Chapter 1: one
Chapter Text
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a summer reign;
The daisy never dies!from The Daisy by James Montgomery, 1806
The day his grandmother died, Seonghwa planted mint around her heirloom red roses.
As a child, he'd dreamt about doing it many times. He'd spent days researching all the ways he could destroy the bush she worked so hard to keep flourishing, while sitting in his room upstairs with nothing but the gardening books she forced upon him and a perfect view of that perfect symbol of everything he would never have.
Despite her, and despite himself… he does love gardening. He loves being able to nurture something and watch it grow. He looks back on some of the memories fondly, reading those books out of resentment and finding seeds of peace and joy within the pages.
But even after taking over her nursery as she'd expected of him, he still hates roses.
He won't remain here long enough to watch them wither, slowly dying without their pollinators and having their nutrients stolen by the very plants keeping them away... but knowing they would without intervention is enough. It has to be, because he doesn't want to live in this house anymore. He never really had in the first place.
He has spent most of the past week since her death boxing up her valuable collections to send away to be sold at auction. Today, he's finally come to his childhood room. He'd put it off, not because of any sort of lingering fear or anger, but because there is none.
The heavy oak door, painted pristine white to match the rest of the prissy old house, is the same as every other in all ways but one. Faint divots under the paint, four in total, evenly spaced. The place where the bracket which held the lock on the outside once was.
He pulls the door silently open and feels empty as he looks at the barren space with walls painted a fading blush that once matched the bright hue of a stargazer lily. A familiar floor to ceiling white bookshelf stands patiently on the right, and a twin bed with white sheets and a yellow blanket sleeps to the left.
He goes to the bookshelf and looks over the sun-faded titles. He smiles wistfully as his eyes roll over the few ravaged books about caring for roses, spines so worn the titles are illegible. Tugging them out of place, he looks them over reverently before placing them gently into the cardboard box he brought with him, his name neatly penned on the outside so it doesn't get mixed in with the things he is sending away.
He spends some time carefully packing away the books, occasionally flipping through one as he recalls some distant thing or another he wants to remember exactly. By the time they're all in the box, the sun has moved to tell him it's around noon, shining proudly through the large picture window. There is only one text that remains.
He looks to the other side of the room. The maple upright dresser handpainted with yellow stars and white daisies, his birth flower, stands next to the bed. One of the only things left of his mother in this house. He scarcely remembers her anymore. She is only a sweep of dark hair and the scent of fresh cut flowers and vanilla.
He corners the dresser and dutifully opens the bottom drawer, pulling out neatly folded sweaters until he finds the one he is looking for. Bright blue, just a little too dark to be the color of the sky. His favorite one which he was never allowed to wear, simply because he chose it himself. He unfolds it and pulls his delicate prize from inside, the title still a comfort in simple black print.
'Flowers and History: A Compendium of Meanings'
He opens the plain white paperback cover and reads the typed dedication for the millionth time in his life;
'For my shining star.'
He smiles. Pulling on the ill-fitting and defiant blue sweater, he settles in the chair near the open window to read it through just as he had countless times before. This time, pleasant yellow daylight shines on the pages instead of the secret white of the moon, and the unpleasant blend of emotion is gone as he glances out the window at the too-proud red roses.
He gets lost in the manuscript until his eyes grow heavy, until his head is bobbing with the effort to stay awake. He realizes, eyes fluttering, that he can simply drift away without fear of being found like this. He is alone in the house, so he lets himself fall into a pleasant dream of fields and flowers, of love and laughter.
He wakes with the ringing echo of a lilting giggle he doesn't recognize.
The window is still open, now to the cool night air and the shy crescent moon winking at him. He breathes deep, at peace after a moment of disorientation. He pulls his sleeves down to cuddle into them further, then realizes his hands are empty.
He sits up, assuming his beloved book has fallen to the floor.
It's gone.
Chapter 2: two
Summary:
Something lost is found, and more is gained.
Chapter Text
As in an often laundered children's smock,
cast off, its usefulness now all but over,
one senses running down a small life's clock.
Yet suddenly the blue revives, it seems,
and in among these clusters one discovers
a tender blue rejoicing in the green.from Blaue Hortensie (Blue Hydrangea) by Ranier Maria Rilke, 1906
translated from German by Bernhard Frank
For the entire weekend, Seonghwa searches high and low, starting with the likely places and working his way into less and less probable ones. His mother's manuscript has vanished. The only explanations left are the ones that make him feel he must surely be going insane, but he swears he can feel his grandmother's corpse laughing at his distress.
There is no place left to look.
The only other people who knew that book existed are dead. His mother hadn't come to claim it in all the years she'd been resting cold and buried. His grandmother, though… maybe her insidious ghost is back to torment him one final time.
He shakes off the thought, refusing to entertain ideas of ghouls being real, and tries to accept the unexplainable loss. Tears prickle his tired eyes after looking under the chair in his childhood room for the fifth and final time. Maybe reading it again had all simply been a dream.
It seems silly that he would grieve an unpublished book more than he ever has a person passing away, but… that book was everything to him as a child. He's memorized the lovingly typed pages, but he knows that he will start to lose those memories just as he'd lost his mother's features and her voice.
He cries in the shower, surrounded by porcelain and fading blue floral-patterned vinyl, staring down the single seedling dandelion in the blooming chaos and wishing to stop. The same way he always did growing up in this house so he wouldn't be punished for showing any emotion that wasn't respect for his elders. He tells himself the fact that he can't let himself cry anywhere else is fine, actually. It's not as though there is anyone in his life who would want to know he is unhappy.
He dresses after and goes to work at the nursery, which he'd renamed from 'Flora's Garden' to 'Flora's Secret' the second he inherited it. His grandmother had been furious at his insolence in between her bouts of dementia, claiming that he would kill her legacy, and it gave him a level of sick satisfaction that he knows is probably wrong.
He'd thought it funny, if a little dark. He had been a secret. None of the regulars knew she'd even had a grandson, despite the fact that he'd worked at her nursery near as long as he could hold a trowel.
He'd made one other change that had, in fact, hurt the business… but by the time he got to that one she'd been too far gone to care about it. Flora's Secret no longer sells red roses, no matter how lucrative they are.
When people ask, they are often disappointed. Some even yell, desperate for a single scarlet bloom to apologize to their jilted lover. He tries to direct them to flowers more appropriate for that purpose; soft pink carnations, white tulips, or blue hydrangeas.
Nobody wants to hear it. He doesn't really mind. Red roses are the most overblown, misinterpreted flower, and have become ultimately meaningless because of movies and valentine's day. They are now everyone's go-to for any reason. He won't compromise on this, no matter how many people leave bad reviews.
The day at work goes like any other, Mondays especially slow for business. He works alone, tends to his plants, singing to them quietly. They flourish under his careful touch. A few people come in looking for custom bouquets or seed packets, but he is mostly left to grieve his lost book and work in peace.
He closes up shop and heads back to his grandmother's house with only a couple hours of daylight left, and goes straight to the garden to check on those plants as well. They don't need much tending, but he keeps up with it anyway. A habit that won't leave him.
The routine isn't a comfort, it is simply what he does. Starting with the vainglorious and pristine white hydrangeas under his childhood bedroom window, he plucks the dead buds and leaves, clears the ground of any sprouted weeds, checks each plant for bugs. He collects snails into a bin.
This time, instead of disposing of the snails in the sewer as he was taught, he delicately places each snail onto the rose bush. As he lovingly waters the freshly planted mint below, smiling at the barely perceptible wilt to the rosebuds, he hears rustling behind him and turns.
There's nobody there.
He scans the neatly planted lines of the lush garden, looking for a rabbit or stray cat. Nothing is out of place, no movement. He must be hearing things. He turns back to his watering.
A few seconds later, more rustling. He turns again, on high alert, scanning the direction the sound came from with sharp eyes. There is movement this time, and he carefully walks toward it, near the white hydrangeas. The movement is gone by the time he gets there, no sign of whatever caused it. It must have been an animal.
He pivots to go back to his routine, and sucks in a breath. On the table in the middle of the paving stones sits his mother's manuscript, standing on end. Clearly placed there with purpose. Next to it sits a handful of large blackberries, still on their vine.
He rushes over and picks up the book, clutching it carefully to his chest. He doesn't touch the berries, wary. He looks around again, eyes seeking whoever may have placed it here, and finds nothing but the still evening air. The walled garden is strangely quiet now, as though even the wind is holding it's breath.
He debates with himself for a while, looking around even though nobody is there. He feels watched, despite the fact that no eyes are on him. He's alone in the garden. He stares down at the blackberries. He isn't going to eat them, but ultimately decides to pick them up, curiosity besting his fear.
He examines the vine of berries, rolling the sharply cut stem between his fingers so they spin like a slow carousel. They are the truest black of any blackberry he has ever seen, no trace of blue or red shining on them even backed by the descending evening sun. The vine is the most interesting part; it's a true green, firm and proud, but sparkles with a sheen of gold as though fine glitter has been sprinkled over it. It looks unreal, like fruit from a dream.
Despite himself, he wonders if it would taste like a dream, too. A whisper in his chest assures him that it will, some deeper instinct knowing things he cannot. He decides to take the berries inside with him, certain somehow that it is safe. That deep feeling flickers like a flame with approval, and he knows he's making the right choice.
He turns to take the gift inside, in a trance. As he passes below his bedroom window, he is shaken from his intoxicated stupor by a sight even less likely than dream-berries on a glittering vine.
His grandmother's white hydrangeas have turned blue.
Chapter 3: three
Summary:
The dawn of understanding blooms.
Chapter Text
'I could tell you my adventures - beginning from this morning,' said Alice a little timidly: 'but it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.'
from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll, 1865
A week passes, and Seonghwa is sure he must be losing his mind.
In that space of time, the hydrangeas have changed colors several times, and if he weren't trying his hardest not to notice… he might think they were trying to talk to him.
Not literally. He's thankfully not so far gone he is hearing things. Yet.
But…
That first evening, they'd turned blue, coinciding with the return of his precious lost pages of flower meanings. Like an apology.
The next morning, he'd glanced in the garden to see if they were still blue, and had taken a deeply relieved breath when he found they had returned to their blank, emotionless white… only for them to then turn a deep, unmistakable purple before his eyes.
He'd run to work, trying to forget, but when he'd returned home to find them still standing tall and as truly purple as the sun is bright, he'd checked the book. Purple hydrangeas have a perplexing meaning, according to his mother's typed description:
'Often used to express a deep desire for understanding, or a profound sense of connection.'
The flowers wanted to understand him. Sure. He'd assumed it was some sort of fluke to do with the acidity of the soil; hydrangeas can be changed on a spectrum from white to purple by changing the pH content, he's done it before at the nursery… it just usually takes much longer.
He'd gone about his week, trying to be satisfied with that explanation, and still the hydrangeas kept waffling between purple and blue, sometimes a mix of both. He continued to tend the garden as usual, and by Friday he was sure he must be right.
He'd gone inside that evening, nearly convinced, setting his keys on the counter next to the dream-like blackberries that he had also been ignoring; they hadn't aged a day or showed a single sign of rot since he brought them inside.
And that brings him to this morning, sitting in the garden as the sun slowly brightens the day, staring at the traitorous flowers that have now turned half yellow, blending with the purple and blue blooms. Yellow is impossible. Yellow is a different species of hydrangea.
