/ this is not how it was supposed to go

 Autumn falls over them like a cool woolen blanket. The chilled air nips their noses and tugs their ears.

Jungwoo takes to wearing his nicest sweaters and Johnny’s only cashmere scarf around grounds. He slips it around his neck on his way out the door and wraps himself up in the fabric when he’s cold.

It smells like stale coffee and books and the very particular smell of fresh fallen leaves. Regardless, it is perfect for fall and so he wears it.

He does his best not to scuff his boots as he weaves in between piles of leaves and undergraduates on the sidewalk. His route across grounds is simple, and the same every day, but it’s pleasant. He raises his head to the sky and takes in the morning sun.

Jungwoo breathes deep, brisk oxygen filling his lungs. It stings, just a little, but it’s worth it.

The campus is picturesque this time of year. It looks straight out of some indie film Johnny picked for their movie nights. He’d never really considered himself one for the aesthetic but recently he’s begun to understand the appeal of a pretty college.

The leaves crunch under his boots and he smiles with the snapping twigs. Golden branches reflect the sunlight and mix yellow and orange hues in the sky.

Grounds in the morning is his favorite place to be, even more than the warm hug of his covers.

He teaches a class on the south side of grounds, down a winding road and a tiny corridor. He pulls the scarf tighter around his neck, a subtle reminder of his existence outside of this blissful moment in the fall

It will be okay if he’s a little late, he’s the instructor anyways

-

The café is alive by the time they meet for lunch. Students rushing for their caffeine fix right before the crash or scrambling to finish last minute assignments on the free WIFI.

He slinks to the back unnoticed, slips into the last empty booth and waits.

Usually, he’s the one running late, but his lecture had ended early so he’d gotten a head start to their designated lunch spot. It was sheer luck that he’d gotten a seat. Typically, they found themselves holed up in the graduate lounge, or on a nice day occasionally capturing a picnic table for the afternoon. This was nice; it was different.

“Found you,” the voice startles him. Johnny smiles as he slides into the seat across from him. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Class finished early,” he replies. Johnny hums as he unravels his scarf. It’s wool and scratchy, but warm. It’s not as cosy as the one Jungwoo has, bundled up beside him with his backpack. But that’s Jungwoo’s now.

“That’s nice,” his voice is casual, sweet. He’s looking down, focusing on the paper menu on the table. “Do you know if Ten’s coming? He hasn’t answered my texts.”

It sounds harmless, and to untrained ears it wouldn’t be anything other than an innocent wondering. Jungwoo, however, knows better, drags out the confusion and worry underneath it.

“I don’t know,” he sighs, genuinely he doesn’t. “I’m sure he’ll answer soon. You know how he gets when he’s tied up with a manuscript.”

He reaches across the table, offers the light brush of his fingertips against his skin. When Johnny shifts his arm, he wraps his fingers around his wrist. Johnny’s eyes shift up and he looks up at him through his eyelashes. He offers a tiny smile, sweet and reassuring. A ‘you’re okay I understand’.

“I just don’t get why he won’t text me back,” he mumbles, leaning his face against Jungwoo’s sweater. His voice is pouty and small, so unlike the usual John. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know,” Jungwoo reassures. There is no point in trying to work this out for them; he’d given it a shot and this is where they had ended up. He resigns himself to comforting words and sweet caresses. Johnny sits up, but he doesn’t remove his hand from where it’s mingling with Jungwoo’s on the table.

He rubs circles into his wrist while they look at the menu. The silence is calming, like most things between them. Neither of them mind just sitting together in the quiet with Jungwoo’s finger tracing shapes into his skin. Just as he’s thinking one of them will have to get up to order, another joins them.

“Sorry,” he says, sliding up to the booth like a cat. “I’m not too late, am I?”

Jungwoo sits up and pulls his hand back from Johnny’s wrist. He’s holding a familiar jacket in his arm and his glasses are skewed just a little bit.

“No, Ten,” he smiles. “No, you’re just in time.”

{ “i’m sorry.” “i know” }

The library stacks are Jungwoo’s favorite place to hide. Tall moving walls of books no one or everyone need to read. He slinks through bookshelves like a cat, prowling through the basement searching for his prey.

He finds it at a table in the corner. Nestled between a wall and the stacks, it sits alone; a secret only for those who manage to find it.

The boys hiding out there have settled into their seats, books sprawled out across the table top. It’s a normal scene; two friends studying together into the fall evening.

Jungwoo knows better, looks closer. Their ankles are tangled together under the desk and their tiny smiles betray them.

‘This is good,’ he thinks to himself. ‘This is what we wanted.’

He slides into place like the final piece of the puzzle, slips into the chair next to Ten, drapes his body over the table, drops his bag to the ground.

Johnny looks up, predictable as always. His big eyes asking all the questions he doesn’t need to verbalize. Jungwoo answers with a soft smile, all the replies he doesn’t need to give. Ten keeps his eyes down, scrolling through pages of text, but he lifts his hand, draws it up to Jungwoo’s face. He brushes his hair out of his eyes, offers a gentle caress that gives all of the reminders he doesn’t need to give. He gives them anyways.

It’s funny, how things work out. In ways that no one quite expected but couldn’t quite imagine anything else. Jungwoo finds he is happiest here, hiding out in their secluded corner of the library, tied up in each other and their studies.

His advisor would kill him if she heard he was yet to make any moves to start his proposal. He needs the grant money, really. But with Ten’s sweet fingers scratching at his scalp and Johnny’s soothing hum in the background, he’s happy to be blissfully ignorant of his academic responsibilities. His eyes flutter closed, he has time.

-

The knife is heavy in his hand. It slices through the meat like butter, sharp and quick. He’s mesmerized by the drag of the blade.

The door slams shut and pulls him from his stupor.

“Hello,” he calls into the hallway.

“Hi,” Ten greets him, stepping out of the shadows. “Are you making dinner?”

“Yeah, just something quick.” He lets Ten get close, drape himself over his body while he does prep work. “Where’s John?”

Ten sighs against his neck, warm air against his cool skin. He leans into Jungwoo, wraps his arms around his waist.

“I don’t know,” he whispers into the crook of his neck. “He doesn’t call me during the day.”

Jungwoo makes a sound of acknowledgment. That is the answer he expected. He lets it go for now, goes back to slicing his meat.

“Move,” he nudges after a while. “I need to get to the stove.”

The other man grumbles, but he pulls back. He busies himself with getting comfortable at the kitchen table, pulls out his book, puts on his glasses. Jungwoo sneaks a peak over his shoulder. He likes Ten like this, curled up in his kitchen chair, hair messy from a long day of dragging his hands through it. He looks like he comes straight out of his dreams in the warm light of the kitchen.

“What? Is there something on my face?” he teases. “Pay attention, you’ll burn something.”

He turns back to his cooking.

-

He takes his tea black but he prefers his coffee sweeter. The grad student lounge in the humanities building doesn’t have any sugar so he makes due with lukewarm tea from the microwave.

(He keeps this a secret, hides his grimaces when he sips from the coffee mug Ten slips him when he's passing through. When he's sure he's gone he pours it down the sink and puts his tap water right into the microwave.)

John likes to make his coffee at home. He bought himself a French press and spent three weeks teaching himself how to use it. Dozens of cups of watery coffee built up to Johnny's ideal dark roast. He gets one of those fancy, expensive travel mugs and carries his homebrewed coffee everywhere with him. As much coffee as he drinks, he practically refuses to stop at a Starbucks. Ten says he's pretentious to his face. Behind his back he thinks its endearing, coos as he drinks the coffee he leaves for him on the counter. Jungwoo doesn't bother with it, too bitter for his liking. He's okay sticking to his teas.

Its quiet as he grades papers at a tiny desk in the study room. Most of his colleagues hurry off to the libraries or their homes to do their work this late at night, but he likes the warm light of the humanities building. Not to mention the fireplace, large and hot in the center

His tepid tea turns cold on his desk corner. It really is gross. He turns his focus to the papers in front of him, turns off his brain for everything other than intro philosophy and forgets his surroundings. He doesn’t even flinch when the door swings open.

“Oh,” Ten sounds surprised as he looms over him. Jungwoo jumps. “You already have something. Is that tea?”

Jungwoo just gapes, stares at him like a fish. Ten sinks into the seat across from him with two warm mugs and his bag slung over his shoulder. His hat is pulled down over his ears, like he was hiding underneath it and Jungwoo really wasn’t expecting him. He’s looking at him expectantly and Jungwoo remembers he’s been asked something.

He clears his throat, “yeah, uh,”

“That’s okay, I’ll make you tea next time. How much longer will you be?” Ten beams at him.

"I have about, ten more?" he replies wearily. "What are you doing here, I thought you needed to be in the archive to do your work?"

Jungwoo knows that's true; he's tagged along on enough manuscript hunts to know that there is no way Ten can take his source material to go. Ten just shrugs.

"I wanted to see you instead." He says it like its the most obvious thing in the world, pulls out his laptop and settles into his chair.

Jungwoo lets it go, the faster he grades these essays the faster he can get home. It's easier with someone else there, the soft sound of Ten's keyboard grounds him as he reads the same essay over and over again.

"Hey," Ten interrupts quietly, after what must be an hour of silence. Jungwoo doesn't bother to look up, just hums in acknowledgement. "Johnny's going to stop by, he says he has something for you."

He just nods and keeps working. It's odd, they don't normally meet in the philosophy department like this, but Jungwoo likes to not ask questions. He lets them come and go and pass through as they do their own things.

And Johnny does pop in, just for a few minutes. He says he's on his way to a lecture on cold war film and he just wanted to say hi. He fills the room, as always, even if just for a few minutes and drags Jungwoo's attention away from his papers. The tumbler is tucked under his arm and he's careful as he puts down two Starbucks cup on the desktop. He leaves as quickly as he arrived, a whirlwind of words and caffeinated hyperactivity. Before he goes he leans down a presses a kiss into the top of his head. He does the same to Ten and then he is off, rushing down the hall and out of sight.

Jungwoo smiles as he sips from his cup. It's a mocha. Sweet.

-

Every other Friday they curl up on their couch for a movie night. They take this sweet reprieve from the relentless grasp of their academics twice a month.

Jungwoo bundles them up under heaps of blankets, wraps the three of them in as much fabric as he can. Ten leaves his feet out less he'll get too hot. Johnny lets him wrap them around his shoulders like a cape.

Under wool and fleece they let go, just for a few hours. In the morning there will still be papers to grade and essays to write, but tonight there is an awful horror movie to watch.

They pass a popcorn bowl between them, but it always ends up in Ten's lap. They don't mind though; they let him toss kernels into their mouths and feed them handfuls of popcorn. Its a ridiculous system but it works for them, just as most things do.

Jungwoo is happy here, sat between two boys he cares for. He lets them throw popcorn over him and put on whatever movies they like. In these moments he is wrapping his arms around them, surrounding, a silent whisper. I love you. My dearest friend. I love you.

