GTao <3

[xiongmaox]

It hadn't even been a week since their tryst on the rooftop and Zitao was still a little apprehensive about the new territory he and Jiyong were getting into. He desperately wanted more, yet he'd been burned so many times by now that something deep down in him had changed; He wasn't so naive and so quick to get caught up in whirlwinds of dreams anymore. He was still hopeful, but it was with more caution than before and he was taking this one step at a time. He wasn't blind to all the problems and pitfalls in their way, but still... He couldn't deny that he felt like their connection had deepened since that night. It was really nice, and that was part of what scared him. The other night they'd even talked a little about getting matching tattoos, and only been half joking. It felt like they belonged to each other a little bit more, and neither of them could take it back.

Tonight, Zitao had only been out getting groceries (if multipacks of ramen, steamed Chinese dumplings from a street vendor, tobacco, and beer could be considered groceries), and had one of the held between his lips as he fished his key out his pocket to open the door to the flat and kick it closed behind him, before bypassing the tiny kitchen area towards the beaten up old sofa.

Comments

[perignons]

It hurt Jiyong to think he was cheating. When everything seemed to have plateaued nicely between he and Zitao — no more fights, just the usual motherly bickering from the older man to clean around the flat better, and soothing from the younger whenever Jiyong’s nightmares became too much — the truth was that things would have been ten times worse hadn’t Jiyong been swallowing down pills several times a day. His first manic episode had been scary enough. Once he’d finished the bottle that had been meant for Zitao during his shoulder injury, he’d managed a connection to keep his addiction going, using money from the same savings Zitao was buying groceries with, to buy oxyxodone in week-long doses. If he didn’t replace the money soon, he knew Zitao would start to notice, and after weighing the options in his head (gambling was completely out of the question by now), he decided that he could rely on stealing; it was how he’d funded himself when he was still making close to nothing as a mercenary, and he could surely do it again.
The day had been going by without much occurrence — Jiyong had woken Zitao up to a morning blow job because, let’s face it, he’d grown overweeningly confident in his skill to get him off since that night on the rooftop; had made them breakfast afterwards, showered, and while he’d wandered back into the bedroom to read and doze off some more, Zitao had gone out to run errands. It wasn’t until later in the evening that Jiyong thought to get himself primped up — maybe once Zitao got back, he’d want to go out for a drink and some music — and in an effort to look for his old but favorite Comme Des Garcon button-down, he found a note tucked away in a corner of the topmost shelf in the closet; a small leaf of paper torn from a notebook, its wrinkles ironed out and folded neatly in fours, and when Jiyong opened it, his eyes were immediately drawn to the English letters in a sea of Chinese script. Love. Yifan.
Yifan.
Jiyong’s ears burned hot, his chest instantly filling with anger and he felt like he could throw up. He’d known it. He’d known it since the first day he’d met the fucking guy. The way he’d looked at Jiyong, and even more, the way he’d looked at Zitao. Jiyong had never stuck his nose into Zitao and Yifan’s history only because there had been more important things to deal with, but the truth was that he had been curious about their relationship, and what they’d been out doing together on the nights Jiyong had been sitting alone at home. Now he just felt stupid for never questioning it, and if there was one thing Jiyong hated more than loneliness, it was feeling like he’d been tricked. In an instant, the miraculous ounce of sympathy he’d felt for Yifan’s death dissipated.
His entire body was icy hot, fingertips tingling and he was still clutching the letter when he heard Zitao walking through the door minutes later. Jiyong followed the noise like a preying cougar, moving across the bedroom until he was at the threshold of the tiny living room, holding out the piece of paper. “What the fuck is this?”

[xiongmaox]

He had barely reached the sofa when Jiyong burst into the room, and Zitao blinked owlishly, momentarily totally confused.

