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zenithlux · 4 years ago

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Tendrils of Regret - Part 7

Read the story on AO3 here!

The last part! Thank you for the support I’m glad ya’ll have enjoyed this as much as I did writing it. I’ll be working on spin-offs very shortly (but Cadence 36 is my main priority for next week.

Enjoy!

Everything changed after that.

First, you noticed Vergil was taking greater care with you. He left more demons behind for you to kill, making you much more comfortable with siphoning their energy. He even began to talk to you more, and you slowly opened up to each other. You learned about his favorite food (strawberries), favorite poet (William Blake, same as V) and more of the superficial stuff. But you didn’t mind. You and V had been close, but neither of you had had the time for generalized conversation. With Vergil, it felt natural.

You were slowly becoming friends.

The only problem now was his demonic form. He’d used it a couple more times since the spider incident, and every time, it had activated some primal fear within you. You had yet to figure out if it was the vine’s problem or you. But either way, you hadn’t been able to function alongside it, much less fight. Vergil had tried to help, but he’d had to drop the transformation to stay near you for longer than a few seconds. And the worst part? Your nightmares were back. This time, it wasn’t the demon you’d been trapped in, but the one who had done it to you.

Now, however, you no longer blamed Vergil, as you truly believed that he was trying to help you, just as V did. Twice now, you’d woken up with him sitting nearby, something you’d given him permission to do after you started drawing plants up through Devil May Cry itself. Now, he woke you up if the nightmares got that bad to make sure you didn’t destroy the place.

Finally, Dante held an intervention. “We have to do something about this,” Dante said in the most serious tone you’d heard from him in a long time. “As much as I love the plant life,” He poked a flower that had wrapped around the legs of his desk. “The holes in the floor are getting a bit obnoxious.”

You stared at the floor, exhausted and miserable. “I’m trying my best,” You murmured.

“I know, Sunshine,” Dante said. “But there has to be a way to stop them.”

You didn’t respond. Vergil sighed as he leaned against the wall in front of you. “She has to get over her fear,”

Dante leaned forward. “And how exactly do we go about helping her do that?”

“She has to approach my demon form,” Vergil said.

“Maybe it would help if I was there with her?” Dante said.

“Or if you showed her your own,” Vergil said. “Then we would know if it's human fear or the vine.”

“Maybe it's not afraid,” You whispered.

Vergil’s eyebrow shot up. “Clearly you are.”

You closed your eyes. “In a way, yes, but I think my fear is grounded in what the vine wants.”

“And what do you think it wants?”

“To please you.”

The brothers exchanged glances. “It’s possible,” Dante said. “We don’t know much about the thing, so maybe it's expecting you to do something with it.”

“But the thought of being sealed away again terrifies the human side,” Vergil said thoughtfully.

“But how do we give the vine what it wants without…” You trailed off, but you knew they understood.

Dante hopped out of his seat and paced behind the desks. “There has to be some way to make it happy. Any ideas?”

“Build a connection,” Vergil said.

You looked up. “What do you mean?”

Vergil pushed off the wall and approached you. “In the demon realm, if someone pledges themselves to a master, they are bound to them, even if something like this were to happen. However, there is a way to… promote them.”

“Promote them?” You said. “You think that will make the vine happy?”

“If it feels like an equal, it might leave you alone.”

Dante snorted. “How do you promote a sentient vine?”

“Let it feed off of me,” Vergil said.

Your mouth dropped. “How is that supposed to help?”

You were even more surprised when Vergil actually knelt in front of you, putting his gaze even with your own. “When a demon allows another demon to consume their blood, then they are marking them as their equal.”

“Equal?” You said. “But I’m not… I’ll never be your equal.”

“But it's the thought that counts,” Dante said. “The vine might accept it.”

“But I’m not nearly as strong as you.” You said. “Surely the vine has to know that.”

Your eyes widened a little more when he took your hand. “You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for.”

You stared at him. He’d never said something like that to you before. But V had. V had made sure you heard it almost every day of your short time together. You’re strong, my little vine. Stronger than you know. But hearing it from Vergil gave it so much more meaning. You knew from experience that he never gave compliments unless he truly meant him. In fact, you’d never heard him give one. Not even to his brother. Especially not to his brother. “If you think it will work,” You said.

“It’s worth a shot,” Dante said. “But you’ll still have to get close to him. Do you think you can manage it, Sunshine? I’ll be right there with you.”

Slowly, you nodded. “I can do it.”

Vergil gently squeezed your hand. “Let’s find a better spot.”

