BIRD BRAIN

feyjunghwa​:

After weeks and weeks of being pestered, Junghwa finally gave into the other’s train of thought to have a movie marathon and more specifically, a marvel movie marathon. Now, Jungwha was into all sorts of geek and nerdy things in general, but he’d not yet delved into Marvel. He wrapped a blanket around himself as he stared at the screen where the good old Captain seemed to realize that he’d slept thought decades. he giggled when the other stated that he should cry because Cap is the coolest and most tragic avenger. It was kind of relatable. “I wish i could sleep for decades. That sounds so nice,” he stated. 

He poked Minho with his own sock-covered foot right back and then drops back down next to him. “Honestly though, he’s really relatable. I did the same thing, went into the army, but instead of becoming a hero like Cap, I became this,” he said, pointing at himself and flashing the younger a cute smile with his fangs showing. “So, if the Cap is the first one, who’s next?” he asked, looking at the other. He was extremely interested now that he was shown the marvelous world of marvel. 

He tried to imagine what it’d be like to sleep through time, to pop out the other side not knowing what he slept through, the world a changed place but himself the same. What would he do? Even with the possibility of exploring the so-called future, the idea casted gloom inside his heart.

Still, he could understood why Junghwa would want that. As far as he knew, a vampire’s fate was a melancholic one. He didn’t fear them, but only because he was taught not to. Minho looked at his open mouth and thought his sharp incisors seemed almost innocuous, like they’d never kill anything. The fangs made his smile more charming, the size of his teeth filling the space, white and clean. Minho hummed at the question and turned back to the movie. There was no shortage of tragic backstories in the Marvel universe, but one drew him in with the promise of shared pain.

yujinfey​:

tw: alcohol

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ —

yujin sets down the bottle and replaces it with the cup that he had filled, though he has to lean over and sip a bit from it before he can pick it up to make sure that none of it splashes over when he does. he can’t help but laugh because it probably looks silly, but he doesn’t really care— it’s that time of night that he doesn’t, not anymore.

he hadn’t noticed the beer in the person’s hand until he had waved it around, so in hindsight, he supposes he should have been more aware of things before he had asked his question. he did think it worth it to offer, anyways. especially when he takes another sip of his drink, and it’s something a bit fruity, one that he’s tempted to sneak the bottle away and take home if it wasn’t nearly empty.

“m’yujin!” he tells him, after learning his name, using the counter to lean against, putting both of his elbows down even though it’s kind of mysteriously sticky from all of the alcohol that had been spilled throughout the night. it’s helpful to keep things from spinning too much, being able to lean his weight against it.

“having a great time— the music they’re playin’ is really good, i think. sometimes i can’t really stand the music because s’always the same stuff, over ‘nd over, you know?” he says, and he hums when he points out that most of the people had already left or slept.

“it’s a little sad. i was actually just goin’ to drink this and probably leave— i mean, you’d think, with all of this alcohol and the music, people wouldn’t want to sleep, but then! look at ‘em! like there’s nothing better to do,” he sighs a bit, takes a sip from his drink, sets it back down and taps his fingers against the counter to the beat of whatever song is playing, even though it’s a bit muffled through the wall, only really vibrations he can feel that leads him to recognize it.

“you’re awake though,” he points out, looking a bit thoughtful about it, but he’s really just paying attention to how everything’s blurred, how he feels a bit weightless, a light giggle falling past his lips once more.

“were you waiting for the party to pick back up again? i think it might not, at this rate,” yujin huffs, and he taps against the plastic red cup, watching the liquid resonate with waves, one right after another.

“might as well go home.. though, i keep fallin’ asleep before i get back to my apartment,” with this, he snorts a little, and laughs a little bit more at how silly that was, too. “does that happen to you? the other day, i woke up, in like, a park, ‘nd a chipmunk was staring right at me,” he recalls, and his eyes go a little wide, “just like this, not even mindin’ his own business. can’t believe it,” he says, and waves his hand, like it was quite an inconvenience.

“though. i guess i was like, in his home, or whatever, so maybe it makes sense he was mad,” yujin says with a little sigh, and takes another long sip from his drink.

“were you havin’ fun too? or are you getting ready to leave?”

The man introduces himself - Yujin - through the haze of his drunkenness. Minho tries to commit the name to memory, but his brain feels heavy, slowed from the poison they call alcohol. He leans against the counter, happy to listen to anything right now. He nods, gasps, and sips on his beer. For a moment, he forgets how late it is.

