Incendiary

by bbh_pcy92

Summary:

Byun Baekhyun arrives in a flurry of too-bright laughter and breathless excitement, and Chanyeol finds himself entirely unprepared for it.

Notes:

With everything happening around the exos lately, I decided to write this instead of doom-scrolling Twitter (or X).

Chapter 1: Tilt.

1.

 

The vacant field sat stained with a humorless wash of grey, as late afternoon draped itself across the Western Dominion of Exalia like a weary traveler shrugging off its cloak. 

As the sun began its slow descent, more sigh than set; the cool nip of silence slipped over the dominion. It slithered into corners, curled beneath shuttered windows, and stretched itself wide across the open plains, granting Exalia’s people a moment of reflection…or a chance to fall deeper into the labyrinth of their own thoughts. 

And Park Chanyeol stood on the edge of it all, tall as a crooked tower and just as quietly melancholic. 

A low hum, one he didn’t realize he’d let escape, buzzed in his throat, easing his heavy limbs as he tipped his face skyward. The heavens above were shedding their colors with reluctant grace, bleeding from warm gold into bruised purples and finally into a deep, gathering blue. 

It had been a long while since the troupe had wandered this far west. Six months spent drifting through the Northern Frostlands and the Eastern Songweave Provinces had carved the world into new shapes in his memory. 

Summer had held them hostage in soft, luminous, lilac-soaked Songweave, where laughter unfurled like ribbons in the wind and applause shimmered like shaken stardust. The lanterns there glowed lavender and honey, and the air smelled faintly of crushed mint and warm plum wine. Even Chanyeol; the perpetual worrier, lover of quiet corners and warm fires, had felt joy stirring in his ribs like something small and winged. 

How could he not, when strangers met him with eyes full of wonder? How could he not, when every night applause rained down like a summer storm? 

Then autumn swept them up and hurled them northward to Iriath, the cold-jawed capital of the Frostlands. The winds there bit like wolves with hungry teeth, nipping red crescents into cheeks and fingers. The people of Iriath watched the troupe with wary fascination, suspicion hanging off them like thin coats unable to withstand the cold. 

But even there, in a city built of steel and snow, Exotica coaxed laughter from frozen throats. 

Rumors grew wild and feral: the Strongest Man of the Realms, the Phoenix-Born Rider, acrobats kissed by wind spirits, a magician whose illusions danced like living dreams. 

Children shrieked with giddy delight; nobles gasped behind velvet gloves; and their circus’ name fluttered through the kingdom like a flock of mischievous sparrows, pecking at curiosity wherever it landed. 

And now winter unfurled itself across Westerwyn with the patience of an old poet. Frost whispered along the grass, tracing silver seams into the earth. The air tasted sharp and clean, like an apple first bitten. 

Chanyeol inhaled deeply. He exhaled even more deeply. 

To his own surprise, he felt himself….relax. 

There was something about winter that soothed him. Maybe it was the honesty of it. Winter didn’t pretend; it didn’t bloom or boast or burn. It simply was.  

Most people cursed the season, its talent for chapping skin pink and raw. 

But Chanyeol? Chanyeol found winter almost…tender. 

Where others saw a merciless freeze, he saw clarity. Where others felt numbness, he felt renewal. 

To him, winter was a quiet lantern at the end of a long tunnel, glowing with the stubborn promise of beginning again. It carried the hush of a blank page, the first breath before a story began, the whispered assurance that even the most tangled life could be rewoven if the hands were willing. 

And Chanyeol took comfort in that. Comfort in the idea that he could do better, reach further, laugh louder or softer, if the world required mercy instead of fire. 

He knew he didn’t need a turning calendar to change. He didn’t need winter’s clean slate to begin the slow work of mending himself. 

But still…it helped. 

There was something about the crisp air and the stripped-down world that made him believe that he was not stuck. That he was not finished. That he was, in some small but meaningful way, allowed another chance. And that small truth glowed in him like a hidden ember, refusing to go out.  

The rickety wood of the fence beneath him gave a weary little protest when Chanyeol shifted his weight, its old bones creaking as though sharing its opinion on the cold. He scuffed the toe of his boot through a frost-dampened patch of grass, watching the blades bend, surrender, and spring back in slow motion. His boots were worn at the edges, softened by too many miles and too little rest, and yet they carried him as faithfully as ever. 

Even through his layered coat, the cold slinked in without asking permission. It seeped through seams and threads, crawling over his skin and sinking straight into his bones with the confidence of something that knew it belonged there. 

Chanyeol breathed out, and the cloud of his exhale curled like smoke. 

It’s encouraging.

Time moved differently here in the Western Dominion; slow, syrup-thick and reluctant. It stretched itself across the hours as though Westerwyn itself hated to part with the thin strip of daylight winter allotted. The air vibrated faintly with something jittery, something expectant, as though the land was holding its breath for an unnamed excitement. 

And Chanyeol felt it too; that restless tug, the itch under his ribs that whispered go, move, fly. 

He was almost too eager to begin the journey to the Southern Province, still three months away. He had barely arrived in Westerwyn, and yet his spirit already rattled at the bars of his chest; like a creature built for motion, not for stillness. 

Settling had never been his strength. Staying was a word that sat oddly on his tongue. The road felt safer, the sky felt safer, anything felt safer than the sharp-edged promises hidden inside the idea of “home.” 

It is better this way; he told himself each time they packed the final tent, each time the caravan wheels creaked into motion. 

 If I can’t be caught, I can’t be hurt. 

With stiffening fingers, he tugged his scuff-marred pocket-watch from his breast pocket, flipping it open with a grunt. The ticking mocked him gently as he noted the time. He huffed, a sigh heavy with resignation and the faintest trace of fondness. 

The others would nearly be finished setting up by now; already diving into evening practice, bodies twisting through the air, feet pounding along tightropes and platforms as they prepared for their first performance of the season, just a week away.  

The Western Dominion always adored them with an almost feverish devotion. Their audiences were loud, loving, starry-eyed and eager, which in turn meant the troupe pushed themselves harder, reaching perfection with trembling fingers. 

Chanyeol tipped his head back, watching a pale winter bird cut across the sky. 

A performer’s heart rested entirely in the hands of his audience.  

And some days, that truth felt like magic. Other days, like a weight. 

The pocket-watch continued ticking in his grasp; its steady rhythm almost too loud for the tender quiet draped across the field. The sound seemed so out of place here, locked in the hush like a restless thought refusing to settle. Chanyeol exhaled, resolved himself to move before Kyungsoo or Jongdae decided to track him down and drag him back by the collar, scolding him the whole way. 

He still hadn’t practiced his own routine, though by now he could perform it in his sleep, blindfolded, upside down, possibly on fire if it came to that. 

Still, you can always do better; murmured an inner voice, one that sounds suspiciously like Kyungsoo’s driest octave. 

Chanyeol pushed off the fence, the wood groaning its farewell, and stepped into the open field. Above him, the sky stretched empty but instead of worry, the sight pulled a fond, exasperated little smile to his lips. Of course it was empty. Of course, his unruly, arrogant partner had wandered far again. 

He lifted his hand, brought two fingers to his mouth, and whistled. The sound rang bright and sharp, slicing through the cold air. It spiraled upward, carried by the wind until it disappeared into the pale-blue height of the heavens. 

Come on. 

A beat passed. Another. 

The air around him tightened with anticipation, a held breath of winter. Just as Chanyeol inhaled to whistle again, a low, thunderous cry unfurled across the sky; rich, molten, and unmistakably impatient. 

His smile widened without permission. 

There you are. 

It didn’t take long for the familiar silhouette to break through the thinning clouds.

A soaring blaze of motion, dark as ink; at its core and haloed in shimmering streaks of gold and violet. A flock of birds scattered frantically out of its path; their startled cries peppering the sky as the great fiery creature swept past. Chanyeol snorted when the phoenix screeched back at them, indignant and noisy as ever. 

He counted down from ten as the phoenix descended, each second marked by a brilliant flare of wings and a tail that lashed carelessly, scorching the tops of a few unlucky trees. With an eager, rumbling cry, the creature dropped toward the ground and landed with a muted thump that sent the earth trembling beneath Chanyeol’s boots. 

The phoenix all but barreled toward him; too large and too bright all at once.

“I really should stop letting you wander so far,” Chanyeol huffed, though affection softened the gruffness as he approached.

Molten-gold eyes pinned him with a knowing look, a thrumming growl of greeting vibrating in the air between them. Chanyeol reached out; he didn’t hesitate. 

The phoenix cocked its head, mischief flickering in its gaze when Chanyeol’s palm brushed its feathers; sleek onyx blending into violet, threaded through with embers that seemed to glow with their own private pulse. It preened under his touch, warmth rolling from it in soft waves, and Chanyeol hummed, taking a moment simply to marvel at the creature that had become his dearest companion. 

Not that he would ever dare tell her what to do. A mischief-maker, through and through. 

Zzar had been a gift he stole from the world, snatched from cruel hands long before fate had any right to bind them together. 

He had been fifteen, roaming the blistering summer markets of Eylon with his cousin; Luhan. Hungry enough to risk anything. They had slipped through the crowds in search of food. 

He had been eyeing a fruit stall, bright heaps of apricots and dusty pears, far too preoccupied with the growl twisting his stomach to notice the grubby looking men at first. The marketplace around him buzzed and bellowed with life: hawkers shouting, birds cawing, children weaving through legs like darting minnows. Any small struggle in one of the cramped alleyways was easily swallowed by the noise. 

It wasn’t until Luhan nudged him hard and wide-eyed that Chanyeol finally looked. Over his shoulder, the narrow alley came into view: one tall, broad man with a smaller, trembling one pinned against a brick wall. The tall man’s voice was rough, venomous; his grip white-knuckled around the other’s collar. Even from the street, Chanyeol could hear the breathless pleading: 

“You only asked for one! P-phoenix hatchlings are rare—” 

The smaller man’s words broke off in a gasp as he was shoved further into the wall, cheek grinding hard against the bricks. 

Luhan’s voice had stretched in surprise as he leaned over Chanyeol’s shoulder. 

“Chanyeol, do you see tha—” 

“Don’t involve yourself, Luhan.” His voice had cut clean through the air, sharp with practiced caution. He knew trouble. And he knew how to avoid it. 

“But—” 

“Luhan. Move.” 

He tugged his cousin’s wrist, ready to disappear back into the safety of the crowd, mind already fixed on securing dinner. He had no room; not in his ribs, not in his life, for other people’s violence and other people’s burdens. 

But then it happened. 

A sound, aching, pierced the narrow alley. Not human. Not even close. 

Chanyeol faltered mid-step. 

Eyebrows furrowing, he turned, scanning the shadows. The fight continued, but that wasn’t what had called to him. The noise had felt like it had slipped beneath his skin, as though something lonely and frightened had reached out and tugged at him from the dark. 

“Chanyeol, look!” Luhan hissed, fingers digging into his sleeve. His voice trembled with something close to awe. 

Chanyeol followed his cousin’s gesture toward a small beige sack leaning against the opposite wall.  

A sack that moved. 

The lump inside writhed again, weakly, desperately, and Chanyeol’s breath caught. Something in him went still, rooted. His pulse stuttered. 

There was something inside. 

The sack shifted, then finally slid open with a soft, tearing slip of fabric. 

Chanyeol froze. Because huddled in the mess of cloth; small, hunched and trembling sat a newborn phoenix. 

Not at all the creature of legend he had imagined growing up. No giant wings, no divine majesty. No proud blaze. Just a fragile, soot-dark fledgling with faint streaks of ember flickering beneath its feathers. Barely, alive. 

And then its eyes lifted to meet his. 

The world simply… tilted. 

Years later, he would still fail to explain the moment. But he came to understand, very early on, that something in that brief, piercing eye contact had tethered them. Their fates braided together in that dusty alley, sealed in silence, and shared recognition. 

He had only ever glimpsed phoenixes from afar, told they were wild creatures meant to soar in distant kingdoms, not languish here in cages, traded like trinkets. But the world had grown greedy. Royalty wanted symbols of power.

Merchants wanted coin. And so illegal trade had blossomed like rot beneath the floorboards of the world. 

The tiny phoenix watched him, distressed; its ember-lit feathers dimmed beneath fear. Chanyeol felt something stir deep in his chest; something like a pulled thread, something like a whisper. 

A sudden hiss snapped him out of the trance. 

“I asked for a strong phoenix fledgling, you bastard!” the tall man snarled, gesturing angrily toward the tiny creature. Neither man bothered to look at it as it lay in the dirt, exposed. The smaller man yelped as he was shoved again, brick scraping his cheek. 

“This thing is a runt! Worthless! What am I supposed to do with it now?” 

The words hit Chanyeol like a blow. Heat flared in his lungs. Behind him, Luhan stiffened. The phoenix flinched, feathers flattening as though it understood every cruel syllable. 

And Chanyeol—who spent his life avoiding trouble, who knew better than anyone about the price of stepping into danger—snapped. 

Maybe it was the creature’s desperate little cry, thin and broken. 

Maybe it was those eyes begging him for help. But Chanyeol found himself moving before he could think, striding toward the alley as if pulled by something stronger than fear. 

Luhan called his name, voice sharp with panic, but Chanyeol didn’t slow. Couldn’t. 

He worked fast, his thieving instincts kicking in, snatched the sack, scooped the trembling phoenix inside, and ran. The men didn’t notice. Or didn’t care. Or kept fighting long after he disappeared into the crowd. Chanyeol never looked back. 

He barreled through the broken door of his father’s crooked little house, lungs burning, heart pounding, Luhan trailing behind in bewildered silence. 

No regret touched him. 

He gently set the sack upon his fraying bedsheets. Sunlight filtered through torn curtains, spilling gold over the small creature as it cautiously poked its head free. Soot-dark feathers shimmered faintly where the light brushed them. Molten eyes fixed on Chanyeol with startling clarity.

The connection between them flared; hot, bright and undeniable all at once. 

They stared at one another for a long, suspended moment, a silent conversation crackling through the dust-moted air. Chanyeol wanted to reach out but hesitated, afraid to startle the fragile thing. He knelt carefully, floorboards digging into his knees. 

“The runt, huh?” He whispered. 

The phoenix cocked its head, studying him. When Chanyeol finally dared extend a hand, the creature snapped its tiny beak, not fiercely, just a trembling warning. Chanyeol jerked back, breath catching. 

“Oh,” he murmured, fascination blooming. The phoenix bristled, torn between fear and bravado. 

And Chanyeol laughed. 

“So you’re not so helpless after all.” 

Their bond grew quickly. Chanyeol fed him, tended him, defended him, even convinced his father to let him stay. His father, hopeless when it came to creatures of any kind, only sighed and built a perch by the window. 

Zzar grew in fits of brilliance. She scorched Chanyeol’s bed sheets twice. She burst flames through the rickety desk once. She perched on the roof at sunset, wings glowing molten gold before she learned how to fly without setting things ablaze. 

And when she grew strong enough, brave enough, she carried Chanyeol into the skies, showing him the world from above with the same devotion Chanyeol had shown in rescuing her. 

Wind tore through Chanyeol’s hair. Firelight gleamed along his skin. And each time, every time, his breath was stolen clean from his body. 

He named the phoenix Zzar, after the month he found her. 

And when Chanyeol later joined the traveling circus, heart heavy with grief after his father’s death, Zzar never once drifted toward the wild skies that should have claimed her. 

Her soul had anchored itself to Chanyeol the moment they met. Just as Chanyeol’s soul had anchored itself to her. 

They were bound, from the alley to the moment they shared their first breath.  

Partners. 

Now, Chanyeol let his palm glide over the phoenix’s warm beak, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“I’m far too lenient with you, my friend. Minseok would have my head if he knew I was letting you fly this far each session.” 

Zzar only nudged him in reply; feathers rustling with smug delight, a faint shimmer of firelight flashing in her eyes. The bird’s mirth was so obvious that Chanyeol scoffed and stepped back before he got singed. 

“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he muttered. “You test your luck far too much.” He pocketed his watch with a sigh and adjusted the collar of his coat. “Come on—we’d better get back. I don’t fancy Minseok glarin—” 

The sentence died on his tongue. 

Across the open field, an engine snarled; too loud, too close, too familiar for this part of the Dominion. Chanyeol whipped his head toward the rickety fence, brows knitting. 

Impossible. 

The only person he knew who rode a bike with that throaty rumble should have been miles away; inside the troupe tents, safe with the others, wrapped in the glow of lanterns and chatter. 

Behind him, Zzar shifted, feathers bristling, a low crackle of heat sparking from her chest—her silent way of announcing: We are no longer alone. 

Chanyeol’s hand fell from his pocket as he stared at the dirt road, confusion pooling cold behind his ribs. And then the figure appeared bursting into the clearing like a storm. 

Sehun skidded the bike to a graceless, dirt-spraying halt. The machine growled beneath him, metal trembling with the violence of the stop. Chanyeol’s frown deepened at the sight, Sehun’s raven hair plastered to his temples with sweat; eyes blown wide with panic. 

“Sehun?” Chanyeol started, but he didn’t get more than a breath out. 

Sehun vaulted the fence, boots slipping on the frost-slick grass as he sprinted toward him. His usually easy smile was nowhere; instead, his face was carved with fear. 

A cold coil of dread twisted low in Chanyeol’s stomach. 

The troupe knew never to disturb him during phoenix flights. Not unless something had gone wrong. Not unless it was an emergency. 

He moved forward on instinct, almost stumbling as his boots slid over icy blades of grass. 

“Sehun—” 

“Chanyeol, you need to hurry!” Sehun’s voice cracked before he even reached him, breathless and trembling. “You have to come—now, please—” 

“What happened?” 

Chanyeol caught him by the shoulders as the younger man nearly collided with him. Sehun’s chest heaved with exertion, face flushed and wet with sweat, but it was the sheer terror in his eyes, usually bright with mischief, that made Chanyeol’s own breath stutter. 

He rode the bike here. He never rides the bike unless time matters. 

“It—it was an accident,” Sehun choked out. “He was practicing the routine and he slipped—” 

“Sehun.” 

Chanyeol’s voice dropped, rough, nearly a growl.  

Don’t tell me. Don’t say it. 

Sehun flinched, jaw tightening. “It’s Luhan.” 

Everything inside Chanyeol went still. Cold surged through his veins, sharp enough to steal air from his lungs. His heart gave one weak, stuttering thud against his ribs. 

“He—what?” His voice cracked. “You—” 

Sehun cursed, panic fraying every word.  

“Luhan fell, Chanyeol. From the wire. They’re treating him but you have to come—right now—” 

Chanyeol didn’t wait to hear the rest. 

Before Sehun had even finished speaking, Chanyeol was spinning on his heel, sprinting toward Zzar. With a choked cry of the phoenix’s name, he vaulted into the harness strapped around the bird’s shoulders, hands gripping molten-warm leather as he settled into place. 

“Go,” he breathed. 

Zzar launched into the sky with a ringing, wildfire shriek, wings beating furiously in the cold air. Sehun’s voice, shaky and urgent, echoed behind him, but the wind swallowed the words as they soared higher. 

Chanyeol barely noticed. 

His eyes were already fixed on the faint glow of the circus tents flickering beyond the tree line, a familiar constellation of lantern-light that had never once terrified him until this moment. 

He had warned Luhan. Told him to slow down. Told him to wait for his wrist to heal after last month’s fall. Told him the wires would not forgive impatience. 

“Nnngh—idiot,” Chanyeol growled through clenched teeth, nausea rising thick in his throat “Why didn’t you listen?” 

Zzar answered with a cry and pushed harder against the wind. 

Chanyeol gripped the harness tighter. 

Faster. Please.
 

