Work Text:
Kyungsoo stared at his hands, inevitably red and holding a knife. He could feel eyes on him but these ones, this time, they were patient. He breathed in slowly and continued deftly cutting the tomatoes.
He had worn a friendly face but with the way the grin stretched, how his skin shifted like a wolf beneath the bush, it was as clear as the directive to destroy—he was an adversary. His heterochromatic eyes held a glint of metallic red that translated to hands churning his flesh, every touch molding Kyungsoo into something new, leaving behind purple bruises and entry wounds with no exit; to bodies crashing against each other with ferocity, limbs inescapably tangling, gripping each other and refusing to let go.
Theirs was a violent aching, of having to kiss with fists and make love by slamming the other against the jagged terrain, of playing an exhausting role in an elaborate show just to touch each other without facing the consequences. That was all they had amounted to before Kyungsoo grew greedy, claimed the back-kitchen in their new base, sent Chanyeøl an invitation by whispering it against his ear as he plunged a blade into his abdomen.
The back-kitchen, taking up so little space in the house, hidden away as if a source of shame. Kyungsoo supposed this place was the perfect place to shove all his hunger.
It was mortifying, even disgusting, how much he had sacrificed just so someone would crave for him. Of all people, he had to have fallen for the enemy, for someone who indiscriminately killed and ruthlessly destroyed, for someone he himself should do so too, for someone who’s supposedly a mere clone made to follow the whims of the organization. Kyungsoo only realized otherwise after seeing the scarred man hesitate too many times, belatedly understanding the look in his eyes to be of hesitance than calculation, recognizing the rare gentleness as his hidden language rather than a ploy to confound an enemy. What else was Kyungsoo to do but let him in, into his kitchen, where they feed each other pieces of their hearts bared open, devouring the supple flesh?
In a way, the Red Force had been successful; Chanyeøl became his undoing, infiltrating their base without his friends knowing. He kept the door leading to the shared space locked, wary of ghosts in the form of their apparent absence. All that he had left now was in this room—this small kitchen in the back, with its scant table, the mismatched chairs, and cheap wallpaper peeling and decaying. By the sink, a vase of still-fresh flowers Chanyeøl had plucked from a planet in a different system, supplied with enriched water. An out-of-place cutlery integrated into plain tableware, brought by Chanyeøl when he’d encountered a merchant as he’d hunted his friends down across the galaxy. A small painting Chanyeøl had made, held up by a magnet against the humming fridge, of rich blues and an undercurrent of green, nestled between random notes and treasured photographs of his friends—his family—that Kyungsoo couldn’t bear to remove. Chanyeøl’s favorite coat, hanging on a hook Kyungsoo had placed for him behind the door leading to his garden. It had felt so lived in despite its purpose.
Some days, this room was enough. Other times, they hoped their gazes could draw the curtains and push the dimensions wider.
Today, Chanyeøl felt too far off, even as he sat in his usual seat and Kyungsoo stood just two steps away.
Kyungsoo switched the stove off and with a ladle, poured the steaming sauce over the pasta. An angry red, it seemed menacing but was in fact sweet, just like Chanyeøl wanted, much like Chanyeøl was.
When he’d first learned of it from his side’s own Chanyeol, Kyungsoo thought it as ironic. Eventually, it made sense; he hadn’t wanted to be burned and for it to hurt. When he entertained Chanyeøl he’d thought the clone was stronger in this regard until he unmasked himself to be simply worse. Kyungsoo went back to seeing its irony. One of the most feared soldiers of the Red Force, the mirrored image of Chanyeol with strengths doubled and morality extracted, he who could call upon with a greater intensity the tantalizing fire, the core of the Earth animated in his hands. But Chanyeøl had detested spice with more fervor it was almost piteous as much as it was endearing. Instead he preferred sweetness, looked especially content when Kyungsoo would offer something like a soft sponge cake with silky icing and a fresh cherry.
