seeds of eden

by REVVIII

Summary:

“The least you could have done was brought home the meat,” Jongwoo says.

There’s a long beat of silence while the weight of Jongwoo’s words sink in. And then—

“Kiss me, Jongwoo,” Moonjo whispers, like he’s drowning.

 

Moonjo kinda has a pain and blood kink. After he gets himself lightly stabbed by the victim of an impulse murder, Jongwoo reluctantly patches him up, and eventually indulges him. He's wanted to break Moonjo for months now, after all.

She was there, in the front row, and when the drift of the AC hit just right, he could smell the faint scent of her perfume over the mustiness of the old pews. He wondered how the scent of fear would mix in with that floral—what was it, lavender?—once he had his hands around her throat, tightening, squeezing, tightening even more, until the breath left her and he could absorb her into him. Keep her alive, immortal as long as he lived, as part of him.  

But he wouldn’t do that to her. Not yet, anyways. For now, he was content with just the tender squeezing of her breasts instead, of slipping his fingers into her from between her legs instead of from a gaping wound in the softness of her pliant body. Of just kissing, instead of devouring her from her mouth, his tongue worming its way into her skull through the hole that a molar had left behind, a molar a dentist had stolen from her, from Jieun—  

The lock on the front door clicks open, and after a few seconds of squeak, and reverse squeak, clicks shut again.  

Shit.  

What’s he writing again? 

Jongwoo just barely finishes rapidly deleting the last few paragraphs he’s typed of his novel before Moonjo rounds the corner of the foyer. “You’re late today,” he says blandly. “Another difficult dental victim?” 

He’s not making small talk. You don't make small talk with a cannibalistic serial killer, not even when they take an inexplicable liking to you and express that by corrupting you and forcing you into murder with him. 

(Well. Jongwoo hasn’t murdered again, technically. Not since Eden.) 

But enough time has drifted past that Jongwoo allows himself to at least acknowledge Moonjo sometimes. When he's in a good mood. Or at least not in a bad mood. 

And no, it is not domestic to know when Moonjo usually returns from work. Nor to have waited for Moonjo to return to think about dinner. 

“Another difficult victim,” Moonjo replies with a small smile. “Not exactly a dental one.” 

“Not a—what.” Jongwoo slams his laptop screen down and glares at the other man like he’s a cat who has just knocked a plant off the shelf for the seventeenth time. “Again, Moonjo?” 

“He was having an affair,” Moonjo says with a single-shoulder shrug, as if that justifies everything. “I was thinking about you, honey, and he just happened to walk by at the wrong time.” 

“And so you had to kill him.” 

“Of course, honey. A fit of rage towards the unfaithful. Don’t worry; I made sure there was no evidence left. No one is going to find us.” 

“Tch. Never said I was worried,” Jongwoo snipes back. “What could they do to me, anyway? All I’d have to do is tell them you kidnapped me.” 

“As if I would ever kidnap you, darling,” Moonjo smiles. “As if you would ever let me.” He pats Jongwoo’s shoulder, chuckling as Jongwoo shrugs him off with a curled lip and making to walk past the couch and continue into the rest of the apartment—hopefully to take a fucking shower or something, god, the man stinks of blood—when something makes Jongwoo glance up at him again, eyebrows knitting together in a frown as he tries to puzzle together what exactly it was that told him something is off, something is wrong— 

And then Moonjo’s feet stumble again, ever so slightly, as if he’s tripped over the corner of the rug or stubbed his toe on the foot of the couch or something, and he’s frozen for a split-second too long. 

Jongwoo reaches out and grabs a fistful of Moonjo’s sleeve. “Don’t fucking try and hide things from me, Moonjo. Turn around.” 

Moonjo smiles lightly—tightly. “Ah. It’s nothing.” But he turns around and the entire lower left side of his shirt is soaked in red. 

Jongwoo’s eyes widen for a moment before he’s able to school his expression into something less like worried and more like really?   

“Nothing, huh,” he says, and released Moonjo’s sleeve.  

Moonjo shrugs again, and it doesn’t escape Jongwoo’s notice this time that he’s only moving the shoulder on the opposite side of the—whatever fucking wound it is. “Doesn’t warrant a hospital trip, babe. I’ll just put some pressure on it and I’ll be good as new in a few days.” 

The red is still wet. And spreading. 

Jongwoo stares at it for a few moments, and then he shoots Moonjo another glare and stands to put his laptop on the desk across the room. “Take off your jacket and lie down. I'm not going to let you bleed out on this rug because then I’ll kill you for ruining it.” 

“Hm. But maybe I’d like that,” Moonjo muses, his gaze tracking Jongwoo’s movement across the room, but he does slowly remove his jacket and lay it over the back of the couch. “How would you kill me, babe? Would you slit my throat again? Try not to miss this time. I can show you where to aim.” 

Jongwoo hisses. “You’re missing the point, idiot. Lie down and unbutton your shirt so I can see what’s wrong with you.”

“You won’t kill me if I bleed out on the couch, then?” 

“No. You bought it. The rug is mine. Now lie down , I said.” 

Moonjo obeys, that same stupid little smile still on his stupid little face. It’s infuriating. It’s even more infuriating that the wound doesn't even seem to be bothering him; does he feel pain at all? Because he holds Jongwoo’s gaze evenly as he lowers himself down on the couch, as he reaches up and unfastens the buttons on his shirt so he can draw the two sides apart—as if he’s stripping , doing something like foreplay —and Jongwoo narrows his eyes as he sees the wound; a neat, thin laceration about three inches long just to the left of his navel, blood weeping steadily from its edges. 

A stab wound.  

“Would you fix me up, babe?” Moonjo murmurs. “I can show you how. Aseptic technique, stitching, everything. I know it all.” 

“I should let you get an infection for being so stupid you got yourself stabbed,” Jongwoo mutters. “How did you even—never mind. Where are the fucking gauze pads?” 

Moonjo chuckles; the movement brings with it a fresh gush of blood. “In the closet next to the bathroom, honey, don’t you remember? There should be a box on the third shelf with everything you’ll need in it.” 

As if he’s prepared for this to happen on the regular. Does he expect Jongwoo to patch him up afterwards every time, too? Jongwoo bites back a snarky comment about that and instead retrieves the box from exactly where Moonjo had described. He sets it down on the small table next to the couch and pulls out one-by-one the items Moonjo rattles off—gauze pads and rolls, antibiotic cream, alcohol wipes, sutures, medical tape.  

He’s no medic, but even he knows something is missing. 

“Gloves?” Jongwoo asks. 

“You’ll have to go in barehanded, honey, sorry,” Moonjo says with a grin. “Forgot to put a pack of gloves in there.” 

He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “ Forgot , my ass,” Jongwoo mutters. This is—quite literally—a bloody mess. But blood would come away from skin more easily than it would from rugs and couches, he supposes, so he might as well get it over with before it makes even more of a mess. He washes his hands up past his wrists in the kitchen with hot soapy water, and then he’s touching Moonjo for the first time since they fought at Eden—actually, really touching him, his hands on Moonjo’s skin, feeling the heat and solidity of his body instead of just the cool apathy of wrinkled sleeves. 

He has to admit, he can't stop the faint rush of heat through his body at the intimacy of what he’s doing, even though this is technically a medical procedure and he’s supposed to be apathetic. Cool and calm and collected, just like Moonjo is with his victims (dental or otherwise). But it’s hard to be. Moonjo is on his back in front of him, halfway unclothed and vulnerable , baring his body to Jongwoo’s eyes and hands. Jongwoo would be lying if he said Moonjo isn’t, objectively, very physically attractive, and he’s letting Jongwoo touch him, letting Jongwoo sculpt him—no, asking Jongwoo to sculpt him. To put him back together. Knowing Jongwoo can do whatever he wants. 

A reversal of what Moonjo had done to him at Eden. 

But then, Moonjo had done all that out of obsession, out of craving. Jongwoo is just doing this to prevent his rug from getting dirty. Vulnerability and intimacy, and his willingness or not to engage in them, have nothing to do with it; what he feels is just a surprise and unfamiliarity with being in such close contact with another man. 

Especially given that said man is the same man who had gotten him into this whole fucked-up situation in the first place. They hadn’t even been this intimate when Jongwoo was choking him to death. 

Moonjo shivers when Jongwoo brings the first gauze pad to the wound, his eyes fluttering closed and his head tilting back as Jongwoo presses down on it to stall the bleeding. Jongwoo can feel the hitch in his breath, can hear the way his voice catches in his throat, and he has to give Moonjo some credit; it’s a good act, pretending this actually hurts him.  

“Wipe away the blood, babe,” Moonjo whispers. “So you can see what you’re doing with me better. That’s it.” 

This is all necessary duty, given the nature of the injury. So the thought briefly crosses Jongwoo’s mind that it’s ridiculous he’s doing this for Moonjo. He's researched it all before, of course, all in the name of writing, but Moonjo is the one who has actual experience cleaning and stitching and bandaging, even if it’s for things like extracting a molar and not like getting stabbed in the gut. Moonjo should be able to do this on himself. 

If his hands weren’t trembling, at least. 

“Ah. It’s the blood loss,” Moonjo murmurs, eyes half-closed, when he follows Jongwoo’s gaze to the hand he has draped over his chest. “Can’t keep steady enough for stitches now. Add another layer of gauze, if you please, the first one is already starting to soak through.” As he speaks, a thin trickle of blood runs down his side and into the couch from where the blood has gathered and overflowed the corner of the gauze. Jongwoo has the sudden, strange vision of the color leaking slowly from Moonjo’s cherry-red lips and lending itself to the blood that’s spilling out through the cut of the knife. 

Has Moonjo always been this pale? 

“You could use your tongue instead,” Moonjo continues with another shiver, as Jongwoo makes to wipe the trickle away with a fresh piece of gauze. “You could taste me, jagiya . Drink my blood from me. Suck it from the wound. Stick your hand inside of me through the hole in my belly. You could feel me from the inside and you don’t even need to fuck me.” His breath hitches; there’s a note of wonder and excitement in his voice. “Isn’t that interesting? There are so many ways to be inside someone, even after you limit it to just the physical. So many ways to explore intimacy.” 

