Kang Residences
Atalnta, GA
United States of America
Mathieu knew that he owed Kang Enterprises
so, so much.
Stumbling across Jin-ho back in San
Francisco, if anything, a fortunate accident. After trying to pick up the
pieces and live for his own in the United States after the clusterfuck that was
his (shitty) father, he didn’t really expect much for himself. Most of it died
away after his ma died and his father was (forced) to pick him up because of
custody or some shit. He wasn’t sure—he always thought that he and his ma were
going to make it in France somehow.
But she died and his father picked him up
and basically raised him as a son, except: there was hardly any love, any
effort put into it. Sure, there was the cash—the Silvestres were privileged enough
to have a financially stable life—but that was it. His father was out all the
time, there was business to deal with, he probably had another family at that
point.
He hated it.
Moving away, finally leaving didn’t feel so
much better. He bounced around the States, picking up whatever he could do and
living to sustain himself until that one night
wherein he was walking back from wherever the hell he came from and turned a
corner to his apartment when—
Long story short, Mathieu managed to beat
away these assholes who managed to shove this Asian-looking fellow onto the
ground. Jin-ho was groaning when Mathieu managed to support him into his
apartment, and when he turned the lights on, the redhead swore fuck because the other fellow looked
bad.
He didn’t know that something as simple as
helping Jin-ho would land him where he would be years into the future.
It became a mindset, some kind of
motivation.
Jin-ho helped him back onto his feet and
formed a path where he actually had some kind of duty, some kind of life
purpose. He thought about it sometimes on duty, felt some kind of tightness
when thinking where he would be if he hadn’t helped Jin-ho back in San
Francisco.
It was enough to motivate him to keep
holding on to the mask of Leroux, the double identity or whatever people called
it those days. He knew Jin-ho worried, he knew Tony was wary of Leroux’s
existence, he knew that those who belonged in the Enterprise’s inner circle
thought that Leroux was something else all
together.
Mathieu disliked being Leroux, but—
It was what he had to do as a form of
payment and thanks.
…which was why he didn’t quite understand
it as much when Jin-ho would ask him over tea if he still felt comfortable as
Leroux. Mathieu almost wanted to laugh. The whole idea of Leroux was
uncomfortable, but hell he wasn’t just about to give it up if that’s what
Jin-ho wanted.
“I’m okay,” Mathieu waved it off, “It’s not
affecting me, you need to relax.”
“But—”
“Seriously,” he cut in. “I really am okay.
There isn’t a problem.”
(There wasn’t a problem back then, no, but
the more he kept slipping into the identity the more and more he felt like he
wasn’t quite able to escape it and that, honestly, terrified him to a certain
point but he couldn’t let Jin-ho know—)
The missions came, as did threats. Jin-ho
relied on Mathieu, relied on Tony, relied on Jian. They dabbled deeper into the
darker side of business and while Tony and Jian didn’t say anything about it,
Mathieu felt that it was—wrong.
But he kept his mouth shut.
He took out more people, became a better
shot, and became desensitized to what was happening. The deeper they dug, the
more Leroux came and the more Leroux stayed. Leroux slowly became less of a
cover and more of an identity, and—
—he realized what he had gotten himself
into, and he wanted out but he
couldn’t get out and that was the
worst part.
He realized after a mission, when they were
going back to Jin-ho’s place and the gravity of the entire thing hit him hard,
slammed into his subconscious. Mathieu realized that he didn’t feel bad, that
he might have relished in it a little bit, and he honestly wanted to throw up.
He didn’t know that the rest of them
noticed his silence. Jin-ho had been repeating his name for the past minutes
but he didn’t focus or concentrate, only snapping to attention once Tony called
out in a knife-sharp tone, “Leroux.”
“What?”
Cue silence, the way the color drained from
Mathieu’s face upon realizing that he had responded to being called as Leroux
and not as Mathieu. It was a big deal and they all knew that; Mathieu didn’t
like being addressed as his alter ego (or was it even an alter ego) outside of
certain jobs. “I’m not him,” he argued once.
But—
“Shit,” Mathieu managed. “Shit.”
Jin-ho and Tony were unsure how to respond,
only watching helplessly when Mathieu buried his face into his hands without
saying anything else. They’re unable to do anything when the swearwords flow
from English to French and Mathieu swears in a way that they’ve never heard him
swear at all.
“Mathieu,” Jin-ho tries, but Mathieu shirks
away from his voice and keeps his face in his hands, unable to concentrate on
anything at all.
He breathes out a small, clipped merde and his hands move to clutch to
his hair afterwards. “Fuck.”
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