the knife down Minho’s earlobe. It slices through, easily, not that Kibum is putting much thought into it. “A few. I keep a log book - I could make sure you’re never forgotten, if you like.”
Minho briefly contemplates how that idea feels to him, the smell of his own blood and cold stainless steel around him. And Kibum, a soft, unassuming scent. “That would be. Nice.”
Kibum raises a brow, and with one swift move switches his stance so he’s planting a highly polished shoe on top of Minho’s thighs, and pointing the tip of the blade directly at Minho’s eyes. It makes him feel light headed from trying to keep the knife in view, but strangely enough, he doesn’t feel as afraid as he should be.
“Stop fucking around with me. I’m going to make this quick, and clean - you’re lucky that I have a gala dinner to attend in about an hour so I don’t have enough time to fuck you up really badly.”
“I-” Minho’s not even sure what he’s about to say- beg for him to stop? Continue to reason with him? But all hazy thoughts die out in his throat as he watches Kibum bring the knife slowly to his chest, placing it directly in the middle of the base of his ribs, and a light gleams in the other’s eyes. There is the smallest of smiles too, raising the corners of his full, full lips up-
He’s jerked back into the present when he suddenly experiences a falling motion, and with a start he’s on his back, legs folded comically over the edge of the chair he’s still tied to. When he looks up, Kibum is upon him, straddling his chest, and it would have been pretty welcoming if his eyes weren’t filled with just one intent.
“What did you say,” Kibum says quietly, nudging the blade into a space under his jaw, digging it in and eliciting pained gasps from Minho, long and painful.
“What I-?” Minho isn’t even aware that he’s said anything aloud, his head full of the knife and death and Kibum-
“You’re not afraid of dying? You want me to kill you? Because nobody compliments their murderer before they die.”
“Who’s not afraid of dying? But from what you said that you’ve been- doing, it’s highly unlikely that I’d make it out alive. So I might as well remember the experience.”
“Don’t you have a family, or friends to think about?” Minho can feel more weight on his chest now, and it makes it a little harder to breathe, but he can see that the mood in Kibum has shifted- not completely, but enough to make him soften his predatory stance.
Not enough to stop him absently nicking him in the neck with his toy, though. “I do," Minho pauses to take a deep breath when the pain of his new wound registers in his head, "but who doesn't, right?"
Kibum raises an incredulous eyebrow at him, "Fuck," he manages to say after a long bout of silence, "I've never had anyone this calm." He presses the knife deeper into Minho's neck, and Minho cannot help the small groan that escapes his lips.
The last thing Minho sees before his vision turns to black again is the frenzied contemplation in Kibum's eyes.
♔
Minho wakes up free of the ropes. They have pressed unsightly blue and purple crisscrosses into his skin, but they now sit on the floor in a neatly bundled up heap. He presses his thumb against a particularly deep imprint on his wrist, and sucks in a breath when the pain radiates dully from it.
He finds the door and is almost surprised to find it unlocked. There's a flight of stairs that lead upwards, and Minho takes them.
When he enters the living room, Kibum beckons to him, a cat curled up on his sofa, so unthreatening a sight that Minho almost cannot wrap his head around the reality that he is in right now.
The older man points. “Are you not going to do anything about that?”
“What?” But Minho instantly remembers when he cranes his neck downward - the folding of sliced open skin brings back a sharp sting to him.
Kibum stands up, and goes towards him. Barefooted, the top of the banker’s head just barely makes it past the tip of his nose. “I’m only going to say this once. I have zero tolerance for mess whatsoever outside of my basement. And you’re still dripping blood on my Persian rug."
“I- sorry. I’ll go clean myself up right away.”
Kibum sighs, loudly. “You’d probably make an even bigger mess out of my house. Just- sit here, and don’t even think about moving an inch.”
Later, as Minho watches the movement of Kibum’s white, white wrists, the older man catches him looking, and it raises a smirk to his features. “You really are obedient, aren’t you, pup.”
And the protest that Minho puts up is barely any. He gets a lift home before Kibum gets to the other side of his dreary neighborhood for the gala dinner, and it is frightening how he actually smiles and Kibum before turning away and walking up the driveway.
But also convenient. He doesn’t notice the eyes and ears that follow him up to his room.
♔
And then some weeks later, in between coffee meetings and an overly-inquisitive Minho, Kibum leans in.
"I have a proposition for you."