Jongwoo stares at him again, hand stopped halfway through wiping the blood off. “Are you enjoying this?”  

Moonjo cracks a grin.  

Jongwoo shakes his head. What a freak. “You’re fucking unbelievable,” he mutters. “Just fucking stop bleeding so I can stitch you up and go to bed.”

“Testy, testy,” Moonjo tuts. “I’ve got to do something to distract myself from the pain, you know.” 

“What, like this actually hurts?” 

He doesn’t actually believe Moonjo isn't in any pain. The man had just been stabbed through with a knife, after all. But letting himself get stabbed in the first place, and by a common victim, nonetheless, is enough to warrant a bit of snark, Jongwoo thinks.  

“You wound me,” Moonjo says with another pale smile. “I’m still human, after all. Things still hurt. Would you let me distract myself with you? I have so many more ideas for you, jagi . You could write them into your novel, if you don’t want to do any of it to me. How does that sound, eh? Writing advice from a serial killer. You would know for sure that it’s realistic, at least.” 

Jongwoo meets his gaze evenly. Moonjo’s eyes are dark and shining, like fresh blood in the moonlight; each pupil a hungry, bottomless abyss, each iris an inky swirl around it. Jongwoo wonders how his eyes stay so bright even after losing so much blood. Surely he should be unconscious by now? Or at least not still so fucking talkative .  

God, does the man ever shut up? 

Okay, that’s unfair. He’s only this talkative when he’s talking about murder. Or when he’s horny. Which is usually when murder is involved.  

Maybe he’s just getting delirious.  

“You’re still bleeding,” Jongwoo says bluntly, instead of addressing his suggestion.  

Moonjo goes with the change of topic easily. “Yes, it appears so,” he agrees. “Keep the pressure on, babe, if you please. It’ll stop eventually.” 

“You sure it didn’t hit anything important?” Jongwoo asks, as he presses a little harder against the wound; he hears Moonjo’s shallow intake of breath at the pain of it. 

Asking as if he’s actually worried. It’s almost hilarious. 

“I don’t know,” Moonjo says, his voice calm and mild despite the paleness of his face and the faint trembling of his hands—no, of his whole body; he’s shivering now. “Why don’t you feel around inside me and find out?” 

Jongwoo flicks him—not too hard, but not exactly gently either—at the edge of the wound, and feels a curious sense of satisfaction as Moonjo gasps and flinches away from him. “Cheeky. Why don’t you reach inside yourself and pinch off the blood flow so I can leave you alone and go to sleep.” 

Moonjo huffs a laugh, his face going another shade paler with the rush of blood it brings forth against Jongwoo’s hands. “That’s not the same, babe, you know that.” 

“Stop laughing ,” Jongwoo snaps. “Just stay still, you freak. Or you’ll bleed so much it’ll drip onto the rug, too, and I’ll kill you in the most pathetic impersonal way that even you wouldn’t be able to get off on it.” 

“Ouch, babe, now that truly hurts me,” Moonjo says, still with that stupid grin. Delirious grin.  

Good god, the man really is getting delirious.  

Serves him right if he bleeds out and dies right here, because of someone else’s hands, and Jongwoo just sits back and does nothing about it.  

He would deserve it.  

It’s tempting. Jongwoo almost— almost —releases his pressure on the wound.  

He’s not quite sure what holds him back.  

He thinks maybe it’s because the bleeding is already slowing down anyway, so even if he did nothing, Moonjo would probably still, unfortunately, survive. Maybe it’s because part of him—the part that’s willing to kill, even just a little bit, and the part that’s willing to agree with Moonjo, even if it's only on one, tiny thing—is determined to see Moonjo die by his hand, and no one else’s.  

Maybe it’s because he’s just suddenly very interested in the opportunity to practice proper suturing technique.  

The second wad of gauze is also starting to soak through, though at least it’s taken longer than the first. Jongwoo cuts another piece from the roll in the medical box and adds it to the growing bloody pile on Moonjo’s body, taking care not to pull at the gauze already pressed to the wound and disrupt any clotting that might have formed.  

“Look at you, babe,” Moonjo whispers, eyes half-lidded. “You learn so quickly.” 

…It’s literally just common sense? Moonjo is such an idiot. “Stop flirting and tell me how to stitch you up properly before you go unconscious from blood loss.”  

“Ah.” Moonjo’s eyes flutter closed. “I'll try to stay awake for the whole thing. But alright, in case I don’t—you’ll have to stitch the deeper layers of tissue first with one of the absorbable sutures. I think I told you to look for PDS monofilament, yes?” 

Jongwoo fumbles around the pile of sutures until he finds it. “Deeper layer, huh,” he mutters. “Can’t just staple you closed once and be done with it?” 

Moonjo exhales, and it passes as a laugh. “You did ask me to tell you how to do it properly. So if that’s what you want to do, you’ll have to look for one of the non-absorbable monofilament nylon sutures for the superficial skin. The non-absorbable will have to be manually removed later, but it holds better. Ideally you would knot and cut each stitch individually too.” He grins faintly. “But you can do what you want on me, jagiya . I like to think I foster creativity in you, so don’t be afraid to experiment.” 

Jongwoo snorts. Experiment . There were plenty of things he wants to experiment on with Moonjo, like what would tear him apart, and what would break him, and what would give him everything he deserves for fucking up Jongwoo’s life. But he doesn’t think doing a shit job with the stitches on his stab wound would really achieve any of those things. At most it would be an inconvenience, more realistically nothing more than an aesthetic error. 

“Still bleeding, honey?” Moonjo murmurs after a pause. His breathing is notably faster and shallower than usual, the movement of his chest almost fluttering. His lips are almost the same color as the skin on his face. 

“Yes.” Jongwoo frowns. “...Maybe. A little.” 

“If it’s not that bad anymore, you can remove the gauze and start cleaning the wound. Just warm water, please, and alcohol wipes on the surrounding skin. Then antibiotic cream. Don’t worry about holding the pressure too much now; the suturing should be enough to stop the rest of the bleeding.” 

Clean it?  

With warm water? 

Here ? 

It’s fucking going to get on the rug. 

“I’ll buy you a new rug, honey,” Moonjo says softly, as if he can read Jongwoo’s mind. “You can kill me after that.” 

Jongwoo decides not to address the latter comment—though he would hold Moonjo to it. Jieun had given him this rug, for fuck’s sake, when he was discharged from the hospital, in the hopes that wherever he ended up, the place would be made a little warmer.  

If only she knew.  

It had been a quiet, unspoken-but-clear breakup; this isn’t exactly the kind of trauma-bonding that could bring their already broken relationship closer to a semblance of functional. He hasn’t seen her since everything went down four months ago, even though they both still live in Seoul. They barely even text each other anymore. He hasn't expected her to reach out, when he’s probably her most pointed, painful reminder of what had happened; and he doesn’t think she would appreciate him always haunting her steps with calls and texts either. But she had left him with this rug—a beautiful, thick rug—and only well wishes for him the last time they saw each other, a week or so after the hospital, and it had been the single bit of normalcy he’d had to hold onto when Moonjo had returned like the fucking stalker he was and swept him away again. 

“You need to hold the pressure a little while I get a bowl or something for the water,” Jongwoo says, as if the thought of Jieun doesn’t shake something inside him again the way it always does nowadays, after Eden. “Is gauze good enough? Am I supposed to wipe it with wet gauze? Or cloth? Or like, just pour the water over you?” 

Moonjo chuckles; it’s a faint sound. “Well. Usually you’re supposed to flush the wound for a while to clean everything out of it. But I think I’ve bled enough for that to have already happened.” 

Jongwoo isn’t about to argue. The less he has to do and the less mess he has to make, the sooner he can go to bed and get some peace and quiet. So once he makes sure Moonjo is putting adequate—at least, as much as he’s able, in his current state—pressure on the wound, he retrieves a clean bowl of water from the kitchen and guides Moonjo’s hands away so he can pull the saturated gauze gently away from pale skin, at the same time deliberately avoiding the question of why he’s trying to be gentle, because Moonjo doesn’t deserve tenderness. He feels Moonjo’s gaze on him the whole time, heavy-lidded and a little glassy from blood loss, and he sees Moonjo shiver and hears him give a small noise—of pain?—when he wipes at the blood with a wet strip of gauze and water runs through the wound.  

“Stings?” Jongwoo murmurs.  

Moonjo shivers again. “A little. Yes.” 

It was only now that Jongwoo notices Moonjo’s right hand, clenched tight into a fist and hidden between Moonjo’s body and the backrest of the couch. 

So the man really can feel pain. Acutely, it seems.  

The realization makes Jongwoo in turn feel—something. He doesn’t know what. Relief, maybe, at the confirmation that Moonjo is human? Dismay? Confusion? 

“Bear with it a little longer,” he says. “I’ll clean the blood away before I start stitching.” 

“Ah, Jongwoo-yah, you don’t have to be so gentle,” Moonjo says softly. His voice is trembling a little, and Jongwoo does not particularly want to think about why. “I know you don’t want to be.” 

“Stop projecting. You don’t know me that well,” Jongwoo retorts, also refusing to think about the implications of his words—the other way Moonjo can interpret their meaning. 

“No, I don’t, apparently,” Moonjo murmurs. “Curious. I can’t tell if you’re telling the truth or if you just want to argue with me. I guess the blood loss is really getting to me, jagiya ,” he adds with a faint grin. “You could do anything to me right now. You could say anything and I would probably believe it.” 

Jongwoo pointedly says nothing.  

He focuses on cleaning the wound, instead, and the excess blood comes away easily under the wet gauze. He pulls the alcohol wipes gently over the surface of the wound to disinfect it as Moonjo had instructed, and then, when the blood is cleaned from the area—except for the little trickle of it still leaking slowly and persistently from the wound—opens the packaging of an absorbable suture to begin stitching the inner layers of it. 

“I thought you were supposed to use forceps to hold the needle or something,” Jongwoo mutters.  

“Ah.” Moonjo’s voice is a soft breath. “Technically, yes. But you can use your hands if you can’t find any in the box. Just like threading a needle through cloth, but the needle is curved. It’s intuitive, babe, you’ll do wonderfully.” 

“Is there a specific kind of knot you’re supposed to use to tie it off?” 

“Several. I can show you one of them.” 