{ “i didn’t mean for this to happen.” “i would sure hope not.” “now is not the time, what do i do?” “well we get rid of it, i guess” }

| interlude 1 |

Jungwoo moves to the states for his graduate program.

He finishes his degree and packs his things and sets off. His adivisor had slipped the program flyer into his inbox months ago, a gentle whisper of the new world of American academia. It was exciting, a couple of years in a new country and a university to return to with his doctorate.

He applies in the fall and by the next year he is getting off a plane in a city he'd never heard of.

The graduate program is small, as expected of a philosophy department, but he gets along well with his cohort. They're nice and the ones who were returning to the university showed him the ropes. They brought him to the bars and the good study spaces; they introduced him to his favorite cafes and the best places to get lunch. For his first semester, he adjusts. He falls in love with the people and the campus and builds himself a temporary home. He's at peace, for a while.

It's an older student who introduces it to him, a post graduate PhD student he's working with. She asks him if he's interested in any student organizations, says they're always looking for graduate student members, for the community. She brings him along to the Asian Student Association meeting, introduces him as Jungwoo Kim, a philosophy student. He smiles and waves and thinks he's made a mistake, but they bring him into their folds with open arms and a million questions.

It's there that he meets Johnny, and subsequently, Ten. And, well, you know what they say.

The rest is history.

-

With the fall comes the annual traditions. As the leaves transition from bright green to warm yellow and orange Jungwoo drags out his coziest clothes and Johnny drags them to a pumpkin patch.

“You need to experience the true fall spirit!” he insists and he is too excited for either of them to correct him that this is not their first fall season.

Instead, they let themselves be driven out to a farm somewhere in the countryside and pick out a pumpkin for them to all carve together. Johnny brings his film camera and Jungwoo wears his scarf and Ten steals the hat Jungwoo had been planning on wearing. They’re quite the trio, maneuvering through the winding aisles of pumpkin.

Crows circle over head.

They caw and leer. A warning. An Omen.

They carve the pumpkin the next day, all three of them stuffed into Ten’s tiny kitchenette armed with a spoon and a knife. He bakes the pumpkin seeds while Jungwoo draws a face. Johnny is the one to drive the knife into it, cuts and saws and gets as close to the lines as possible.

Somehow it still comes out wrong, all jagged lines and mismatched sharp teeth.

“Are they always this creepy?” Jungwoo sighs at the sight of it. “I thought this was for kids.”

“They’re supposed to keep out evil spirits, it makes sense that it’s scary,” Ten says, sprawling himself over Jungwoo. “Don’t look so sad Johnny, you did good. This was fun.”

“It’s unique,” Jungwoo echos. “Now can we eat the pumpkin seeds?”

Ten drags him and the pumpkin seeds into the living room. As Jungwoo looks over his shoulder, he see Johnny's shoulder slump. He's frowning.

-

The early morning air kisses Jungwoo's cheeks. He bundles up in his jacket and sags into his scarf. The faint smell of dark roast coffee lingers on the fabric. It makes him grimace but he wears it anyways.

He stands in the middle of the lawn and looks out at the falling leaves. They blanket the grass and bury the green. Jungwoo has always loved the fall. In the distance, a church bell rings, once, twice, again.

Johnny hasn't answered his phone in five days.

His hair get swept up in the wind. Breeze blows his bangs off his forehead and he lets his eyes fall closed. His adivisor has been hunting him down for a week, his proposal was due more than 10 days ago and he has yet to submit even a word. He's been a little preoccupied. The blood and dirt is caked under his nails, no matter how hard he scrubs.

He doesn't have time for thoughts like that, he has to teach a class on the south side of grounds. He pulls himself away from the pleasant scene in front of him. He kicks a pile of leaves in front of him, smiles as they float back to the ground.

In his pocket, his phone rings.

"Hello, Ten."

blood red moon

 Blood moons are rare, so Mark likes to take advantage of them.

He sets out early in the morning, packs his bags with herbs and charms and jars and a single red candle. Its a long ways to his destination, but Mark is nothing if not determined. He hikes up the mountains, far away from the village and into the forest.

His teachers always claimed the blood moons were the best times to contact spirits and, well, Mark has always had an affinity for necromancy. The red moon only comes every few years and this, this is what Mark has been waiting for.

The clearing is empty, as always, not even the lingering scent of a creature lost in the woods. Things tend not to linger in the spots where people conjur the dead. He hums as he sets to work preparing his space. The sun is setting and soon enough, the hour will be upon him. He crushes his herbs and says his incantations and he waits.

Witching hour strikes with the moon high and red. Mark grins, wide and all teeth and begins. He pours the water over the bowl, lets the spell bind as he whispers like a prayer. Dragging the knife across his palm doesn't sting any more than it fills him with utter satisfaction. Blood mixes with water and he pours it out as an offering to the Earth Mother.

Silence falls over the mountain side. Out of the darkness walks a figure.

"Hello," it says, stepping into the moonlight. Mark's heart stops. "I'm Yuta. I believe you were looking for me."

the city is on fire

follow up to stick + poke

Their knees knock together as they huddle together in the back of the Uber. The places where their bodies are connecting them shocks him like an electric wire every time they brush against each other. It makes him feel like he’s about to explode. Drunk and giggly, he pretends his hands aren’t shaking every time their shoulders touch.
There’s no reason for them to be this close, Mark thinks. In reality they could be on opposite sides of the back seat; there’s plenty of room. Instead, Mark is plastered against the door and Dejun is molded to his side.
Dejun is much drunker than he is, credited to the fact that he’d been at the bonfire much longer than Mark had. He’s clingy and laughing at everything Ten sends him and hurrying to show it to Mark. He’d think it was endearing if not for his anxieties over how close they were.
He doesn’t say anything but he’d only showed up at the bonfire in the first place because Dejun had asked. His voice was sweet and inviting on the phone, asking, begging, Mark why aren’t you here?

They get dropped off outside Mark’s house.
Stumbling through tipping and getting out of the car, they hold onto each other like it’s the end of the world.
(It’s not.)
The house is empty when they let themselves in, dragging their uncooperative bodies down the hallway.
(yet.)
Mark’s room is in the same state of disarray it was when he left it, clothes and books strewn across the floor. His guitar is skewed on its stand in the corner and he kicks a stray book under his bed to stop from tripping.
They fall into the bed in a heap of limbs and laughter.
Mark’s head is spinning but he can’t really find it in himself to care.
They aren’t tired, just a little past tipsy, so it’s unsurprising that Dejun pulls out the joint hidden in his pocket. It’s a bad idea, smoking after drinking is always a bad idea, but Mark has been making a lot of bad decisions lately.
They pass it back and forth and the hazy feeling falls over him again. The cloud takes over his mind and vision and if Mark felt off his axis before, this was brand new.
He barely even notices when Dejun stops passing him the joint, or when his hand slides up towards his thigh. He only noticed anything has changed when Dejun is tugging his attention towards him.
He feels like he’s moving in slow motion, yet he turns to face his best friend.
“Marky” Dejun giggles, turning to curl towards him. “You look so pretty.”
He laughs, “sure.”
“I’m serious!” He whines, genuinely, and Mark takes a moment too long to register it before it’s gone completely. “You’re so pretty, Mark Lee. Your eyes are so big and you always look so delicate.”
Mark just stares. He knows his mouth is open but in his inebriated state, his reactions are slowed. Dejun drags his hand up, caresses the side of Mark’s head. He cradles his face in his hands, draws his fingers in outlines on his cheekbones and rakes them through his hair.
Mark can’t really be blamed for what happens next.
He falls forward in slow motion. He doesn’t have time to think before he’s leaning in, in, in— They crash together.
Their lips slot together slowly, then more eagerly then not at all. The whole time Mark’s heart is pounding, practically jumping out of his chest. Dejun’s lips are soft and his mouth taste a little bit like weed but the sweet flavor of whatever mixed drink he’d been drinking at the party lingers in the background. Mark’s drawn to it, like a moth to flame, waves to shore. He tries to chase while Dejun pulls back.
“Mark,” Dejun’s voice breaks the bubble around him. Harsh and grounded. “Mark,”
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out before he gets the chance to stop himself. Dejun’s hand is still on his face, heavy and warm. “I don’t know why I did that.”
Dejun’s eyes search him for a while, as if looking for something underneath. Mark knows better, has his secrets buried deep in his gut, far from his face.
“I-“ Mark starts and stops. His head is spinning and he can’t find the words he needs to justify this.
“We should go to bed,” Dejun whispers after a pause.
He nods, closing his mouth and clearing his throat. His voice is still distorted when he replies, “yeah.”
“Goodnight Mark,” Dejun says. He pulls his hand away from his face slowly, slithering across him like a snake stalking prey. He brings his hand back to his chest and finally looks away. He rolls over, slowly and cautious, like he’s afraid of startling a wild animal.
Mark’s fingers linger on the bed in between them and he hesitates before he draws them back towards himself. He rolls onto his side, back to back in his tiny little twin sized bed.
They aren’t touching, a gap split between them after the slip of the kiss. The pit in Mark’s stomach opens and if he were any less drunk he’d recognize it as fear.
He squeezes his eyes tight, forms fists with his hands close to his chest. He begs himself to sleep, begs that he will wake up and none of this would be real.
It’s only as he’s finally slipping into sleep that he thinks the wild animal Dejun was afraid of was him.

it's beginning to look a lot like christmas

The snow turns to slush as it hits the pavement. Kun’s boots sink into the gross snow with a squelch and his face turns into a grimace. He pulls his coat closer around him and crosses the empty street. Under the street lamps, the city is an ugly yellow color, illuminating the closed shops and barren streets.
It’s just him tonight.
Christmas eve tends to do that. People bundle up in their homes and spend the holidays with their families. No one is around in the middle of the night like this.
Kun quickens his pace.
He reaches his destination faster than he expected. Fumbles his way up the steps of the apartment complex and presses the buzzer by the door.
“Hello?” the voice crackles through the speaker. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” he replies. The door clicks open.
He takes the stairs, three at a time. The fourth floor comes fastest that way and he catches his breath on the landing. The apartment he’s looking for is unlocked when he gets there, expecting. Waiting.
He takes off his wet boots by the door, hangs his soggy jacket and scarf on the coat rack before finally making his way into the warm apartment.
Noise comes from the kitchen, clueing him into the location of its occupant. He shuffles through the hall into the open space to meet him.
“You know, you shouldn’t just open the door for anyone,” he says, sliding up behind the kitchen’s inhabitant. He wraps his arms around him and presses a familiar kiss into his neck. “It could be a monster, trying to get you.”
The man laughs, and doesn’t attempt to shove him off, lets him huddle around him next to the stove. He stirs the stew. The air is full of the smell of fresh ground spices and the familiar scent of homemade broth. There is leftover meat on the counter, cubed and perfect for warm winter stews.
“Hello to you too, Kunnie,” he says. “Is that really how you’re going to greet me on Christmas?”
“Merry Christmas Yuta,” he says, face still buried in his neck. He bites lightly into the fleshy skin.
“Stop that,” Yuta laughs. “Maybe I did let in a monster.”
“I’m the only monster you’ll ever need baby,” he says.
“Don’t be greasy,” Yuta nudges him to move back. Kun obliges, releases his grip, and steps out of the way. “Dinner is almost ready, go put on something cozier, you look so uptight in khakis.”
“You think the khakis are sexy,” he laughs. He walks away before Yuta gets the chance to scold him, making his way to the bedroom down the hall.
It’s dark inside, unlike the rest of the apartment. Where the living area was full of warm string lights and Christmas glow, the bedroom was dim and unlit. He was familiar enough with the layout that he didn’t need the lights on, but he flipped the switch anyway. He pulled a pair of sweatpants out of the drawer and grabs one of the sweaters dropped on the floor. He thinks it was his at one point but it doesn’t really matter. As he’s changing, he notices the closet door is cracked.
‘Odd,’ he thinks as he pulls the crew neck over his head. ‘We don’t keep any clothes in there.’
He walks over to it and peaks inside. Fresh bones stare back at him from the depths of the closet. He hums and shuts the door tight. Yuta calls him from the kitchen.
‘That’s right,’ he thinks to himself. ‘The skeletons go in the closet.’

teeth

 

Rowing out to the island in the middle of the lake was a mistake, objectively.