Then, after a second of still silence, Zitao dropped the plastic bag onto the mug stained coffee table along with the dumpling from his mouth, scarred with teeth marks. His stomach had twisted up at the sudden recognition of the carefully preserved piece of paper in Jiyongs hand... The pain of Yifan's death was still raw, still unavenged, and he did not want to talk about it. He and Jiyong had been happy the last few days, or as close as it got at least; Zitao had even started bothering with his looks again, having his hair dyed almost white and shaved close at the sides while long on top. They were just beginning to get back to normal, and even aiming for better. Could he not catch a god damn break?

With those thoughts Zitao prickled and moved towards the older man, hot and hasty, snatching the letter from his hand as he snappily replied, "None of your business," and returned to the sofa to drop down onto it and dig a pack of cigarettes out of the plastic bag he'd brought home. "Just keep the fuck out of my stuff."

[perignons]

Jiyong let his arm drop to his side when Zitao swept the letter out of his hand, but not without following him further into the living room, persistent. "The fuck it isn't my business." He stood over the younger, eyes following him down as he lowered himself onto the sofa and smacking away the plastic bag a second after he pulled the pack of cigarettes from it. "You left this shit in our closet, in a fucking communal space. Of course I'm going to read it." He stared down at the blonde, his silence — like always — only making Jiyong angrier. He hated when Zitao was short with his words, curt and simple when Jiyong wanted to talk (or more often than not, argue) every single thing out. He lodged himself between the coffee table and Zitao's knees, forcing himself into the other's line of vision. "Were you fucking him?"

[xiongmaox]

Zitao ignored the plastic bag being slapped off the table, silently digging the lighter out of his jeans pocket without even looking up at the other man, as if he thought Jiyong would give up and just stop if he paid no attention. Of course he knew he wouldn't, really, and of course he didn't. And when Jiyong forced himself into Zitao's line of sight he stood up abruptly and paced over to the window, angered by the question. "For fuck's sake," he muttered and half sat half leaned on the window sill, then flicked the lighter at the cigarette held between his lips. Once, twice, three times... Low on fluid the damn thing wouldn't light, and it irritated him far more than was rational. He tutted loudly as he snatched the unlit cigarette from his own lips and threw it at the ground together with the lighter. Then he took a deep breath, carefully centering himself again, because he really didn't want this to blow up. He was just raw about the whole thing because of the recent death, but Jiyong had the wrong end of the stick about them. Things were getting really good and Zitao didn't want this to get in the way. "It was a long time ago," he admitted with a sigh, trying to be kind. "Trust me. It doesn't matter anymore."

[perignons]

Jiyong's head flinched back when Zitao stood up suddenly, but instead of taking steps in pursuit, he just followed him with narrow eyes to the windowsill, silent as he let the younger man gather his words. His fists clenched, teeth locked, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he watched him unsuccessfully light the cigarette, a soft skid and loud clatter when the lighter slid across the room and hit the leg of the coffee table. Zitao's words, no matter how level in tone, still fueled the anger in Jiyong's visibly heaving chest, and as he moved to close the distance between them again, he made sure to snatch up the letter Zitao had left on the sofa. "It matters." He was in Zitao's face again, eye-to-eye thanks to the taller's half-committed sitting. "He might be dead, but it still fucking matters. All those times in Guangzhou you left to go out with him, you were fucking him, weren't you? Having an affair. Keeping this —" he held out the offending paper in his grasp, "—keeping this from me. Never even telling me you'd been with another man before? And now I, I look like the fucking idiot!" He shoved the crinkled letter into Zitao's chest, knuckles knocking between bony collarbones. He realized then, that he wasn't just angered, but embarrassed.

[xiongmaox]

The shape of Zitao's eyes changed from narrowed to rounded at the accusation, lips opening to speak a couple of times during the rest of Jiyongs short tirade like a involuntary goldfish impression. "What?? You think--" he flubbed, then moved his hand up to cup over the top of Jiyong's where it held the crumpled paper against his own chest, shaking his head. "No. You've got it all wrong," he pleaded, squeezing the hand underneath his "I swear, nothing like that happened this time. Ever since I went back Korea, since.. you know - the accident.. There hasn't been anyone else, Ji. Only you." There was a brief pause as a lump built in Zitao's throat, and he swallowed it before he continued. "Yifan was my friend long before he and I were anything more, and he was my friend after. That's all."

