#lichiitea

- Jeon Wonwoo is a scrawny thing, at first. With large glasses and a larger sweater, he stumbles into Chan’s teashop. The friendly little bell jingles, the tourists who wandered into Chan’s shop turning and eyeing the newcomer disinterestedly before returning to their conversation.

Chan watches the stranger look around his humble tea emporium confusedly, nervously fiddling with his glasses. He’s not classically handsome, Chan thinks, although he supposes there’s something appealing about that sharp jawline and soft sweater.

He plasters on a smile and glides towards the lost mortal, his hanbok sleeves fluttering slightly in an absent wind. “Welcome to Lee’s Tea Emporium,” he chirps. “Table for one?”

The mortal blinks, lips pursing. “I… don’t know how I got here,” he says sheepishly. Too sharp eyes scrutinise Chan suspiciously from behind treated glass.

“That’s normal,” Chan lies smoothly, with another charming smile. “It’s the winding streets. Let me find you a seat with a view.”

This one will be fun to mess with, he thinks to himself, without knowing that he’s completely wrong. Well, Chan’s not really used to having the tables turned on him.

(He can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it ever.)

- The mortal finds his way into Chan’s tea shop every day for the next month. He comes in at precisely twelve-eighteen in the afternoon without fail. Chan keeps an eye on the clock, the ticking of the minute hand always corresponding with the welcoming jingle of the bell.

Chan is not intrigued. His interest is barely piqued.

After all, there’s a new villain in town. A villain that’s painted in hues of insanity that call to Chan like a flame to a moth. He’s drawn to the jagged edges of the dumbass carved on the skin of the small-time criminal, the sheer lack of restraint in the way bones in the face were broken.

It’s not love, but it’s something close.

- Seungkwan says this Wonwoo guy is bad news. It’s funny, because Chan has been telling Seungkwan that Hansol is way out of his league, but he never listens either.

Chan isn’t stupid. He doesn’t want to end up with a broken face and shattered pride. He’ll play this strategically.

He hangs out along the edge of Wonwoo’s territory, causing havoc and having fun, trying to draw out the elusive madman. He fucks with the police station a block away, then casts illusions in a park right outside of the new villain’s territory.

It doesn’t take very long.

He’s in the middle of perusing a jewellery store who decided not to fuck with him (or his wolf familiar, Dino) when he feels a menacing presence at the door. Chan doesn’t stop scrutinising a pair of diamond earrings, although he does tilt his body so the newcomer knows he’s been acknowledged.

“You’re in my territory,” a deep voice rumbles. There’s no menace in his voice, but a shiver runs down Chan’s spine anyway.

“Am I?” Chan asks with faux-confusion. He turns towards the stranger fully, eyes trailing over the neat shoes, tailored suit and polished cane. His gaze lingers on the almost-familiar face, jolting when he realises it’s his newest regular.

“So it’s you,” the mortal, Wonwoo, says. There’s not timidity in his gaze, no hesitation as he saunters into the store. “You’re the warlock shop owner.”

“You’re the mousy writer,” Chan retorts, standing his ground. Something in him quivers as Wonwoo strides forward like he belongs here. It’s titillating. It makes him yearn for something that he shouldn’t want.

Wonwoo’s gaze is sharp as he stops a hair’s breadth away from Chan. “That’s not me.”

“No?” Chan raises an eyebrow. “A mask is still a facet of you, even if you don’t realise.”

“Maybe I’m not hiding.”

“Everyone’s always hiding.”

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow coolly. He plucks the earring out of Chan’s hand casually. Their fingers brush. “And what are you hiding, little warlock?”

The question genuinely stuns Chan.

He doesn’t even notice that Dino has her head bowed, tail between her legs because she’s faced with a predator with sharper teeth and an insatiable thirst for blood – a predator that doesn’t need teeth and claws to tear a man apart.

Chan isn’t scared by that. He’s a man that can command the four elements whenever he can, that regularly plays with the simple minds of mortals any time he pleases.

What can a mortal like Jeon Wonwoo – who has no powers, no way to battle against Chan in a duel and win – do to him?

- Chan is obsessed.

He finds himself scrolling the news for a glimpse of the villainous madman, his gaze following Wonwoo’s civilian persona with an intensity that would scare a regular mortal.

Chan plays with feelings at the drop of a potion, can craft poisons and antidotes from the top of his head. With a wave of his hand, he can bend physics. At the touch of his lips, men and women crumble at his feet.

And yet…

And yet.

His mind is twisted around. Maybe Wonwoo has powers after all.

- It’s a quiet Tuesday afternoon. The morning has been unproductive; all Chan can do is stare at the clock, impatiently waiting for twelve-eighteen. Energy thrums under his skin, sparks trailing across his fingers with every task he finishes unsuccessfully.

The moment the jingle sounds, Chan is greeting Wonwoo at the door. He hates with a passion – from Wonwoo’s soft grey cardigan to his round wire-framed glasses, all the way to his soft hair that Chan wants to bury his handsin and ruin.

