Jisung kicked his legs underneath him, swaying himself on the bar stool as he dug his metal spoon into the thick beef bowl and chomped another bite from the delicious meal. Cheap, delicious, filling for his stomach, knowing he would not need to munch on anything else for the remainder of the day if he cleared out the contents of the beef bowl. That weekend had been incredibly uninteresting for him. Aside from today, in which he decided he didn’t really want to cook himself a lunch. He is too lazy and has too many other factors on his mind to be troubled with outside of cooking a decent meal for himself. For once.
He was minding his own business, chewing on the mouthful he had crammed as the chef grabbed one of the television remotes from where he kept it on the other side of the counter. Watching Chan while he turned his attention off of the frying beef strips for another customer’s meal, toward the quiet television playing some news channel on it’s screen; Another report about the horse tracks, about the championship Seungmin mentioned to him that previous Friday, about the crowd fluctuation the police in the area were estimated to handle in those coming weeks. To his surprise, the Chef tapped the volume up, loud enough for the words of the reporter to be clearly heard, but not so noisy to disturb his customers. As Chan placed the remote back, Jisung lingered on the news report playing on the television, “Do you like horses?”
“To be honest with ya’, I don’t get the attraction to horse racing, and I really don’t get betting odds on them,” Chan shook his head, his English somewhat difficult to Jisung to catch onto easily; He often spoke fast, the heavy accent, he could carry a conversation with him, yet, he struggled to hear him well. Especially over the running faucet, where the chef scrubbed his hands off in his steel sink to return to his grill. Moving with caution as he snatched his tongs up once more to flip the roasting strips of beef and onion cuts over as their forms seared. One eye kept on his hands to cook, one eye on the news report laying itself out for anyone to see,“But a loooooooot of horse racing is a way for gangs to launder money. That was a big case back in Australia a few years ago, when I was living there. I can’t help but wonder whenever I see racing on the TV if there’s another story.”
Something thumped.
From above them. Both of their gazes snapped off of each other and the conversation onto the wood plank ceiling hanging over their heads. More accurately, from inside Chan’s apartment above the beef bowl shop.
With the slight sigh flaring his nostrils, the chef returned back to the beef. Pulling the strips off the scalding hot skillet and into the bowl of rice he had prepped beforehand, “Sounds like my dogs knocked over another lamp.”
“Blue and Berry?” Jisung guessed. He had only met the two dogs once, when Chan was walking them around the neighborhood in an early morning hour before opening up his shop; Two senior Burmese Mountain dogs that the beef bowl owner had rescued from a shelter within his first three months of living in the city. He hardly even knew how to speak Korean before he picked up the dogs. He wasn’t sure much else aside from that, only that he knew Chan talked about Blue and Berry frequently, that he loved his dogs more than life itself it seemed, and that Berry was extremely friendly the first time Jisung met her. He dragged his eyes off of the ceiling and back onto Chan, “Will you go look?”
“I’ll have to. But, later. When it’s not so busy,” Chan finished the bowl by drizzling some pink pickled radishes, a few chopped green onions, and a generous splash of his signature garlic barbecue sauce. Giving the bowl one last glance over to ensure the order was met to perfection, before he stepped out from his counter area to deliver the customer their steaming hot bowl. Tossing one last grin to Jisung at the bar space, “They’re lazy dogs, they don’t cause that much trouble.”
Jisung let the chef be. Simply returning to his own nearly finished bowl to continue munching on what would be his excuse for lunch. Quickly too, or as quickly as he could manage. He was supposed to be meeting Minho at the station within the afternoon, so the sooner he could finish off his meal, the better. Still, how difficult it was, to force himself to shove the beef and rice into his cheeks instead of having the opportunity to fully enjoy the meal, enjoy the taste, enjoy the effort Chan put into customizing every bowl for his customers. Plus, he always felt a bit bloated after scarfing food down… He could probably make the bounty hunter wait a minute or two longer so he didn’t feel heavy in his stomach…
Seungmin was right; There wasn’t much else he needed in life aside from a good meal in a good location with a good atmosphere. To not be bothered as he scooped up another spoonful of rice and plucked a bit of beef and radish from the bottom of the bowl to sit properly on top. To not be distracted by anything else, to have the humming of Chan’s cooking and the repetitive rhythm of the news reporter speaking softly in the corner of the shop underneath the sizzling of roasting meat. To relax, the interior slightly toasty rather than slightly cold, a safe haven from the blistering autumn breeze rippling against the building’s exterior. To not be irritated, or disturbed, or bothered.
