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Hongjoong stares down at the Basilisk in front of him.
It had managed to drag its talons across his stomach, moments after he had swung his sword, and Hongjoong clutches at the open wound with one hand.
His breathing is laboured, minutes too long in the plume of poisonous green. Hongjoong blinks away the haze starting to settle over his eyes.
He needs to end this. Soon.
Hongjoong exhales, forcing the Basilisk breath in his lungs out. He grips his sword, clutching at the hilt a little tighter, and lunges forward.
The Basilisk screeches, opening its jaw to reveal hideous, razor-sharp teeth. It reaches for Hongjoong, webbed wing coming from his right.
With the little strength he has, Hongjoong dodges the wing, and slides between its legs. Taking his hand away from his stomach, he spears his sword through the Basilisk’s underhide—tearing it from end to end.
The Basilisk dies with a piercing scream, echoing through the swamp, garbled and pitched.
It takes him a while, to get his bearings, to let his body heal enough for him to stop gushing blood. The poison lingers in his system well after Hongjoong drags his feet through the swamp, into the light of the town.
Its hide rests heavy on his shoulders, and Hongjoong ignores the stares the townspeople give him as he lumbers along on cracked cobblestone.
Teragaron isn’t new; it’s a small town that had established itself on Hongjoong’s journey West in his early years of hunting, with the merchants residing in the town being abnormally greedy of bounties hunted by Daemons.
Hide dumped at the doorstep of one of the easier merchants, Hongjoong takes the pouch of coins.
The Basilisk breath is still in his lungs, turning his skin a ghastly white tinged with green. Hongjoong turns the corner into a tight alleyway, leading to the tavern on the edge of town. It’s not frequented by the townspeople enough for the owners to care about a Daemon’s patronage.
“Get that Daemon out of here,” is what Hongjoong wakes up to.
There’s a woman standing over him, a tight line between her eyebrows. He can’t smell fear on her, as he does on others who come this close to him. Hongjoong blinks, the last of the Basilisk breath evaporating from his system.
“Leave,” she tells him, eyes a dark red.
He nods—offers a gruff, “Sorry,” before he places a few coins on the table he’d been sleeping on, quiet enough that the woman’s proprietor won’t hear.
She stares at the coins, a few seconds. Then, she looks up at him.
“White Rose,” she says, turning on her heels. “Go.”
It’s more kindness than he’s been shown in the past, and he’s not one to take it for granted. He leaves, doesn’t look back.
Hongjoong sits with his injuries in one of the rooms in White Rose—a tin of medicated cream in his hands.
The ointment will heal the majority of his cuts and bruises by first light, but the worst ones will take time. All he can do is wrap up his torso, and wait. He doesn’t pray that he’ll heal. He stopped doing that a long time ago.
It’s not long after Hongjoong finds himself in the same tavern, a mug of beer in his hands and a loaf of bread in front of him.
The bread is lavish, for an inn so far from the city, with cheese baked into the top, and herbs dotting the insides.
It’s a nice respite after weeks of nothing but cured meat and the occasional handful of berries.
He studies the other patrons, taking note of the human hunters, the way they narrow their eyes at him. He’s been on the receiving end of those stares since he emerged from the Valley all those years ago, white hair stained with his own blood.
As he sits, his mind’s eye examining each of his limbs to take stock of which injuries linger, he’s not surprised to feel his veins warming under his skin. It has been a while, he thinks. His last cycle had been—months ago, by now.
The beer disappears from the mug, and the bread vanishes from the plate. Hongjoong fishes out a few coins from inside his coat, spreading them on the table when the barmaid comes by to take his dishes away.
“Hey,” his voice is rough after weeks of solitude. He lets her balance the dishes on top of the stack already in her hands. “Any sareys nearby?”
The barmaid cocks her head, “A few. Looking for something in particular?”
“Erast. If there’s any.”