His mouth hands agape. “A chipmunk?” he says in his bewilderment. It’s not that he’s never seen it, people sleeping off their hangover in public, but it’s shocking that Yujin has no qualms, no embarrassment stating the fact. Minho laughs hard, imagining the situation with a spark of curiosity. “No, no,” he answers. He hums for a second, stares into the neck of the bottle. “Well, I’ve slept outside before, but I never had a woodland creature wake me up!” 

Minho dips his head back. The yeast rests heavy on his tongue, and everything tastes sour-sweet. 

“Yes! It’s fun - parties!” he smiles through his worry. Yujin seems nice, vulnerable, even. He hovers close to his new friend, thinking that any minute inebriation might make him stumble, slip and fall. If nothing else, he could at least walk him home and make sure nothing happens to him. Even something as cute as a chipmunk could have rabies!

“I was thinking of leaving, but,” he pauses, strokes his chin. “I’m not that tired, and I wanted to see the sunrise.” In his opinion, the sunrise is superior to the sunset. The morning sky becomes a gradient of soft pastels, then it bursts into bright, citrus oranges and otherworldly pinks before finally cooling off into sky blue. It’s the perfect way to greet the new day, even if he likely was going to pass out right after. At least he didn’t have to work in the morning.

Minho eyes Yujin thoughtfully, downs the rest his beer, and clinks it on the counter. “I can walk you home,” he offers with a smile. He can only hope that he’s not being weird. The music in the next room fades, a slow beat begins to pulsate through the home like a heavy heart. Someone slumps into the kitchen, seemingly not noticing them as they go into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. The pictures on the walls shake. 

feymina​:

it’s been a busy day at the clinic, but everything seems to finally be slowing down, nearing the end of the night (per their official hours, anyway.) mina has been among the staff working diligently; she’s been here ever since she finished her classes and ate her lunch, not taking any breaks.

it’s why her godmother banished her to the break room, and she waits a bit restlessly, listening to the continued sounds of the staff stepping in and out of rooms and bidding patients farewell. there is always at least one person that takes the secret night shift in the clinic; some patients stay overnight on the down low, and if anyone in need of help happens to stumble upon the clinic in the late night hours, they never turn anyone away.

mina, however, won’t be taking the night shift tonight, as much as she may want to help. her godmother only lets her work so much despite her insistence that she can handle more; mina always thinks she can handle more. she’ll also insist that people often underestimate her abilities, but in her heart, she knows it’s for the best that others force her to take breaks sometimes.

it was a successful day of work, after all. she likes to think she helped many people today; she helps people every day, and it’s rewarding. she couldn’t have had such an impact without minho, however, the familiar who somehow manages to find countless injured people in need of assistance. his presence is common in the clinic now, and it’s for that reason that he sits in the break room with her now.

she doesn’t feel settled enough to just return home after this, though she knows her godmother likely won’t take no for an answer and force her to go home and rest. maybe spending time with minho would be a suitable excuse to stay out as the sky outside darkens.

one of the nurses, an elderly witch, pokes her head into the breakroom. “oh, you’re still here?” she questions, and mina nods with a soft smile. “both of you,” the nurse observes. “i swear, you two work together so much now that you might as well bond already.”

mina still just smiles politely, now a bit awkward. 

Minho meant to go directly to the clinic after his shift at the tea bar, but he got a little sidetracked. Posted on a telephone pole was a flyer, its bold black letters yelling ‘L O S T’. He ripped it off, stared at the picture of white cat, and pocketed it. Of course he had to take to the skies, fluttering around Seoul looking for the missing pet. 

He couldn’t find her. Instead, he flew down to meet a vampire that cried, shook, flinched when he transformed. He was young, hardly used to having fangs, and told him of werewolves - angry ones. Not angry enough to murder, apparently. As he stuck Avengers patterned bandages on the vampire, he remembered, as if he was the one in trouble, the clinic!

The clinic is a beacon - no - it’s a sign that there’s heaven on Earth. While they walked, Minho told the boy vampire his story.

He, too, was attacked by werewolves. When he first came to Seoul he was ignorant to the territorial lines drawn by warring, supernatural families. A trio cornered him, it didn’t matter that he knows how to fight. Actually, he didn’t want to fight at all. “I woke up in a clinic. I thought it was a normal, human office, but I wasn’t treated by a doctor -”

“It was an angel!” Minho said, and laughed loudly at the vampire’s reaction. Are there angels? No, probably not? “Just kidding, they’re witches. Brilliant witches.” Once they arrived a nurse swept him away, and went their separate ways. 