He grabs the writer by the collar, dragging him into the kitchen and tossing him unceremoniously against the marble counter.

“What have you done to me?” Chan hisses. His hair whips angrily, eyes flashing silver as his frustration culminates in energy that fills the air and makes the air thick.

Wonwoo sheds this false persona he’s sunk deep into, back straightening and eyes darkening.

“I haven’t done anything,” the psychopath says, but he’s lying.

“You did,” Chan snarls, crossing the space between them. He lifts Wonwoo effortlessly, but he’s unfazed. He gazes at Chan like he’s the one in control. Chan wants to break him. “What curse did you put on me?”

The smirk that curls Wonwoo’s lips knows much more than Chan can ever know. “We’re all cursed. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“Maybe it’s the world that’s crazy.”

And somehow that makes sense. The world has tilted and turned insane right in front of Chan’s eyes.

“You’ve done something to me,” Chan says.

Wonwoo smile, slow and wicked. “Maybe I have.”

- Chan doesn’t know what love is. He doesn’t.

But he imagines the way Wonwoo’s eyes scorch his skin as they watch him is as close to love as he can get. The desperate way Chan hangs off Wonwoo’s every word, goes from calling him Wonwoo-ssi to Wonwoo hyung to just hyung.

Wonwoo learns the ways Chan plays with mortals, then learns how to play Chan’s body like the well-loved piano in his shitty apartment out in Itaewon. He takes Chan’s hand then breaks him sweet and slow – almost tender enough to make Chan believe there’s something more between them.

Wonwoo fills his every thought, so he doesn’t even hesitate when Wonwoo asks him for a single spell that causes devastation.

Seungkwan has chrysanthemums growing in his lungs, all for Jihoon.

It’s Jihoon – it has to be. Seungkwan has been nursing a crush on Jihoon, since the first day the elder set eyes on him on the streets of Hongdae and said, “You have a voice I’d love to write songs for.”

(Honestly, who even says that to people? Sure, Jihoon has this unnerving ability to be stupidly blunt all the time and have absolutely no shame about the things he says.)

It starts with a crush – a little spark of a crush that started because Jihoon is a songwriter and accidentally says pretty words to unsuspecting men. It’s a spark that bursts into a flame because Jihoon writes pretty songs that match Seungkwan’s pretty voice and Jihoon says cutting words but soothes them with cake and hot chocolate after.

The flame blazes and burns, scorching Seungkwan from the inside out. With every touch and gentle word, with time in the studio where it’s just the two of them and rehearsals where Jihoon’s focus is solely on Seungkwan, he aches and he longs and he loves.

Seungkwan always knew that falling for Jihoon would end in pain. He just didn’t expect it to end in petals filling his lungs.

In a way, it’s poetic; it’s a death that fits the artistry that encompasses every bit of Jihoon’s life. Of course he’d kill Seungkwan with pretty flowers too.

It’s when the white petals join the chrysanthemums that Seungkwan knows he’s well and truly fucked.

It takes him a moment to understand why the white poppy petals (consolation) join the chrysanthemum he’s still coughing out. He’s watching Seungcheol and Jihoon flirt in their unique way – Seungcheol calls Jihoon short and Jihoon calls Seungcheol an idiot, then they exchange secret grins that belie just how much they care about each other.

Seungkwan watches Seungcheol and his heart aches just as another cough wracks his entire body. He coughs out a handful of petals – and the first couple white petals mixed amongst the yellow sends shivers down Seungkwan’s spine.

He spends too long staring at the handful of petals – still a handful, because it’s been three days since the first petal – and jumps when Seungcheol wanders over, concern in his eyes.

“Hey, are you okay?” Seungcheol asks.

Seungkwan immediately shoves the petals into his pocket, plastering a smile onto his face. “I’m fine, just a tickle!” He coughs again, a light fake thing to throw him off the scent.

Seungkwan nearly jumps again when Seungcheol leans in close and presses a warm hand to Seungkwan’s forehead. “Hm,” the elder hums, “you don’t feel warm.”

“I’m fine,” Seungkwan croaks, the lie as bitter as the petals are sweet when they rest on his tongue, right before he spews them out.

Falling in love with Seungcheol is like sitting in a pot of cold water being heated over fire. At first, their relationship is strictly employer/employee. Then, Seungkwan stumbles his way into the cafe after a shitty blind date Seokmin forced him on and Seungcheol is there. He’s there, with his warm smile and even warmer hugs. He offers Seungkwan coffee and a listening ear and suddenly, they’re friends.

They’re friends and Seungcheol hangs out with Seungkwan. They text and they have inside jokes. The next thing Seungkwan knows, Seungcheol is always there, with a quick smile and even quicker skinship.

Seungkwan doesn’t notice the water is boiling until he’s in too deep and he’s daydreaming of caramel kisses and quiet I love yous in the back room.

The thing about Jihoon and Seungcheol is that they’re the love story. They’ve known each other since high school and stuck together through college. They even set up a cafe together – Sweet Notes – and anyone with eyes can tell they’re in love with each other (even if they’re both oblivious fools).

