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jaeha smokes.
jaeha smokes, so jaeha goes outside when the talking gets too loud and he’s not the one doing the talking, and he blows warm smoke out into the cool air of the evening through his chapped lips, just as the sun is beginning to set and color the sky a mellow sort of orange, and sigyeong follows him out there without being asked, without being told, lollipop dangling between his delicate lips, lightly smothered with a layer of strawberry flavored chapstick.
he’s the only one who can get away with such a thing, after all. acting without jaeha saying a word.
jaeha leans against the wall speckled with bits of dirt and grime and other things he doesn’t wanna think about, and sigyeong takes his spot next to him, shoulder digging into the harsh, chipped concrete so that he can look at jaeha and wait for him to speak, like he always, inevitably does.
jaeha won’t say a thing for a moment, lost in his own, too big head, just staring out into the evening. he’ll reach his hand up to lazily drag his own cigarette out from his lips, and reach over to wordlessly extend it to the boy standing next to him, and sigyeong will reject it like he always does. he’s the only one who doesn’t smoke, and the only one jaeha ever offers his cigarettes up to. he’ll try to find humor in how things work out that way, but decides it’s too bleak anyhow.
the big picture is this: jaeha trusts sigyeong. to a degree. jaeha doesn’t trust many and doesn’t trust easy, but sigyeong has managed to gently, carefully, chip away at his defenses, the walls of his heart, and slither his way inside. that’s what sigyeong is best at, perhaps. slithering, sneaking around, undoing the intricate bindings of a person and unwrapping the fabric from flesh where the blood sticks and clings stubbornly. it was a useful tool for jaeha, until it wasn’t, until it was a tool used against him.
but that doesn’t matter now. not yet, when they’re standing here like this in a not quite comfortable silence, the breeze of the wind gently rustling their clothes. not when sigyeong is still one of his men, one of the ones he thinks he has under his calloused thumb, the only one who breaks jaeha’s rules with the knowledge that he and he alone will somehow be rewarded for it.
“you should quit smoking,” sigyeong ends up breaking the silence first, voice a low, lazy drawl, eyes boring into jaeha. he’s used to staring, but jaeha finds he never likes it when sigyeong looks at him: like he’s dissecting him. like jaeha is a thing.
“yeah?” jaeha returns, easy. “why would i do that?”
“because it’s bad for you.” sigyeong smiles an empty smile, the sticky coating of his lollipop clinging to his soft lips, coloring them a pretty pink. jaeha takes great care not to look at them.
“i didn’t know you cared what was bad for me.” it’s said lightly, no change in tone, but sigyeong is smart enough to see it for the warning it is. jaeha blows smoke into his face because he can, and watches sigyeong’s hand twitch, almost as if it wants to form a fist.
it’s silent for a moment, and then it’s not. “me neither.” sigyeong laughs, and that’s the end of it.
perhaps that’s why jaeha remembers that particular instance so well. it was something new, something different amongst the miles of memories he has of sigyeong. a slight crack in the mask he never realized the bastard was wearing.
life stops for no man, and neither does jaeha, so they move on just like that, like they always do. jaeha sinks back into the cushioned couch they keep in one of the many bars he runs, and there’s a pretty girl who’s name he can’t recall in his lap, slender arms wrapped around his neck and chest too close to his face. his type, for sure, and he spends more time slowly rubbing his hand up and down her back so he can slowly trail it further and further down her body than he does listening to a word she says. this will matter very little to him the next morning, after all. he’ll leave behind a trail of smoke for her when she wakes, and nothing else.
from the opposite side of the bar he sees sigyeong, usual lollipop in his mouth, just in time to watch him crunch down with his sharp teeth on the sweet candy. he plucks the now slightly dampened stick out of his mouth uncaringly, tossing it in the nearby trash can and missing just barely, pink tongue darting out to swipe across his lips and collect the other crushed up bits of lollipop. jaeha stares. unknowingly, his hand has paused, where he was just beginning to creep into the waistband of her jeans. a brief stutter, and then his hand trails back up towards her trapezius, and doesn’t leave that spot again.