[perignons]

He practically cringed at Zitao's words, giving his chest another shove with the hand clutched there before dropping the paper and pulling away from the other's grasp. "'Love'?" he quoted the sign-off, taking a step back and pointing at the crumpled ball that now lie by Zitao's foot. "Love?" The hurt in his voice was genuine, and he felt betrayed unlike the way he'd felt towards Zitao and girls, in which the longing had prickled but always subsided. This was Yifan, tall and built in ways Jiyong wasn't, sharing a cultural background with Zitao that had made Jiyong seethe with anger every time the two had bantered in Mandarin in front of him. And Yifan was dead, sure, but Jiyong couldn't stand to think that Zitao had loved someone more than him; he'd chosen Yifan when Jiyong was a choice, too.

"You're lying. If you ended as friends then why would you keep something like this and hide it? Stop fucking lying to me!" he growled, and somehow he was in Zitao's face again, this time with the front of his collar balled up in his fist. And there it was again, the itch inside that had led him to pull the trigger on complete strangers, not because sajangnim had ordered it, but because he had needed release.

[xiongmaox]

Please, Zitao thought, becoming exasperated as Jiyong pulled away from him. Wasn't he listening? There was really no need for all this bullshit right now. Glancing down at the screwed up piece of paper now lying by his feet, listening to Jiyong yelling at him even though he was trying his fucking hardest to keep it together, a spark of anger flared in his chest and he balled his fists by his sides involuntarily.

Yes, Zitao had loved Yifan; Yifan had been kind, strong, and reliable. The shared language and culture had been really nice, too, and best of all he had always known exactly where he stood with Yifan. There were no games and everything was just easy. Sure, there had never been the heart racing, toe curling, madly deep desire he felt when chasing after Kwon Jiyong, but he could only love so hard for so long while hanging on to the crazy dream that one day they'd live happily ever after before something a lot easier on the heart came along, promising that he'd never have to feel broken again. Yifan had been that something. Yeah, perhaps it hadn't been completely fair on the guy that Zitao could never give his heart 100%, that the very deepest chamber was locked and reserved by another, and occasionally he'd inadvertantly left Yifan feeling shut out in the cold, but they had managed to live happily on a don't ask don't tell basis. Well, until Tao had suddenly upped and said he was going back to Korea at least...

Zitao, like always, had dropped everything and come running because Jiyong had been involved. That night, behind the wheel, he really had wanted to kill Jiyong, to finally put an end to it all so that he could take back that little piece of himself, go back to China and live his life knowing Jiyong was no longer out there. Maybe then he could have been free, but of course... It was never going to be that simple.

Zitao went through hell for this guy, he'd given up the secure life in which he'd been the closest to happy he'd ever known with no going back, and for what? For this?? For Jiyong to throw it back in face again? To fuck everything up like always because he just couldn't seem to handle being happy? Until now Zitao had turned the other cheek after finding a hidden stash of pain meds while he'd been searching for a hiding spot for the letter. He'd tamed that sinking feeling he'd had upon realisation and played along with the way Jiyong pretended everything was fine, because even if it was a lie it was a beautiful one while it lasted. But they still couldn't manage to keep it together, could they?

By the time Jiyong grabbed his collar Zitao was seething, and this time it wasn't pleadingly that he caught both the smaller man's wrists, it was rough and short nails dug into pale skin. "I'm the one fucking lying to you, am I?" he spat before shoving the other man away. "Well I guess we've both got things we'd rather hide, haven't we?"

