Chapter Text
Myung-gil had known he’d lose some men assailing Choi Tae-ho’s house, which was almost a fortress, but he hadn’t thought he’d have to kill any of them himself. Right now, though, his hands were itching for a knife. He couldn’t indulge himself.
He was putting pressure on the stab wound in Kim Gun-woo’s stomach.
It was an ugly puncture. The knife had ripped right through Gun-woo’s olive jacket and made a mess of his innards. Blood covered the cloth of his jacket and shirt. Blood coated Myung-gil’s hands. Blood seeped onto the floor.
Myung-gil hadn’t thought blood looked bad on Gun-woo, the first time he saw it there. He hadn’t thought pain or shock looked so bad either.
And Gun-woo looked beautiful now, too, face pale and drawn and distant, breath slow and uneven, body limp and motionless. He was still warm, and his eyes glistened with moisture. But he was one step away from becoming a corpse.
“Call the doctor,” Myung-gil ordered. He didn’t look up to see who might take the order. Someone would, or he’d kill every man he’d brought with him. “Tell him we’ll be there in five. And bring the car up.”
They were much more than five minutes from the hospital he used. But if his men knew what was good for them, they’d floor the gas.
Gun-woo seemed to be struggling to focus. A shaky hand lifted and touched the underside of Myung-gil’s outstretched arm. “You won.”
Myung-gil stared at him. Then he let out an unhappy laugh. “Baby, who said we were fighting? It wasn’t me.”
“It’s my fault,” Gun-woo said.
“I’m not mad, okay? Don’t worry about it.”
“Please,” Gun-woo said. “Mr. Choi. Don’t kill him.”
Myung-gil stiffened.
He was currently plugging a hole in Gun-woo's torso. Gun-woo was probably only half-conscious, and likely didn’t think he’d survive the next hour. It was no time to quibble, but it was certainly interesting that in this situation, on the verge of death, Myung-gil cradling him and literally holding his body together, Gun-woo wanted to waste his breath speaking for Myung-gil’s enemy.
The man who’d taken him away from Myung-gil in the first place.
No time for an argument, he reminded himself. “I’m right here, see?” he told Gun-woo. “I’m not killing anyone. Calm down. Breathe.”
Gun-woo breathed.
There had been a few final sounds of struggle downstairs when Myung-gil first entered the building. Choi Tae-ho desperately trying to put up a fight. They had all died down now, and a few men emerged up the stairs. Maybe they wanted to report the situation, but when they saw Myung-gil crouched over Gun-woo, they kept their mouths shut.
Smart. Or at least, smarter than whoever thought it was a good idea to poke holes in Myung-gil’s boyfriend.
“The car’s here.”
Myung-gil glanced back and jerked his head. A few men scrambled forward to grab Gun-woo by the arms and haul him upright, while Myung-gil kept pressure on his stomach. They could have been gentler, but speed was probably more important than finesse at this point.
They carried Gun-woo out to the car. Myung-gil paused outside for only a moment. Kang In-beom was still in the basement with Choi Tae-ho. Choi Tae-ho. He couldn’t just leave without deciding what to do with the man. He’d originally been planning to finish him off personally, and still wanted to, but it seemed it was not to be.
He beckoned one of his men closer and said quietly, “Tell In-beom: Get anything valuable out of the house. Then burn it. Mr. Choi died in a freak fire. We’ll leave it at that.”
“Yes, sir.”
He got in the car, in the back, next to a sprawled Gun-woo. More blood getting everywhere, now on his seats. It was okay. They’d gotten blood on them before; they were vinyl and cleaned easy. He took off his jacket and pressed it to Gun-woo’s wound, soaking up blood and hopefully stopping some of it from flowing out. “Gun-woo, are you there?”
Gun-woo barely seemed aware of himself, but when Myung-gil snapped in front of his face, he ever so slightly flinched.
“Stay awake.” Myung-gil didn’t actually know if it mattered at this point if Gun-woo fainted from blood loss or not, but people always seemed closer to death with their eyes closed. “We’re getting you a doctor. You’ll be fine.”
The car had started moving. Gun-woo swayed sickly. He blinked at Myung-gil.
Myung-gil hadn’t seen him in weeks, except in blurry photos and CCTV footage that he’d scavenged from various skirmishes in the war against Choi Tae-ho. He reached out and touched Gun-woo’s scarred cheek with his free hand. The hand was still sticky wet with Gun-woo’s blood, and the blood smeared on Gun-woo’s pale skin.
Almost nostalgic.