Yangyang, however, thinks making mistakes is a fun past time, so he rows and rows and rows until he can’t see the land he left. His arms ache just a little and his shoulders are sore but he persists. On the horizon, the island appears.

Legend has it the island in the middle of the lake is haunted. They say that anyone who reaches it never returns. The rumors say there’s a being on the beach that will tear your heart out before you can get too close.

Yangyang paddles as close to shore as he can before he hops out of his kayak. The water goes up to his mid calf and he waded up to shore, dragging his boat. He abandons it in the sand and looks up at the island and grins.

The trees almost seem to part for him as he walks into the forest. Brush moves out of his way as he makes his way down the path through the woods. He only vaguely knows where he is going but the trees seem to think he is familiar and grant him a safe passage. He makes note to thank them later.

The forest opens into a clearing. A cottage stands in the center of it. As Yangyang approaches the door opens for him. He steps inside, sure and confident.

His shoes fit perfectly by the door, as he toes them off and lines them up with the rest of them. They’re soggy and wet but by the time he is ready to leave they will be wearable again.

“You’re back,” a voice says from further inside. The giddy feeling grows in his stomach.

“You asked me to,” he replies, venturing further into the cottage. From the outside it looks so small but the inside is a labyrinth of hallways and doors leading anywhere or no where. He shivers as the house guides him to the owner.

“Silly boy,” the voices replies. “You should know better than to do things simply because I ask.”

“Maybe I wanted to come back,” he says, finally opening the door. Kun is sitting on the other side, their books open in front of them as they lounge on the couch. “Maybe I wanted to see you.”

“Yangyang,” they said, beckoning. He moves in, huddles close. “You came all the way out here by yourself? What about the island creature? The ghosts? Don’t you know it’s not safe?”

A grin creeps over Kun’s face as they talk. Yangyang draws himself in and makes himself comfortable beside them. Drapes his body over them, hangs their arms around him.

“I’m not afraid,” he says.

“So brave,” Kun sighs, petting his head. “My brave little island monster.”

He grins wide and too many teeth.

beautiful, wretched thing

 

MCD, cisswap


Yangyang bleeds as she pricks herself with the thin needle. The blood beads at her fingertip and she stares as it slowly expands past the breaking point and slips down her delicate finger. She gasps and lifts it up to her lips to catch the bleeding. The metallic taste coats her tongue like a blanket. She presses her tongue against it, to halt the bleeding.

She brings her hand back to examine it, waits as the blood bubbles back up to the surface. She sighs.

After wrapping her finger in bandages she returns to her work space. The tulle skirt fans out across the floor, hours of meticulous needle work displayed along the flower petals. The petals feel like velvet in her hands as she sews them into the fabric. She’s delicate with them, takes them in both hands one at a time while she works. The dress will be beautiful when it’s finished.

It’s a shame no one will ever wear it.

-

The first time the woman comes in, she isn’t alone. An older woman accompanies her, parades her around the dress shop like a show dog. The woman is silent as she follows, tall and beautiful and utterly silent.

Yangyang’s eyes follow her from where she sits at her work bench. The fabric in front of her wrinkles in her hands as she grasps for some sort of evidence that this is real.

Her boss shoots her a look, and she diverts her eyes as he greets the pair.

“I need a dress for my daughter,” the older woman says proudly. “Isn’t she lovely? She needs a dress to match.”

“Yangyang is our best dressmaker,” the shop owner replies. Yangyang looks up from her fabric. “She is the best we have.”

Over the mother’s shoulders, the young woman is looking directly at her.

-

The woman comes in again and again after than, but alone. She still doesn’t speak as she lets Yangyang take her measurements and sample colors. She doesn’t even know her name, just that she looks like what Yangyang thinks Angels must look like.

Her hair falls so delicately around her face, like a holy golden halo. Yangyang would kiss her feet if she wanted her to.

She doesn’t, instead she just measures her waist and offers her a soft smile as she leaves.

The beautiful woman always smiles back, but she never speaks.

It’s not until Yangyang has a sample dress for her to try that she opens her mouth.

“Are you really the best?” she asks. Her voice is like honey, thick and sweet in Yangyang’s mouth.

“I– well–“ she stutters, pins in hand.

“That was a silly question, I’m sorry,” she says. Her voice is soft as it floats through the empty shop. “What I meant was if you are the best, why are you somewhere as small as this?”

Her mind is moving so quickly she can barely keep up. She doesn’t have the chance to stop herself before she blurts anything out.

“I like it,” she says. “And John pays me well, and gives me all the best projects. The people in the city aren’t too fond of single seamstresses like myself, and, well, John doesn’t mind.”

Her confession is unspoken, the truth of why she doesn’t head off to a bigger shop in the city. Women are preferred when they are wives and she will never be one.

“Can I see in the mirror?” the woman distracts. Yangyang nods, leads her over to the mirror they keep in the back of the shop. She stands back as the woman marvels at it, runs her hands down the front, turns to see the back. “It’s beautiful, is this what it will look like?”

“This is just a sample, for the shape,” she replies, stepping forward to stand beside her. “The final dress will be much more... detailed.” The woman nods, eyes not leaving her reflection.

Yangyang steps away, leaves her to look and sneaks her own glances from across the room. When the woman returns, she is back into her own clothes and hands over the dress like it is the most valuable thing in the world.

“Thank you, Yangyang,” she says kindly. “Please send for me if you need anything else, anything at all.”

Her fingers linger on Yangyang’s arm as she says it. So the truth was not completely hidden.

“I can’t call for you if I don’t know your name,” she supplies confidently.

The woman smiles, blushing up to the tips of her ears.

“Jaehyun,” she says. It sounds so pretty coming from her lips. “You can call me Jaehyun.”

“Okay,” Yangyang replies, breathless. “Okay, Jaehyun.”

-

They meet most often at Jaehyun’s. The large estate left to them for days at a time. More often than not, it is Jaehyun sending for her than the other way around. John excuses it, allows her to slip away for a long weekend, as long as her alterations get finished.

Yangyang always feels so small in the backseat of the carriage. She keeps her hands in her lap and practically folds in on herself as they make their way up the long drive up to the mansion.

In the forest, a statue of a space man waves.

She shudders. A chill falls over them, heavy and fearful. It crawls up her spine and under her dress and unsettles her.

It doesn’t leave, even as they pull up to the entryway and someone opens the door for her. It follows her as she makes her way through the familiar corridors. The chill strangled her as she reaches out to open the door.

It blankets her as she screams.

-

Yangyang does not go to the funeral.

She isn't invited. She doesn't know if it's on purpose or not but she never expected an invitation in the first place. As a seamstress there would be no reason to invite her, as a lover there would be no reason to welcome her.

She doesn't think she would have gone anyways. On the day of the services, she locks herself in her room and stares at the dress.

It was almost done.

It looks beautiful, fanned out in her living room. The light filters through the window and reflects off the pale purple fabric. All that was left really was the skirt, the final details and individual petals she had cut out one by one from her best silk. They were locked away in a basket downstairs, far out of the reach of her greedy little fingers.

She could see practically picture Jaehyun in it, could imagine her as she glided around the ballroom at her estate, twirled in her skirt. She had tested the fabric against her skin already, praised the way the soft color complimented her. Yangyang teased at the way the pink flowers matched her blushing cheeks.

Jaehyun had pushed her away teasingly, then pulled her back in for a kiss.

That was the way she wanted to remember her, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t banish the snapshot of her pale, lifeless face from the back of her eyelids.

She shuddered, turned back to the dress.

Before, it sung sweet songs and adoration for her lover. She wrote a million and one love letters into every seam. Now, it was filled with nothing but hollow, empty, grief.

In the distance, the church bell rang, loud and reminding her of where she wasn’t. She clenched her fist in balled up rage. From her work table she picked up her blade.

For a flash, she lets her anger grip her entirely. Yangyang wants to take her shears to fabric and tear the whole thing to shreds, toss it all into the grave her lover is to be buried in. Her hands shake with it, the impulsive desire to destroy everything in her sight.

But as her hand brushes the fabric she freezes.

Jaehyun had insisted that she bring the mirror from the shop upstairs to her private quarters when they started meeting there. It watches her now as she stands there simmering in her own fury. Her reflection looks back at her the same way it did as she looked on while Jaehyun tried on the dress for the first time. She gapes back.

Downstairs, she hears the familiar sound of John returning after a day spent elsewhere. She didn’t bother to listen when he told her way. She can just make out his stomping as he fumbles his way through the shop. He will come to check on her soon.

She clenches her fist again. She lets out a yelp and released as she feels the sharp jab of the metal into her palm. As she lifts her hand up the blade clatters to the ground and she sees blood. Captivated, her eyes follow as a single drip races down her hand just to fall down, down, down onto the clean new tulle of the skirt.

Behind her, the door flies open.

“Yangyang, I heard a commotion,” John starts. She turns pale-faced towards him. “What, what happened?”

He looks down at her blood-soaked hand, at the fabric right in front of her.

“Oh, dear,” he whispers. He steps into the room, careful to avoid the clutter piling up on the floor. He reaches for her, pulls her away from the dress and huddles her into his arms. “Oh, dear, let’s get you cleaned up.”

As he corrals her out the door and into the hall, she looks back at the dress, at the single stain along the hem. Her eyes lock onto it and she wonders how much of herself she can put into one thing.

there will come soft rains

 

He wakes to the world spinning. 