As he unfortunately recalls from the page about hydrangeas which he had shamefully read at least thirty times this week, yellow represents friendship and joy. Together, the bouquet of colors would mean something like 'I'm sorry, please let me get to know you.'
If the flowers were trying to talk to him. Which is insane. Not to mention impossible.
"Are you trying to talk to me?" he whispers nervously into the quiet rustling of plants in the mild breeze, after struggling with his thoughts for too long.
He watches the hydrangeas closely for a time. When nothing changes, the flowers remaining their strange multicolored smattering, he decides he's done with his grandmother's garden. The realtor can hire someone to tend it if they care enough about it. He's clearly gone mad from the monotony, or from grief, or something.
He blusters his way to the porch, determined to call the realtor and forget about all this—
Just inside the door, on the time-faded entry mat, rests a single carnation. Unbidden, meaning strikes him. Solid color; 'yes.' Bright pink; 'thank you.'
"What the fuck." He breathes.
Seonghwa looks around the room, wild-eyed. There is nothing. Nobody there, not a thing out of place but for the immaculate pink bloom. He peers at it a little closer, bending to inspect it. The sunlight catches it just right, and he notices the unnatural sheen of dreamy gold glitter on the too-green stem—
No. He can't do this.
He steps over it, scrambles to the counter for his keys and cell phone, and bolts from the house.
Chapter 4: four
Summary:
What do you do when everything is impossible and true?
Chapter Text
You can call
It a fear of heights, a horror of the deep;
But it isn't the unfathomable fall
That makes me giddy, makes my stomach lurch,
It's that the ledge itself invents the leap.from Fear of Happiness by A.E. Stallings, 2010
Seonghwa impulsively stays at a motel for two days, but the yawning ache of his empty wallet and lack of any of his personal belongings leaves him no choice but to return to the house.
The strange happenings hadn't followed him to the motel, and he's not sure how to feel about that.
On one hand, it means his bout of insanity was localized to the building; a blessing, to be sure. On the other hand… maybe he was never insane to begin with. The implications of that are even further treading towards terrifying.
Would he prefer insanity to the idea that someone or some thing had truly been communicating to him with the plants, unseen and impossible?
Seonghwa thinks he might.
As he drives back to the house, desperate for a change of clothes, he does his best to ignore the swirling childish suggestions of magic and madness that pad the edges of his anxiety. He can't entertain those fantastical dreams, long thought dead and rotting along with his boyish want for his grandmother's approval.
He finds he was very wrong about the deceased state of his decaying boyhood ideas as he opens the door to find the carnation still pretty and pink and flourishing on the mat. He braves touching it after glaring at it for a good amount of time, angry that it would defy logic and nature this way, forcing him to confront his beliefs.
As he picks it up, just as with the blackberries before, something inside him whispers with approval and an assurance of safety. He places it next to the berries on the counter along with his keys and phone. It's too pink, too green, too ethereal. The berries and the carnation both ever-ripe and ever-blooming together as if to mock him.
He sighs, tears biting, and retreats once more to the shower and it's single seedling dandelion; this time for the loss of something true, or maybe the return of something long thought lost.
Seonghwa wants to believe that perhaps someone is fucking with him, or that maybe the foul spectre of his grandmother truly has cursed him. It would be easier than what his eyes and senses and bones are trying to tell him. His fanciful thoughts swirl painfully to life ever further as each day he experiences yet more impossible and strange things.
The first day, it's red yarn strung with hazelnuts and hag stones tied to the entry door, the scent of ripe lemon so strong it stings his eyes once he enters the house. He entertains the idea of a stalker or madman, until he looks at the kitchen counter and is reminded once again of the unnatural way the berries shine and the carnation blooms with defiant gratitude.
The second day, he finds bundles of unwilting comfrey tied with indigo ribbon in his coat pockets. He is compelled to leave them there, because it just feels like the wrong decision to remove them.
That evening, while packing up some more things, Seonghwa finds a box. Inside there is colored sidewalk chalk, his mother's perfume, and an old childhood journal of his. It had been tucked high on a bookshelf, out of reach of his younger self. He takes yet another shower after remembering all the things his grandmother took from him.
That night, he wakes before dawn to the sound of glass breaking, and runs downstairs to find his grandmother's most worn shoes have been taken from a sealed box labeled 'donate' and stuffed to bursting with nails and the broken glass of a framed photo from her living room wall. One where she glares proudly over the room. The black and white photo, now torn and defiled, has been smeared happily with chalk. He laughs despite the fear he feels.
"Please don't break anything else." He pleads into the empty air as he cleans up the mess, feeling hysterical and buzzing with adrenaline. He throws everything away, but on an impulse he plucks the tattered, chalky photo from the trash before he closes the lid, and hangs it back in it's place on the wall with a nail from one of the shoes.
The rest of the week is mostly calm in the wake of that anxious night, but every day he comes home from work to find trinkets on his doorstep. Pretty things. Colored glass marbles, unblemished sand dollars, tiny corked bottles full of brightly colored thread, pristine white river stones. The kitchen window sill where he puts them is nearing full by the weekend.
On Saturday, he goes outside to check on the garden for the first time since he ran from the pink carnation. Nothing is amiss, aside from the still-multicolored hydrangea. He begins his routine there, like he used to, but finds that the plant is going strong in his absence, and the snails and weeds have avoided the area around it completely. This doesn't surprise him, his nerves somewhat used to the strangeness by now.
He thinks about everything as he works, trying to sort through his thoughts and glean some understanding of this insane situation.
He's pretty sure he's not crazy. There's too much physical evidence beyond the weird talking flowers, now. It's too real and too consistent for it to be in his head.
His theory about a haunting or curse from his grandmother was destroyed with her photo. She was too vain to ever do something so… playful.
If it's a stalker or madman, then he maybe he has lost it… because he doesn't really mind. The small gifts and other things seem largely harmless, if not sort of sweet. They haven't expressed any sort of threat. To him, anyway. The nails and glass in his grandmother's shoes had a pretty clear message. One he agrees with fully, even if she's already dead.
Sitting at the table in the center of the garden, he contemplates the idea of a person being responsible for this. What he should do if that is the case. He considers calling the police, although he doesn't really want to, and laughs sourly at the idea. They would think him insane, anyway. Some of the things that have happened are too outlandish for even him to believe. There's no way the police would listen to him.
And so, he's back where he keeps ending up.
A person isn't capable of breaking glass, stuffing shoes full of it, scribbling disrespect on a photo and escaping… all in the time it takes for him to go from upstairs to down. It hadn't even taken a full thirty seconds. The hydrangeas are still impossible, two separate species of plant in one… and the berries and carnation are still in full, gleaming health weeks from anything they should need to survive.
It has to be something supernatural. However impossible that is.
Seonghwa leaves the garden half-tended and spends the rest of his afternoon at the library.
Chapter Text
And be you great or be you small,
There's no way out but going through it.
Oh, curious fate that makes us live,
But will not teach us how to do it!
from Traveler's Ditty by Miriam Allen deFord, 1923
Seonghwa spends his Sunday morning out of the house, shopping. His entire afternoon is then spent baking hard-crusted bread and honey cookies. As the sun starts to fall, he runs out to the garden to gather flowers for a bouquet.
He read a lot of things at the library. Between the tiny section on the paranormal, witchcraft, even world religion… he did his best to learn as much as he could, though not much sense came from it. The only thing that was clear to him is that every supernatural being, from lowly ghosts all the way to the stature of gods, apparently like offerings of home baked goods and alcohol.
He feels a bit stupid, once the two-seat kitchen table is finally set. He'd gone all out with a sky blue table cloth, lace doilies under the plates heaped with cookies that are drizzled with fresh honey. Bread cooling on a decorative rack. Spiced wine in a glass, the bottle there in case it's not enough.
In the center of the table, his small collection of communicative flowers rest in a crystal vase. He hopes that expressing himself this way works, since it seems to be his shadow's preferred way to talk to him. Double-flowered aster; 'I return your sentiment.' Daisies, his birth flower, for some vulnerability and to express innocent playfulness. White chrysanthemum; 'this is the truth.'
He feels childish, even shameful, looking at the spread of his effort to put faith in the impossible. But he looks over at the window sill full of days of undeniable proof and breathes through his discomfort.
"I, um… I don't know if you're there, but… I made this for you. I hope you like it." He says, trying to be brave, even as his voice echoes back at him in the kitchen to remind him he is alone. He waits, breathing as quiet as he can for a time, hoping something will happen. Nothing does.
The next morning when he comes down to leave for work, Seonghwa drags his eyes anxiously over his juvenile attempt at connection, and loses his breath.
The cup of wine is empty. The bread is cracked open and the soft middles gone, crust left behind. The cookies have disappeared, not even crumbs left, only small globs of honey remain as proof they ever existed. The flowers are gone, too. In their place, there is a rolled up parchment tied with familiar indigo ribbon sticking out of the vase.
Seonghwa carefully extracts the parchment, opting to slide the ribbon off rather than ruin the perfect bow. Unrolling it reveals a question in beautiful script somehow drawn of blue sidewalk chalk;
'Can I have your name?'
He chuckles at the phrasing, not quite the way people talk.
"Well, you can't have my name, it's not a thing I can give to you. But you can know it. My name is Seonghwa. I hope you'll tell me yours someday." He says, more sure than ever that someone is listening. He smiles, looking around the room, before he catches himself and squashes it, feeling silly.
"I'm off to work. Um… yeah. Okay. Goodbye." He says, awkward, then rushes out with his steps lighter than they have been in weeks.
Seonghwa bounces his way happily through the morning, talking with customers more cheerfully than usual, but he ends up closing the nursery early and going to the toy store, struck suddenly by an idea.
He shuffles inside the house around two in the afternoon with his haul in hand, quickly clearing the kitchen table while humming the tune to a random pop song he heard on the radio, and sits down to work on his task.
He pulls the pretty brown and green box from the brightly colored bag, smiling as he cuts it open and sets to work, meticulously piecing together the orange LEGO chrysanthemum. He may not be able to create magical everlasting flowers, but he can put all of his effort and joy into making this one for his mysterious companion to keep.
By the time he's finished, it's almost four in the afternoon. He knows he could have finished faster, but he took his time to make sure it was perfect. Leaning back to inspect his handiwork, he smiles tensely at it, trying not to let the feeling of accomplishment sour with the sense of foolishness he tends to get when he does anything fun.
In the end, he has to step away from it so he doesn't throw the whole thing away. He disposes of the trash and does the dishes from before, distracting himself with chores.
His grandmother may not be here to make his life hell over choosing to do something that would bring him joy, especially at the expense of the nursery… but the feelings she used to impart still linger like the thin coat of paint over them hasn't dried.
When he finishes his chores, he goes upstairs to take a shower and decompress, trying to let himself be happy. He comes out of the bathroom freshly scrubbed and still feeling discontented, and lays down to try and just go to bed early. Surely, when he wakes, he'll be able to convince himself that the chrysanthemum wasn't a stupid idea.
He manages to sleep for a couple of fitful hours, but wakes up around the time he would normally go to bed, starving. He never ate dinner, he realizes, in his excitement to build the flower.
He shuffles downstairs, and flips on the kitchen light, tiredly making his way to the fridge to see if anything looks appealing. He agonizes, blinking his eyes into focus, and eventually settles on a very enticing bag of shredded cheddar cheese and a container of deli turkey. It will do.
He turns around, turkey wrapped shredded cheese burritos in hand, and freezes mid-bite.