♔
The first time, Minho gets a lift home after soccer practice on the cusp of twilight, the tips of his ears slightly reddened with the number of cat calls and teasing voices that sound behind him, until the car doors close with a muted click. He is made to sit on a towel, because Kibum isn’t taking any chances with the amount of sweat and grass he has on him, and while the car is filled with easy jazz music Minho finds his palms cold, damp.
The first time, Minho is made to sit and watch. Not even anywhere near the basement, but from one of Kibum’s reading corners, where he sits with his knees bunched, the laptop resting the smooth leather seat. Freshly showered and clad in comfortable sweatpants, it’s almost as if he’s setting himself up for a cosy movie night.
Well, cosy for him, that is. He turns the volume down another two notches because this girl- what’shername- Jinri?- isn’t anything like him. He curls his toes when he sees Kibum look directly at the camera in which he’s hidden in the basement for this special occasion, and rolls his eyes, cold, deliberate.
It doesn’t take long before Minho can turn up the volume again to hear whatever Kibum is saying to the girl, voice now lost in the tank of clear, frothing water, feet chained to the bottom of the contraption.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Please! But Kibum isn’t even watching, expertly teasing the ends of his hair with his fingers, back turned away from the young woman who turns violently blue, then purple, and finally silent.
He should have felt horror, disgust, maybe a touch of helplessness. Instead, Minho feels a trickle of warmth done his spine, and his eyes are alert with intrigue. There was something about the contrast of the scene that had done something for him; the struggle of the girl fighting for her life, and Kibum's complete impassiveness.
♔
It’s a bit like playing God, Minho thinks, from his position in front of the big screen television. Watching, knowing, and seeing everything. Kibum’s put the living room under lockdown just so he could watch in larger life instead of his measly laptop.
Today’s plaything wakes up mounted onto the false wall Kibum had installed for this, and it is almost pitiful, the way he screams and screams and even looks directly at- not that he knows it- Minho a couple of times for somebody, anybody, to take him away from here.
Kibum has no patience for noise and the theatrics, but for the amount of effort he’s put into tonight, he’s not the kind to let everything go to waste. He’s a kind of artist, the way he carefully paints the wall red, every slash made with his throwing knives a calculated slice. He takes the stranger’s fingers, under the ribs, in each thigh, three in the stomach-
The list goes on, even when the last of the light leaves his eyes. Kibum doesn’t have a bad aim, and it is almost merciful, the way the knife rests in between the man’s eyes. And Minho watches, and wonders if the silence in the room sans Kibum’s even breathing is quieter than the cold, dead man.
♔
Minho is interrupted mid-joke during lunch with Krystal and the rest of the gang from his Physics lecture by his phone. Sliding his phone out of his jean pocket, he frowns at the text message.
It's from Kibum, which is strange on its own because he’s never received one from the older man. The other has always had a preference for phone calls, so that kids like him wouldn’t accidentally fuck the two of them up. Come over tonight, is all it reads.
Why?
The reply is almost immediate. You could always choose not to.
Goddamnit. Why did everything have to be so vague? Minho’s all up for adventure, but he doesn’t like being ordered around like a real pet all that much. But Kibum’s got his interests piqued, and he grinds his teeth as he taps out a quick what time? on his phone.
“Who’s that?” Minho jumps, violently in his seat, turning to see Krystal hanging halfway out of her chair, straining her neck to look at his phone, which he hurriedly holds out of her reach. “Why are you going over to theirs if you don’t want to?”
“None of your business you brat,” Minho scowls, shoving the phone back into his pocket. It’s getting kind of awkward now, with everyone else at the table staring at him, the sudden change in his mood apparent and uncalled for.
Luckily, Krystal doesn’t seem to pick up on his annoyance. “God, just asking. Can’t a friend be concerned about another?”
“Sorry,” Minho mumbles, just as Changmin drawls, “that your girlfriend or something, Choi?”
“You’ve got a girlfriend, Minho?” Krystal turns her large eyes on him, brow knitted and looking more than a little betrayed. “And you didn’t tell me about her?”
Minho suppresses a groan of frustration and throws his finished packet of milk at Kyuhyun, who laughs as he dodges it. “I’m not dating anyone.”
But amidst the relentless teasing and Krystal hanging off his arm and trying to reach for his phone for the remainder of lunch, Minho’s mind is a million miles away.
| Part Two >>