He can feel the blood on his hands. He doesn't know how he got here.

The scent alone is enough to have his mind reeling again—but he's full, now, satiated, and he no longer feels the need to hunt, to feed as he once did.

Jungwon slowly blinks awake, taking a moment to survey his surroundings. Memories start to trickle back in as he does, far away and faded as if from a dream—how he'd stopped a car in the middle of a street, clambered up onto it's windshield; how good it had felt, to taunt them, to see the fear of it's inhabitant through the rain-fogged glass. How good the blood had smelled; sweet, sickening, the catalyst to his blackout.

He's in a car, Jungwon realizes. Not only that, but the car had swerved off the road some time ago, and now sits with its front properly bashed in by the post of a streetlight; an impact that had left Jungwon unharmed. He sits in the lap of a body, white-skinned, shriveled, limp; a man or a woman, he doesn't know. Two puncture marks sit on the right side of it's neck, though any amount of blood that could have been pouring from them is long gone, now.

No. Not gone. Jungwon licks at his fangs and tastes the last bitter remains; shivers, perturbed. Guilt prickles in his chest, but not nearly as much as he thought there would be.

Maybe it's the haze he has yet to fully shake, but everything feels strangely idealistic, unreal—he feels guilty, yes, but more than that he feels good; really, really good. He doesn't need to look in a mirror to know that his skin is practically glowing, his cheeks plump and eyes bright, the warmth of another's blood flowing like wildfire under his skin. He feels more alive than he's never been, and laughs at the irony of it, the taste of just how false that statement is like copper on his tongue.

He tries to reach through the haze, tries to grasp for any inch of panic he might be feeling, but the only things his fingers close around is this light, bright sensation; ecstasy and relief at the final satiation of his hunger. He's never been drunk before, or high, or any of those other things, but he imagines this is what it might feel like.

Jungwon carefully extracts himself from the body beneath him, stepping out onto the cold pavement. Smoke rises in a column from the car's front, bringing warmth to the once-chilled night, but Jungwon is warm enough on his own that he has no need for it.

A thought comes like a bolt of lightning: I need the hyungs. Because as guiltless as he is now, he'll have plenty to feel guilty about later, when his lapse in control finds them on the run again.

A few seperate thoughts turn around in his mind, old ancestors rolling in their graves in time with his quieting breath. He needs to get rid of the body, take it somewhere safe until he can figure out what to do with it, and he probably needs his hyungs' and Riki's help to do it. The consequences of someone finding it here—sucked dry and bloodless, with a human-sized bite mark in the side of it's neck—are more than any of them can afford.

A part of him knows, too, in the back of his mind, that the euphoria won't last forever—sooner or later the rush he has will drain away, and when it does, he'll need to find someone to cry on; someone who won't be crushed by the weight of his guilt.

If, a voice in his head whispers, if you even feel it. He shoves the voice away.

Jungwon looks at the corpse in the driver's seat with the same disconnected grief as someone looking into the casket of a relative they knew only distantly. It was a man, Jungwon recalls vaguely. Wearing a pressed business suit, the blazer of which now sits discarded on the passenger seat floor, the collar of a crisp white button-up stained with blood. He wonders what kind of life he'd had; if he had a partner, children he was leaving behind. Children Jungwon made him leave behind. He hadn't meant to, hadn't wanted to, but-- but.

His grief is slow, sludgy, like a pool of black tar, and the tears don't come even as he wonders if they should.

---

Heeseung knows what's happened as soon as he sees him. If it isn't the glow of his skin, the fullness of his cheeks, it's the dazed look in his eyes; the telltale dregs of euphoria that have yet to make their leave.

Although on second thought, maybe it was the blood that did it, trickling down his chin and staining his teeth and lips rust-red.

"I didn't mean to do it," he says quietly. In the background, Jay and Jake drag the body out of the car, and Sunoo and Sunghoon watch with Riki to make sure no one sees.