There's someone sitting at the dining table, watching Seonghwa with curious eyes. The man is so unnervingly still that Seonghwa almost hadn't seen him, frozen like time stopped him alone in place.
Seonghwa starts to wonder if he is even real with how static he is, like a photo, caught. After a period of staring, the man suddenly tilts his head. Seonghwa warbles out a pathetically shocked sound, not quite a scream, dropping his sad little dinner onto the kitchen floor. Cheese scatters every which way as the turkey lands with a wet plop.
The strange man looks at Seonghwa keenly, a question in his gaze, like he is trying to figure something out. His eyes alone are wildlfire, but his face is otherwise blank; eyebrows unruffled, pretty lips resting neutral. He is captivating with dark hair hanging in his darker flicker-flame eyes. Features sharp and soft all at once. His frame is small but his presence is huge, now that Seonghwa has seen him.
Neither of them say anything, and after what feels like minutes of more inhuman stillness from the ethereal man, Seonghwa has to blink.
He is gone.
Notes:
In case anyone is interested, here is the vibe playlist I made for this story
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3cbX51m3x9cQPyoBFIG48A?si=3JHBCK4xQgK4T3phzEhv1w&pi=L4seYQ8CTxyYX
Chapter 6: six
Summary:
Gone does not mean lost.
Chapter Text
Darkness is not the loss but the thing misplaced,
not the hammer but the nail in its curved emergence
from wood's grasp, not the storm's insurgence
but the limbs broken off from their miraculous
suspension in a storm out far, beyond us.
Darkness is not about hearts, imperfect as they are,
but what leaks through their incorrigible doors, not the stars
but the glissade or glide of their dust.from Forgiving the Darkness by Alice B. Fogel, 1996
Nothing happens.
The trinkets on the doorstep stop appearing. There are no more incidents of ribbon-tied bundles in pockets, or charming notes of fanciful script written with childhood chalk.
Seonghwa wonders if he did something wrong, or simply imagined the whole thing. He spends too much time after that bizarre night in the kitchen with a miserable routine of hoping, ignoring the real estate company's pestering calls and waiting with sad smiles for the magic to return.
He feels strangely bereft, left adrift without the unusual happenings to look forward to when he gets home from work. It's odd, because a mere fortnight ago he had been running terrified from all of this. Now, he desperately wants it back… but he can't even properly recall the face of the curious spectre at the dining table.
He dreams day and night of blazing black eyes, but when he grasps for the memory of the man's face, it's like he can't see all of it at once. He gets the concept of shape, the wispy color of dark ash or a flash of petal pink. Only the eyes are clear.
In the evenings, Seonghwa finds himself sitting out in the garden or at the kitchen table, aching and waiting to catch a glimpse of otherworldliness, or perhaps a whisper on the wind. He sometimes thinks he should say something, see if the shadow-man is listening… but he thinks himself out of it every time.
He isn't clever enough to charm, nor does he want to ask for something not knowing what it is he even wishes for. He doesn't know why he was given the opportunity to glimpse a face, and feels guilty that he can't remember the gift of it clearly. There are too many things unknown, and there is too much aimless feeling inside himself.
On the seventh day of nothing, he fishes the comfrey bundles from his pockets, and rolls the note back into it's perfect indigo bow. He packs them away with the trinkets, carnation and berries. As he seals the bright and spoiling memories in a cardboard box, his expectations and quivering hope die out as quickly as they had taken root.
Seonghwa learned long ago not to want, but it doesn't make the letting go any easier. He invites the insistent real estate company to send someone over, trying to hurry his heart to harden. Beginning to cut the strings that keep him tied in the haunted memories of this house doesn't bring relief. He'd already had his plans to escape laid out, only postponed by the beautiful whimsy that hadn't been his to keep.
He should have known better than to swallow, no matter how invitingly the capricious bait wriggled on the hook.
"Huh. I appreciate your enthusiasm for making a space your own, but that will have to come down if you want this place to sell." Jung Wooyoung: Real Estate Manager says, motioning emphatically to the chalk-dusted photo of the house's late owner nailed to the living room wall.
"Of course. You're the professional." Seonghwa says meekly, nodding in shamed agreement, a careful smile on his face as his mind flinches away from the deranged memory of hanging it.
"Aw! You're too sweet." The audacious man smiles, pawing at Seonghwa's shoulder.
"Are we moving forward with the auctions, then?" He adds, pivoting to the next task with a grace only the desperate can afford, dollar signs in his eyes.
"Yes… um. I don't know how valuable this stuff is, but I have no need for any of it. You can offer up anything that is labeled for sale or donation."
"Oh, babe, you sure know the way to a man's heart. Ask me to dinner while you're at it!" Wooyoung says, winking playfully and then beginning to rifle through the boxes, taking photos of various items he finds and sending them off to interested parties.
"Right…" Seonghwa laughs awkwardly, sure that the man must flirt this way with every single client, and leaves him to his pilfering. He uses the opportunity to take down the offending photo and tuck it away into one of his personal boxes, shame and bitterness staining his cheeks hot with color.
"Um… do you want something to drink? I have water or tea." Seonghwa asks, trying for an excuse to be elsewhere, uncomfortable. Wooyoung hums thoughtfully, checking his watch.
"Actually, I should get going. I have another appointment after this." He says.
Seonghwa sighs, and hopes it doesn't sound as relieved as it is. Wooyoung is nice enough, but Seonghwa has a hard time with people, just generally. He's not good at this.
"Okay. Thank you for taking the time to come here. I wouldn't know what to do with… well. Any of this." He motions to the room at large. Wooyoung chuckles, moving toward the door. Seonghwa trails behind him.
"It's my job to know a lot of things. Sort of like how I know my next client won't be nearly as hot as you." He asserts, producing a matte black business card printed with clean white text, pressing it to Seonghwa's chest with two fingers. Seonghwa gapes at him.
"Seriously. Call me." He winks, pulling his sunglasses down from the top of his neatly styled hair as he backs out the door with a fluttery wave of his hand.
Seonghwa blinks, owlish, as Wooyoung rumbles confidently away in his sleek black car.
He closes the door, and leaves the business card on the kitchen counter, unable to decide if Wooyoung had meant that to be a joke. Ultimately, he decides it doesn't matter. He wouldn't have the spine to 'call him', even if he had been serious. Plus, Seonghwa really isn't interested. A guy like that would probably eat him alive.
That night, Seonghwa startles awake, his breath coming fast and his skin pinpricked with sweat.
He can't remember the nightmare, but he knows it was one by the feeling of unease that still lingers in his sleepy mind. He reaches for the edges of it and gets only a blinding flash of black eyes, alight with raging fire, angry.
He tries to shake off the image, and goes downstairs for a glass of water to soothe his heat-parched soul. He doesn't make it past the bottom of the stairs.
Perched on the kitchen counter, delicate hands bracing against the edge, swinging legs crossed one over the other; the elusive shadow-man. He does not look up, but his face is visible. Seonghwa tries his hardest to memorize it this time, placing the fragments he has to their proper place; soft cheeks, sharp nose… ash dark hair, petal pink lips.
The pink petals open as he drinks them in, and a shiver overtakes him.
"Hello, Seonghwa."
The man's voice is light, and feels like laughter even with the hard edge to the words. Seonghwa suddenly can't find his language center, and simply stands, mouth awkwardly trying to return the greeting without any sound.
"Did I get it wrong? I believe 'hello' is the customary greeting in your speak." The shadow muses, looking up through the ash-fall of his hair. The dark eyes pierce through Seonghwa, blazing… angry. The same as in his nightmare.
Seonghwa, still mute, nods his head in confirmation. The man mimicks the motion, like some strange game of 'simon says'. He seems not to understand, stopping when Seonghwa stops and tilting his head, curious like their first meeting in this same kitchen. The oddity tricks the words back into his dry throat.
"Uh… yes, hello. Hello is customary." He croaks.
"Good. Then I try again." The shadow smiles, toothy. He's beautiful, but the teeth remind of danger, canines glinting.
"Hello, Seonghwa." He repeats.
"Hello." Seonghwa says back to him, not missing his cue this time.
The man's smile brightens a degree, swirls of mirth curling around the angry flames in his black eyes.
"I come out because I need to know something." The man says.
"What.. what do you need to know?" Seonghwa asks, curious about his strange vernacular.
"Is rip the same as break?" He asks simply, like the question doesn't have a million ways to be answered.
"Um… yes? It depends on the context, but I think so."
"You said, 'please don't break anything else.'" He says, and Seonghwa is struck by the memory. He had said that, after the broken picture frame.
"Yes, I did say that."
"So, in context, is rip the same as break?"
Seonghwa nods, and the man mirrors him again, still not understanding the gesture.
"Yes, it's the same." He says quickly. He doesn't want anything torn.
"Good then. Is take the same as break?"
"Depends what you want to take." Seonghwa says carefully. Some part of him catches on quickly that the way this man communicates is in black and white, like fine print will be an undoing.
The man holds up a black business card. Jung Wooyoung, Real Estate Manager in bold white text across the front.
"I do not like this man. He touches, he smiles and makes color on your face. He gives."
"I see." Seonghwa blinks, owlish, the same as he had done when Wooyoung drove away.
"I am the one who gives. He is not." The final word is punctuated with a hiss of air through the man's teeth.
"Uh… okay?" Seonghwa doesn't know what to think about that.
"Is take the same as break?" The man spits again.
"No…" Seonghwa says. He doesn't really care if the man takes the business card. He hadn't wanted to call Wooyoung, anyway. He made Seonghwa uncomfortable.
"Good then. Take is not break. Goodbye."
And then he vanishes.
Chapter Text
You have to fight magic with magic. You have to believe
That you have something impossible up your sleeve,
The language of snakes, perhaps, an invisible cloak,
An army of ants at your beck, or a lethal joke,
The will to do whatever must be done:
Marry a monster. Hand over your Firstborn son.from Fairy-tale Logic by A.E. Stallings, 2010
Over a period of unremarkable days, Seonghwa ponders his situation.
It's clear to him, now, that the shadow-man hadn't been gone at all. He had only been waiting, watching. For what, Seonghwa isn't sure. But it is both a comfort and a burden to know about it.
He is happy that the strange magic hasn't abandoned him as he had expected… but now he is also afraid of the things that come with it. He is starting to understand all of those old fairytales that say things like 'all magic comes with a price.' The price, for now, is his privacy.
Knowing you are being watched is a tricky thing.
Seonghwa appreciates that he no longer feels quite so alone, but he is also so much more excruciatingly aware. He's aware of the way he looks, and the way he acts in the privacy of his own space in a way he never had been before. Aware of the fact that the daily routine of his life must look so small and sad from the outside.
He finds himself trying a little harder to look… nice. He doesn't really know what that means for himself, but he does try. Sometimes, he pulls things from his closet on in combinations he normally wouldn't. It leaves him feeling just… wrong. Every time, he looks in the mirror and finds himself sorely lacking in some unknowable thing he cannot find, and changing back into something more tame.
It doesn't help his already pathetic self-esteem that he knows his shadow was angry during their last encounter. He doesn't really understand the why of it all, but he knows it was somehow his fault, and it leaves him on edge.
Wooyoung's presence hadn't been appreciated, clearly. Seonhwa also hadn't been comfortable with the man, so he sort of understands. He calls the real estate company and tries to get a replacement agent, but since he isn't brave enough to claim harrassment, he stays stuck with the overly-flirty manager. The contracts that say he's in charge of this estate's sale have already been signed.
