night passes ,

✂ ── I’VE SEEN THE RED                                       I’VE SEEN THE BLUE

|  ☠  |

he hears heavy footsteps above them, and his eyes flicker upwards. it must be his father. the footsteps approach, and jaeyong slowly lowers the gun. his mother’s hand shoots out, grabbing hold of his arm, raising it again.

he wonders if he would pass the test if he shoots his mother instead. could he? would he? there is rage in him now. how dare they. how dare they take the sweetest thing he has ever known. how dare they lay a hand on him without jaeyong there to tend the wound, to apologize to him so fervently yet change nothing, to stew in guilt over still remaining. jaeyong’s jaw clenches. he could raze this city for huangjun. he knows he could. he could stand strong above the ashes of it all, victor, but at what cost?

(just the right cost. maybe there is no cost too great for huangjun’s sake.)

the basement door creaks open, and he senses his father’s presence. he doesn’t turn to see him, but he knows that energy– the way it towers over him, familiar, an omen of punishment.

as it turns out, today is no different than it always has been. jaeyong doesn’t look down the barrel of a gun anymore. instead, his father presses one to his temple. “jaeyong,” he warns. “you know what you have to do.”

most of his life does not flash before him in a cinematic montage of regrettable doom; he has relived the worst parts of it over and over in his nightmares. but he does feel the last several months spilling through his thoughts like magma displaced on a water wheel, cycling torturously as he unwillingly contemplates where he misjudged whatever lingered between jaeyong and himself. 

he thinks of words whispered against skin, deadly secrets left hanging in the air between the breaths they shared, bruises left behind by kisses, others left behind by cruel hands and kissed better. their story was dyed red, yes, but not just with blood. it was everything red could be: rich and thick with passion, dark and captivating with curiosity and danger, bright with mischief and romance. but now all that stares him in the eye is that blood red, the red of death, the red of malice, the red of the most torturous ending that could be.

in the long, arduous moments ticking down all around him, huangjun pictures himself, unmoving, sharp and angular under the fabric of burial clothes, the hole in his head patched up expertly by someone with hands as deft and experienced as his own, his bruises erased with steady fingers and perfectly matched foundation. someone will lay him out on a table somewhere, his work portrait balanced on an easel nearby. he can’t imagine there will be flowers, or a ceremony, or anyone to greet what few visitors he has. perhaps his godfather might make an appearance, alongside weixin, and maybe his coworkers. and then he will be reduced to ashes and slipped into brass and plexiglass in the corner of a hall that collects more dust than the others.

or he will simply disappear. it occurs to him now that he has no idea what the song family does with their victims when jaeyong isn’t bringing them to him to dissect and dispose of. perhaps he will vanish just like those vampire corpses, with no ceremony or mourning, pulled apart piece by piece and sold in jars to waiting witches, his spirit left to the same fate on another plane, pulled apart piece by piece and destroyed by vengeful family souls. perhaps there will be no mourning. perhaps, being the monster he is, that is how it was always meant to be. 

jaeyong’s lip trembles, and a chill shoots up huangjun’s spine. he can’t hold back his tears anymore. why bother? they slip from his eyes silently. he is going to die here.

it’s the knowing that hurts the most.

then the gun shifts, turns on its owner, and huangjun hears himself gasping, a sharp, quiet intake of air that shudders under the weight of the circumstances. he can’t find his voice, it’s hiding again, he realizes, when he tries to speak up against the barrel’s proximity to jaeyong’s head.

but there is pleading in huangjun’s eyes when jaeyong meets them with his own, staring just over the promise of death as if it’s nothing between them.

then more footsteps, a shift in attention, no time to adjust before the song mother is resetting the stage, putting everything back where it should be, training the gun back on huangjun’s waiting face. huangjun tenses again, fight or flight freezing him in place, as if a breath that’s too loud might make itself his last.

never point a gun at anything you don’t intend to shoot. he heard it from his godfather when he was a child. he heard it again from jaeyong as an adult, who’d made sure he knew how to aim to kill. words that made him feel safe then now hang above his head like a two-ton weight dangling by a single thread. 

then there is the father, a beast of a man that intimidates even jaeyong. he fills the air thickly just by existing, and huangjun’s dread worsens, turns his muscles to stone. he wonders, fleetingly, who will feed the stray cat that lives outside of his home when he’s gone.

the man presses a gun to jaeyong’s temple, and huangjun feels his knees threaten to buckle at the mere sight of it. there is terror, there is rage. he steps forward just once, starting to reach out to his lover as if that might stop a bullet in its tracks.

“no-” his voice comes out of hiding to sound, gasping and broken and filled with fear, but a protest nonetheless.

then he realizes his instinct is still to defend the young man who might be his own tragic, albeit deserved, demise, and devastation begins to settle its way back into his bones. more tears slip free, sliding noiselessly down his face.

✂ ── I’VE SEEN THE RED                                        I’VE SEEN THE BLUE

it starts out familiar: a box underground, the darkness, the sound of his breathing. his breathing. in, out, breathe, jaeyong. slowly. 

it’s the first part of a test that may be never-ending–– a test for his freedom, and huangjun’s by extension.

| tw: abuse, torture, gore, hanging, yikes! |

so you just run

he wasn’t entirely sure how he made it to this point. 

there was likely a trail of red following each of his steps, leading that thing, whatever it was, right to him. his heart was beating out of his throat, behind his eyes, in the fingers the held tight to his dominant arm. he couldn’t hear anything over its pounding beat and his laboured breathing– he’d never ran so fast, not even when he used to do track in middle school. this was completely and terrifying different.

