Ship/Member: Seungkwan-centric; SKZ Minho/Jungwoo (background) Major Tags: N/A Additional Tags: mention of suicide (not POV); join clone club they said, it'd be fun, they said; orphan black au Permission to remix: Yes for mods: i should've noted and didn't... going for 5 of a kind
well, this got away from me. my brain said "seungkwan alison hendrix" and produced this. skz minho as felix, i'm sorry for implying hyunggu as vic
***
Minho plants the idea first. The backpack is heavy in Seungkwan's still-shaking hands. On the table, the personal belongings of a suicidal man: a half-million won, phone full of selfies and a picture of a man kissing his cheek, running shoes, and an ID of someone wearing his face.
He’s had a rough go of the last year, and watching a man who looks just like him take off his shoes and hop in front of a train feels like the breaking point. Enter, his foster brother, here to make things worse.
"Well, like, what if you just..." Minho trails off, then frowns. It's too morbid to think about, surely. Just slinking into someone's life to take it over, like a cheap layer of paint. “It's like… borrowing.” He swallows loudly, like each gulp of beer is another step to believing.
Seungkwan studies the images, looking at the man's picturesque life, at least compared to his. Vacations. A smiling partner. Stability. He’s been on the move for so long that he doesn’t know who he is anymore. Maybe stepping into the still-warm loafers of a dead man is what he needs to start a new life.
"You're not technically stealing their life if you're, like, his long-lost sibling or something. You’re taking what’s rightfully yours."
--
“Lee Know,” Seungkwan hisses into his phone. The four walls of the bathroom stall feel claustrophobic, and Minho's inaccessibility is making him antsy.
A bulb of pink hand soap rests in the center of his palm like a stemless wine glass. Stomach churning, he takes another sip.
“Lee Minho, can you stop fucking Jungwoo for 5 minutes and call me back? Other Seungkwan is a cop. Who is in some deep shit. I repeat, I'm pulling out of this fucking—”
The soap tastes worse on the way back up.
--
He comes face to face with Kim Seungkwan by accident. In a wine bar of all places, waiting for Hyunggu to show his face. He steps in wearing an all-white suit like a statement, wearing so much self-assuredness his skin glows with it.
Kim Seungkwan, American-raised, changed his name from his adopted name to his husband's to feel closer to his heritage. The face he makes is identical to Seungkwan’s own, to the Seungkwan who stepped in front of the train.
“What in the hell do you think you're doing?” Is that what his voice sounds like? Oh God. The booth sinks as he sits, thigh to thigh, an arm falling around his shoulders. “You know you cannot show your face—”
The face he's always known morphs into something stony. “You're not him.”
Exhaling, he confirms the suspicion with a glass to his lips. “He's dead.”
A darkness takes over, hovering over their bodies like a heavy cloud.
“Can you tell me who we are to each other?”
Chuckling, the other man shakes his head. “Are you kidding me?” There is no humor in his voice, his clumsy speech suddenly very sharp. “I am not doing that.”
Sliding off of the bench, he clears his throat and stands. “You need to go home and wait for a call.”
The call brings him to Kim Seungkwan’s home in the middle of the night. His face is unmade, dull, hair flattened when he answers the door.
“Hurry up. Close it and lock it.”
“Are you always this bitchy?” Seungkwan asks, eyeing the kitchen knife in Seungkwan's hand. “My husband is sleeping, so if you make any noise, I will kill you,” he replies, voice pinched.
He leads Seungkwan to an office on the opposite side of the apartment. It's pristine, practically a museum compared to the life he's taken over. This Seungkwan loves a mess, down to the man who keeps knocking at his door in the middle of the night.
“You know, I’ve never had a blood relation, but being your twin is hell.”
A shadow shifts behind the door, and Seungkwan stiffens. Should he have brought a weapon, too?
“You have no idea what you're in for,” the other Seungkwan says, his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. It relaxes into something more pleasant as he waves to the figure behind the door.
And then there were three.
--
“We're clones?”
“Genetic identicals.”
--
And then four. He meets the redheaded version of himself when the man crash lands into the back of his car. They only have moments together before someone puts a bullet in his skull and nearly takes Seungkwan out in the process.
Five. He speaks with a heavy Slavic accent and Kim Seungkwan has to translate using his distant memory of his adoptive family's Ukiranian. He develops a fondness for calling the set of them hyungs. It would be endearing, if he weren't out of his fucking mind.
Six, seven, eight, and so on. The more they meet, the more entrenched in danger they become. Seungkwan’s life was already more complicated, but now he's fully on the run. Running shoes on his feet, cash lining his pockets. A wallet full of photographed memories. From the road, he activates a new prepaid phone. Three numbers are already programmed in it.