The walls move counterclockwise. They circle around where he lies on his back in the middle of the bed, sheets surrounding him, holding him against the mattress. Above him, the ceiling light doesn’t move, just flickers on and off with every turn. 

Behind his eyes, something digs into his skull, sharp and dull and painful. He gasps at the soreness but when he tries to lift his arms to rub his eyes, they’re frozen. He can’t lift them off the bed. He’s forced to resign himself to sink deeper and deeper into it, becoming one with the soft sheets. 

The room keeps spinning. It doesn’t stop, even as the sun begins to set and the lightbulb overhead finally dies. Plummeting into darkness feels less startling when you’re being stalked by the walls. It circles him like a vulture circling roadkill, or a hawk searching for fresh meat. The walls growl and bite at him and he thinks the bed must be doing him a favor, holding him hostage like that. 

He lays there for hours, watching the walls turn. The silky feeling of his pajamas against his skin is the only thing reminding him that he chose to get into this bed at one point. He lets the revolutions lull him to sleep, drifts off as they whirl around him. As he slips back into slumber he thinks he must be the eye of the storm. 

Outside, a bell tolls. 

He opens his eyes again and the walls have stopped twirling. He’s greeted with the room he had checked into—when had he checked in? It must not have been too long or else someone would have come to vacate the room. Right? (He tells himself they wouldn’t leave a dead body for too long. Checks his watch but the hands are stuck. He counts to ten and tells himself it’s fine. Time has a funny way of doing things sometimes.) 

There is a balcony at the back of the room. It steps out into the open blue nothingness. Going outside is a bad idea, but he is full of them so he slides open the door and puts his bare feet on the ice-cold concrete ground. Across from him, there is nothing. It's exactly what he expected. Looking to his left and right, he sees the same balconies stretching down down down as far as he can see. 

Somewhere behind him, a crow caws but he does not turn around, just turns his head enough to see the side of the motel out of the corner of his eye.

The walls are stained red and he pretends he does not know why. 

His silk pajamas brush against his toes and he looks down. The cream fabric looks strange, foreign. Unnatural, even. He shrugs and goes back inside. There is nothing out there for him. 

He changes in the middle of the room, as close to the bed as he can. The mattress makes him feel safer. The walls aren’t threatening him anymore, but they still make him nervous. He folds up his nightwear carefully, tucks it away for safekeeping. The rough touch of denim against his legs makes him uncomfortable, but he pulls himself together and digs his fingernails into his palms. He leaves his bag on the bed to wash his face. He debates closing the bathroom door but decides against it. He doesn't trust the walls that much. They drip drool out of their mouths as he leans down to splash the water in his face. The faucet drips down slow and cold and the light flickers. He does not linger. 

While he checks out, he considers asking the man at the desk about the walls. He doesn't. It’s better that he doesn’t know. He does ask how long he has been here. The man looks up bored. 

“A few days,” the owner says, casually, like he hadn't checked in for a single night. “Maybe a week. Not long enough for anything treacherous.” 

He nods in response. Nothing treacherous. 

The watch on his wrist ticks back to life finally, so he does his best to match it to the clock on the wall. It’s unreliable but he takes what he can get. He bids the man goodbye and steps out into the late morning sun. It beats down on him and the dry desert. In the place where his car should be, there is nothing. Nothing treacherous does not mean nothing. It is what it is. There is no road anyways. He steps off the pavement and into the sand. 

A bell tolls again.

The motel fades into the emptiness and he doesn’t look back. That’s always the rule, keep facing forwards. He is usually pretty good at it, at ignoring the temptation, at throwing away the sentimentality. It’s easy when you convince yourself there is nothing to hold on to. 

And there is nothing to hold on to, just vast open space and an ever-changing world. He treks on, as he always does. There is nothing to leave behind when there is nothing behind him, he thinks. He’s right. Even if he were to peak over his shoulder there wouldn’t be anything there for him to catch a glimpse of. Walking off into the desert has always been his best bet. 

Stepping into the city comes quickly like it always does. His shoes meet concrete and suddenly he is surrounded by skyscrapers. They extend for miles behind him and in front of him and on either side, completely enveloping him. Arriving is always a little disorienting, but he doesn’t let it distract him as he makes his way down the street. 

The streets, like most streets, are barren, save a few stragglers making their way in between buildings. He doesn’t stick out in this city, not like he did the last one. It feels more familiar, not quite a place his body already knows but close. It’s a good change from the last metropolis he stumbled upon. At least here the buildings are all upright. 

A beacon invites him down an alleyway, red and charming. It feels right, so he follows it. It glows red like the walls way back in the motel. He pretends again. 

The door opens into a Chinese restaurant. It feels like a familiar scene but he knows he hasn't been here before because he has never turned back. For once, when he enters a room, he isn't alone. A man is sitting at a table on the left side of the room. He is facing the door but he doesn't look up when it chimes. The stranger just keeps looking down at his menu. A dark black cowboy hat sits on the table next to him, and a matching dark jacket is hanging off of the chair. Dark hair falls in his eyes and disguises his identity. 

He feels like he knows him and he can't turn back, so he walks over and sits in the seat across from the man. As he sits, the stranger looks up and smiles shortly, before turning his attention back to the menu. Before he gets the chance to ask, the other man pushes an extra menu towards him. They sit in silence as they flip through pages. The words swim around in front of him like leaves caught up in a breeze. A waiter approaches. 

The man orders first, something he has never heard of before and when the attention turns to him, he hesitates. He lets out a sound of uncertainty and before he can fall, the man sweeps in, still looking at his menu. The waiter nods at whatever he says and takes their menus away. He feels his face burn red. He sinks into his seat and before he can slip away entirely, the man reaches out. 

"Hello," he says. His voice is deep and rough and unfamiliar like denim. "It's been a while." 

"Have we met?" he asks. The digging pain begins again, directing behind his eyes. His vision blurs, he doesn't see the man's frown. The stranger is silent as he pushes his knuckles into his eyes. He just watches as he tries to rub away the pain. When he pulls his hands away, the man is sitting up straight and looking directly at him. The image is blurred by his teary eyes, but he can just make out the feeling of stares on him. If he didn't know better, he would think he was searching. He wonders if there is something behind him. He doesn't ask. 

The moment ends as the waiter returns with what can only be their food. They place down a bowl of what he thinks is soup in front of him and walk away. 

They eat in silence. He does his best not to watch the man, but something is making it hard to look away. Still, he forces his eyes down, trains them on the warm broth in front of him. It isn't until they have finished their meal that the man with the cowboy hat speaks again. 

"No," he says, eyes boring into his face. "No, I suppose we have not met yet. My name is Youngho in this city. You can call me Youngho." 

He doesn't get the chance to respond before he is falling out of his chair. His head hits the ground and as he looks up at the ceiling, Youngho's face looming over him, full of fear and terror—the room begins to spin. He thinks he hears Youngho speaking to someone, maybe him, but he can't make out the words. His head hurts. The room circles him, like it is trying to close in on him and the only thing stopping it is this man with a cowboy hat. As his eyes fall shut, he feels a hand slide underneath his head, fingers carding into his hair. 

Somewhere, in the distance, the bell tolls. 

-

The rain burns his face, hot and acidic. It falls from the open sky and kisses his cheeks as he stirs. The sky above him is clear and blue and the rain falls from nowhere as it travels down to land on him. It stings. 

He gets up slowly, stretching his arms above his head until he feels them pop, then, he stretches his legs and toes and finally, his back. Getting to his feet takes a little longer. He cracks his neck and his knuckles and rolls his shoulders. When he looks around, he is alone, as usual. The emptiness stretches for miles. 

He is wearing the clothes he remembers, the same scratchy jeans and the plain t-shirt he had pulled on. Everything seems to be in order. Except. His bag is missing. 

It shouldn’t be a major loss really, but for some reason it’s unsettling. He’s uneasy with the idea of losing it. His knees are shaky and he stumbles. He feels so much more disoriented than he usually does when he wakes up. The sunstorm soaks him entirely, drenches his clothes and hair and bare skin. 

It should burn but it doesn’t. 

ice cream

Staring down at his math test, Johnny really didn’t know why he was so surprised.

The F looks back at him with certainty and he had a feeling this was coming but that doesn’t make it any less... disappointing.

Math was never his favorite subject or his best, but he was at least a fairly certain that an intro statistics class would be fine, that he could work it out. Apparently he was wrong because the glaring failure was hitting him right in the face.

It stung, even if it didn’t really matter, or as his professor kindly put it after handing all the tests back, they would have plenty of time to recover from it. She was nice, the professor, so it wasn’t like he could hold his bad grade against her specifically. It hurts even more when it’s your own fault and the blame digs deep into his gut. This sucks.

The professor wraps up class, reminds them about her office hours that afternoon. She says something about offering extra credit on the exam but he misses her wording exactly. Johnny packs his things silently and accepts the smile she offers him on his way out. He should go to her office hours but the ringing banging around his head guides him otherwise. He’ll go on Thursday.

Walking back to his apartment feels so much longer than usual. His feet drag and his backpack weighs down his shoulders. He thinks he must be a sad sight, slouching at the bus stop. He pulls at his hoodie strings and keeps his head down as he waits for his bus.

He ignores his phone when it buzzes the first time, instead climbing onto the bus. The driver waves him on when he fumbles for his id to swipe and he thinks he must look absolutely pathetic if they aren’t charging him for the bus.

He’s lucky enough to get a seat to himself. This time of day the bus is fairly empty so he allows himself to sink into a spot by the window and close his eyes. He ignores his phone as it buzzes again, and then one more time. As the bus starts to bump down its route, Johnny is grateful he doesn’t have to go far.

His stop comes quicker than he’s used to which he’s glad about for once, because the sharp feeling of stinging is back in his eyes. He waves to the driver as he climbs off and continues his trek to his apartment complex. The heaviness lifts off of him when he unlocks the door finally. Dropping his bag by the door and kicking off his shoes feels like letting go of the shittiness of his day. It doesn’t get rid of the pit in his stomach but it does lift some of the cloudiness in his head.

Jaehyun is on the couch when he walks in and he looks up at the sound of Johnny’s footsteps.

“Hey,” he greets. Johnny just nods and shuffled over to where Jaehyun is laying down. He drops himself on top of him and finally the grimy feeling he’s had since he got his test back starts to fade away.

“Hi,” he replies after he’s finally situated himself next to his boyfriend. He nuzzles down into his neck and hopes Jaehyun is willing to ignore the wetness he knows he can find there.

“How was your day?” he asks instead, running his hand up and down Johnny’s back. “Not good?”

He shakes his head, not moving from his cozy cavern in Jaehyun’s arms.

“That’s okay,” Jaehyun says, accepting his silence. They lay there for a while, Jaehyun running his hands through his hair and down his back, Johnny cuddling closer. The tv plays on in the background even though neither of them are really watching. Johnny considers falling asleep like this, letting all his worries stay ignored in the peaceful escape of dreamscape. Instead, he pulls back a little bit, rubs his eyes, and finally looks up at Jaehyun’s face.