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Vergil’s better spot was about a mile away from the greenhouses, but out of sight from any humans that were living in the area. His logic was sound. We don’t know how much energy you’ll need to expel once this is over. But it didn’t make you any less nervous. You were scared. More than you wanted to admit. You didn’t know if you could overcome the fear that was deep inside you. You didn’t know how the vine would react to drinking his own blood. And, even worse, you didn’t know how your own body would handle it. The vine absorbed the demon blood, but what about the human blood? It would be a miracle if you were the same blood type, and you didn’t know if the vine would be able to handle the human blood the same way. But you didn’t express any of this as you tried to exude as much confidence as possible. You didn’t want them to think any less of you.

Once you reached the spot, Vergil teleported away, leaving you alone with Dante. “I’ll be right here,” Dante said as he put a hand on your shoulder.

“I’ll be okay,” You said, though you couldn’t quite keep the waiver from your voice. You tugged on your fingers, but quickly dropped them back to your side. Vergil looked like a statue in the distance, waiting for you. You knew you could still back out, but you didn’t want to. You wanted to fix this. You didn’t want to be a burden to your friends.

“Ready?” Dante said. You nodded and he put his thumb up. “Go ahead, Verge!”

You felt the demonic energy wash over you as he transformed. Fear struck your heart, but you swallowed it down. This time, however, you could feel a sense of interest from deep within you. Did the vine understand what you were about to do? Or was it something else pushing you forward?

Come to me.

Your feet moved before you were ready, but you accepted it as you walked across the field. The closer you got, the harder your fear set in. Soon, you were shaking, clenching your hands to try and hide it. It was a strange dance you felt within you, the half that wanted to obey and the other that wanted to run away. But you pushed yourself forward, forcing down your fear. Then, at some point in your walk, your fear slipped away. When you finally stopped in front of him, everything was replaced by awe. He was already tall, but his demonic form towered over you. His wings were pulled in, but they still extended by a good foot and a half, and a long, scaly tail wrapped at his feet, swaying from side to side. You stepped over it and stopped less than an arm's length away. “How do I do this?” you said. “You’re covered in scales.”

“Trust me,” He said. “ Summon your vine.”

You nodded, unzipping your coat just as the vine emerged. You reached your hand toward his chest as it snaked out around your arm and toward him. As your fingers brushed his scales, the vine reached out and tapped them. You sucked in a breath, wincing as you felt it tighten around your heart, just as it always did when preparing to siphon someone’s energy. You still didn’t know how it would do it. He was completely covered in scales; a perfect suit of armor. But then he reached his hand out and ran his claws along the vine. It responded instantly, snaking around his arm in tight circles. When it stopped, you felt it squeeze around him. Then, you watched in shock as red blood began flowing through the vine. But when it reached your body, everything flared to life. You gasped, but his other hand pressed lightly against your back, holding you in place. Suddenly, everything felt different. Your sight was sharper. Numerous scents overwhelmed you from all directions. You could feel the blood pumping through your veins. Your heart beating in your chest. The plants pulsing in the ground. The vine wrapped around it, engorging itself on the blood of a powerful demon.

“It’s never going to accept anything else,” You said, looking up at him.

“ I assumed as much,” he growled.

“You expected this?”

“I’m prepared for it.”

Your heart swelled at the thought. You reached up slowly, brushing your fingers against his jaw. You swore you heard him purr as his tail thumped against the ground. You giggled, running your hand along the edges of his eyes. “How does it feel?” You said.

“ The vine?”

“This form.”

“Powerful,” He said.

“I can imagine,” You said. And you could feel it deep within your bones. His power, merging into your body. But your fear quickly returned. Fear that it would kill you. But you also felt a strange sense of calm. It was a weird mixture of feelings that you couldn’t explain, but you felt even more soothed as his tail rested at the back of your ankles.

“You’re alright,” He said.

“You can feel what I am, can’t you.”

“Yes.”

“That must be annoying.”

You swore you saw something akin to a smile, but it was so hard to tell with his shark-like teeth. “That’s enough.” The vine detached in an instant. Unfurling itself before retreating back into you. You reached for your chest, waiting for the pain. But it never came. In fact, you felt better than ever. How? You wished you knew. But the vine was satiated. Your fear was gone, and you were confident it would stay that way.

But…

You glanced at the grass, curious. As you flexed your fingers, the blades moved in waves, following every twitch. You waved your arm out before pulling it back in. The grass grew out to one side, then shrunk back. Every small movement you could trace. Every twitch a blade moved. Every wave was followed by a ripple. You raised your hand toward you and the grass grew. Mesmerized, you gently spun your hand in a circle. The grass morphed, each blade expanding and braiding like it usually did. Except this time, the blades had a blue tint to them, as if the center was glowing. You arched your hand over your head and the thick braid shot over like an archway, planting itself on the opposite side. The second time you drew your hand, more grass grew in spirals around the archway and blue flowers blossomed.