* 

 

Their camp was worryingly calm when Chanyeol slid from Zzar’s back, boots hitting the frost-stiffened earth with a muted thud. He offered the phoenix a rushed, grateful pat, fingers brushing warm plumage, and Zzar responded with a low, simmering trill, embers shifting beneath onyx feathers. Chanyeol hardly waited for the sound to fade before he sprinted toward the Physician’s trailer tucked behind the main tent like a forgotten lantern. 

People were gathered outside, too many, too still. Their faces were thin with worry, their murmurs faltering like candles threatened by wind, and Chanyeol felt that same tremor mirrored somewhere beneath his ribs. 

He pushed through them, ignoring the half-whispered calls of his name, and caught sight of Kyungsoo stepping forward; brown hair still lacquered with sweat from rehearsals. 

The acrobat spotted him instantly. Concern flickered alive in his round features as he lifted a hand, clearing a path for Chanyeol. 

“Chanyeol—he’s okay—” 

Chanyeol didn’t stop. His gaze was locked on the slightly ajar door ahead, faint voices drifting through the gap, nervous and urgent. Candlelight spilled softly from the trailer’s small windows, casting uneasy patterns across the frosted ground. 

“Chanyeol, stop—” Kyungsoo tried, closing a hand around Chanyeol’s wrist in a gentle, anchoring grip. 

Chanyeol shook him off harder than he intended. “I told him not to practice, Kyungsoo. I told him—” 

“He is okay.” 

“He’s not okay!” Chanyeol snarled, whirling on him. “He fell! He wasn’t ready—his wrist—” 

Kyungsoo blew out a breath, waving off the other worried performers who clustered too close.  

“He’s an adult, Chanyeol. Just go see him. He’s been asking for you.” 

A humorless scoff scraped out of Chanyeol’s chest, adrenaline humming sharp beneath his skin as he pushed forward. He nudged the door open with stiff fingers, nerves and dread swelling together in his throat, and then every word he meant to say died, collapsing like a structure of cards. 

He cursed softly. His shoulders sagged. 

And then he was inside, practically stumbling toward the bed. 

“Fuck, Luhan—” 

His breath shuddered out of him as he crossed the small space. Luhan lay curled beneath blankets, swallowed up by crisp sheets that made him look even smaller than he already was. Medicine weighed heavily on his cousin’s eyelids, tugging him in and out of sleep. Bandages wrapped around bruised skin, and his breathing, usually so loud and full of mischief, hitched in uneven waves; Chanyeol felt deep in his own sternum. 

“Chanyeol,” Luhan rasped, voice cracked and paper dry. 

That was all it took. Chanyeol closed the final steps and sank to his knees beside him. The physician at the head of the bed, Yixing, hummed in greeting, and gently slid past Chanyeol toward the exit to give them room. 

“Don’t jostle him, alright?” Yixing murmured, offering Chanyeol a reassuring smile. 

“How bad is it?” Chanyeol whispered, eyes trailing over the angry bandages marking Luhan’s cheek. He swallowed hard and brushed a stray lock of hair from his cousin’s face with careful fingers. 

Luhan’s reply was a faint, drugged grunt. 

Yixing sighed, hand hovering by the doorknob. “He took quite the tumble, but it isn’t as awful as it looks. A broken rib, fractured fingers—the worst of it. The rest is bruising and cuts. I’ve checked for internal damage, and he’s stable. Truly. It only looks nasty, Chanyeol. But he absolutely shouldn’t have been practicing with that weak wrist.” 

“I told him not to,” Chanyeol muttered, relief and frustration twisting together as he sighed through his teeth. He shoved a hand through his wind-tossed hair, cursing Luhan internally for being so recklessly, maddeningly himself. He shouldn’t have been surprised, not when Luhan had always leapt before looking. 

Just like the day he refused to let Chanyeol join Exotica alone all those years ago, dragging his stubborn heart right along with him. 

Yixing hummed, nodding once.

“He was eager to squeeze in some training before the next performance, but if he had waited just two more weeks…” 

Chanyeol scowled, his gaze drifting over the tiny cuts and scratches stippling the skin of his cousin’s palms; each one a small, needless truth. 

“Luhan…” 

“I’ll be back, alright?” Yixing murmured, brows pinched. “I told Minseok I’d find him and Junmyeon once you were stable…” 

Chanyeol only nodded. He let himself sag back against the wall beside the bed, as though the wood might steady the wild, uneven rhythm of his heart. He clutched at his chest through the thin fabric of his shirt, half-convinced the frantic organ might batter its way out through bone and skin. 

“Shit,” he breathed. The adrenaline that had ferried him here in a storm now ebbed, leaving the familiar ache of exhaustion pooling in his limbs. 

He scrubbed his palms over his wind-burned face, forcing each inhale to settle; each exhale smoothed itself out. He knew he was overreacting; Luhan wasn’t dying, but panic was not always rational. 

He and Luhan had always been each other’s miracle. 

Both children of the slums, both made ragged by loss far too early; they had grown up leaning against one another like mismatched beams barely keeping a roof aloft. Luhan taught him to steal when hunger demanded it; Chanyeol bloodied his knuckles defending the scraps they claimed. They had nothing, but they’d had each other. 

After Chanyeol’s father died, he had sworn that nothing else would take Luhan from him. Nothing. 

Now, with his knees drawn to his chest, a sting burning behind his eyes, he felt that promise crack. He swallowed hard. His toes curled in frustration; he nearly kicked the bedframe just to release the damnable pressure building inside him. Instead, he closed his eyes, grounding himself in the steady rise and fall of Luhan’s breath. 

There was nothing I could have done. He makes his own choices. He’s older than me, why the fuck am I— 

“You look terrible.” 

Chanyeol yelped, jerking upright as though struck. His heart leapt painfully, and he slapped a palm to his chest, glaring at the figure stirring in the bed. 

“Fucking hell, Luhan,” he growled, leaning in. The bastard only blinked up at him, eyes half-lidded, a small wavering smile on his bruised lips. 

“I thought the medicine knocked you out. You were barely conscious.” 

Luhan hummed, then had the audacity to grin. “I may have put it on a little.” 

Chanyeol’s frown deepened. “What—” 

“I like it when Yixing gets flustered over me—” 

“Oh for—” Chanyeol snapped, his scowl sharp enough to frighten even Zzar on a bad day. Luhan, of course, remained blissfully immune; an affliction Luhan had suffered since childhood. “I cannot believe you. You’re supposed to be injured—” 

“Calm yourself, cousin of mine.” The aerialist sighed, far too serene for someone whose body resembled a collapsed tapestry. “You’re far too serious. I’m alright.” 

“Alright?” Chanyeol spat. “You have a broken rib, Luhan. Fractured fingers, cuts, bruises, and—” 

“I’m alive.” 

The words cut cleanly between them. Chanyeol’s breath caught. His lips pressed into a thin, painful line. 

He was alive. That mattered more than anything else. 

“I know you’re protective, Chanyeol,” Luhan whispered, some gentleness melting into his expression. “But I’m not made of glass.” 

“But—” 

“I’ll heal,” Luhan murmured, firm enough to silence him. “I’m not thrilled about it either, but dwelling won’t help. Right?” 

Chanyeol slouched against the bedframe, tension leaking from his spine. He pinched the bridge of his nose, whispering to himself that Luhan was here. 

Hurt, yes. But alright. 

Some of his sympathy slipped away, replaced by pure disbelief at Luhan’s talent for recklessness. He sighed and reached out to ruffle his cousin’s hair. 

“You’re a fool, hyung.” 

“A brave fool,” Luhan countered weakly, swatting at his hand. 

“No,” Chanyeol said gravely. “Just a fool.” 

Luhan’s pout barely had time to form before the trailer door burst open, slamming into the wall with a crash. Chanyeol didn’t flinch; of course it was Junmyeon barreling inside, flushed and frantic. 

“Oh, thank fuck,” Minseok gasped, dropping to his knees beside the bed. His hands hovered over Luhan as if he was afraid to touch him. “They said the fall was awful and—” 

“Stop flapping over his face,” Chanyeol growled, shoving at him; only to be shoved, unceremoniously and without acknowledgement, into the wall. He glared daggers into Minseok’s temple. Sadly, Minseok remained impervious. 

“Are you in pain? Yixing said—perhaps I can—” 

“Minseok, breathe,” a calm voice cut in. 

Junmyeon slipped inside, pulling his partner gently back. Chanyeol could have kissed him for the intervention. 

“How are you feeling?”Junmyeon asked Luhan, casting Chanyeol a knowing glance before stepping aside to let Yixing whisper updates to Minseok. 

“Not awful,” Luhan grimaced, shifting slightly, and Chanyeol flinched at the clear pain tugging across his cousin’s face. 

“But not great,” Junmyeon concluded. “Yixing told us… well, you know what this means.” 

Luhan hummed, low and resigned. “I do.” 

“You understand we’ll have to…” Junmyeon trailed off, tension pooling thick between the four walls. 

“I know,” Luhan murmured. 

“It’ll be a while this time,” Junmyeon said quietly. 

“What will?” Chanyeol demanded, irritation prickling. “What are you talking about?” 

Luhan hesitated. “I—” 

“He can’t perform,” Junmyeon said gently. “Not until he’s healed—fully.” 

“Obviously,” Chanyeol snapped. “He’d be an idiot to—” 

“You’re not listening,” Luhan murmured. “If I’m out, we lose a full part of the routine for nearly two months. We can’t afford that.” 

“But—” 

“One month is already difficult,” Junmyeon said. “Two months cuts a third of the season. We don’t have the funds to weather that.” 

Chanyeol stared. A cold understanding crept up his spine. 

“So what?” He hissed. “You plan to—” 

“We need temporary replacement,” Minseok said softly. “There’s no other option.” 

Chanyeol froze. Luhan tensed. The room suddenly felt too small. 

“You what?” Chanyeol breathed. “You want to replace him?” 

“Temporarily,” Minseok insisted. 

“But you are,” Chanyeol snapped. “He’s hurt, so you’ll throw someone else in—” 

“It’s temporary!” Minseok protested. “We would never replace him permanently.” 

Junmyeon nodded. “Luhan is one of our best. But the circus cannot lose an entire act.” 

“This is ridiculous,” Chanyeol snarled. “So you’ll hire some street rat? A criminal? A murderer—” 

“Oh please,”  Minseok groaned. “The West is full of talent. We’re not dragging a fugitive in, off the roadside.” 

Chanyeol gritted his teeth, refusing to respond. 

“We’ll hold auditions,” Junmyeon said. “Two days. With luck, we’ll find someone capable.” 

“But—” 

“No, Chanyeol,” Junmyeon said firmly. “We’re a family. We don’t abandon each other. You know that.” 

Junmyeon’s tone brooked no argument; steady, exhausted and leader sure. 

And Chanyeol trusted him. He always had. 

So Chanyeol exhaled, slow and bitter. “Fine. I still hate it. But I won’t stand in your way.” 

“Thank you,” Junmyeon murmured. 

When the lovers finally slipped out into the night, Chanyeol turned to Luhan. 

“Don’t you feel betrayed?” He asked quietly. 

Luhan snorted. “Chanyeol, I’m not a child.” 

“They’re bringing someone in,” Chanyeol pressed. “Someone to walk your wire.” 

“I can’t blame them,” Luhan said, wincing through a shrug. “This was my mistake.” 

Chanyeol grimaced. “No—” 

“It was,” Luhan insisted. “I should’ve rested. Of course I’m sad—I love performing. But I’ll return.” 

“You really don’t mind?” 

“No,” he murmured. “Who knows? We might discover someone with beautiful talent.” 

Chanyeol scoffed. “Beautiful? Doubtful.” 

Luhan chuckled, soft and fond. “Chanyeol… have I told you you’re too protective?” 

“Today? Twice.” 

“Then hear me again,” he whispered. “Everyone deserves a chance. Kyungsoo and Jongin trained me, remember? I was awful.” 

Chanyeol bit his lip but said nothing. 

“Remember it, Chanyeol.” 

He nodded stiffly, rose from the floor, and watched his cousin drift toward sleep. 

You shouldn’t be here, his mind whispered. Not like this. 

“I’ll remember,” he muttered, pulling on his coat. 

The cold slapped him when he stepped outside. He leaned against the trailer door, staring up at the sky; an endless stretch of onyx, sharpening the lantern-glow of distant laughter. 

Somewhere in the main tent, Kyungsoo and Jongin were surely training past exhaustion. Somewhere, their tiny family was bracing for a stranger. 

A stranger taking Luhan’s place. 

His fists clenched at his sides. 

Everyone deserves a chance; Luhan’s voice echoed in his mind. 

Chanyeol pushed away from the door, jaw tight.  

Luhan didn’t have to know he did not agree. 

 

* 

 

The next two days settled over the camp like a hush, a thin layer of still stretched tight over frayed nerves. The loss of a performer, and the hunt for another, seemed to seep into the very bones of Exotica, weighing down its canvas walls and echoing beneath its stakes. 

Minseok, Junmyeon and the remaining aerialists vanished into the main tent from dawn to dusk, entombed with the ceaseless parade of hopefuls whose footsteps and voices scuffed at its walls. Everyone else kept their distance, drifting into open fields or secondary tents to practice; trying, perhaps, to smother their own spiraling thoughts by avoiding the thoughts of everyone else. 

Chanyeol kept to the same lonely field he’d claimed on the night they arrived in Westerwyn, spending his hours running a half-hearted routine with Zzar. The phoenix circled him in slow, ember soft arcs, wings fanning heat across the grass; neither of them performed with their usual fire. 

The land, strangely unclaimed despite lying so close to the city, remained blissfully deserted. No one came to bother them. No one came to ask for updates. It suited him fine. 

And when he wasn’t pacing the edge of his own thoughts, dread pooling heavy and metallic beneath his ribs, he was in the physician’s trailer with Luhan. The cousins bickered endlessly, Chanyeol over Luhan’s dramatics, Luhan over Chanyeol’s mother-hen tendencies, until Yixing would glance up from mixing tinctures with a soft, shy smile, his cheeks reddening each time Luhan let some absurd flirtation slip past his lips. 

Whenever Yixing flushed particularly hard, Chanyeol made sure to catch Luhan’s eye and smirk. That alone was enough to send Luhan lashing out with a shove or a vicious glare. Chanyeol always dodged out just in time, laughter tugging silently at his mouth as he slipped outside, the trailer door clicking shut behind him. 

He never missed the sight of two embarrassed silhouettes fumbling in the warm lamplight as it closed. 

He almost managed to forget about the looming prospect of a newcomer joining Exotica, lost somewhere between his own training sessions with Zzar and the endless, useless worrying over Luhan. 

It wasn’t until the evening of the first auditions that reality snapped back into place. Kyungsoo and Minseok slipped into the dining tent with matching expressions of defeat, sorrow clinging to their features like soot, their limbs dragging as though weighed with lead and worry. 

“It’s not that they’re awful,” Kyungsoo murmured, picking half-heartedly at his food when Sehun asked how the day had gone. “They’re just…” 

“Plain,” Minseok finished, voice flat with exhaustion. “Terribly plain. Not an ounce of creativity in their movements, nor a breath of life in anything they attempt.” 

The pettier part of Chanyeol felt an immediate, shameful flicker of satisfaction at that, but the larger part, the part stitched together by loyalty and love, only felt guilt settling thick and uncomfortable in his chest.  

As Junmyeon entered the tent, hair mussed and shoulders heavy, reaching out to ruffle Minseok’s hair with a gentleness reserved only for him, Chanyeol felt a dull ache bloom beneath his ribs. 

His friends weren’t meant to look so tired. Not like this. 

He abandoned his dinner early and retreated to his trailer; thoughts tangled in a ceaseless tug of war as they clawed at the thin walls of his skull. 

The second day began much like the first, a relentless procession of disappointments and polite rejections. By afternoon, even Chanyeol felt the drag of it, the weariness threading into the troupe like a damp chill. 

Maybe it was the guilt etched too plainly across Luhan’s face, illuminated by the thin winter sun that slipped through Yixing’s trailer window, but Chanyeol found himself brushing off his own stiff concern as he bid his cousin goodbye. 

And then he made his way toward the main tent, where Minseok, Junmyeon, and Kyungsoo had barricaded themselves for hours, waiting for the next hopeful to step through the canvas flaps. 

He wasn’t entirely sure what force propelled him toward the main tent, only that some dry, hissing voice inside insisted he go see for himself, demanding he witnessed the sort of unfortunate souls Minseok and the others were auditioning. 

Surely, they were all useless, painfully outclassed by Luhan and nowhere near skilled enough to keep pace with Kyungsoo and Jongin, who had been acrobats since they were practically infants.

Still… perhaps luck would manifest itself in the form of someone at least bearable. 

He tugged his coat tighter around him, fighting the bite of the cold, and blinked when he saw the small swarm of performers piled outside the tent flap, stacked atop one another in a ridiculous attempt to peer through the seams of canvas. Their whispers broke the winter quiet with sharp, breathy edges, and Chanyeol could only scoff, distaste blooming bitter on his tongue. 

Children. Absolute children. 

One figure lurched forward, tripping over his own feet and sending the whole human tower stumbling like startled hens. Chanyeol rolled his eyes skyward, muttering a curse under his breath. Before anyone noticed him standing nearby, he pivoted sharply, deciding it was best to leave before he got caught and dragged into their collective idiocy. He might have shared the same curiosity, but he had no intention of being seen indulging it. 

With a huff, he stalked off toward Zzar, seeking warmth in the familiar rumble of his phoenix’s breath and the numbing solace of his own spiraling thoughts.  

Zzar, ever indulgent, seemed perfectly content to sleep the afternoon away with Chanyeol leaning against her flank. So the hours passed quietly, Chanyeol nestled against warm feathers, head tilted back, eyes shut, letting the winter wind blow the clutter from his mind. 

Until, when the pale blue of day dripped into the deep indigo of evening, Chanyeol heard them. 

He was loosening Zzar’s harness, stiff fingers grateful for the chance to free the bird, when jittery, breathless voices tore through the calm. Kyungsoo’s laugh came first, high and bright and obnoxious for this time of night. But it was the second voice that made Chanyeol freeze mid-movement. That loud, messy drawl, unmistakable even muffled by distance. 

He considered hiding. Behind Zzar, under Zzar, inside Zzar—anything. But his fleeting hope died as his name boomed across the clearing, loud enough to wake the dead. 

Fucking hell. 

Beside him, Zzar jerked, eyes twitching in warm recognition. Chanyeol groaned internally and turned in time to see two men of the same height, barreling straight toward him. 

“Chanyeol! There you are,” crooned the loud menace, and Chanyeol wondered, sincerely, if it would be considered impolite to ask Zzar for a threatening puff of smoke. The bird exhaled a long, knowing sigh.

Traitor. 

“Kyungsoo. Jongdae.” Chanyeol nodded stiffly, steam curling from his lips as the night’s cold gnawed at every extremity. Frost clung thickly to everything now; his fingers little more than stiff twigs wrapped in thin leather. 

“You look absolutely thrilled to see us,” Jongdae smirked, sarcasm dripping as easily as the jangle of bracelets that adorned every inch of his wrists. His single green eye gleamed in the dark, unsettling to strangers, but to Chanyeol merely annoying. 

“Minseok sent us,” Kyungsoo explained, trying, and failing, to pry Jongdae off his side. “He wants you at dinner. He’s impatient to celebrate.” 

“Celebrate?” Chanyeol echoed, brow twitching. “Odd for him. Last time we celebrated anything he got drunk enough to pass out half-naked on Sehun’s bike—” 

“Let’s not revisit that,” Kyungsoo grimaced. “Didn’t Luhan tell you?” 

Chanyeol frowned. “Tell me what?” 

Jongdae all but vibrated, leaning too close for comfort, eyes gleaming with a dramatic flourish only he could manage. His necklaces clattered like windchimes in a storm. 

“Really, Chanyeol. You haven’t even bothered to ask?”” He tucked raven bangs behind his ear, grin stretching impossibly wide. “We finally found someone.” 