[perignons]

Jiyong felt the pinch over delicate bones in his wrists, body unprepared so that he was easily pushed away by the blonde. Finally Zitao was getting worked up, and finally Jiyong could feel like he wasn't the only one going crazy here. Suddenly he was given more reason to lash out because Zitao was, too, and as quickly as Jiyong had been shoved away, he stepped up again, palms hitting either of Zitao's shoulders to give him a shove back, his lesser physical strength made up for in violent anger. In manic moments like this, Jiyong heard nothing but himself and saw nothing but red; he wasn't a hypocrite in his own ears, wasn't seeing a man in front of him who'd been selfless and stupidly loyal to him as long as they'd known each other. That image had shattered with the letter, because Zitao had lied and cheated and hadn't been the untouched fantasy Jiyong had conjured up in his mind.

"Don't turn this around on me!" Jiyong, quick to conclusions, pointed a thumb over his shoulder like the girl from Mongkok had materialized behind him. "I didn't give a shit about that girl enough to even remember her name, let alone love her. She was nothing but a lay, but you fucking had feelings for this guy. I told you everything about my one and only girlfriend, you know the only two people I've ever loved in my life, and that was her and you. So who's hiding what, huh?"

[xiongmaox]

Zitao's body was already braced with anger, tense muscles keeping him from falling back at Jiyong's hard shove. The impact was met instead with resistance, one shoulder twisting back with a rough jolt before he straightened again, thin lips curling into an antagonized sneer. Things had changed a lot since they were kids. It seemed like everything had been so much simpler back then. ... Or maybe Zitao had just wisened up and finally realised that nothing he ever did for Jiyong was ever enough. What did he see in this guy? Jiyong was fucking mental, and Zitao had all but had about enough.

"You selfish bastard."

The words were quiet and heavy, escaping from Zitao's clenched jaw like it was a fact he'd always known but had been unwilling to admit. And for a moment, just for one moment, all he wanted to do was to cry and kick and scream for all the things he'd lost and all the mistakes he'd made in falling for the wrong one. Everything was all Jiyongs fault. Everything. All of it. And in the next moment Zitao's anger was back two-fold.

"You don't love anyone but your-fucking-self," he spat with bitter resentment. "But at least don't treat me like an idiot. I know what's going on! So why don't you just forget about me and go swallow some more of those damn pills?" He gave Jiyong a hard shove back, because it was the only thing he could do to restrain himself from actually punching him. "Truth is you're just a junkie loser! ...I should have left you in that hospital."

[perignons]

It was like Zitao had thrown a line drive straight into Jiyong, a ball forming in his throat so that for a few seconds he was left breathless and without words. This entire time Zitao had known, and now Jiyong was panicking, instinct first telling him to deny it completely. And he almost did, hadn't Zitao went on with those insulting, hurtful and painfully truthful words.

"Shut up! Shut. Up!"

Two seconds?

Two minutes?

For the second time in his life, he'd blacked out on Zitao. He wasn't sure how much time had passed before he realized the gun had moved from the waistband of his pants to the aching grip of one hand, the other curled around Zitao's neck as he pinned him against the wall, barrel digging square into his forehead. When he realized what he was doing and recognized the man in front of him, the wrinkles in his face disappeared, jaw loosening, eyes turning from orbs to glistening slits as he jerked away quickly from Zitao. He backed up blindly until his calves hit the edge of the coffee table, a support for his back when he sunk down to rest his elbows on bent knees and bang the gun against his own forehead this time.

He cried without inhibition, loud and burbling until he managed a breath enough to look up at Zitao with liquid vision and ask desperately, "What am I doing?"

[xiongmaox]

The sudden draw of the gun threw him, and he wasn't stupid enough to antagonise the older man further as he was pinned again the wall by his throat, another sign that Zitao could never fully trust Jiyong -- This guy might just be crazy enough to do it. Still, the desire to punch and knock some sense into him burned in Zitao's narrowed eyes until he was released. He waited, watching the other man shrink back before he stood up straight again and looked down at Jiyong with a mixture of pain and contempt. He'd been ready for a fight, and somehow seeing tears instead just made him even more angry.