It's a scent that stops him in the middle of the street, blaring alarms through every inch of his body—thick and sweet, intoxicating, like the richest chocolates and tenderest meats. For a second, it brings him back to his days in the castle; feasts coating tables upon tables in every decadence he could imagine. He hasn't felt that kind of indulgence in a long time.

Jungwon is immediately aware of his instincts overcoming him; he knows what the smell is, he's smelled it coming off the other boys enough times to be familiar with it. But not this strong. Never this strong.

His head swims. Stars cloud his vision, and yet everything is ten times brighter, more crisp; his senses sharpened, sensitivity heightened. Jungwon battles with himself for a moment, there, on the side of the road, watching the car with the contents of it's driver's seat smelling so delectably like food as it drives by; no, no, don't give in, don't succumb, you've made it so far already, just hold on a little bit longer—but the gut-wrenching hunger inside him is like none he's ever faced before.

It tears at him, the unbearable hunger, the emptiness; twists his insides into knots and makes him double over against the brick wall beside him. He doesn't want to give in, doesn't want to take, doesn't want to hurt—but he's so, so hungry, and it smells so, so good and he just can't take it anymore. It's a kind of longing that burns him from the inside out, and maybe... maybe it wouldn't hurt, to... to give in, just this once.

He's hungry. He needs food. Really, when he thinks about it for long enough, rationalizes it in his mind, that's all there is to it. Lions don't feel bad when they hunt gazelle, do they?

(Something is different here, though. Lions, unlike vampires, will stop. Lack of food will make their body grow cold, their energy sapped until there is nothing left; they grow tired, bodies moving slower and slower, until they breath their last breath. Vampires do not. Vampires will not stop. The hunger depletes them, eats at them, and then when it can eat no more it consumes them completely—writhing black hole taken ghastly, human shape. Death evades them, and so they become death in it's place—emptiness so great it would eat the whole world if it could.)

So, with his resolve melting as his hunger rages, Jungwon presses onward—taking advantage of the scenery's sudden clarity to slink towards the moving car at a truly frightening pace. Plus, it could be... fun, he finds himself thinking; fun, to play around a bit, see how much fear he can truly instill. In the past, Jay and Sunghoon's jokes to Sunoo to "not play with his food" when me mentioned spooking his victims the tiniest bit before feeding had left Jungwon feeling sick to his stomach—but now, the idea doesn't seem so bad.

A voice in Jungwon's head (the more logical Jungwon; the one that isn't starving, the one that's still on the edge of rational) tells him, you're being stupid, as he throws caution to the wind and teleports directly in front of the car. Someone could see you, do you even have any idea what you're doing? But the voice of hunger rises above all others, and Jungwon, smirking at the screech of tires on asphalt as the car skids to a stop in front of him, tells the voice, it's dark out, and we're in an abandoned part of the city; who, really, do you think could see us?

The voice protests, but the drone of Jungwon's hunger drowns it out. He feels cool metal on the palms of his hands, hears the metallic clang of his boots against the car's hood. The trembling of the man inside tinges his nerves with delight.

He raises his finger to his lips in a single gesture, shhh, and wonders if his eyes gleam red.

Thoughts run one by one through his mind, though they are fleeting, like mice; skittering into the darkness as soon as he catches sight of them. He should have listened to the hyungs, he should have been more careful, he shouldn't have waited this long—he knows the consequences of vampires going too long without blood from Sunghoon's stories, how could he have been so stupid?

But it all fades, irrelevant, in face of what sits before him now—food. A meal. Satiation, finally, an end to his hunger. He can feel his conscience slipping away more and more as the moments pass, the little Jungwon in his head letting go of it's logic.

It is with this quieting of the rational voice and sudden booming of the instinctual one that Jungwon teleports himself to the back seat of the man's car. It doesn't take long for him to be noticed—even the lack of his reflection in the rear view mirror cannot disguise the creak of expensive leather and the sigh he lets out.

"Jesus Christ--" the man nearly shouts, car jolting forward as he slams on the breaks. Jungwon doesn't flinch. He turns to look over his shoulder and meets an unblinking vermillion stare. "W-what the hell are you, kid?"