A sticky unease snaked under Chanyeol’s skin, delicate webs threading beneath his ribs. He inhaled slowly, trying to appear unaffected even as dread crawled up his spine.  

“I see,” he managed, jaw tight enough to crack. They had found someone. Someone to fill Luhan’s place. 

Something dark and foul coiled low in him. He swallowed hard. 

Kyungsoo laughed at Jongdae’s ridiculously bright enthusiasm. “We were close to giving up—” 

“He’s wonderful, Chanyeol,” Jongdae burst, voice trembling with excitement. “His name is Baekhyun. Poor thing was terrified, but the moment the music began he just transformed.” 

“Baekhyun?” Chanyeol repeated, sneer leaking through. “That’s the kid’s name?” 

A plain name. For a plain performer. How boring. 

Jongdae grinned wider, eyes glinting. “My heart nearly stopped when he saw me peeking. You should’ve seen his smile—” 

“Easy,” Kyungsoo chuckled, swatting his shoulder. “You weren’t even supposed to be there.” 

“I have no regrets,” Jongdae declared proudly. 

Kyungsoo only sighed. “He was incredible. Skilled. Fast. And the crowd is going to adore him. Pretty, lithe, bright pink hair—” 

“And our age,” Jongdae chimed, pivoting on Chanyeol with delighted mischief. “....so definitely not a kid.” 

“Yah.” Chanyeol snapped, already envisioning abandoning them to Zzar’s mercies. He stiffened, forcing a façade of cool indifference. “So what if he is our age—he is still just a rookie,” Chanyeol continued, dripping with scorn. “Nothing special.” 

Relief trickled faintly beneath the irritation. If the kid was nothing remarkable, Luhan’s place could not truly be threatened.  

Of course, Junmyeon and the others must have been desperate. Of course they chose the last performer out of necessity. He almost congratulated himself on the epiphany. 

But Jongdae’s face twisted. “He is special. You haven’t even seen him—” 

“I don’t need to,” Chanyeol shrugged. “No one can do Luhan’s job better than Luhan.” 

“Chanyeol…” Kyungsoo sighed tiredly. “You must stop. Luhan isn’t losing his place.” 

“I’m—” 

“Baekhyun earned this,” Kyungsoo cut in, disappointment soft but tangible. “You’re being unfair.” 

Guilt pricked him, but his stubbornness rose sharper and fiercer. No good ever came from letting outsiders into a family already stretched thin. Especially not when his cousin’s livelihood hung in the balance. 

“It’s temporary,” he muttered, turning back to Zzar’s harness. The phoenix’s muscles tensed in reluctant empathy. “You’re talking like he’s already one of us.” 

“He could be,” Jongdae shot back, arms crossed. His irritation rolled off him in waves, hot and biting. “You’ve no right—” 

“And you’ve no right to welcome strangers like they belong,” Chanyeol snapped, glancing over his shoulder with a glare sharp enough to slice. “We don’t even know him, and you’re seconds away from deciding where he’ll sleep when we leave for the next province. He’s here for one season, Jongdae. Nothing more.” 

Chanyeol’s fingers slipped over cold leather, breath snagging. “He’ll probably want to leave after a few days anyway,” he mumbled, voice cracking into something weary. 

Silence dropped heavily between them. 

Jongdae’s face darkened, and after a tense beat, he spun on his heel, storming toward the tent with stomps loud enough to vibrate the frost. Kyungsoo lingered, offering Chanyeol a soft, wilted goodnight before slipping away too, steps barely audible in contrast. 

When they were gone, Chanyeol finally let his breath out. Ragged and shaky. It did nothing to loosen the ache in his chest. 

Don’t let a stranger ruin what Luhan built. 

He gripped Zzar’s harness until the leather creaked. 

He’s just a fucking kid. 

 

* 

 

Byun Baekhyun arrived in a flurry of too-bright laughter and breathless excitement, and Chanyeol found himself entirely unprepared for it. 

The main tent buzzed with the usual morning chaos, juggling pins arcing through the air like falling stars, contortionists folding themselves into impossible shapes, ropes swaying lazily from the rafters. Chanyeol was attempting to reason with Zzar while nursing a vicious migraine born from two hours of broken sleep. 

The phoenix had spent the morning pointedly ignoring him; its long plumage aflame with faint irritation, as though personally offended by Chanyeol’s barbed words to Jongdae and Kyungsoo the night before. 

And although Chanyeol knew it shouldn’t be possible, he was convinced Zzar was sulking. 

He shouldn’t have been surprised. Zzar always understood him, reading through him like smoke through sunlight. Where that uncanny perception had forged an unbreakable bond between them over the years, today it served only to aggravate Chanyeol further, especially when the phoenix refused to even acknowledge him without a displeased flare of embers curling from its beak. 

“Are you really going to stay like this?” He hissed, unimpressed. “You’re behaving like an—fuck!” 

Something hard and heavy thumped squarely into his backside, nearly knocking him straight off the five-foot training podium. He spluttered on a strangled breath, winded, before whipping around to find Zzar’s long, ember-dusted tail swaying with suspicious casualness. 

“Zzar,” Chayeol snapped, glaring up at the phoenix perched regally before him, flames rippling along its wings like molten paint. “We need to train. Stop it.” 

All he received in return were narrowed golden eyes; sharp, intelligent, and brimming with pointed exasperation. 

His shoulders sagged. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Chanyeol muttered, “What do you want me to say?” 

Zzar simply stared, unblinking, expectant. 

“Is this about last night? You didn’t like how I spoke to Jongdae and Soo?” He hissed quietly, entirely aware he looked borderline insane whisper-arguing with a giant firebird in the corner of the tent. But everyone was used to it by now. No one besides the inner circle ever dared stray close anyway, not with Zzar’s reputation. 

Luhan, Sehun, and Junmyeon were exceptions, of course. Kyungsoo came by sometimes, though he still flinched like a startled rabbit whenever Zzar stepped too close, even after years of familiarity. 

Jongdae practically moved in with the phoenix whenever possible, claiming some mystical bond with animals, and given how often Chanyeol caught him wrapped around Zzar’s warm flank, feeding him illicit treats, without permission, Chanyeol supposed that affinity wasn’t entirely exaggerated. 

Minseok, too, often stopped by to chatter at the phoenix as though they were old drinking buddies, fully convinced Zzar understood every rambling word. Sehun and Junmyeon maintained a feigned indifference, though Chanyeol had caught Sehun staring at the phoenix with starstruck awe more than once. 

Everyone else kept their distance, wisely respecting the bird’s temperament and the fact that Zzar chose her own companions. Chanyeol preferred it that way; the last thing he wanted was a swarm of phoenix-obsessed fans camping outside Zzar’s roost every night after a performance. 

So when Zzar perked up at the mention of last night, gaze flicking meaningfully toward where Kyungsoo sat with Jongin, Chanyeol knew he’d struck the mark. 

He exhaled dramatically, folding his arms and peering up at the phoenix from beneath his messy silver fringe. 

“You’re bothered that I was rude?” He murmured. 

Zzar huffed, embers scattering gently from her beak. 

Of course she was. For a creature born of fire, she could be painfully polite. 

“I’m sorry, alright?” Chanyeol sighed, softening his voice. He lifted a hand, running his palm along sleek onyx-and-violet feathers, watching the flames flicker beneath. The familiar heat soothed them both, Zzar’s posture easing, golden eyes softening the way they only ever did for Chanyeol. 

“I’m just…frustrated. Things are complicated right now.” 

His problems were his own; he knew that. He was too protective, too sharp-edged in the name of love, hurting others without meaning to. But it was the only way he’d ever learned to live. The only way he’d survived. 

“Can you forgive me?” He whispered. 

Zzar dipped her great head, warmth blooming against Chanyeol’s chest like a small sun. Relief loosened something inside him. 

“Good. Let’s start training, yeah?” He murmured, smiling; the small and private smile meant only for Zzar, as he shrugged out of his jacket. 

He was mid-movement when he felt it:  

Eyes. 

Bold, unblinking, burning into him. 

The sensation pricked at his skin, and he lifted his head, ready to snap at whoever had come too close and froze. 

Small, russet eyes gazed up at him from below, molten and soft with some quiet, blooming awe. The tent’s golden light brushed over smooth milky-toned skin, the sharp cut of a delicate jaw, and a tousled mop of pink hair that framed flushed cheeks and petal lips tilted into the shyest, most devastating smile. 

The stranger blinked; slow, lashes trembling, and when his smile widened, Chanyeol caught a glimpse of bright edges, rising cheeks and eyes turning to crescents, before it vanished again. 

The flutter in his gut was instant, uninvited, and entirely unwelcome. Heat flared embarrassingly along the back of his neck when the young man tilted his head, studying him with soft curiosity. 

Who on earth— 

“Can I help you?” Chanyeol blurted, voice rough, irritation covering the fluster clawing up his throat. 

The boy paused, expression flickering with something unreadable before he let out a light, tinkling laugh; a sound so pleasant Chanyeol hated it on instinct. He merely shrugged, unbothered by the rude greeting. 

What was more unusual: the stranger didn’t seem the slightest bit frightened of Zzar. If anything, the phoenix’s looming presence only piqued his curiosity. 

Before Chanyeol could make sense of it, a shout split the moment cleanly in two. 

“Baekhyun! Over here!” 

Chanyeol jerked violently, nearly tumbling off the podium again. He twisted around in time to see Minseok, red in the face and stumbling with excitement, hurrying over with a beaming smile. 

Baekhyun. 

The name slammed into him like a fist. 

His breath shuddered, muscles winding tight as he snapped his gaze back to the boy standing beneath him. 

Byun Baekhyun. 

The temporary replacement. The interloper. The one who would surely try to steal Luhan’s place. 

Something sour and vicious curled beneath Chanyeol’s ribs, burning away the brief flicker of nerves Baekhyun had sparked just moments before. 

He dropped his coat carelessly to the side, dragging his eyes away and fixing them on Minseok instead. 

The boy looked barely twenty. 

Certainly not capable of filling such enormous shoes. 

“There you are.” Minseok panted as he skidded to a stop, chestnut hair sticking to his forehead in damp curls. Chanyeol wondered if the man had once again sprinted away from a private moment with Junmyeon, and judging by the flush staining his cheeks, he absolutely had but Chanyeol kept his gaze fixed firmly on the magician’s assistant instead. 

Anything to avoid looking at the new kid. 

Even though he could still feel the boy’s eyes on him. The gaze left a heat that prickled along Chanyeol’s skin and left him flushed with something he insisted was distaste and not embarrassment. 

Really. Why wouldn’t he look away? 

“You don’t need to be over here, Baekhyun-ie,” Minseok fussed, brushing hair from his eyes as he reached out to usher the newcomer closer. “How about we get you situated with Kyungsoo and Jongin? They’re eager to go over the routine with you.” 

The rookie hesitated only slightly when his eyes flicked from Chanyeol to peek over the man’s shoulder to beam nervously at Zzar. 

“Aren’t you supposed to have started already, Chanyeol?” Minseok chirped, doing nothing whatsoever to ease the nerves fizzing uneasily beneath Chanyeol’s skin. 

“Zzar had an issue,” Chanyeol muttered, pointedly looking away. He heard Minseok suppress a laugh, which only worsened his irritation, and he silently willed the pair to leave. 

But Minseok, in all his dangerous enthusiasm, only continued. 

“I should introduce you two, since you’ll be sharing the tent so often.” His voice brimmed with a sort of dread, as if he had already anticipated Chanyeol’s reaction. 

Chanyeol considered leveling a glare sharp enough to slice through canvas, he had no intention of introducing himself to a rookie, but found himself helpless when Minseok kept talking, arm sweeping broadly in Chanyeol’s direction. 

“Park Chanyeol,” he announced cheerfully. “Our Phoenix rider. Not tamer, call him that and he’ll have your head.” 

Chanyeol restrained a full-body wince, though his jaw twitched violently. Against his will, his gaze drifted back to Baekhyun’s. 

“This is Byun Baekhyun, Chanyeol-ah,” Minseok continued, preening proudly. “We were lucky to have found him. His audition was simply astounding. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” 

Baekhyun flushed beneath the praise, cheeks warming to match the rosy tint of his hair as he ducked his head, shy. 

“Ah, it wasn’t—” 

“Really, I think it may have been the best audition I’ve ever watched,” Minseok gushed, utterly smitten. 

Chanyeol’s eyebrows inched upward. Minseok was notoriously difficult to impress; the fact he was praising someone so freely left a strange, uncomfortable tug in Chanyeol’s ribs. 

Who is this kid? 

Baekhyun stepped closer then, reaching up to grasp the edge of the podium. Chanyeol tried not to focus on how pretty his hands were, how delicate his fingers looked curled over the wood. A gentle smile tilted Baekhyun’s lips as he peeked up through tufts of pink hair, shy and impossibly sweet. 

“Ah—it’s nice to meet you. I’m Byun Baekhyun. I’ll be filling in for Luhan—” 

“Chanyeol is Luhan’s cousin,” Minseok cut in, smiling fondly. “He’s been worried sick, the big sap.” 

“Oh.” Baekhyun’s expression folded instantly into something soft and painful. He looked at Chanyeol with such genuine sympathy that Chanyeol forgot how to breathe. “I’m so sorry to hear that. I’m sure he’ll recover well and be back soon enough. I know how hard it is to be away from your craft.” 

And Chanyeol gawked. 

Because nobody should sound that gentle. Or appear to be that earnest. Or make the room tilt so strangely with nothing more than a sentence. 

For a moment, Chanyeol wondered if it was all a ploy; some manipulative tactic designed to endear himself to the circus and secure his place permanently. The thought hardened something cold inside his chest. 

So instead of extending a hand like he’d done for every other newcomer over the years, he found himself grimacing, a scowl tugging sharp across his features. 

“He’ll be back before you know it,” Chanyeol said tightly, voice rough and cutting even to his own ears. “So don’t get too comfortable, kid.” 

The, we don’t want you here, lingered thick in the air, unspoken but unmistakable. 

Minseok cursed spectacularly beneath his breath. 

Baekhyun blinked, startled, lips parting around words that faltered. A flash of hurt shimmered in his eyes, quick and fragile, and Chanyeol felt it like a blow. 

But then the boy smiled. A bright, breathtaking thing. All warmth and rose-tinted grace. 

“I won’t,” he chirped softly, stepping back as though Chanyeol’s coldness had frozen the air around him. “Nice to meet you, Park Chanyeol.” 

Chanyeol didn’t respond. 

He didn’t move even when Baekhyun spun away, crossing the tent toward Kyungsoo and Jongin with a little bounce in his steps that made Chanyeol’s stomach twist. 

Minseok lingered for a long moment, staring up at him with the unimpressed intensity of a disappointed mother. 

Chanyeol stared back, arms folded, probably pouting like a sulky toddler. 

“You’re a fool, Park Chanyeol,” Minseok announced flatly before stalking after Baekhyun, steps clipped and severe. 

Chanyeol swore under his breath and turned to tell Zzar to ready herself, only to find the phoenix watching him with eyes steeped in unmistakable disappointment, flames dimming to an indignant simmer. 

He told himself he was just imagining it. 

Dragging a hand through his tangled silver hair, he tried to shake the moment off. But behind his eyes, a pair of wide, glossy eyes, pink-tinged and hurt, dallied stubbornly. 

And suddenly, from atop the high podium, Chanyeol felt very small. 

I’m right, Chanyeol told himself firmly as he smoothed slow circles along Zzar’s warm feathers. 

He doesn’t belong here. 

 

* 

 

“I can’t believe you, Chanyeol. That’s awful.” 

“It’s not—” 

“You really said that? Right to his face? Horrible.” 

Chanyeol glowered at the cotton bedding under his fingertips, a sigh coiling sharp behind his teeth. 

“You’re making it sound like I told him to fuck off—” 

“You did, essentially,” Luhan snapped, folding his arms across his chest and fixing him with a glare sharp enough to slice through bandages. “You told him not to get comfortable.” 

“He shouldn’t!” 

Luhan’s sigh rattled through his bruised ribs, worryingly heavy for someone cracked open beneath the skin. He swatted Chanyeol’s hands away when the younger reached forward instinctively. 

“You really shouldn’t have said that.” He muttered. The reprimand softened only by the strain in his breath. “It’s not his fault.” 

“He needs to know he isn’t going to be stealing anyone’s position,” Chanyeol grunted, nose wrinkling. “You should have seen him, Luhan. He wouldn’t stop smiling, and he completely waved off Minseok’s praise and—” 

“I have, Chanyeol.” 

His cousin’s irritation cut through Chanyeol’s sputtering like a thrown knife. At Chanyeol’s puzzled frown, Luhan only rolled his eyes. 

“He visited me last night. And this morning. He’s awfully shy—sat here for over an hour asking about my old performances and wishing me a hasty recovery.” 

The little smile tugging at Luhan’s lips vanished the moment he met Chanyeol’s eyes again, replaced with a stare flat and unimpressed. 

“And he’s not trying to steal anything, you idiot. You need to get those thoughts out of your head—they’ll drag you into trouble before long.” 

“I’m allowed to have an opinion,” Chanyeol muttered, attempting confidence and achieving only petulance. He would not, could not, be swayed just because his cousin had fallen under the rookie’s spell. 

“Not one so vile,” Luhan grumbled, swatting his thigh. Chanyeol recoiled, nearly pitching off the mattress in his haste to avoid those splinted fingers. 

“Yah, stop—” 

“Chanyeol. Look at me.” 

The sudden seriousness in Luhan’s voice rooted Chanyeol in place. His cousin’s typically bright, easygoing features tightened into something solemn; shadows gathered beneath his eyes. 

“I’m happy right now,” Luhan murmured, voice stripped bare. “I’m happy, Chanyeol-ah.” 

Chanyeol opened his mouth, but a raised hand cut him off. His gaze caught on the stark white of the fresh bandages wrapping Luhan’s broken fingers, and his heart gave a slow, painful twist. 

“I needed a break,” Luhan confessed, guilt creasing his expression. “Desperately. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” 

Chanyeol stilled. Something cold and heavy slipped into the space behind his ribs. 

“I’ve worked too hard. I injured myself at almost every performance. I—” He paused, eyes dulling. “I got used to the ache. It got so bad I blacked out one night when I came back to my trailer.” 

Chanyeol’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Lu—” 

“It’s my own fault,” Luhan interrupted. He looked small like that; shoulders hunched, fingers fiddling with the blanket. “I could have asked Junmyeon for time to recover after that sickness, but I didn’t. I could have slept instead of practicing. I could have listened to Yixing. But I didn’t. I ignored it all—and this is the result.” 

His jaw clenched, good hand curling in the bedding. 

“I brought this on myself.” 

Chanyeol didn’t know what to say. The trailer felt suddenly too close, air thick with sorrow. 

“…Hyung. Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” His voice cracked on the whisper. 

His cousin slumped, shooting him a soft, crooked smile. 

“Because like you, I’m an idiot too, Chanyeol.” 

Silence unfurled slowly, tired and heavy as winter fog. Chanyeol sank back against the wall, stretching his legs out across the mattress. He picked a loose thread in the blanket, letting the cold paneling leech through his hair into his skull. 

“I think I’m relieved,” Luhan murmured eventually. 

Chanyeol glanced over. “Why is that?” 

“Because I got to take a break. A moment to breathe. I don’t know.” 

Chanyeol hummed low. He thought he understood. 

“You didn’t want to let anyone down. So, you pushed until your body forced you to stop.” He raised a brow. “Is that right?” 

Luhan watched him carefully before sagging, a fond smile twisting across his bruised face. “You were always the smarter one, hm?” 

Chanyeol snorted and tipped his head back against the wall, staring up at a thin crack running through the ceiling. 

“What I’m trying to say,” Luhan nudged his side gently, “is that you need to stop worrying. I’m not. Baekhyun’s great, Chanyeol. Really nice too. He could be something good for this team.” 