To Minho, he texts, after all of this you owe me dinner. bitch
Re: symmetry/asymmetry
Major Tags: N/A
Additional Tags: mention of suicide (not POV); join clone club they said, it'd be fun, they said; orphan black au
Permission to remix: Yes
for mods: i should've noted and didn't... going for 5 of a kind
well, this got away from me. my brain said "seungkwan alison hendrix" and produced this. skz minho as felix, i'm sorry for implying hyunggu as vic
***
Minho plants the idea first. The backpack is heavy in Seungkwan's still-shaking hands. On the table, the personal belongings of a suicidal man: a half-million won, phone full of selfies and a picture of a man kissing his cheek, running shoes, and an ID of someone wearing his face.
He’s had a rough go of the last year, and watching a man who looks just like him take off his shoes and hop in front of a train feels like the breaking point. Enter, his foster brother, here to make things worse.
"Well, like, what if you just..." Minho trails off, then frowns. It's too morbid to think about, surely. Just slinking into someone's life to take it over, like a cheap layer of paint. “It's like… borrowing.” He swallows loudly, like each gulp of beer is another step to believing.
Seungkwan studies the images, looking at the man's picturesque life, at least compared to his. Vacations. A smiling partner. Stability. He’s been on the move for so long that he doesn’t know who he is anymore. Maybe stepping into the still-warm loafers of a dead man is what he needs to start a new life.
"You're not technically stealing their life if you're, like, his long-lost sibling or something. You’re taking what’s rightfully yours."
--
“Lee Know,” Seungkwan hisses into his phone. The four walls of the bathroom stall feel claustrophobic, and Minho's inaccessibility is making him antsy.
A bulb of pink hand soap rests in the center of his palm like a stemless wine glass. Stomach churning, he takes another sip.
“Lee Minho, can you stop fucking Jungwoo for 5 minutes and call me back? Other Seungkwan is a cop. Who is in some deep shit. I repeat, I'm pulling out of this fucking—”
The soap tastes worse on the way back up.
--
He comes face to face with Kim Seungkwan by accident. In a wine bar of all places, waiting for Hyunggu to show his face. He steps in wearing an all-white suit like a statement, wearing so much self-assuredness his skin glows with it.
Kim Seungkwan, American-raised, changed his name from his adopted name to his husband's to feel closer to his heritage. The face he makes is identical to Seungkwan’s own, to the Seungkwan who stepped in front of the train.
“What in the hell do you think you're doing?” Is that what his voice sounds like? Oh God. The booth sinks as he sits, thigh to thigh, an arm falling around his shoulders. “You know you cannot show your face—”
The face he's always known morphs into something stony. “You're not him.”
Exhaling, he confirms the suspicion with a glass to his lips. “He's dead.”
A darkness takes over, hovering over their bodies like a heavy cloud.
“Can you tell me who we are to each other?”
Chuckling, the other man shakes his head. “Are you kidding me?” There is no humor in his voice, his clumsy speech suddenly very sharp. “I am not doing that.”
Sliding off of the bench, he clears his throat and stands. “You need to go home and wait for a call.”
The call brings him to Kim Seungkwan’s home in the middle of the night. His face is unmade, dull, hair flattened when he answers the door.
“Hurry up. Close it and lock it.”
“Are you always this bitchy?” Seungkwan asks, eyeing the kitchen knife in Seungkwan's hand. “My husband is sleeping, so if you make any noise, I will kill you,” he replies, voice pinched.
He leads Seungkwan to an office on the opposite side of the apartment. It's pristine, practically a museum compared to the life he's taken over. This Seungkwan loves a mess, down to the man who keeps knocking at his door in the middle of the night.
“You know, I’ve never had a blood relation, but being your twin is hell.”
A shadow shifts behind the door, and Seungkwan stiffens. Should he have brought a weapon, too?
“You have no idea what you're in for,” the other Seungkwan says, his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. It relaxes into something more pleasant as he waves to the figure behind the door.
And then there were three.
--
“We're clones?”
“Genetic identicals.”
--
And then four. He meets the redheaded version of himself when the man crash lands into the back of his car. They only have moments together before someone puts a bullet in his skull and nearly takes Seungkwan out in the process.
Five. He speaks with a heavy Slavic accent and Kim Seungkwan has to translate using his distant memory of his adoptive family's Ukiranian. He develops a fondness for calling the set of them hyungs. It would be endearing, if he weren't out of his fucking mind.
Six, seven, eight, and so on. The more they meet, the more entrenched in danger they become. Seungkwan’s life was already more complicated, but now he's fully on the run. Running shoes on his feet, cash lining his pockets. A wallet full of photographed memories. From the road, he activates a new prepaid phone. Three numbers are already programmed in it.
To Minho, he texts, after all of this you owe me dinner. bitch