“Such power…” You whispered, your mind racing. What else could you do with this? What demons could you fight? What plants could you find? The possibilities felt as endless as the well of strength now residing within you.

The strength he’d willingly given you.

Energy rushed past you as Vergil resumed his human form. “Better.” He said. It wasn’t a question.

“Very,” You agreed. “Thank you.”

He watched you for a long moment. Your breath hitched as you met his steely gaze. You’d already thought him handsome - not that you’d actually admitted it - but now he looked downright beautiful. Every detail was accentuated. The curve of his lips. The shape of his chin. The way a single piece of hair had fallen out of its perfect shape. His eyes, shimmering as they stared back at you with a look you couldn’t quite describe.

“You’re welcome.”

You weren’t sure why that made you smile, but you knew it was one of the widest smiles you’d ever given him.

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You were both right; now that the vine had tasted the best, it refused everything else. But you had one thing going for you: it took a long time for it to fully process everything Vergil gave to you. It was weeks before it required another dose, and you had no problems maintaining your flowers or using your powers as long as you were careful not to overdo it. And your nightmares had almost disappeared completely, saving Devil May Cry from a swift, plant-based end.

Key word: almost. You no longer dreamed about that demon, but you dreamed about other things. Some were good - dreams you would never share with anyone in a million years - but others were terrifying. Images of V falling apart. Of Vergil getting hurt in a way he couldn’t heal. Dante and Vergil fighting over something you couldn’t remember. Plants piercing your body just as they had in that demon. But you were coming to manage them better. The plants no longer responded to your distress, and even your mood wasn’t enough to disrupt them any longer. It helped that you had Shadow, as the cat reminded you heavily of the panther you had grown to love and was just as willing to cuddle with you while you slept.

And you had Vergil. Frequently close by. Always attentive.

How things had changed. Now, the bracelets you had carried for so long were heavy on your wrists, begging you to return one to its rightful owner. But you couldn’t. You didn’t even know how to approach that topic with him. And what would he even do with it? Vergil didn’t strike you as a bracelet type of guy, no matter what his human form had done. Would he throw it away when you weren’t looking? That would probably be the tactful thing to do. Maybe then you’d forget about it.

But then, he surprised you with one, complicated question.

“If I could bring V back, would you want to see him?”

You nearly choked on your breakfast, as he sipped at his drink “Is that even possible?” You said.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“The same way I did it the first time,” He said.

Your heart nearly stopped. “But then you’d be splitting yourself… again. What about your demon half?”

He took another sip of coffee. “I’ve done it."

You stared at him. “You… you split yourself? Again?”

“Yes.”

“How could you do something so reckless?” You said.

“I knew what would happen.”

“How could you possibly know something like that?”

“Would you want to see him?” Vergil pressed.

A part of you hated yourself when you hesitated. “Not if it risks your life.”

“It’s not a risk,” He said. “It would be temporary.”

“But it doesn’t change anything,” You said. “You… are V, right? So what’s the point of bringing him back when you’re sitting right in front of me?”

A raised eyebrow was all you got, but you had learned by now that meant you’d caught him off guard. “You still dream of him.”

“How would you know that?”

“You say his name in your sleep.”

You looked away. “Surely that’s not all I say,” You muttered.

“No,” Vergil admitted. “But it's enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“You haven’t moved on.”

You flinched, still not looking at him. Again, the bracelets felt heavy on your wrist. But Vergil continued. “Did you love him?”

This time, you did meet his gaze. “I don’t know,” You said. “We didn’t really have… the time.”

“Yet you let him sleep beside you,” Vergil said. “Let him hold your hand. Guide you. Teach you.”

“We were friends,” You said.

“But if you had more time,”

“Stop,” You said, jerking upright. “He’s gone, Vergil. “I’ve accepted that.”

“I can bring him back.”

“I don’t care,” You said. “I…”

Vergil stopped you, standing up himself as he clicked out Yamato. “Rose.”

“Don’t you dare,” You said. “Don’t you dare do that to yourself.”

“Why?” He said, crossing the room in a couple of strides.

“Because I care about you!”

That gave him pause, even though his expression didn’t change. What was he thinking? You wish you knew. Unfortunately, the sentient vine hadn’t managed to give you that power quite yet. But he did resheate Yamato as he stared at you. Maybe you had rattled him, if only a little bit. Had he truly not expected you to say that? Maybe even you hadn’t expected it. “Vergil…” He stepped toward you, driving you back against the wall. Your breath caught as he leaned in, resting his arm above you. Still, he said nothing. Just watched you like a vigilant hawk, waiting for his prey to move. And move you did, reaching for your wrist as you pulled off one of the bracelets and held it out to him. His eyes shifted to it, and his lips turned to a frown. Your heart fell into your stomach, but you didn’t move. “I still have it,” You said. “Just like you asked me to.”