"Go on, guess," he says, brow raised. "I have all night."

Though even as he speaks, Jungwon knows the statement is a lie—he's the closest to the man, the closest to a human he's ever been since turning, no plexiglass or metal barrier between them—the smell of the man's racing heart and pumping blood chokes his senses like smoke, so thick he can barely breath. Jungwon doesn't know how long he'll be able to hold out—but he can feel how the seconds tick by, as if there's a pocket watch embedded in his skull. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Agonizing. Even so, Jungwon delights in the fear, the rabbit-quick pace of the man's heart. Equally as amused as he is overwhelmed, he decides that quickening it a little more won't hurt, and smirks, doing well to lick over his fangs in perfect line with the man's eyesight.

"Shit--" Eyes widen comically, and breath grows shaky with the reckless fumbling at car door handles in an effort to escape, pure, cold fear jolting through bones and bringing goosebumps to unsettled skin. It's useless, though; because all the doors lock, jammed shut, and the most he can do is huddle as close to the door as he can, as far away as possible from the boy with glowing eyes suddenly perched in his passenger seat.

"Surprised?" Jungwon asks with a grin.

The man gulps. "Th-this isn't happening," he mumbles, eyes focussed somewhere off in space, past Jungwon. "This can't be happening to me. This... this is impossible."

"Oh, it's very possible," hums Jungwon. "You'd be surprised to find out how much is." And he smirks wide again. He probably looks like a madman, but he doesn't care. He can taste the man's blood on the air.

"Please, don't kill me," he whispers. "W-whatever it is you want, I'll do it, just-- I don't wanna die. Please."

Any other day, the pleading would have gotten to him—any other day, Jungwon would have cried and screamed and torn at his own skin at the prospect of ever killing anyone, let alone drinking from them. But now, the logical him (the human him, he thinks for a moment) has been tucked into the deepest recesses of his mind, and the sound is like music to his ears.

"H-have mercy," the man stutters quietly.

Jungwon tilts his head. Mercy? a voice in his head whispers. It is a voice he hardly sees himself in, and yet it consumes him completely. There is no mercy. You are only prey.

It's funny how suddenly it hits him—how long he's waited for this, and how he can't stand to wait a second more. Faster than lightning Jungwon blinks on top of the man, pinning him down; the protests (physical as well as verbal) make no difference to him. He searches for a carotid artery with shaking fingers and, once he finds it, sinks his teeth in with a groan.

The car swerves in a panic, and the sound of it crashing into a streetlight is a distant ringing in Jungwon's mind. Everything is muffled, as if he's been thrust underwater, and he might as well have, with the way the smell and taste of blood blooms around him, inside him. He feels himself wanting more, needing more, craving more, the hunger never-ending as he sinks his teeth even further into his victim's neck.

Nothing else matters in that moment, and he knows, now, he knows what the others were talking about—how good it feels to feed when you've starved for so long.

His victim loses consciousness soon after that, but still Jungwon drinks. He can't find it in him to stop—it tastes so, so good and he's still so, so hungry, and it seems his hunger only grows the more he feeds; every bit of blood he drains, the sickness and lethargy drains away with it, leaving a hunger larger than he had known behind. Eyes closed, the world spins around him, and Jungwon can feel himself slowly revitalizing as he drinks, and drinks, and drinks, and drinks.

Jungwon loses track of time the longer he sits there.

The hunger is less ravaging, now, only a low growl in the back of his throat; and soon it peters out entirely. The body under him has grown cold—it's warmth taking new ownership. He feels the stolen blood and pulse humming under his skin.

There is plenty to worry about, he knows—plenty things he should, realistically, care more about than he does. But for the life of him he can't pick out what they are, buried beneath layers of cotton he doesn't care to reach through.

---

"Did you do it?"

Sunoo stood stiffly, hands at his sides as he stood before the queen.

"I did," he said—his voice a shell of itself. Guilt twisted like a venomous snake in his gut.

The queen hummed her approval.

"Hmm, good. You've done well for me."