"I don't know, Ji. What ARE you doing? You tell me. Because I really don't understand it!" Usually he would have backed down and try to fix things just enough to keep them limping along until the next catastrophe, but not this time. Not again. He'd been through too much, too many times, and he couldn't handle another empty promise right now. "When have I EVER let you down? When have you ever needed me and I wasn't right there??" he paced back and forth a few steps, questionong himself even more than he aimed the questions at Jiyong, feeling crazy for following his heart all the time while his head had repeated told him no. "But where were you when I needed you? How was I supposed to tell you I was with someone when I didn't even know where you were? You shut me out. YOU did that."

He paused, biting his lower lip and blinking upwards for a moment, controlling the emotion that threatened to spill into tears of his own. He managed to keep his gaze hard even as his eyes glistened and his firm tone shook a little. "I've loved you more than anyone. I couldn't stop it. And it's taken everything for me to be with you, and you just keep on.... You keep doing this. I've had it." He closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose as he felt the frustration rising again. It kept coming back in waves, mixed with hurt and anger, a lot that had been bottled up over years of allowing himself to be mistreated. It was hard enough to handle his own emotions right now without having to watch Jiyong too, and he knew he had to just get out of here right now. "I've fucking had it," he repeated, snatching the car keys off the table. "Fuck you," he snapped bitterly and stalked off out of the apartment.

[perignons]

Back at the orphanage, Ms. Noh would corner Jiyong in the yard and scold him for spitting on the concrete or flicking up girls' skirts; he'd stand there scrawny and puppy-eyed, peering up as silently as he'd been raucous seconds before being dragged away by the ear. Useless good-for-nothing. She'd growl and stab a finger into his chest and take his dinner away, but Jiyong had always gone running off to do the next misbehaved thing. Calling out his worthlessness wasn't pointing out anything he hadn't already known, and after all, they could only hold food from him for so long.

It was sort of like that, now, the way Jiyong stared up at Zitao glassy-eyed and silent, except this time, the scolding actually invoked fear. He watched his old friend pace the floor and pinch back his own tears, saw anger and pain take over him, pieces of him that didn't quite fit together anymore; he wasn't the Zitao who would curtail from Jiyong's physical violence and bend the instant he saw Jiyong's tears. Instead he was like a stranger intruding on a private moment, on Zitao in a moment of revelation that Jiyong had always selfishly hoped would never come.

It was awful.

It was like seeing him for the first time, not the person he'd spent years with but another Zitao, one who was desperate and miserable and rightfully self-aware, buckling under the weight of an invisible burden, Jiyong.

And the sight made Jiyong ill. Because he knew he'd gone too far this time. This was it. This was the end.

Jiyong had never asked for a reunion, but everything Zitao said was right. Jiyong hadn't always been there when he'd needed him in their teenage and adult years, had betrayed him more than once and used him as a punching bag that he would only mend in the dark. What person deserved this? Jiyong looked at Zitao, at his newly styled hair and clear complexion, and he felt sorry for this person, felt sorry that he'd put effort into his looks again, this man whose youthful appearance hinted at nothing of the trauma he'd experienced in his short life.

"No," Jiyong tried to say carefully at first, but then again with more pleading, "no."

But of course a single lazy word wasn't going to stop Zitao from scooping up the keys and sweeping past Jiyong. Neither was a pathetic, "Tao, come back!" as the younger disappeared round the front door. Jiyong flung the gun at the half-open door, the force conveniently shutting it so that the neighbors couldn't hear his continued sobbing down the hallway. A minute later, he got up and wobbled over to the window just in time to see Zitao getting into the car, his hair a spotlight even in the night.

In the hour Jiyong was left alone, he'd gone from contemplating suicide to running away, and in the end, he decided that either way, he need to hear Zitao's voice one last time. Pills scattered about the sink, he sat on the toilet and speed dialed Zitao, hoping to god he wouldn't hear his phone ringing somewhere in the apartment, and that he'd actually answer his call.

[xiongmaox]

Feeling angry tears sting the back of his eye, Zitao didn't falter in his movement even at Jiyong's weak pleas. He didn't even look back. He just needed to get out of there.