Minho tries to help Mina and not distract her until they’re in the breakroom, by which he’s feeling tired and sore on his feet. Still, he’s restless. His knee bounces up and down, he taps his fingers gently on the table, only stopping when a nurse comes in to tease them with that word. Bond. His stomach clenches and his face goes hot, and he notices Mina’s awkward reaction. If they knew what he did to his last witch, they wouldn’t even let him in here.

The potential despair sends him into action. Minho giggles like a boy, runs a hand through his hair. “With how often I get hurt, she’ll regret it in a week, tops!” he says, standing now. He shoots Mina a smile, hoping she’ll go willing with him into the night, away from the nosy and endless work. “Let’s go,” he looks back at the nurse, hoping she’ll leave peacefully. “I’ll walk you home.”

hello there! here’s a tracker and update. i’ll be gradually answering my messages after work, sorry for the wait! in the meantime, if we’re not already plotting, feel free to hmu and we can get something set up!

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@feyxsiwoo

Minho doesn’t have a lot of experience with parents. He thinks back to his mother and is delivered to the mouth of a dark place. A swarm of bad memories waits there. There was the mother of his previous partner, too - the true matriarch of the estate and their lives. She was worse than his own. Her hands, her eyes, everything about her was cold and cruel.

So he doesn’t know what to expect when he meets Siwoo’s mother. He cares for her in a way Minho cannot hope to understand. The way his lips curl into a smile when talking about her, or how his eyebrows twitch with worry. He only wants to see her happy and healthy. Likewise, she dots on him, worrying that he’s vulnerable to the world without a familiar. This bond between mother and son, it’s kinder than he imagined. He doesn’t even have the wherewithal to feel envy.

They’re sitting on the train, side by side, and Minho studies Siwoo’s profile. His face is characteristically masculine, yet at the side, all of his angles soften. He thinks hard; what is it like to be Siwoo, to have someone watch over him and love him? His heart warms, becomes tender and gooey like hot pudding. He scoots over and nudges him with a sharp elbow.

“Look, I even brought crystals with me. The good kind!” he says, opening his palm to show off a polished clear quartz. He can feel the magic beneath the smooth surface, humming, waiting for someone to reach in and pull out its power - someone stronger than him. His own flesh and blood is too weak without the ethereal bond only a witch can give him. It’s something he doesn’t necessarily want, but knows he needs. 

@feydojun

He looks through the peep hole in his front door. The hallway is dim and bland with exposed concrete walls and stained linoleum floors. Minho has to squint to make out the person at the other side. A man, definitely, with dark hair and a familiar, rabbit-like face...

With a spark of realization, he undoes the deadbolt and opens the door, greeting Dojun with a huge, 100 watt grin. “Dojun! What are you doing here?” he asks, forgetting all about the debt he owes. Minho steps aside, allowing enough room for his guest to squeeze by. It’s early, but he’s already dressed in trousers and an aggressively rainbow Hawaiian shirt. 

Minho’s half-basement studio is small and scarcely furnished. The entrance opens up to a square room with one tiny, rectangular window, of which hardly any morning light passes through. The right side somehow fits a cramped kitchen with old, plastic looking appliances. There are no photographs, or paintings, or artsy decorations. Just take out menus on the beige fridge, a small collection of house plant, and a half-filled bookcase. 

To save money he sleeps on a futon, which is still spread out on the floor next to a worn, cedar tea table. There’s a carton of milk on top of it beside a French press and a single mug. Underneath, an orange cat sleeps on a snow white comforter. It stirs, wakes, and watches them at the door.

Minho pauses the movie looks up from the screen exasperated. There are pillows and blankets strewn everywhere in the room, the only light coming from the glow of the television and twinkling fairy lights. After a week of begging and bribing Junghwa, he finally convinced him to have a Marvel movie marathon. He played each title in chronological order, only getting up for bodily needs and to get Junghwa’s attention.

“What! It’s sad! Hyung, please,” he says, throwing a piece of popcorn at him. Minho exaggerates a frown, sticks out his tongue, and rolls over onto his back.

“Captain America is the coolest and most tragic Avenger! Look at him!” he points at the screen, showing good old Cap’ coming to the brutal realization that he slept through the decades. “It’s sad, so cry!” he teases. then pushes Junghwa’s thigh with his sock-covered foot. He thinks it over for a moment that. Even though they’ve only known each other for a short time, he’s never seen Junghwa cry - or even look particularly sad. 