{ tw: supernatural violence }

✂ ── WHATEVER IS LOVELY

jaeyong is terrified, but he’s always liked a little fear. he learned, every day growing up, that fear was a weakness in need of defeating. prolonged exposure to fears eradicates the fear; that’s what his parents always said, and what they always taught him (the hard way, usually.)

and he’s never wanted prolonged exposure to something more. maybe he wants it more than he wants anything else, and that scares him too. prolonged exposure to this boy, and his soft smiles and long eyelashes and gentle laughter. jaeyong’s heart beats to the sound of his voice now– this heart he didn’t know he had, this newfound muscle in huangjun’s warm hands, thawed. 

he wonders, if the huangjun of halloween asked today’s jaeyong to stay– to abandon the head hunt and face his ghosts with him –if he would have. today’s jaeyong is so willing, so eager to toss everything else aside for him. jaeyong knows, for some mysterious, frightening, unfathomable reason, that he would endure anything if it meant still getting to love him.

that’s what it is. love. he doesn’t doubt it anymore– more like he doesn’t care to. he doesn’t know if this is love, but he knows he will name it so regardless. what is love, if not the startling realization, when you wake up a little too early and watch peaceful sleep for the first time in ages, that you could be happy doing it forever? jaeyong knows his forever will be shorter than most, death nearly guaranteed to be an unnatural one. jaeyong never dreamed of a future with a family and security; jaeyong dreamed of the way he would die: a blaze of glory, a story of heroism for the ages. now, it’s all muddled, but huangjun is there. huangjun holding his hand, huangjun holding him in his arms, life, death, love.

sometimes just looking at him knocks the wind out of him; jaeyong finally learned the true meaning of breathtaking. it’s not so unlike falling and hitting the ice– which jaeyong has not done very much tonight, thank you very much.

it’s a date. jaeyong promised, when he left huangjun behind on halloween, that he would return and buy him dinner. he returned, but the second half remained unfulfilled, huangjun recovering from an injury earned in jaeyong’s absence. the time is now, dinner in an untraditional sense, from food stalls at the gwanghamun plaza christmas fest. jaeyong wouldn’t miss the event, and he wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.

(they bought their ornaments for the christmas tree lighting when they first arrived, and jaeyong didn’t have to think about his wish. in the past, it was just as easy: the death of all supernatural creatures. it should’ve been his wish again, consistent, but it wasn’t not. instead, he wrote huangjun’s safety and happiness in careful strokes of mandarin for good luck. he has never cared so deeply for someone else, if he’s ever cared at all– has never wanted so much good for anyone on earth.)

this boy, who even falls beautifully while ice skating. it’s with such grace that it’s almost funny, but jaeyong worries too much to appreciate it fully. huangjun is still on the tail end of his recovery, easily injured again, especially with a wrist freshly healed, after all. but he is beautiful, always, and so is loving him, even with all of the fear.

they skate now, following the masses of people around the edges of the rink, jaeyong’s hand in huangjun’s quietly, reliably. jaeyong looks over at him with a lopsided smile, so typical of him. “i wanna go to the middle. come on,” jaeyong requests, or maybe demands more accurately. he gently tugs huangjun along with him, toward the center of the rink, currently unoccupied, ice fresh and untrodden on compared to the snowy build up of the sides. he grins, and he turns, still holding onto huangjun’s hand, to watch people skate by. he looks up, toward a sky he hopes is threatening snow, and he inhales the smell of ice, festival food and winter chill. 

the smile on his face only grows when he looks back over at huangjun, the boy he loves, the power behind this smile. “pretty good first date, huh?” he brags jokingly, and he shakes their hands from where they hang beside them, still intertwined. 

(it still counts as a first date even if you aren’t in a relationship, right? regardless, it’ll become a moot question soon. jaeyong hopes so, anyway.)

      ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈  @feyhuangjun ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

the bruises around his neck have faded, and he has been cleared to resume life as usual, but there are still marks left behind on huangjun that are less easy to spot. swallowing still feels thick and burdened, his muscles still feel tentative and atrophied, and it is a continuous journey to find his voice again. there is a part of him that wonders if he will this time - it took him more than half a decade last time, years spent in silence while the world around him painted itself in loud shades of black and red. 

he didn’t have jaeyong then, jaeyong, who fills every silence with something again to adorable chaos, a snowglobe of intense affection that shakes itself into action whenever there is a lull in activity. the world is still red and black with jaeyong, but it is gold too, and silver, and icy blue. 

jaeyong fits winter, his face and frame and the chaos that fits itself in huangjun’s hand and wraps itself around huangjun’s fingers picturesque against the holiday landscape. he draws the eye of passerby, because even when he is quiet in the way huangjun catches him staring, his existence is loud, the way the flame of a candle can transform pitch blackness into a steady, stuttering glow. 

huangjun’s voice is still partially missing, but jaeyong hears him, listens to him, anyway. he’s never let anyone speak for him, not even his godfather, but with jaeyong around, it seems he doesn’t have to.

(his wish was simple, his practiced calligraphy made only a little clumsy by the fact that he only had water soluble markers and broken crayons to choose from, drawn with several careful strokes after a long glance across jaeyong’s glowing cold-kissed visage: peace.)

he has fallen, or come close to it, more times than a grown man probably should. but he has few memories of ice skating, muscle or otherwise, childhood winters overshadowed by tragedy, adolescent winters spent with an elderly woman too fragile to risk dancing across frozen ponds. but his companion is there, every time, to make sure he hasn’t exacerbated his old injuries or discovered any new ones. and every time, the grey of the ice and the twinkling lights of the season reflect off of him like an undeserved halo, like a scene that should be playing behind a screen, not so bright and vividly in front of him.

perhaps he has earned this feeling in his chest, the warmth that spreads into his fingers whenever they’re intertwined with jaeyong’s. perhaps he does deserve something other than red.

he tries to tell jaeyong to wait, slow down, the middle is risky, the middle is for skilled skaters, not six foot tall novices wary of cracking something on impact, whether it’s the ice or a skull. but he is subject to jaeyong’s whims here, has no choice but to follow where he is led. he follows jaeyong’s gaze as well, looks up at the sky above them, his free hand joining the two that are connected when he feels his center of gravity wobble. his own gaze lingers at the top of the tree, the star crowning it rivaling the faint suggestions of stars he can see peeking through the city’s haze of light pollution, before it turns back to jaeyong when he speaks.

huangjun smiles softly, reply on his lips, when he feels his balance dwindling where their hands swing at their sides.