He caught the rickety old elevator and leaned both hands on the rail, gripping tightly and staring himself in the eye in the mirror in front of him that made up one of the four walls, a grimace plastered beneath permanent dark circles. The downwards motion of the elevator made him feel even sicker, but the brief few moments in there gave him enough pause to suck up the tears that had threatened to fall and when the ding sounded and the doors slid open he combed a hand back through his hair before walking out with a little more grace. with no turning back he headed straight outside to the car, starting the engine and speeding away into the night.

He didn't know where he was going. There was nowhere left for him to go anymore, so he just ended up driving around aimlessly for a while before he found himself in a dingy little bar staring into a glass of baijiu. He'd downed two shots of it straight away and had poured a third, hand clasped around the glass ready to throw it back, but he suddenly lost the desire to bring it to his lips when his stomach turned again as painful thoughts grabbed for his attention. It was then he finally gave in and let his head sink with a frustrated little sigh, squeezing his eyes shut and propping his forehead on his free hand, elbow on the wooden tabletop. He'd chosen a small table in the corner and sat facing the wall, obviously not wanting to be disturbed.

The last time Zitao had felt so lost was years ago, when he was a kid who had truanted off school, had climbed over the back gate and made it into one of the narrow backstreets only to buckle at the knees and sink onto the curb, hugging his knees with his feet in the gutter, shoes soaking in the little river of rain water flowing into the sewers. He could deal with the bullying, the racist taunts of his thuggish classmates, and even the odd beatings now and again, usually. But not this day. He'd lost his dad, and it didn't matter that he wasn't the best or the smartest, or that he was a criminal -- it had made Zitao's world crumble.

And that day, that moment, that was where Jiyong had stepped in and fished him out of his pool of misery. Jiyong had pulled him out, so Jiyong could throw him back in. And now here he was again, and he was drowning. What the hell was he going to do now? Who would save him this time?

Just as he began to sink further he felt his cell phone buzz in his jacket pocket. He would have ignored it, but it was playing his ringtone too loudly. So he sighed with irritation and pulled it out, holding the volume button to bring it down to silent. Of course, he saw Jiyong's name on the caller ID, and he wished he hadn't because it made him weak. He was so used to being there as soon as Jiyong clicked his fingers, and in spite of everything Zitao couldn't just switch his feelings off. His stupid heart ached as his thumb hovered over the decline button, and he couldn't forgive Jiyong, that bastard. ...And he hated himself for touching the accept button at the last second, lifting the phone to his ear with a grimace and snapped into the receiver. "What do you want?"

[perignons]

(( some sound for fun. got linked to this cover by jungkook of bts at the same time i was writing this and it kinda had me bawling lol ㅜㅜ)

One ring, two rings...

And then Jiyong was sure of two things: Zitao hadn't left his cell phone in the apartment, and surely however loud the car radio or clamorous the bar, he'd hear the ringing because for some paranoid reason he always turned the volume up stupidly high.

Three rings, four rings...

And then Jiyong's heart sank, because he could see Zitao reading his name on the screen and slipping the phone into his pocket or face down on a surface, eyes turning back to the road or a half-drunken glass of liquor. He bit his lip, feeling the tears begin to swell up in his eyes again, like a child.

Five rings.

His breath hitched when he heard Zitao's voice on the other line; it didn't matter the tone — of course Jiyong wasn't expecting anything less than irate — and he nearly blurted out a "don't hang up," mouth springing down and up in a moment of reservation. Zitao had answered, and Jiyong cried anyway.

A few seconds of sniffling and sucking up air before he managed, "I know I fucked up," and then again, re-worded, "I'm a fuck up, I know." He pressed an elbow to knee, palm to forehead as he clutched an already disheveled fringe that poked out in dark cherry bristles between his fingers. He paused — maybe Zitao would want to say something — but no, of course he wouldn't, and afraid of silence and a chance for Zitao to hang up, Jiyong continued through his tears. No dignity. No point in holding back anymore. "There's nothing I can say to fix things. I know it's too late but — I'm sorry. For everything. For all the fucked up things I did to you, you didn't deserve any of it. I was scared of being rejected, so I did it to you first. I treated you badly so you wouldn't have a chance to, and all I did was fuck up the only real thing I had."