There was… something else layered beneath his tone, something quiet and pointed; something Chanyeol refused to acknowledge, not with how it clawed up the base of his throat like a swallowed stone. 

“You’ve only met him twice,” Chanyeol muttered, sulky to his own ears. 

“Twice was more than enough,” Luhan said brightly. “He’s got spirit—the kind you don’t see outside our little troupe of stragglers.” 

Chanyeol didn’t know what everyone else saw in Byun Baekhyun. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if he was the blind one. 

He had the distinct, irritating, suspicion that he was. Not that he would admit it.  

“I’m happy to be replaced for a bit if it’s by him,” Luhan sighed, settling deeper into the mattress. Despite the bruises shadowing his face and the wince that clipped his breath every time he shifted, he looked more at ease than he had in months. 

“In fact, I’m quite looking forward to it.” 

“Don’t get too used to it,” Chanyeol scoffed. “You’ll be back in no time.” 

“I’m already having so much fun,” Luhan carried on, ignoring him entirely. “I’ve almost finished that book I bought months ago.” 

“Two months will pass quickly—” 

“It’s dreadfully entertaining flirting with Yixing all day, too—” 

“All right, that’s enough.” 

“This morning, he had to help me wash my—” 

“I’m leaving.” Chanyeol practically tumbled off the bed in his scramble to stand. His scowl only deepened when Luhan burst into laughter, shoulders shaking. Chanyeol tugged on his boots with more force than necessary. 

“But what if I told you he liked it—” 

“Leaving. And never fucking coming back.” 

The trailer door slammed behind him, but Luhan’s bright, wheezing laughter spilled through the open window after him, the winter wind carrying it like a taunt. 

 

* 

 

Over the next week, Chanyeol avoided Byun Baekhyun as much as humanly possible. 

Luhan’s words stubbornly stayed in the back of his skull, like a splinter beneath flesh; aggravating him every night when he tried to sleep, but even so, he felt the need to make something excruciatingly clear: 

He was not going to befriend Byun Baekhyun. 

He had no desire whatsoever to get closer to the boy. And while that notion suited Chanyeol just fine, it seemed to agitate everyone else, if the constant glances of disapproval from Minseok and Jongdae were anything to measure by. 

So, he simply stayed away. 

He spent most of his time in the open field with Zzar, choosing the stretch of wind-bitten grass over the suddenly cramped confines of the main tent where the acrobats resided. Kyungsoo threw him a few inquisitive looks; no stranger to practicing side by side with Chanyeol and Zzar whenever they were strapped for time, but the acrobat seemed to have caught on quickly once he saw Chanyeol’s expression. 

It had happened on the third morning: Chanyeol’s gaze met Baekhyun's from across the tent, Chanyeol’s face twisted into something sharp with instinctive disapproval, and before Kyungsoo could so much as call his name, Chanyeol had grabbed his coat, whistled for Zzar, and vanished through the curtain flaps in under ten seconds. 

Kyungsoo had teased him about it later over dinner, nudging him in the ribs and asking, far too innocently, whether Chanyeol was simply embarrassed to perform in front of the newest addition to their team. 

Chanyeol scoffed, shoved the midget out of his way, and escaped before the pink dusting his cheeks could betray him any further. 

He wasn’t embarrassed. He was not. 

He just… felt profoundly uncomfortable around Byun Baekhyun. 

There was something about the rookie that left Chanyeol restless beneath his skin, as though he was constantly bracing for something to snap, something to break open between them. Maybe it was because Baekhyun was here to replace his cousin. Or maybe it was the overly kind demeanor he wore like a shield that, infuriatingly, felt genuine. 

Perhaps it was the way his delicate features were always tucked into a small, soft smile. The light in his eyes whenever they landed on Chanyeol; bright and unwavering, warm as molten honey, and layered with something he could never quite decipher.  

Or the way he laughed; high and crystalline, like birdsong, each trill fraying at Chanyeol’s nerves like a weaned string pulled taut. 

Whatever the reason, Baekhyun’s presence was driving him to the brink of insanity and fast. 

What made it worse, what drove Chanyeol well and truly mad, was the fact that everyone else adored him. 

Byun Baekhyun fit into their group of chaos-bitten misfits with alarming ease. 

Chanyeol’s attempts at avoiding him grew weaker by the day, especially since Baekhyun seemed to appear everywhere Chanyeol went. Whether perched on the tent floor giggling with Kyungsoo while they stretched; or whispering conspiratorially with Jongdae at dinner, the pair practically glowed with shared mischief. 

He had seen Baekhyun twice leaving Minseok and Junmyeon’s trailer at night, half swallowed by Minseok’s crushing embrace while Junmyeon ruffled the pink hair with a quiet fondness. 

He had caught Sehun once lifting Baekhyun above his head like a human weight, spinning him until the rookie shrieked and slapped at his shoulders while a crowd of performers cheered. 

And through it all, all of it, every time Baekhyun crossed Chanyeol’s path, he smiled. Soft. Small. Unthreatening. A gentle curve of lips before he dipped his head and moved on, clearly just as eager to avoid conflict as Chanyeol was. 

It should have soothed Chanyeol. 

Instead, he found it suspicious. 

The rumors didn’t help. 

It had been assumed Baekhyun would move into the acrobats' shared trailer the moment he signed his contract; it was practical, common, expected. Living on site meant he could commit to daily training without the exhausting trips to and from Westerwyn proper. 

So, when Chanyeol overheard two dancers whispering one evening about how the new kid refused to stay in the trailer, how he insisted on walking home every night to his tiny village nearly half an hour away by foot, Chanyeol frowned. 

No one turned down free accommodation. No one in their right mind chose pitch-dark roads and exhaustion over convenience. 

It was strange. 

Not alarming. But strange. 

The next thing, though, shifted something in him, something cold and unsettling. 

The bruises. 

The first time he noticed them, it was because he was being his usual clumsy self. 

He had been hauling a worn leather satchel of tools across the main site, muttering to himself about Zzar’s harness and what adjustments he still needed to make, when his foot caught on an uneven patch of earth near the break tent. The satchel lurched. A hammer slipped out and thudded against the grass inches from his toes. 

Chanyeol hissed a curse, already annoyed at the thought of bending down. 

But he didn’t get the chance. 

A slender hand darted into view, pale fingers; rosy around the ends, curled around the hammer with practiced grace. And then that hand rose, and with it, so did Byun Baekhyun. 

The rookie straightened, offering the hammer to Chanyeol like an offering. 

Chanyeol opened his mouth to mutter a begrudging thanks but froze. 

Baekhyun was soaked with sweat from afternoon practice; pink hair stuck to his forehead. A pale blue blouse clung to his chest, thin fabric nearly translucent in the light. His bare feet curled into the grass, toes flexing slightly, body language shy and compact. He kept his gaze low, never quite meeting Chanyeol’s, as if one moment of eye contact might make him bolt. 

“Uh… here you go,” he whispered, voice small, breath tight as if volume itself might provoke Chanyeol’s wrath. 

His sleeve rode up his forearm a little as he extended the hammer. 

And Chanyeol’s breath faltered in his throat. 

Dark smudges bloomed across Baekhyun’s wrist; clustered, oval shapes tinged purple and blue, mottling into sickly yellow around the edges. 

Bruises. Fresh ones. 

Bruises shaped like fingerprints pressed into flesh.  

Chanyeol’s face scrunched before he could conceal it; eyebrow furrowing, jaw clenching, something sharp and uncomfortable sinking low in his gut. 

Baekhyun noticed. 

His breath hitched. His eyes flicked to his own wrist, widening for a split second before he yanked the sleeve down in a panic. The motion was so quick, so practiced, Chanyeol felt a ripple of nausea at the back of his tongue. 

Baekhyun’s fingers trembled when he placed the hammer atop the satchel. He bowed, stiff and clumsy, as he vanished into the tent like a startled deer. 

He left behind a haze of awkwardness and something else, something Chanyeol didn’t have a name for. 

Chanyeol stood there for a long moment, staring after him, a coil of dread winding itself in his chest. 

It was probably nothing, Chanyeol told himself. 

A training accident. A misstep with the silks. A tumble.

Something benign, but the thought tasted wrong in his mouth. 

He ignored it anyway. 

Except after that, he started seeing the bruises everywhere. 

Faint smears of color beneath billowing sleeves. Dark fingertip marks half-hidden under cuffs. Baekhyun’s poor attempts to cover them up with oversized shirts and careful gestures. 

Chanyeol told himself he wasn’t looking. He told himself he didn’t care. 

But every time Baekhyun passed by him, Chanyeol’s eyes strayed, darting toward exposed skin, searching for purple shadows he had no right to look for. 

Baekhyun never called him out on it. 

And Chanyeol was glad because he’d hate for Byun Baekhyun to think he was interested. 

In any way at all. 

 

*

 

It was the night before the circus’s first performance without Luhan, when Minseok sought Chanyeol out. 

Winter’s dusk had swallowed the campsite whole, creeping over canvas and rope with startling speed, its cold claws latched onto every breath Chanyeol drew until even inhaling felt like swallowing frost.

Torches sputtered weakly along the pathways, their flames bending in the wind like tired dancers, while the bunting overhead, violet and ochre triangles strung in frantic zigzags, flapped desperately against the winter breeze, clinging to their twine as though the wind might rip them straight into the stars. 

The circus grounds thrum with life despite the chill. Laughter ricocheted through the tents, mingling with the sharp cackle of fire-eaters, and the low murmur of card players hunched over makeshift tables. Its noise Chanyeol had grown used to, noise that once grated against him but eventually became something like comfort on nights that felt too long, too lonely.  

From his spot on a rickety stool beside an already snoring Zzar, the bird knocked out after a grueling practice.

Chanyeol could pick out familiar voices in the chaos. Jongdae’s loud and honeyed shrills, Kyungsoo’s baritone. Sehun’s derisive snorts. Junmyeon’s patient and futile attempts to get them all to settle down. 

A smirk tugged at Chanyeol’s lips. 

As if Junmyeon could ever get them under control. 

Jongdae screeched again, something about a fireball being “too close to his eyebrows”, and Chanyeol snorted softly, shaking his head. 

Not a chance. 

He was so lost in the comforting absurdity of it all that he didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps over frostbitten grass until a pair of worn leather boots stopped right beside him, far too close for comfort. 

“I thought I’d find you here,” a familiar voice hummed, tired amusement threading through the words. 

Chanyeol exhaled through his nose, a sigh thick with mock disgust. He dragged his gaze upward, leveling Minseok with an unimpressed stare. The pink lips that greeted him curled into a cunning smile. 

And Chanyeol, unfortunately, recognized it. 

“I thought you’d grown out of sneaking off into the dead of night to avoid the other kids,” Minseok teased, eyes sharp even under the warm flicker of string lights overhead. “Anyone would think you’d reverted back to your old ways, Lucifer.” 

Chanyeol nearly snorted at the nickname; one he hadn’t heard in years. 

Lucifer. What a ridiculous thing to call him. 

But Minseok had insisted on it from the moment Chanyeol joined the circus; quiet, withdrawn, a little too cold to be harmless, all thin eyes and blade-like silence. And then there was the day Minseok caught him standing unmoving in the face of Zzar’s raging flames, not even blinking, like the inferno knew better than to touch him.  

Theatrical as always, Minseok decided Chanyeol simply had to be some form of a demon. 

Chanyeol had been too tired to correct him. 

The name stuck long enough to become a joke… and eventually, something like an endearment. 

And if  Minseok was bringing it back now, it could not mean anything good. 

“I was checking on Zzar,” Chanyeol replied, pushing the scowl off his face. “A man can talk to his phoenix, can’t he?” 

“It doesn’t look like she’s listening,” Minseok said lightly. 

Zzar punctuated the claim by snoring loud enough to rattle the stool beneath Chanyeol. 

Chanyeol pretended not to hear it. Minseok’s smirk said he was not fooled. 

“What do you want?” Chanyeol grumbled. “Go smother the younger ones. Or come up with a new trick with Junmyeon. Preferably a vanishing act.” 

“The disrespect,” Minseok huffed, fluttering his coat dramatically. “To think I came out here to keep you company on this cruel, frigid night.” 

“I’m not objecting to you leaving.” 

“Park Chanyeol.” 

Another sigh slipped out of Chanyeol, heavier this time. 

“I’m not getting rid of you until you say what you came to say, am I?” 

Minseok’s expression answered him. 

“Out with it then,” Chanyeol muttered. “I can practically see the stress rupturing your blood vessels.” 

Minseok ignored the jab, his eyes drifting past Chanyeol toward the main tent where laughter still bubbled like champagne through the night. His jaw relaxed slightly, as if he had decided something internally, and when he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that the wind nearly carried it away. 

“Our first performance with Baekhyun-ie is tomorrow.” 

Chanyeol’s chest tightened despite himself. A cold ripple travelled down his spine, something sour twisting low in his gut.

Of course this is about him. 

“So?” Chanyeol forced out, attempting neutrality and landing firmly in irritated disdain. 

Minseok gave him a look, equal parts disappointment and frustration. 

“He had to leave early. Couldn’t join us for dinner.” 

“What a tragedy,” Chanyeol deadpanned. “You’re not usually this heartbroken when one of us misses a meal.” 

What’s so special about him? 

The words went unspoken, but only barely. 

“Why do you hate him so?” Minseok finally asked, voice dipping into something almost desperate, as though he was trying to decode Chanyeol like a stubborn lock. 

Chanyeol didn’t hide the frown. He was tired, tired of the constant questions, tired of the looks, tired of Byun Baekhyun, and his too-small smiles, and his bruised wrists and the uncomfortable knot he left lodged beneath Chanyeol’s ribs. 

“I don’t hate the kid,” he muttered. It was the truth. He didn’t hate Byun Baekhyun. Dislike? Absolutely. He had always found hatred to be an exhausting waste of emotion, and Chanyeol hoarded his energy too closely to expend it on something like that. 

“At least,” he muttered, “I try not to.” 

“Then—” 

“I’m just wary,” Chanyeol cut in, lifting one shoulder in a stiff shrug that fooled no one. “That’s all.” 

“You didn’t treat anyone else like this,” Minseok murmured. “Only him.” 

Something coiled in Chanyeol’s stomach, tight and cold and unmistakably guilt shaped.

It reminded him of a younger version of himself, sharp-edged and furious at the world, too quick to judge, too slow to trust. A boy who didn’t know how to carry grief without letting it corrode him. 

He did not want to think about that Chanyeol. 

But Minseok didn’t give him the luxury of avoiding it. 

“It’s because of how he came to us, isn’t it?” Minseok pressed, turning fully toward him, staring sharp as a blade. “Because you think he’s going to replace Luhan.” 

“Does it matter?” Chanyeol snapped. 

Yes, it sounded petty. Yes, he knew it. Yes, it made him look exactly the way everyone accused him of being. 

But he could not help it. 

Not when Byun Baekhyun smiled at him like he did, bright and unfiltered and warm in a way that made Chanyeol feel stretched open. Not when that smile conjured something hot and snarling in his chest that he insisted was annoyance but felt frighteningly like something else. 

Minseok watched him and Chanyeol suddenly felt exposed to the cold. 

“Yes, Chanyeol,” Minseok finally said. “It does.” 

There was a moment of suspended calm between them. The overhead bulbs clung softly against their wires. The distant laughter no longer sounded comforting; only intrusive, too loud, too bright for the space Chanyeol found himself crammed into. 

He wanted to flee, retreat to his trailer, bury himself beneath blankets, and act as though none of this existed. 

But Minseok sucked in a breath; his posture shifted; losing its edge, softening into something gentler. 

“I have a good feeling about Baekhyun-ie,” he murmured, eyes drifting skyward. “A really good feeling.” 

Chanyeol scowled automatically. “What does that have to do with me?” 

Minseok’s smile turned sharp; fox-like and unnervingly certain. 

“Everything.” 

He was the second person to say that. The second to have looked at him with that same quiet certainty. 

And as cold winter air filled his lungs, Chanyeol wondered, for the first time, whether there was far more to his problem with Byun Baekhyun than he had been willing to consider. 

 

* 

 

Chanyeol was no stranger to bright lights and screams soaked in awe, and yet tonight, as the crowd’s cheers buzzed through his bloodstream and his heart thundered in time with the relentless pulse of the skinned drums, he felt the difference settle like a chill against his bones. 

Sickly-sweet scents from the food stalls outside seeped through the canvas, cloying his nostrils until he wrinkled his nose.

Overzealous music crashed in through one ear and out the other, reverberating deep in his chest and stirring the adrenaline already coursing through him. The tent looked stunning tonight; long strings of lightbulbs sweeping from edge to center, illuminating the ochre and violet stripes that spiraled up the tent’s interior. 

If he hadn’t been used to this life by now, he might’ve felt dizzy from the assault of sound and color and light. 

People had piled into the tent in frantic waves, tripping over one another in their rush to secure seats, laughter and chatter swelling together into something loud enough to crush any hope of silence.

Anticipation ballooned within the space like a living thing, a pressure that rivaled the coil currently tightening around Chanyeol’s own nerves as he stood above it all, leaning against the chipped wooden scaffolding that circled the tent’s upper edge. 

From here, the crowd looked terrifyingly small. Ants scurrying across the stands, their shouts rising to meet the pounding drums as they waited for the season’s first spectacle. 

For the first time that night, Chanyeol felt a smile threatening his lips, a curl of anticipation teasing at his fingertips. 

Performance nights always did that to him. He adored them. 

If only this one hadn’t been tainted. 

Tainted by a certain rookie’s presence. Tainted by Luhan’s glaring absence. 

He found himself wondering what his cousin was doing at that moment, likely curled in the warmth of the infirmary trailer with Yixing and— 

On second thought, he didn’t want to dwell. He had already walked in on them twice this week in positions wholly unsuited for Luhan’s condition and once had been more than enough. 

Still, something felt incredibly wrong about gearing up for his performance without first watching his cousin soar through the air. That ritual had always grounded him, the flash of bodies twisting weightlessly, defying gravity moments before he stepped into the ring himself. It had been routine. Safe and comfortable. 

If he watched tonight, he had the sinking feeling it would only pull the tension tighter inside him, make his nerves buzz more sharply. 

Behind him, the safety staff had shuffled along the rafters, checking the mechanisms for the aerialists’ ropes and wires. Chanyeol could almost feel the anxiety rolling from them in waves. Last-minute nerves were nothing new; anyone with half a brain knew that even the smallest change in performers or choreography could unravel the entire system. 

And in their world, mistakes were never small. They were life or death. 

Even without trying, Chanyeol could read the tension etched across the faces of the performers weaving through the backstage chaos. Costumes shimmered under the dim bulbs; makeup gleamed beneath trembling hands. They kept exchanging glances, fleeting, loaded looks full of questions they were too polite or too afraid to say aloud. 

It wasn’t surprising, the weight in the air. 

Was Byun Baekhyun good enough? 

Chanyeol shared the concern, though he wore it far more openly, far more sharply than the rest. He’d never cared for softening his opinions, especially when they concerned someone who’d been thrust into Luhan’s place like a too-early replacement. 

No one else voiced their doubts with Chanyeol’s bluntness, but it didn’t matter. Everyone was thinking about it. The tension said as much. 

Tonight, they couldn’t afford a mistake. 

And yes, practice had gone well enough, but practice meant nothing under the crushing eyes of thousands. How could they know Byun Baekhyun wouldn’t crumble? That he wouldn’t misstep, falter, injure himself or worse, injure someone else? 

Tonight wasn’t just a performance. 

It was a test. An initiation. 

Amid the swirl of chatter and the glittering crash of music, Kyungsoo’s unmistakable cackle split the air like a burst of a firework. It jolted Chanyeol out of his thoughts, scattering them like startled birds. 