Placed next to him on the bar table, his phone vibrated as it blared a daunting tone.
Already knowing who it was from the customized ringtone stolen from the theme of The Exorcist, Jisung picked up the call and snapped, “What do you want dickface.”
“First, fuck you shit-tard, I’m not appreciative of your shitty attitude and someone needs to either smack you, fuck you, or get you a will to live,” Was the response from Seungmin on the other side of the phone. In the background, he heard the grinding of asphalt underneath a car’s tires. He must’ve been driving somewhere while he was calling Jisung, off to do whoever the hell knows what Cygne does in his free time. He always seemed to be up to something. Like gunfire, Seungmin’s voice kept firing into his eardrums, “Second, I’m sending some information to you. Take a look when you can. I have some friends, unlike you, and, from what I gathered, if there was a hypothetical loan shark involved with the hypothetical Hyunjin, it would be this guy.”
Sending a brief glance to Chan, still occupied with a broken conversation bridged by the magic of Google Translate with the neighborhood grandmas who always came to eat in his shop on the weekends, Jisung glued his eyes back to his beef bowl. Stirring the last spoonful or so of the rice around with his chopsticks, whispering underneath his breath to not be heard by anyone else in the shop, “You want me to finish a hit on him?”
“Nooooooooooooo… no. Just. Curious. Could you ask Minho to stalk the guy a bit? My informants say there’s a high chance he’ll be around the track in the next few weeks.”
“Source?”
“I made it the fuck up. Just do it. I’ll get you birria tacos tomorrow. I’m sending that information to your burner phone now. And don’t call me back. I’m going on that date with Hyunjin tonight. I got it all planned out: A big bowl of popcorn, some brownies, blankets, a vanilla candle, the lights down low with the twilight through my windows, and a horror movie so he cuddles with me. If you call me and interrupt us, then I’ll cut your dick off and you’ll neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeevvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
get to bang Miー“
Jisung hung up on him.
He shoved the last spoonful of the beef bowl into his mouth. Hurriedly chewing away at the chunky bits as he pocketed his phone, slipping his usual riding jacket back on, checking his wallet hadn’t fallen out of the inside pocket, before standing up. As he headed for the door, he tapped Chan’s back, giving him a weak smile and letting him know, “I’m leaving.”
“Sure! See you soon, Ji!” Chan ripped himself away from his ongoing conversation, offering up a wide grin to the teacher. One last wave between them as he sung happily, “Make sure to bring that boyfriend of yours back soon!”
With a nod in lieu of an answer to Chan’s insistence, Jisung left the doors of the beef bowl shop behind. Hands in the pockets of his heavy jacket to protect himself from the brisk breeze combing through the funneling streets that mid-day hour, he jogged back to the corner he parked his motorcycle on. His beautiful ride wrapped with warped silver pipes and polished black body, steel, bare-bones, spring suspension, rounder tank, thin to maneuver. Cold metal, bitter grease, and mechanical automation seemed to be the only things in life that never failed when relied on. His bike, his rifle, the trains, and again, as he sits low into the seat and kicks the engine of the motorcycle on, the roar of the engine reminds him of truth he didn’t need to speak out loud.
Should I even bother with explaining that Minho and I aren’t together?
Jisung slipped the helmet over his head, one last look over his shoulder to the beef bowl shop and the owner he knew was cooking up a storm of a dish inside. Opting not to, the hitman simply pressed off from the parking spot. Steering the purring motorcycle onto the asphalt side streets and speeding off to meet at the location he was sent moments before.