Silence again from the other side, but it didn't discourage Jiyong because he'd already given up hope of mending things; instead, it gave him a chance to continue venting, to steer the conversation to what he knew deep down was the root of all their problems.

"I'm sick." Words that felt like they were being pried from his chest. "I — I need help. I'm going to get help somewhere, Tao, I'm going...” He was talking half to himself now, tears dried but eyes red and stinging, glazed over as they stared past the tile floor to a back alley in his hometown. "I wish... Tao, I wish..."

...we'd never met. Not for Jiyong's sake, but for Zitao's. Who knew what clean life Zitao would be living, what happy relationship he would be in, hadn't Jiyong stumbled upon him that day in the alley? Suddenly Jiyong was never filled with so much regret as he was now. If only he hadn't cut class that day, if only he hadn't taken a different route home, if only his peripheral hadn't been so sharp, if only...

"I wish I hadn't let you down."

[xiongmaox]

[[ Beautiful. ;~; <3 And why does Jungkook always have to be so perfect, ugh. *loves* I have too many songs for this, I think I'm gonna have to post in our little comm, haha~ ]]


Zitao hated how the sound of Jiyong crying so pathetically on the other end of the line pierced into his heart. It wasn't fair, but it was always the end of world whenever Jiyong was upset and Zitao truly, deeply wished he could help, he really did. He would have given anything to see Jiyong happy, in a normal, balanced way. But he'd tried. He'd tried and he'd tried, until he'd hit the point where he couldn't try any longer. Nothing ever worked, or at least not for long, and it was so frustrating to watch the one he so desperately loved destroying everything over and over again. He'd bottled up those frustrations so many times after being let down that it had finally boiled over into anger, and as much as the feeble sobbing he heard was hurting him it was antagonising him even further.

Zitao knocked back the shot of hard, clear liquor he had lined up as he waited for Jiyong to speak, trying to quell the frustration twisting in his gut. He could feel the alcohol warming his blood, but it wasn't doing much for his emotions. If anything it was taking the lid off instead of holding it down. And Jiyong's words didn't make him feel any better either, the mixture of emotion now fuelled with alcohol too making him lash out again.

"Bullshit," he spat irritably. "You'll never change. You say the same shit every time you fuck up, so why the hell should I believe you this time? How can anybody help you?"

[perignons]

Jiyong could hear liquid through the line, the sliding of Zitao's throat, the wetness on his lips as he spat words into Jiyong's ear. As long as Jiyong had known him, Zitao had never held his liquor well; he got sloppy, impatient, mean, things opposite himself. And it wasn't that Zitao wasn't entirely warranted in his anger, either, only the thought that Jiyong had driven him to such a poison, just like the cigarettes and the shoplifting and the nights they'd nearly killed themselves speeding around in Jiyong's car. You'll never change. Something squeezed at Jiyong's chest again that rendered him speechless, allowing a lull to fall over the line when Zitao finished speaking. Zitao was wrong in that aspect, and though the cure for change would hurt, Jiyong was now just as ready to commit as he'd been the day he'd deleted Zitao's number from his phone years ago.

"I'm not asking you to believe me." When his voice finally came, it was sheepish, tired. There was no trying to convince Zitao of anything anymore. He stared down at his feet, socks that were loose at the toes because they had once been Zitao's before they started sharing some of the same clothes. Then he finally lifted his head from his hand in resolve, met by the cold mocking stare of the tiled wall in front of him. "You're right, I'll never change as long as I'm here."

Jiyong missed Korea. He missed his friends, the familiar sights and sounds and smells, the ability to communicate. He missed missing Zitao and thinking of him fondly, something he couldn't do when a dire reality shattered a happy image. There was only one solution to all of this, and Jiyong was careful in his next words in an attempt to convey it.