“You held on to it for him,” He said.

You shook your head. “I held on to it for you.”

After a long moment, he took it from you still staring at it. You held your breath, waiting. Then, his eyes flickered back to you. “I’m not V,” He said.

“You’re Vergil,” You said quietly. “The V that came back.”

He was silent for an unbearable amount of time. And he was so close now. You could feel his breath on your lips. His hands kept twitching near your hips, as if he wanted to reach out but was refusing to. A few pieces of hair were out of place. The outside of his irises seemed to be glowing, and you wondered if that’s how he always looked and you’d just never noticed. “That’s your choice, then,” He said.

“If you’re giving it,” You whispered. How dangerous that felt, especially when his eyes narrowed and the hand over your head clenched into a fist. You didn’t think he was angry. Maybe pensive, but not angry. The vine wasn’t twisting, but your heart was in your throat. You wished he would just do…

He kissed your forehead so tenderly that you nearly melted on the spot. And when he walked away without another word, you couldn’t help but smile. You didn’t need words. Actions were better anyway.

And hours later, when you were working on the paperwork and Vergil was reading in his usual spot, you caught a flash of blue on his wrist; a rose hiding just behind the sleeve of his jacket.

That was more than enough.

#dmcweek2020 #vergil x reader #vergil dmc #dante dmc #fan fiction #last part!#Hope ya'll enjoy <3

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yeoldontknow · 8 years ago

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Shortwave

Author: @eradikeats-writes as part of Boogie Nights And Colombian White Creative Content Contributors: @baebae-goodnight (providing an INCREDIBLE moodboard for this installment) Rating: R Warnings: graphic violence; drug use; explicit language Word Count: 4,356 Special thanks to @kpopfanfictrash for letting me borrow her Baekhyun <3 and to @the-porcelain-doll-xo for a read through <3 Yixing - The Eyes

From great heights, it’s easy to see Miami the way it used to be. With the sea in view, somehow still iridescent and tantalizing in the dark, it’s easy to let time slip and drag him back. Back to the sixties, to before Yixing had even arrived, when South Beach was little more than something lazy, something pleasant, something almost hopeful. He can almost imagine it up here, chairs and chairs and chairs of geriatrics and maybe even some teenagers, stoned and old and killing time while they wait to die. Standing on the factory roof, he can see over the cranes and the high rises, the metal scaffolding stained and painted in equal parts blood and blow. Here, Miami becomes something little more than an idealized getaway, something little more than an empty plot of sand waiting to be paved. Something made of potential.

At this height, it’s easy to pretend he is flying. Standing on the ledge of the factory roof, Yixing looks down at his shoes as he balances and offers the stability of his knees complete trust. The weight of the recorder at his side could easily make him tip or stumble, would scare a younger, less trained man into stepping away. He simply stands, feeling like a gargoyle, feeling like this factory is his cathedral charge, and lets the pavement below test his will. Occasionally, like this, when the breeze picks up and threads through his hair, he thinks small fibers of his muscles are tempted to jump, fall, fly, or kiss the earth below. He thinks that would be easy, thinks that would be nice.

At this height, a lot of things are easy, but, at this height, it’s hard to be seen.

From where he stands, he looks out over the world and sees people. Lives pass by, insignificant and inconsequential, moving at slow paces and burned by ignorance. Lights in windows glow, people fucking over the city or fighting down below, and he can hear, see, smell them all. No one sees him, because no one expects to. No one sees him, because they are not looking, but he sees them.

Years of abandonment and neglect have taught him to observe, look for, and seek all the flaws in humanity that give him the upper hand. When eyes are not focused on him, he looks and looks and looks until every person is reduced to little more than cosmic waste, carbon and nitrogen soaked in nothing more than sin. He likes it this way, thinks it’s poetic - to be the prophecy all prophecies pass and ignore. The great undoing of everyone and everything, eventually even himself.

Digging his hand into his pocket, he pulls out his lighter and juts his hip slightly to maintain balance. Pushing a cigarette between his lips, he relishes the sensation of his leather glove grazing his lips and lets the tobacco glide languidly into his chest and lungs. This moment could be soothing, he thinks, akin to a great wave of calm passing over his weary joints and mind. Could be.

Would be, except for the entire length of his drag, someone is screaming.