“ah- jaeyong-” he warns, feeling more of his weight tilting away from center, made worse by the presence of a small child quite literally skating circles around them nearby, his two-handed grasp on jaeyong tightening. 

honey & lemon.

one moment huangjun is silently threatening him to never use the microwave to heat water again (which seoyun absolutely will, just maybe not in huangjun’s presence) and the next he’s smiling, visibly proud that his affection for the hot left water has been noticed. seoyun still doesn’t get the appeal, but who’s he to knock someone else’s passions? at least it’s tea and not, like, serial murder. jaeyong’s had his claws in huangjun for a while but there’s still a gentleness to the other young man that seoyun wouldn’t have expected to see there.

he watches with quiet curiosity of his own as huangjun rummages through another cabinet, a measuring glance spared in his direction. he understands he’s being read, predicted, but seoyun’s more fascinated than self-conscious; it’s like taking a buzzfeed personality quiz without having to put in any of the effort of actually answering any questions. he finds himself even anticipating the results. is one of huangjun’s hidden talents being able to match any person, even an avid coffee-guzzler like seoyun, to a tea?

finally, one is chosen. seoyun, used to the more dilute smells of the cheap, stale teabags buried somewhere in his kitchen, takes a big sniff when the opportunity is presented to him. it’s not a bad smell, but his nose isn’t prepared for the strength. the tickle in his throat has him coughing into his elbow, hurriedly followed by an apology: “sorry, it doesn’t smell bad, i just wasn’t ready for it!” that was the rudest thing he could have possibly done, though entirely unintentional. before huangjun can change his mind about the tea, seoyun assures him that it’s really not that he doesn’t like it. “it smells nice, i promise.”

seoyun isn’t all that good of an actor anyways. surely huangjun has to believe him.

“what is it anyways?” he’s familiar with the hints of ginseng, an herb that seems to be a cure-all for any ailment, but he doesn’t know his teas well. if it’s ginseng, he wonders if it’s medicinal. probably good for huangjun’s throat in any case; a good choice.

seoyun does as he’s directed, and huangjun watches intently for his reaction, hoping for a positive one that might indicate he’s made the right choice. instead, the peaceful quiet of the afternoon is cut through with a jarring string of coughs, hardly muffled by the crook of seoyun’s elbow. the startled surprise on huangjun’s face is quickly replaced by a small scowl, less concerned and more perturbed, as if he’s just coughed directly on the tea leaves. he even pulls the bag back a little, as if that’s exactly what’s just happened. 

seoyun tries to reassure huangjun that it was not a reaction of disgust, but it only somewhat softens the wrinkle in huangjun’s brow. he glances down at the bag in his hand, suddenly hesitant, contemplating if maybe he chose wrong. he is a bit biased after all, and has been drinking high quality tea for most of his life. it’s entirely possible he misgauged seoyun; perhaps he should’ve picked something simpler, or more mild. but certainly someone so keen on drinking instant coffee wasn’t looking for mild?

he’s still considering switching his choice of tea when seoyun chimes in again, this time apparently curious about the chosen blend. huangjun is skeptical, almost certain that curiosity is feigned to make up for the accidental spurning from moments before. but he allows it, pleasantly surprised that seoyun, so stubborn and stoic in demeanor, is so willing to broaden his horizons in this context. he offers the bag to seoyun again, but this time to hold, and read, as the kettle clicks behind him, signaling its completion.

huangjun turns back toward the counter for the kettle, then carefully begins to pour: first, the gaiwan, which he fills with the freshly heated water before setting the larger vessel down. then, after a few moments, he, carefully and methodically, as he does everything, picks up the gaiwan and pours the clear water in even amounts into each teacup. he waits a few more patient seconds before discarding into the sink the water from gaiwan and teacups, then refills the kettle, replacing it on its stand and starting its heating cycle once again.

jaeyong isn’t sure which he loves more: christmas or huangjun. thankfully, he doesn’t have to choose. instead, he gets both. he fretted briefly over christmas plans, weighing the choice of waking up next to huangjun on christmas morning against spending christmas morning with his family. he couldn’t decide, and thankfully, he doesn’t have to choose between those, either.

he wakes up next to huangjun, the certain magic in the air that only christmas can bring and the other kind of magic that only comes with being in love mixing together in some surreal, beautiful whirlwind. they were still awake at midnight, and jaeyong wished him merry christmas then, but he whispers it again against huangjun’s hair, presses his lips to his cheek.

he isn’t so unlike a child when he rushes downstairs, tugging huangjun along by his hand, beaming as he takes in the sight of the song family living room. it doesn’t look much different than the night before, and yet it is. everything is a little different on christmas; it’s warmer. it glows.

jaeyong glows too. maybe, if huangjun didn’t already know his family from how often jaeyong brought him over for training, he would be more frightened by the significance of christmas with his boyfriend of a mere three weeks. for now, he isn’t. it simply feels like there was no other way. huangjun is etched onto his heart now, carving a place out for himself in jaeyong’s life, treasured.

jaeyong kneels down beside the christmas tree, looking over all the presents again with a smile on his face before reaching well underneath the tree for a tiny square present. “for you,” he says, handing it over to huangjun, and he still smiles, but a little more hesitantly– nervously. suddenly he feels self-conscious.

“i wanted to get you more, but in the end i figured one good present was better than more that were only decent. i– i hope you think it’s a good present, anyway.”

it was a project of a month and a half: a mixtape, a playlist copied onto a cd. sometimes jaeyong would play guitar for huangjun during his recovery period. what’s a song you like, he would ask. i want to learn it, and he would. otherwise, he played songs with strong guitar parts he liked, letting the instrument alone fill the air, hoping huangjun could find similar solace in it that jaeyong did.

he learned the songs huangjun liked, and his goal was to find more for him to like. he included those, and jaeyong’s favorites that he played on the guitar for him in the past months.

when huangjun opens the present, the cover of the cd case greets him. it’s a call back to huangjun’s birthday present: black out poetry, though this time, jaeyong put genuine heart into it– a genuine attempt to tie words together with feeling. even so, there is a strong music in me, like solo piano, or at times a string quartet, it says.

“i have that on a zip drive, too, if you don’t have a cd player,” he laughs. “listen to it when i’m not with you. i swear i’ll leave you alone for an hour and a half so you can. oh yeah, it’ll sound like it’s over, but there’s something else after the last song, so listen until the end.”

he wants to kiss him, so he does, even in front of his family, because it is christmas and he is in love and maybe his family knew all along. after, life goes on for them as if nothing happened– no staring, no shock, no disgust, like it was expected. jaeyong holds his face for a moment longer, and he whispers, “i love you. merry christmas.”