"I know I'm only going to make you more upset the more I talk, so let's just stop this." His face contorted and he pulled the phone from his ear so he could release a shaky exhale without Zitao hearing him, then, "I'll see you back at the apartment... love you."

He held on a few seconds longer to see if Zitao would say it back, and whether or not he did, Jiyong would then hang up and pack up in the only quick, fugitive way he knew how.

[xiongmaox]

It really wasn't like him, but Zitao felt sickly pleased with himself during the quiet lull after he'd said his piece, hoping it had hit home. He was feeling spiteful, even if the earlier rage that had propelled him out of the apartment an hour or so ago had died down. Perhaps it was because he wanted to start a fight. He wanted Jiyong to deny it and hit back and lose control and prove Zitao's point, just so that he could scream back at him and go crazy and lose control himself. Because he was sick of feeling like the only one really trying to hold everything together, and he was sick of being the reliable, level-headed one. He just needed Jiyong to push him over the edge.

But he didn't. At least not that way.

Usually such sore accusations would have evoked a much stronger and much less controlled reaction from the older man, and Zitao had been geared up for that, not for the calm and tired reply he actually received instead. The unexpectedly cool tone of Jiyong's voice halted Zitao's irritation so suddenly, replacing it with a quiet seed of concern that quickly grew. What did he mean 'as long as he's here'? Why just stop? Why wasn't he gonna try to fix this?

Maybe Zitao wasn't good at being the the one quick to fly off the handle after all, because now, after hearing Jiyong out, there was a silent tear rolling down each of his cheeks. He didn't know what to say now, the spiteful comments running dry, and he lingered too long before he swallowed the lump in his throat. "Jiyong, I..."

But the other man had already given up and hung up the phone just a second earlier. So Zitao did too, and he quickly got up, wiping his face into the inner elbow of his jacket sleeve and not giving a shit that a few people were looking at him strangely as he left the little bar.

He jumped into the car, probably over the legal BAC limit but he'd done a lot worse, and drove back to the apartment. Jiyong was right; nothing good was going to come of this. Let's just stop. He was still hurt, and everything still wasn't okay, but he'd cooled off by the time he reached the place they'd been calling home, and it was a little gingerly that he entered the front door.

[perignons]

Jiyong took as little as possible — a few shirts and pants, a toothbrush, a notebook in a small duffel bag; the sweatshirt on his back, the shoes on his feet, the pistol tucked into his waist. The only thing he simultaneously hated himself for taking and felt he couldn't go without were the pain meds. He didn't take the fresh pack of cigarettes he'd gotten earlier in the day; that he left for Zitao, along with the 20,000 CNY stashed away in the closet. He couldn't have lived with himself knowing he'd taken anything from Zitao, and besides, he wouldn't need much. Once he was out of China, he would have it made. As far as he knew, sajangnim knew nothing of how the Guangzhou massacre really went down, and no matter how exhausted Jiyong's mental state, he would always be a good liar: Soohyuk and the others were dead, sure, but Jiyong had taken down both Zitao and his partner Yifan in retaliation; lost his phone and all contact in the scuffle, but he was back and ready to claim his stake as sajangnim's top assassin.

He was gone before Zitao could return, and he was glad for it. No chance to see Zitao's face one more time, no chance to second guess himself and fall back into the same destructive hole he was finally gaining the strength to climb up from. He was glad, too, that his last words to Zitao had been spoken from the heart, and he was sure Zitao knew he meant it when he said he loved him. That would never change. Even if somewhere down the line Jiyong found himself on the side of the road at the mercy of Zitao's gun again, it wouldn't change.

And so he found himself in another dingy motel room in another strange town. Phone muted because he couldn't bear to hear potential calls. The entire night spent crying, purging a weak heart, until dawn shone through the cheap curtains and cast him new skin, as wild and callous as he'd been as a new blood to his gang.