With a gratuitous sprinkling of cheese and other relishment, garnished with basil leaves, Kyungsoo brought the plates to the table. Chanyeøl turned to observe his own fingers tracing the splotches of paint on the wood beneath his palms, then to his meal placed in front of him. As he eyed the food in deep thought and the clock ticked, and ticked, and ticked—a persistent reminder, a countdown, a bomb—Kyungsoo eyed the remnants of red in Chanyeøl’s fingernails. Kyungsoo posited, hoped for his own peace of mind, it was either from a whole week spent painting angry flames on a canvas or having taken a fistful of the mulberries Kyungsoo had picked in the garden and given him the last they’d met, crushed it all in his palms; a rekindling of an old passion or the diffusing of contempt for another.
Kyungsoo sat on his chair, wordlessly picking up his chopsticks and eating. Chanyeøl’s unresting fingers moved to his fork, metal tapping against the wood and the earthenware. Kyungsoo closed his eyes, struggling to chew on the soft and sweet food, tasting traces of sourness.
He didn’t know how to do this. He supposed no one ever did during their last meals. He should be basking in the warmth of the sun shining down from the window for the first time, wallowing in blind happiness as they usually did in this room, but now there was the weight of their actions, just beyond the locked door, anxious to let themselves in.
When their eyes met, Chanyeøl’s gaze softened and he offered his other hand across their table, upturned. Kyungsoo reached with his own, tentative and cold, and the hand dwarfing his was warm. It took all of him to stay rooted and not push aside the table to melt in the other's arms.
He came close to it when Chanyeøl smiled and squeezed his hand, but as Chanyeøl twirled his fork on his plate, Kyungsoo’s chest became heavier, effectively pinning him in place.
He settled for staring at Chanyeøl, glowing under the touch of the sun through the hazy windows, burning the scene in his mind, vaguely hoping he got Chanyeøl’s flair for painting to have something to remember this moment by, something more tangible than the taste of apprehension and hurt and the smell of sweet spaghetti and basil, for when nothing subsisted but memories. Memories were enduring but fragile, always having to change or lose parts to survive. They were unreliable, but they would stay, and Kyungsoo could not be picky when he would no longer have the privilege to appease his gluttony once all of this was over.
The clock ticked. The ghosts knocked against his head. His hand gripped the other tighter and Chanyeøl remained abhorrently gentle, responding with a soft glide of his thumb. Kyungsoo felt like weeping.
The sun rose higher in the sky when they finished. They stood by the sink, bodies pressed together as they washed the few utensils and plates, silent and meticulous, stalling what loomed over.
They remained there, watching the cups dry themselves, water plopping down on the shallow basin; watching the garden from the window, swaying in the breeze; watching their hands holding nothing but their hands, sunlight bathing them like a veil in consecration. It didn’t feel like the world was going to end.
The clock continued to tick.
He nestled his face into Chanyeøl’s neck, inhaling his scent—of smoke, of pine, of gasoline, of meat, of something like vanilla. Kyungsoo’s belly rumbled in pain.
Chanyeøl turned his torso and engulfed Kyungsoo in his arms. Chanyeøl was here yet Kyungsoo yearned for him, acknowledged the want in his guts to consume him and be consumed, to never leave the safety of their kitchen, to leave and never look back, but not acting on it.
“Kiss me,” was the whisper against his ear. “One last time.”
Kyungsoo wished he hadn’t asked that. Anything but that. They’d seen the end coming, they were graced a chance of escape before the ghosts would flood into their space and turn it all upside down. Kyungsoo looked away, eyes stinging, the glare settling at their table. He was shaking his head but Chanyeøl cradled his face and pressed his forehead against Kyungsoo’s. Then a quiet utterance, almost broken, “Please.”
Kyungsoo resigned himself to it.
The first time they had kissed, Chanyeøl had his lacerated and burned body pinned. Desperate to be free, he’d sunk his teeth on the tender throat, nearby and open for taking, and ripping the flesh. Chanyeøl had screamed in rage, clutching his neck with one hand as he’d lurched back and aimed to hurl the other in retaliation. But Kyungsoo, in intrigue and delirium, had licked his lips, tongue peeking to taste the unfamiliar blood all over his mouth, and Chanyeøl could only falter and gawk.
The salt and iron was revolting that he’d wanted to spit his whole tongue out at the outset, but what followed was a mystifying sweet aftertaste.