TRACK 21: there’s a brief silence, then white noise, a light rustling. “hey,” jaeyong says, smile likely audible. “um,” he laughs, nervous. “first of all, this is entirely unscripted. i figure it’s better if it’s just natural, right? so i’m going to fuck up and embarrass myself,” another laugh. “but i have some important things to say.”

“merry christmas, first of all. i’m recording this ahead of time, so i don’t know if our christmas was romantic and fantastic, or if we fought and it was a disaster, but i’m going to assume it was the first one,” even more laughter, like he’s giddy, on edge but in every way that is beautiful. “i’m really glad i get to spend christmas with you, and christmas in love with you, because i am. i keep thinking it’s weird, because we’ve only known each other for six months, but i’ve spent so many days with you it feels like it’s been years, and you know, i hate that i’m this person now–” this time it’s a light laugh of disbelief. “but i think i love you more every day. at the end of the day, all i want to do is see you, and i want to spend so many more hours and days with you, too.”

“god,” he interrupts his sappiness with more laughter. “it sounds like i’m proposing to you. i’m not, i just, you know– love you, and i feel like i could talk about it forever, because it’s the warmest thing that’s ever happened to me. life is so full with you. i don’t know how i lived before without you, and i want to keep you now, if that’s okay with you. i can’t guarantee you forever, but i can guarantee you that i love you today, and i want to love you for more hours and days and months and maybe even years. maybe we’ll have a limit, and we’ll end like all things do. maybe things will change and in a few years we’ll go our separate ways, but i’m going to treat every minute i have with you like it’s something precious, and something…more beautiful than i ever deserved. thank you for loving a monster like me,” it’s with another smile. “and…for helping me learn how to love you back. i don’t know how long we’ll last, but right now, i love you forever.”

“uh…” he starts after a long moment of silence that’s a bit awkward. “i probably should’ve ended it there, that was super dramatic and poignant, shit,” and he laughs. “i guess it wouldn’t be me if i didn’t ruin a serious mood, right? i hope you liked the songs. they’re songs i like that i thought you might too, based on the kind of music i learned you like in the past couple of months. i kind of tried to push you out of your musical comfort zone with it, too, and you know, i was listening to it when i was done, and i thought it kind of sounded like us if we were music. i hope you felt that too. thank you for listening to all of this. merry christmas. i love you, jiu huangjun.”

the huangjun of six months ago could never have dreamed something like this up, even with a mind tormented by the complexities of traumatized curiosity. six months ago he was lost, a young man grieving what little family he’d had, making his way through the world alone and trying to find something to navigate toward. 

he had anticipated a holiday season alone, after losing his halmeoni to the inevitability of time and age; she was not related to him by blood, but she was the closest thing to family he’d ever really known. he knew he was lucky to see her go peacefully, in the comfort of her own home, in her own bed, surrounded by the things that made her happiest, but her passing was a seal on his own box of aloneness. there was a finality to it, even when his godfather arrived from abroad to help him plan the funeral, to support him as much as he could knowing he would have to leave again sooner than anyone would’ve liked.

instead, he awoke on christmas morning to holiday greetings whispered tenderly against his hair, soft lips pressed to his cheek, the warmth and weight of a bed shared with another. when he opens his eyes, he sees a room full of jaeyong, from the crumpled bed sheets to the posters on the wall to the limbs tangled between his. there are no signs of ghosts or demons, no shadows of the past able to permeate this perfect moment between innocent dream and tender reality.

he’s never done christmas the way he’s seen it in movies, not as a child in his hometown and not with halmeoni. there may have been a few simple gifts exchanged, a trip to the movies or a nice restaurant, a few clumsy laps around a skating rink. but as he shuffles into the living room, trailing closely behind jaeyong, he understands the appeal of the cinematic traditions: twinkling lights bouncing their glow off of shining baubles; the tree’s fragrance permeating the air; colorfully wrapped gifts piled snugly under its branches; the bright glow of a wintery morning shining through the nearest window and painting the entire picture with an ethereally pale sheen, a snowglobe come to life.

jaeyong’s mother slips a mug of freshly brewed tea in his hand as he’s pulled to sit next to jaeyong, and it feels as if he’s barely gotten the chance to taste it before jaeyong is slipping a small package into his other hand with a smile. still, there is a moment of surprise clear on huangjun’s face as he sets his mug down somewhere safe; he hadn’t expected to receive anything, felt like it was gift enough to be invited to another family’s festivities. when he unwraps it, his expression softens even more, the familiar black and white of what has become jaeyong’s signature poetry shows through the shine of a cd case.

listen to it when i’m not with you. i swear i’ll leave you alone for an hour and a half so you can. huangjun smiles softly then, amused, knowingly, because it will be a challenge for jaeyong, they both know it will. oh yeah, it’ll sound like it’s over, but there’s something else after the last song, so listen until the end. 

huangjun glances back up at jaeyong then, expression hanging somewhere near the center of fondness, melancholy, and awe. how far they’ve come from fencing with each other’s darkened souls in darker alleyways. the christmas lights, white gold glow filling the room, bounce off of jaeyong’s hair and glint in his eyes, framing the moment in an impossible halo of warmth. he wants to kiss him, isn’t sure about doing so in front of his family, when jaeyong beats him to it. he is aware of eyes on them briefly, for a moment, but that is all. the morning continues, as if that’s exactly how it was supposed to happen. he rests his forehead against jaeyong’s, briefly, “thank you,” whispered through a smile and the breaths they share in the moment.