sigyeong looks awfully bored. bored of the bar, of the momentary peace bestowed upon east gangbuk, of the selection of girls, jaeha doesn’t know. he can never really get a read on sigyeong, on what he’s thinking in the moment. jaeha is too used to being able to look at a person’s face and understand what’s going through that head of theirs from their expression alone, but he spends a lot of time, too much time, looking at sigyeong’s face and still comes up with nothing. there’s something about sigyeong, he knows this, that makes unease creep up his spine every once in a while: that smile. it never quite reaches his eyes, pulls at the soft lines of his mouth almost unnaturally. he knows this, that there is something off about it, and nothing else.
his head is being guided away then, a delicate finger poised under his chin and a blunt nail digging into the flesh, turning his face back where he should really be looking. he’s kissing her a moment later, their lips pressed together and her tongue trying to find its way inside his mouth. her lips are soft, and it’s the same, boring shit as always, so he gives her the same, artificial heat he does everyone else, lets her feel special for a moment when she’s not. her chest is pressed right up against him, hands tangled in his long, blond hair, pulling at it and tugging and messing it all up, and all he can really think about is how annoying it will be to tame the disturbed strands later. they’re making out, she’s letting out these little, breathy moans into his mouth, and yet his eyes never close, never stray from what his gaze is still fixed on.
they lock eyes then, and sigyeong perks up, usual smile painting his pretty face and eyes glinting like he’s found something interesting. jaeha does not like the way he looks at him then in particular: sigyeong is looking at him the same way sigyeong looks at everyone else. it makes his skin crawl more than it usually would. he eyes the girl in jaeha’s lap, and jaeha moreso sees than hears him snort. after a brief moment of what jaeha assumes can only be contemplation, sigyeong gives a sharp jerk of his head to the side, in a direction that leads outside of the bar, and, yeah, jaeha is moving without a second thought. later that night, he’ll wonder why his legs pulled him to stand without his permission, but right now, his only thought and his only goal is to get where sigyeong is. he can hear the faint sound of talking, probably what’s-her-face complaining about being suddenly shoved off his lap and to the side like she’s nothing, but he really couldn’t care less. she is nothing. he has plenty other options to fuck later, if he feels like it.
it’s cold outside tonight. jaeha, who rarely shuts up, is suddenly in no mood to talk right now, so they don’t speak. jaeha decides those sorts of things, he thinks. sigyeong is holding out a lighter he has no right to have, a lighter that is awfully clean and seemingly without any use with the way it takes a few seconds for the flame to spark to life, and jaeha decisively doesn’t think about why he carries it around as he uses it to light his cigarette. it offers little warmth, goosebumps still lingering on the bare skin of his arms, but it’s a light in the darkened surroundings and gives him the familiar sensation of filling his lungs and that’s what matters. he inhales his favorite choice of poison, and breathes it out into the world once more. sigyeong grimaces when it hits his face but says, does nothing, just snatches his lighter back.
he can’t fix his hair. it took ages in the morning to fluff it up and comb it down just how he likes, and running his rough hands through it does jackshit. they’re unsteady, he realizes a second later. trembling. which is weird, because a man like jaeha han does not tremble, doesn’t even know what the word means, and jaeha knows everything. after a moment of his pathetic struggle, a warm, calloused and scarred hand reaches out and plants itself on the top of his head and slowly glides down all the way the expanse of his neck, carefully forcing the stubborn locks of hair down as best as he possibly can. every muscle in jaeha’s body stiffens.
jaeha thinks about killing him, but he doesn’t. he lets him have his attempt at smoothing his hair down, then when he fails, like jaeha knew (hoped, for whatever reason, he hoped) he would, smacks his hand away hard enough it makes his own sting dully, relishes in the small, familiar jolt of pain in light of the uncomfortably gentle, intimate act. this, he’s used to. sigyeong drops his hand, and never really tries to touch him again after that night, and jaeha still can’t tell if he regrets it or not. he decides he doesn’t. why would he?