@arafey

continued from here

Usually his shifts at the tea bar are filled with conversation, tea puns and lively debates about green versus black versus oolong. Today, the sky is overcast, the regulars are gone, and he works alone. His manager locked himself in the backroom, back hunched as he did, what Minho imagines, could only be important managerial things. So he organizes the glass jars filled with tea leaves twice, dusts the for-sale local art on the walls thrice, and fidgets with the strings of his matcha green apron until finally, another customer!

He chirps a greeting and takes her order, filling it while classical music hums in the background. The woman takes a phone call, and this in itself wasn’t unusual, but her expression quickly deflates, as if the phone itself siphoned away all energy. Minho tries not to eavesdrop on what is clearly a bad personal call, and focuses. He boils the water to the designated temperature, then checks it with a thermometer to be certain - lest he worsen her day with burnt tea.

Minho measures the tea leaves. dumps them in a ceramic pot, and carefully pours the hot water over the mixture. Slowly, as to encourage a full, complete flavor. He put everything into making that single brew, so that when she took the first sip, all her worries would melt away. She’d taste the natural smokiness, inhale the soothing aromatics, and hopefully, lean back with a sigh of relief. He smiles to himself, imagining this, and approaches the customer with her completed order. 

It’s obvious that she’s still upset. He thinks of something he heard once, wisdom from an elderly woman, the same one who helped him learn how to rent an apartment. How to make money. How to blend into human society. 

“Life can’t ever be all bad or all good. Eventually things have to come back to the middle.”

He says it with confidence, but that’s decimated by the woman’s scowl. Her pretty face becomes wolfish, like she might snap at him and take a huge bite. Instinctively, he puts his hands up, as if lifting a shield.

“Sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything,” he says, heart beating faster in his chest and his cheeks burning with the heat of embarrassment. “Sorry, you just looked, well, like you could use some cheering up” he looks away from her, sinking into the realization that he made another social transgression. Sometimes those ended badly, like when people threw drinks at him, even if he was only trying to help. Almost proactively, he pushes the tea towards her, then steps back, shrinking away to put more distance between them. 

morning/sun​

tw: alcohol

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ —

if he thought about it, one of his favorite moments is when the evening would wane, leading the skies to bloom into light with the sun. there had been so many times yujin had stayed awake, late nights that had led to mornings, standing on rooftops and watching the sun come up, alcohol making everything blurred, making his body feel lighter then it usually did. 

it was what he had intended for tonight, too. 

to drink, when his laughter came easier and everything seemed to be more in color, when he would allow himself to express all of the things that he usually kept hidden, had to, to be the perfect son that he was expected to be. he danced, he laughed, he let all of the tension smooth out until everything was easier. 

he supposed that in terms of things, he might have gotten a little too excited, mixed just a bit too much alcohol into his drinks. 

maybe it was the thoughts in his head, endlessly swirling, the phone call with his mother— you know this weekend you must perform that spell for us. perfectly. we must witness you conduct it correctly. no rushing through these things, it’s imperative that you do this spell flawlessly. your father and i are expecting this of you. be prepared. 

it’s not the way his mother doesn’t ask how he’s been doing. not the fact that she didn’t even start the call with hello. it’s the fact that he has never been able to enjoy his magic. he has never been able to see it as something personal to him. it has always been for everyone else. and yet— his hands still shake, his whole body still goes cold, encompassing and consuming. 

yujin goes to the kitchen for another drink. 

there’s not many people milling about save for one other, and yujin smiles, dimples in his cheeks, as he tries to maneuver his way to lean against the counter as he makes himself something else to drink. he misses the cup for a little bit with a giggle, looks sheepish for only a moment before he starts again. 

“whoops,” he says out loud, almost filling it up until the cup spills over too. 

“can i pour some for you too?” he says, tilting his head a little bit to the side in question, more giggles spilling from his mouth unwarranted as he looks to the other person in the kitchen— it’s not his party, not this time, but the alcohol was free and yujin wanted everyone to enjoy it. 

He had his first drink in childhood. His tiny hands cradled a tiny dish filled with soju. He clicked the porcelain with the cup of his would-be master. He drank it in one gulp, even though it burned.

That ceremony is a far cry from his relationship with alcohol now. He came to love nightlife, how streets and bars filled with colorful people, all sipping on their favorite poison. Minho loved how people would lose their inhibitions, how they’d throw their heads back, laughing or crying, sometimes at the same time. He loved the dancing, the flirting, the sudden friendships spurned by the magic of right time, right place. 