(later, he listens to the mix in jaeyong’s room, alone, as he was promised. he sits intently at the foot of the bed, eyes soft focused on the cd player as it takes him through the journey jaeyong so carefully constructed for him. he chuckles nervously alongside the recording of jaeyong’s voice, not sure why he is nervous too. it is not him pouring his heart out to be immortalized forever. yet somehow it feels like he is, that whatever is slipping out of those speakers is slowly snaking its way across the room and wrapping itself snugly around something in his chest. 

by the end of jaeyong’s message, he is crying, silently, not realizing he is holding his breath until he lets it out in a short, audible sigh when he hears his name said to him, filling the room: i love you, jiu huangjun. he thought he’d be long gone from this world before he ever heard that phrase uttered, still unsure he deserves to hear it, to feel it so genuinely, in awe that it is from the man who, months ago, vowed to ruin him. through tears, he smiles to himself, glancing back down at the gel case the cd came in. who has ruined whom, song jaeyong? he thinks to himself.

honey & lemon.

the quiet doesn’t drive him as crazy as he thought it would. maybe it’s because seoyun is used to it, having lived alone in a large house for a couple years now. maybe it’s because he never feels like he has to guess what huangjun is trying to tell him; even without words, he can understand him as clearly as if he could speak right now. it’s how he knows that his tea is decidedly not good, even as he watches huangjun try to smile through it. how he lies without ever opening his lips.

“it can’t be that bad,” he protests, still convinced that nothing he did was actually wrong. it works fine for his cheap instant coffee every morning, why wouldn’t it work for tea? huangjun gets up and walks away, and seoyun takes a sip out of the mug himself. he doesn’t like tea to begin with, but the honey makes it taste alright. just what was the other complaining about?

he follows huangjun into the kitchen anyways, just a beat behind, and watches as piece by piece, the tea set is pulled out from storage. it’s pretty, seoyun has to admit, but also seems impractical. or maybe just a little dated; no one their age is going out to tea parties. there’s a joking complaint about huangjun turning seventy next year that never quite makes it off his tongue, still a little unsure of what sort of friendship they’re supposed to have right now if any at all.

“yes, i know what the electric kettle is,” he understands the show, the fact that huangjun is scolding him for overlooking the little appliance in the first place. in seoyun’s defense, this isn’t his home, isn’t his kitchen, and he has no idea where anything is. it’s rude to rummage through cupboards and drawers. “what’s the difference anyways? the microwave made the water just as hot.”

seoyun does as he’s ‘told’ anyways, taking the kettle from huangjun’s gentle hands and filling it at the sink. he puts it on without having to be told. “you really do love tea, don’t you?” seoyun’s not even sure he has two matching mugs in his home, let alone a complete tea set. he’s never needed one, let alone wanted it.

seoyun’s subtle petulance is amusing, even as he steps back to watch huangjun like the attentive caretaker he is. huangjun wears the faintest smile to match as he carefully sets his tools across the counter: tray, cups, pitcher, daiwan, towel, all laid out with practiced ease. but even in his gentle, focused calm, he doesn’t hide the small disappointed pout that crosses his lips at the mention of the microwave, his eyes flickering to seoyun as if to indicate he should never mention the microwave and tea in the same breath again, before returning to the task at hand.

he is smiling again when he nods in response to seoyun’s inquiry, his expression warming up visibly. it is hardly an exaggeration, his love for tea, for the tradition and artistry behind it, for the end result of a complex and unpredictable set of flavors and aromas, for the history sculpted into the dishes and steeped in the leaves. he understands why witches operate with herbs and steam - to craft a proper batch of tea is almost like crafting the nectar of time itself.

he accepts the filled kettle from seoyun with a thankful nod of his head before placing it back on its base and setting the temperature display to read ninety-seven celsius. 

after taking a moment to confirm the water is heating, huangjun turns back to open an overhead cabinet, contemplating a colorful and generous selection of teas in various containers before pulling out two types of oolong, weighing them carefully against each other, one bag in each hand. he pauses, turning to survey seoyun curiously, eyes mildly intense and narrowed just slightly, as if he might read seoyun’s mind if he thinks hard enough.

“I have many happy memories of my mother,” he responds gently, easily, with a soft, characteristic smile. but it dwindles just slightly, not necessarily in size, but in joy, because he cannot think about her without being overcome by a tinge of sadness, of grief, of unresolved trauma that still sits heavy on his chest like the weight of a small ocean.

“they’re...old...memories, of course,” he glances up from where his gaze had fallen thoughtfully to some unseen spot on the floor in front of him, “she died when I was ten.” 

that fact isn’t as painful as the truth behind it, the truth that she was undead, that she’d been coaxed into immortality by a man she trusted, that she wanted to carry her child into immortality with her, that she would have him be ten years old forever, doomed to an eternity of bloodthirsty childhood, that she was beheaded in front of him for it, her blood painting his brain and his sight and his memories red with fear and terror and vengeance and hatred. it is not her death that hurts, but everything in between.

“she used to pick me up, she...” he trails off, losing the words in korean to the stabbing pain of remembering the woman he loves and loathes simultaneously, switches to his native tongue instead, “she would sit me up on the counter, while she cooked. she’d let me taste things, gave me pieces of things she was chopping up on the cutting board.”

it was soup she made so well so often. the smell of it used to be mouth-watering.

“she’d sing or hum while she did it, sometimes real songs, sometimes nursery rhymes, sometimes songs she made up in her head.”

he can’t tell if he’s choked up from the urge to cry, at how much he misses her, how much he misses that time, how much he wonders if his being a child to his mother forever would have been as bad as people made it out to be, or if he’s choked up from the urge to vomit, at the thought that she may have been feeding him his stepfather’s vampire blood in every bowl of soup she made him, that she was grooming him, waiting for the right moment to end his life and begin his eternity, like a living doll, impossible to lose.

he thinks about her ghost, standing over him on halloween, cold, soft smile on her face as his uncle squeezed the life out of him with two hands.

✂  ──  when is a monster not a monster?

[...]

| tw: gore |

they both know ghosts will come for huangjun, and that they will be vengeful: one with a missing tongue, one with a slit throat, one suffocated, all at huangjun’s hand. (it’s part of the reason jaeyong loves him: that rap sheet, that potential destruction, that calamity lurking deep within a gaze that is both soft and shrewd.)

jaeyong has trained him for months: fighting blindfolded, running miles, practicing every weapon under the sun, taking punch after punch, but is it enough? this month especially, jaeyong trained him like he would be participating in the hunt himself. but is huangjun ready? is he ready for any of it? can huangjun fight his ghosts alone? can huangjun endure the head hunt alongside jaeyong? is there any scenario where huangjun survives to see november? is there any scenario where he doesn’t?

he wants to believe huangjun is ready. sometimes it’s still not enough, though. if anyone was ready, daeyong was.