“quit fucking around,” jaeha breathes out, smoke painting the air around them. “we standing here forever, or we gonna get some work done?”
“boss.” sigyeong sighs, sounding like he’s rolling his eyes, which can’t be right because jaeha looks at him a second later and he’s smiling like always. jaeha doesn’t know what ‘right’ entails for sigyeong, in general, though. “it’s two in the morning.”
“that means nothing to me.” jaeha says, so they push away from the wall and go along their merry little way, because jaeha is the boss and jaeha gets to decide what they do, i.e. find more interesting bitches to fuck, and sigyeong has to trail behind him whether he wants to or not like the obedient dog he’s meant to be.
what an awful dog he is, though.
he doesn’t heel, doesn’t listen. sigyeong has one fucking job, the same job jaeha gives to every unfortunate soul that happens to end up on his side, and he still can’t do it—won’t do it. bark when you’re told and pipe down when you’re not. it’s all quite simple, and yet sigyeong still doesn’t follow the orders that jaeha really needs him to follow. like:
“get your filthy shoes off my lap.”
“stop showing up so late to our meetings.”
“quit interrupting me.”
“take care of the north gangbuk group waiting outside our school for me.”
“tell me you didn’t betray me, sigyeong. tell me.”
he barks the last one out when he’s lying on the floor in a small pool of his own, red blood, feels it sinking into the fibers of his clothes. his head is aching. his face is covered in a thin layer of sweat, and the slow dribble of blood descending down his temple to his chin makes his body tense unpleasantly. there’s another flash of red—more blood, jaeha distantly thinks, except it’s not, except it’s hair, except it’s sigyeong crouching over him, waving his hand in front of his eyes like he’s trying to get him to focus. jaeha wants to bite him.
he tries to, head jerking forward, jaw snapping, but sigyeong is faster and snatches his hand away with a laugh. it’s almost melodic, so much more airy and easy than jaeha is used to. the first time in the months he’s known him he hears sigyeong genuinely laugh, and it’s to laugh at him. sigyeong is saying something, he thinks, but he can’t make it out, his mind that’s always been praised for its intellect too stuck up on one thing. the lollipop is absent from his lips, but they’re still colored slightly red, like he’s just been kissed, like sigyeong just got done fucking before he came here, to ruin everything jaeha has ever built.
sigyeong isn’t talking to him, anyway. doesn’t gloat, mock him, rub it in his face how idiotic he was to trust him. the only acknowledgment he gets from him is sigyeong’s rough hand coming down to pat his head, ruffle his hair and fucking coos at him like he’s a dog that’s just now learning not to lash out and bite the hand that feeds him. it’s so nauseatingly ironic, jaeha can’t decide if he wants to laugh or puke. perhaps, both.
he lights a cigarette instead, having to dig deep into his pocket now that he has to use his own lighter, watching sigyeong’s back as he goes. he goes through nearly his entire pack by the time he collects himself.
jaeha is meticulous, though. it’s a trait that sigyeong always moaned and groaned about, on the days when he made him stay behind in their meetings to go over his plan again, again, again, and again. jaeha is grateful for it now more than ever, when he gets to watch sigyeong tear his empire down with his own two hands, rage coloring his face, crystal tears clinging to his lashes. it’s his favorite fucking expression on him; this, this is something he can read easily. sigyeong is despaired.
because that’s the sort of person jaeha han is—he’s always been a fan of the saying “an eye for eye”, has always taken it to heart. he doesn’t tolerate betrayal and he crushes the bugs that dare to defy him beneath the heel of his knock off gucci shoes. sigyeong is not an exception, except for the fact that he is, except for the fact that he’s sigyeong ryu and he’s been his only exception for most things for as long as he can remember, and jaeha thoroughly enjoys making him hurt just as much as he did on that faithful day. he loves it. call him a sadist, but there’s no greater gift, no tree that bears sweeter fruit than watching sigyeong ryu’s face and being able to read him perfectly: he wants jaeha dead. which is great—it works out perfectly, doesn’t it?