Jongwoo hesitates, and then nods and hands over the suture. Moonjo’s fingers are pale and cold, and they’re still shaking, but with some patience, he’s able to pull the threads into an approximation of what he calls a surgeon’s knot.  

It looks easy enough.  

“Alright. Just...just one last time, before I close it up,” Jongwoo says. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital instead? Are you sure it didn’t hit anything important?” 

Moonjo’s a doctor. He knows he could die from infection just as easily as blood loss.  

“I’ll be fine,” Moonjo says with a small smile. “It was a sharp knife but he’d obviously never stabbed anyone before. I felt around after he’d pulled it out; it barely pierced through the abdominal wall.” His smile widens briefly. “You could feel around too if you don’t believe me.” 

He is not doing that. Moonjo is not going to make him do something fucked up in the name of healthcare. He’ll just take Moonjo’s word for it, and Moonjo will have to deal with the consequences of hospital bills and/or death if he’s wrong. 

He supposes he’ll still sort of have to feel around inside the wound anyway, though, since he doesn’t have forceps to manipulate the needle and thread for the inner layer of sutures. He’s going to have to get his fingers in there and figure out how to knot and tie everything without accidentally ripping the wound open even more.  

At least he’s washed his hands.  

Jongwoo takes a steadying breath, slips his fingers in to hold the tip of the curved needle to flesh, and pushes it through.  

It feels, bizarrely, normal. Almost exactly like threading a needle through cloth. 

“That’s it, honey,” Moonjo murmurs. “Pull it until it’s just taut. Tie it off the same way, then cut the thread close to the knot. The next stitch shouldn’t be too far away from the first—a few millimeters at most.” 

Well. Jongwoo knows what it feels like to push a needle through cloth, but that’s about it. This is probably going to be the ugliest stitching Moonjo has ever seen. By the time he’s four stitches in, he can already see the haphazard zig-zag line he’s forming, even though the wound itself had been neat and straight. 

As long as it holds closed, he supposes.  

“How did you even get stabbed in the first place?” Jongwoo mutters, as he starts on the fifth stitch. “Thought you were above that kind of thing. Like, an expert, you know, prepared for anything. Don’t you even have a stupid little plastic suit you wear when you murder people?” 

Moonjo lets out a soft exhale that approximates a laugh. “It was a fit of rage, I told you. It wasn’t the art I usually make. This time…this time it was just murder.” 

Jongwoo snorts. “What, so your skills slipped a bit in the heat of the moment? You weren’t prepared without a little sedative to back you up?” 

“I guess you could say that,” Moonjo murmurs, with a surprising lack of comment at Jongwoo’s jibe about his use of sedatives during murder. “I also wasn’t expecting him to have a pocketknife.” 

“At least he didn’t have a gun,” Jongwoo mutters. 

Because what if. What if he’d had a gun. What if Moonjo had been shot through, instead of stabbed. What if Moonjo had come home with two holes in his body instead of one, the bullet tearing into him and through soft organ before ripping out the other side of him. And there are major arteries there, Jongwoo knows, under the slit of the knife wound. What if Moonjo had come home with a bleeding that no one had any hope of stopping. 

Would Jongwoo have been glad? 

What if his only two options came down to Moonjo’s death but by someone else’s hand, or Jongwoo continuing to live in his constant shadow? 

Shit. Who is he kidding. 

Moonjo would never truly leave him even if he died. 

"Good enough?” Jongwoo asks a dozen minutes later, as he finishes what he thinks might be the last inner stitch—about fifteen of them. He’s almost embarrassed to ask; the last eleven are just as crooked as the first four, though he thinks his knot-tying skills have perhaps improved a bit.

There’s no answer. 

“Moon— yah ! Wake up!” Jongwoo slaps the man’s arm. “You said you’d stay awake. I’m not letting you sleep until the stitches are done and I’m sure you’ll at least survive the night. I don’t want to have to clean up a dead body in the morning.” 

Moonjo’s eyes flutter open, gaze unfocused. “Ah,” he murmurs. “Right.” 

“So?” Jongwoo demands. “Good enough for me to start on the upper layer?” 

“Hm? Oh. Ah, let me see.” Moonjo lifts his head for a brief moment—so brief that Jongwoo doesn’t think he’s even looked at the stitchwork—before letting it flop back down on the arm of the couch with a sigh. “Yes. Perfect, babe.” 

Jongwoo watches him for a little while. “Stay awake, Moonjo,” he says finally, firmly, like a warning. 

“I’m not going to die, babe. It wasn’t your hand holding the knife.” 

“Shut up. Just stay awake until I tell you that you can sleep.” 

Moonjo hums faintly. “But it’s a little cold, don’t you think? And you’re so warm. Burning up like a fire against my skin.” 

“I’m not going to cuddle you to keep you warm, if that’s what you’re going for,” Jongwoo snipes, as he opens the suture pack Moonjo had specified earlier for the top layer of stitches; the row that would hold the skin together. 

This row isn’t going to be pretty, either, but Moonjo is just going to have to deal with it. It’s just another jagged scar to mark his pale pretty skin.  

“It was worth a try,” Moonjo murmurs belatedly. 

Jongwoo shoots him a glance with a raised eyebrow. Moonjo had said he would be fine, but exactly how much blood could you lose before you were past the point of non-hospital saving? Exactly how much blood had Moonjo lost already, for the usual sharpness of his mental state to be so affected? 

But Moonjo’s eyes are still open, and his gaze is still fixed on Jongwoo, and Jongwoo can see the other man holding onto the sight of him with the same fierce desperation and determined stubbornness of the rapidly thrumming pulse in his single-scarred throat. 

No, Moonjo is right; he won’t die tonight. 

It hadn’t been Jongwoo’s hand holding the knife. 

“If you don’t annoy me too much, I might get you a blanket,” Jongwoo allows, as he begins on the second row of stitches. Moonjo doesn’t even flinch as the needle pierces the skin—though that’s nothing, Jongwoo supposes, compared to the deep stab of a knife. Or the drag of a scalpel across his throat.  

The bleeding is slowing to almost a stop now, too, just as Moonjo said it would. Each pull of a new stitch closes a gap in the next few millimeters of skin, squeezing a few crimson drops out of the corner of the wound; Jongwoo wipes them away carefully, ignoring the way Moonjo’s gaze follows the red smear on his thumb. 

He is not going to lick it. 

“Aren’t you supposed to drink something once you’ve lost this much blood?” Jongwoo asks conversationally, as he finishes tying off the knot and pulls the thread through the next stitch. As if he’s sewing up a hole in an old shirt instead of a rip in a man’s body. “To replenish blood volume or something. Otherwise your blood pressure gets too low. I can get you a glass of water. Or juice? Is that better? Electrolytes?” 

Jongwoo isn’t sure why he notices it specifically this time, but the corners of Moonjo’s eyes crinkle when he smiles, in a way that makes him look friendly, almost harmless. And in this state, Jongwoo almost believes it. 

“Water is fine,” Moonjo says. “Thanks, babe, you’re so attentive. Do you actually care about me after all?” 

Once again, Jongwoo doesn’t dignify him with a reply. He does finish the line of stitches though, and squeezes out a little antibiotic cream from the tube onto the tip of his index finger. He dabs it on the wound carefully, ensuring it covers the entire length of the closed slash, and then rips open a new pack of alcohol wipes to clean the last of the blood from the rest of Moonjo’s skin, including low on his hips where it had run down the gentle slope of his belly and soaked the top of the waistband of his pants.  

“Babe, you’re so warm,” Moonjo whispers breathlessly, almost like a sigh, as Jongwoo wipes the residual cream from his finger with gauze and carefully places a bandage over the wound. With a wound three inches long, Jongwoo had selected the largest bandage the first aid box had to offer, but it’s still shorter than the full length of his hand, and he feels Moonjo’s abs tighten in response to the touch of his fingertips that extend beyond the span of it. He smooths over its edges to ensure it stays in place, adding a little medical tape to reinforce where it’s having trouble sticking, and glances up when he hears Moonjo’s breath catch in his throat. There is somehow, impossibly, despite his current weakness and condition of blood loss, a flush of pink on Moonjo’s pale cheeks, and a tension to his quivering hips. He— 

Wait. Is he— 

He’s— 

There’s no fucking way. 

But yes, god, Moonjo is obviously and bizarrely aroused just from Jongwoo touching him with his fingertips . Jongwoo’s almost willing to bet the rest of his measly savings that the man would be fully hard if there was still enough blood left in his body to allow it. He’s already at least half-hard as it is, from what his pants look like. 

It’s ridiculous. 

And weirdly hot. 

No—not hot. Flattering, maybe?  

...Still weird. 

Jongwoo’s staring.  

“Water,” Jongwoo blurts out. He stands abruptly and goes to get a glass and a straw from the kitchen. By the time he comes back, Moonjo has somehow hoisted himself into an approximation of a half-sitting position against the armrest, a hand resting gently over the bandaged wound, eyes dark and chest heaving a little harder with the effort. 

Jongwoo carefully does not look down at his crotch and bites back a comment that Moonjo really should just listen to him and stay still, because even the act of dragging himself a little more upright has him looking visibly dizzy and lightheaded. He squats down by the couch instead, swatting away Moonjo’s hands as he attempts to take the cup and holding the straw to Moonjo’s lips himself. 

“I’m not being sweet,” Jongwoo says, almost as a warning, when he sees Moonjo about to make what is probably another stupid comment. “Your hands are still shaking. You’ll spill it on the rug.” 

“Ah. The rug, the rug,” Moonjo muses, as he takes the straw in his mouth. “Yes, I should do my best to keep it clean, if I want Jongwoo-ssi to spare me.” 

“Are you supposed to eat something too, at this point?” Jongwoo asks, once again ignoring Moonjo’s comment completely. It’s the easiest way to irk him, Jongwoo had found; Moonjo yearns for his attention, thrives on his recognition. So it’s almost funny to watch him try and keep calm and aloof when Jongwoo deems something he’s said or done too insignificant to acknowledge.  

He only does it when Moonjo’s done something to put him in a pissy mood first, though. 

Getting himself stabbed after work is one of those things. 

Maybe it’s the blood loss, maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s something else entirely. But Moonjo’s humoring him today—perhaps his way of apologizing? 