(two brothers, reckless and fearless, combining forces, collecting the heads of werewolves and vampires together with the promise to split the spoils when their shared efforts earned them a victory. they were so certain then, so unafraid, blissfully unaware, arrogant. they tracked two wolves, utterly convinced they could take them, even when it turned out to be three. even when a fourth appeared, and a fifth, and jaeyong only doubted their combined power when he couldn’t see daeyong anymore, lost in a sea of fur and gnashing teeth. sometimes the shouts of their names still echo in jaeyong’s head, daeyong’s screams, the way jaeyong yelled back until he choked on his own blood. the if this is it, at least we’ll go down together, the waking up in the hospital unable to speak, parents’ eyes full of tears, the jaeyong, they got him. the empty.)

it’s been a year. jaeyong is waiting on a ghost, too, more anxious than he’s been for anything. he doesn’t know if daeyong will come at all; it would be worse if he doesn’t. it would confirm jaeyong’s suspicion that his brother is still alive. he’s just a werewolf. he doesn’t know, if he comes as a ghost, if he will be vindictive, tortured and suffering, or it’ll be pleasant– reassurance that it wasn’t his fault, reassurance that he doesn’t really need, but maybe he could hug him. maybe it’ll be a fight, daeyong trying to take him down with him for good, the way it should’ve been, a fight jaeyong, for once, may not care about winning, but there’s still huangjun. 

all this time, he’s been staring. he realizes, and he smiles, a muted, half hearted version of his usual crooked one. he realizes this too, and the smile shifts– softer, sadder, and he lets out a quiet sigh before it disappears completely. 

“what are you thinking?” he asks, and it’s so broad. he means do you want to come with me or do you want to stay? but there’s room for anything huangjun wants– room for jaeyong to pick his brain one last time, if it’s the last time.

  ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈  @feyhuangjun ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

there’s a chill in the air when they wake up on the morning of halloween, and it is more than the subtle inklings of winter autumn brings. it’s more than the conventional unease of halloween too, the air heavy with the promise of reality itself bending at its axis, flipping everything that should be upside down and making way for everything that shouldn’t.

what category are they, himself and jaeyong? he knows jaeyong is a shouldn’t, or at least exists in ways that fit him into that category; he thinks of himself as a questionable shouldn’t as well, as something broken and damned. do their negatives cancel each other out like a mathematic miracle and make them something so supercharged and chaotic that they become neutralized into placid uncharged atoms? huangjun perhaps knows that this isn’t the case, that their individual shouldn’t-exists combined only make for more disaster, like two beads rolling from pandora’s box and colliding in a cacophonous explosion.

and yet he can’t pry himself away from jaeyong’s form, even when he feels him stir awake, even when the first rays of sunlight sneak through the cracks in his curtains as if searching for the moon in the pores of their skin.

there is fear. there is worry. their is guilt, for their should be neither, according to jaeyong, but even jaeyong seems to be hiding hesitation behind darkened, bloodthirsty eyes, and only seems to reveal it in the breaths he leaves on huangjun’s lips. at some point in the early hours of the morning, not so long ago, one of those breaths shaped itself into i love you. huangjun, bewildered and breathless, hadn’t the chance to respond, despite the moment latching itself onto his brainstem like a relentless parasite. he wonders if he’ll regret still not responding now.

regret. there is that fear hanging in the rays of sunlight penetrating the cocoon of his bedroom. will there be regret, if one of them does not survive the night? does jaeyong know how to regret? does jaeyong know how to love? is that why his own hesitation feels so keen - because there is no proof in the universe that tells huangjun whether or not jaeyong feels anything other than what he wants to, feels anything that might render him weak to his prey.

he watches jaeyong dress from his spot on the bed, wordlessly, mind racing with the day’s possibilities. dread. is that the proper name for this feeling? dread of being alone, dread of hunting with jaeyong, dread of death, dread of loss, dread of loving a monster? 

do you have to go, sits heavy on his tongue, but unspoken, because he knows the answer is yes. it’s always yes. it’s always yes with his godfather too. it’s yes with weixin. he’s certain it was yes for his late father, the firefighting hero. and it is always yes for jaeyong. huangjun, in all of his shrewd, keen attachment, can recognize the difference between himself, an anchor at the bottom of cold, crushing depths, and the others, full-sail ships, carried by the winds of duty and desire.

eventually he slips out of bed too, like a swift breeze, pulling on a neat pair of jeans and grabbing a sweater from his closet. their time together is ticking down and he wonders if it’s for good. there is an uncharacteristic hastiness to the way he pulls the sweater on over his head, halfway across the living room as if he might stop jaeyong from picking up that instrument of death for just a few moments longer. but then he catches up, finding himself staring jaeyong in the eye, neither of them speaking.

huangjun is not smiling, not until jaeyong speaks. and even then, there are several long moments of more silence between them, huangjun doing his best to cycle every possible outcome of tonight through his mind one more time. but when he is finally ready to speak, he manages a soft smile, tinted with an apologetic sheepishness to accompany his words.

honey & lemon.

@feyhuangjun

it’s not the first time he’s treated these sorts of injuries. not just the marks around huangjun’s neck, the threat of swollen tissue beneath the tender skin, but this sort of story too. maybe ghosts weren’t the most common aggressor, but seoyun treats injuries from the supernatural. it’s just what he does; what he’s always done, and his parents had done, and if he ever has kids someday they’ll probably do it too. but it’s a good thing that he’s seen this sort of thing before, matched with the supernatural strength put behind it. it meant he already had everything huangjun would need to survive those first few days after the attack.

some time has passed since then. enough that huangjun doesn’t need as careful or strict care, but not so much that seoyun’s presence is no longer needed in his ex’s new boyfriend’s apartment. he’ll be the first to admit that it’s weird. odder still is probably the fact that he doesn’t totally hate the situation here; huangjun, though forcibly quiet for the time being, seems nice. and even jaeyong has been more tolerable than usual in the last couple of days.

apparently huangjun likes tea, which is great because seoyun sometimes dabbles in herbal remedies. sure modern medicine is great, but it can’t hurt to mix in a little tradition as well. a little honey mixed in with the blend should soothe the throat and with fall soldiering on at a steady pace, a little warmth in this cold weather is sure to be appreciated.

the only problem is that seoyun can’t be bothered to do it properly.

water is boiled in the microwave, the teabag is left for far too long until the brew oversteeps and turns bitter. and then seoyun dumps in honey with little regard for how overly sweet he’s making the concoction. it doesn’t stop him from serving it to his patient with a small smile, bordering on pride. he doesn’t even know that he’s done anything wrong; how hard can making tea be anyways? someone at the nearest starbucks makes minimum wage doing this.