The only other thing Seonghwa can think to do in order to alleviate his guilt is to apologize for his transgressions, even though he doesn't fully understand them.
That is how he finds himself on an unassuming Tuesday evening, dressed in his best sweater, cooking a meal fit for a family holiday. He doesn't know what his watcher likes, aside from honey cookies and the soft middles from fresh-baked bread, so he makes a spread of options both sweet and savory. He hopes that something here will entice. He makes the cookies and bread again, too, just to be safe.
He lays out the meal on the counter, buffet style, and covers the dinner table once again with the sky blue tablecloth he favors. This time, he includes the LEGO flower he'd barely looked at since piecing it together in place of the fresh cut bouquet from last time.
Rather than leave everything out in offering the way he had before, he opts to set the table for two. He hopes that if he says the right things, or offers the right dish, the man will show himself.
After setting the table and stepping back, though… he suddenly has doubts.
Between the sun hanging low in the sky, the table setting for two with the silly plastic flower in the center… the nice china he bought specifically for this. The several-course meal…
It looks like the set-up for a romantic dinner date.
He hadn't meant for it to, but now that he's seen it, he can't unsee it. He is overcome with an entirely new wave of worry. He doesn't want the man to think he's implying something he isn't. Not that he would mind if it was a date… but it's not, and he doesn't want to make him think that's what he thinks—
Wait, he wouldn't mind if it was?! That's a whole entire new and terrifying concept he has to contend with.
Seonghwa paces nervously in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do as his thoughts go in dizzying circles, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. It strikes him like a fist to the stomach that he probably looks insane right now, pacing and breathing too fast, and he decides that this whole thing was a stupid idea.
In his rush to dispose of his shame, he picks up one of the casserole dishes, forgetting that it had been in the oven less than five minutes ago.
"Ow, shit—"
He drops the scalding dish, the skin of his hands blistering red. He anticipates the crash of shattering pyrex, the disappointingly wet sound of his six-cheese au gratin potatoes sliding across the kitchen floor, but it doesn't come. He looks up from his screaming hands to find the casserole suspended mid-fall, frozen in time. Seonghwa blinks at it, less shocked than he probably should be.
"You are hurt."
Seonghwa looks toward the voice, already shaking his head. The man mimics it, the way he had with the nodding during their last conversation.
"No, it's nothing, really—"
"You lie." The shadow spits, eyes quite literally glowing from within, the fire inside them fighting to escape. The anger radiating off him increases ten-fold with the words, and Seonghwa can't stop the way his body responds, like a puppet on hair-trigger strings.
He flinches, quiet and cowering, protecting his face with already-wounded hands and waiting for the inevitable strike in the storm. It doesn't come. Instead, Seonghwa is left reeling, embarrassed by his behavior as he looks up and sees the twisted look of confusion on that dangerously captivating face.
"You are… afraid of me." He says. It's not a question.
"Yes." Seonghwa whispers, not wanting lo lie again and make it worse.
"Why?"
The question is so simple, and yet Seonghwa struggles to find succinct explanation. He could say it's because this man is an unknown and not yet trustworthy. He could say that he is conditioned to be this way by years of mistreatment at the hands of the only person that was left in the world to care for him. He could say that it's simply in his nature to make himself small. All of them are true, and none of them complete.
"I don't know how not to be." Is what slips out of him.
The man tilts his head curiously as he looks at Seonghwa, as seems to be a habit for him at this point. Seonghwa, overwhelmed, turns toward the sink, intending to run cool water over his blistered hands as distraction.
"Seonghwa."
Seonghwa stops, but doesn't turn back. His shadow doesn't sound angry anymore, but Seonghwa is still a bit afraid.
"I want to help."
"You don't have to do that." Seonghwa placates, even though he's not sure what that means.
"Of course. I do not have to do anything." He says proudly, and it strikes something inside of Seonghwa's stomach. Some deep-seated longing he hadn't realized was there.
"Can I help you?" The man asks.
"Uh… what does help mean?" Seonghwa tries, turning timidly to look at him again.
The shadow smiles at his question, seeming pleased for some indiscernible reason.
"Help means…" he starts, then pauses, visibly searching in his mind.
"… in your speak, the word is heal. Also protect."
As if to demonstrate, he opens his hand, palm upward, and a familiar bundle of ever-green plants tied with indigo ribbon appears. It's much less climactic than Seonghwa would expect of magic. It simply blinks silently into existence.
"Like this. Protect."
He holds out the small bundle, smiling prettily. Seonghwa edges toward him, torn between his fear and curiosity. He's wondered what those were ever since he found a bunch of them in his pockets.
"What is it for?" He asks, wanting to know before taking it, even though he's held them before without issue.
"It is to ward against this. I think… accident…?" He says, motioning to the still-floating pyrex. Seonghwa blushes at the implication of his clumsiness.
"It will also ward against ill-intent. So no harm comes when I am not there."
"Oh. I see." Seonghwa says. He's not sure what he expected, or why that wasn't it. It sort of makes sense, he supposes. Nothing for the man to spy on if Seonghwa gets hit by a bus or something while out of the house.
"Yes. So you will take? Let me help?" He says, pushing the little bundle closer to Seonghwa.
Seonghwa nods, reaching for it. The shadow copies the gesture again, and Seonghwa can't fight his little laugh at the absurdity. The man smiles brighter, teeth peeking.
"You laugh. Why?"
"Because you keep copying me. When I do this." Seonghwa says, nodding again as he takes the offered bundle of comfrey. The pain in his hands starts to dissipate, and he marvels as his palms fade slowly from blistered red to pale pink.
"Is that not what I am supposed to do? Imitation is flattery. One of your tomes said so."
"One of my— oh! You've been reading my books?" Seonghwa laughs, looking up from his hands, shocked.
"Yes. It is very boring while you are gone." He says, disgruntled.
Seonghwa can't believe this. His magical stalker has been reading books of Oscar Wilde quotes while he's at work. Because he's bored. This is insanity.
"I see. Well… I can show you how the television works sometime if you want me to. It might be more fun."
"What is tele… vision? Some kind of magic for seeing?"
"… you know, that's not far off." Seonghwa says, nodding his head with a chuckle.
"What does it mean? The head wobbles. If they are not to be reciprocated?"
"Oh, um… I guess the simplest way to explain is this." Seonghwa nods his head up and down.
"This one means yes. Or that you agree with something."
"Yes." Shadow-man nods, mirroring him.
"And this one means no, or that you disagree." Seonghwa shakes his head.
"No." The man copies again, and Seonghwa smiles and nods.
"You wobble. It means yes?" His shadow smiles wide, so pretty it's blinding.
"Yes. You got it!" Seonghwa smiles back, the joy infectious.
Suddenly, the man looks to the side and stills. Unnerving… inhuman frozen, like that first meeting. Seonghwa pauses, too, holding his breath on some rogue instinct.
"Are you okay?" Seonghwa asks.
The shadow looks at him, the barest shift of night-black eyes.
"I did not greet you. I forgot hello." He says gravely.
Seonghwa can do nothing to prevent the sound that comes out of him at that. An aborted laugh that becomes a snort before he can stop it. The man looks absolutely wounded by this.
"I did not do the customary greeting. This is terrible. Why are you laughing?"
"I'm sorry. It's just… saying hello is not a big deal. You don't have to start every interaction that way."
"But… how do you know when it is time for talking, if not paid hello?" The shadow asks, sounding a little disgusted, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"It is always time for talking, I suppose. Unless it's time to sleep, or you don't want to."
"That is awfully confusing."
"Yes, I suppose it can be." Seonghwa says, trying to fight his smile.
They lapse into silence for a bit as the man seems to process the new and devastating news that there is no simple metric for starting conversations. Seonghwa idly wonders if this is why he spends so many days radio-silent… maybe he doesn't know when it is time to approach. It gives Seonghwa an idea.
"Hey, um… how about this." He says, going to the kitchen table and pulling out one of the chairs.
"Every evening, if I am open to talking with you, I'll sit here. You can sit with me and talk. That way, you never have to guess."
The man considers his words carefully, like it's life or death if he understands them wrong.
"You will sit there of your own will, and that means we can communicate? I would not owe you something in return?"
It's Seonghwa's turn to tilt his head, curious.
"No, you would not owe me anything."
"But that is not fair to you."
"How not?"
"You would be giving precious information for nothing. As you have been doing now, because I did not pay you greeting."
Something clicks in Seonghwa's head, then. Pay greeting. He thinks this is a bargain of some kind.
"How about you pay me instead by answering questions in return, then?" Seonghwa says. smirking to himself. He knows that is just how talking works. But does his shadow?
The man narrows his eyes, suspicious, but considering the terms.
"When you sit, I will ask a question. You will answer, and then ask one in return. This is your offer?"
"Yes, that is my offer." He nods.
"And what if I do not wish to answer your questions?"
"Then… you can pay me hello, instead." Seonghwa says, after a brief consideration.
"… and how does the exchange end?" The man ponders.
"What do you mean?"
"Your terms are only agreeable if you offer means of escape."
Seonghwa's eyes widen at that, but he covers his surprise quickly. Escape… does he think that Seonghwa would trap him in an endless loop of conversation? That's strange.
"Goodbye would end the conversation. If either of us say it, then the exchange ends until the next time I sit in this chair."
The man paces, taking measured steps back and forth across four tiles of the kitchen floor for a time. Seonghwa waits patiently, letting him process, entertained by his seriousness. After seven and a half careful rotations, he stops.
"Your terms are agreeable. But there is one more thing."
"What is it?"
"I owe you now, since I did not pay you hello. I do not wish to have a debt."
Seonghwa contemplates his options, looking around the kitchen. He knows that he wants the man to eat dinner with him, still. That was always the plan... well. Before he nearly dumped potatoes on the floor. But maybe… maybe he can get something more from this if he plays his cards right. He smiles, taking a little too much enjoyment from this game.
"You're right. You do owe me. Actually, you owe me two debts." He says, matter-of-fact, and hoping his acting is good enough.
The man pales a full shade of color, frowning. Perhaps Seonghwa's acting is too good.
"How do I owe you twice?" He balks.
"Well, you did not pay me hello. That is the first one. The second…" Seonghwa sighs, leaning forward. The man leans forward, too, held captive by the cliffhanger.
"I taught you what the head wobbles mean. You asked, and I gave you that new information about my culture. That shouldn't be for nothing… especially since you forgot about hello."
The shadow crosses his arms over his chest, considering the statement carefully, perturbed. Seonghwa feels a little mean for this… but he is angling for something important. It's for a good cause.
"Two debts, then. I wish to pay them now." The man grinds out after a time.
"Great!" Seonghwa says, a little too eager. He's not about to let the opportunity slip from his hands.
"For your first debt, I'd like you to sit with me and eat some of this food I made."
"We sit in the talking place and I eat your food? That is all?" He asks.
Seonghwa nods slowly, hoping the gesture acts as a pointed reminder of what he's learned tonight, and what he's agreed that he owes for.
"It is not poisoned?"
Seonghwa shakes his head. He looks Seonghwa up and down, as if looking for tells. There are none to find.
"Acceptable. What do you want for my second debt?" He asks, petulant.
"Well… you know my name, right?"
"Seonghwa."
"Yes, exactly. I would like to know your name." He says carefully.
There is silence for a long time. The man looks truly ruffled by this proposal, struggling with himself.
"You only wish to know? Not have?"
"Yes. I only wish to know. Simply so that I can refer to you by it."