“You can’t have my mother,” Gun-woo said abruptly, blearily. “You can’t find her. Too late.” Something almost like a smile moved on his face, and then vanished.
Myung-gil pinched his cheek, and let go. “Is that so?”
He remembered Gun-woo’s mother very well. They’d met only once, but the terror and disgust in her eyes had made quite an impression. Not a very interesting woman and not pleasant either, but he kind of wanted to chase her down just because Gun-woo thought he couldn’t.
Because Gun-woo thought Myung-gil would kill his family or something. Thought Myung-gil was a monster.
“You should say thank you,” Myung-gil said. “I’m saving your life.”
Gun-woo said, “Mr. Choi…”
“Say thank you.”
Gun-woo swallowed. “Thank you.”
Myung-gil smiled. “Don’t be too serious. I’d never let you die.”
At the hospital, Myung-gil was relegated to a waiting room.
It was a nice waiting room. A private one, even. He and the director at this hospital had an understanding.
But it itched.
The chairs weren’t comfortable. It was a nice room, nicer than the main waiting room, but the chairs were still stiff and uncomfortable. Myung-gill spared a brief, wistful thought for Smile Capital’s waiting room—incredibly comfortable armchairs and only trendiest minimalistic décor. Gun-woo had once waited for Myung-gil there, which had kind of impressed Myung-gil since the location of Smile Capital’s headquarters wasn’t exactly public.
Now Myung-gil was waiting for Gun-woo.
But then, he reflected bitterly, the way things worked between the two of them, that was just about typical.
The last time he’d spent any amount of time at a hospital actually waiting on someone, it had been In-beom. And that had been Gun-woo’s fault. He’d felt mildly guilty over In-beom, actually, because his first thought on seeing In-beom’s abused body wasn’t concern but “huh, kid’s grown teeth.” Of course he’d been all sympathy afterwards. He didn’t think In-beom bore a grudge, against him or Gun-woo. He liked an all-out bash as much as anyone, though he preferred to be the one who won.
Thinking of In-beom, he took out his phone. In-beom answered on the second ring. “Sir.”
“In-beom, I left you with the bag this time,” Myung-gil said. “Did you have fun?”
“Yes.”
“How’s Mr. Choi doing?”
“Now?”
Myung-gil chuckled. “How was the bonfire?”
In-beom laughed too, though the low sound didn’t carry well over the phone. “It burned well. There won’t be any evidence of us being there.”
“Good.”
“How’s Kim Gun-woo?”
In-beom always knew the right questions to ask. Myung-gil said, “The doctor was positive.” The doctor had said it was a serious injury, but when Myung-gil gave him a level stare, he’d said it was a good thing Gun-woo had been brought to him promptly and Myung-gil had done a good job putting pressure on the wound. He’d said he and his staff would definitely be able to save Gun-woo. They had an excellent surgery department, which was why Myung-gil always went to them in the first place.
“If he doesn’t make it,” Myung-gil said, “I’ll be needing to talk to some people. By the way, In-beom. Where were you when someone was stabbing my boyfriend?”
“Sir, I went ahead to the basement to pursue Mr. Choi. It’s my mistake. I thought the people I left upstairs were competent to restrain him without injury.”
Myung-gil hummed. Injuries were one thing (and, dealing with a skilled and stupidly persistent boxer, probably inevitable). Near-fatal knife wounds were another. “I’ve been told it was Jung.”
“I believe so.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. If only he weren’t short-staffed right now, and especially short on leadership. Jang-do had vanished, and Jun-min was still in recovery from a slash to the throat. And In-beom couldn’t do everything alone. He couldn’t punish Jung properly, not the way he’d like to—unless Gun-woo died.
Some things were inexcusable.
“Jung is still with you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Send him here. I’ll speak with him.”
They talked a few minutes longer. And then In-beom had to go deal with some more final details, and Myung-gil was left sitting in silence in the waiting room, cursing the uncomfortable chair.
Jung had a better poker face than many of Myung-gil’s men. His anxiety didn’t show too much in his posture either, except maybe in the tightness of his spine, and the way his hands lingered at his waist, close to where he usually kept his knife holstered. Myung-gil had told his men to take away his weapons before he entered the hospital.
Myung-gil had a good poker face too, or so he was told. He asked, “Why did you stab him?”
“I was taking measures to neutralize a threat, sir. He had taken down several of our men. I knew the importance of this mission to you,” Jung said. “I was also unaware the man I was fighting was Kim Gun-woo.”
“You didn’t know?” Myung-gil raised his eyebrows.