Eight floors below, somewhere in the purgatory of the empty building, Minho is learning how to die.

Really, it’s his fault that he’s there, likely losing his ear and certainly losing his life - even if his heart is still beating. It was only a matter of time before the group found out he’d been poking holes in cocaine shipments, meeting the traffickers at the port and cutting slits in the bags to take kilo and after kilo to the Cubans. Yixing assumes that he was smart enough to know he’d be caught, though he probably never thought it would be a prostitute, still wet with come and sweat, who would give him away.

Minseok said his name like he was spitting acid from his mouth, disgusted with the mere idea of him. His fingers twitched, itching to reach into his back pocket for his knife. Itching to take his knife and cut off his thieving fingers but, well, Minseok has always had stellar self-control when he wasn’t tweaked or depressed.

Initially, they thought him the mole, connected him easily to every conspiracy they could imagine and fabricate, plot lines filling in like they’d been woven over years of planning and choosing. Logical. Made sense. Infuriating.

Jongin nearly punched a hole in his dash when Yixing told him not to kill the guy, instead to bring him in, back to Baekhyun who had some questions. Over a decade of working with and knowing Baekhyun had long ago taught him this didn’t mean a conversation, it meant he wanted blood, and, deep down, Yixing wanted it too. Minho got careless, reckless, and greedy - that’s what Jongin called it as he was guided through the streets, trying to talk himself down from the blind rage he found himself in. Yixing said nothing on the topic, oddly reserved for this time of night, barking out directions as he mulled over Jongin’s turn of phrase. Jongin was being kind, using gentle words, sympathetic words to describe this. Yixing called it disloyal, called it traitorous - that was his version of kindness.

Now, listening into the conversation, he’s satisfied with the words Baekhyun has selected. Their fearless leader, his childhood friend, ever the poet.

‘You know, I don’t like people.’ Baekhyun releases small grunts through his words, the effort of slicing through cartilage filtering through his speech. ‘People are cunts. Worthless pieces of come and pussy, self-servicing - fuck, I don’t even like Suho that much.’

‘It’s mutual.’ Junmyeon’s voice cuts through Baekhyun’s little sermon, sharp, pointed, and bored.

‘So what made you think that I liked you? That we were friends? Was it the money I was fronting you to push this shit? Did you think it was a fucking loan?’

Exhaling into the breeze, Yixing chuckles at Baekhyun’s nonchalant tone, almost cordial in its cadence. Any other man, he imagines, would use this opportunity to impose dominance or threat in their word choice. Treading carefully over their words, they would select the ones they find most sinister and brutal in the effort of exerting authority. For as long as Yixing has known him, Baekhyun has never felt the need to do this. He has never done this because he doesn’t need to, choosing instead to let his actions showcase his will. And his will, always and without fail, is lethal.

‘Answer me, I’m genuinely curious. I’d like to know.’

Soft whimpers permeate through the silence, intercut by howls of pain. Minho is losing his ear, and, in this case, he is lucky.

‘Oh, sorry, is my knife at your ear making it hard for you to speak? Let me make it easier for you.’

Minho screams, agony erupting out of his chest and sending Yixing back from the roof edge as he winces through the feedback in his earpiece. Laughter dances through, sounding splintered yet paradoxically gleeful, Baekhyun happily walking away with an ear.

‘There. Okay, tell me. What made you think we were friends?’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ Minho rasps, voice ragged and tilted with pain.

‘I don’t know,’ singsongs Baekhyun, boyishly weaving his way through the interrogation. ‘You started this whole Shakespearean shit. The Brutus to my Julius.’

‘Baekhyun, can we please hurry this up.’ Once more, Junmyeon bursts through, tired and irritated with the length of time this is taking. He’d rather go home. He’d rather have the body dump already arranged. Instead, he is playing rook to Baekhyun’s whim.

Yixing gets it, he truly does, but even he isn’t so forgiving, and so he decides to speak.

‘We’ve secured this building for two hours. There is plenty of time.’

‘Lay,’ Junmyeon says, feigning surprise. ‘I’d forgotten you joined us.’

Turning in a slow circle as he surveys the area, Yixing smirks. ‘Wish I could say the same.’

‘Shut up,’ interjects Baekhyun. ‘I think he wants to speak.’

Retching sounds become the soundtrack to a young couple fucking against an alley wall far below. Yixing smiles. Yixing watches.

‘What the fuck is that, is that tacos?’

Junmyeon sighs. ‘Looks like a burrito.’

Unable to help himself, Yixing laughs as he moves towards the opposite side of the roof. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Contrary to popular belief,’ Baekhyun announces, playfulness steadily disappearing from his voice, ‘my patience grows thin rather quickly. So, either you speak or I’m going to tell you what I think.’