Then again, why did he feel the need to explain the details to Chan? Chan didn’t particularly need to know specific details like that about his life, and the chef still seemed so happy for him, being in (what he thought was) a relationship again. Maybe Chan could live blissfully and unaware for a while longer.
He spotted the familiar figure waiting for him outside of that nearby station, as they had agreed on the prior night. Typical tri-colored jacket (Jisung asked him to wear a thick jacket for the ride), his ripped black jeans like a rockstar against his thighs, standard grey hoodie underneath, the heavy duty black boots he seemed to be wearing more and more frequently since the encounter with Lee Felix, his entire form squatted down to a neat little ball of Minho yarn on the pavement, fiddling with something on his phone screen as he waited for the hitman. As soon as he noticed Jisung approaching him in the bus loop, he unfurled. Standing up from his tightly tuckled bundle. The drilling of his eyes into the side of Jisung’s head unleaving from him as he stopped at the curb.
“Get on,” He told as he planted the soles of his shoes into the asphalt road, balancing the motorcycle upright until they could head off again. While Minho seemed occupied with taking in all of Jisung from his unruly waves of messy helmet hair, to the riding jacket he wore, his own jeans, his own light boots for riding that bike; Jisung simply held out the spare helmet for him to take. One the bounty hunter gingerly plucked from his hands while he listened to the hitman speak above the purring of that powerful engine, “Put it on and make sure it’s snug. Have you ever ridden passenger on a motorcycle before?”
“Not really,” Minho’s grip on the helmet tightened. His gaze snapped across Jisung again, before he choked, “What… What exactly do I hold on to?”
“You hold on to me,” Jisung easily answered.
“Your shoulders?”
“My waist.”
“Your waist?”
“Hold my waist, my hips, or, you hug my torso. Take your pick. But I’m going to be speeding on the freeway, so I advise hugging close to me.”
[A/N: Ill give you a cookie if you caught the reference here.]
He’d be lying if he didn’t hear the small ‘shit’ Minho slipped from underneath his lips before his head disappeared into the cover of the angular helmet. Still, he pretended he didn’t, simply readjusting his hold on the bike’s handles and steadying the seat sturdy for the bounty hunter to climb on the seat behind him. Focusing on keeping both of their weights balanced, not on how Minho’s hands were lightly shaking when he gingerly held onto Jisung’s waist, not on how the bounty hunter seemed to keep a small gap between their bodies, not on how he couldn’t seem to figure out how to hold his head without the helmet’s beak bumping into Jisung’s spine at the smallest of either of their movements.
He paid none of it any mind, and simply steered the motorcycle back onto the streets. Rolling the throttle on the bike, the vehicle’s engine awoke to growls that echoed in his uncovered ears. Speed picking up as he navigated the residential roads with the utmost amount of care for the person with him, at the very least until Minho adjusted to this concept; To the speed, to gripping onto him and anchoring himself to the driver, to surrendering control to Jisung on turns and decisions, and if he didn’t, he would fall off as soon as they were zipping along on the freeway further into the city. But, at the end of the day, that was only Minho’s choice in whether he would loosen up and take Jisung’s advice for once or not. He gave him a warning on what to do. His fault if he didn’t listen again.
Thankfully, he seemed to clue into the idea fairly quickly. Whether it was because Jisung was weaving through the residential roads without stopping or slowing down turning around the corners, or if it was from the first stoplight they encountered on one of the major streets and Minho’s chest slammed into his back anyway because he braked roughly. Or if it was because the hitman was riding harsher than usual to prove a point, Minho’s grip eventually moved off his waist, to around his waist, to clasping his own wrist against Jisung’s chest to hold close to him. If he was finally close enough that Jisung could feel the outline of his pistol and the knife grinding against the knots of his spine, or if he could feel Minho’s heartbeat through the light fabric of his hoodie, or the smell of peppermint infected his nose at every stop, Jisung made sure to brush it to the back of his mind.
Either way, as soon as his front tire hit the asphalt of the freeway, Jisung rolled the throttle back and took off down the strip of concrete. Like a race horse waiting for the gun to fire, dashing as soon as given the clearance to go, never daring to slow down until they reached the finish line.