She nods. “Turn left at the parlor down the road, and you’ll find the district. The Skystead has one.”
Hongjoong tosses another gold coin onto the table. The warmth of rut seeps into the tips of his fingers. He taps along the wood, agitation beginning to settle under his skin.
It’s not often he cycles. The Trials had taken care of that. Slowed the volatility of his ruts—easier to be a killing machine when the desire to breed wasn’t overtaking him every month, for days at a time—but, it was long overdue. Hongjoong inhales, blinking away the pain in his abdomen when he stands.
The air is biting when he leaves the tavern. He tugs the thick cloth around his neck up to his nose—he breathes heavy, warming the skin of his face.
It’s hard to miss—the district. Omegas covered by next to nothing, scraps of fabric that offer no shield against the cold. Hongjoong bites back a snarl at the scent of drunk alphas, arousal seeping from their bodies in an ooze of heavy musk as they leer with wolfish grins.
Not now, he tells himself. Too injured.
The Trials took, and took, and took from him, but they had left pieces of his heart. Sensitive, Zersir had spat at him, more times than he could count. Soft.
Hongjoong exhales, and takes the steps up to the Skystead, masking his surprise at the distinguished air to the building. There’s no whores standing outside, calling for the attention of men and women alike. There’s no grime on the floors, no vague stickiness on the railings.
From the outside, it looks like any other inn.
Hongjoong schools his expression, and opens the door.
The first thing he sees is a woman sitting behind a counter, portraits of people pinned to the wood all round.
“Preference?” She asks before he can even say a word.
“Erast. Uh, receptacle,” he clarifies. Hongjoong had known that the barmaid was from the north, a slight accent to her words—one he recognized on his own. He doesn’t know if the woman in front of him now will understand the terms they use.
“Name.”
“Kim Hongjoong.”
“Here is your entrance paper. Seonghwa is our only receptacle. How long do you want him?”
It brings back a rush of memories, the name, and for a moment Hongjoong thinks his past has caught up.
No—he could never be in a place like this. He couldn’t.
Hongjoong shakes his head. The past is the past. He has to move on.
“Couple days. Can he leave?” It’s an unpleasant question to ask, but Hongjoong knows of omegas signing harsher contracts under tough circumstances. The last thing he wants to do is get one in trouble by inadvertently making them break the terms of their service.
“You can ask him. Seonghwa is a stubborn one.”
Hongjoong’s lips press together. It can’t be. Can it? “Thanks.”
“He will be out in a few. Make yourself comfortable.”
The couches lining the walls of the room are covered in red velvet, smooth to the touch if a little frayed at the edges.
There’s a small bar along one of the walls, and Hongjoong orders a glass of whiskey, furthering the fire lingering in his veins.
Hongjoong notices the scent first.
Receptacles always smell sweet. Pie, flowers, melted sugar dripping onto a plate of fresh fruit. Enticing. There’s an undertone of home to their scents, calling to an alpha’s instinct—persuading to turn them the family way.
This one smells of smoke and spice. A red pepper being roasted over an open flame in the woods at night.
And, Hongjoong’s eyes widen.
It can’t be.
When he turns the corner, the air in Hongjoong’s lungs is punched out.
“Seonghwa?”
Once dark brown, the strands of his hair are a deep pink. It’s longer, reaching down his back, braided together over his shoulder. Hongjoong’s fingers twitch, the ghost memories brushing over the skin of his hands.
He’s wearing a small black dress, slits on the side so deep Hongjoong has a clear view of his wide hips, a hint of his sex. Hongjoong has to crush the urge to keep staring with bloodied hands. There’s intricate lace strings running across his body, curving around the softness of his chest, and Hongjoong almost stumbles back at the sight—a stark difference to what Hongjoong remembers from years prior.
“What—” Seonghwa starts, eyes widening with shock.
Hongjoong gulps.
There’s a moment where neither of them speak. Simply staring at the other, trying to reconcile the present with their past.