Gun-woo and Myung-gil hadn’t been together long before Gun-woo ran away. But Myung-gil had briefed all of his men on who Gun-woo was. If nothing else, it was vital that they know the four main fighters that had been beating everyone up, and while Gun-woo was no Lee Do-young or Hwang Yang-jung, he was still an active threat. Myung-gil had made it generally known that Gun-woo was dangerous, but also that he was Myung-gil’s. And before anyone made a decision about how to deal with him, they had to consult with Myung-gil first.
Myung-gil might have accepted an excuse about it being the heat of the moment, and Gun-woo having overwhelmed Jung to the point where Jung had drawn a knife in self defense. He wouldn’t have respected it (at that point, Jung should have just taken the loss—everyone knew by now Gun-woo didn’t kill anyway) but he would have understood it. But this was just ridiculous.
“It’s my own stupidity, sir. I’d seen a picture of Kim Gun-woo, but only briefly, and he looked different in person.”
“Choi Tae-ho only had a handful of fighters working for him. Who exactly did you think it was?”
Jung’s eyes were on the floor. “It’s my mistake, sir. I should have known.”
Myung-gil stood. “If you—”
But he was interrupted by the arrival of a doctor. Cutting himself off, he asked the doctor, “How is he?”
“Surgery went well. His vitals are stable. He’s still under sedation, but should wake up in a few hours.”
“Let me see him.”
“Certainly, sir. He is asleep, though, and won’t know you’re there.”
Myung-gil was already heading for the door. He paused to tell Jung, “You’re damn lucky. If he’d died, you would have too.”
And then he booked it.
The doctor scuttled behind him. Myung-gil paid him no heed. He was still saying things about how Gun-woo wouldn’t be cognizant of his presence even if he visited, so he hoped Myung-gil wouldn’t be disappointed. Myung-gil really didn’t give a shit about that. If anything, the day had worn him out enough that not having to deal with a defiant Gun-woo right now was probably for the best. He didn’t have the patience.
But he did want to see him.
Gun-woo was lying still when Myung-gil came in. A little too still. But that was to be expected. There were tubes in his arm, but he wasn’t attached to a respirator like Myung-gil had half expected, and his chest still rose and fell. He was still alarmingly pale, but after that much blood loss one could hardly expect him to be looking rosy.
A light hospital blanket obscured his torso. Myung-gil wanted to lift it away, strip off the hospital gown and the bandages, and see what had become of the wound, examine the stitches, reassure himself that the ugly, gushing gap in Gun-woo’s stomach had become nothing more than a clinically sewn up seam. But that would do no good, and moving bandages just wrapped, jostling the injury, would probably do some harm. Not to mention the doctor was still hovering in the doorway, and even if the staff here knew better than to question anything Myung-gil did, it would still alarm him.
Myung-gil dropped into a chair beside the bed. “Thank you, doctor. You can leave us now.”
The doctor’s expression was reluctant, but still he left. The door clicked obediently closed, and Myung-gil sighed. Leaned forward on his elbows and buried his face in his hands.
What a day.
He could admit, now that it was over, now that Gun-woo was alive and going to be perfectly fine, that he’d been shaken. Even frightened, and that wasn’t something he usually got—frightened.
Fucking childish, really. It was Gun-woo’s fault. He was so earnest and naïve it made Myung-gil degenerate into a teenager. (Though Gun-woo, of course, was in his twenties…)
But it was over. He didn’t have to worry anymore, not about Gun-woo dying. There would be other things to worry about, but nothing he couldn’t handle.
He straightened, and gazed over at Gun-woo. It wasn’t right for Gun-woo to be so still, but even then, he was beautiful. Perfect.
Myung-gil hadn’t seen him in person in weeks.
When Kang In-beom showed up at the hospital, he didn’t ask Myung-gil come out to meet him. Instead he had the doctor let him into Gun-woo’s room. Myung-gil would have bristled at any of his other men entering this little sanctum, but since it was In-beom, it was all right.
“I won’t bother you, sir,” In-beom said quietly, “but I just wanted to show you one thing.”
“Oh?”
In-beom took something out of his pocket. It was wrapped up in a handkerchief. Myung-gil unwrapped the handkerchief just enough to see the gleam, and smiled.
Choi Tae-ho and his altruism and his secret golden hoard.
“How much?”
In-beom said, “Sir, we’re going to have a casino.”
Myung-gil grinned. Grabbing In-beom, he pulled him into a tight, ecstatic hug.
It had been a good day after all.