“Yeah, I had a bad day,” he sighs. His voice is ugly from disuse and he feels a yawn growing in the back of his throat. He swallows it. “Failed my stats test, which just kinda...”

He shrugs.

“Made it worse.” Jaehyun fills in the gaps. “That’s okay. It happens, it’s not the end of the world. It sucks, but you can get through it.”

“I know,” he grumbles. “But that doesn’t make me feel any less shitty.”

“Yeah,” Jaehyun sighs. Johnny likes the way his huff blows his bangs out of his face. “I don’t really have anything I can do about that. I know it sucks, but there’s nothing wrong with failing. You don’t need to hold yourself to some impossible standard, one bad grade or a hundred bad grades doesn’t dictate who you are as a person. That probably doesn’t make you feel any better.”

Johnny hums. It does make him feel a bit better. The pit is still there, but Jaehyun makes it feel a little less like a black hole and more like a pot hole. Annoying, but passable.

“You make me feel better,” he settles on. “I feel better when I’m with you.”

Jaehyun’s arms tighten over his shoulders.

“Good,” he says after a moment. “I’m glad. You make me feel better too.”

“Mhm,” Johnny mumbles, digging himself back into his hole. He does feel better now, lighter. “Do you know what else would make me feel better?”

“What?” Jaehyun asks quietly.  

“Ice cream.”  

there is a last time for every thing

follow up to the city is on fire and stick + poke

It’s funny how quickly things can fall apart. For all the things Mark is good at, he seems to be best at making things break. Some twisted part in him must find pleasure in watching good things shatter because time after time he finds himself pushing things off of the ledge.

The tiny pieces of porcelain slide across the floor like tiny stars. The shards twinkle as the bounce along the hardwood.

He doesn’t have an excuse, he never has an excuse, not when he broke that window, or kissing Dejun, or pushed the vase off of the counter. If anyone asked, and they wouldn’t, he would just kind of shrug. He didn’t have an excuse, he just wanted to know what it felt like.

His chest feels tight when he thinks about it. The radio silence had been going on for two weeks and Mark has done nothing to combat the hollowed out part of his chest Dejun had made himself home in. Things were supposed to turn out like this, but first kisses were always mistakes in Mark’s book. He takes to sleeping on the couch because every time he closes his eyes he pictures his best friend’s frightened face looking back at him.

Time passes differently alone, especially during the summer like this. Mark wastes his days going between his living room couch and the beach down the road. He likes the feeling of the sand between his toes and the salt water wears down the feelings of abandonment left over on his skin. It isn't perfect but the sun is a salve.

No matter what he does though, he wishes he could be doing it with Dejun.

Loneliness doesn't suit him very well, it paints him in an ugly picture in which Mark doesn't recognize himself. He considers calling other friends, some of the ones he knows Dejun won't hang around, but he can't bring himself to pick up the phone, especially if that means having to answer as to why he isn't with his so-called best friend in the first place.

The problem is that Mark doesn't really know either. Or, he thinks he does but not entirely. In the morning, had pretended the kiss hadn't happened, or maybe he forgot. Either way, they had breakfast as usual and spent their day playing video games in Mark's room. Everything was completely normal. Until Dejun biked home, at least, and it's been radio silence ever since.

Dejun haunts him like a phantom. He lingers, even two weeks absent. He stays around, in the guitar he'd gifted Mark for his birthday, the one he usually played anyways. He stays in the stray sparkly eyeshadow he had left behind on Mark's desk, in the jacket he'd left in his closet, in every single piece of sheet music Mark had secretly written for him. Looking around the room that is supposed to be his, Mark wonders when he stopped being indistinguishable from Dejun. He thinks about it for too long, then decides he doesn't really want to know.

But the thought lingers; he wonders less about his own alikeness though, and more about if Dejun misses him too.

That's what this is at its core isn't it? He misses Dejun, he doesn't know if he feels the same.

He can't just ask him anymore, can't handle the same nonresponse he's been getting for weeks. No, not with a question like that. He couldn't handle it if he didn't answer. Even less if he says no. So, he wallows in it all by himself.

Sometimes he finds himself looking forlornly at their idle private chat. His last three messages lay unread. When he catches himself, he pulls back, closes iMessage and goes back to counting spots on the ceiling.

His bike looks strange laying in his front yard by itself. His mother points out as much when she comes home from work to find him in the same place she left him. She doesn't say it but he knows she has questions; he has never spent this long away from Dejun of his own accord. It's nice that she doesn't ask however, because he doesn't think he has answers.

It all goes up in flames when Ten stops by. He arrives as he always does, in a flurry of bubbly anticipation and kindness. He lets himself in, as he is often apt to do when he knows Mark is home alone and he finds him surrounded by shards of broken porcelain.

He doesn't say anything as he helps Mark pick up the pieces, just goes to the hall closet and takes out the broom. He even brought the trash out to the bins in the garage, saving Mark from having to acknowledge his own destruction.

Ten doesn't mention the vase, or Dejun, or the fact that Mark hasn't left his house in three days. Ten, kind as he always is, gently pushes him into his room and tells him to get ready.

Mark knows better than to ask but he does anyways.

"Where are we going," he lets himself ask as he locks the door behind them. Ten doesn't answer, just shrugs. They start down the streets.
They're halfway to the beach when Ten answers.

"He'll be there," he says nonchalantly. Like Mark hasn't spent the last two weeks giving him space, giving him breadth, giving him whatever he can to not break. "He knows you're coming."

Ten is always quick to drop the second shoe. He doesn't like to let things linger. He likes to solve problems, give solutions. His solution to their strange dance around each other is another bonfire. His solution to Mark's panic is weed. He passes him the vape without question and Mark thinks that he really shouldn't be getting high around Dejun after what happened last time. But his hands are shaking and he needs something to ease his head, even if just a little bit.

The bonfire is more casual this time. Mark doesn't know a lot of Ten's friends but they are all nice. It's different from the beach parties he goes to with his own friends, everyone here is less desperate to get fucked up, more trying to enjoy the summer weather while it lasts. It's nice though, to be surrounded by this much serenity. It makes Mark forget about what is yet to come, just for a moment.

It takes a while before he spots him but when he does, Dejun is already looking at him from across the fire.

Time stops.

Or, at least it feels like it does. To Mark it does. He’s stopped dead in the middle of this get together while he stares back at his friend. He isn’t sure if he’s even breathing, so caught up in the panic and the uncertainty. He forces himself to look away.

He doesn’t notice that Dejun’s approached him until he’s right on top of him. He turns around before he gets the chance to speak and Dejun just smiles.

“Hi Mark,” he says and Mark feels himself melting. “I think we need to talk.”

Hallelujah

 

Taeil has been singing at Christmas masses for years.

It’s been well over a decade, nearly two, since his solos in his elementary school Catholic school got him a spot on the city choir’s holiday stage.

He’s had a lifetime of ballads and solos and performances in front of packed rooms. He’s even got a degree now, and his very own choir in his own city. It’s been so long since he’s stood on this familiar stage, in the spare vestments they keep in the rectory just in case. They don’t fit right, his old robes long gone.

Standing in the choir booth is a twisted sense of familiar.

He’s been singing solos at the Christmas mass for years.

Taeil has never sung at a funeral.

Regardless, he holds his head high.

He knows his hands are not allowed to shake. He isn’t even sure if he is truly allowed to be here, so he holds his hands steady.

The focus he has on his fingertips makes it easier to block out the mass around him. He sings when he’s promoted and listens when he should but every syllable goes in one ear and out the other.

He sings Hallelujah alone.

That was the request; the whole reason he drove two and a half hours to come to a funeral no one wanted him at was to sing a song no one wanted to hear.

The first notes of the piano should break him but he has spent two decades building brick houses for his heart and mind and soul.

“ I've heard there was a secret chord

That David played and it pleased the Lord “

He doesn’t recognize his own voice, deeper, heavier, lower than he’s used to. Taeil doesn’t remember ever feeling this deeply.

“ But you don't really care for music, do ya? “

Tearing his eyes open is the only thing that keeps him from drowning. He’s spent the whole day pretending he wasn’t performing but he needs to be grounded by the reality of his situation. His eyes are wide open and he looks out at mourners who refuse to look back.

“ Well it goes like this “

It’s a closed casket. Not that Taeil went to the wake, but as he looks at it sitting on the familiar alter, he’s glad no one has to forget he was beautiful first.

“ the fourth, the fifth “

One face is looking back at Taeil. He holds back his choked voice and sings the song that the people here deserve. Taeil turns to the ceiling; he can’t look anymore. Eyes dig into his cheek. They burn. He’s afraid to acknowledge who is looking at him. The one person who shouldn’t want to see him.

“ The minor fall, the major lift “

In the ten years since Taeil moved out, and in the four since he had been back at all, he has never once wanted to be eighteen and stupid and thinking about a boy while sitting on opposite sides of a church pew. He has never once wanted to be sitting on the only couch in the rectory while a boy crossed his leg over Taeil’s and laughed at his jokes. He has never once wanted to be back behind the church pushing away a beautiful boy and making him cry even though Taeil was the one who kissed him first.

And yet this boy is looking at him for the first time in a decade like he wants Taeil to be there. In a room full of people who do not want him there this boy is looking at Taeil like he is the man he’s been waiting his whole life for.

If Taeil still prayed, he knows his prayers would sound like his name.

“ The baffled king composing “

Jaehyun.

“ Hallelujah “

Jaehyun Jaehyun Jaehyun.

rejected

 

"i don't think we should see each other anymore."

“Hey, what’s the worst way you’ve ever rejected someone?”

Yangyang's voice breaks the silence. Jaemin looks up from where she's watching Yangyang's fingertips dance across her stomach. Jaemin's brow furrows.

“The worst?” 

“Yeah," the other girl says. "Like, when I was in elementary school, this guy made me folded paper stars every day, for like, the whole school year, and then when he asked me to the fifth grade formal I said we weren’t friends.” 

“Ouch...” Jaemin winces. Yangyang's sparkly blue fingertips trace figure eights against her skin.

Yangyang sighs. “Yeah, and then he was in my AP Physics lab and he signed my yearbook that it was cool that we’d been friends since third grade.” 

Jaemin can't stop herself from laughing. She giggles as Yangyang digs her fingers into her sides. “Heartbreaker I see!” 

“Shut up," she whines. "I didn’t know!” 

“He gave you paper stars every day!” 

“And? I didn’t like him!” Jaemin finally looks up from where their skin is touching. Yangyang isn't looking at her, instead pouting at the ceiling. She's cute. Jaemin won't tell her that.

“Okay, yeah, sure.” She rolls her eyes and turns onto her side so she's looking and Yangyang head on.