With an intake of breath that sounds more like a hiss, Yixing braces himself for the oncoming storm. Now, it’s serious. Now, this kind of betrayal is a tangible reality and everyone is starting to feel it. Even Junmyeon, who is usually taciturn and stoic during all interrogations and meetings, releases a small, almost inaudible growl from his throat. Everyone wants some of Minho’s blood, and Baekhyun is sure to deliver.

‘Nothing?’

Baekhyun’s tenor weaves its way around the room, sounding soft and beautiful, and absolutely deadly.

‘Okay, here’s what I think: I think you got comfortable. You made your first million and you thought you could use me to make more. Because we’re friends, right? Friends would understand.’

In the brief pause, Yixing grits his teeth in anticipation. There’s a rhythm to the way Baekhyun handles his interrogations, a pacing similar to a dance, and he knows where this one is headed. As if by clockwork, he hears the cock of Baekhyun’s SIG Sauer before the trigger is pulled. The sound is loud, erupting through both the mic, giving sharp feedback directly into his brain, and out into the city. No one will notice. No one will care.

‘Shit man, you’re a cripple now.’

This simple sentence tells him Minho now has a bullet in one knee cap, though by the end of the night he expects he will have more in other, more important places.

‘Do you know what happens to cocaine when it makes contact with salt water?’ Footsteps follow Baekhyun’s words, signalling his movement through the pace of his speech; Yixing can almost see him circling the chair, eyes impassive behind yellow sunglasses and mouth set in a straight line. ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with you, well, it does but mostly I just want to know if you know. You’re a smart guy. Community college. Some bullshit like that.’

‘He dropped out after a year,’ he provides, leaning over the roof to watch Jongin turn a corner, circling the perimeter without being obvious.

‘But he went!’ Baekhyun exclaims, feigning pride. ‘That’s gotta mean something, right college guy? So, tell me. What happens to cocaine in salt water?’

Minho spits. ‘Fuck you.’

‘My sex life is fucking incredible, thanks, but that’s not my question.’

Another gunshot rings out in his ear, unexpected and brash, making him bend down and open his mouth in a silent scream of shock.

‘Sorry, my hand slipped. But hey, at least you know you aren’t walking out of here, right? You can relax now.’

Tired of playing games, Baekhyun is moving forward at an unprecedented speed. Yixing can sense it, even the air that moves around the roof is saturated with his wrath, and, soon, he thinks the whole of Miami will be caught in its tides.

‘Here’s what happens,’ Baekhyun says, sounding almost too pleasant for the details he’s about to provide. ‘Coke in water? Shitty, but if you evaporate the water it’ll still be there and it’ll work. Won’t work well, but it’s enough to get you addicted. Coke in salt water? Whole other story. So, when you’ve been dropping my shit into the sea, did you think this would eventually come back to you?’

For a while, the only sound Yixing can hear is Minho’s whimpering. He hopes Minho is suffering. He hopes he never goes numb to the pain.

There’s a sudden fury of movement: the tearing of bags, the pushing of a chair, fabric thrusting and moving in nondescript motions. He can’t make sense of it, his brain trying to picture each action and rounding itself back into a fog. Speech dies on his tongue, choosing not to interrupt Baekhyun as he works and instead keeps all his complaints to himself.

‘I want you to try it.’

Now, he gets it. Now, he feels almost sympathetic towards Minho. Almost.

‘Look, I’m sorry I don’t have a nice mirror for you to snort this off, but I think your ear makes a fine dish don’t you?’

More movement occurs in vague patterns: thrusts and grunts, sounds of inhales blocked by powder in nasal passages. Minho coughs, loud and sputtering and gagged, and, soon, he’s reduced to little more than a mess of uncomfortable whining.

A small sigh, one of insincere platitudes falls from Baekhyun’s mouth. ‘Your nose is bleeding. Suho, do we have a tissue for his nose?’

‘No,’ Junmyeon says, plainly. ‘No, we don’t.’

‘Sorry man. But hey, now we know what happens when you snort impure blow. Fucking sucks, doesn’t it.’

Below, Jongin circles back around, appearing as a lost driver attempting to find the highway entrance. Below, the world is moving, dollar bills are circulating in the Florida economy that are laced with cocaine simply by passing through the fingers of Miami’s lawyer’s, doctors, car salesmen. Below, a woman walking home alone is crying.

Above, Yixing is watching. Above, Yixing is listening. Above, Yixing is waiting. He knows the bullet is coming, and so he takes his ear piece out and rests it calmly on his shoulder. Without Baekhyun in his ear, the world seems calm. Miami seems calm and quiet and soft. Without Baekhyun in his ear, Miami seems colourless. Without Baekhyun, Miami seems hollow.