Swerving in and out of the lanes. Dodging between cars cruising by at the limit at their own leisurely pace. His eardrums drowning out the roaring of the engine, the scraping of around them, the tires roaring against the asphalt. The handlebars jostling underneath his palms threatening to rip themselves free of his control. But even if they did, motorcycle riding is more about the hips. At these high speeds, he shifted his hips down, and the bike yielded to the most minimal of adjustments. He leaned forward to brace against the wind shooting over their heads, and the weight of Minho leaning on his back kept him from truly going as fast as he wanted to. He could feel the other’s cheek (helmet) digging into his back, his hands clasping painfully down against his own wrist to hang on.
Again, there’s a thought that hovers in his mind. As he slows the motorcycle down. As he cautiously releases a hand from the handlebars. As he reached behind him, to grab onto Minho’s leg behind him. Meaning to reach for his knee, but landing too high and gripping at his thigh instead. Either way, if the touch could reassure him, that’s all Jisung dared to think about: You are much softer than I have ever thought.
The exit they needed was one bordered by skyscrapers at the edge of downtown, on the border of Lobos territory as Seungmin had complained about; That fact ever more present when he could spot the daunting tower of their hotel hiding somewhere between the skyline. He hardly gave it more than a glance as they passed the building by on the freeway, immediately snapping his attention and both of his hands back to the handlebars, back to the upcoming exit, back to steering the motorcycle off the freeway and back onto the main streets. Dwarfed on all sides by towering office buildings, apartments, financial institutions, all of which one would have to croon their necks skyward to even try getting a glimpse at the top. Swallowed up alongside the other cars pulling off the freeway, by the construction, the steel beams, by ambulance sirens that were someone else’s problem.
As their speed declined significantly, now back to that leisurely cruising pace the other cars around them stooped down to instead of the breakneck pace Jisung forced both the bike and the poor man clinging onto him like a koala to maintain, the bounty hunter finally released his hands from around Jisung. First using his hands to leverage himself off of the hitman (Even if his palms planted on his ribs or his waist to support himself up), he seemed to sit back a bit in the seat. Moving one of his hands off of Jisung as he raised up the visor of his helmet. Only to lean forward again to shout over their speed, “Where the hell are we going?!”
Jisung balanced the bike out with his hips again, trying to control the metal beast with only one hand as he grabbed his burner phone from his pocket and handed it over his shoulder to Minho, “Take a look!”
Reluctantly, he took the phone out of his hand. Jisung returned to navigating the streets as he knew them. Vaguely. How long has it been since he had been to this side of the city? Eight months? One year? Two? The only time being for orders, and even those came few. Aside from orders, for leisure? Never. The last time he could clearly remember coming here from his own free will was with Seungmin. That day two years ago now, in the middle of The Centurion, an accidental target they hit, a broken sniper rifle, a downed internet connection, and an overzealous swan with a trigger happy attitude: If he could, he would erase that day clear from his mind. Probably, if he could, he would’ve redone that day all together. Like how there’s certain people you don’t touch in the undercity, for Seungmin to be amongst those names, the whole of Lobos sits much higher on his list of “Don’t EVER fuck with”.
Well, the past can’t be changed. No matter how much he might have wanted to alter it.
After a moment of tapping through the photos and the information on his phone, Minho belted, “I didn’t know you like horses!”
“I don’t! Do you?”
“No! I fell off one when I was seven! Jeongin was thereー He laughed at me and I’ve hated horses since!”
“We’re going to scout the race tracks for a few hours!” Jisung eyed the streetlight up ahead, the green sign flashing to yellow as soon as he began to approach the intersection. He slowed down the motorcycle, coming to a stop at the crossing at the lights flipped onto red. But, at least now, he could briefly drop his hands from the handlebars and root his heels to the ground to steady them from tipping over. A chance to stretch out his legs and his spine from their hunched posture this entire trip. And a chance to have a semi proper conversation with Minho, “A grand championship or something of the type is being hosted there in a few weeks. Seungmin says we might be able to spot Limbo there if we’re fast enough.”