Every word she spoke made bile rise in his throat—her unwavering approval, her tender-handed affection, the poison-laced honey that dripped from her tongue with every smile. Cherry-red lips he could not look at, and so he stared at the hem of her gown instead.

"What's the matter, my sweet?" She had sensed that something was off—something amiss in the heart of her ever-willing servant. She moved forward in grand, sweeping gestures, placing the pads of her fingers under Sunoo's chin and lifting it in a move that made his breath hitch. Eyes the color of red wine stared back at him. "Everything is going to plan, and yet... you don't seem happy."

Sunoo couldn't tell if she was genuinely surprised, or just taunting him.

"I'm not," he said instead. How could he be? His friends' demises sown behind him, the needle in his ready hands. He had never been a steady tailor, and his fingers were riddled with pinpricks.

The queen's face twisted—lips pursed, eyebrows furrowed, and eyes filled with sickening sweet concern. "Why ever not? My little sun, don't you know you're getting everything you've every wanted?"

"I know," he said softly. I don't know what I want anymore, he thought.

Safety, warmth, stability—that was what he'd wanted. A steady hand, loyalty and love he would never have to question; protection from all the evils in the world. Wether he stated his wants aloud or not, she had known them, and provided. But the comfort he felt with her in his youth was long gone, now—her love was tainted, and he got no warmth from it. Her protection felt more like a cage from which he could not escape.

The queen gave a soft gasp. "It's them, isn't it?"

Sunoo brought his eyes back to her face again. "What?"

"The other boys," she said. "You're still attached to them. You feel bad for hurting them."

Sunoo couldn't help the incredulity that slipped into his voice as he said, "You thought I wouldn't?"

She shook her head and sighed. "I thought you had grown out of this." I thought you had figured out that I am the only one who would ever truly care for you.

Tears stung his eyes and the back of his throat, but he bit them back, unwilling to be so vulnerable in front of her—not here, not now. Not ever again.

She sighed, raising her hand to cup his cheek instead—he hated it. Hated how the slightest touch made his skin crawl, hated how he was frozen in place under her gaze, shackles holding his ankles to the ground. Hated it, hated it, hated it, hated her, hated himself for ever having loved her.

"I know it's... hard," she said, voice so soft though he knew it was only poison; the sugar-sweet lure at the bottom of a pitcher plant. "Letting go. Especially since you've help on for so long. But you must understand, Sunoo... their love is conditional. The second they hear of the things you've done, they'll cast you away without a second thought."

The words that went unsaid rang impossible loud in his ears. But I will not. I am the only one that won't. It was true, and he knew and hated it, the way she had him wrapped around her finger—the corner that he had backed himself into.

He jerked away from her touch as if he had been burned, eyes boring into her like hot coals. "And yours isn't?" He spat. "You say their love is conditional, and yet you ask so much of me, make me your slave with that exact same promise—love. And all so you can get to him."

His words were hot ash, pouring down on her skin, and yet she only shook her head and laughed sardonically. "You hate me for telling the truth," she said.

"I hate you," he seethed, "for keeping me here." And I hate myself, for being unable to break free.

The queen tutted softly, taking one of his hands in hers. "Whatever happened to the sweet little boy from the woods, hm?" The boy that didn't question, didn't doubt, the boy that would blissfully obey her every whim.

He left the moment you decided to make me into a puppet, Sunoo wanted to say, but didn't.

Unable to control himself any longer, Sunoo lunged forward, hands gripping her shoulders and propelling them both forward until she hit the wall on the other side of the castle. The stone cracked behind her—great fissures spiderwebbing out from the place of impact, reaching all the way to the great marble ceilings. But all she did was laugh; laugh, an impossibly bitter sound.

"You're only helping prove my point, you know," she said as he growled. "What would the others think, if they saw this side of you?"

And again his breath caught, knowing her words to be true—a sob rocketed past his lips before he could curb it. She raised both hands to cup either side of his face, wiping the tears away.

"They wouldn't understand," she said softly. "Wouldn't love you. Not like I do."