“Yes, that might help,” Moonjo agrees mildly. “I could have some dinner. Have you eaten?” 

Moonjo has finished the water already; Jongwoo brings the empty cup over to the sink. “No. I haven’t.” 

He can hear Moonjo’s widening smile. “Waiting for me to come home, honey?” 

Jongwoo throws a glare at him over his shoulder from where he’s started washing both the cup and Moonjo’s blood from his hands. “Shut up. Don't get the wrong idea, I wasn’t about to cook for you. But you didn’t give me your credit card and I didn’t want to spend my own money either.” 

Moonjo chuckles lightly. “Alright. What do you want to eat, then? Anything you want, babe. I’ll get it delivered. I’ll even go pick it up from the front door for you.” 

“No, you won’t,” Jongwoo shoots back immediately. “You’ll be lying on this couch and not moving. Just get me some udon from the place across the bridge—the one with the good beef broth.” He almost says, you know what I mean , but bites it back. That’s too domestic. Too familiar. Even if he knows it’s true. 

“Tell me when it’s here and I’ll get it,” Jongwoo says, a little less aggressively. Then he pauses. “Do...you do know how to order delivery, right?” Moonjo always went out himself to pick up their takeout orders—which he called in—and Jongwoo is certain no one ever placed delivery orders to Eden, Moonjo included, even though he clearly had the money to. And Moonjo is a good ten years older than him. That generation probably barely knows how to work smartphones.  

Moonjo smiles innocently at him. “Yes. Of course.” 

Jongwoo squints. “So which app do you use?” 

“The delivery one,” Moonjo says. 

Jongwoo sighs and goes to get his phone. 

He doesn’t know how exactly Moonjo ends up convincing him to sit on the couch with him—on the part that’s still clean, of course, that Moonjo hasn’t bled on. All he knows is that he’d come back from grabbing his phone from the charger—and a clean shirt from the closet—and Moonjo has swung his legs down to place both feet on the ground and is patting the clean spot next to him amicably.  

At first, Jongwoo pretends not to see him. “Change your shirt, you’re disgusting,” he says, tossing the clean one at Moonjo and busying his gaze and hands with logging into his Baemin account. 

“You brought me a sweater, Jongwoo-yah, thank you,” Moonjo says mildly.  

“Did I? My mistake,” Jongwoo returns blandly, and finds his usual beef broth-based udon to add to his shopping cart. He can see Moonjo delicately removing his bloodstained shirt out of the corner of his eye, his movements slow and ginger, taking exaggerated care not to pull at the wound or disrupt the bandaging. He’s already looking a little better after having had some water, but he’s still unsteady as he slips the sweater over his head, wincing a little as the movement tugs on the stitching. The sleeves come about halfway down his hands and the tall collar enshrouds his neck; the thick material softens his edges and draws any darkness and danger that remain from him, and then he’s patting the clean spot on the couch again with the same soft, amicable expression as before.  

“Jongwoo.” 

Even his voice is soft. 

“Uh.” Jongwoo looks at the couch, up at Moonjo’s faintly smiling, if tired, expression, back at the couch. 

For some reason, he sits. 

Given their history, Jongwoo had thought it would feel threatening to have Moonjo so close to him. Practically touching him. Actually touching him, first with a tentative brush of elbows, and then, when Jongwoo inexplicably does not pull away, with his chin resting lightly on Jongwoo’s shoulder and his chest leaning into Jongwoo’s back. But it's decidedly...not. 

Jongwoo swallows and focuses on his phone screen. “So, um. Which do you want?” He scrolls through the menu options on his phone, angling it slightly for Moonjo to see better. 

“Mm. How about a vegetarian one?” Moonjo murmurs.  

Jongwoo lets out a light snort. “What, can’t eat meat unless it’s human?” 

“It just tastes different, that’s all. You’re not always in the mood for beef, are you?” 

He supposes not. “What about this one?” he asks. “Soy sauce base. Chinese broccoli, a couple different kinds of mushrooms...” He wrinkles his nose. “Didn’t you say Mrs. Eom used to use mushrooms for something?” 

“Those were psychedelic and poisonous. Oyster mushrooms are fine,” Moonjo says. 

“I know that.” Jongwoo gives Moonjo a look. “I just don’t care for the association.” 

“She was the closest I had to a mother, Jongwoo-yah,” Moonjo says chidingly. “I can’t cut everything of her off of me. Where’s your filial piety?” 

Jongwoo snorts again. As if holding onto her murderous tendencies isn't enough. 

“Yes, that one looks good,” Moonjo says, with a nod at the vegetarian one Jongwoo had pointed out. “My wallet is in my jacket; any of the credit cards is fine. It might be a little bloody, though, I think it was in the left pocket.” 

“I’m saving the card info, then,” Jongwoo says, as he finds the indeed-slightly-bloody wallet on the jacket draped over the back of the couch and enters the card number into the add new card slot. “Every time you fuck something up or I have to clean up your blood, you get to pay for dinner.” 

Moonjo has already been paying for everything else these past four months, anyway. Jongwoo’s brother’s medical bills included. 

It should be uncomfortable, being almost totally financially dependent on someone else—which Jongwoo pretty much is, now that he isn't working. And it was, at first. But now, kind of like Moonjo’s physical proximity and the way his chin is growing a little heavier on Jongwoo’s shoulder, it feels...fine, actually. 

It’s not affection. Far from it. 

But he realizes, with a strange feeling in his chest, that it’s trust. 

“Can I sleep now, babe?” Moonjo murmurs next to Jongwoo’s ear, his voice just slightly slurred. “Just while we wait. I’m tired.” 

Jongwoo lifts the bottom of Moonjo’s sweater and glances down at the bandage on his belly; there’s a small stain of red in the center, but that’s it. It seems the bleeding has stopped. Moonjo is leaning more firmly against him now, though he seems tired enough that Jongwoo thinks it might even be unintentional, and he still feels a little cold even through the sweater, but the blood loss-induced rabbiting of his heart has slowed a little bit. 

“I’ll wake you when the food gets here,” Jongwoo says.  

The corners of Moonjo’s lips quirk in a smile; he practically purrs. “Thanks, honey.” 

He can feel Moonjo drift off almost immediately. His breathing slows and evens out, and he’s slumped against Jongwoo’s back, relying entirely on him to keep upright. Strangely, Jongwoo doesn’t feel an urge to shove him off, even when a lock of hair becomes untucked from behind his ear and tickles Jongwoo’s neck, even as his breath puffs out coolly down the front of Jongwoo’s shoulder. 

He’s so vulnerable like this. Not just the act of sleeping in the same room as Jongwoo while Jongwoo’s still awake—that’s nothing new anymore. But sleeping in contact with him, believing Jongwoo will hold him up, will keep his shoulder steady, will wake him when it’s time—and to have not slept at all, and instead stayed painfully, stubbornly awake, until Jongwoo told him it was alright to sleep... 

That’s trust, too. 

There’s so much trust in the simple act of sleeping. 

Strangely, Jongwoo feels a part of him soften.  

It’s strange, because—that’s exactly what he’d told himself would never happen, time and time again after Moonjo had returned. He would never forget how Moonjo had killed— who— Moonjo had killed. Jongwoo wouldn’t let himself forgive the man who had killed Changhyun and Seokyun. Even Jaeho. The man had been an arrogant pain in the ass but he hadn’t deserved to die like that. 

He wouldn’t let Moonjo forget it, either. He’d beaten the man up at least twice for each of them, already, and he won’t hesitate to do it again. 

But right now, like this... 

For now, maybe it’s alright.  

For now, he lets himself soften.  

For now, Moonjo sleeps on his shoulder.  

 

 

It’s a little more than half an hour before their order is delivered. Jongwoo almost feels guilty nudging Moonjo awake, but it really is probably better for him to eat something tonight. And in any case, Jongwoo’s hungry, but he can't very well get up to retrieve the food with Moonjo still sleeping on him. 

Moonjo wakes with a quiet noise that tugs at that softening something in Jongwoo’s chest. He seems so human like this, bleary and tired and content to sit back and wait, still half-asleep, as Jongwoo goes to retrieve their food. He’s almost believable as the kind, friendly man who had been the most welcoming, if weird, presence at Eden. 

How different would things have been, if that had been true? 

Would Jongwoo have liked him better? Would Jongwoo had asked him to leave with him, like he’d asked Seokyun? 

“It’s hot,” Jongwoo says as he returns with the food and puts Moonjo’s on the small table in front of the couch. “Don’t burn yourself.” 

“Thanks, babe. Want to try some?” Moonjo asks. The restaurant had given them disposable chopsticks with their order; Moonjo splits his in half along the crease and pokes them through several loops of noodle. 

Yes, but. “You’re not feeding it to me,” Jongwoo says bluntly. That’s crossing the line too far. It seems more intimate than what he had just done for Moonjo—stitched him back together, practically rubbed his fingers in his wound. Inside him , Moonjo would have put it. And even thinking about the intimacy of that is enough to put Jongwoo on edge again. 

Moonjo just chuckles. “No? You won’t let me, jagiya ?” 

Jongwoo looks at him. His hands are still shaking. 

“Are you faking it?” Jongwoo asks. 

“What, the tremor?” Moonjo tilts his head with a smile. “No. I did just lose a lot of blood. I’m going to be weak and shaky for a while. Can’t you see how pale I am?” 

The noodles slip from the tips of Moonjo’s chopsticks and splash back into the bowl, and Moonjo looks surprised and embarrassed enough that Jongwoo believes him.  

Jongwoo watches him for another few moments as he begins to eat his own noodles. Observes him, like a specimen, like how Moonjo observes the mouths of the victims whose teeth he might or might not pull out. And he concludes that it isn't that Moonjo can't use chopsticks to eat right now, it’s just...the Chinese broccoli seems least difficult to pick up, with its firm stalks and bundle of leaves to give something to grip, but the slippery mushrooms and udon noodles are a hit-or-miss (mostly miss), and more of the soup seems to escape out of the spoon and back into the bowl than makes it into Moonjo’s mouth. 

It’s pathetic, is what it is. 

Jongwoo sighs. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Give it here.” He grabs Moonjo’s chopsticks mid-attempt to pick up another noodle, gathers it up into a loop for him, and lifts it to Moonjo’s lips. 