He glanced down from the rafters just in time to watch the aerialists spill into view, drifting through the velvet curtains like ghosts slipping into their own legend. Their costumes shimmered beneath the stage-lights; their faces painted and solemn, as though they were stepping into a place where gravity bowed, and time held its breath. 

Jongin burst through first, incandescent as always; his laughter echoing even as his smile wavered into something taut at the corners. Kyungsoo trailed behind him, offering that quiet calm he carried like a second skin. For a moment Chanyeol wondered, felt it, deep and bitter in his chest, whether his worst suspicions had finally gathered enough weight to become real. 

Was the entire troupe about to watch them break? Was this the night everything shattered? 

But then, Kyungsoo reached backward with all the careless joy of a child catching fireflies and yanked someone else through the curtain. 

Baekhyun stumbled into the lights like a dropped star. 

He all but fell into Kyungsoo’s side, breath catching; skin drenched in glitter that glimmered even from Chanyeol’s height. Silver and opal flakes clinging to white-and-petal-pink lycra like frost on a dawn-lit lake. 

His leotard hugged him like a second body, casting light down the elegant line of his throat, over the swell of his collarbones, curling around his waist and blooming over the sculpted arcs of his hips and thighs. Every shift of his form sent a ripple of shimmer down to his feet, like moonlight poured thinly. 

His hair, soft rose, curled and tousled, framed his face as though sculpted by the hands of someone who adored beauty. His fringe dipped into his eyes when he tried to straighten himself, clumsy beneath Kyungsoo’s wandering hands. 

But when Kyungsoo slung an arm around his shoulders and laughed, Baekhyun’s lips tugged into a shy, reluctant smile. And when Jongin reached forward to ruffle his hair, something like trust flickered through him; fragile, small, but undeniably there. 

Chanyeol staggered. He had not expected whatever this was. 

He knew the aerialists liked their costumes to be dramatic, and liked their colors to sing brighter than the lights. Sequins, glitter, fabric like liquid sunlight, he was used to all of it. But Baekhyun, stripped of his oversized clothes, his delicate wrists bared; his body carved in motion and shadow. He looked nothing like the timid thing Chanyeol had spent weeks avoiding. 

He looked like the sky turned into flesh. He looked like he belonged in the air. 

And the realization scraped something raw inside Chanyeol, something cautious and unsteady. 

“Wow. Jongdae really outdid himself on the newbie, huh?” A voice drawled near his ear. 

Chanyeol nearly jumped out of his own skin, boot catching against the wooden beam with a hard thud. He tried to recover, leaning back with what he hoped was nonchalance and not sheer panic, but he could practically feel how transparent he was. 

He kept his eyes fixed firmly away from Baekhyun and instead glared at the new arrival. 

Chanyeol wasn’t foolish. He wasn’t oblivious to beauty either. He wasn’t immune to the soft curves, the elegant symmetry; the quiet light Baekhyun seemed to carry like a fragile lantern. 

But he resented the way the others stared at him as if he were prey. He wasn’t about to join Iseul in that hungry gaze. 

“Hadn’t noticed,” Chanyeol forced out, far too late, voice tight enough to snap. 

Idiot. Fool. 

“Oh, I sure have,” Iseul purred, leaning forward on the railing with a sigh that carried more heat than wind. His eyes locked onto Baekhyun; glinting and predatory. A smirk twisted his mouth, thin and split and knowing. 

The knife thrower had joined them only a few months ago, and Chanyeol still couldn’t pin him down. Their first meeting had been little more than a passing nod and shared silence, neither keen to extend themselves. Since then, Chanyeol had barely crossed paths with him. 

He was talented; that much was obvious. A natural with blades, calm hands, and unerring precision. 

But something in him hummed wrong. A discordant note. A glimmer in his eyes that suggested heat without warmth. 

Maybe it was the sharp way he looked at pretty people. Maybe it was the half-dressed bodies Chanyeol had seen staggering from his trailer in the cold hours before dawn, flushed and bruised in ways that didn’t sit right. Maybe it was the smile. 

Or the silence. Or the way he always seemed to be standing too close. 

Chanyeol didn’t know and didn’t care. 

But he knew one thing: 

Bak Iseul was someone to avoid. 

Not in the same way as Byun Baekhyun. But still, someone to avoid. 

Chanyeol watched with a raised brow as Iseul leaned his entire hulking frame over the railing. His hungry gaze glued to the aerialist below.

The wood groaned under the man’s weight, and something in Chanyeol’s gut groaned with it; a slow, creeping unease curling tight and low. It thrummed like a warning struck on the strings of his spine, faint but insistent. 

He tried to shake it off. Tried to let it drop to the floor like discarded sawdust. 

Especially when Sulli shouted across the rafters for him, her voice cutting through the thick air like a thrown blade. 

“Move your arse, Eul! We open in five!” 

Her irritation rang loud even against the rising nerves of the performers spilling around them, some rushing toward the main ring, others fleeing into the smaller tents encircling the great one like a constellation of anxious stars. 

Iseul swore under his breath, annoyed at being pried from his cattle-market ogling. He cast one last, lingering stare downward; a stare that crawled over milky skin and pink curls with predatory precision; a curl of lip sharp enough to slice. 

“Who knew he was hiding all that under those blouses,” Iseul muttered, voice slick with something that made Chanyeol's shoulders hitch with quiet disgust. 

Chanyeol didn’t answer. His silence said enough. The man sauntered off with a too-cheerful whistle, swaggering toward the stairs with that easy, unbothered gait Chanyeol disliked on principle. 

When Iseul disappeared, Chanyeol exhaled slowly and leaned back onto the railing.

The wood pressed into his elbows, grounding him and yet making him feel more adrift. His eyes slid back to the trio below. 

Jongin vibrated brightly as a sparkler. Kyungsoo stood steadily beside him. And Baekhyun bounced in place on a current of nerves and excitement, like a balloon tugged by wind. 

Chanyeol frowned. 

He might not like Byun Baekhyun. But he was not heartless. 

And Iseul circling anyone, even someone he disliked, was a thought that churned something ugly in his stomach.

He would mention it to Junmyeon. Or Minseok. Someone. Because he wasn’t going to stand by if the knife thrower decided to make someone a target. 

Even if that someone made Chanyeol’s entire brain short-circuit every time, he wandered into view. 

Even if the thought of Iseul towering over Baekhyun sparked something in Chanyeol’s chest that felt too personal, something he refused to name. 

It’s just because my friends care about him. 

Just because he was the age of Kyungsoo and Jongdae. Just because Chanyeol had grown fiercely protective of recruits that small and bright, before.

That’s all. I still don’t like him.  I can’t— 

“-nyeol! Chanyeol!” 

He flinched. Again. For the third time in ten minutes. 

Kyungsoo’s voice crashed upward through the rafters like a thrown lantern. Chanyeol found him instantly, because Kyungsoo had been glaring holes into the upper scaffolding for minutes now.

The brunette beamed, triumphant, waving with a force that nearly knocked Jongin over. 

Baekhyun winced; a hand slapped over his ear, still caught in the snare of Kyungsoo’s arm. 

Heat shot up Chanyeol’s neck, mortification prickling under his skin. He fixed the trio with a long, unimpressed stare, trying to pretend Kyungsoo hadn’t just screamed his name loud enough to summon spirits from the next kingdom over. 

“How long have you been up there?” Kyungsoo hollered, oblivious to the chaos he caused. 

“Long enough that you should be ashamed,” Chanyeol deadpanned. “Aren’t you supposed to be preparing? You know—leading your team? Not deafening them?” 

Kyungsoo slapped his hand to his chest in a theatrical injury. “You wound me. And we’re ready! Jongdae painted Baekhyun within an inch of his life—look at him sparkle!” 

Chanyeol didn’t need to. He could see it even with his eyes squeezed shut. He could feel the shimmer buzzing under his skin like static. 

“I suggest you stop running your mouth,” Chanyeol warned. 

Kyungsoo laughed, entirely unbothered, shouted a goodbye dripping with excitement, and slung both arms around his aerialists. He herded them toward the back of the tent like a mother hen with glitter for feathers. 

And Chanyeol almost made it. 

Almost tore his gaze away. Almost turned toward the stairs to find Zzar and prepare for their cue. Almost slipped back into the shadows where feelings could not find him.

But then a flicker of pink brushed the edge of his vision. A pull like gravity deciding it had new preferences. 

Chanyeol blinked, and Baekhyun was already staring up at him. 

Of course he was. 

Baekhyun always did this—always got caught looking, always watching Chanyeol back with eyes like honey gilded in sunset. Tonight, beneath the golden glow of the tent lights, the rookie seemed carved from candle-flame and softness, his lips shining, his expression unreadable. 

And Chanyeol froze. 

He didn’t look away. Couldn’t. 

He just leaned closer onto the railing, eyes narrowing ever so slightly; not in disgust, no matter how hard he tried to convince himself of that, but in something searching. 

What are you thinking? 

The question passed silently between them, threaded through the din of performers and crowd. Then Kyungsoo tugged Baekhyun forward, nearly knocking the smaller man into a stumble.

Baekhyun’s gaze snapped away like a severed thread, swallowed into the motion around him, and the moment shattered cleanly between them. 

Chanyeol sucked in a breath. Shoved himself off the railing and turned toward the exit with shoulders tight and steps clipped. As a desperate need to erase the last few minutes washed over him.

Fresh air. I need fresh air. 

 

 

*

 

For as long as Chanyeol had lived beneath the swirling canvas of Exotica’s great tent, he had never once grown numb to the wonder of it. Every season, every province, every strange and glittering city they passed through, wonder always found him. It clung to him like static, like stardust. 

Even now, pressed against a worn wooden pillar at the edge of the grand floor, he felt the familiar fever stirring in his veins. The drums thrummed through the ring; slow at first, then quicker, as though warming the very air. The crowd’s chatter thinned into expectant hushes punctured by little gasps of excitement. Their anticipation rose like a tide beneath the canvas roof. 

Lantern lights cascaded from the highest point of the tent down in rings, casting a honeyed glow over the packed rows.

Chanyeol folded his arms across his chest, feigning the practiced ease he had perfected over years, though nerves hummed beneath his skin like restless bees. 

When the overhead bulbs dimmed and darkness spilled across the ring, he let his breath catch in his throat. 

Here we go. 

The drums quickened. Feet pounded the dirt in rhythmic thunder, and a melody curled into the air like a serpent of pure joy. 

He knew this part. He had seen it a hundred times, had felt the stage beneath his own feet long ago, had stood exactly where he stood now, shoulder against wood, heart swelling as light flickered over dancers’ flying limbs. 

He knew what the crowd would see when the lights burst back to life: dancers circling the ring in riotous color, sequins catching flame-like flashes; contortionists curled in impossible shapes atop golden platforms; fire eaters exhaling blooming plumes of sunset into the air. 

He knew the sight of little Yeri and Lisa twirling on ballet feet, each with a sparkler in hand; their tiny bodies outlined in glitter and light. The gasps from the front row never changed. Nor did the parents’ frantic hands hovering protectively near their children’s shoulders. 

He was used to all of it; the molten color, the motion, the sheer life of the circus. Yet as the song swelled to its most riotous peak, joy still tore up his spine in a lightning-strike. 

This was why they wandered from province to province. This was why they endured long nights, cold mornings, exhaustion, and bruises. 

This is it. 

When the music exploded into its crescendo and the crowd roared, Chanyeol’s eyes found the center of the ring. 

And the center, as always, found Junmyeon. 

The magician sprinted onto the stage like a man thrown from a cannon, nearly stumbling off the raised podium he’d emerged from. His violet suit shimmered with moving light; his blonde hair, half-hidden beneath an askew hat, bounced with each enthusiastic step. He was all limbs and laughter and earnest chaos. 

He was the heart of Exotica. 

His grin spread wide enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes, and the audience went feral, children leaning so far forward that their parents had to snag them by the waist. 

Junmyeon swept his arms open in a sunburst gesture, all warmth and welcome. Cheers cracked so loudly under the tent’s canvas that even Chanyeol felt the vibration behind his ribs. 

A blast of fire whooshed up in an arc. The crowd gasped as one. And Chanyeol, despite himself, smiled. 

The music tapered, turning slow and molten. Dancers shifted with practiced grace, retreating to the ring’s edge as Junmyeon turned toward the podium once again. With a theatrical bow, he pulled on it. 

The lid sprang open. And Minseok erupted into being. 

Feathers, pink and dazzling, shot into the air around him, silver glitter shimmering like spilled starlight. Minseok rose from the podium like a deity of glamor, grin blinding; his blouse clinging to him in all its sequined, ridiculous glory. 

Junmyeon caught his hand and pulled him free with something just shy of allegiance. 

Spotlights thundered on, catching the two men mid-bow. The applause rolled across the tent like a physical force. 

Chanyeol breathed in pride.  

Yes. This was his family. Chaos and talent and glitter and heart. 

He watched Junmyeon begin his charismatic spiel, announcing the night’s first performers in a voice that rumbled like distant thunder. 

And with a final look at their bowing forms, at the whirl of colors around them, Chanyeol slipped past the curtain before either man could drag him into their theatrics. He moved quickly, letting the fabric fall shut behind him. 

But as he stepped into the dimmer corridor of the inner tent, a shape caught the corner of his eye. 

Iseul stood among the knife throwers, preparing for their act. His attention wasn’t on his team. It was on the audience. Sharp. Calculating. 

Like he was marking targets, not faces. 

A cold tickle crawled up Chanyeol’s spine. 

He told himself to ignore it. Told himself he was being paranoid. Told himself this was not the moment to spiral. 

Zzar needed him. They had their own performance to prepare for. 

And so he turned away, even as a ribbon of dread tugged at his ribs, whispering that he shouldn’t have. 

Just minutes before the aerialists’ first performance as a newly forged trio, Chanyeol found himself right where he always gravitated in moments like these. Hidden high above the world, perched in the ribs of the tent, nerves bubbling beneath his skin like something carbonated and volatile. 

Below, the crowd rippled with chatter and restless anticipation as Chungha and Minho, their illusionists of shifting colors and clever hands, dipped into their elegant bows.

Their magic still shimmered faintly in the air as they exited the ring.

Bodies relaxed, smiles loose with the relief of a job well done. When Minho tilted his chin up and spotted Chanyeol watching, he flashed a grin so bright it tugged one from Chanyeol in return. 

But higher in the rafters, tension coiled tight. The lights blinked out in a hush of darkness as the next performance prepared to unfurl, and Chanyeol chewed at his lower lip, every muscle in his shoulders wound tight. 

This was the moment. The one they had all been waiting for. The only act tonight that carried the weight of unpredictability. 

He wondered if Luhan had snuck out of the infirmary to watch, or if he was tucked away with Yixing, both worrying themselves sick. The thought tugged unpleasantly at Chanyeol’s chest.

A single slip, just one mistake from Byun Baekhyun, and months of their reputation could collapse like a house of cards. 

This is why you don’t want him here. He doesn’t belong. 

The thought pulsed, jagged as a heartbeat. 

He was so tangled in it that he nearly missed the soft, whispering descent of the silks unfurling from the ceiling.

One glided downward into the darkness of the center ring, anchored at the strongest beam, suspended like a sliver of moonlight made violet. Chanyeol recognized it instantly, Jongin’s.

Even now the man was surely down below, hidden in shadow, hands poised to begin the impossible climb. 

The other silks unfurled to either side, stretching pale and long toward the edges of the rafters, awaiting their dancers. 

Chanyeol already knew the choreography by heart: Jongin steady in the center like a fixed star while Kyungsoo and now Byun Baekhyun swung in arcs from either side, their bodies crossing paths in dangerous, breath-snatched intersections. 

Too dangerous for a newcomer. Too dangerous for someone Chanyeol didn’t trust. 

And yes, Kyungsoo and Jongin seemed confident in him, but Chanyeol shoved that thought away with irritation. His own nerves burned too fiercely, too protectively. 

So lost in his spiraling worry, he didn't notice the footsteps approaching until a warm voice burst through the tension— 

“Chanyeol!” 

A hand clapped his back; he startled sharply, spinning to find Kyungsoo beaming at him like sunlight caught in perpetual motion. 

“Yah! You really couldn’t hear me?” Kyungsoo teased, completely oblivious to Chanyeol’s frayed nerves.

Sweat glistened along his temples, evident of last-minute stretches, but his expression was pure ease, bright and unbothered as he surveyed the sea of faces below.

“Junmyeon said they had to add an extra bench tonight. Gods, I’ll never get tired of how loud they get.” 

Chanyeol hummed, following his gaze. Children leaned forward so far; their parents had to keep nudging them back.

The smell of candied nuts drifted upward through the vented spaces of the tent, mixing with sawdust and warm bodies. Behind them, spotlight operators scurried like pale moths in frantic preparation. 

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Chanyeol asked, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. 

Kyungsoo blinked, surprise flickering over his features before dissolving into a long, steady sigh. 

“Chanyeol…nothing’s going to happen. We’ve gone over this.” 

Chanyeol scoffed, petty, but honest. “You don't know that. Anything could happen out there.” 

“Anything could happen out there anytime,” Kyungsoo replied calmly, leaning into the railing, breathing in the crowd. “No matter if it’s Baekhyun or Luhan.” 

Chanyeol knew he was right. Of course he was right. 

But knowing didn’t soften the tightness around his heart. 

He parted his lips to argue, again, only for a stagehand to call Kyungsoo’s name. His silk waited draped over the balcony’s lip, a beckoning ribbon ready for flight. 

As Kyungsoo turned to go, Chanyeol grabbed his forearm instinctively. 

“He’s new, Soo. He has no experience—he doesn’t understand how dangerous this is—” 

“You really won’t give him a chance, will you?” Kyungsoo snapped, the rare sharpness in his voice slicing through Chanyeol’s protests. Shoulders tense, jaw locked. “You haven’t even watched us practice. He’s good. Really good. I’d almost say he was born for this.” 

“You can’t just—” 

“You have no idea who Byun Baekhyun is.” 

Kyungsoo stepped past bustling stagehands and tense aerial riggers, heading straight for his silk. His movements softened as he lifted the fabric; fingers devote, slipping into the familiar ritual of wrapping it around his wrists. There was art in it; art Chanyeol had watched a thousand times yet never quite understood. 

“I have no desire to know Byun Baekhyun,” Chanyeol hissed, frustration prickling hot beneath his skin.

He gestured sharply toward the ring, where Jongin waited in shadow. “This is dangerous and you know it. Going out there with him when everything’s so new—” 

“Do you not trust me?” 

The question hit him like a thrown stone. 

“What?” 

“I’m asking if you trust me, Chanyeol.” Kyungsoo tugged gently on the silk, testing its hold with the carefulness of a man who had lived his life suspended between earth and sky. 

“Of course I do,” Chanyeol said, baffled. “But that has nothing to do with—” 

“If you trust me,” Kyungsoo said quietly, “then trust my judgement. And my judgement says Byun Baekhyun is what’s keeping us afloat right now.” 

It's not fair. None of this is fair. 

He wanted to rewind everything; to place Luhan back in the air, laughing, unbroken, unafraid; to restore the world to its perfect, familiar shape. 

But he couldn’t. And wishing wouldn’t change the truth. 

“Kyungsoo…” he whispered. 

The brunette paused. His gaze softened, searching Chanyeol’s face, pleading. 

“Don’t let pettiness ruin something that might be good for all of us,” he murmured. 

Before Chanyeol could reply, the lights snapped awake, gilded and brilliant, illuminating Jongin already suspended high in the center of the ring. The crowd erupted, cheers rising like a storm. 

Music surged, drums first, then strings weaving in after them. 

Kyungsoo stepped onto the balcony’s edge, bare feet gripping wood, silk wrapped securely around him. He nodded toward the far end of the tent, toward the rafters opposite them. 

The place where Baekhyun waited, half-hidden in shadow. 

“Just watch him, Chanyeol,” Kyungsoo breathed, eyes filled with something certain and blazing. 