“Seonghwa?” Hongjoong asks, again, voice coming out barely a whisper.
Seonghwa wraps his arms around his waist, slender shoulders shrinking further into himself. Hongjoong’s heart cracks inside his chest. “What are you doing here, Hongjoong?”
Hongjoong tries to ignore the way his heart races at the sound of Seonghwa’s voice. How many years has it been? Since he last heard that low alto, with annoyance and fondness intertwined into the particulars of his tone?
He stares at Seonghwa for a moment too long, and before he knows it—Seonghwa’s expression is twisting into one he has memorized. The one that says he’s going to start snapping at Hongjoong. Soon.
“Rut,” Hongjoong blurts out, mouth moving faster than his brain can compute. “My rut is starting.”
Seonghwa presses his lips together. Hongjoong thinks he can make out a hint of pink tinging Seonghwa’s face. “Oh.”
“What are you—” Hongjoong starts, pausing before he can finish. “I can—go. Somewhere else. I should go somewhere else.”
There’s another pause.
What does he say? What does one say to their childhood best friend that they slept with, a night before being taken to become a Hunter? What does one say to the omega whose virtue they took, without being given the chance to take responsibility?
Seonghwa takes a quick step forward. “Wait.”
Hongjoong stops, heart aching in his chest.
Seonghwa takes a deep breath, letting his arms fall to his sides. “I’ll help.”
Hongjoong grits his teeth—the beginnings of his rut have settled under his skin. He closes the door to the room he’s staying in, watching the sway of Seonghwa’s hips as the omega struts to the bed.
“How long do we have before it truly starts?” Seonghwa asks, leaning back onto his hands. Hongjoong’s coat drapes over his slender shoulders.
Hongjoong stands a few feet away. “Little under half a candle.”
Seonghwa nods.
They look at each for a moment, and Hongjoong’s mind blanks. He’s not new to this—hiring an omega for his rut, or even just to release some pent up energy. He knows the unspoken rules, and the way it goes.
With Seonghwa, it’s different.
There’s history, a past, between them. Hongjoong will never forget the heartbreak on Seonghwa’s face, all those years ago, when Hongjoong had been dragged out of his house, and thrown to the wolves.
Hongjoong takes in a shuddering breath.
Seonghwa’s scent invades every part of the room, lingering on their clothes, threading its way into the sheets. Hongjoong wonders, how had he gone so long without it? How had he lived without Seonghwa for so long?
Seonghwa stares up at him, golden eyes piercing. “Good?” He asks, and something shifts in him—gold darkens to amber, and he leans back onto his hands, legs shifting apart just enough for Hongjoong to see the beginnings of the ink above his sex.
Hongjoong swallows around nothing, taking a step forward without meaning to. At his sides, where they hang, his hands twitch.
Seonghwa’s eyes widen, almost imperceptibly.
Hongjoong takes another step.
Seonghwa inhales, sharp.
Hongjoong pauses, then, because all he can remember is Seonghwa—younger, unmarked. Blushing with a soft smile on his face, as he traced a finger along the length of his chest. Remembers leaning him back onto his bed, with no worries, and no ink on his skin.
Hongjoong squeezes his eyes shut, nausea washing over him, drowning him.
His heart bounces into his throat, and his skin crawls with guilt.
Even after all these years, he can feel the texture of Seonghwa’s skin on the tips of his fingers. He clenches his hands into fists.
“Wait. Wait—Seonghwa, just… stop, for a second,” Hongjoong rambles, stepping away from the bed, until his back hits the wall. The distance does nothing to ease the heat in his veins from Seonghwa’s scent.
Seonghwa bites the inside of his cheek; he curls into himself, slowing down the pheromones he’s pumping into the air. “Hongjoong? Is—is everything okay?”
And, Hongjoong shakes his head.
Because, “No. No, it’s not okay.”