Sunoo nodded rapidly, the tears only coming faster by the second. He hated being here, under her gaze, wrapped in her touch—and yet it was the only place he truly felt safe. "I'm sorry," he choked, fisting hands in the sleeves of her gown. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, so sorry-"

As they grew up, the boys began to grow distant, caught up in internal conflicts brought on by puberty and all manner of other things, some of them being perfectly normal for teenage boys to experience and some of them not normal at all (although it wasn't as if they had any frames of reference to compare it to). Regardless of the reason, tensions grew high, and Sunoo began to slip away more and more—much like Jake, unwilling to take sides and be caught in the crossfire. Also much like Jake, he suspected, the tension put a lot of stress on his already-open heart. There came a ghost in the space where he had once been, cold and empty-handed.

It was not their intention, but they had pushed him away—and Jake just watched it happen. He hated to think of it, all the nights that he'd woken up to watch Sunoo slip away into the forest, and watch him come back a little different every morning. A little more distant, a little more cold, a little less willing to push through the barriers they had put up involuntarily. He kept thinking that, maybe if he had been a little braver, a little better, he could have stopped it—but he didn't. He just sat by and watched as that thing slowly but surely took Sunoo from him, from all of them; and he couldn't even muster up the strength to be there for him.

He's different now; stronger. Better. He has vowed since turning that he will never again sit back and watch as all the things he has ever loved get taken from him. Instead, he will fight; hold them close to his chest within an inch of his dying breath, and die with them, if he has to. If it is possible for him to die, he thinks, he would do so willingly if it meant that the six lives he carries in his heart would be spared.

Still, a part of his mind knows that it's too late—too late for the one thing, the one person he should have been brave for a long time ago.

I have drunk the lion's liquid courage, he thinks, just like in the fairytales. I have brought the saucer to my lips and drained every last drop. But will it be enough? Will I be enough, for you, or have I already come too late?

They stand in the garden, framed by overgrown rose bushes, crumbling stone fixtures, and crawling ivy that covers everything they once called home.

"Sunoo," Jake says softly. He speaks the name like it's something sacred, a delicacy he would take all the time in the world to savour; rolling it around on his tongue and letting the taste soak in.

Sunoo is smiling. He's rarely ever doing anything else these days—but it's also rarely ever real. His eyes are guarded, everything he's ever felt blocked off by great looming walls of stone.

Jake knew him, once. He had to.

"What is it?" Sunoo asks—and his voice is so warm, face so kind and open, but Jake knows it's all a lie.

"I just..." He bites his lip; years of practiced conversations, of worries run over and over in his mind, and this hasn't gotten any easier. "I want you to know that I'm here. If ever there's anything that's... bothering you, anything you need to get off your chest—I'll be ready to listen."

"I know," says Sunoo quietly. There's something sad, there, then—in the shine of his eyes, the twitch of his fingers, the dip of his mouth when he smiles like rain.

He's always known. Jake has made it a point to make it known that he's a ready support system for all of them; there's no way he doesn't know.

I want to, he is saying. I want to tell you, but I can't. And Jake wants to ask, why?

"Sunoo," he says again, and its as though that prayer is the only word he can offer. Desperation is a taste so bitter it makes him cringe. Please, please, let me be there for you, let me fix this--

He swallows down the bile in his throat, tongue swiping across his bottom lip in a nervous gesture. "You can tell me," Jake says—voice so soft he can barely even hear it. "Anything, I... don't want you to hurt."

This is my olive branch, he thinks. This is the hand that I am holding out to you. Kim Sunoo, will you take it?

For a moment, just one single, searing moment, the pain in Sunoo's face is almost too much—he's almost breaking and in it Jake feels like he could break, too. But it flickers like the flash of a firefly and then it is gone. He softens, eases; shakes his head, the smile he wears so tender and sick.

"There's nothing, Jake; I'm alright," he says. Then he cocks his head back towards the house, saying- "Let's go back inside, hm? The others are probably waiting for us."

"Yeah," croaks Jake. "Probably."

He wants to run after him. He wants to scream, he wants to cry; he wants to sob until his voice grows hoarse.