“Whatever, anyway. What’s yours?” The tips of Yangyang's ears are flushed and Jaemin doesn't stop herself from reaching out to touch them. She brushes the strands of hair away and watches Yangyang blush.

"My what?"

Yangyang pushes her off, laughing. "The worst way you ever rejected someone!"

Jaemin huffs, rolls back over onto her back. "I guess there was that time I told that guy I was dancing with at a party I was a lesbian?"


The other girl groans, rolling her eyes. "That's not even that bad! I'm talking like the time Mark told that frat guy he was straight and then turned around and started dating his roommate."

Jaemin takes a deep breath. Counts to ten. "Are you sure?"


"Please?" Yangyang reaches over to drag her fingers through her hair. It's faded, she needs to redye it. She considers asking Yangyang to help her instead of answering her questions. Yangyang pleads, "I told you mine now you have to tell me yours."

"The worst way I've ever rejected someone?" Jaemin can hear herself sigh as she says it.

"The worst."

Jaemin sighs. She can't seem to stop doing that.

“The first time a girl told me she loved me, I told her she didn’t really know me.” 

The silence falls over them like Yangyang's blue comforter. Oppressive. Familiar.

“Oh.” Yangyang's voice is quieter, like it is when they would hide out in the back of the library together at 2 in the morning. Softer.

“Yeah.”

“What happened?” 

Jaemin rolled it over in her head. Sheblows her bangs off of her face, doesn't look at Yangyang. “Nothing, we were still friends until I blocked her because she kept tell me she couldn’t move on.” 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.” Jaemin can feel Yangyang's eyes digging into her. She refuses to look back.

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be," she scoffs. "I was a bitch.” 

A beat passes. Jaemin hopes it's over. It isn't.

"I don't think you're a bitch," Yangyang whispers. Her hands reach out, land on the soft parts of Jaemin that she usually keeps hidden.

"You should." 

"I don't think you're a bitch. I think you're the nicest girl I've ever met." 

"Stop."

"What? It's true! I like you a lot, Jaemin."

"Stop it." 

"Alright, I don't but I'll let this one slide," Yangyang says, rolling over. Jaemin still feels suffocated. Yangyang has always been better at reading the room than Jaemin thinks she is, so she shouldn't be surprised when she changes the topic. She's surprised anyways. "Do you want to watch that new movie? That one that you were telling me about? We can order take out and then we don't have to go anywhere?"

If Jaemin's heart wasn't racing her blood would have frozen over. Instead she lets out a stuttered breath and sits up. "No, I'm, I'll go." 

"What?" Yangyang replies, slow to start. She turns to watch as Jaemin climbs out of her bed and gathers her clothes. Jaemin doesn't look at her. Doesn't look at the way her short hair falls on the pillow, doesn't look at the confusion in her eyes. She just pulls on her jeans and tries to make her hands stop shaking.

"I'm gonna go." She keeps it blunt. Quick, like a bandaid. "We fucked and now I'm going to leave, I'll see you in class Monday." 

"I don't get it, why are you going?" Yangyang asks, finally standing up. 'You usually stay' remains unsaid, but Jaemin knows what she means. She doesn't think before she replies.

"I told you, Yang, I'm a bitch." Jaemin didn't stay to see Yangyang's face fall. She knows that Yangyang knows she's been made but Jaemin didn't know what heartbreak looked like on someone's face then and she certainly didn't what to see it now. Instead, she picks up her jacket, pulls on her shoes, and closes the door quietly behind her. Yangyang knows better than to follow her.

When she's in her car outside her own dorm building, she looks down and sees it. In the cupholder is a tiny pink folded star. She holds in in the palm of her hand and takes out her phone to send a text.

01-14-21 drabbles

 

johnjae + things you said too quietly 

In the soft morning glow of sunrise, Jaehyun tells Johnny he loves him. He lets his fingertips spill his secrets against the warm skin on the inside of his arm and he lets brushing hair out of his eyes say things he could never imagine. Jaehyun tells him he loves him pressing soft kisses into the small of his waist and intertwining their fingers and in the haze of dawn they hold each other.  

Johnny wakes up to silence and he thinks it’s settling, it’s fitting, that neither of them speak on mornings like these because lord knows what confessions he would release. Sometimes he wishes Jaehyun would say something however. Laying in the ignorant bliss of a bed in the morning is easier than the words he is refusing to say. 

“Do you believe in alternate universes?” Johnny asks quietly. 

Jaehyun takes his time to reply. “Maybe. Do you?” 

In another universe, Jaehyun says ‘I love you’ with words. In another universe, Johnny hears them. In this one, they never break the sound barrier. 

jaekook + things you said when we were at the top of the world 

“Don’t look down.” 

“I wasn’t—I wasn’t planning on it.” 

“Okay good because you said you’re afraid of heights and we are very high up.” 

“Oh god why did I agree to this.” 

“Technically you didn’t agree to anything. You fell onto Aysei’s back and we couldn’t go all the way back to Ghosthelm.” 

“Please don’t bring me back to Ghosthelm. I’m wanted by seven different authorities there. And I didn’t fall, I was dropped.” 

“Okay, don’t have time to unpack all of that so just… hold on while we uh… fly… a little higher.”

“I’m going to be sick.” 

“Don’t throw up on my dragon before I even know your name please.”

“It’s Jaehyun,” the stranger says, eyes clenched shut. “Your name is Jungkook. Just… take us to the Top Of The World please. 

johnjae + things you said that i wasn’t meant to hear 

Johnny is not usually the type to sneak around corners. He’s too tall, too kind, too aware that sneaking around leads to hearing things he is not meant to hear. It really is an accident when he hears the whispers around the corner. 

“I didn’t mean to do it,” familiar voice. No one replies, he must be on the phone. His childhood of listening in to his mother’s phone calls leave him curious, and it’s Jaehyun, what kind of secrets could he be keeping? 

Really, Johnny doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. 

“I know I should tell him,” Jaehyun sounds tired. More tired than he has in a while. It makes Johnny want to listen. “I’ll tell him soon. Sit him down and tell him I can’t do the back and forth anymore.” 

More silence. Johnny leans in.
“I don’t want to give Johnny an ultimatum.” Johnny freezes. Jaehyun sighs. “Saying me or him feels like too much. He can have friends… I guess I didn’t think about what if I was the friend… Maybe I just won’t tell him.” 

Every bone in Johnny’s too big body wants desperately to fall around the corner and ask, ask, ask what Jaehyun is so afraid to tell him. His stomach twists. Johnny knows. He’s afraid to hear it. 

Jaehyun speaks again. “Well, maybe it’s better to break up before we even get together. Should I tell him not to come over? Would it be easier if he doesn’t come over?” 

The conversation is slipping into territory Johnny likes to pretend doesn’t exist. As he slips past the corner, unseen, on his way to another, farther place where he can’t hear the conversation anymore, his phone pings. 

Jaehyun : hey something came up. Raincheck? 

johnil + things you said after you kissed me

“Did you know that in the middle ages it would take monastic Scribes nearly 1000 hours to embroider the seat of your breeches with the word "Juicy"?” 

“Are you,” Johnny laughs. “Are you serious?” 

Taeil nods, then shakes his head. 

“I’m sorry that’s not an appropriate thing to say after a kiss.” 

Johnny laughs again, “do you want juicy pants? Is that what you’re saying? Or do you want me to get some? We can get matching ones.” 

“Just… just kiss me again, idiot.” 

johnyang + things you said when you were drunk 

In the morning, he won’t remember and that is what convinces Yangyang it’s okay. 

johnmark + things you didn’t say at all 

Mark does not let things slip through his fingers. He holds on to the things he wants as if he lets go, even a little bit, he’ll never see them again. It’s how he built his career, how he loves his friends, it’s even the way he grips his pencil. Too afraid to have things ripped from his hands, he holds them until his knuckles turn white. Mark’s determination to always reach what he wants is what really makes him fall in love. He’s driven and he’s kind and anyone would be a fool not to. 

Johnny wonders what he did to warrant being let go. 

He slips through Mark’s fingers like water, desperately grasping at whatever he can in order to keep his place only to drip off of his fingertips in tiny droplets. 

For everything Johnny does say, he holds another smaller thing that he didn’t. When he tells Mark he wrote the song about him, he steals away the part of him saying he’s written every song about him. When he tells Mark he loves him, he buries the part of him saying he would be okay with anything, he just isn’t sure what he’d do without him. When he tells Mark he’s moving, he hides the part of him saying he isn’t coming back. 

Johnny doesn’t ask the questions he doesn’t want the answers to. Mark doesn’t tell him the things he already knows. 

Between them are a collection of unclaimed love songs and one half written verse that tore them apart. 

A discography of heartbreak that never happened. 

2jae + things you said after it was over 

“I regret it,” Jaemin says quietly. “All of it, but mainly the part where I fall in love with you.” 

2jae + things you said after it was over 

“I wrote it about you.” A pin could drop and they would hear it. Jaemin doesn’t say anything. “The book. It’s about you. That’s why I was surprised you liked it. Because it’s about you.” 

Jaemin waits for the silence, the familiar searing silence he is used to breaking hearts in. “You never talked this much when we were together.” 

Jaehyun laughs, “you were never this quiet.” 

“Yeah… “ Jaemin sits in the silence. “So I take it you regretted it too.” 

champagne problems

 

The party is bigger this year.

Johnny’s sister is the one to greet them at the door. Jaehyun’s usually not this overwhelmed but she’s already a little bit tipsy and it’s making the excitement she’s feeling about seeing her baby brother, as she so kindly calls him, bubble over. Johnny’s mother is quick behind her; she’s quick to replace the bags of presents they brought with champagne flutes. From somewhere in the kitchen, he hears someone pop another bottle.

“What’s the reason for all the celebration?” Jaehyun asks. He pretends he doesn’t notice the way Johnny tenses beside him. 

“Just the holidays I guess,” he replies. “You know how it is.” 

Jaehyun hums. He does.

There are more people than he’s used to, which is fine. He drains his glass faster than he means to. Johnny’s sister drags them to the kitchen for cheers with all the cousins and Jaehyun tries to sit it out, but they insist on refilling the flute in his hand. He drinks it all at once, the way you aren’t supposed to drink expensive champagne, but Jaehyun has never really understood drinking rules. 

He’s always been a light-weight when it comes to champagne. Most people are.

His mother always warned him he’d have champagne problems and he never listened. The floaty feeling comes fast. His head feels light and airy like the bubbles in his drink. He is on the right side of tipsy, not quite drunk and just a little bit giggly.

Jaehyun lets himself be brought around, introduced to uncles he’s never heard of, has drinks with cousins he’s never met. It’s easy, being Johnny’s boyfriend. Being liked by Johnny’s family. Jaehyun’s content to stand buzzed and blurry-eyed next to him at a family party.

He lets the floaty feeling stay, chases with hors d’oeuvres and casual conversation and he still doesn’t know what he’s celebrating but he’s having a good time. 