Moonjo stares. 

Jongwoo pokes at him with the tips of the chopsticks. “Do you want to eat or not?” 

Moonjo blinks owlishly. He seems stunned. And then slowly, obediently, he leans forward and takes the noodles into his mouth. 

Jongwoo resolutely does not think about how this is exactly what he just said he wouldn’t do. “Vegetables,” he says roughly, and picks up a bundle of broccoli and mushroom. This isn’t care —not in the traditional sense, anyway. Moonjo looks like he’s half a meal from going ghost-white and passing out again, and Jongwoo doesn’t want to have to clean up Moonjo’s body if he dies overnight. And most importantly, he needs Moonjo to recover properly, to be alive , for Jongwoo to have the opportunity to kill him properly in the future. It wouldn’t do for him to just be finishing off the job of another man who never should have had the right to even touch Moonjo in the first place. 

“It’s good, Jongwoo-yah,” Moonjo says with a smile after a few mouthfuls. “You should try some. And you don’t have to keep feeding me; I can manage.” 

Jongwoo flushes. “Who said I’m feeding you,” he mutters, although he knows full well that feeding Moonjo is exactly what he’s doing. Suddenly embarrassed, Jongwoo hands him back his chopsticks wordlessly and does not meet his eyes. 

“Do you want to hear about the murder, jagiya ?” Moonjo asks, they begin eating their respective meals, Jongwoo notably more quickly and effectively than Moonjo. “It was more your style, I think. Perhaps you’d be flattered.” 

“I don’t have a style,” Jongwoo says with his mouth full. “All the killing I’ve done was because you forced me.” 

It isn’t a no, which is what Jongwoo had meant to say. 

Moonjo chuckles. “I mean it was a rage kill, darling,” he says. “I could feel him burning up. The blazing heat of his life that I was pulling away from him. The satisfaction, like I was giving him what he really deserved. And when it was done, I could feel his body grow cold. So cold, he was almost like the ivory keys of a piano.” He leans slightly towards Jongwoo. “Your style, no?” 

Jongwoo reaches over with his chopsticks and picks up one of Moonjo’s noodles, which he slurps up thoughtfully. It’s good, though the broth is of a milder taste than his own. “And where exactly does getting stabbed fit into my style?”   

“Ah. You did get stabbed by Deukjong though, didn’t you?” Moonjo asks. “Up on the roof, that last day in Eden.” 

Jongwoo shoots Moonjo a glare and points his chopsticks threateningly at him. “Don’t test me.” 

Moonjo's smile widens. “It was like I absorbed him, jagiya ,” he whispers. “His breath left him with my hands around his throat and it was like he was becoming part of me. Is that what you felt when you killed them all out of rage, too? Like they were living on through you, under you?” 

He wondered how the scent of fear would mix in with that floral—what was it, lavender?—once he had his hands around her throat, tightening, squeezing, tightening even more, until the breath left her and he could absorb her into him. Keep her alive, immortal as long as he lived, as part of him.  

“But that wasn’t Jieun,” Jongwoo says, without thinking, without even realizing he’s said it out loud, until he sees Moonjo’s expression harden. 

“Do you still think about her?” Moonjo asks, his voice impossibly soft. “Do you still—” 

“Love her?” Jongwoo interrupts. “No.” He tilts his head. “Does that make you happy?” 

He can see the flash of satisfaction in Moonjo’s eyes. 

“I don’t love you either,” Jongwoo says, before Moonjo can speak. “And I’m not going to kill anyone else for you, or because of you. So don’t get your hopes up. I’m just keeping you alive until I don’t feel like having you around anymore.” He gestures at the food on the table. “Hurry up and eat your noodles.” 

Contrary to Jongwoo’s intention, Moonjo only seems to grow more gleeful at his words. “Does that mean I get to be your first kill, then?” he asks. “The first one you do of your own free will. Your own volition. Am I the one who gets to claim this virginity ? Tell me, babe. Would you eat me, too?”

“Ah, I don’t know,” Jongwoo says lightly, picking through his bowl for another piece of beef. “I might just do it in your sleep so you don’t even get to know it’s happening. And then maybe report your death to the police so they could take away your body and do what they want with it. Wouldn’t that make you mad.” 

It’s kind of fun doing this too, actually. Bantering with Moonjo. Getting him worked up is so easy. 

Moonjo seems to be mulling over Jongwoo’s words. Deciding if it’s enough for himself to be killed by Jongwoo in any way at all, even if he isn’t awake to witness it. Even if he would never know that’s how he met his end. Deciding if he would let Jongwoo win this verbal sparring match, or if he would try and give it another shot. 

"I can always hope,” Moonjo says finally, and returns to his meal. 

Jongwoo feels the corners of his lips twitch in satisfaction. Another victory. He enjoys it when Moonjo yields to him. 

He allows a small conciliatory gesture, though, and holds out a neat mouthful of his udon, complete with a slice of one of the fish cakes that came in it—since Moonjo hadn’t been in the mood for beef today. “Here,” he says. “I took some of yours. It’s only fair.” 

He realizes belatedly that Moonjo might say something stupid about how Jongwoo is using his own chopsticks—about how both their lips would touch the same surface. About how it’s almost a kiss by transference.  

He doesn’t say it. 

What he does instead is arguably worse. 

He holds Jongwoo’s gaze as he accepts the mouthful of Jongwoo’s meal, and Jongwoo has no idea how it’s possible to make eating noodles almost sexual but Moonjo manages it anyway, sucking and licking every drop of dripping broth off the end of Jongwoo’s chopsticks and then swiping his tongue delicately around his lips. Practically making out with the chopsticks . 

A kiss by transference.  

No, he doesn’t say it, but Jongwoo can hear it almost as clearly as if he did. 

The man is ridiculous. Jongwoo wants to deck him in the face.  

Instead, Jongwoo berates himself inwardly and furiously for having walked right into that one and busies himself finishing his meal, and he rinses and discards his and Moonjo’s empty takeout bowls before attempting to initiate conversation again. Even then, he tells himself it’s only out of necessity. Logistics. He’s not forgiving the suggestion or being friendly . You don't act friendly towards Seo Moonjo. Especially if you’re Yoon Jongwoo, because then Seo Moonjo is the one responsible for fucking up your life. 

“So,” Jongwoo says. “Where are you sleeping tonight?” 

Moonjo contemplates this for a few moments. “I’d like to not sleep on a damp puddle of my own blood,” he says finally.  

“It’s either that or walk to the bed." 

“Ah. Yes. The very thought makes me tired,” Moonjo murmurs. He sighs. "I'll make it.” 

Jongwoo smirks. “Are you sure? Shall I get you a wheelchair?” 

“I think I can walk just fine, babe,” Moonjo says lightly, but he makes as if to stand from the couch and his face goes white. 

“Shit,” Jongwoo mutters. He pulls up the bottom of Moonjo’s sweater to see red blossoming on the bandage—the idiot probably pulled some of the wound open again. 

“Shit,” Moonjo agrees softly. He looks up at Jongwoo with a small smile, and Jongwoo can see pain tightening his expression. “Actually, it might be nice to have some help, babe. Or am I on my own this time?” 

Well. Jongwoo thinks he’s made it clear already, he’s not going to have Moonjo rip open the rest of his wound and bleed out ahead of his time. Wordlessly, he slips an arm around the other man’s waist and slings Moonjo’s right arm over his shoulders. Their height difference makes his support a little less effective once they’re standing, but Jongwoo feels Moonjo lean against him gratefully anyway, and they make their slow, shuffling way to the bedroom at the back of the apartment. He helps Moonjo lie down, after which he pulls back the edge of the bandage to check the extent of the bleeding. 

“Just put some more pressure on it, it’ll be fine,” Jongwoo grumbles after a moment of probing around the wound. "And don’t fucking bleed on the bed.” 

“Mm. Okay.” Moonjo’s eyes drift closed.  

Jongwoo looks at him for a while. Moonjo’s face isn’t quite as stark white as it had gone just a few minutes earlier when he’d stupidly tried to stand up and walk on his own, but it’s still alarmingly pale, and Jongwoo can see the fluttering of his heartbeat in the hollow of his throat and the slight, rapid rise and fall of his chest with every shallow breath. 

He looks so delicate. 

It would be so easy to break him now. How long would it take for that fluttering heart to go still? Would Moonjo fight him? Would he let the instinct to survive take over his desire to die at Jongwoo’s hands? 

Not that Moonjo could win anything in this state, anyway. Jongwoo could just dig his fingers into his wound and he’d be rendered helpless—from pain or euphoria, it wouldn’t matter. Both are equally effective. 

Moonjo’s breath stutters slightly, and Jongwoo wonders how much pain he’s in now; perhaps it would be kind to offer some ibuprofen. Or sleeping pills, to knock him out through the pain. 

Or he could just wait for Moonjo to ask for it himself. Wait for him to break. 

That would be mean.  

That would also be more fun. 

In any case, it’s late, and far past when Jongwoo would have liked to be asleep, and Jongwoo doesn’t feel particularly above doing the bare minimum. “Stay here and don’t move,” Jongwoo says. “If you get blood on the bed I’m fucking shoving you to the couch.” 

“Well, neither of us want that, babe,” Moonjo says faintly. Smirking. Eyes still closed. “Were you this mean to darling Jieun, too? Or did it please you to be in bed with her?” 

“No. And yes,” Jongwoo says bluntly. “I liked her . I don’t like you.” 

Moonjo huffs a laugh that’s barely more than a puffed exhale. He hasn’t had the strength to properly laugh in a while, but he sounds even more tired now.  

It probably wouldn’t kill him to sleep, though, Jongwoo supposes. If he was going to die then he should have died already. So it’s probably fine to just leave him be. 

Moonjo is indeed already asleep by the time Jongwoo finishes brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed. He’s still lying on his back, but his head is turned slightly on his pillow towards Jongwoo’s side of the bed, and one arm is slightly outstretched towards the invisible middle line that neither of them had ever crossed.  

Jongwoo snorts softly. The idiot hadn’t even pulled the covers over himself before falling asleep. 