"If I tell you this. You will not share it with anyone else." It's not a question.
"I will not share it with anyone else."
More silence, for an agonizing amount of time. Seonghwa watches the color of his face change with the light as the sun finally sets over the horizon. Once night has fallen, black eyes flick back up to Seonghwa's face, wary… but resolved.
"My name is Hongjoong."
Notes:
Hello all! Just want to let you all know that I may not post for a minute after this, as I'm going to see ATEEZ live for the first time this weekend. I'm so excited! But I'll probably be too distracted to write anything. T-T <333
Chapter 8: eight
Summary:
When one step forward precedes two steps back, you're one step away from dancing.
Chapter Text
Underneath my outside face
There's a face that none can see.
A little less smiley,
A little less sure,
But a whole lot more like me.Underface by Shel Silverstein, 2011
Seonghwa sits, pitifully optimistic, at the kitchen table for three full evenings after the night he learns Hongjoong's name.
He's deeply familiar with solitude, it's even been a comfort to his careful heart in the past… but strangely, loneliness seems to become a more sentient feeling when you know someone is there and choosing to avoid you. The ache of it rests in his stomach like a pit of still water, a will entirely it's own, drip-feeding the ashen roots of any other deeply buried longing that lives inside the soil of his soul.
On Saturday, discouraged by the silence, Seonghwa lounges in bed for hours longer than typical. He scuffles out of the comfort only on the whim of his heavy bladder, no longer able to be ignored, then drags himself down to the kitchen for water and some form of sustenance so he can return to his weekend of rotting.
He's two cream-off-the-cookies deep into his emergency stash of emotional support oreos when the doorbell rings, startling him. He freezes, then ducks behind the kitchen island with his confectionery contraband and begs quietly for whoever it is to assume he's not home.
He does not get that lucky. After a few seconds of tense silence, the shrill sound of his phone ringing from the top of the island counter accompanies some rather fervent banging on the door.
"Fuck." Seonghwa whispers. He stands up, dusting the chocolate crumbs off of his rumpled pinstriped pajamas, and tries to comb his fingers through his neglected and tangled hair as he rushes to get to the front door. He peeks through the peephole, and his stomach sinks even further into disparate emptiness than it had been already.
With a sigh, he pulls open the door to reveal none other than Jung Wooyoung, Real Estate Manager. He's dressed in a perfectly tailored near-black suit jacket with a tastefully low cut white t-shirt and dark-wash jeans. Professional but somehow also fashion forward. Seonghwa suddenly feels woefully underdressed.
"Good morning! I'd say sorry for waking you, but…" he sweeps his eyes over Seonghwa from behind sunglasses dragged low on his nose in a deliberate show of consideration.
"I can't say I really am." He finishes airily, with a wolfish grin.
"Good morning." Seonghwa says politely, with a tight attempt at a smile.
"I'm here to gather some things and deliver them to their interested parties." Wooyoung says, walking past Seonghwa like he owns the place. Seonghwa trails him into the living room, where Wooyoung takes quick inventory of the items in question, periodically typing on his phone as he seems to always be.
"Um… if you need help moving things, I just need to get dressed." Seonghwa says, wanting this over with quickly. Wooyoung looks up from his rapid typing like Seonghwa has grown a second head.
"Me? Move things?! Oh, honey… absolutely not." Wooyoung says, amused. Seonghwa just stands, awkward, waiting for permission to go change. If he's got to do it all himself, he will.
"Don't worry your pretty little head, hon. Settle in. Help will be here soon." Wooyoung says after a minute, edging a distracted smile at Seonghwa as he circles the boxes like a vulture.
"More people are coming?" Seonghwa squeaks, hoping he doesn't sound too distraught. Wooyoung just nods, chuckling.
Just as Wooyoung had said, about ten minutes later, help arrives in the form of two towering men ducking into the still-open front door. Seonghwa had the decency to at least find some real clothes in that time, but still feels intimidated.
They introduce themselves as Yunho and Mingi, owners and operators of Treasure Transport.
"Ask for the best, let us do the rest." Yunho smiles as he proudly quotes their cheesy tagline, energy like a playful puppy with too-big paws. Mingi snorts at him and starts grabbing boxes.
"Come on, Yuyu, work to do." He says, and Yunho bounces away to assist him.
Seonghwa tries to help them, wanting to make himself useful, but they shoo him away with mutterings about liability and too-much-paperwork. So he does the only other thing he can think to do, and makes them all lunch.
It's just simple turkey and cheese sandwiches, cut melon and iced tea. Nothing special, but it keeps him busy instead of fussing or feeling in-the-way. Something about having any of them sit in the kitchen feels… wrong, so he lays the meal out on the coffee table in the living room instead.
Wooyoung walks in from where he'd been directing the other men outside, and pauses as he takes in the scene of Seonghwa and his choice of distraction.
"Is this for us?" He asks, peeking over the shadow of his sunglasses and motioning a question in the direction of the snack adorned serving trays covering the ivory-lacquered coffee table.
"Uh… yeah. I thought you all might be hungry, working so hard." Seonghwa says, fiddling with a loose string on one of his sweater sleeves and doing his best not to feel stupid for doing this. It's not working, with the way Wooyoung is looking at him. He seems shocked.
"Pretty and sweet? Where the hell have you been all my life?" Wooyoung asks suddenly, after a while of staring with his mouth hanging open.
"Mostly here, I guess." Seonghwa says quietly, since he's not sure how else to respond to that.
"Oh, and he's got jokes!" Wooyoung laughs, his head thrown back. Seonghwa doesn't bother to correct the man as he shakes his head in disbelief, turning to shout for the other two men out the front door.
"Boys! Lunch!"
The movers file in quickly, damp with sweat and breathing heavy from their hard work. A stark contrast to Wooyoung, who is now sitting primly on one of her gilded pink fauteuils with his legs crossed and sipping iced tea, completely sweat-free and unruffled.
"Wow, this looks great, thank you! You made all this?" Yunho asks as he sits heavily on the chairs' matching antique canapé. Most of this furniture has always felt inhospitable to Seonghwa, even without his grandmother's adamant demands that he never use any of it.
Seonghwa nods at Yunho's question, but doesn't get to speak.
"Be careful sitting on that. It's worth more than you." Wooyoung warns, shooting playful-but-also-not-really daggers at Yunho with his eyes.
Yunho looks down at the time-faded cerise wool tapestry he is sitting on, taking in the sight of the gilt-wood frame and delicate pink-and-white roses woven into the upholstery, then back at Wooyoung with an unimpressed look.
"This thing? It's ugly as hell, though." He says, voice flat. Then he regroups, and looks at Seonghwa, a little worried.
"No offense." He placates, with an apologetic smile and an awkward laugh.
"Oh, I've always thought it was awful, too. Don't worry about it." Seonghwa says with a half-smile, a little vindicated by Yunho's honesty.
"You won't be saying that after it goes to auction. The starting bid is twenty-five." Wooyoung says.
"Twenty-five hundred?" Seonghwa's eyes bulge. Wooyoung smiles at him, devious.
"More like twenty-five thousand." He says, picking up one of Seonghwa's sandwiches and taking a smug bite out of it.
"Oh! Yeah… I'm just gonna—" Yunho stands up with wide eyes. taking his plate with him to go and lean against the wall near where Mingi has been watching them chat, quietly eating his sandwich.
"No wonder my grandmother never let me sit on it." Seonghwa says, struck dumb. Everyone in the garishly decorated room laughs.
"You must have had it pretty good with a grandma who could afford that, huh? I bet she left behind a fortune." Mingi says.
"Uh… not exactly. She only left me enough to handle her affairs." Seonghwa says, uneasy with how much that reveals, but also not wanting to lie.
"Really?" Wooyoung asks, more serious than Seonghwa has ever seen him in their limited time together.
"Yes. I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but… she wasn't the nicest person."
"Did she give the rest to your brother, or something?" Mingi asks.
"Babe, oh my god." Yunho elbows him in the side, giving him a look.
"Sorry. I don't mean to pry, I'm just curious." Mingi says. He doesn't really seem cowed by Yunho's scolding.
"Me too, honestly. But don't feel like you have to tell us anything, we're just nosy." Wooyoung chuckles, popping a slice of melon into his mouth.
Seonghwa rocks on his heels, nervous, as he debates what he should say. He's not really used to people caring to ask about his life like this. It makes him uncomfortable, but it doesn't seem like they have any ill-will. He decides to be honest without being vivid.
"I don't have any siblings. My mom died when I was little, so I'm all she had, really… but she left every spare cent to a foundation for the conservation of rare heirloom flower varieties."
"Bro…" Yunho breathes quietly, shocked. Mingi nodding along with his sentiment.
"That's… wow. You weren't kidding. What a bitch." Wooyoung says.
Seonghwa nods, unable to fight the pleased smile he has at their response, a giddy sense of satisfaction bubbling up inside him. He's never been able to tell anyone these things before, and to have the trio react in alignment with his own thoughts… it feels like much-needed validation.
"I guess that explains the… colorful photo you had on the wall." Wooyoung smirks, putting half the puzzle together.
"Yeah." Seonghwa's smile dims as he remembers the missing pieces of it that he'll never share to complete the true image, unease returning the lonely pit to his stomach.
Later, after lunch has been had and most of the items that so urgently needed to be moved have been loaded onto the truck, Wooyoung approaches Seonghwa where he has been busying himself in the garden, trying to stay out of the way.
"We're almost done here. I'll be back another time for all the furniture pieces, that auction is still a few weeks away." He says, all business.
"Okay. Text me the day before, please… so I'm not in my pajamas next time." Seonghwa says, cheeks coloring with shame at the recent memory. Wooyoung smiles and laughs. It doesn't feel like he's laughing at Seonghwa, so he sort-of-smiles too.
"Sure, I guess I can do that. Even though you look delicious when you're flustered." Wooyoung says, crossing his arms over his chest and smirking playfully.
"Thanks." Seonghwa doesn't know what else to say. He smiles awkwardly and turns back to the plant he'd been tending to busy his nervous hands.
Wooyoung chuckles and turns to leave, and Seonghwa watches from his periphery as the man stops suddenly and pivots back to face him again.
"Hey, um… do you like to dance?"
Seonghwa falters, turning shocked eyes toward Wooyoung, not having expected that question at all.
"I… don't know. I've never tried." Seonghwa says, realizing it probably sounds strange a few seconds too late. Instead of a dark twist of judgement, though, Wooyoung's face brightens.
"Well, the guys and I… we're all going to the grand opening of this new queer inclusive club called Silver Light tonight. My best friend, San, he owns it. He's making sure we get a VIP table."
"That's amazing! I hope you have fun." Seonghwa says, smiling, genuinely happy for them.
"You're adorable." Wooyoung chuckles, shaking his head. Seonghwa blushes, as always, taken aback by Wooyoung's plentiful compliments.
"I'm inviting you. You should come." Wooyoung adds on suddenly. He seems genuine about the offer, humor still on his face but something more serious in his tone.
Seonghwa has no idea how to respond. He's never been invited out to a club before. Not even school dances as a kid. The most he's ever been asked to go to is dinner, and it's usually by women twice his age at the nursery.
"I don't know if that's a good idea. I don't even know what you are supposed to wear to a place like that. I'd probably stick out, and I don't want to distract from your friend's opening night."
"Oh, you'll stick out all right, but it has nothing to do with your clothes." Wooyoung says, amused. Seonghwa doesn't get what he means.