He’s just tipsy enough to let Johnny talk him into fake waltzing in the living room. He feels silly but Johnny is calming enough where it feels alright. He’s content to be there, wrapped up in him in the blinking lights of Christmas.

Jaehyun holds on to the floaty feeling, let’s himself relish in the lightness he feels all the way up until Johnny’s mother calls them all around to open gifts.

He tucks himself neatly onto the couch, right under Johnny’s arm. He’s spent every other Christmas like this since his first year of college, and he basks in the holiday glow of it all. 

Presents get handed out like they always do. Things feel right.

Jaehyun needs to learn to stop trusting his gut when he’s drunk.

The crash back down to Earth comes hard and fast. One moment he’s maneuvering to let Johnny up and laughing at some cousin’s gag gift and the next he’s face to face with what he is now realizing is the main event.

Everyone’s eyes are on them and Johnny’s eyes are on him and Jaehyun is frozen.

His head shakes so subtly, no one must notice. Johnny does. The hesitance flashes across his face but he doesn’t get up. 

Jaehyun feels sick.

“Jaehyun—“ Johnny starts what Jaehyun can only assume is a speak the length of the world and Jaehyun shakes his head more obviously. Static takes over and he can’t hear anything, can only see Johnny’s lips moving in front of him.

He’s in a daze. He wasn’t expecting this, he never expected this. He’s digging through his memory for any time they’d talked about this and he’s drawing a blank. Unless Ten’s wedding counts but Jaehyun doesn’t think so because all he talked about was /Ten’s/ wedding plans. The frustration, the confusion, must be showing on his face because the room is quiet and Johnny’s sister is turning to say something to her husband. His face sinks and Jaehyun knows he’s been made. 

He does his best to snap back to reality but it’s too late for him.

“Jaehyun, will—“ Jaehyun cuts him off. 

“Johnny get up please.” He doesn’t feel like himself, voice that small and far away. Nothing about this situation feels like Jaehyun, but especially not the distance sound of his own words.

“Wha—“

“Johnny please, please get up.” It barely comes out above a whisper but he says it and the deed is done.

The silence that comes after is haunting.

Johnny sits back down next to him and now Jaehyun can feel the box in his pocket pressed up against his leg. All of the celebrations make sense now and he feels bad, for ruining Christmas, but it’s not his fault alone.

“So, shall we uh, move on,” she’s smiling but Jaehyun caught the crack in her voice and he’s angry that he seems to be the only one kept in the dark.

Johnny doesn’t look up from his hands but he moves his leg, so they aren’t touching anymore. 

Jaehyun needs to leave.

“Excuse me,” he says quietly. He still doesn’t quite have his voice back. Still croaky, filled with uncertainty and nervousness. “I should...” 

He doesn’t have to look around to know everyone is trying not to watch them.

Standing up is awkward. He’s off-balance, a little drunk and out of his element, and entirely too lucky that he doesn’t fall. He has to awkwardly push through a group of almost relatives to get out and it stings. 

He’s alone when he pulls on his coat and steps out the door.

Johnny does not stop him.

It’s ice-cold out when he steps onto the porch. Any warm feeling has left him and he has to pull his jacket tighter and tighter to try and feel protected. 

Calling the Uber is easy, realizing he doesn’t know if he can go back to their apartment is harder.

He calls a friend instead. He’d rather they both sleep on couches and guest mattresses then run into each other when they aren’t ready to see each other. 

Jaehyun sits down on the steps. 

This was certainly one way to ruin Christmas.

It’s fifteen minutes before the Uber arrives, because of the snow he assumes. It’s fine, he’s just sitting here. No one’s come outside, so he’s okay. He does wonder if it would have been easier to say yes then call it off, or to say yes and wait a while. He thinks the fact that they’re both conditional says enough.

A car turns down the street.

Behind him, the door creaks open. His breath catches in his throat. 

“Jaehyun?” 

He doesn’t want to turn around. The car pulls up.

“Jaehyun,” Johnny’s voice is more urgent this time. Jaehyun stands up and turns to face him. 

“Will you call in the morning?” Jaehyun asks. He doesn’t want to bring up his other questions right now, he doesn’t have time. “Please?”

He’s pleading, but he doesn’t really care anymore, he’s about to get into a car and cry on his friend’s couch instead of spending Christmas with... 

Johnny nods. 

“Okay,” Jaehyun says, mostly to himself. “Okay. We’ll talk in the morning.” 

Johnny nods again and Jaehyun takes off down the steps. 

“Jaehyun! Text me when you get home.” 

He hiccups, but he nods anyway.

When he gets to his friend’s apartment and he’s sat down he tells Johnny where he is. 

They’ll talk in the morning.

(unfinished) vampires rats

 

Johnny meets Kun for the first time at a high council meeting to discuss the ramifications of Twilight, the series, on vampire society. 

Well, technically they didn’t meet. At least not formally. Or they did, but not very conventionally. 

They were introduced.

It was more like Kun was introduced and Johnny was introduced separately and the meeting started and then Johnny spent three hours staring at Kun across the table. 

Introduced.

Johnny had known about Kun for a while, heard stories about him through the grapevine of a friend of a friend of a friend, but finally seeing him in person, and at a formal event of all things. 

One can understand where he’s coming from here.

Qian Kun, Vampire comma Hunter, had amassed quite the reputation since then. He was most well known for his skills in taking down volition covens and rogue vamps, but he had also developed a niche for a certain type of... extermination.

Which is, sadly, exactly how Johnny ended up in this situation.

The hindsight is, of course, 20-20. Johnny should have known his eight-step plan to get Kun, Vampire comma Hunter, to fall in love with him would be a disaster.

The first flaw was trusting Chenle to do anything. This is something that both Chenle and the rest of his coven house vehemently deny. Truly, the first flaw was coming up with an eight-step plan, to begin with.

The second flaw was thinking the best way to seduce Kun was by bringing him into Johnny’s home. 

To his credit, this part had made sense when he’d explained it: if Johnny was comfortable with his surroundings then his uncomfortableness around Kun would be canceled out.

That is not, in fact, how that works.

It just gets worse from there. 

But despite any and all flaws, Johnny had gone on with his plan and set it into action, a very tragic nosedive into their current predicament.

To put it frankly: Johnny’s house was infested with rats. 

The long version of the story goes more like this: way back in the early 14th century, a few very obnoxious and very edgy vampires had decided it was a good idea to turn a couple of rats to see if vampirism could beat the Black Death. It could, in a way. The rats lived but tragically, so did the plague. However, due to a lack of Vampiric High Council, nothing was done about it, and plague-infested vampire rats slowly spread across the globe. 

Johnny’s story picks up quite a few centuries later when he decides this is the best way to get Kun, Vampire comma Hunter, into his home.

Discussion of these vampire rats had become taboo within the community. Very rarely were they brought up at High Council meetings, or even Medium, or Low Council meetings. As far as Johnny was aware, there was no real consensus on what was supposed to be done about them besides just “control the population”, whatever that means. Before the previous High Council chair had stepped down, he hadn’t formally defined the term and, well, no one else thought to. In recent years, this has developed two, very different, meanings: Vampire comma Hunters like Kun, and a black market of vampiric plague rats.

For once, the High Council’s lack of clarification worked to Johnny’s advantage.

All it took was $20 and sending Chenle to a sketchy pickup location to acquire not one, but two immortal rats. 

Easy, simple.

One problem.

“Chenle, why are these rats the size of a small dog?” 

The Childe looks up and shrugs. 

“You didn’t think to, I don’t know, ask?” Johnny sighs. The rats are lumbering around the living room like a fat opossum. It is absurd.

“There was no one to ask!” Chenle exclaims. “Just a box in the middle of the alley! I did not want to stick around! You know what they say about the warehouse district!” 

“Fine, fine. I guess we’ll just have to hope everything is fine.” 

Everything was not, in fact, fine.

Turns out when nothing can kill them, rats reproduce faster than before. As Johnny looks out at his formal living room covered in plague-ridden rats he thinks ‘this is what they meant when they said they needed population control.’

“How many rats do you think are down there?” Chenle whispers behind him. 

“At least 150,” Jaehyun whispers back. 

Johnny regrets letting either of them into his home.

“I guess we really will have to call an exterminator,” Jaehyun continues. 

Johnny has half the mind to turn around and scold him for it. Chenle does it for him. 

“He’s not an exterminator, he’s a Hunter,” Chenle supplies. “Very different.”

Jaehyun huffs. “I can’t believe Johnny’s stupid plan worked.”

-

Johnny, being the absolute disaster that he is, does not use the personal number he acquiesced through the very few degrees of separation between them. He still doesn’t know if Doyoung told him he had given Johnny his number and he did not want to risk it. Johnny commits to finding a different solution.

So, he logs on to his website. 

The fact is, Johnny is a vampire. He isn’t ancient like some of the High Council alum, but he is by no means a fledgling. He stands by the sentiment that one should never ask a lady their age, but sitting in front of a computer, he feels old.

It takes him nearly four hours to book the appointment. He does it all by himself, to his credit. Usually, he would have to call Jaehyun and Chenle for something like this, but he did it all on his own. He thinks he’ll treat himself after this.

The downside is that the appointment is for two months from now. Turns out that world-famous, sexy, Vampire comma Hunters have a waitlist and no number of rats in his house can change that.

It takes two weeks for anyone to mention calling in the Vampire comma Hunter. The breaking point is Jaehyun finding a rat in the oven while he’s trying to make a vegetarian lasagna.

“I called this coven meeting to discuss the very obvious situation happening in this house,” Jaehyun says very seriously. “Johnny, did you call Kun?” 

“I made an appointment!” Johnny says confidently. “It’s in uh, six weeks.”

Chenle does his best to hide his laughter but it’s obvious that he fails when Jaehyun glares at him. 

“What?” Johnny asks. “He’s busy!” 

The sigh Jaehyun lets out ages him about fifty years. “Did you call Kun?”

Johnny leans back, appalled. “I made an appointment online! I did it all by myself on the computer!” 

He pretends he doesn’t notice Jaehyun’s growing frustration. Jaehyun does not like that.  

“You have his phone number!” He exclaims in response. He’s exasperated, exhausted. Johnny lets his head fall. 

He mumbles his reply. “But I was nervous...”

Jaehyun sighs and rubs his eyes with his palms. He lets out a big sigh before he talks again:

“The appointment stays, but you’re feeding the rats.”

-

The countdown to the day Kun arrives gets posted on the fridge. Jaehyun spends more time on the top floor of the house to avoid the rodents, meanwhile, Johnny and Chenle revel in the excitement of Qian Kun, Vampire comma Hunter, coming to their coven home.

Feeding the rats was a problem. He started off by giving them the scraps after dinner, but that just led to them hanging around the dining room while they ate. It made Jaehyun squeamish so he started waiting until their youngest had retreated upstairs to feed them.