Debilitated by pain resonating in all his limbs, or perhaps by his own folly, when Chanyeøl leaned down, grabbed his hair, and pressed their lips together, he hadn’t pushed away, only weakly biting the other’s lips in feeble protest. The body against him warm, his mouth filled with more of that sweetness, and Kyungsoo had forgotten where they were nor why they were even there.
It was only when Chanyeøl had followed the trail on his throat, teeth grazing his skin and tongue lapping at the mixed blood and sweat, the first notes of a moan on the verge of escaping his chest, did he gain enough cognition and strength to shove Chanyeøl a good few meters from him.
Chanyeøl could have been killed right there. He was all open for Chanyeøl to take and stab, to hold him close until he burned and burned that his ashes join the dust thick in the atmosphere, but Chanyeøl only regarded him for a few moments, the metallic red glint overtaking the cold white and blue, and left.
When they met again later, still in the battlefield, Chanyeøl had smothered his own fire and opted for close combat. Despite himself, Kyungsoo had used his force less. They were beings that thrived in aggression but their touches had eventually turned palpably gentle.
If Kyungsoo were to pinpoint what had been the catalyst to everything, he would always find himself at several points of time.
After one particularly long night together, Chanyeøl lingered and Kyungsoo presented him a strawberry cake he’d baked for them to share. Chanyeøl had previously let slip that he liked sweet food and Kyungsoo found himself rummaging through his storage and foraging from his garden. Chanyeøl stared at the plate in wide-eyed question. Although Chanyeøl scooted close and shared it with Kyungsoo, the air between them had grown stilted. Kyungsoo ignored the sinking realization that he’d breached their silent agreement, of what would transpire in the back-kitchen of all places.
Chanyeøl continued to come back anyway. Every other cracks in the smoldering surface—a thumb stroke, the slower kisses, a worrying glance, the hand reaching to fix the hair—went undiscussed and unacknowledged, treated as small flukes in the system that would patch itself up the next morning.
But Chanyeøl arrived one night, consistently spontaneous, to Kyungsoo battered and curled up in the corner, surprising him with fingers gingerly tracing then neatly cleaning Kyungsoo’s wounds, agitation written all over his scarred face.
He remembered how they’d stung.
Even as Chanyeøl held him now without any bruise, his tender touches continued to be sharper than any blade.
The gloveless hands drew him close, the roughness of scars and scabs against his cheeks tethering him to reality. Their lips moved against each others, a slow dance to the beat of the ticking clock and the grumbling clouds as the sun deserted them. Chanyeøl unraveled in his arms and Kyungsoo tried not to think.
The sweet of the spaghetti, traces of something metallic, with an undercurrent of something bitter, the cold air from the window, the chapped lips, the rough hands, the shaky gasps. Kyungsoo tugged him close as he felt Chanyeøl’s chest heaving. He could do nothing but caress his overheating skin in apology.
It was Chanyeøl who broke away, struggling to breathe. Kyungsoo's throat clogged up, pressing his face to Chanyeøl’s neck, refusing to see his eyes, running away from facing the pain twisting Chanyeøl’s face, twisting the peaceful image of Chanyeøl in his mind.
He called for Kyungsoo, a weak grunt, but not accusatory. Kyungsoo screwed his eyes shut.
Before long, his knees gave out and Kyungsoo followed. Chanyeøl convulsed in his arms, Kyungsoo’s chest constricting as he heard him choke. He struggled to breathe as he muttered his regrets against Chanyeøl’s skin. He stroked his nape, his back, ran his hand through his hair, holding him like an angel with a damned soul.
It was finished all too soon. Kyungsoo heard the final intake of breath before silence fell even as the body continued to spasm, his organs failing and desperately trying to wake him, desperately asking him to continue breathing.
He held him still until the faintest of tremors waned.
“Chanyeøl?” He whispered, just to punish himself.
The body was uncharacteristically silent, cold and unmoving. Thunder rolled nearby. The clock still ticked. The ghosts murmured amongst themselves.
No one was there to witness but he held his grief tight, cradled it into his arms, withheld the wail bubbling in his throat as his fingernails dug into his own palms, the red of his blood spilling onto Chanyeøl’s back.