“Watch him… and then tell me what you see.” 

When Chanyeol let his gaze sweep across the vaulted dark before him, across the sea of beams and shadows and drifting dust motes, it landed on that familiar, pink-flared silhouette perched on the opposite loft, and he was not surprised to find Byun Baekhyun already watching him. 

He reacted as though he was, though. Something leapt inside his chest, startled and stinging, when he caught the rookie’s expression: that slight furrow of concentration, that tilt of the head, as though Chanyeol was some riddle etched into the woodgrain of the world, waiting to be solved. 

It was a look he had caught Baekhyun wearing too many times. A look that never failed to disturb the nervous, thrumming swirl in Chanyeol’s gut. 

Baekhyun stood atop the balcony in perfect mirror to Kyungsoo, feet planted, shoulders rolled back in the quiet, crystalline kind of confidence reserved for people born too near the sun.

And still, Chanyeol knew; if he stared hard enough, if he squinted through the haze, he’d see the faint tremor in the boy’s hands where they clutch violet silk. A breeze ghosted in through some crack in the tent and lifted the pink wisps tucked neatly behind his ear, the strands stirring like petals ready to scatter on the wind. 

And Chanyeol, gods help him, felt his breath catch. 

Their eyes locked. 

Silence, not true silence but the strange, eclipsing kind, rushed to greet him. Drums thundered, the crowd surged, spotlights hummed to life somewhere down below, and still, it was Baekhyun’s gaze that drowned everything else out. A quiet question hung there. A flicker of doubt. A tremble of fear he shouldn’t have, not for Chanyeol. 

What reason does he have to fear me? 

Something in Chanyeol insisted on turning away before—before what? 

He did not know. He only knew the moment felt dangerous in a way that felt outrageous. 

But the world shifted; the spotlights roared awake, pouring gold into the ring, and Chanyeol jerked out of his trance when a hand patted his shoulder. Kyungsoo’s grin awaited him, wide with mischief, eyes sparkling with something akin to telling. 

And down below, the crowd's cheers melted into hushed awe as Jongin ascended, corkscrewing through the golden air; silk wound itself around his body like living light. 

Kyungsoo dipped, bent his knees, and glanced back at Chanyeol with a look that was almost…proud. 

“See you on the other side, my friend.” 

He winked. 

The music dropped into something explosive, like fireworks cracking open in the air, and he leapt. 

Chanyeol’s breath tangled inside his throat. Even after all these years, Kyungsoo’s descent still stole something from him. 

Limbs sleek with certainty, back arched, body slicing through space as if the air itself had been waiting to catch him. Chanyeol didn’t notice that Baekhyun had also moved until Kyungsoo crossed his path. The two grazed hands in passing, a brief brush of arm to arm, like a greeting mid-flight, before they were whisked away again in opposite arcs. 

Somewhere to his right, there was sudden breathless noise: limbs flinging over a railing, the excited cackling of children disguised as grown men. Jongdae’s unmistakable hollers, Minseok’s scandalized squawking. 

But Chanyeol barely registered them because suddenly all he could see was Baekhyun. 

Violet silk surrounded him like something enchanted; like river water, smoke, like a second skin, and Baekhyun’s body glided through it with an intimacy that bordered on indecent. The fabric trailed him, wrapped him, followed him, fused with the glittering lavender clinging to his skin-tight suit. His momentum swung him close....closer. 

What? 

He was not expecting this. 

Baekhyun tipped himself into a rapid rotation, silk tightening around his slender waist as he folded and unfurled like a bird learning the secrets of flight. The crowd gasped, one swelling sound, breath held in a single shimmering lung, and then Baekhyun was upside down, legs a perfect line toward the heavens; arms outstretched like wings, silks split and taught between his palms. 

He moved like the fabric was a part of him. Like the air was a part of him. Like he was born at this height, in this danger, in this glowing hush of stars above the ring. 

He was too close. 

So close Chanyeol could see every detail as it rushed into existence in front of him. The gentle sway of long lashes, the silvered sheen of sweat on porcelain skin, pink petal-lips breathing softly, the subtle pulse of veins at his temple, and the glitter on his cheekbones catching the light like sparks. 

For years, Chanyeol had teased Kyungsoo and Luhan through poses like these: a flick to the nose, a tap beneath the chin, a grin tossed up at them whenever they skimmed the balcony rail. But nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared him for this kid invading his airspace. 

 And Baekhyun was close, dangerously so. 

Close enough for Chanyeol to catch the gold flecks dancing in the rookie’s eyes. Close enough that breathing became an afterthought.  

And then, it happened. 

Their eyes caught. And something silent detonated. 

The world dropped away. All the noise from below dissolved into a mere hum. Drums throbbed somewhere far off, like a heartbeat underwater. 

And Baekhyun....Baekhyun smirked. 

Small. Sly. Almost a secret. 

A sharp little upward curl like a hook caught in Chanyeol’s ribs. 

It jolted through him, hot and immediate and deeply unwelcome. His hackles rose. Something feral scratched at the inside of his chest. But before the feeling could even resolve....

The air stirred, fluttered, and Baekhyun was gone, swallowed again by height and wind and violet silk. 

Chanyeol remained hunched over the railing; mouth parted, pulse galloping. He heard laughter; loud, delighted, and obnoxiously knowing, from Jongdae just beside him, but he couldn’t quite tear himself away from the shock. 

“What was that?” He muttered, horrified at the pitch of his own voice. 

Below, Jongin twisted into another beautiful contortion. Baekhyun busted through the air again, spiraling with a precision that made Chanyeol’s stomach lurch. He finished a long sweep across the ring and swayed back toward his starting position, fingertips grazing the balcony edge, so close Chanyeol felt the wind of him. 

Kyungsoo landed on Chanyeol’s side at that exact moment, limbs long and gleaming, giddy joy lighting his face. He poked Chanyeol on the cheek hard. Chanyeol hissed, mortified, swatting the empty air where Kyungsoo had been mere moments ago. Minseok snorted beside him. 

“I didn’t know the rookie had a fucking fan club,” Chanyeol muttered. 

Jongdae snickered. “Jealousy looks cute on you, Chanyeol-ah.” 

Chanyeol flipped him off— 

And fate, apparently, decided that now was the time to strike. 

Kyungsoo swung back toward the center, twisted—reached—and the silk around his ankle slipped.  

Just enough. 

His grasp missed the fabric. His body tilted. His arms flailed, once, twice— 

And Chanyeol’s heart imploded. 

Shit. 

He knew accidents. He knew pain. He knew the antiseptic sting of the infirmary better than his own reflection. But this height, this fall…  

The scream tore out of him before he could stop it. 

Below, the audience gasped. Some clutched each other. Some stared, breath seized. Some didn’t understand the danger at all; they thought it was a trick, a flourish, a staged brush with mortality. 

They didn’t know. 

Kyungsoo plummeted. 

Sequins blazed under the lights. His body arched downward in a burning streak of color and panic. 

And then everything turned into a blur. 

A violent streak of pink and violet slashed through the air, so fast Chanyeol’s vision warped. 

A hand, small but strong, shot out. 

Fingers clamped around Kyungsoo’s ankle. 

And the world erupted. 

Screams. Cheers. Roars. The tent became a tidal wave. 

Kyungsoo stabilized, swinging wildly but alive. Baekhyun hung upside down; his free arm wrapped in a flawless wristlock, legs secured, the hold perfect. Lifesaving. 

Chanyeol sagged against the railing, breath shuddering, heart thundering loud enough to drown the crowd itself. 

Kyungsoo was right. Always had been. 

He watched as Baekhyun waited, still inverted, until Kyungsoo rewrapped the silk around his wrist. Only then did Baekhyun release him. 

Jongdae shrieked. Minseok dragged him back from the railing by the collar like a misbehaving cat. Both cried out encouragement into the golden air, faces undone with relief. 

And Baekhyun glowed under the attention. He beamed, bright, and radiant. 

And Chanyeol witnessed the crowd fall in love with him. Right there. All at once. 

Their last circuit was stunning. Their final poses were scandalously flexible. When Baekhyun lifted into a thigh-hitch arabesque so perfect it looked sculpted from moonlight, Chanyeol found himself leaning in, utterly spellbound. 

Baekhyun shone, literally, sweat gleaming on his brow, breath sharp; hair plastered beautifully to flushed skin.

His expression was open and awestruck. 

Chanyeol realized, with a sudden clarity, that this was Baekhyun’s first ever crowd. 

The noise thundered, the lights seared, the joy surged, overwhelming and unstoppable. 

It crashed over Baekhyun in waves, raw and trembling and radiant, and Chanyeol…he looked away.  

It felt too intimate. Too private. 

He was not Baekhyun’s friend. Not his confidant. Not even someone he spoke to. 

He had no right to feel this moment with him and yet the ache in his chest didn’t want to agree. 

 

* 

 

It wasn’t even five minutes later that Kyungsoo was clinging to a sweaty, stunned Baekhyun while stagehands swarmed them, fanning their overheated bodies with frantic devotion. 

The three aerialists had drifted back up to the rafters right after the performance, carried on trembling limbs and leftover adrenaline, and in the time, it took Chanyeol to scrape himself back into something that resembled composure, Kyungsoo hadn’t let go of the kid once.  

He patted relentlessly at Baekhyun’s damp hair, arms locked around him in a vice, whispering gratitude repeatedly in a voice that tried for lightness but trembled like a wire. 

Not even Doh Kyungsoo was immune to fear, it seemed. 

“Now that’s what I call a performance,” Jongdae barked, arms crossed, eyes bright with pride. 

Jongdae had grown closest to Baekhyun over the week, two chaotic spirits finding their match.

And watching the tarot reader loop his arms around both men, beaming sunlit affection at Baekhyun, had the rest of them practically cooing. 

Minseok reached forward to ruffle Baekhyun’s sweat-soaked locks, a soft smile pulling gently at his lips. 

“You did so well, Baekhyun-ie. A true natural.” 

“And you saved Kyungsoo’s life,” Jongdae added, only retreating when Minseok hauled him back by the scruff like an unruly cat. “Fastest save I’ve ever seen.” 

“I really thought that was it,” Kyungsoo admitted, breathless, a soft wince tightening his features. “If Baekhyun hadn’t been there…” he trailed off, voice thinning. 

Baekhyun sensed the shift and shook his head, palm rising to knead soothing circles into the back of Kyungsoo’s neck. 

“Don’t think about that. It ended well.” 

“Because of you.” Jongdae grinned, giving him another pat. 

Minseok hummed his agreement, arms folding as he took in the sight of them. 

“And the audience probably thought it was meant to happen.” 

Baekhyun flushed at that, flushed beautifully, pink deepening like dawn blooming under his skin as he ducked his head and mumbled denials.

He trembled a little, Chanyeol noticed; whether from cooling sweat or the crash of adrenaline, he couldn’t tell. 

Kyungsoo eventually loosened his hold, rolling his shoulders wearily as Jongin arrived, weaving through the tide of stagehands.

Chanyeol stayed at the fringe of the group, leaning back against the railing, elbows braced on warm wood. He did his best to keep his face blank, though it did nothing to deter Minseok and Jongdae from shooting him those long, knowing looks every time they caught him peering through his lashes at the cotton candy-haired performer. 

Byun Baekhyun just saved a life; his thoughts rattled. And it looked like he’d done it a hundred times before. 

Kyungsoo approached him then, hair dripping sweat, smile stretched sheepish and tired. Chanyeol let out a low whistle, protective annoyance simmering through his chest. 

“You’re real fucking lucky, Soo,” he drawled. 

The other man huffed a breathy laugh. “Don’t I know it.” 

“You scared the fuck out of me.” 

“Yeol—” 

“What if the rookie hadn’t been there? What if he didn’t reach you?” 

A slow, wicked smirk curled at Kyungsoo’s lips. “Someone changed their tune.” 

Chanyeol scoffed, leaning harder into the railing. Below, the next act ignited, literal flame, painting the tent in molten gold as Tao and Dara breathed fire into the air.

Their kids were likely down there too, sparklers in hand, delighting the crowd. 

“Kyungsoo—” 

“He did well tonight, didn’t he?” Kyungsoo nodded toward the gathering on the other side of the platform.

Baekhyun swatted at Minseok’s hands as the eldest attempted to tame his unruly hair; Jongin snickered beside him, Jongdae draping himself dramatically over Baekhyun’s back. Stagehands darted past them with ropes, mics, stretchers, pausing only to flash fond smiles. 

Chanyeol went still at the question. 

He didn’t know how to answer. He thought of Minseok’s endless dinner ramblings, Jongdae’s breathless praise, the way they had both insisted, over and over, how naturally gifted Baekhyun was. 

And yet none of their words had prepared him for what he had witnessed tonight. None of their praise came close. 

He might dislike the kid. But he wasn’t blind. 

Baekhyun was good, dangerously good; the rational part of his mind admitted. 

The realization irritated him further, and Kyungsoo must have seen it because he slung a heavy arm around Chanyeol’s shoulders, eyes shining with something sharp and knowing. 

“You’ll see,” he murmured. 

His earlier words hummed through Chanyeol’s skull: 

Watch him…and then tell me what you see. 

Chanyeol grimaced, heat creeping up his neck as the memory hit; Baekhyun’s body arcing close, sweat gleaming, eyes burning into his, lips curling into that maddening, soft-edged smirk— 

He swallowed hard. He let himself look then. Baekhyun tossed his head back in laughter, pink hair scattering; throat exposed in one long, smooth line. His fingers tangled through his own hair as he leaned into Jongdae’s playful shove, breathless, glowing. 

Something fluttered in Chanyeol’s chest. Something he immediately crushed down and labeled as irritation at the sound of that bright and breathy laugh. 

“He’s not bad for dead weight, hmm?” 

Chanyeol jerked, muttering a curse as Junmyeon appeared behind him like a conjured spirit, a smirk threading through his gentle features.

It wasn’t strange to see the magician here, patrolling, keeping the circus running in its organized chaos. And he wasn’t even looking at Chanyeol; just past him, gaze focused on Baekhyun’s laughing form. 

Chanyeol found himself bristling, scoffing under his breath. 

Junmyeon only chuckled, the sound infuriatingly warm. He pushed off the beam, eyes still drawn to Baekhyun with that soft analytical fondness only Junmyeon had. 

“Maybe you should take Kyungsoo’s advice,” he murmured, and then he drifted away, toward Minseok, who immediately set about fussing with Junmyeon’s half-crooked costume. 

Chanyeol rolled his eyes hard enough to ache, somehow missing the long, knowing look Kyungsoo traded with Junmyeon over his shoulder. 

 

* 

 

It wasn’t until much later, when Chanyeol was astride Zzar once more, wind tearing at his hair and shirt, adrenaline sparking bright and wild under every inch of his skin, that he caught sight of Byun Baekhyun again. 

Zzar’s wings unfurled like a universe being born, vast enough to swallow the ring whole.

Feathers; iridescent, living flame, shifted with molten hues of silver, violet, and deep indigo, each one trembling with heat and light. Where a Phoenix would clatter and roar, Zzar sang; all crackling embers and soft chiming fire, a sound as ancient as story. 

Years of unwavering loyalty had melded them together so tightly that Chanyeol no longer knew where her pulse ended, and his began. Her heartbeat thundered beneath him, fierce and exultant, and his own answered in perfect harmony. 

The muscles of his thighs strained as he guided her into a tight circle of the ring, leaning so close to the slack-mouthed audience that her trailing embers brushed their cheeks and sent hats tumbling into laps. Heat rolled beneath him, both from her burning core and the fire she carried in her breast, and the familiar rush of liquid light surged through Chanyeol’s veins as he whistled for her to climb, higher and higher, toward the peak of the tent. 

Zzar obeyed with the grace of something divine. She tilted into a sharp rotation, belly of bright flame turning toward the heavens, her lithe form twisting in a breathtaking helix of heat and power.

Chanyeol let out a whoop that was half-laugh, half-worship. 

Nothing, nothing, felt like this. 

He held on to her harness until he couldn’t bear not to let go.

Then one hand slipped free, fingers cutting through the rushing night air as though reaching for the moon itself, Zzar’s fire deepened to a brilliant gold. 

The world spun in a dizzying blur of light, crowd, fire, and shadow, and Chanyeol let his laughter scatter like sparks across the tent. Zzar preened beneath him, delighted, spiraling until they were upright again; wind-battered, half-wild, wholly alive. He ran a hand down the hot shimmer of her feathers, feeling joy burst through his chest as she angled into another circuit.

He’d learned long ago that he was not like the other phoenix riders. He did not claim Zzar as a possession.

They shared breath, pulse, and soul. Equals. Partners. A covenant forged not in dominance, but devotion. 

If she wanted to show off, he would never deny her. 

“This is what we were born for,” he breathed, throat raw and filled with flame.

Zzar’s chest pulsed, and she exhaled a plume of shimmering fire that rippled across the ring’s ceiling like a blooming aurora. The audience screamed in joy and terror. 

He grasped the harness again, body taut as Zzar’s wings folded with startling precision. He felt her intent the moment it sparked. 

They dropped. 

Wind knifed past him, tearing at his clothes, at his breath, at his heartbeat.

The ground rushed up in a blur of sawdust and shadow. Chanyeol counted, each number a dare and a promise: 

“Three.” The screams shifted, uneasy.  

Wait. 

“Two.” Panic began to fray the edges of their voices.  

Almost. 

He tightened his grip. His stomach rose to his throat. 

And— 

At the last second, Zzar snapped her wings open, rearing upward with a cry loud enough to shake the rafters.

The world lunged past them, wind punching against Chanyeol’s skin as they shot back toward the pinnacle of the tent. 

He laughed, wild, and alive. 

“This,” he shouted, breath stolen by speed and heat, “is what we were born for!” 

Then softer, meant only for her: “We were born for each other.” 

Their descent afterward was slower, deliberate; a final victory lap for the enraptured crowd. And it was then, mid-sweep of the ring, that Chanyeol saw him. 

Pink hair glowing. His mouth parted. Eyes wide as wide as moons. 

Byun Baekhyun stood alone near the entrance, frozen mid-step. The wind had ruffled his hair, tugged at the loose ends of his top, left him looking as though the moment itself had plucked him from motion and placed him there just to witness. 

His expression full of unguarded wonder cut straight through Chanyeol. 

Their eyes met. 

And Baekhyun did not hide it. Didn’t sneer or scoff, didn’t shield himself behind resentment or irritation like Chanyeol half-expected. 

He just stared. Awestruck. Soft in a way that twisted something sharply in Chanyeol’s gut. 

Chanyeol tore his gaze away, too forcefully, and fixated on the rise and fall of Zzar’s heated breath, anchoring himself in her heartbeat. 

Chanyeol couldn’t stop smiling. Not even when he tried. 

 

* 

 

That night, the circus held its celebration. 

They always held a small party on the night the season began. A jubilant applause for themselves after a successful opening show, but tonight, an extra spark of magic threaded through the revelry. 

Tonight, they celebrated Byun Baekhyun. 

Chanyeol hadn’t really been given a choice to attend or not. He had barely taken one step toward the shadows outside the main tent when Minseok had materialized like a white-feathered ghost and promptly dragged him back inside by the collar of his shirt, squawking something about “no hermits on celebration night.” 

Now the whole troupe had gathered under the massive tent; its canvas beating gently with winter wind as music throbbed like a second pulse beneath their feet.

They had a few free days until the next performance, and Chanyeol suspected he could already hear Kyungsoo and Sehun howling for somebody, anybody, to bring out the alcohol. 

He was used to this chaos by now; the tangled music, the glitter-slick laughter, the bodies still shimmering with performance sweat, and the dizzy, effervescent energy of circus folk celebrating another year of survival. 

He was even used to the way the troupe embraced a newcomer at the end of their first show, wrapping them in loud affection and inside jokes until they belonged as if by magic. 