“this should help,” he says, if only to break the quiet. he knows huangjun can’t easily respond yet, but it’s no fun to live in silence. even so, he can’t help but ask: “is it good?”

his sleeps are no longer restless, made still as death with the help of medication provided by seoyun. nobody talks about where the small pills come from, and it isn’t difficult for huangjun to deduce it’s nowhere legal. but his nightmares are lesser now, less concentrated, less vivid, so he doesn’t complain. there is no more waking up in the night convinced his blankets are trying to strangle him, no more peering through the darkness at a face that he only recognizes as jaeyong’s after several long moments of being sure it is another phantom come to end him.

huangjun is endlessly grateful for seoyun’s expert care. there is tension lingering in the air between seoyun and jaeyong, but tension seems to be a permanent fixture in his life since he began pursuing a life of monster hunting. jaeyong is more tender now, in his demeanor, in his touches, but he is still jaeyong and there will always be a sheen of chaos and destruction radiating off of him, in spite of his apparent newfound softness. seoyun has the bedside manner of a professional, albeit a bit young and a bit crude, unrefined, smudged by the fact that his experience comes from sewing up werewolf bites and replacing blood stolen by vampires. 

and huangjun is nothing if not polite, so he gives no indication of reluctance when seoyun offers him a freshly made cup of tea. he can tell almost instantly that it’s wrong, in the way it looks and the way it smells, the way even the mug’s handle is hot to the touch, a telltale sign it’s been in the microwave. but he gently blows across the surface and takes a careful sip anyway, doing his best to smile softly. but the smile quickly melts into what can only be described as a grimace as huangjun silently sets the mug down again (oversteeped, too sweet, irradiated water, it’s all wrong, so very wrong). and then, without any further ado, he stands, touching seoyun on the shoulder in indication that he should follow him back to the kitchen.

he’s encouraged not to speak for the sake of his recovery, which is an easy feat for the young man who spent his early teenage years mute. he is experienced in communicating clearly without words. so he says nothing as he begins to pull one of his more treasured tea sets from the cupboards, a more traditional set made of glazed, painted clay, one of halmeoni’s: a small green teapot with a weave-wrapped handle and four modest half-circle teacups, all decorated with faint black foliage and balanced on a small wooden tray.

@feyweixin

he starts halloween with fear. 

it isn’t the type of fear people look forward to on a holiday like this, on a night when blissfully unaware civilians seek out the thrill of a scare, an excuse to cling to a loved one’s arm, a reason to search for the safe adrenaline rush of a man in a rubber mask or black-haired girl in a white dress waiting just around the corner. there is no glee in his fear, no playful anticipation, no willful ignorance. he is genuinely afraid, afraid of what awaits jaeyong outside his door, and what awaits huangjun within his own walls. 

ghosts. jaeyong told him all about the ghosts. the fact that the monsters outside might be the least of his concern in comparison to the corporeal spirits that might find their way into his airspace. it frightens him to no end, the thought of facing his demons, of being confronted with what he did. but the thought of running into the woods with jaeyong, jaeyong who is so wild and monstrous himself, and fighting off endless droves of two-legged and four-legged killing machines scares him too. he hasn’t learned to conquer his fear the way the songs have; he is all-consumed by it. and so, he stays home, where he can pretend he is safest, where he can keep the cold, unforgiving darkness of the night at bay with electric light and space heaters.

tw: honestly all the things; mentions of domestic abuse, familial abuse, child abuse; choking, suffocation; mentions of gore, decapitation; family member death; general horror elements; hints of ptsd

midnight tea.

@feyhuangjun

werewolf blood is not an indulgence that weixin often finds himself taking part in. even centuries ago, when he had still been human, he hadn’t been very fond of alcohol. the lack of focus and control, becoming incapable of caring for himself, let alone the younger siblings he was left in charge of, was too regrettable to be any fun. as a young man, he had learned that moderation was the key to maintaining social relationships while keeping his wits about him. but every now and then there’s someone, a friend who knows him a little bit too well, who manages to get weixin to break his own self-imposed boundaries. it’s a rare sight to see this vampire stumbling drunk. but every now and then, it happens.

warm with werewolf blood, he walked away from the vampire friends he had been hanging out with for the night. and kept walking. a thought entered his head, a sort of itch that demanded to be scratched. he would have to admit he got lost at some point, the city yet a little unfamiliar and changed since he had last visited decades ago. but he is still a vampire, and scent and sound help him navigate his way through the streets. he’s looking for someone. not for any particular reason, he just wants to see him, and the drunken weixin is not one to deny himself of anything.

he makes his way up to the door, steady enough on his feet that he doesn’t have to lean against the wall or the door frame, and pauses. he tastes a familiar scent in the air. he listens, and he knows only one heartbeat is behind the walls separating them. if there had been two, maybe he would have had the sense to walk away. for self-preservation, if nothing else. but with no perceived danger to stop him, he raps his knuckles against huangjun’s door. and then he notices the doorbell, and just in case his knocks were too quiet he rings that too.

weixin just wants to see him. there’s no real reason for it, no explanation that he can come up with. huangjun was an interesting young man from the first night they met. he wants to get to know him, and let huangjun have the opportunity to know the person behind the vampire in return. perhaps knowing him drunk is a bit too much too soon, but weixin doesn’t think about that right now. he just eagerly waits for the door to be opened for him.