Jongwoo climbs into his side of the bed, pulls the blankets up past his shoulders, and deliberately rolls over to face away from the other man. If some of the covers get dragged up to partly cover Moonjo as well—well. That’s hardly Jongwoo’s fault or intention.  

“Sweet dreams, asshole,” Jongwoo mutters, and closes his eyes.  

He—and Moonjo, as far as he’s aware—sleeps through the night. In fact, in a rare occurrence which had happened just once since Eden, Moonjo is still sleeping by the time Jongwoo wakes up.  

That isn’t entirely unexpected. He had just been stabbed, after all, so Jongwoo lets him sleep through breakfast. Then he lets him sleep through lunch. He wakes Moonjo once for an early dinner and to change his bandage, and then lets him pass out again for the night after ensuring that he really was just sleeping and not like, going into a coma or something stupid like that.  

There’s a slight fever the next morning. Moonjo tells him this is normal when Jongwoo wakes him for a late breakfast, as long as the wound itself isn’t infected. 

It’s not. Not as far as either Jongwoo or an exhausted Moonjo can tell, at least. 

Jongwoo leaves a bottle of ibuprofen in the nightstand drawer anyway. He hasn’t opened it in a while, and finds that there’s an assortment of useful things in there that one would expect to see in a nightstand drawer: reading glasses (for Moonjo), extra chargers, ChapStick, a notebook and pen. There’s also an assortment of other random things that are a little less useful or expected: old receipts, expired cough drops, used batteries. 

And, hidden away in the depths behind all of it, a bracelet. 

Jongwoo swallows hard and shoves the drawer closed.  

This next day is much the same as the first, with the addition of two pills with every meal, and Moonjo takes them without even asking what they are. 

What an idiot.  

It’s just ibuprofen. But he shouldn’t trust Jongwoo this much. 

Moonjo sleeps most of the time, and it’s strange for the apartment to be so silent. Not that Moonjo’s usually always talking, or being loud, it’s just—there’s always something when he’s around. The chopping of vegetables in the kitchen. The soft shuffling of slippered feet while he paces the room reading an engrossing book. The gentle trickle of water as he looks after the slowly accumulating plants on the windowsill—chlorophytum comosum, dionaea muscipula, monstera deliciosa . The dull thud of a tennis ball.  

Now it’s just the faint sound of his breath. Barely audible, even at night next to him in bed. It’s quiet outside of the gentle tapping of Jongwoo’s fingers on his laptop—so quiet, that Jongwoo begins to wonder if he were to lay his head on Moonjo’s chest, if he’d be able to hear a familiar thump-thump, thump-thump again: the dull, repetitive thud of a tennis ball.  

Of a heartbeat. 

 

 

“I had a pocketknife too,” Jongwoo says aloud. It’s mid-afternoon on the third day, and Moonjo isn’t awake but Jongwoo’s tired of the almost-complete silence. “I could’ve stabbed you too, back at Eden. I don’t think I would’ve looked after you like this then. Would’ve just let you die instead, and you would’ve deserved it. Fuck—you still deserve it, you bastard.” 

The day is chilly, even in their heated apartment; it’s for that reason that he’s stayed in bed to work on his novel instead of sitting at his desk by the window in the little living room. He pulls on the blankets a bit more to pool them around his waist, types a little more of his novel. He wonders what Moonjo would have to say about this part—of his pianist staining his long white fingers with the blood of his victim after pulling his heart out with his bare hands. Of a body with both elegance and strength, to touch a piano like a lover the day after he’d split open a sternum and ripped through flesh. 

He’d probably say something about how Jongwoo can do that to him, if he wants. 

“Would you have let me go then, if I had stabbed you?” Jongwoo continues. “Ripped you open like that man almost did. What would poor old Mrs. Eom have done?” He snorts a laugh. “Her favorite. Her star child, up until the moment you betrayed her. I guess I have to thank you for that, huh; it helped me survive in the end.” He pauses, tilts his head. “What do you think of the repertoire for the next day's recital? So far it’s just some Haydn, some Mozart. It would probably be interesting for his program to include something modern too, right?” 

He had asked without any real expectation of a response, and indeed, his question is met with silence. So he clicks open another tab and types one of the pieces he was considering into the search tab—a nocturne by Liebermann that he’d heard once on the radio a couple years before. 

“I like the arc of this one,” Jongwoo muses, as the piece begins to play. “Such a simple melody, but he manages to repeat it in so many emotions—mysterious, sweet, dark, magnificent. Spans such a wide range on the piano, too, I like the imagery of that. I was thinking either this or a Ligeti etude.” The Liebermann drifts into silence just over five minutes later, and Jongwoo queues up the other piece he’d mentioned. “They‘re both a nice contrast to Mozart, anyway, and I guess it doesn’t really matter which one I pick unless I decide to include the title of the piece in my book. It’s just nice to know for myself, you know.” 

The second piece is about the same length as the first and ends similarly—a drift into silence. The Ligeti had a resurgence of energy through the coda, as opposed to the Liebermann, which had reached its culmination and then dropped back into a soft echo of the opening. But in the end, they were both the same; a slow descent back into the darkness and quiet they’d emerged from. A circular poetry. 

“I like the title of the second one.” It’s a low, slightly slurred murmur, and Jongwoo looks over in surprise to see Moonjo finally awake again, his eyes heavy-lidded and tired but a faint grin on his face as he takes in the title of the Ligeti piece: L’escalier du Diable . 

Of course he likes it. The fucking devil himself. 

“I think it would be funny, Jongwoo-yah,” Moonjo continues. “A bit obvious, but isn’t that exactly why? Your pianist advertising exactly what he is, except no one bothers to listen.” 

“I’ll go with the first one,” Jongwoo says, just to be argumentative.  

Moonjo’s laugh is a soft, puffed exhale. 

What they have right now, the energy between them…it’s domestic.  

Jongwoo can’t bring himself to hate it. 

“You up for some food?” Jongwoo asks. “And you need to take a fucking shower or something, you’re disgusting.” It had been, what, three days? Since Moonjo had come home stabbed through.  

“Thanks, babe,” Moonjo says with a smirk. “Want to pick out dinner again? I’ll drag myself to the bathtub while you’re at it.” 

It's not a terrible idea. Moonjo doesn’t have much trouble standing today; the days of rest had definitely done some good for him. Still, Jongwoo watches him closely as he makes his way across the room to the bathroom, until he hears the door click shut and the water start running and knows Moonjo’s made it without collapsing. 

“Don’t bleed out,” is all Jongwoo says after him, even though he knows Moonjo can’t hear him anymore over the rush of the water. 

He orders takeout from the sushi restaurant across the street this time. Moonjo’s done showering by the time the order is ready and Jongwoo gets back from picking it up; he’s sitting at the kitchen table, but he hasn’t even put any fucking clothes back on yet. It’s still just his towel from the bath wrapped around his waist. 

He’s gotten two cold beers from the fridge though, one for each of them, so Jongwoo decides not to comment. 

They eat mostly in silence. 

“I put ibuprofen in the drawer,” Jongwoo says after a while, when they’re nearly done. 

“Ah. So that’s what the pills were,” Moonjo says mildly. 

Jongwoo snorts. An idiot, indeed. 

“I assumed it wasn’t anything harmful,” Moonjo says with a small smile. “You did say you wanted me to recover before you killed me, after all.” He eats his last piece of sushi, downs the last of his beer, tilts his head. “And I owe you a rug first.” 

“I have your credit card information now,” Jongwoo says bluntly. “I don’t need you alive for that, as long as no one else knows your alias is dead.” He nods at Moonjo’s plate. “You done? I’ll bring it to the sink.” 

Moonjo hums. “Thanks, honey.” 

“Go get the first aid box and wait on the bed. I’ll change the bandage for you.” Jongwoo pauses, glances back at Moonjo still sitting by the table, notes apathetically the way Moonjo’s hand hovers over his wound. “But it had better be a fucking nice rug.” 

“Of course, babe. Sage green? Something a little brighter, like aloe?” 

“Sage,” Jongwoo says. “And fluffy.” 

He’s softening. 

He thinks about the bracelet in the back of the drawer. 

 

 

Jongwoo slaps Moonjo’s hand away from the bandage. “Stop it, you’re not being helpful.” 

“Just want to see what you’re doing, babe,” Moonjo murmurs. “See how it’s been healing.” 

“Well it’s not helpful. And I still can’t believe you let yourself get stabbed,” Jongwoo mutters as he peels the rest of the bandage off. “Like a fucking amateur. And then bled all over the couch and made me stay up to stitch you closed. You know I’m never going to let you live this down, right?” 

“You didn’t have to do it,” Moonjo says.  

“Stitch you up? Oh, yes I fucking did,” Jongwoo snipes. “What else could I have done? Actually let you get an infection from it? Bleed out and die before I get the chance to kill you myself? Tch.” He touches a finger lightly to the wound, contemplating for a moment if he should say what he was thinking. But why not? He feels like it; he wants to be a little mean right now. Wants to play with Moonjo’s emotions. Use him. 

And then break him.  

…As if that would make up for his softening.  

But still. Jongwoo wants to pull Moonjo apart just as easily as Moonjo had pulled the tooth from Jieun’s mouth. 

“The least you could have done was brought home the meat,” he says. 

There’s a long beat of silence while the weight of Jongwoo’s words sink in. And then— 

“Kiss me, Jongwoo,” Moonjo whispers, like he’s drowning.  

Jongwoo presses slightly into the wound, as a warning. As a flirtation. 

Moonjo’s breath hitches; he pushes up against Jongwoo’s touch. “Kiss me,” he whispers again. “Please.” 

God. He’s so pretty when he begs, though.  

The wound had been kept moist; it hadn’t really formed scabs. He curls his fingers inwards, digging his nails into the seam of the wound, stressing the soft fragile tissue that had just grown to span the gap.  

“Fuck,” Moonjo breathes. “Jongwoo-yah, you’re so sexy like this. You should see yourself.” He brings his hand up to meet Jongwoo’s, to feel how deeply he’s pressing his fingers in, to feel if the blood would start to flow again.  

Not yet. Jongwoo would take his time breaking him.  

“How do you want me to kiss you, honey?” Jongwoo asks, just to humor him. Pretending affection.  