"Okay. Hard sell, I see. How about this…" Wooyoung says, pulling out his phone. He types something out, then quickly looks back up as Seonghwa's phone chimes in the pocket of his jeans.
"Those are the club's details. Event starts at seven thirty. Dress glamorous. Be extravagant. Wear something that makes you feel like one of those stunning flowers you're pruning."
Seonghwa looks at the flowers he was working on. Foxgloves. The flower of the Roman goddess Flora. Representative of immortality, deception, and feminine charm. Extremely poisonous. Dangerous if they are even handled a little bit incorrectly. He doesn't think he's ever felt like that in his entire life. For the first time, he wonders if he could.
"Although… I promise you, no matter what you wear, you'll look like a shining star in a sea of faceless volunteer extras." Wooyoung smiles, flirtatious charm on full blast.
"Oh… thank you." Seonghwa says, awed. He's too lost in his thoughts to fully react. He knows that Wooyoung couldn't have known, and hadn't meant it this way… but his mind gets stuck on two familiar words. Something he's been called countless times before, but never out loud.
Typed black text on fragile, decades old paper.
'For my shining star.'
"So… I'll pick you up at seven?"
Seonghwa doesn't know why… but he nods in agreement. He's nervous. Terrified, even. But he thinks… he actually wants to go.
"Amazing. I'll see you tonight, then, Seonghwa." Wooyoung beams at him. The flirtatiousness doesn't leave his expression, but he seems genuinely happy… and maybe a little surprised that Seonghwa actually agreed.
It's almost as though Jung Wooyoung, Real Estate Manager… as confident and unapologetic as he is, had been unsure of himself. That tiny flicker of relief in his mirthful eyes makes Seonghwa feel, for the first time since meeting him, like he's just… another person.
"Yeah. Thank you, Wooyoung. I'll see you tonight." Seonghwa smiles.
Chapter 9: nine
Summary:
Sometimes, metamorphosis comes to you. Sometimes, you have to drag it, screaming, out of yourself.
Chapter Text
My dreams of you are sombre in the twilight
As a hedge of bramble growing interlaced—
A straggling little hedge with scarlet berries,
Sharp to the touch, and bitter to the taste.from Shadows by Muna Lee, 1917
Seonghwa had thought insanity was upon him when literal magic began happening before his eyes… but he knew nothing of it back then.
No, he thinks this… this must be what true insanity looks like. He stares at his reflection, his grown-out hair tied up into impulsive sections, full-size fabric shears in hand. The only pair of scissors he could easily find in his limited amount of time. He tugs the front section forward, brings the scissors up—
Nope. No, that's not right.
He rewinds and replays the tutorial video on his phone again, nervous. The lovely woman on the screen makes it look easy. Section, angle, cut. He begs to be that brave, just do it… but his hands keep shaking. He can't tell if the angle of the scissors is off from under his own hair. How the hell do people do this?
He thought, maybe if shapes himself into something more interesting, he'd feel less out of his depth at the club with Wooyoung. He just wants to look… like someone else for a while. Untouchable and mysterious, like the foxgloves.
An unfortunate part of him also thinks… maybe if he makes himself more interesting, a certain other someone will make an appearance again. Though he doesn't really hold out hope that it's true. Hongjoong operates on his own whims, and nothing Seonghwa does seems to change that.
Seonghwa leans against the bathroom counter, staring hard at himself in the mirror until his vision blurs and the image becomes unreal. A watercolor painting of reflected desperation.
It's just hair… but it's so much more. Identity. Something he's never been able to keep for himself, always handed to him, carefully picked from a secondhand store and spit-shined. So the world doesn't look twice. So nobody sees.
Maybe… he should have whims, too. Maybe he can choose to be what his mother wanted for him, instead of this dull and tired thing his grandmother created. Shiny. New.
He takes a centering breath, turns off the video, and stops thinking.
As the first tendrils of black fall into the ivory expanse of the sink, it feels like retaliation.
When the chaos is over, and the last snips even out the mistakes he made along the way, he looks at himself. Despite feeling like he's done something terribly wrong, and infinitely reckless… he also so intensely feels the rush of freedom he now has.
Chewing on his lip, he makes his way out of the bathroom and down the hallway. Her bedroom. He was never allowed to set foot in this room while she still had her mind. He'd only finally been permitted to enter as caretaker, never staying long, only there to serve and then make himself scarce.
Today, he pushes open the door and saunters in like he had never been afraid to pass through it. He looks at the extravagant bed frame, the bare mattress where his grandmother used to sleep. Where she spent her final pitiful and raging days. It feels criminal to be in her space, in a sickeningly sweet way that makes him want to keep pushing.
He makes his way around the room, dragging his fingers along the furniture, skin lifting up streaks of dust from the surfaces. Staining rebellious stripes of his presence onto her things as dust swirls into the rays of dim light streaming through the shuttered windows. His eyes glide to the edges of the space, over her shelves of trinkets, her dresser… her vanity.
He sits on the plush antique stool, probably worth some untouchable amount of money, claiming it for himself. He turns on the nearby stained glass lamp and looks into the mirror, his reflection blurred by a light layer of settled dust in the colored light, and thinks that maybe this is who he should try to be tonight. Speckled with technicolor stardust, trespassing into luxuries kept from his fingertips for so long.
He never owned anything she didn't give him. Now, he's come to take everything she hoarded for herself. He slides open the drawers of his vanity, and with the help of the brave lady in his phone… he remakes himself into something brighter and more righteous than she had ever claimed to be.
He doesn't look like the same old Seonghwa, anymore.
His hair is messy, but he thinks it looks purposeful. Layers giving shape, a wispy curtain of bangs shading his eyes in a way that feels like both deception and truth.
Eyes smoky, a sheen of creamy silver glitter on his upper lids. Dark, smudged eyeliner and thick mascara. Cheeks lightly touched with a satin blush the shade of a desert rose, lips painted with a color claiming to be evocative of Casablanca, a deep and dusty pink.
After his… maybe-sort-of successful foray into hair and makeup, he considers his sad little closet, and doesn't find much. With time ticking away towards seven o' clock and Wooyoung's description of extravagant glamour ringing in his head, he finds himself standing with trepidation at the full length mirror outside his grandmother's closet, some pilfered garments in hand.
He holds up a few things, but nothing feels right. Her clothing is too dark and sharp for his tastes.
Venturing back into the depths of glamour, he digs, looking for anything that stands out to his untrained but covetous eyes. He finds something secreted into the back of the closet. A box, tucked away out of sight, buried beneath racks of designer darkness.
He opens it, and is struck with a vibrant streak of memory. Something long recorded over with violence and fragmented into static-ridden flashes. His grandmother, younger, dressed in creamy pastels and floral satin. Smiling at him.
Before the darkness. Before the grief.
She hadn't been that person in a hauntingly long time. So far gone that he is surprised he remembers at all. He wonders briefly why she held onto this box for so long, then decides it's too painful to care. She had become someone else, someone hateful and twisted… that's the only version of her that matters to who he is now.
He dumps the box out on the bed, sifting through his prize. Amongst the wreckage of his grandmother's past self, Seonghwa finds exactly what he hadn't known he'd been looking for.
Vintage creamy white satin with puckered shoulders and lightly billowing sleeves. High waisted pink trousers with fine silver pinstripes, long enough for him only because the standard for women in a recently bygone era was high heels.
He puts it on, tucking silken blouse into structured velvet and for the first time ever… he gasps with awe at the person looking back at him.
His confidence starts to wane the closer the clock ticks to seven. He paces in the kitchen, fiddling with the silver rings he'd taken from one of the many jewelry boxes in the house, wondering if he's tried too hard.
He feels… bitter. He loves the way he looks right now, but that doesn't mean that other people will. He can't help but imagine Wooyoung taking one look at him and laughing in his face.
He checks the clock. Six forty-eight. Maybe there's still time to change—
Headlights pour through the front window, glinting off the silver stripes of his pants. He freezes, caught. Maybe he should just text Wooyoung that something came up.
A car door opens and closes while he agonizes. Confident footsteps jog up the porch while he stands, paralyzed with indecision. The doorbell rings. He's so early.
Seonghwa's soul isn't in his body as he takes careful strides toward the front door. He peeks through the peephole to see Wooyoung, looking just as sharp as always, but with more makeup and flair. He just looks more himself, somehow.
Seonghwa opens the door, begging that Wooyoung thinks the same about him, even though the change is much more dramatic.
"Hey, sorry I'm so ear… ly…" Wooyoung says, looking up as the door opens. Seonghwa stands, half hidden behind the door, as Wooyoung's eyes drink in his effort to match the immortal and mysterious energy of a poisonous flower. He can't tell from the man's expression if he succeeded or not.
"Fuck. Wow. Yeah, okay… Yunho was right." Wooyoung says after many seconds of shocked staring.
"Yunho…?" Seonghwa questions, confused.
"Yeah, he… uh. He said you were out of my league." Wooyoung's eyes trail down and back up as Seonghwa steps slightly farther out from behind the door.
"Damn. Did you get your hair cut?" Wooyoung asks, leaning slightly over the door frame, as though his eyes are being drawn like magnets towards Seonghwa.
"Uh… I did it myself, actually. Is it bad?" Seonghwa asks, patting the top of his head awkwardly, like it will hide the mistake.
"Bad?! Oh, honey…" Wooyoung exclaims.
"You look like a literal rock star. I think I'm maybe dreaming. Can you pinch me?" Wooyoung asks, holding his arm out. Seonghwa just gapes at him, not sure what to do.
"Actually, no." He says, tugging his arm away.
"If you pinch me, I'll like it too much, and we still have to make it to the club. I need my blood to stay in my brain." Wooyoung motions dramatically, turning to head to the car.
Seonghwa stands at the open door after Wooyoung walks away for several seconds. He is… pleased that Wooyoung seems to like it. As he smiles happily out into the pleasant evening air, he feels the chilling sensation of eyes on his back, and shivers.
He turns. There's nothing there, of course. Just the empty feeling of sentient loneliness that Hongjoong seems to take some sort of pleasure in inflicting.
Seonghwa gazes heavily at the empty kitchen table, a pang of anger fluttering in his chest. He grabs his coat from the hook, pulling it on. He digs in the pocket, then stares thoughtfully at the bundle of never-fading protective flowers he finds there.
With a heavy sigh, Seonghwa walks over to the kitchen table, leaves the ribbon-tied charm there, and struts out the door.
Chapter 10: ten
Summary:
What is wanting, and how does it twist you into something you didn't know you could be?
Chapter Text
The darkness draws me, kindly angels weep
Forlorn beyond receding rings of light,
The torrents of the earth’s desires sweep
My soul through twilight downward into night.Once more the light grows dim, the vision fades,
Myself seems to myself a distant goal,
I grope among the bodies’ drowsy shades,
Once more the Old Illusion rocks my soul.from Re-Incarnation by Eva Gore-Booth, 1929
Silver Light is a spectacle of glitter and noise, even from the outside. Seonghwa has no basis for comparison, but he thinks it looks beautifully simple, the brick front painted dark and the cursive sign glowing neon white. The club is busy, even though the doors don't open for another fifteen minutes, the line circles the block. People of all shapes and sizes stand in wait, some dressed in sparkles and some subdued but no less eye-catching.
Seonghwa feels intimidated by all the staring of these unknown patrons as Wooyoung drags him up to the front of the crowd. He can hear them murmuring to eachother as they pass, but isn't able to make out any specific words in the noise of it. He's not sure he wants to know what they are saying, even though it niggles at his mind. Blessedly, the bouncer waves them through the door, seeming to know Wooyoung on sight.