‘I’ve got one more question for you,’ Baekhyun says, voice in a loud whisper. Baekhyun is leaning over Minho now, close and low and breathing heavy into his wire mic. ‘What happens to dead bodies in salt water?’

‘I don’t know,’ weeps Minho, pathetic and sad and aware that these are likely his last words.

‘Me neither. Will you be sure to tell me?’

‘Wh -’

A third and final gunshot breaks through, and Yixing smiles. He smiles at the moon and the sea and the city, but it is neither content nor is it pleased, it’s simply relieved that one half of their problems has been eradicated. It’s simply relieved that he can go home and not sleep, just think without this weighing heavy on his mind.

Minho is dead and Yixing is now free, at least for the next six hours.

‘This was all well and good, but we still have a mole,’ Junmyeon says, wires moving and indicating he is about to disconnect and arrange disposal of the corpse.

‘His brains are on my shoes,’ whines Baekhyun, sounding childish. ‘These were a gift.’

‘I’m sure your pretty piece of pussy will be able to get you another pair.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Baekhyun states, voice stern. ‘And don’t call her that. I’ll put a bullet in your mouth if you do it again.’

‘You won’t.’

He likes it, this banter. It makes him feel as though he isn’t on his own or alone, operating like the satellite he is. It makes him feel distant from New York City, the mob and the cops and the lonely way he had to move through the night to steal a car or a kilo to make a quick buck. It makes him feel distant from the thing he was before.

He likes this banter but now, he is tired, and now, after thirty-six hours, he is going home.

‘I’m leaving,’ he announces, and all sounds on the other halt as he commands attention. ‘I’ll leave the tape with Kai. I-95 should be clear until four.’

There are three deadbolts on Yixing’s door, each made of solid brass. There are three deadbolts and each is more imposing than the one that comes before. When he suggested this, you laughed and called him paranoid. He simply agreed. When he suggested this, you said it was a tell, a give away that something serious was happening inside. You said, we’ll either look crazy or criminal, and I don’t know which is worse. He simply agreed, but he said it would keep you safe. He didn’t include himself. He doesn’t really care, not really about anything, except you.

When he walks through the door, like usual, he is ambushed by you. Whole heartfuls of lust and sentiment flare up and outward from his chest, rising through his throat to linger on his tongue. When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you, standing in the center of your living room.

When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you, and you are pointing a gun at him.

It reminds him of the first time he met you, when you pointed a gun at him and called him a fed, called him a cunt, called him a lot of things that made him laugh until he pulled a wire out from a car and hot wired it for you. You called him a lot things that night, held the gun to his head as he drove you through Brooklyn, while he told you he didn’t care the AV equipment was government grade or that it was hot, just that he wanted in the on the money if you were going to make him drive. You held the gun to his head all night, only put it down when he fucked you on your bed, dad sleeping in the next room an arms reach from a rifle - the riskiest sex he ever had.

When he walks through the door, he is ambushed by you. You are pointing a gun at him, and you are shaking.

Instantly, words rush forward and fall from his mouth, tearing through him before his mind can assess his surroundings. Something feels off, slightly amiss, but he doesn’t care. He cannot care, because you are there with wide eyes and looking at him as though the world is in a state of collapse.

‘Nocti,’ he breathes, hands flying up in defense. He knows you won’t shoot, you never shoot, but you’re severe and strong, and your hold on the gun was always better and more stable than his. ‘Nocti.’

Just hearing the nickname seems to make you relax, your shoulders drooping and defenses falling just enough for you to come back to him, to peek around your shell and let him know this fear and this rage is not directed at him. And seeing you soften, seeing that you are neither hurt nor fighting with him tonight, makes the atmosphere shift and the flesh of his arms tingle.

‘Someone’s been in the house.’

You say it together, at the same time, and he’s at you before you can even move to investigate. Running his hands over your face, your hair, your waist. He looks at you as though you are bleeding, hemorrhaging in his hands even though he knows you are whole and complete and vital.

‘I’m fine,’ you state, though you cling to him tighter than usual, and it makes his jaw clench with disdain that someone could have this kind of power over you and his home. One and the same, really. ‘I just got home. I felt it when I walked in.’

Furiously, he pulls away from you, sure and calculated in every moment of his limbs. He tears through the house, inspecting rooms with his knife clutched tightly in his hands while you, with your Harballer, point at the furniture as though it is preparing to devour you whole. The silence is deafening, both of you reverting to hand signals and instead listening for sounds of footsteps unfamiliar with various weak spots in the floorboards. Yixing is looking for shadows and he knows you are looking for flesh, tendons to tear and shoot, men to cripple. Yixing is looking for shadows, feeling much like the moon as he tries to draw them out of the dark and give shape to phantoms already long gone.