Moonjo believes it—or is so desperate that he doesn’t care—and shudders so powerfully even his voice shakes. “Devour me,” he whispers. “Drink me in. I want you to surround me, darling, like you’re making me part of you.” 

“And how would you kiss me?” 

“Like you are a god,” Moonjo returns immediately, his eyes wide, dark. “Like you are my god. I’ll breathe my life into you. I could be your offering, love. Cut myself open again on your teeth and let you peel me from my bones. I’d burn myself up for you until I’m ash for your golden tongue.” 

“Hm.” Jongwoo looks down at him for a few moments. He’s flushed and panting, his entire body quivering with the pain and ecstasy of Jongwoo’s nails starting to break skin. Starting to break him .  

The only problem is... Jongwoo isn’t sure what exactly he means by wanting to break him anymore. 

“But I want to taste you raw,” Jongwoo murmurs finally, and leans down and kisses him. 

He can feel the way Moonjo’s body softens immediately under him. Grows pliant. Yields to him like it’s something he was born to do, something engraved in the very nature of him. He feels Moonjo’s lips part in a breath of his name, feels him lunge up needily into Jongwoo’s kiss, exhaling into him, giving himself to him. 

“How do I taste, jagiya ?” Moonjo breathes. “Am I good? Tell me I'm good.” 

“Mm.” Jongwoo kisses him deeper, licking into his mouth, nails giving way to finger pads in the wound and rubbing along the slit of it gently, tenderly, like he’d rubbed Jieun.  

He feels himself grow hard. 

“You can push into me, babe,” Moonjo says breathlessly, and then he huffs a laugh. “Rip the stitches, make sure it scars. We can match, then. Isn’t that romantic?” 

“Shut up,” Jongwoo murmurs. He pushes Moonjo onto his back and then lowers himself until he’s pressed against Moonjo’s chest, half draped over his right hip, his fingers still in the tenderness of the wound. Moonjo is so alive under his touch—not that Jieun hadn’t been responsive, but this is a whole new level. Jongwoo is still just kissing him, he hasn’t even touched down between his thighs yet, but Moonjo is already shaking, his chest heaving in harsh pants, his chin tilted back to expose his throat and the thin scar Jongwoo had left there four months ago; just another one to add to Moonjo’s collection. He’s threatening to come just by Jongwoo’s mouth on his alone. 

Jongwoo pushes a little deeper into the wound, feeling new warmth over his fingertips as nails break skin, and Moonjo lets out a choked cry. The sound goes straight to Jongwoo’s dick and he feels it twitch in eagerness. 

There’s so much warmth in Moonjo to fuck into. He could fuck his mouth. Or his ass. Or the hole of the wound he’s currently reopening in Moonjo’s belly. 

That would be fucked up, wouldn’t it? 

Moonjo would enjoy that. 

“Jongwoo,” Moonjo manages, his voice high and pinched.  

“Mm? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Jongwoo murmurs, letting his hips rock, dragging the shape of his cock over Moonjo’s thigh. He hears Moonjo whimper. “Wanted me to make you scar. Write another line to the story on your body. Isn’t that it?” 

“Yes, Jongwoo-yah,” Moonjo whispers. “Darling, I want...” 

“Want more? Tell me.” 

Moonjo’s eyes squeeze shut; his body is trembling.  

“Tell me, babe.” 

Moonjo whimpers again, hips pressing up against Jongwoo’s, arching to let Jongwoo’s fingers deeper inside him. 

Jongwoo hums, kissing Moonjo’s cheek and down his jaw to the spot on his neck just below his ear, rubbing his thumb over the wound like he’d rubbed Jieun’s clit; his voice is a low, gravelly murmur. “Want me to fuck you?” 

Moonjo lets out a soft cry. “ Yes , Jongwoo, yes, please—” 

“Hm.” Jongwoo draws back. “Get yourself ready, then, while I think about it.” 

Moonjo swallows. Jongwoo watches as the other man loosens the towel still wrapped around his waist, as he slicks up his fingers and begins working himself open; he’s still weak, and Jongwoo can see the flush on his cheeks and the way he pants with the effort, but he makes no move to help. He’s content to sit back and watch this part for now, the heel of his hand rubbing lazily over his erection through his pants, appreciating the view Moonjo gives him with his knee bent and legs spread and cock flush and hard against his belly. 

“Slower,” Jongwoo says, as Moonjo edges a second finger around his rim. “Not yet. Wait until I let you.” 

“But babe—” 

“Do you want me to fuck you or not?” 

Moonjo swallows again. “I want you to touch me. But babe, please. I want to put it in. I want—” 

Jongwoo raises an eyebrow, and Moonjo shuts up. 

Jongwoo decides he finds that hot. But the way Moonjo moans is pretty cute, too. Needy. Desperate. Like a clingy puppy that would do anything for affection.  

“If you’re good, I’ll touch you,” Jongwoo says, and Moonjo shakes. Body taut and flexing like Jongwoo is playing him with more than just words.  

There’s a little bit of blood beading the edges of the wound on Moonjo’s belly. Jongwoo watches it for a while, the way the blood trickles and smears with the movement of Moonjo fucking himself on his finger—still just one, because Jongwoo hasn’t told him he can add another yet. Moonjo lets out a whimper and arches his back, and the blood runs down his flank towards the bed, and on an impulse, Jongwoo reaches out to catch it. 

Moonjo’s breath hitches. He watches with wide eyes as Jongwoo lets the blood gather on his finger, shivers as Jongwoo sweeps the pad of it up along the blood’s path until he reaches the edge of the wound. It’s just a little bit of blood; Jongwoo didn't break the skin that deeply, and the drop collects neatly on the tip of his finger. 

Jongwoo brings his finger to his mouth and licks it. 

“Fuck,” Moonjo breathes. 

Jongwoo contemplates the taste of it on his tongue. It’s not like he hasn’t tasted blood before; he’s had split lips and chipped teeth and broken skin over knuckles that he’s sucked on to soothe. But tasting it from Moonjo is different. It tastes like him . Brings back the sensation of Moonjo crowding into him back at Eden, surrounding him with his scent, with that chilling smile. Brings up the darkness and violence that Jongwoo has tried so hard to suppress these four months after. Brings forth an affection that Jongwoo isn’t sure is just pretend anymore.  

“Follow me,” Jongwoo murmurs, as he brings his hand back down to the wound and rests his palm on the skin just below it—low on Moonjo’s belly, just brushing the curls of hair down there. He strokes gently with his thumb, observes the way Moonjo quivers under his touch. “Feel me,” he says. “Open yourself up as I do. And if you’re good, I’ll fuck you.” 

He shifts his touch and slips a finger into the wound. 

“Jagi—” Moonjo bites off his cry, instinctively flinching away from the pain of Jongwoo’s touch but then forcing his body to bend back, to yield to Jongwoo, to accept him. Jongwoo lets him lay there for a moment, panting and adjusting to the feeling of Jongwoo inside him in this strange, sick way, and then, out of curiosity, crooks his finger. 

Moonjo can’t hold back his cry this time. It’s a mix of pain and pleasure, as Jongwoo pulls him open again and as he crooks his own finger against his prostate to match Jongwoo’s movement, and he shudders, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the surge of sensation. There’s blood coating Jongwoo’s finger now, smearing onto the rest of his hand and the surrounding skin on Moonjo’s belly. It’ll end up getting onto the bed at this rate, but that’s fine. Jongwoo will permit it this time, if it’s for a cause like this. 

Jongwoo circles the edge of the wound with a second finger, hums approvingly as he sees Moonjo do the same between his legs. The other man is shaking and panting, but he’s doing as Jongwoo had asked, he’s being so good. 

“Let’s add another, babe,” Jongwoo murmurs. He slips a second finger in, widening the opening in Moonjo’s belly. It’s pulling at the stitches, but no matter; they hadn’t been neat to begin with, and Moonjo had wanted a scar. Moonjo moans under him, his head tilting back like he’s offering his throat for Jongwoo to take, offering up the part of him that he loves so much on Jongwoo. 

If he’s good. If he’s good to the end, and if Jongwoo feels like it, he’ll take it as Moonjo falls apart.  

He spreads his fingers slightly; the raw flesh slips easily under his touch. He guides Moonjo’s hand this way, making him spread himself out, making him rotate his fingers and tease at the sensitive spot inside himself, and Moonjo is still only two fingers in but his cock is wet and leaking between them, precum and blood making a mess on his belly. 

“What else do you want?” Jongwoo asks. “Tell me.” 

“Can I see you?” Moonjo whispers. Begs. His voice is a rasp. “I want to see you. Please.” 

That can be arranged. But better to tease him a little more; better to see how far Jongwoo can push him. Just for fun.  

“We’ll see,” is all Jongwoo says. He pushes at the wound with a third finger; it’s a bit too much for the size of the new opening he’d torn, and it hurts. Moonjo tenses under him with the pain of it and his inhale is a sharp gasp at the intrusion but he follows Jongwoo anyway, sticking a third finger inside himself from behind as Jongwoo does the same in front, and Jongwoo fucks the wound gently with his hand and Moonjo almost cries , his eyes squeezing shut and his voice pinched and high and sobbing. 

Jongwoo can’t go too deep; it wouldn’t do to worsen the wound to what it had been originally. But Moonjo can. So Jongwoo guides him in deeper, both of them pushing in time, further into the heat of his body, and Jongwoo spreads his fingers a little further and twists them a little harder, and Moonjo’s body jerks with the combination of pain and pleasure as blood and precum surge, and Jongwoo knows he’s ready.  

Jongwoo feels Moonjo tremble as he withdraws his hand from the wound. He holds Moonjo’s gaze as he licks the blood from his fingers, as he leans down and kisses the rip in his skin, as he ducks his tongue in and tastes the blood hot and fresh from its source.  

“Yes, babe,” Moonjo whispers breathlessly. “Drink me in. Take all of me; I’ll give it to you.” 

Jongwoo presses his lips to the wound and sucks.  