Still, he preferred the soft, sour taste of beer to anything clear and strong.

Minho nurses his Hite alone in the kitchen. He came with a jacket, but that disappeared in the madness, leaving him in a white t-shirt with an obscure red logo on it. The one person he knew here left after he called her a taxi. Dawn is approaching, yet his body feels well and wide awake. He tells himself this is the reason he hasn’t left, even if the real reason is that he’s anxious. What if something fun happened? Or what if it was something bad? 

After what felt like a long time another man stumbles into the kitchen and sloppily pours a drink. The first thing Minho notices are his dimples, then that he’s about the same height as him, and when he’s close, next to him, that he’s absolutely sloshed off the liquor. 

He laughs and smiles so wide it hurts his face. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he says and shakes his beer a little. “I’m good with this.” What was he doing moping around alone for? The party wasn’t over, it wasn’t even sunrise yet.

@feyjaeyong

His legs strain as he kicks off the concrete roof. He hurls himself off the side, into the dark crevice of an alleyway, and falls three stories down.

Minho transforms in-and-out of his human body. He’s a boy jumping off a ramyun factory, then he’s a city bird, and a boy again. He touches down on the wet cement but misses his footing, and goes careening into bags of garbage head first. It’s soft, sticky, but luckily not leaking liquid death. This happens more often than he’d like to admit.

Fear pangs in his chest. His heart is speeding, and he can’t feel anything other than the hot blood rushing through his veins and the bite of the wind. Minho stands and looks ups, looking for that villainous face that chased after him. Jaeyong. His arch nemesis - maybe. When he takes a step forward, pain bites at his ankles. 

This type of action was, is, unusual for him. Comic books and movies made it look so easy to be a superhero. Like having a supernatural quirk delivered destiny to its host, making them a hero or a villain, and the rest fell into place. It was natural for them. In real life, he twisted his ankle and landed in literal garbage.

But he, sometimes, could dip in and save someone. When he flew high in the sky, he could watch the entire city. When a werewolf, a witch, or a hunter chased down an innocent to kill, he could be there. Like earlier, hardly ten minutes ago, when he helped a young vampire slip away while he dealt with Jaeyong.

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He choked on his extra cheese, deluxe double-fried corndog.

“What?” Minho said, gaping at him. Staring intently, he got closer, looking at the boy critically. Suddenly, he reached forward, grabbed Kijung by the shoulders and slapped a greasy hand on his forehead. Quiet, he waited to feel the tell-tale sign of deadly fever. Instead, Kijung felt clammy and cold, like a corpse..

A lump jumped into his throat. He gasped, dropped the corndog, and pinched Kijung’s squishy cheeks. “What’s wrong? Does it hurt? How can I-” Minho stuttered, panicking, afraid that any second he could just go limp, and like a doll, collapse onto the floor. “Kijung! Don’t die!” he smooshed his cheeks harder, desperate to find any sign of life...

Oh. He frowned, released his face, and flicked the boy’s forehead. For the sake of staying alive himself, Minho resisted an urge to ruffle his hair. “Ha-hah” he huffed, eyes narrowed at the nasty, terrible vampire. “Very funny. Where’d you learn that one? At dumb-joke academy?” he twisted his lips, and vindictive, broke out into a grin. 

@feydonghan​

He never meant to mooch or take advantage of another person’s good will. Sometimes, these things just happen. Seeds were for the real birds. But bread, bread he couldn’t resist. 

Minho, covered in dark feathers, sits on a particular windowsill. He looks through the glass, searching for a boy. A kind boy with a honey-like voice and a heart of solid gold. A boy that will feed a weird bird like himself, not with moldy scraps but with fine bits of sweet bread. His tiny pigeon heart beat fast, his stomach ached. Flying consumes an insane amount energy, and this is his favorite pitstop in the middle of the city: Donghan’s house.

It wasn’t that weird, right? 

He pecks at the window, he ruffles his feathers, then sighs low and long with disappointment. All morning, while he was fluttering between skyscrapers, he looked forward to seeing Donghan and munching on rich carbohydrates. Their friendship, if you could call it that, was an accident. Minho bought him coffee one day and later, in his avian form, met him again in the park as he fed the furry denizens of Seoul. At the time, he thought this meant they were even - coffee for bread, and the deal would be done.