it’s a rare night huangjun spends alone now, which is a strange fact within itself. seven months ago and he had expected his new world to be nothing but alone, as he personally interred his grandmother’s ashes in the reserved case he’d simply and thoughtfully decorated himself. his godfather had been at the funeral, but huangjun had to bring her to the hall by himself, and only cried then, silently, as he turned the key to lock the glass door and stepped back to see her plexiglass box among a wall of others. he had been so reserved to his loneliness that it had sunk into him like a permanent chill in his bones.

but now he expects jaeyong constantly, the hunter’s presence engrained itself in his psyche the way that chill from before had engraved itself into his bones. and it isn’t always warm, that presence, but it is solid, both tumultuous and tangible, raw and recognizable, ferocious and now familiar, all in ways that only jaeyong knows how to be. he has burrowed himself into huangjun like a spider crawling into his ear to lay sharp, honeyed words into his brain, promises of death and destruction gifted in his name.

somehow it is still better than being alone.

but it is why the knock startles him awake, and the doorbell brings him to his feet. because jaeyong doesn’t knock; jaeyong lets himself in, knows the code to the door, comes and goes as he pleases, oftentimes without warning. and he certainly doesn’t ring the doorbell; a man who would chomp at the bit for a chance to kick a door down doesn’t bother with doorbells.

huangjun slips the knife jaeyong gave him from the nightstand on his way out of the room, curling it between long, pale fingers and holding it just behind his hip, just in case.

but when he opens the door, there is no boogeyman to greet him (although, it is, technically, a monster; but there have always been monsters at huangjun’s door, jaeyong hasn’t changed that, couldn’t if he tried).

thank you so much for all the welcomes! this is my third muse here at fey (i also play feykyuhwan and taehyunfey), and i’m v excited to be bringing this lad to life. if you want to know a little bit more about him, check out his info page here ! i haven’t gotten up his plots yet but i do have his connections page up here. 

if you want to plot, feel free to dm me, or like this post and i’ll come to you! happy writing!

here’s an extra tldr; summary of huangjun:

✂ ── WHERE NOTHING IS RED

jaeyong used to dream every night. it was always the same, although he doesn’t remember it much anymore, a dream long fought away through late night hunts and blood and death. he used to wake up screaming. his mother used to burst into his room with fear in her eyes and clutch him to her chest as he cried. 

what is it? she would ask, and he would always stutter out the wolf, it was the wolf. the memory is blurry around the edges now, as is the dream, but he still remembers the wolf’s eyes, and his knife, and the blood. it’s almost a fond memory now, a reminder of what made him what he is– who he needs to be: a person jaeyong has no reason not to like. 

now, dreams are rare, but when he does dream, it’s usually daeyong. sometimes it’s his screams, and sometimes it’s the day he almost drowned. sometimes it’s a lifeless body he never actually saw, or the way they laughed over jaeyong needing therapy, or daeyong fighting off a wolf before it latches onto jaeyong’s throat, what could’ve been, should’ve been.

he never wakes up sad. it’s empty more than anything else, like the feeling of forgetting something you need before you leave the house, like missing a limb. none of the pain, but the lack.  

not tonight, though. tonight, he sleeps soundly, remarkably comfortable on huangjun’s couch after a successful hunt, freshly clean from washing lingering blood off in a shower that grows increasingly familiar. it’s easy like this, to stay over after a long day of huangjun’s training instead of going home sometimes, even if it’s on huangjun’s couch instead of in his bed, even without desperate, sloppy kisses. 

jaeyong, however, is still a light sleeper, vigilant even in slumber. he stirs awake every time he hears huangjun moving around the apartment in the middle of the night. the moments are rare enough that this time, a jaeyong still groggy sits up suddenly and reaches for the knife he put under his pillow. his mind catches up soon enough, and he realizes it’s likely not an ambush by the supernatural and is just huangjun. he relaxes, but these moments have been more frequent lately. it’s cause for concern, is it not?

“huangjun,” he calls. “is everything okay?”

   ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈  @feyhuangjun  ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

the nightmares had been worse when he was younger, when the memories were still fresh in his developing mind. at first it was waking up in cold sweats to damp sheets in the middle of the night, tiptoeing down to the basement with an armful of bedding to wash it on his own so he would not wake his uncle with his shameful lapse in function. 

once he moved in with his adopted grandmother it was more intangible, horrific dreams that lingered with him in the day, at the back of his mind, and then, eventually, sleepwalking, until halmeoni sewed bells onto a ribbon and gently insisted he wear it to bed, around his wrist, just in case he wandered off too far. so you’re never lost, she’d say, tightening the bow, tucking him in as if he was still a child, kissing him on his forehead, dimming the lights.

as he grew older, the nightmares grew less in frequency, though never in intensity. even as he found himself in alleyways sawing heads off of unsuspecting vampires, the nightmares stayed at bay. 

it seemed to be jaeyong’s entrance in his life that brought them back in full force, the hands on, professional approach to slicing up the supernatural far more reminiscent of his own traumas. how had it lined up like this, with weixin the vampire pouring him tea every monday and mei the vampire sifting through the memories he’d suppressed every third friday and jaeyong the hunter with hellfire in his eyes slipping under his skin as if it were a blanket? seemingly all good things, all indicators that he is not, in fact, alone in the world, and yet they feel, collectively, like a catalyst, bringing the past his mind had worked so hard to suppress back to the surface.

the nightmares have returned, and there is not much that can be done about it.

when he wakes up in the darkness, he blinks up at the ceiling, relieved that he is staring up at it and not a looming bloody version of his late mother. but there is a cold sweat setting in, and his heart is pounding tellingly in his chest; he swears he could feel the blood growing tacky on his hands, but when he climbs out of bed, they are perfectly clean. there is a moment he spends pulling open the drawer of his nightstand, stares at the ribbon of small jingle bells gathering dust there, rubs one of the bells between his fingers before leaving it alone and shutting the drawer again.

tea. tea will help. tea always helps.

he is quiet and careful as ever as he makes his way to the kitchen, trying his best not to wake his guest while putting the water on and pulling a mug from the cupboard. but he has learned by now that hunters are light sleepers, for survival’s sake; there would be no getting around jaeyong if he tried.