“Fuck, babe—” Moonjo gasps, his back arching. He’s so beautiful like this. And Jongwoo can't quite believe what he’s doing, that Moonjo whispers his name like he’s drowning and he’s lapping up Moonjo’s blood like he's parched, but he’s heady with it, and it runs hot and thick down his throat into his stomach. It almost burns him, the heat of it, and he’s drinking too much, and he has to rip himself away from the wound and surge up to bite into Moonjo’s throat instead so he can force himself to escape it, and then he’s shoving his fingers in the wound with one hand to stroke it like he’d stroked Jieun, like he wants to stroke Moonjo, shoving his pants and boxers down with the other to free his cock. 

Moonjo keens. Jongwoo feels the rigid tense of his muscles with the way Jongwoo’s touch is hurting him, but Moonjo doesn’t ask him to stop. So he keeps going, and when he manages to kick his pants all the way off he lines himself up between Moonjo’s shaking thighs and pushes himself in.  

God , the man is tight. Moonjo lets out another pinched cry as Jongwoo enters him, biting down on his bottom lip and squeezing his eyes shut, hands fisting in the sheets.  

It’s all a little fast. “Babe,” Moonjo manages. “Babe, too much.”  

Jongwoo doesn’t—can’t—hold back. Moonjo grunts as Jongwoo fucks fully into him, sheaths himself completely in Moonjo’s body. His fingers are still in the wound—practically in Moonjo’s gut—and he feels the shift of muscle, the rush of blood, as Moonjo forces his body to yield to him; he moans, burying his face into the crook of Moonjo’s neck. 

“Bite me,” Moonjo whispers. Begs.  

Jongwoo does. 

He chokes him, too, with the hand that isn’t making a mess of what had been a neat stab. He puts his palm around the other man’s throat and squeezes, until Moonjo’s gasping for air and his lips are paling, but he’s still so hard between them, his body bare and open, his thighs shaking as he wraps his legs around Jongwoo’s waist. 

He cries as Jongwoo fucks him. At some point Jongwoo pauses to rip his shirt off, and then they’re both naked, pressed against each other in a mess of pre and blood, and Jongwoo’s teeth are drawing more blood from Moonjo’s body, marking his shoulders, chest, throat. 

“Am I good?” Moonjo gasps. “Tell me I’m good. Tell me I’m better than her.” 

He’s better. 

Jongwoo won’t tell him. 

“Touch yourself,” Jongwoo says roughly, kissing Moonjo’s jaw, his throat, leaving dark smears of blood on pale skin. Releases his hold on Moonjo’s throat to caress his cheek instead. “Show me how you like it.” 

Moonjo bites his lip. He reaches down between them and wraps his hand around himself, thumbing over his slit, being particularly attentive to the underside. He’s trembling, but it’s not because of blood loss this time; he’s flushed cheeks to chest and he looks so hard Jongwoo knows it has to hurt. But he’s holding back; he’s listening. He’s waiting until Jongwoo lets him. 

Moonjo’s hand begins to move. He pumps it up and down, finding his rhythm, and Jongwoo finds it with him, driving his hips forward into Moonjo’s body in time with Moonjo fucking his hand. There are tears on his face as Jongwoo finds his prostate, and they bead so prettily on his lashes; his hair is splayed on the pillow like a halo. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth from where Jongwoo had kissed it and his eyes are dark, dark, dark, hungry . Jongwoo doesn’t think he’s every truly understood the meaning of desire before this moment. 

“Faster,” Moonjo pleads, and Jongwoo listens, as if he’s the one obeying now. It’s so much already. He brings a hand down between them to meet Moonjo’s touch on himself, feeling what Moonjo’s doing, learning what Moonjo likes, and Moonjo yields to him, lets Jongwoo set the pace with his hand over Moonjo’s and Moonjo’s around his cock. 

Moonjo’s breaking. Jongwoo can feel it. And Jongwoo’s breaking too; he’s feeling himself crack at the seams, falling apart, releasing like the stitches in Moonjo’s belly under his touch. He fucks hard into him, aiming for that bundle of nerves deep inside and knowing he hits it when Moonjo sobs, when Moonjo’s hands come up to clutch his shoulders and rake furrows into his skin, when Moonjo arches and turns to bury his face into Jongwoo’s hand at his cheek like he’s starving for Jongwoo’s touch and it’s not enough even with Jongwoo inside him. 

Jongwoo leans down over him, presses a thumb into the wound, slips his hand behind Moonjo’s neck and pulls him close.  

“I love you,” Moonjo says, like a prayer. 

Jongwoo's eyes close. He guides Moonjo’s lips to his neck, to the cartilage in his throat, and he hums as he feels Moonjo mouth at it, as he feels a shuddering graze of teeth, but the teeth don’t close yet. They’re waiting; they’re asking.  

“Go on,” Jongwoo murmurs, and Moonjo whimpers.  

“Go on, Moonjo-yah,” Jongwoo says again, encouraging, permissive, and the teeth sting now as they bite, and he feels Moonjo latch onto him like a fucking vampire as he sucks at Jongwoo’s throat, feels the hot rasp of his tongue, and Moonjo’s still breaking, and Jongwoo’s still fucking him, and Jongwoo presses a little harder into the wound in his belly and Moonjo moans, and it’s such a beautiful sound, such a raw sound, and Jongwoo’s so close now— 

“Good boy,” Jongwoo whispers, and Moonjo breaks. 

He comes with a powerful shudder, teeth tightening to draw blood and a helpless breath of Jongwoo’s name escaping his throat. Jongwoo feels the spurts of wetness on his hand, but he doesn’t stop, he keeps fucking into Moonjo until he’s coming too, his whole body tightening and releasing into Moonjo’s heat like he’s pulsing over and over and over until he’s finally spent and collapsed over Moonjo’s body. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s come this hard. Doesn’t remember the last time sex had left him with his heart racing like this, his pulse fluttering in his throat like a delicate bird and his lungs struggling to keep up. Doesn’t remember the last time he’d spilled into the heat of someone’s body and broken at the seams and yet still felt so beautifully complete at the end of it. 

They’re both a mess. 

It’s fucking disgusting. 

Jongwoo...doesn’t mind it. But— 

“We should get this cleaned up, honey,” Moonjo murmurs after a while, and his voice is hoarse. His fingers are light on Jongwoo’s throat; his touch stings now, against the raw skin, without the euphoria of orgasm to blunt the pain.  

Jongwoo pauses, gathers himself, forces himself to sit up. He runs his gaze over Moonjo’s body; over the blood, the come, the sweat, which had all mingled together. Reaches out to touch the old scar that curls itself over Moonjo’s collarbone, takes his hand to trace the one winding his forearm. 

“No one should have been allowed to do this,” he murmurs.  

Moonjo cracks a grin. “It’s alright. They’re all dead now,” he says. 

“No,” Jongwoo says. “They shouldn’t have done it in the first place. None of them should have been allowed to touch you.” His eyes raise to Moonjo’s, holding his dark gaze. “That’s my job,” he says. “You belong to me.” 

I love you , Moonjo had said. 

Jongwoo doesn't say it back. He doesn’t know if he ever will. But if he doesn’t, this is as close as he’s going to get, and the softness of the smile on Moonjo’s face tells him it’s enough. 

 

 

They shower. Moonjo cleans and bandages the wound he’d bitten on Jongwoo’s throat; Jongwoo does the same and fixes the stitches for the ones he’d torn on Moonjo’s body. They change the sheets—or rather, Jongwoo changes the sheets while he makes Moonjo sit and wait, because he’d just been stabbed three days ago and is looking a little too alarmingly pale and exhausted after sex. They kiss again, and a few more times because Moonjo looks so pathetically lost and helpless when Jongwoo draws back, and Jongwoo can see that the wound is still hurting him, especially more now that Jongwoo has torn it open again, so he has Moonjo take some more ibuprofen before they settle down for bed. Moonjo pauses a little as he takes the bottle out of the drawer, a flicker of—something—crossing his face before he swallows the pills and puts the bottle back.  

“Put it on me,” Jongwoo says, as Moonjo makes to close the drawer. 

Moonjo pauses. “What?” 

Jongwoo nods at the nightstand. He knows Moonjo knows what he’s talking about; he’d seen the change of expression just a moment ago. “Put it on me,” he repeats. “It’s hard to do the clasp myself.” 

He sees Moonjo swallow. But he’s right; Moonjo knows exactly what he’s talking about. He reaches into the back of the drawer, pulls out a silver chain. There are teeth dangling from it like charms; Jongwoo knows each of them by name. 

Moonjo looks reverent as Jongwoo presents his wrist to him. His movements are slow, as if he can’t quite believe what Jongwoo is requesting of him—which is stupid, Jongwoo thinks, because they literally just had sex. Which Jongwoo consented to. And thoroughly enjoyed. But he gets around to fastening the bracelet around Jongwoo’s wrist eventually, and his touch his tender, his lips soft and warm as he kisses Jongwoo’s palm. 

They cross the center line that night. In fact, they’re both laying across it together now, Moonjo on his back in the middle of the bed, Jongwoo curled against his side with his head on Moonjo’s chest. The arm with the bracelet is draped over his waist just a little above the fresh bandage and new stitching, in plain view for both of them.  

It’s peaceful; it’s home. A little piece of Eden that Jongwoo has somehow made his own.  

“I was right,” Jongwoo murmurs a little later, head still on Moonjo's chest, before the rhythm of Moonjo’s breathing lulls him to sleep.  

“Mm?” Moonjo’s voice tells him he’d been drifting off too, but he wakes for Jongwoo, and his eyes are soft. 

Jongwoo fingers the tooth he knows is Jieun’s. He realizes, with a bit of surprise, how ordinary it feels to him now, how unspecial ; he knows it’s hers just like he knows who all the other teeth belonged to. They’re all part of the same collection Moonjo had given to him like an offering—in a circle, evenly spaced and equally embellished, with no single tooth more important than any other.  

Even the thing that usually shakes inside him when he thinks of her is mostly quiet now. He still cares about her; he won’t let Moonjo touch her. He doesn’t think that will ever change. But he knows now, without grief or hesitation, that whatever they’d had is as dead as the root of her tooth after Moonjo pulled it from her mouth.  

“Jongwoo?” Moonjo’s voice is soft, probing.  

He tilts his head up to look at Moonjo. What they have, on the other hand—what they are —is different from anything he's had before; and it isn’t dead.

It’s just been born. 

He grins. “Thump-thump,” he says.

The dull, repetitive sound of a tennis ball. 

Of a heartbeat.