He wasn’t entirely certain what Minho was trying to do, with the way the bounty hunter’s unoccupied hand couldn’t seem to find a place to settle while they waited for the traffic light to change. His palm flat against Jisung’s back, then his side, returning to his back, his ribs, his waist, as if he couldn’t figure out where to place himself. Nearly feathering touches, all hesitant, all unsure of themselves, as if he wasn’t sure if he could touch Jisung fully at all. Not to mention he kept his attention completely on the phone gripped in his other hand, “What if we don’t spot him? Or his wandering band of gangsters.”
“Then I say, which is what I wanted to suggest but Seungmin said to take an alternative route first, we stop fucking around and go to the center of it allー their casino-hotel, The Centurion. We get the Don’s attention there, and hope they don’t make us swiss cheese in the process. Like I said, they’re not fond of me, so I can’t guarantee they won’t try to turn me away from their doors long before I even enter them,” He murmured. The streetlight at the intersection flipped back to that blaring green.
Minho tightened his grip on the phone and tugged the visor of his helmet back down, “Lovely…”
Checking both ways at the intersection for any rogue cars deciding to run their red light, Jisung slowly started the engine back up and hovered at a lower speed to finish his thoughts to Minho, “Like I said. The undercity is more lawless, and the people involved are crazy. Felix should’ve been a good introduction to that.”
“Does that assessment include you too? Super Hot sniper? P03?! What does that name even mean?!” His voice nearly grew to a shout once more to vault over the muffling foam and the wind zipping against their skin like needles pricking through their jackets. As their speed picked up again to match the limits of these wider streets leading them to a particular patch of city, Minho had to clutch closely to Jisung again. Not as tightly as he did on the ribbon of the freeway, not holding on as if his life depended on him staying stationary against Jisung (It did, but he wouldn’t dare to say anything at the moment), Minho instead held more loosely. Still with his arms wrapped and tucked around Jisung, however. That didn’t change. Though he couldn’t feel the outline of his pistol as strongly anymore.
“P03? It sounds ridiculous, I hate that fucking name! It means ‘piece of shit’! It was Seungmin’s moment of genius during a damn drinking game and I’ve never been able to get rid of it!” He shouted back to him, but not for the purpose of belting his words to ensure Minho could hear him. Partially. Otherwise, irritation would.be the better way to describe the sudden disgust at hearing that name again. P03. Damn it. Of every name to use as his alias, of the nights he spent talking with Seungmin about what name he wanted branded to his work as a hitman, his boss settled with Pee-Oh-Three. P03. Piece of shit. Attempting to keep a level head, Jisung swallowed down any other swears he had for his boss and changed the subject, “Speaking of that asshole! There’s another issue, take a look at Seungmin’s contact!”
The tip of Minho’s helmet bumped into his shoulder, “Who’s this guy?!”
“Some dickhead Seungmin is deciding he needs to have beef with! He person he’s interested in is having a rough time of it, he thinks that man might be responsible for some of it!” The hitman brushed off. Not his circus, not his monkeys. However, he did know the clowns involved, and for that fact alone avoiding any rationalization of what Seungmin was looking for was wiser than not. Involving Hyunjin or not, his business is his business, “He wants you keep tabs on him, as if you have nothing better to do with your time!”
“I’ll do it if it’s someone I can find easily, but if it’s because of that I’ll see what I can do…” Minho’s response was hardly audible beneath the hum of the breeze. He must’ve only murmured or whispered it to himself, considering the bounty hunter fell quiet in the next few moments. Though his hand would occasionally flex. In thought? Flexing in and out against where he held onto Jisung’s chest as he seemed to be glancing over the information Seungmin sent to Jisung. Whatever that information was. He hadn’t exactly taken a look at it for himself. Again, Seungmin’s business is Seungmin’s business. If Minho wanted to get involved in Seungmin’s business, that was what free will and the exclusive right to suffer the consequences of decisions was made for.