How can Seonghwa be so calm about this? How can he be so nonchalant about what’s happening? Does he not remember? All those years ago?
“I left you, Seonghwa,” his voice cracks, and he can’t bear to bring his eyes up off the ground.
How does Seonghwa not care? Hongjoong had left Seonghwa, taken and defiled, all alone—to deal with the consequences. Seonghwa was in that brothel because of him. Because of Hongjoong. All because Hongjoong hadn’t been alpha enough to mate him that night.
All because Hongjoong hadn’t told him how he felt.
What had Seonghwa had to endure, during all these years?
Alpha after alpha, marked by ink of black, unable to escape because Hongjoong had wronged him.
“I left you.”
Hongjoong pulls at his hair, long enough to come down to his shoulders, until it burns at his scalp.
It becomes some sick, twisted version of a prayer. “I left you. I left you.”
Minutes or hours—Hongjoong doesn’t know, soft hands come to rest on his shoulders.
A warm forehead touches against Hongjoong’s, and all he hears is the quiet whispers of Seonghwa’s voice. “Oh, Hongjoong. Sweet, dumb alpha.”
The panic settled into his chest subsides; Seonghwa leads Hongjoong to the bed, one hand wrapped around one of Hongjoong’s, and the other pushes him onto the soft mattress. Fingers brush at his cheeks, and Hongjoong manages the courage to look up.
Hongjoong comes face to face with Seonghwa’s golden, swirling with emotions Hongjoong cannot begin to unravel.
Thick thighs bracket Hongjoong’s as Seonghwa settles into his lap. “What,” Hongjoong sputters. “Seonghwa, what are you—”
A gentle glare silences any protests. “Shut up. You talked. Now, it’s my turn.”
Seonghwa’s hands find themselves at the back of Hongjoong’s neck, playing with the hair there—always tactile. “You think I believe you’re responsible for our situation? For all this?”
Hongjoong swallows the lump in his throat. “Yes. Because I am, Seonghwa—”
Seonghwa pinches his cheek. “Always so quick to blame yourself.”
Hongjoong frowns.
“I was there, Hongjoong,” Seonghwa tells him, soft and caring. In quieter moments, Seonghwa is soft with Hongjoong. That is one thing that’s never changed. “Don’t you remember? I watched as they dragged you away. I saw the look on your face.”
Hongjoong inhales sharply.
He had forgotten that part.
The Trials had altered his body, changed the very substance of his material being.
What he hadn’t realized—they had altered his mind, as well. He hadn’t forgotten Seonghwa; he could never forget Seonghwa. Hongjoong would know Seonghwa while blind, and deaf. He would know Seonghwa by the weight of his feet on soft earth, by the way his hands touched.
Seonghwa smiles, a sad, melancholic sort of smile. “My sweet, dumb alpha. What did they do to you?”
Hongjoong’s trembling hands clutch the fabric of Seonghwa’s dress, desperate and guilty and confused.
“You told me something,” Seonghwa starts, and it’s the first time his voice has wavered. “The morning after, while they rounded up the pups. Do you remember?”
Hongjoong shakes his head.
The details are lost to him.
He remembers the first night in the woods, and remembers the ache in his chest when he woke with a hazy memory of dark brown hair, of golden eyes.
He remembers Seonghwa’s anguish.
“‘I will find you. Wait for me,’” Seonghwa says. “That’s what you told me, when they whipped you, and chained you to the cart with the other pups.”
Hongjoong’s hands tighten in the fabric, distorting it with his grip. “I did?”
Seonghwa nods.
Hongjoong blinks against the wetness in his eyes. That’s new. He hasn’t cried since the first night. Since they had ripped him away from Seonghwa.
Seonghwa smiles, nuzzles his nose against Hongjoong’s. “You found me, Hongjoong-ah. I’m here.”
Hongjoong inhales, sharp. “I’m sorry it took so long.”
Seonghwa shakes his head. “You’re just in time.”