Wooyoung leads Seonghwa straight to the back of the mostly vacant club, to an enclosed booth that feels exclusive, but still looks out over the entire room. Seated above a couple wide steps of black carpet and behind a silver velvet rope with a hanging sign that reads 'VIP', they have a perfect view of the stunning space.
Seonghwa marvels at the beauty of their secluded seat; the table is painted with mirror-like black lacquer and edged with chrome, the plush seats covered in some sort of thick silvery vinyl, shiny and unblemished. The room beyond is like nothing Seonghwa has ever seen before. It's brightly lit, allowing him to catch all the mesmerizing details. Black walls sparkle with fine glitter, a swirling layer of sweet-scented smoke coating the slate-tiled floor and matte black of the stage.
The bar, made of the same black lacquer as the tables, is lined with more chrome and striped with twinkling lights. Behind it, a wall of untouched bottles glints enticingly, each one waiting to be chosen for someone's liquid courage. Neon signs in the same cursive style as the club's name outside point to the front entrance, the bar, and the restrooms; glowing like beacons to guide even the most intoxicated toward safety or further into oblivion.
There are several staff members milling about. Bartenders, servers, technicians and security… most look nervous or excited for their grand opening as they go about their last-minute preparations. A strikingly handsome man, calmer than the rest of the staff, comes out of the hallway marked with the glowing sign for the restrooms and takes careful stock of the room.
He glides out toward the center of the floor, smiling as he nods to several staff members along the way, who all seem reverent of him.
"San!" Wooyoung calls out from where he sits beside Seonghwa, waving. The man turns, eyes alighting with happiness, and he jogs over to where they are sitting.
"Wooyoung! Thanks for coming." The man says, smiling brightly in a way that makes his eyes crinkle.
"Of course. Wouldn't miss it for the world. I am the reason you got such a prime location, after all. I have to gloat." Wooyoung says, his playfully cocky smile on for show. San laughs, not bothered by the sass. They have the energy of old friends, something Seonghwa has never been able to experience for himself.
"Right, of course. You're behind all of my success, as always… now who is this?" San looks to Seonghwa with a tilted head and friendly smile.
"I'm Seonghwa. Your club is beautiful." He says, smiling politely with a little wave, since shaking his hand would require reaching awkwardly over the table.
"Thank you! I have a question, though." San says, and Seonghwa looks at Wooyoung, nervous, before looking back and nodding.
"How the hell did he get you to agree to a date? Money? Blackmail?" San asks, arms crossed over his chest and an eyebrow raised. Wooyoung sputters an offended sound.
"Hey! I'll have you know my game is just that good. I only had to beg a little." Wooyoung says with a laugh, wrapping an arm over Seonghwa's shoulders as though to prove something. Seonghwa tenses under the sudden proximity.
"You should have made him beg harder. He needs to be humbled." San deadpans.
Seonghwa does laugh at that, genuine, if a bit awkward. Wooyoung's eyes round on him, wide with faux offense and humor, taking in Seonghwa's countenance, then he purses his lips thoughtfully.
"Actually, he's right. You should have made me beg harder… maybe you can still make up for lost time." He winks, devious. Seonghwa's eyes widen.
He may not be used to it, but. Was that… a proposition? Surely not. They barely know eachother.
Seonghwa just laughs quietly, looking down at his lap, not feeling like he has a good response.
"Yep, okay, that's my cue to leave. Have fun, but don't fuck up my brand new seats, the silver vinyl was expensive. At least be kind enough to take it to the restroom if it gets messy." San says, hiding his eyes behind his hands like he'd just walked in on something he shouldn't as he turns to walk away.
"But every gay club needs to be blessed by an impatient bottom!" Wooyoung shouts. San puts his fingers in his ears and walks away singing 'la la la', as Wooyoung laughs at his played-up discomfort.
Seonghwa relaxes, laughing at their antics, more comfortable with the realization that it was all a joke to get a reaction from San.
After San leaves, Wooyoung excuses himself and saunters across the room to get them both some drinks. He gets back to the table just as the lights dim and turn a little bit blue, sinking the club into an atmosphere that imitates the glow of artificial twilight on the smoky floor. Tiny lights above them blink like twinkling stars over the VIP section as people start to slowly file in through the secure front doors.
"Wow, it's beautiful." Seonghwa breathes, looking up at the ceiling as Wooyoung hands him one of the glasses he brought back.
"Yeah, San really outdid himself with this place. I give him shit, but I'm so proud I get to call myself his best friend." Wooyoung says, following Seonghwa's gaze up to the ceiling with a soft smile.
"Have you been friends long? You seem really close." Seonghwa asks, coming back down to earth at Wooyoung's honesty.
"Would you believe I only met him about two years ago?" Wooyoung grins.
"Really? Wow. I wish I could make friends that easily." Seonghwa chuckles.
"What do you mean?" Wooyoung asks, seeming truly confused. Seonghwa blinks, not sure why his simple wish would be confusing.
"Uh… I don't really have any friends. I've always had a hard time with people." Seonghwa says.
"You? But… you're like a magnet. The first time I saw you I knew I had to know more about you. People must just be intimidated, since you're so pretty." Wooyoung says, flirty smirk in place, but it doesn't seem like he's being disingenuous. Seonghwa doesn't really know how to feel about that.
"Yeah… I don't know. I suppose it doesn't help that I spend most of my time at home, or at the nursery. Not much opportunity to meet people." Seonghwa adds on with a shy smile, trying to lighten the conversation up a little.
"Nursery? Like, for babies?" Wooyoung asks, his smile brightening a degree as he takes a sip of his drink.
"Oh! No, I run a nursery called Flora's Secret. Plants, not babies. Though I sort of treat them like they are, I suppose." Seonghwa chuckles, drinking too. He can't tell what it is, maybe some kind of tequila and fruit-juice combination. It's inoffensive to his palate.
"Plants, huh? Interesting choice, with what you said about your grandmother leaving all her money to flowers instead of you."
"It was her business, first. I've worked there since I was a kid, and took over ownership when she got too sick. Much to her dismay." Seonghwa admits with a wry smile, not sure why he's being so honest. Something about Wooyoung or the insulated comfort of the booth makes it easy to talk.
"Hm. Well, you must really love gardening if she couldn't take the joy of it from you. I saw you in that garden earlier today, and it almost felt like I was interrupting something sacred when I walked in." Wooyoung says thoughtfully. Seonghwa blushes, taken off guard by the disarming honesty of the statement.
"Yeah… it, um. The flowers are my friends, I guess."
Wooyoung just looks at him for a little while, like he's trying to figure Seonghwa out. The soft smile never leaves his face, and the pleasant warmth in his gaze somehow makes Seonghwa not want to shy from him, for once. Then the booth vibrates.
Without looking away, Wooyoung shuffles his phone out of his skin-tight black jeans and answers it with one hand.
"Yeah?" He says.
The person on the other end says something Seonghwa can't hear, and Wooyoung rolls his eyes, pulling the phone away from his ear as though it hurts to listen to.
"Oh my god, fine. I'm coming." He laments, no real bite in the words, and hangs up.
"That was Yunho. Apparently they're here, late, and Mingi has to pee. So, suddenly it's my problem that there's a line." Wooyoung sighs, sliding out of the booth and downing his entire drink like it will save him.
"I'll be right back, beautiful. Don't move!" He says, setting down his empty glass with a wink. Seonghwa nods, cheeks coloring at the pet name as Wooyoung walks away, pushing through the steadily growing crowd.
While he waits for his date to return, he starts to get a little bit intimidated by the bustle of all the strangers filing in. People keep looking curiously up at the VIP section, eyes lingering on him a little too long. He busies himself on his phone, not really seeing anything as he scrolls through random apps to break the tension.
A pretty woman in a shiny silver cocktail dress materializes from the crowd and sidles up to where Seonghwa is sitting, a tray in her hand with a single drink on it.
"This is for you!" She says, red lips pulling into a smile as she sets the drink in front of him. He glances down at it, then back up.
"I didn't order anything…" He says, confused.
"Oh, I know! That man… over th—" She turns to point in the direction of an empty bar stool, and clicks her tongue.
"Aw, he must have gotten shy. Well, anyway, this real sexy guy ordered it for you. Sort of mysterious and real specific about the order. Shame he lost his nerve. Whatever, enjoy it!" She laughs, strutting away in her kitten heels.
"Uh… oh. Okay, thank you." Seonghwa calls quietly after her, at a loss.
He looks down at the drink, inspecting it to see if he can figure out what it is, and his breath catches. There's a beautiful bright orange marigold floating on top, fully bloomed and cut at the bud, so it fills the entire top of the glass like it's hiding the drink beneath.
To him, it's a symbol of passion… strong emotions. Not a flower you give to a stranger.
He knows that not many people in the world have the encyclopedic knowledge of flower meanings he does… and that even if they do, they often disagree about the specifics. He can't be sure that whoever gave this to him knew what they were saying. He takes a breath, and lifts the flower out of the glass to inspect the red liquid beneath. It's not immediately obvious what he's looking at. It's blended with ice, with chunks of some sort of fruit inside. He brings it to his nose, using all the senses at his disposal. His eyes widen. It smells like…
He lifts the glass, looking at it from the bottom. Sure enough, small beads of red rest there, like a taunt.
Pomegranate.
The arrogant little glass takes on entirely new meaning, and Seonghwa looks around the room with keen eyes, searching for whoever gave it to him. A lot of eyes are still lingering in his direction, but none seem to hold the sort of emotion that would beget a drink like this. The waitress had said he'd been sexy, mysterious. Specific… and gone in a blink.
Only one person he knows comes to mind at that description. But there's no way that's possible… right?
Seonghwa considers the possibility. As far as he's aware, Hongjoong has never followed him out of the house before. He'd sort of become used to the idea that the man lingered only in that one place. He's never even considered that he could leave. As he thinks about it, his own naivety hits him square in the chest, knocking his heart into an uneven rhythm.
There's no reason for Seonghwa to think he can't. Only that he hasn't.
Seonghwa gives up searching, knowing that if what he suspects is true, he won't get answers from looking into the crowd. He looks down at the glass with this new filter, and considers what it would mean if it were from his nebulous shadow.
The definition of the marigold shifts with the presence of the pomegranate into something even more powerful than he'd originally thought. His mother's book is very specific about pomegranate seeds in a way that not many other sources are. If the meaning came solely from that well of information, then…
This drink is an expression of furious desire to possess. A libation made of all-consuming jealousy and want. Seonghwa should be so, so afraid… but to his own detriment, his stomach alights with the wing-beats of excited butterflies.
He starts to lift the glass toward his lips, compelled to drink not by magic, but by his own foolish heart.
"Why didn't you run?! I tried so hard to buy you time to get away from this guy." Yunho laughs, bouncing up to the table, startling Seonghwa away from his own mind.
"Hey! I heard that. Why does everyone keep telling my date to ditch me?!" Wooyoung shouts, sliding into the booth next to Seonghwa, close enough for his heat to warm the space they share.
"Probably because he's so gorgeous they can't believe he'd agree in the first place." Mingi deadpans.
Seonghwa looks up, his cheeks staining red not because of their words, but because he'd completely forgotten why he was even here. Wooyoung had become… less than a blip on his radar in the face of the idea that Hongjoong might be present. Might… want him.