But what he wasn’t prepared for, what no one seemed remotely shocked by except him, was how effortlessly Byun Baekhyun slipped into the rhythm of their strange, dysfunctional family. 

No matter how much Chanyeol resented the rookie’s arrival, no matter how much he hated the idea of enduring him for longer now that the boy hadn’t crashed and burned on his first performance, he could not deny what he saw: 

Baekhyun fit into their world like a bead of dew sliding into the groove of a leaf; perfectly, naturally, with a kind of ease Chanyeol found disturbingly seamless. 

He watched Kyungsoo and Jongdae still glowing with pride as they clung to Baekhyun’s shoulder, watched Minseok and Jongin share fond, almost parental smiles.

He watched Yixing and Luhan clap along as the dancers pulled Baekhyun into some ridiculous jig, watched Lisa and Minho summon a beat on their makeshift drums while Sehun attempted to wrestle Baekhyun into a headlock between verses. 

And at the far edge of the storm, watching quietly, stood Junmyeon; his honeyed hair glitter-strewn, his lips smudged with someone else’s gloss with arms folded with that soft, secret smile Chanyeol hadn’t seen grace his face in far too long. 

The entire world seemed briefly lit from within. Chanyeol lasted two drinks. 

Then, silent as a shadow slipping between curtains, he pattered out through the fluttering tent flaps, escaping before Jongdae or Minseok realized their prey had fled.

The music throbbed even through the ground, vibrating through the soles of his boots like a heartbeat, grounding him for one last moment as he climbed the wooden steps to his trailer. 

The door slammed shut behind him with a decisive thud. 

He pressed his back to it, felt the chill of winter wind humming through the seams of the wood, and closed his eyes. 

And that’s when the smile came; uninvited, shimmering faintly behind his eyelids like a ghost. 

A slope of a nose. A halo of pink hair. Long lashes quivering in concentration. Soft, puppy eyes bright like moonlit water. 

He growled a curse into the breathless quiet of his trailer. 

After bolting the door he stripped, shedding layers still damp with sweat, goosebumps racing along his skin as cold air swept in.

Once he had wrestled himself into a soft sleepshirt, he collapsed beneath heavy blankets with a long, fraying sigh. 

He thought back to the party, to how easily they had welcomed Baekhyun, how quickly he’d been absorbed into the circle.

The boy had performed only once, yet he stood among them radiant and settled, as though he had always belonged. 

The thought unsettled Chanyeol more than he cared to admit. 

He still didn’t trust the rookie’s intentions, how could he? But that didn’t give him the right to tell his friends not to trust him either.

And Luhan....what now? Would Junmyeon really keep Baekhyun on? Would he betray his cousin, and betray everything that happened? 

Chanyeol wouldn’t allow that. 

He tossed and turned, an arm flung above his head as he stared at the ceiling, breath fogging faintly in the icy air. 

Everything was going to change; he could feel it in his bones. 

All because of him. All because of Byun Baekhyun. 

A memory hit him like a stone to the ribs; wide, wonder-struck eyes staring up at him from the ground as he’d flown atop Zzar, lips parted, and awe shimmering openly across his face as though Chanyeol was a miracle. 

It had rattled him then. It rattled him now. 

Surely, he was used to being watched by crowds; cheered for, admired, worshipped in some corners of the world. But something about Baekhyun’s gaze had been different. 

And then....that smirk. 

That tiny, teasing little curl of mouth that bloomed behind his eyelids now, warm and maddening as summer on the back of his neck. 

Chanyeol cursed again, more violently this time, because winter winds were whistling through the cracks of his trailer, yet heat rose under his skin like a fever. 

What now? 

 

*

 

“I really wished I could’ve seen it, Jongdae was absolutely gushing over the drama of it all last night,”  

Luhan’s whine ribboned through the trailer like a poorly tuned flute, wobbling the very air, and Yixing winced from the far end of the cramped space.

Chanyeol swallowed what felt like his umpteenth sigh of the day, sinking further into the floor beside the bed. His back pressed against the wall as though he meant to disappear directly into it. 

“You really didn’t miss much,” he tried, voice low and a tired drawl that felt older than he was. 

Luhan threw him a look sharp enough to slice parchment from where he perched atop the bed, still sore, still bruised, still wrapped in his own exhaustion.

“That’s not what I’ve heard. Word is he’s the crowd’s new darling favorite—sweet and sexy—” 

Something twisted low in Chanyeol’s gut, something warm and unwelcome, curling tight like a startled serpent. He cut in before his cousin could finish swooning over how easily Byun Baekhyun had bewitched both the crowd and crew. 

“That’s nothing,” Chanyeol gritted, jaw set. “And like I said, you really didn’t miss much—” 

“Of course I did! Kyungsoo almost fell, Yeol. Also, I really wanted to see Baekhyun-ie's first performance!” 

“Baekhyun-ie?” Chanyeol echoed, lips tugging down. Apparently, nicknames were blooming like weeds these days. “And you can just watch the next. He’ll be here a while, anyway, considering how hard everyone seems to have fallen for him.” 

He knew he sounded petty, childish even, and yet not even Luhan’s tired scoff could pull him out of the nettled mood. 

“Are we supposed to hate him?” Luhan asked. 

Chanyeol’s silence answered him, instead. 

His cousin let out a long-suffering sigh, frayed at the edges.

“For the last time, Chanyeol, he isn’t trying to steal my spot. He’s talented, and he’s endearingly sweet. Seriously—you can’t blame us for falling.” 

“So what are we supposed to do then?” Chanyeol snapped, drawing his knees to his chest and curling around them. “Are you just going to let him keep your spot forever?” 

“Chan—” 

“You worked hard for that, hyung. You can’t just give it up to the first doll-faced kid—” 

“Chanyeol, you’re a fucking idiot.” 

The words hung suspended in the air, shimmering like dust motes in the late morning light. 

“…What?” 

From across the trailer, Yixing snorted into his hand before ducking his head back into his files, pointedly avoiding Chanyeol's glare.

Luhan hummed as though he hadn’t just flung an insult like a dagger. 

“Do you think there’s a limit on aerialists or something?” His cousin said, eyebrows furrowing. “Do you think the circus handbook dictates that we can only have three? Any more and we’ll spontaneously combust in a glorious ball of flame—” 

“But we don’t need him.” 

“They didn’t need me!” Luhan hissed, flinging his arms up. Yixing chided him gently from across the room, and Luhan rolled his eyes. “They didn’t even need you, Chanyeol—and you’re the only phoenix rider in the whole damn history of this circus.” 

“Alright, calm the fuck down,” Chanyeol muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. Embarrassment crept red and warm across his ears. He stared at the floor as Luhan went on. 

“We’re a circus. We pick people up all the time. So, what’s so different now?” 

Chanyeol huffed, something tightening like a snare drum beneath his ribs. He tilted his head back against the chipped wood, trying to untangle the knot of thoughts inside him. 

“I just—the circumstances of his arrival don’t sit right with me,” he said. “He came here to replace you, and now everyone adores him. I get the point of a fourth aerialist, but—is he just supposed to join us now? Is he going to pack up and hand his soul over just like that?” 

“Yes, he is,” Luhan murmured, voice softened to silk. Chanyeol could feel his cousin’s gaze on his cheek, though he refused to meet it. “Just like that.” 

Chanyeol hummed, something between dread and reluctant understanding. Luhan shifted closer, careful not to strain old wounds. 

“We keep talking about how you don’t like that he’s replacing me—but that’s not it, is it?” Luhan asked, tone probing. “There’s more.” 

Chanyeol didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because Luhan was right. And Chanyeol didn’t know why. 

“What is it about Byun Baekhyun that unsettles you so much, dear cousin?” 

A warm hand swept silver strands from Chanyeol’s face, and he leaned into the familiar gesture without meaning to.

Some of the tension dripped off his shoulders like melting wax. His lids fluttered shut, surrendering to the brief comfort. 

“I can’t answer a question I don’t know the answer to,” he murmured. “And that’s all it’s been since he arrived. Questions without answers.” 

Luhan hummed thoughtfully, withdrawing his hand as he straightened again. Chanyeol cracked an eye open to see him pursing his lips. 

“Maybe you don’t need all the answers yet,” Luhan said. “Maybe it’s alright to wait, Chanyeol-ah.” 

Chanyeol frowned in confusion. “What does that mean?” 

His cousin shifted, and Chanyeol caught the exact moment Luhan’s smile curved; slow and cunning. Foreboding washed through him like cold water. 

“Just let it be, Chanyeol.” 

Chanyeol staggered 

“Huh?” 

Luhan’s smile deepened, eyes twinkling with something knowing; anticipation blooming like dawn. “Well, you’re obviously already losing your mind over our sweet Baekhyun-ie, so there’s no need to make it worse—” 

“Yah, I am not losing my mind over that kid,” Chanyeol snapped. “It’s not my fault everyone keeps bringing him up—” 

“Chanyeol, he’s literally all you talk about.” 

“I don’t talk about him, I seethe. There’s a difference.” 

Luhan scoffed, delivering perhaps his most withering stare yet. Chanyeol pouted, heat creeping along his neck. 

This is ridiculous. He’s turning me into a child. 

“Oh, I’m sure there is,” Luhan said, his voice threaded with mischief. “Let me know when you figure out what that difference is, cousin.” 

A choked snicker escaped from Yixing’s corner, and Chanyeol shot him a yet another murderous look just in time for Yixing to cough into his fist, turning away to hide his smirk. 

Chanyeol considered, briefly, storming out like a petulant child, slamming doors and muttering curses. Instead, he arched a brow with slow, lethal composure. 

“You know,” he began, tone dark as the roll of distant thunder, “when you were injured, I don’t recall your neck boasting any wounds.” 

His gaze swept deliberately to Luhan’s throat, where warm skin was marred by a wide, unmistakable bruise. Fresh. Bold. And, unfortunately, very telling. If Chanyeol squinted, he could almost trace Yixing’s lips in the shape of it. 

Nausea fluttered, but the payoff was immediate. 

Luhan choked on air, hand flying to his neck, eyes going comically wide. Utter mortification burst across his face. Several bottles of antiseptic clattered dramatically to the floor. 

“Y-yah, Chanyeol—!” 

Chanyeol smirked, rising to his feet with satisfaction blooming in his chest like a wicked flower. 

He let the trailer door slam behind him, perhaps harder than necessary.

And when Luhan yanked open the window to shove a middle finger into the wind, Chanyeol’s cackle spiraled back through the cold air, loud enough to be heard over even the rattling winter gusts.

 

 

* 

 

Later that evening, Chanyeol did something he would soon and profoundly regret. 

The sky shimmered in a peculiar in-between, an enchanted blur of indigo and fading gold, when he slipped from his trailer and into the sharp, crystalline bite of winter.

Cloaked in thick coats and leather gloves, he stepped into the cold as though stepping into a spell-bound world.  

His stomach still glowed faintly from dinner, warmth curling lazily in his core, while a restless, sparking itch raced through his limbs; a yearning to take Zzar out for a late-night session on the frost-laden fields they’d claimed since their arrival. 

He always preferred open skies for practice. The main tent felt too tight, too heavy with the weight of onlookers, too small for the wild, shimmering magic he and his partner summoned.

And perhaps, perhaps it felt too awkward when the acrobats and aerialists shared the same practice hour; too many eyes, too many witnessing breaths. 

So he craved the open field, the expanse, the quiet of a night glowing with stars.

He craved Zzar’s warmth, her fire that burned in ribbons and braids, the gentle thunder of her wings stirring the frozen grass. A small, feverish longing tugged at him. He wanted to sit beneath the constellations for a while, to let the night wind pull the tension from his bones. 

Soft lights glowed from the trailers like warm, enchanted lanterns, each one a sanctuary against the winter bite.

As he passed Junmyeon and Minseok’s, painted an aggressively bright blue, a crime entirely committed by Minseok, Chanyeol heard…sounds. Nocturnal, unholy sounds. The kind that turned cheeks pinker than dragon fruit skin. He tuned them out with fervor, humming a shaky melody to drown them. And if he hurried away, well, winter kept secrets well. 

Caught in these small indignities, Chanyeol did not notice at first that Zzar wasn’t alone. His gaze stayed fixed on the frost, crackling beneath his boots.

His mind was tangled in mutters and curses, until another voice drifted through the chill, and he nearly collided with its owner. A flash of soft pink startled him, and a curse tumbled from his mouth. 

Chanyeol stiffened. 

Only a few feet away, Byun Baekhyun stood leaning against the wooden railing beside Zzar, chattering softly to the massive bird as though whispering charms into her flame-feathered form. 

Baekhyun hadn’t noticed him, too caught up in whatever gentle enchantment he had woven. His voice was warm, as though dipped in honey and sunbeams, drifting through the cold in soft spirals. Overhead bulbs cast molten gold across his cheek as he tilted his head; a tiny smile curling his lips. 

Chanyeol could not make out the words, not over the wind’s icy rush, but even if he could, he doubted he’d hear them. Not when the sight alone shook something loose inside him. 

Because Baekhyun….Baekhyun was speaking to Zzar with no fear. 

No hesitation. No awe-struck trembles. 

Fearsome. Untouchable. Too dazzling to approach. That was Zzar. 

And yet Baekhyun stood there, as if speaking to a sunrise.

For a strange heartbeat, Chanyeol wondered whether Baekhyun had ever crossed paths with a phoenix before.

How else did one stand so easily before a creature born of flame and rebirth? But then Baekhyun said something lilting and sweet, a breathy giggle spilling from lips tinted pink by winter, and before Chanyeol could react, Zzar leaned toward him, feathers glowing gently, and released a soft, contented trill she had only ever offered Chanyeol. 

And Chanyeol saw red. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

A startled yelp cracked the night like brittle ice. Baekhyun spun, eyes wide in the glow, lips parting as he took in Chanyeol standing there; face carved with fury sharp enough to cut moonlight. 

“W-what—” Baekhyun began, but Chanyeol sliced right through the moment. 

“Did I say you could go near her?” He spat, heat roaring up his throat. This rookie, who had already taken his cousin’s role, who had already coaxed admiration from everyone like it was nothing, now dared to stand giggling with his phoenix? His partner? Fire surged within him, wild and unbound. 

“You think you can just walk around here and take what you want?” He snarled, stepping closer, breath turning to frost between them. “You’ve got no right to be here, no right to—” 

“I’m sorry!” Baekhyun blurted, voice trembling as though cradling something fragile. “I just—I was just—” 

Chanyeol scoffed, the sound cold as splintered ice. “Don’t come near my fucking phoenix again.” 

He felt something inside him crack, every suppressed frustration, every stiffly swallowed emotion bursting free like sparks from tinder. 

“If I catch you—” 

“What’s your problem?” 

Baekhyun’s voice came sharp, laced with exasperation and something wounded and glittering. His pink hair swayed in the cold as he glared at Chanyeol. 

His expression flickered shock, then anger, then something brittle and fiery. The thin coat around him trembled in the winter air; a fragile armor against the bite of cold, and something inside Chanyeol twisted painfully at the sight of his small, shivering form, so fierce yet so vulnerable all at once. 

“My problem? You’re my fucking problem, kid,” Chanyeol growled. “You thought you could just swan on in and—” 

“I didn’t think anything!” Baekhyun snapped, stepping away from Zzar and jabbing a finger at him.“You’re the only one who thinks such things! You’ve hated me since before I ever even arrived, and—” 

“Because you don’t fucking belong.” 

The words escaped like venom from a cracked bottle. A small voice, Minseok-shaped, warned him to stop. 

But Chanyeol had never listened well to reason. 

Silence pulsed between them. 

Baekhyun swallowed. A bitter laugh slipped from him, thin and broken. 

“And what’s the criteria for belonging then?” He asked, voice deadened. “Because I’m rather sure it isn’t behaving like a petty, tightlipped bastard.” 

Chanyeol blinked; one part impressed; one part stunned. Baekhyun, whom he had assumed soft and sweet, now stood sharpened like glass, shoulders squared, eyes burning. 

He didn’t know what to do with that. 

“You need to learn your place,” Chanyeol snapped, quick as flame. Rage flickered hot in him. 

Baekhyun scoffed, done with every ounce of him. 

“Oh? And what is that supposed to mean?” He demanded. 

Chanyeol didn’t stop. 

“Your position here is only temporary, kid. Luhan will return soon, so don’t get too fucking snug.” 

He saw Baekhyun flinch, saw something small and soft inside him crumple, and something unpleasant flickered in Chanyeol’s chest. 

He ignored it. 

“Just wait,” he added coldly. “The circus will dump you soon enough—” 

“Fuck you.” 

The words split through the night, trembling with fury and grief. Chanyeol faltered. Baekhyun’s cheeks flushed pink, tears gleaming like tiny crystals along his lashes. 

“You—” Baekhyun began, voice breaking, but the air thickened into a spell no one could name.

Then, with a blur of pink and anger, Baekhyun shoved past him, shoulder hitting Chanyeol harder than expected; fists clenched tight. 

Chanyeol opened his mouth, but no words came. 

He stared, stunned, as Baekhyun vanished into the dark. 

He had done it. 

After holding it all in, he had finally said what he needed to say, finally told Byun Baekhyun he wasn’t as hot as he thought he was. 

Zzar let out a low, mournful trill; a sound like embers sighing. Her head tilted, bright eyes shimmering with ancient disappointment. 

And guilt spilled like melted gold in Chanyeol’s stomach. 

Shit. 

 

* 

 

The following afternoon, Chanyeol found himself confined within the stifling expanse of the main tent, the air thick with dust and the scent of old fire.

Zzar stood beside him, her feathers shimmering like living embers, her warmth pulsing gently against the cold draft that seeped through the seams of canvas, as he prepared for a quick run-through before tomorrow’s performance.  

He was halfway through unbuckling the phoenix’s harness when the tent’s entrance flaps exploded open with such force they slapped the walls like thunderclaps. 

Fast, heavy footsteps stormed in. Chanyeol barely had time to glance over his shoulder before a loud and booming growl of a voice sent a jolt straight through his spine. 

“Park Chanyeol!” 

Accusation clung to the syllables like smoke, thick and choking, and Chanyeol knew, immediately and irrevocably, that he was fucked. 

He swallowed a sigh. 

Zzar tilted her bright head, flickering feathers catching golden light, her molten gaze darting between Chanyeol and the intruder.

Chanyeol turned slowly, schooling his features into what he hoped resembled a mask of nonchalance. 

“Kim Jongdae…” he drawled, low and lazy, despite the dread curling like cold fingers around his ribs. 

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew why Jongdae was here; face flushed, gaze dark and storm-bruised; temper barely leashed. Jongdae didn’t get angry easily, and with how fiercely he’d attached himself to that pink-haired rookie, it wasn’t difficult to piece together why he’d come crashing into a rehearsal like an avenging spirit.

Something twisted in Chanyeol’s gut at the realization that Baekhyun had told Jongdae what happened the night before. For the first time since those poisonous words had left his mouth, guilt jabbed him hard. 

“I caught Baekhyun after your little chat last night,” the other bit out, voice sharp as cracked glass. A couple dancers practiced on a nearby platform, though before Chanyeol could look to see if they were eavesdropping, Jongdae jabbed a long, bony finger straight into his chest. 

“What’s wrong with your temper?” Jongdae demanded, eyes narrowing as though trying to burn straight through Chanyeol’s skull. His breathing was harsh, rushed, and every line of his body hummed with barely controlled fury. His fists clenched so tightly that the veins bulged at his forearms. 

“How could you say all those things? You really hurt him, Chanyeol. It was shitty, even for you—” 

Something hot and brittle snapped inside Chanyeol. 

His hand shot up, smacking Jongdae’s finger away more roughly than intended. He scoffed, giving up entirely on any hope of speaking somewhere private; dancers or no dancers, it didn’t matter anymore. 

“Is it any of your business?” He scowled, voice dropping low. “I only spoke the truth—” 

“Except it wasn’t.” 