That plan of action worked for a while until the rats started scaring Jaehyun up the stairs thinking it would get them food. 

Then, he tried feeding them before dinner.

The rats didn’t like this. 

Everything seemed fine. In fact, they seemed to be calmer, more organized. And everything was fine. At least, until the rats started showing up all the way up in the third-floor bathroom.

It was obvious that the rat’s plan for when they weren’t getting what they want was to harass his coven, so Johnny needed to act fast. They were still 4 weeks away from their extermination appointment and if Jaehyun could die he would have from how often he was being startled.

Johnny once again turned to the internet. 

It was easier this time because he didn’t have to figure it out by himself. Not that Chenle was much better, but he was some help. Together, they spent two hours deep diving into pet subreddits and vampire forums.

“I’ve called another coven meeting to discuss the rats.” 

“Jaehyun, why do you keep calling them coven meetings when there's only three of us?” Chenle interrupts. 

Jaehyun sputters, “that’s what they are!” 

“The rats,” Johnny prompts them back on topic. “Jaehyun, the rats.”

“They’re out of control,” he pleads. “Can you please just call him?” 

“I’m working on a solution.” Johnny’s confidence does not deflate Jaehyun’s anguish. “The internet says we should serve them nicer meals.”

“No.” Jaehyun crosses his arms. He shakes his head. “Not happening.”

“Yes!” Johnny affirms. “Chenle read it too!” 

Chenle nodded solemnly. “Yes, that’s true.” 

“I’m not cooking for the rats,” Jaehyun insists. “I am not cooking nice meals for rats.” 

Jaehyun ends up cooking for the rats.

He doesn’t cut corners; he prepares nice meals just for them, leaves them on the living room floor on special plates. He requires Johnny to bring the plates out and back because he’s still afraid of them, in spite of being their chef. He takes to using the back staircase to get to and from the upper floors to avoid the beasts.

Shockingly, it works. 

They leave him alone and start to confine themselves to the lower floor again. 

Jaehyun insists that he hears them scurrying through the walls but he doesn’t see them anymore so the coven considers it a success.

It’s a week before Kun arrives that it happens. 

They’ve fallen into a routine. Jaehyun makes the rats dinner, Johnny brings it out, and everything is fine. 

At least everything is fine until the rats start talking to Johnny.

“Hey big guy, do you think we could get some more squash?” 

Johnny jumps at the sudden voice. He looks around. There’s no one in the room. Another unfamiliar voice enters the fray. 

“Why would you ask that? Big guy when’s your exterminator coming?”

“Is that a ghost?” Johnny asks nervously. He’s looking around but it’s just him and the rats. 

“No, down here.” 

Oh god. He looks down.

“You’re a rat.” Johnny’s voice is shaky. 

“A talking rat, yeah,” the first rat says. 

“I don’t know what you expected, we’re immortal of course we developed language,” the second rat continues. 

With that, Johnny passes out.

When he comes to, it’s to a nibble on his earlobe and a heavy weight on his chest.

“Is he awake yet?” Jaehyun calls from up the stairs. 

“He’s awake!” the rat on his chest responds. That wakes him up for sure.

“Why can you talk?” he asks feverishly.

“Does it really matter?” The rat on his chest hobbles off of him and Johnny scurries to his feet. He supposes it doesn’t really matter. 

“Jaehyun, did you just stand at the top of the stairs while I was passed out covered in rodents of unusual size?”

“What was I supposed to do? Come down there?” Jaehyun yells back. “They hate me!” 

“He has a point,” the first rat reasons. This is not good.

They have another coven meeting. 

For once, Johnny gets to call it. Sadly, he can’t figure out if he’s supposed to invite the rats now.

He compromises and invites the two he’d spoken to. The five of them look silly sitting around the kitchen table. Jaehyun sits as far away as he can; the rats sit on either side of him anyway.

“So they can talk now?” Chenle asks intently. His excitement is worrying. 

“Kun’s coming in 7 days and then this hell will be over. It won’t matter if they can talk then.” The rats move closer to Jaehyun as he talks. He shifts in his seat.

“Well that’s why I called this coven meeting,” Johnny starts. “Can we morally exterminate them if they have sentience?”

A pin drop could be heard.

Jaehyun breaks the silence, “Johnny I will kill you myself.” 

“Not if the rats kill him first!” Chenle chimes in. The rats turn to each other. Jaehyun gets up. 

“What do you mean?” Johnny says anxiously. “Why would they kill me?”

“I mean they were like. Biting you earlier,” Chenle reminds him. 

Johnny looks around in horror.

“We are not arguing about this right now,” Jaehyun says, now standing in the doorway. He looks just about ready to bolt back upstairs. “Kun is the professional, we’ll wait for his professional opinion and I’m sure he’ll say we should exterminate them.”

-

Kun shows up on a Wednesday afternoon, in all of his Vampire comma Hunter glory. Johnny just about kneels over when he knocks on the door. He’s decked out in all black and incredibly sexy.

Johnny, to his credit, is able to explain the situation before Kun and his coven of Vampire comma Hunters enter the home. However, based on their reaction to the living room, he didn’t do a very good job.

“You live like this?” one of Kun’s coven members stage whispers. 

“I mean, I made an appointment,” Johnny shrugs sheepishly. “Your waitlist is really long.” 

“You could have like, called,” another member jumps in.

Johnny blushes. “I didn’t want to assume...” 

If Jaehyun could look through walls he’d be staring right through Johnny right now. Johnny is glad Jaehyun has dedicated himself to never leaving the third floor unless absolutely necessary.

Kun takes one look around and makes a decision. 

He does not deliver the news they want to hear.

“Why didn’t you invite the rats to this coven meeting?” Chenle asks as he walks into the kitchen. Kun and his coven are already sitting around the table. Jaehyun is standing ominously in the corner and Johnny just drops his head into his hands. 

It is silent.

Kun speaks first. 

“Why... would you invite the rats to your coven meetings?”

Chenle scoffs. Before anyone can stop him he replies: “Because they can talk, obviously. They live here, why would we exclude them from coven discussions! Johnny said so!” 

Johnny wishes Jaehyun had killed him when he said he would.

Johnny hangs his head in shame when Kun sends him to go gather the rats. 

Jaehyun has to be physically restrained from running back up to his room but somehow, somehow he is convinced to stay. 

They make a silly bunch, sitting around the table. The two rodents, Johnny and Chenle in their matching sweaters, Jaehyun cowering in the corner, and Kun and his crew decked out in silver and leather like it’s nobody’s business. 

Quite the group.

“I’m going to start this meeting by saying that everything going on here is absolutely unbelievable,” Kun says slowly. If Johnny were any less of a disaster he would see this as a bad thing, but he still hasn’t recovered from being around Kun at all.

“You can say that again,” Rat 1 chimes in. Jaehyun jumps yet somehow the Vampire comma Hunters remain unfazed. 

“Oh wow, they can talk,” one of them says. “Huh.” 

Chenle scoffs. “Did you think I was lying? We take honesty very seriously in this household, we are trying to raise Jaehyun and the rats right!” 

“Please don’t group me and the rats together like that,” Jaehyun groans, head dropping to his hands. “They’re scary.”

A mumble of agreement moves through the room. They are scary.

Kun clears his throat. He continues, “anyways... I think this is so severe we may have to raise it to the High Council for a consult before we continue.” 

“Why!” Jaehyun cries out in distress. “Why can we not just kill the rats?” 

The rats hiss at him. He hisses back. 

“Well that’s why I called a coven meeting,” Kun says. “Can we morally exterminate them if they have sentience?” 

“That’s what I said!” Johnny jumps in excitedly.

Jaehyun moans dramatically. “Perfect. You’re perfect for each other. I’m going back to bed.”

“But we haven’t had dinner yet!” Rat 2 calls after him. The rat watches as he leaves anyway, practically running up the stairs. “Rats... Well, as the rat in question, I think you can and should exterminate us immediately.”

They did not, in fact, exterminate them immediately.

Instead, Johnny showed Kun and the others to the guest rooms and they made plans to bring the matter to the attention of the High Council.

“It’ll be easy to call the meeting,” Kun insists. He must sense Johnny’s hesitance because he doesn’t stop before continuing, “I can use my spot on the Medium Council to elevate the issue.” 

Johnny squeaks, “you’re on the Medium Council?”

Kun squints. “You’re not?”

He is not. He had been on the Low council, way back when it was newly established, but he fell asleep in meetings so often he was politely asked to leave. Johnny pretends it didn’t happen.

The Medium Council only meets on the Third Thursday of the month, so Kun has to borrow their computer in order to email the other council members and elevate Johnny’s issue. 

“How old is this thing?” Kun asks when they show him to the computer room. “Do you ever... use it?”

“Sometimes...” Johnny replies cautiously. “Mainly we make Jaehyun use it, and he has some fancy laptop so it kind of just... sits here.”

Surprisingly, it only takes another week for the High Council to approve Kun’s emergency session. For Johnny, that meant a week of having his crush around the house and flirting almost shamelessly. For Jaehyun, that meant a whole week of an audience watching him feed the rats.

“So you do this... every day?” Ten whispers as they watch the rats eat. 

“Like... twice a day,” Jaehyun squirms. “I uh... I’m gonna...”

“What? Do they make you that uncomfortable?” Lucas asks curiously. “They’re just eating.” 

“There are hundreds of them. They are in my living room. They are trying to kill me. Yes, they make me uncomfortable,” Jaehyun answers. The rats look up. Jaehyun flashes up the stairs.

-

They hold one, final coven meeting before the day they go to the High Council. 

“If they don’t tell you to kill the rats, I swear to God, Johnny, I’m moving out.” Jaehyun has his arms crossed as he steps into the kitchen for the meeting. 

“Jaehyun,” Chenle whines. “You can’t leave us, you’re our baby.”

He retorts, “I will leave before you can say rodents of—”

“Okay...” Kun breaks in, cautiously. “Johnny, do you want to, uh, start?” 

“Oh! Right, yes, of course,” he stutters. “Good news and bad news. Good news, the High Council meeting is tomorrow and they’re catering it!” 

“God, I love catering,” Chenle sighs. Everyone nods in agreement. The council has good catering. 

“And the bad news...” Kun coaxes. 

“Oh yes. The bad news. The bad news is we need to bring the ratpresentatives.”

The room does not erupt into outrage as Johnny had for some reason expected. He is met with agreeable nods and Jaehyun’s resigned understanding. Easier than expected, he thinks. 

At least until he has to explain it to the rats. 

“So we have to make our case as to... why we shouldn’t be exterminated?” Rat 2 asks. “What if I want to be exterminated?” 

“Well,” Johnny contemplates. “Then I guess you can make that point too.” 

“What if I think my reasons why I shouldn’t be exterminated will get me exterminated?” Rat 1 demands aggressively. 

“Uh...” he hesitates. “Well, I guess at your own discretion?” 

That seemed to appease the rats enough for the time being.