Chapter Text
Wonwoo always knew Jeonghan was ruthless, but goddamn.
The older man slams the book shut, sliding it across the table. It glides easily with its slippery texture. The papers are all half-torn with several pink, yellow and baby blue sticky notes poking out from the edges. It looks ugly as hell, but both of them are familiar with it. Jeonghan sips on his americano and blinks nonchalantly as he drops the statement of the century. “This book sucks.”
“Oh fuck you!” The whole cafe’s attention is on them now.
It is a weekend day, and Jeonghan should be sitting at his cabin on floor fifteen, with eyebags for days and a vibe so gloomy you won’t need an air conditioner when beside him, but here he is—inside a roadside cafe with his freebird of a friend who now makes twice Jeonghan’s monthly salary after a year of daily grind. Wonwoo scratches his head vigorously and slams his head down on the table. Jeonghan pays him no heed.
A moment passes. Then two. Wonwoo springs up and points a finger at the other. “Tell me, oh dear know-it-all, what is wrong with it this time?!” The teacup he ordered for himself shakes. Not from his anger. But from the tremors from the ongoing construction right before the cafe.
Jeonghan continues sipping his americano and makes a wave using his free hand. “Everything,” he says plainly. “The plot isn’t adding up. The characters are cringe. The writing is passable, and good god, you do suck at this romance shit.”
If Wonwoo murders Jeonghan this morning, right here inside this cafe, no one is gonna bat an eye, and he is so damn sure of it. But he has work to finish, and the deadline is gonna strangle him for real. Wonwoo sighs. “What do you suggest I should do?”
The older man shrugs. “Quit writing—” he crunches on the ice. It squirms and breaks itself down on his teeth. ‘Hmm…I’m gonna have to visit a dentist later,’ he comments to himself. Wonwoo, on the other hand, is devastated. “What?”
Jeonghan blinks. “Ah,” he shakes his head. “Quit writing romance, I mean.” He taps the back cover and begins, “Stick to thrillers. It will do you good.”
“But that’s the thing. They told me to try something different.” He picks up the book and flips through the pages. “Apparently, my books have gotten…generic. The same thing, different books shit.”
“Ah, so that’s why.”
“But still, why the absolute hate on my romance? Explain to me in words, please.”
At this, Jeonghan looks livid. He raises a finger— “The female lead got no personality. It’s Bella Swan all over again.”
Another finger— “quit with the falling and catching. Kdramas do that enough.”
Another finger— “No man growls when angry.”
And another— “You made the love interest allergic to sunlight and commitment. That’s just you with a vitamin D deficiency.”
He adds another finger, but Wonwoo stops him. “Stop. I got it,” he sighs. “How did your clients even survive you as a freelancer?”
“Good. The point is, this one, too, is generic. Too basic.”
“The hell am I going to do now?”
“Figure it out yourself.”
Wonwoo huffs a laugh. “What a supportive friend I have.”
“Quite lucky you are, I will say.”
Jeonghan stares outside, silent for once. His mind is calm, no thoughts overwhelming him like before. The dim light that hangs right above them falls softly over the gentle tip of his nose, and Wonwoo couldn’t help but think he did one thing right in his book.
“Oh, and thanks for making me a character in your book,” he says, raising an eyebrow at Wonwoo. “And for killing me off.”
Wonwoo breaks into a laugh. “I won’t apologise for that.”
“But still, how could you?” he fakes, “I stayed beside you at your hardest times, and you made me a side character of all things?”
“Be grateful, dude, I made you a character in my book.”
“Sonnovabich.”
“Ditto.”
Silence nestles between them. It isn’t long before they are standing in front of the building, staring at the mess of a road before them. “Why the hell did they choose to mend the road right before this café? There’s a literal tornado of cement before us—” Jeonghan coughs. Wonwoo scribbles down something in the journal, and Jeonghan observes with teary eyes. “How’s vacation going for you?”
Jeonghan heaves a breath of relief. “Perfect. It’s heaven!” he rotates his shoulders for effect. He scrunches his nose. “No numbers to fix, no spreadsheets, nothing destroying my soul. Truly the best.”
Wonwoo starts moving, and the other man follows the cue. “Your mom didn’t kick you out?”
“Boy, I made enough money to survive till death. Mamma got nothing on me.”
Wonwoo’s lips stretch up into a smile. “May you live long enough to make your mom furious like this.”
“Oh, I definitely will— ” crack.
“Wait, watch out!”
That is the last thing Jeonghan hears before falling headfirst into the pit. His whole body aches like being run by a bulldozer—and he has never experienced that in life either. He shuts his eyes and waits for his body to adjust to the situation. Strangely enough, his body hardly moved.
The hell?
He thinks he hears whispers, or rather voices, around him, but they are muffled. And then he hears it—someone is shovelling the ground. No. There is more than one person. The sound is followed by a weight falling over his body. ‘Don’t tell me they are resuming the work while I’m stuck in this pit?’
Jeonghan squirms and thrashes around until he can finally raise his hand. His skin meets the cold, damp ground, and he wakes up gasping.
Jeonghan sits up, and a whole load of soil falls from over his chest, right into his lap. He frowns. Eh? Too lost in his thoughts, Jeonghan fails to notice how silent it has grown around him. And when he does, he looks up and—
Moon?
Wasn’t he out in mid-afternoon?
Jeonghan blinks up at the night sky, and for an unknown reason, the inky space seemed to be right within his reach. Especially with a moon that big. Moon’s maximum size isn’t that much, right? Unless this is a super, super, super moon night.
His pulse kicks up—no metal cranes, no rumblings, no construction workers swearing in gods knows how many dialects—this is not the construction site. He realises. Then where am I?
Jeonghan’s nose picks up something. Something funny. Something that is not supposed to be present in a city. His hands shoot up to remove the heavy weight on his face. Damn, he really got covered in mud.
A soft thud echoes from nearby.
“He moved.”
Jeonghan freezes. And light—finally, falls on him from above. Almost like the one inside a surgery room. Right up above him, holding a lamp, wearing a suit straight out of a Victorian historical drama, was an old dude. And nearby him were middle-aged men in shabby clothes. But they all had one thing in common. They were all shell-shocked.
“No, no, no,” one of them, a taller one, whispers, voice shaking. “He was supposed to be dead. The lord stabbed him—didn’t we stab him as well for a good measure?”
“Twice.” Another mutters.
Jeonghan’s blood runs cold. Slowly, yet cautiously, Jeonghan pats down on his abdomen for good measure. And much to his horror, his clothes are damp with something thick, and they feel different.
Linen.
Not cotton. Hell, his button-up jacket with his phone is missing. “Young Master Albrecht.”
His stomach drops.
Jeonghan laughs. No. No way.
Hell no.
He turns to the people staring at him in absolute horror, with the same expression cast on his own face, as realisation strikes him hard in the face. He is inside the book. He is inside Wonwoo’s book, probably as Wonwoo’s character, whom he killed off for funsies.
Jeonghan covers his face with a dirt-covered hand. “Wonwoo, you son of a bitch.”
The group gasps. “Y-Young master cursed!” Perfection.
When Jeonghan looks up, his eyes are murderous. He just sits there in the half-dug grave, legs numb, ears ringing, dirt in his mouth, completely done with life and fiction all at once.
He finally manages to croak out:
“…I’m going to find you, Wonwoo,” he promises. “I am going to find you and murder you.”