Eventually, you both discern that nothing has been taken nor moved, the only real difference being the weight of the air in the house. It’s sticky and damp, a swamp dripping down the walls - though, he cannot tell if it’s the Florida air finding a way in or if it’s the rapid beating of his heart making him feel as though the earth is trying to suffocate him. And while this should calm him, the fact that everything is the same and as it should be, he is only able to manage a further, excessive panic because someone got in to do just that: be inside.

There are three deadbolts on Yixing’s door, each made of solid brass. With no obvious signs of force at any entry point, this means someone followed him, likely for weeks, and made keys. With no obvious signs of forced entry, this means someone has known about his home, his life, his space for a long time. With no obvious signs of entry, this means it was planned.

‘We have to leave,’ he says, walking into the living room to where you are holding your gun at your side, defeated. ‘We need to get the fuck out.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ you retort, putting the safety back on and tossing it to the couch. ‘Leaving means they win.’

Yixing releases a scoff at your indifference to this plight, taken aback by how firm you are in your stance. ‘Nocti, you stole a lot of shit for us. I’m not embroiling you -’

‘For you,’ you interrupt, scowling and pointing a finger into his chest. ‘I stole that shit for you, not your boss or the whores he collects. You.’

Always, you are stronger than him. Will of iron and teaching him to be fierce, unwavering, brave. ‘If they found us,’ he begins, pulling you to him, ‘they’re onto a hell of a lot more than a pimp and a club owner who might be involved with racketeering.’

‘If they find us, you can put a bullet in their brain and I’ll search their pockets for loose change.’

For a while, you both fall quiet. Still, even with the discovery that nothing was taken, the house feels awkward, the bubble of privacy and clarity wholly removed and replaced with something foreign, something he hasn’t felt since Queens and the night a dead cop turned up on his doorstep. He’s used to running, leaving shit behind until his trail goes cold. He’s used to observing, never being observed unless it was your eyes only, and he can’t help but feel as though this is the beginning of the end.

Eventually, your mouth finds his neck, kissing a calm sort of fire into his skin as you speak. ‘Besides, you have a deal in a few days to scout. We can’t leave before -’

And then he’s gone from you, pulling away from your hold and running down the hall to the back spare room. It’s mostly empty, filled with boxes of office supplies neither of you use but keep merely to give the appearance of planning, converting, using, living. He moves a box to the side and tears at the wallpaper, revealing a small panel with a lever. Tugging the metal rod, he listens to the latch release and watches the wall slide away to reveal the radio room.

This too is small, but is the single most important thing his first million ever made him. With only two tables, two chairs, and three short wave radios, the room looks like an unassuming broadcast radio station at best but it’s the eighty foot tower less than three miles from the house that makes this room lethal. This is where Baekhyun talks to Colombia, this is where traffic routes are detailed, this is where Yixing listens to all the ways they’ve learned to live and speak and survive, and no one has never heard him. Not even once.

Inspecting each radio with a careful, quizzical eye, Yixing finally finds the thing that’s changed. One small detail that any other man, a careless man, would miss.

On the second table, sitting small and green and wholly unassuming, the knobs of a shortwave transmitter have been turned, sitting now in different positions than when he left them.

Releasing a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, he rests his weary body in the chair and he looks. He simply looks and looks at the dials and knows that, now, everything has changed. The information of a mole is no longer a rumour, something to be treated as mere investigation, but something that needs to be handled as though a warrant for execution has been issued. The mole is no longer a rumour, and they are inside, crawling inside all of Yixing’s private spaces and making him feel young, out of control, and completely unlike himself.

Like this, he thinks he could be reckless. Like this, he thinks he could be dangerous, publically and vocally, and he never liked the idea of either.

It’s as these thoughts pass through his head that he notices the pad of paper, yellow and legal and long. Impressions, erratic, unfocused and illegible, remain in the center of the pad, and suddenly a great wave of relief washes over him. This is the relief he had been seeking from his last smoke, the kind he had been seeking the moment he stepped through his door and held you in his arms.

This is the relief of control.

Flipping the pages up, he tears the last sheet out and lays it over the top, grabbing a pencil and sketching whole dark lines over the top. He makes one large dark cloud, big, almost circular, and lets the indents be the only white lines in the center.

When he’s done, he’s left with coordinates.

When he’s done, he’s left with handwriting.

When he’s done, he’s left with the truth.

Taewon.

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