The bounty hunter stayed occupied with the information on the phone for the remainder of the ride. Not that the remainder of the ride was too much longer, only a few more minutes down certain streets until the open fields of the race track broke their line of sight. The track itself, wide empty field of grassy desert spread out like a tablecloth. Behind electrical fences, bricked walls, heavy security that kept any wandering person from trespassing nearly impossible to see the racecourse from the roadside. Then the large aisle of a building for audiences to participate, as well as the stables area tucked away in the back. Aside from one or two buildings, many of the surrounding constructions were low-rise compared to their forest of taller cousins scrunched up against the freeway.
Today was not a day for action or excitement. Only survey. After stashing their helmets away on the motorcycle, coming to familiarize themselves with the racecourse in adjacent to the photos Jisung had collected. Even if they were not able to roam freely on the grounds within, what they were able to see from ground-level views and what Google Maps had snapped of the aerial eagle-eye view, clicking together into place like puzzle pieces. The orientation of the track, the orientation of the buildings, as they walked the blocks nearby a few times over too, taking in the open environment the surrounding buildings provided. Compared to the strip club, this stage was wider. A scale more comfortable to shine on top of for Jisung. For Minho? They may struggle more not knowing the layout inside this time around.
Still, the pair roamed the blocks. With his trusty blue ink but felt-tip pen writing down his thoughts about the surrounding area on his skin to snap a picture of on his phone later. The buildings nearby, he tried to line up the views from certain windows. Certain angles. An unfinished apartment building nearby. A shopping center, seemingly with a rooftop. An office space? He grabbed fast photos of their locations. Their height compared to the pen from ground to top. The windows or openings pointed toward the racetrack. Not that Jisung thought he would need to. But in the case that a rifle was needed, it was more important to know than to not.
Jisung clicked another photo of the halfway constructed apartment building. There seemed to be more than enough open floors to choose from, floors without walls, floors with unsealed windows, clear views of the track from where the plastic tarps were drawn over the construction site while the workers slaved away within. He clicked the felt-tip pen, tip pressing hard onto his skin as he scribbled his thoughts away before he would lose his ideas, “If they stop construction because of the tourists… The crowds… That could work for a point…”
“It’s not good for your skin to write on it like that, you know. My teachers used to lecture me about that all the time. Do you not tell your students the same?” The bounty hunter approached him, behind Jisung’s ears his footsteps tapping smoothly against the concrete sidewalk they were taking up. Not that many people aside from the occasional stranger was out and about by the racecourse regardless. Before Jisung could turn around to shot an answer back to him, something bumped into him. Something hard, something solid bumped into his shoulder blade as a cold hand gingerly grabbed his wrist. Gently pulling his arm away from the tip of the pen for them to both see the blue inked notes and the irritated rush of blood flushing underneath his skin in protest to being used as a substitute paper, “You’re scraping your skin up. See? It’s turning red.”
“I don’t have anything else to take notes on. It’ll wash off in the shower with a good scrub, and the irritation will go away in a minute or two, anyway,” Jisung tugged his wrist away, the other’s hand releasing him without any struggle or resistance otherwise. He flipped a weak smile over his shoulder to Minho, before turning his hand over and continuing to write on the topside of his forearm. Meandering away from the bounty hunter while he scribbled his thoughts down, “We might return late. Do you want to get dinner at a restaurant nearby here? Or you can come back to my house with me again. If it means anything I’d prefer the latterー”
A sly simper came to Minho’s face, chasing in languid steps after Jisung, “Well, sweetheart, in that case it can’t be helpedー”
“Because I want to inform you of other necessary information about what you and I are doing or the newest request from Seungmin,” The hitman stopped in his tracks, a frown replacing the brief smile he had tugging his lips up. Did this guy never think of anything important? He never seemed to have a sense of rationality about him.
“Hopeless,” The bounty hunter whispered underneath his breath. Shifting away from Jisung as if he didn’t want his next words to be heard, “Not even a budge…”
Best to keep it that like that.
Jisung brushed him off. Returning back to scribbling the notes on his arms and snapping another picture of the buildings nearby. There were more important things to worry about.
Your heart is too soft anyway.
▄︻デ â•â•â”一á°.áŸËŽËŠ
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