He sits quiet as the other three talk amongst themselves for a while, struck silent by shame and a sudden aching desire to go home. The three friends don't seem to mind, filling the space he leaves easily with their playful energy.
Suddenly, all of the lights in the club save for the twinkling stars of VIP and the bar go dark. The crowd drops silent, hushed whispers waiting for whatever is coming next.
"Welcome to Silver Light. Thank you for coming tonight. We hope you enjoy getting lost in the lights with us." San's voice says over a hidden loudspeaker.
Music begins to hum through the room, starting as a low buzz and then rising louder as spotlights form, pulsing and dragging over the crowd. A melodic synth starts to play, and the lights pan all at once to the stage, shining on a silver-masked DJ with a full disc jockey set-up. The crowd cheers, energy buzzing through the room like a switch has been flipped, the party thrust upon them.
The synth rises, then dissipates into nothing. The anticipation in the room is thick enough to see from where Seonghwa sits. Tension wound tight in everyone on the dance floor as they wait—
The beat drops.
Yunho laughs, pulling Mingi excitedly onto the dance floor, the towering couple disappearing into the sea of suddenly undulating bodies. Seonghwa watches them go, stunned by the beauty of the strobe of colored lights and overwhelmed by the wave of sound. He and Wooyoung sit for quite some time, watching the crowd as their eyes and ears adjust to the onslaught of stimulus. Seonghwa is overcome with a sense of otherness as he looks down at the dance floor. He's not really sure if he would enjoy being down there, pressed tight to strangers.
He looks down at the tempting glass still clutched in his hand, condensation forming and leaving a ring on the table as it warms. Wooyoung presses into his side, legs and arms touching as he leans in. The sensation isn't unpleasant, and guilt roils inside his stomach, the butterflies drowning.
"Do you want to dance?" His date asks, loud, right in his ear. His breath ghosts over Seonghwa's skin, hot and making him shiver. He isn't sure that he does want to, but he won't ever know unless he tries.
He nods, and Wooyoung smiles, standing with a hand out for him to take.
Leaving the drink at the table is much harder than it should be. He looks at the offered hand, then back at the taunting glass, and makes the decision to allow himself to want it all. Just for tonight.
He downs the melted slush, pomegranate and marigold liqueur burning his throat like a promise, and lets Wooyoung lead him onto the dance floor.
Once they are in the crowd, Wooyoung tugs him by the hand, looking back every so often to reassure Seonghwa that he's still with him until he finds a big enough space for them to slot into together. It's a tight press, but only Wooyoung is touching him on purpose.
It turns out that dancing is not as hard as he thought it would be. Wooyoung starts him slow, just smiling and guiding him into a gentle stationary swiveling of hips and shoulders. When that proves easy, Wooyoung turns around and presses closer, and guides him into the grinding roll of hips and chests that everyone around them seems to have taken to.
It feels… overwhelming, but he thinks it might be in a fun way.
As the alcohol starts to burn through his bloodstream and lay a pleasant haze over his mind, he finds himself being more daring, dancing by himself as Wooyoung pulls away slightly to watch, his magnet eyes glued to Seonghwa's rolling hips and wandering hands.
The music changes, and Wooyoung smirks as the beat slows into something sensual. Suddenly, he's in Seonghwa's space, that flirty expression close enough to cut himself on. One hand goes to Seonghwa's neck, the other around his waist, sliding like snakes coiling to suffocate their meal.
It feels good. But it feels wrong.
His eyes flutter closed as Wooyoung guides him into a sway that is much less innocent than he'd been prepared for. He knows this is a date, but he'd really thought that Wooyoung wouldn't push this hard, this fast.
It's crushing, the need that Seonghwa feels to have this closeness. He hasn't been touched this way in… probably ten years. And even then, his experiences had never been quite so charged with this sort of raw lust. It was more innocent, tentative. New experiences and shaking nervousness with someone who had never spoken to him again, after.
The force of Wooyoung's genuine desire hits him like a truck, sudden. He's been so forward and yet Seonghwa hadn't seen.
Wooyoung presses his face into Seonghwa's neck, breath fast and hot with the effort of his movements. Seonghwa opens his eyes, seeking some sort of relief from the room at large for his own want, his own guilt—
Black eyes lock with his, and time slows to the pulsing heartbeat of him.
He's there. Standing still among the wave and roll of the crowd, lights flashing and revealing him again, and again, and again… his eyes are all fire and brimstone under the jagged lines of his ashy hair. He seems to shine the same regardless of the color of the strobes hitting him, like he's the only real thing in the room.
Seonghwa blinks. He doesn't disappear this time.
Hongjoong smirks. The movement shakes him, even at this distance. Seonghwa is so dialed in on him that even sound has fallen away, leaving only a buzzing silence and the pounding of his own feral heart. Beating like a ticking clock counting down for an explosion.
Someone kisses his neck, and Seonghwa is pulled out of the moment. He looks down at where Wooyoung is still pressed to him, maybe even more than before, if that were possible. The lips on his neck are plush and warm, but as he looks back up to scan for black eyes and finds them missing, the rage hits him.
He's gentle about leaving, not wanting to hurt Wooyoung's feelings even as the storm inside him is growing. He taps Wooyoung's shoulder, points to the bathroom with an apologetic smile and mouths that he'll be back.
In the bathroom, Seonghwa runs his hands through his freshly cut and carefully styled hair, bitterness biting at his heels as he paces and tries to catch his breath.
Hongjoong is cruel, tempting him with passion, showing him the want and then leaving him to drown in it. Every time Seonghwa feels anything at his whims… hope, joy, playfulness, and now unmatched desire… he dangles it like a shining beacon and then snuffs the light the second Seonghwa reaches for it.
Seonghwa looks at himself in the mirror, his new and brighter self looking back. There's a flicker of angry flames in his own dark eyes, flashing in the chocolate… but Hongjoong has already shown him the truth of his own reflection. That he'll forget anything else exists at the barest hint of his presence.
The drink hadn't been a taunt, or a request. It had been a statement.
'You're already mine.'
He's just so weary of the loneliness. What is the point of belonging to someone if you are never shown that you are somehow worth owning? He doesn't understand this at all. Doesn't even know if it's romantic in nature... and yet he still can't bring himself to trade it for Wooyoung's warm hands and teasing lips.
He ducks out of the bathroom, no less confused and only a little more under control of himself. He goes to the bar, orders a strong drink from the pretty girl in the silver dress, and downs it in two easy swallows. Then orders another.
He looks out at the crowd, eyes searching for what he tells himself is Wooyoung or his friends. He spots Yunho and Mingi, only because of their height. They look happy… laughing and dancing and so beautifully in love. It hurts him, due to no fault of theirs.
Wooyoung finds him, just as the silver girl hands him his next drink.
"Hey! I was just about to check if you fell in the toilet." Wooyoung laughs, grabbing for his hand. Seonghwa lets him have it, not seeing the point in denying him until it's too much and he can't stomach the guilt anymore.
"Nope. Still dry." He says, smirking. The flames of sadness and anger and alcohol seem to be making him less shy.
Wooyoung laughs, loud and bright. Seonghwa downs his second drink, and offers to get one for his date as he goes to order another.
"Nah, I shouldn't. I still have to drive. I'm really glad you're letting loose, though." Wooyoung says, smiling, so genuine and kind that it burns Seonghwa's throat worse than the alcohol.
Part of him wishes that Wooyoung was still an unreal and untouchable showboat of confidence in his mind, instead of a collection of moments that point to someone achingly human and here, wanting him. It hurts so badly to wish to give himself to Wooyoung's earnestness, but be unable to do it without wounding him.
He can't be that cruel. It's just not in him.
So he drinks, and dances, and lets Wooyoung have his date. A final kindness before he has to return to reality in the morning. It's fun, he thinks, even though it hurts to play along.
He stumbles into the house sometime between midnight and morning, too drunk and exhausted. His keys fight him as he tries to pull them from the lock, but he wrestles them free with some intense focus on his hand-eye coordination, and slams the door closed.
He turns, swaying, to face the living room and the kitchen beyond, and sees exactly what he expects to. Nothing but the house, the way he left it. Comfrey still sitting on the kitchen table, his weak attempt at defiance.
Seonghwa sighs, and trudges up the stairs, falling hard into bed.
He falls asleep quickly, and the alcohol keeps him from waking as his shoes are slid from his feet and placed gently next to the bed. As the blanket falls over him, silent and protective. As the chair in the corner creaks with the weight of a watchful presence.
He sleeps, and doesn't stir.
StarMallow on Chapter 3 Tue 22 Jul 2025 02:03AM UTC
Last Edited Tue 22 Jul 2025 02:04AM UTC
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GloomyWrites on Chapter 3 Tue 22 Jul 2025 12:11PM UTC
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StarMallow on Chapter 3 Tue 22 Jul 2025 11:16PM UTC
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LovingThatOfficeyFeel on Chapter 4 Tue 22 Jul 2025 05:55PM UTC
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GloomyWrites on Chapter 4 Tue 22 Jul 2025 06:19PM UTC
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StarMallow on Chapter 4 Tue 22 Jul 2025 11:35PM UTC
Last Edited Tue 22 Jul 2025 11:36PM UTC
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StarMallow on Chapter 5 Tue 22 Jul 2025 11:51PM UTC
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GloomyWrites on Chapter 5 Wed 23 Jul 2025 03:01PM UTC
Last Edited Wed 23 Jul 2025 04:14PM UTC
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Symociana on Chapter 5 Wed 23 Jul 2025 12:07AM UTC
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GloomyWrites on Chapter 5 Wed 23 Jul 2025 03:01PM UTC
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LovingThatOfficeyFeel on Chapter 5 Wed 23 Jul 2025 01:47AM UTC
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Symociana on Chapter 6 Wed 23 Jul 2025 01:49PM UTC
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GloomyWrites on Chapter 6 Wed 23 Jul 2025 03:02PM UTC
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LovingThatOfficeyFeel on Chapter 6 Wed 23 Jul 2025 02:18PM UTC
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GloomyWrites on Chapter 6 Wed 23 Jul 2025 03:03PM UTC
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Symociana on Chapter 7 Fri 25 Jul 2025 05:14AM UTC
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GloomyWrites on Chapter 7 Fri 25 Jul 2025 12:13PM UTC
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HavensHideout on Chapter 7 Fri 25 Jul 2025 09:02AM UTC
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GloomyWrites on Chapter 7 Fri 25 Jul 2025 12:14PM UTC
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Symociana on Chapter 8 Wed 06 Aug 2025 08:02AM UTC
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GloomyWrites on Chapter 8 Wed 06 Aug 2025 07:22PM UTC
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mangoteazz on Chapter 8 Wed 06 Aug 2025 06:40PM UTC
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GloomyWrites on Chapter 8 Wed 06 Aug 2025 07:22PM UTC
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EndMySufferingTM on Chapter 8 Wed 06 Aug 2025 07:35PM UTC
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GloomyWrites on Chapter 8 Wed 06 Aug 2025 07:38PM UTC
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rosebutt98 on Chapter 8 Wed 06 Aug 2025 09:04PM UTC
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Symociana on Chapter 9 Thu 07 Aug 2025 02:49AM UTC
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rosebutt98 on Chapter 9 Fri 08 Aug 2025 08:13AM UTC
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Symociana on Chapter 10 Fri 08 Aug 2025 06:30AM UTC
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samyolie22 on Chapter 10 Wed 13 Aug 2025 07:17PM UTC
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