“i missed you, baby!” he calls to him, adrenaline flowing through his veins, heart beating rapidly in his chest, smile wide and crazed with excitement. he means it, he honestly does, and he feels nothing but giddy at the way sigyeong’s nose scrunches up with distaste.
he wonders how that girl from the bar ages ago is doing these days. he wonders if this is what she felt like, sitting on his lap, because honestly; straddling sigyeong ryu’s waist and beating his skull in with a bowling ball as he wails and screams in pain is the highlight of his day. of his month. of his year. feeling his hands weakly try to clutch at his wrists, get him to stop, just makes the next few blows harder and harder. sigyeong’s head is as red as his hair, coated with blood, his once pretty face molding into a different shape with the pressure of the bowling ball still chipping away at him like he’s a sculpture. he could kill him like this, and not regret it. he can’t think of a better way to end this between them, to bury the hatchet of his complicated and confusing feelings for sigyeong.
sigyeong must recognize this, too—how could he not, when the rat spent so much time around him, gathering his secrets and weaknesses and poking at the soft belly of his emotions once he wormed his way in?—because a moment later he’s desperately gasping his apologies, words choked out and broken up, the sound so sweet he almost wants to hit him once more just so he can hear it again. instead, he drops the bowling ball, smiling ear to ear with his somehow still pristine sharp teeth.
he cups sigyeong’s bruised and nearly unrecognizable face with the palms of his hands—his wrists have thin lines of red, now, probably scratched up from sigyeong’s desperation—and holds him still so he can dip down and lick a smear of blood off of his cheek. the punched out, disgruntled and disturbed noise it earns him makes his own blood sing. sigyeong doesn’t taste sweet, though. he just tastes like metal.
he lets him go, no longer supporting his head, and ignores the injured moan that’s drawn out of sigyeong when he hits it on the rough ground of the bowling alley. he licks his lips, tastes a combined mixture of their blood. he needs a smoke.
“join west gangbuk.” he offers, nonchalant, because there’s no much else he can say.
sigyeong stares at him with something like wonderment. and fear, of course, but jaeha thinks it’s a good look on him anyway. “i’ll think about it.” the boy swallows, and for now, that’s good enough.
they’ll fully settle their differences much later. everything seems fine between them on their surface—sigyeong is always all smiles, teases and prods and laughs with him like there’s not a thing wrong. he’ll throw an arm around his shoulder when they gather together to go over suhyeon’s plan, pressing closely into his side with that stupid lollipop of his dangling from his mouth, and jaeha will smile at how clearly he can feel his body tense like this. sigyeong never fully relaxes with him.
when it’s all over and gangbuk is completely united, jaeha will beckon sigyeong into one of the back rooms of one of the many bars he still owns, inviting him inside in lieu of talking things over, now that everything is much calmer. naturally, when it comes to boys like them, talking out their differences means jaeha tasting blood in his mouth as sigyeong’s clenched fist connects with his jaw at the same time his foot digs harshly into sigyeong’s flat stomach. sigyeong gags, dry heaves, and jaeha grins cheerfully.
they’ll take their feelings out the only way they know how to, beat everything they want to say with their fists into each others bodies, bruise and bloody themselves nearly beyond repair. it ends with them on the floor, sigyeong’s fingers pulling at his hair so harshly he swears he feels a few pieces come out, trying to roll them over as jaeha licks into his mouth, tastes blood and adds more. sigyeong had always been stronger than jaeha, but he ends up going limp beneath him soon enough, allowing jaeha to uncaringly rip his clothes off, clinging to and clawing at his back as jaeha presses biting kiss after biting kiss into every patch of skin he can find. sigyeong’s torso is a mess of bite marks just beginning to ooze blood and dark marks that won’t fade by the next morning when jaeha pulls back, and he’s staring up at him with wide, unfocused eyes, mouth slightly agape. he looks raw, unable to hide behind his usual mask in the face of jaeha’s attentive tearing apart.