The tarot reader’s voice cut like sharpened steel. “You don’t know what’s going to happen yet—whether he’s going to stay or not—” 

“He won’t—” 

“You don’t know that!” Jongdae shouted, rearing back, frustration exploding across his features. He dragged a hand through his hair. His breath left him in a keen, ragged burst. 

“Baekhyun’s good enough to stay,” Jongdae insisted, sleeves of his soft silk blouse fluttering like wings as his hand fell back to his side. 

“Luhan’s better.” 

The words slipped out unbidden; petty, defensive, sharp enough to draw blood. 

Fuck, Chanyeol. Pull your damn head out of your ass. 

But instead, he reached again for justification, trying desperately to sound logical instead of childish. 

“He’s only here as a replacement, Jong—” 

“Have you forgotten why people join the traveling circus, Chanyeol?” Jongdae cut him off, voice suddenly firm, posture stiffening.

He tilted his head, studying Chanyeol as though he couldn’t quite believe the question even needed to be asked. 

Chanyeol blinked. “What?” 

Jongdae sighed, stepping closer. 

The dancers sensed the crackling tension and abandoned their practice, slipping quietly through the tent flaps to leave Chanyeol, Jongdae, and Zzar alone in the heavy air scented of powder, fire, and earth. 

“We’re always moving,” Jongdae murmured. “Never staying in one place for too long. You’d think it impossible for someone who loved their life choosing this, wouldn’t you?”  

He tucked his hands into the pockets of his loose trousers, eyes steady on Chanyeol, steady enough to make Chanyeol feel strangely bare despite all his layers. 

“Jongdae—” 

“You’d need a good reason to give up everything you have,” Jongdae pressed. “ Junmyeon knows it. Kyungsoo knows it. And you know it.” 

“What are you trying to tell me?” Chanyeol asked, weariness creeping into his voice. Discomfort pawed at him, leaving him feeling exposed; mentally, emotionally, skin prickling under invisible scrutiny. 

Jongdae stepped forward again, his expression soft but shadowed. 

“I’m telling you that....for all of us here, the circus is our last shot at home,” he breathed, eyes dimming with something bruised and sad. “We’re the last people who’d turn anyone away. And yet…you did that last night. You, of all people.” 

Chanyeol grimaced as his nails dug crescents into his palms. He fought off the defensive swell rising inside him and shook his head. 

“He isn’t one of us, Jongdae. You don’t know—” 

“No, you don’t know.” 

Jongdae’s voice snapped like a whip. “You haven’t even tried—you won’t even give yourself the chance to know him beyond his name and job title.” 

He stepped back, shaking his head as though exhausted.  

“You know better than anyone that sometimes, running away to join a traveling show is the only choice left.” 

“You can’t force me to be his friend,” Chanyeol hissed, irritation twisting in him. “That’s not how it works.” 

Jongdae let out a short, bitter laugh. “Shit Chanyeol. You really have no idea how cruel you can sound sometimes, do you?” 

Something acute and cold pierced Chanyeol’s gut, guilt and something else he didn’t want to name.  

He opened his mouth to deny it, only for words to crumble as an image flared behind his eyes: the cold night, Baekhyun trembling, his eyes soft and glassy, tears threatening to spill despite his desperate effort to keep them at bay. 

Jongdae sighed one last time, shoulders sinking. 

“You have no idea who Baekhyun is because you’re blinded by your contempt. If you want to avoid him, fine—but don’t you ever tell someone they don’t belong here. You know exactly how much that fucking hurts.” 

He turned and stormed out, pushing through the flaps so roughly the canvas fluttered in his wake. The air felt colder once Jongdae was gone. 

Chanyeol turned slowly to Zzar. The phoenix regarded him with molten-gold eyes, feathers crackling with soft firelight. 

He reached out, palm brushing warm plumage. 

“I guess I shouldn’t have done that.”

Zzar blinked slowly, nostrils flaring, her silence heavy and ancient and judgmental. 

That was answer enough. 

He skipped the next three aerial performances. But he heard enough from everyone else, mesmerized, to know that Byun Baekhyun’s debut had not been a fluke. 

And somehow…that made the guilt sit even heavier in his chest. 

Like ash. Like smoke. 

Like something burning where nothing should burn. 

 

* 

 

It was a long, frost-bitten Friday when everyone drifted into the main tent like weary stars seeking orbit.

Junmyeon had summoned them all with a severity that even Chanyeol wouldn’t dare challenge, not even with the bone-deep longing to curl up in his trailer and sleep through sunset. 

So, he had sent Zzar off to her own nest of warm coals for a rest, then climbed onto one of the performance podiums, wedging himself uncomfortably between Ejae on one side and a freshly stretched, thoroughly glowing Kyungsoo on the other. 

A hum of idle chatter filled the tent; bright voices tangled with the dusty smell of chalk, old rope, and winter creeping beneath the canvas.

Chanyeol stretched the ache from his limbs, rubbed the exhaustion from his eyes, and pretended he wasn’t on the verge of drifting into sleep right where he sat. 

He’d spent the last week burning through practice sessions with the desperation of someone trying to outrun his own mind. 

He’d pretended it was for self-improvement, pretended thoroughly, loudly, and to nearly everyone who asked, but in truth, exhaustion was easier than thinking.  

And thinking was all he had been doing since the night; he said far too much, far too cruelly, to someone who hadn’t deserved any of it. 

His gaze wandered toward the source of a burst of laughter across the tent. And there he was. 

Byun Baekhyun, tucked between Jongdae and Sehun like a pearl, cupped safely between two seashells.

The three of them giggled over some story Sehun seemed to be reenacting with his whole body. Baekhyun's face was flushed pink with amusement, his hands swallowed by the sleeves of an oversized cream knit sweater as he hid his smile behind elegant fingers. 

The overhead bulbs caught in the strands of his hair, painting them the color of a sunrise. And his cheeks, gods help him, were warmer than any morning sun. 

Chanyeol shouldn’t have looked so long. He shouldn’t have lingered. 

Baekhyun was laughing now; real, bright laughter that curled from him in soft waves. He looked nothing like he had a week ago, standing beneath the cold moonlight with tears threatening at the edges of his eyes. 

He had looked small then. Small and hurt, like Chanyeol had blown out the little flame he carried inside. 

He dragged his gaze away, but it was far too late. The burn of someone watching him crawled along his skin, and when he dared glance up, Jongdae was staring at him with an expression so pointed it could have sliced rope. 

Chanyeol snapped his attention to the opposite side of the tent as though he’d been caught red-handed stealing sweets. Kyungsoo’s excited chatter about street foods suddenly became the most interesting topic he had ever heard. 

He barely had time to cool the heat creeping up his neck when Minseok let out a sharp, theatrical whistle that echoed around the tent like a spell breaking, pulling everyone’s attention toward the center. 

Junmyeon stepped forward with that peculiar jittery grace he possessed whenever excitement pulsed too strongly beneath his skin.

He looked like a marionette whose strings had been enchanted with joy. 

“Firstly,” he began, voice warm and rich, “I want to congratulate you all on the start of an excellent season…” 

Cheering erupted. Ejae’s shout nearly deafened Chanyeol. 

Junmyeon waved the noise down with a fond sigh. Minseok slid an arm around his shoulders, grinning so broadly he looked like a man moment away from bursting into confetti. 

“Now,” Minseok said, his gaze flickering meaningfully toward Luhan. Still recovering, still fragile, “there were questions this season. Apprehension…” 

Chanyeol followed his gaze to Baekhyun, who stared fixedly at the ground, pink hair veiling his expression like a curtain. 

“But....” Junmyeon continued, “…I think we can all agree we placed our trust in the right person.” 

Baekhyun’s head snapped up, eyes wide and stunned. Jongdae beamed beside him, wrapping him in another proud embrace.

Several performers cooed and congratulated him, and the surprise on Baekhyun’s face melted slowly into quiet gratitude. 

Chanyeol’s stomach twisted. 

Everyone adores him. Everyone except you. 

Junmyeon went on, voice softening into something almost ceremonial. 

“You came to us when we needed you most, Baekhyun. And though it’s only been a few weeks, your light has already become part of the soul of Exotica.” 

Baekhyun flushed a shade of pink that matched his hair. Kyungsoo made a noise; Chanyeol suspected was supposed to be supportive but sounded far too dreamy to qualify. 

Junmyeon inhaled, Minseok vibrated with excitement, and a chill slid down Chanyeol’s spine in warning. 

“I spoke with Baekhyun last night,” Junmyeon said, “and he reminded me that his position here was only temporary.” 

Chanyeol’s heart stopped. Then slammed back to life. 

“And while I respect that,” Junmyeon continued gently, “We don’t feel comfortable letting this be temporary, and I know many of you feel the same way.”

Chanyeol stiffened, his body suddenly too aware of the space around him. 

Across from him, Baekhyun gasped.

It was clear he hadn’t expected those words. Chanyeol’s gaze flicked to Luhan, who was watching Junmyeon with none of the unease Chanyeol had braced himself for.

Instead, there was something almost calm there. Certain.

Something close to panic jolted low in Chanyeol’s abdomen.

He thought of how hard his cousin had trained over the years, how relentlessly he’d worked his body down to bone and breath, pushing himself into injury, only to be told an inexperienced kid might take his place.

And no matter how cruel it made him feel, Chanyeol couldn’t let that happen. He was already parting his lips around an objection, already felt the offended fury threatening to spill after weeks of barely holding it together, when—

“So, after a night of deliberation, Minseok and I decided to create a position just for Baekhyun,” Junmyeon announced.

His smile was easy, contagious. Beside him, Minseok beamed even brighter, if that was possible.

A breathless, disbelieving laugh tore from Kyungsoo, his body rocking hard into Chanyeol’s with sheer excitement. Chanyeol, meanwhile, seized up entirely, muscles going taut with shock.

What? A position just for him?

His brows furrowed, and he knew he must have looked thoroughly baffled as murmurs rippled through the circle.

Performers leaned closer, whispering, eyes wide. Jongdae practically buzzed with elation as he bent to whisper something into Baekhyun’s ear, while Sehun watched them both, lips parted in quiet awe.

And Baekhyun looked just as lost as Chanyeol felt.

His wide, unblinking gaze darted between Junmyeon and Minseok, and even with Jongdae nearly shaking his shoulder in excitement, he barely reacted.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out thin and unsteady, nearly swallowed by the hum of the tent.

“M-me?”

Jongdae jostled him again, laughing, and Baekhyun swayed, surprise written plainly across his delicate features. Chanyeol faltered at the sight, something in his chest stuttering at the raw emotion lighting Baekhyun’s eyes.

Does he really love it here that much?

“Once Luhan is healed and cleared to perform again,” Minseok said, expression almost giddy, “we’d have to find a new place for you anyway. There’s no chance we’re letting you go, Baekhyun. Not if you want to stay.”

“Shit,” Jongdae breathed, awed. “This is perfect.” He shook Baekhyun’s shoulders again, laughing. “You’re staying, Baek.”

That seemed to ground him, just a little. Baekhyun sucked in a sharp breath and lifted his gaze back to Junmyeon, fingers fisting the fabric of his jumper as if clinging to reality itself.

“But… why?” he asked, disbelief threading every syllable.

Honestly, Chanyeol wondered the same. He stayed silent only because his heart was still struggling to find a steady rhythm.

Minseok’s voice was firm when he answered, eyes bright. “Because you belong here with us, Baekhyun-ah.”

Something in Chanyeol jolted at the words.

For a fleeting moment, he was thrown back to his conversation with Jongdae. He felt it again when the tarot reader’s gaze landed on him.

Chanyeol swallowed hard, suddenly finding the shine of his shoes far more interesting.

“So what is it, then?” Sehun piped up, impatience or instinct urging the question forward. It cut through the tent’s chatter, and for the first time, Junmyeon hesitated.

Beside him, Minseok sighed.

And Chanyeol was almost certain that, for the briefest of seconds, Minseok’s gaze flicked toward him.

Oh no.

“It’s something we’ve been considering for a while,” Junmyeon said at last, his tone turning serious. “And Baekhyun has shown an unparalleled courage in the role, so—”. 

Minseok couldn’t contain himself. 

“—WELCOME!” He bellowed, arms flung wide, pointing dramatically at Baekhyun. “Exotica’s first-ever PHOENIX ACROBAT!” 

The tent fell into a hush so sudden, so absolute, it felt as if even the canvas above them was holding its breath. 

The words hit Chanyeol like a volley of falling timbers. 

Phoenix Acrobat meant flying alongside a phoenix. Flying alongside Zzar. 

His Zzar. 

The creature he had bled with; metaphorically, and literally. The one he trusted above all in the sky. 

Chanyeol’s chest tightened. His stomach dropped. Waves of something fierce and protective surged, leaving him rooted in place, frozen with a cocktail of fear and disbelief. 

Across from him, Baekhyun’s expression drained of color, pale as the first light of dawn. Jongdae’s arm, once casually resting around Baekhyun’s shoulders, slipped to his side with a resounding thump that sounded louder than it should have in the tense quiet. 

Chanyeol’s jaw clenched.

“Well,” Kyungsoo said, stepping forward, “This should be…eventful.” 

The words hung there, echoing, as every eye in the tent flicked between Baekhyun and Chanyeol. 

 

* 

 

“Kim Junmyeon, there is no way on fucking earth—” 

“Chanyeol—” 

“You cannot be serious. You’re pulling my leg, aren’t you? This is some sick joke Minseok put you up to.” 

A long, weary sigh answered him, heavy with patience and something that felt dangerously like resignation. 

Then Chanyeol saw it: Junmyeon pinching the bridge of his nose, as if trying to stop his very soul from seeping out through the cracks. 

“Chanyeol, it’s not a—” 

“Tell him it’s over now. I’m not fucking playing—” 

“It’s not a joke, Chanyeol.” 

Junmyeon’s voice cracked like a whip through the cramped trailer; sharp, tired, and far too calm for Chanyeol’s taste. It carried the weight of someone who had long ago learned to endure storms without flinching. 

The two of them stood alone in the ringleader’s small home-on-wheels. The lanternlight flickering across shelves lined with scrolls, jars of glowing powders, and curiosities that seemed almost alive.  

The night pressed close, cold and silent; the faint rustle of the wind like whispered warnings through the canvas walls. Chanyeol had stormed in moments earlier; the door slammed behind him, sending a wreath of dried phoenix feathers swaying like startled wings. 

He had not looked at Baekhyun when he left the tent. He couldn’t. He was almost certain the man remained frozen exactly where he had stood, pink-colored hair soft around a bewildered face, eyes wide, the words still hanging in the air like a curse neither of them could dodge. 

“What?” Chanyeol hissed finally, clawing for breath, as if shaping the word could make the truth disappear. 

Junmyeon looked utterly spent. Exhausted in the way only Chanyeol could provoke, eyes shadowed both by the dim lamp and the weight of trying to mediate a war Chanyeol had declared without warning. 

Every muscle in Junmyeon’s face carried the burden of someone who had to shoulder the consequences of others’ chaos, and Chanyeol felt a pang of guilt twist through him, edged and unwelcome. 

The trailer smelled faintly of smoke, wax, and something sweetly metallic; phoenix feathers, perhaps, or the residue of magic long contained. Lanternlight danced across Junmyeon’s face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the tremor of fatigue in his hands. Chanyeol’s own hands clenched, nails biting into palms, as the truth settled over him like winter frost: nothing about this was a joke. 

Nothing.  

An acidic frustration coiled in Chanyeol’s chest, burning hot.  

This was absurd. Impossible and wrong. 

“Is it really that hard to give Baekhyun a chance?” Junmyeon asked softly, voice gentle yet edged with something unyielding. His raised brows hinted at impatience. “He’s shown a remarkable affinity with Zzar.” 

“This is— I’m the only one who touches Zzar, hyung. You know that!” His voice cracked, sharp and burning, erupting from the part of him that lived beneath his ribs, not his throat. 

“You’re sounding awfully childish right now,” Junmyeon said, leaning back like a man who had walked this conversation a thousand times. “You let everyone else interact with Zzar.” 

And it was true. 

He didn’t care if Kyungsoo scratched under her feathers for luck, or if Sehun asked her questions just to hear her trill in response. 

But Baekhyun....Baekhyun was different. 

Chanyeol didn’t know why. And that ignorance gnawed at him, twisting a serpent of unease deep in his stomach. 

Junmyeon continued; elbows propped on the desk, gaze shrewd and unrelenting. 

“We’ve wanted to expand the phoenix’s act for ages—” 

“Then ask Kyungsoo! Or Luhan—” Chanyeol snapped. 

“Baekhyun is the only one who’s shown no fear,” Junmyeon interrupted, low and deliberate. “We need someone who doesn’t hesitate. Not even for a heartbeat.” 

Junmyeon’s stare pierced him; an arrow straight to his chest, precise and cold. 

“Luhan and Zzar can barely stand each other, and Kyungsoo panics if she flaps a single wing near him. Baekhyun is the only performer who looks her in the eye like he sees a friend, not a firestorm.” 

You know he’s the best choice. You just don’t want him to be. 

Something stirred inside Chanyeol; fear, or jealousy, or both, tangled with a protective heat he didn’t like. 

He thought back to that night. Snow drifting in soft, silent curtains. Baekhyun’s voice, gentle and steady, reaching toward Zzar like a hymn. The phoenix leaning in, not hostile, not wary but warm. 

She had chuffed for him. Like she did only for Chanyeol. 

The memory made something deep inside him soften and he hated it. Hated it enough that it scared him. 

“We are not cohesive,” Chanyeol forced out, voice sharp but fraying at the edges. “We despise each other.” 

“No.” Junmyeon corrected kindly but firmly. “You despise Baekhyun. He doesn’t despise you.” 

Chanyeol froze, unsure whether relief or dread should take hold. 

Relief fluttered anyway, traitorous and fragile. 

“He keeps to himself.” Chanyeol said, his voice tight. “He always disappears at night, to who knows where. He doesn’t bunk with us. And those bruises… he’s constantly bearing those fucking bruises—”  

“Chanyeol.” Junmyeon’s voice dropped enough to still the air between them. “I don’t know what you’re about to insinuate, but I promise you—I won’t like it.” 

Chanyeol shut his mouth with a click, breath stuttering. Junmyeon’s tone had shifted into that rare, dangerous register; protective and fiercely defensive of those under his care. 

“You don’t know him,” Junmyeon continued, softer now, but every word felt staid. “You have no idea what he’s dealing with.” 

“Jongdae said the same thing,” Chanyeol muttered, rubbing his arms harshly. “Feels like there’s something you’re not telling me.” 

The magician’s jaw tightened. His fingers flexed against the desk. Behind his eyes flickered something private, sorrowful and burdened. 

Finally, he said: 

“It’s not my story to tell.” 

Frustration flared inside Chanyeol again, hot and consuming. 

What the fuck is Baekhyun hiding? What are the others protecting? 

“You can’t expect me to trust someone I know nothing about,” Chanyeol whispered. The words were heavy, stripped of anger, raw, and cold. 

“It’s your own fault,” Junmyeon said simply, lacing his fingers together.  

Lanternlight painted soft shadows across his face, but the words that followed struck like steel. 

“But you can get to know him.” 

Chanyeol gritted his teeth. 

“Hyung—” 

“You have to train him regardless,” Junmyeon added. “Baekhyun wants freedom. A life that isn’t about running, hiding, or fighting. It’s not far from what you wanted once, Chanyeol.” 

Junmyeon looked up then, his eyes warm and painfully knowing. Their weight struck Chanyeol like a stone slipping beneath still water.

'Get to know him.'

The words echoed as he left the trailer, slamming the door half-heartedly behind him. The cold night swallowed him instantly; silent, and strangely accusatory. 

He trudged back to his own trailer; jaw tight, head aching. 

Fuck that. Fuck it all.