jaeha forces sigyeong to keep his face bared to him, doesn’t allow him to look away when he sinks the first finger into him. it’s at this moment jaeha realizes only girls get wet, and sigyeong is shouting and punching at his chest in annoyance. he briefly flirts with the idea of just using sigyeong’s blood as lube—and wouldn’t he deserve that, after everything? fucked open with his own blood on jaeha’s cock, crying and babbling in pain but still feeling good, thoroughly reminded of his place beneath jaeha—except that for all his fantasies, he feels vaguely nauseous at the idea of harming sigyeong beyond repair now. it takes a bit of coaxing and a lot of sucking, jaeha driving his fingers in and out of sigyeong’s mouth none too gently, the mouth he’s thought about for far too long, and then he’s pressing his finger back in and it’s better. not great, but not bleeding, so it’s better.
jaeha sets out to humiliate sigyeong in every way he can think of at the time, when his head and thoughts are as cloudy as they are. he fucks sigyeong on the cold, hard floor with his face shoved down, pounds into him like he wants to kill him, crushes his prostate with each thrust until he’s wailing and scratching the ground up, and jaeha decides he would much rather see his face like this. he makes sigyeong bounce on his cock, next, relishes the sight of his rolled up eyes and drooling mouth as he helplessly tries to fuck himself half as good as jaeha can—and no, that’s not his own ego, it’s true—makes him admit and take what he so desperately wants, until jaeha gets frustrated and impatient and plants his feet firmly on the ground so he can thrust up into him instead.
his back throbs, hurts and aches with the amount of scars sigyeong is clawing into him, far more violent than any girl jaeha has taken before. he eventually has to hold his wrists together to stop sigyeong from trying to touch himself, because frankly, he doesn’t think he deserves it, not after everything, and somewhere in jaeha’s fucked up brain he thinks this is supposed to be some sort of punishment. for him or for sigyeong, he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter. all that does is making sigyeong feel pathetic and small and weak, to remind him who he fucked with, so that he won’t ever make the mistake of trying to leave again.
that’s what he thinks, at least, except now they’re kissing? softly? sigyeong has his arms around his neck, which doesn’t make sense because jaeha was holding them a moment ago, and he’s pressing their lips together so gently it makes jaeha’s brain hurt. the only thing on his mind is revenge, but it’s hard to even think when sigyeong is moaning his name into his mouth, and slowly rocking his hips, shivering against him as he makes jaeha’s cock drag inside of him just right, and for once, jaeha thinks, fuck revenge.
it ends like that, with jaeha’s hand firmly around sigyeong’s cock, sigyeong slurring in post-orgasm bliss that he’ll definitely get him back for this, next time. jaeha hadn’t known they had agreed on a next time, but he doesn’t open his mouth to complain. just lights his cigarette, and sulks when sigyeong won’t let him exhale smoke into his mouth.
they clean up, and they don’t talk about it. well, jaeha takes a video of sigyeong limping from behind because it’s fucking hilarious, but there’s no other mention of whatever that just was. it changes everything and nothing all the same. sigyeong looks for jaeha for orders like everyone else does the few times they all come together at suhyeon’s command, and jaeha learns to begrudgingly listen for sigyeong’s advice again. it’s not the same, never will be, but it’s..something. it works for them.
“you should quit smoking.” sigyeong says. they’re in bed in sigyeong’s house after a long night, jaeha curled up to his broad chest and letting sigyeong hold him, which he thinks he should feel humiliated about, but he doesn’t. he likes it. he can admit that, now.
“yeah?” jaeha breathes out a puff of smoke, idly tracing shapes and patterns on sigyeong’s strong back, feeling his bare, pale skin twitch beneath his nimble fingers. he wants to kiss him again. “why would i do that?”
“because it’s bad for you.” sigyeong murmurs, quieter, more worn down than he’s ever heard him before. his hand is resting on jaeha’s waist, thumbing at his hipbone, slipping ever so slightly beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. a pair he stole from sigyeong last time he came over.
jaeha wordlessly extinguishes his cigarette on the bedside table.