There’s no space for Seungkwan between them.

He doesn’t even pretend there is. Seungkwan can’t bring himself to be that delusional. It’ll hurt him more in the end.

Of course, he can get corrective surgery. All it’ll take is one little procedure and the flowers will be gone. He can breathe and he can stop the pain – but it’ll mean he’ll never feel romantic love again. He’ll never feel the flutter of his heartbeat when Jihoon and Seungcheol walk in, the warmth that spread through his body when Jihoon smiles at him and tells him a job well done, the silent joy when Seungcheol wraps an arm around his shoulders.

Seungkwan has a brochure lying on his bed. A little brain surgery and he’ll never have to worry about unrequited love again.

It takes him a week before he throws it into the trash can.

It progresses fast. Too fast.

The body isn’t meant to withstand so much heartache. Unrequited love from one person is already bad enough. Most people can last maybe three months with hanahaki disease.

Seungkwan’s doctor says it’s a miracle if he’ll see the end of the month.

The chrysanthemums and the poppies grow in his lungs, feeding off his misery. It scares him, but he supposes it’s not really all that different from knowing the two men you love will never love you back, all because they’re too wrapped up in each other. Seungkwan can’t even resent them for it, because he’s stupid and in love. At least when he’s gone, they won’t mourn him. They’ll have each other, after all.

Seungkwan leans against the toilet bowl. He reaches up with a shaky hand, flushing the yellow and white petals down. His head hurts, a headache building behind his eyelids. He hasn’t been able to sleep, the coughing keeping him up. He’s stopped cleaning up the petals, the yellow and white scattered amongst his bedsheets. The crushed flower petals lend a sickly, floral scent to his home. He leaves them as a reminder – of his sentimentality, of his stupidity.

He can’t go to rehearsal today. He just can’t.

It takes him twenty minutes to drag himself out of the bathroom. Seungkwan collapses into bed and types a bleary message to… well, he’s not sure who. Probably Seokmin, who’s been nagging him about taking care of himself. Seokmin doesn’t know – no one knows, and he’d like to keep it that way. He hasn’t even told Hansol, who’s his best friend in the whole world.

Maybe he should. The doctor said he might not see the end of the month. He’s already two weeks in. Seungkwan toys with the idea of sending in his resignation and spending the next two weeks getting his affairs in order. He doesn’t have a will written up, but… well. It’s about time he thought about it.

He lets his eyes flutter shut.

The pounding at the door doesn’t wake him. The sudden bout of coughing does. He coughs and coughs, the cloud of petals that emerges enough to almost choke him. He’s drowning in petals and the door opens.

Seungkwan looks up, trying to make out the figure through the film of tears. He tries to cover his mouth, but the petals slip through his fingers, fluttering innocently in front of him. Crimson stains the yellow and white.

“Hyung,” Seungkwan croaks, curling in on himself as Seungcheol watches in horror.

“What the hell is going on here?” Seungcheol demands. He takes a step into Seungkwan’s room – his room with the flowers and the blood and evidence of his own failure.

“Don’t! Don’t come near me!”

“Seungkwan – ”

“Please,” he croaks. Copper and chrysanthemum rests on his tongue. He lets out a rattling breath, curling into a ball. “Please. Don’t come near me. I can’t – ”

“Can – is there anything I can do?” Seungcheol asks, a hint of desperation in his voice. He’s still in the doorway, keeping a respectful distance.

All Seungkwan wants is to burrow himself into Seungcheol’s arms and cry and cry. He wants to let himself be comforted, but Seungcheol’s isn’t his to have and he can’t stop thinking about (wanting) Jihoon too.

“No,” Seungkwan answers, burying his face in his hands so Seungcheol can’t see him cry. “Just – go away.”

“Kwannie – ”

“Go away! I don’t want to see you or – or Jihoon hyung. Get out!”

Those are lies. They tear at his throat and he’s not sure if the pain is from the flowers slowly killing him or the words he’s spitting out. He wants to see them. He wants to tell them the truth – I’m so in love with both of you that it’s literally killing me – just so they can pretend to love him for a little while.

Seungcheol stands in the doorway for a good long while, watching Seungkwan curl into a ball on his petal-covered bed. Then, he walks away. The door shuts behind him quietly and Seungkwan cries and cries.

- Jisoo thinks about Minghao’s lips. A lot.

He thinks about it as he gently folds Minghao’s probably expensive jacket over the back of his study chair. Soft, pink lips that curved into gentle crescents when he smiled.

He thinks about it as he stumbles to the shower, nearly braining himself on his shower tiles as he trips over those damned jeans. Wet lips shimmering in the romantic dim lighting of the restaurant.

He thinks about it as he heads into his shitty Toyota, glaring down at the sputtering heating. Lips stained red from too much wine and a pink tongue that swipes away the residue – no, no tongue.

He even thinks about it as he heads out to meet his friends for brunch and spots Jeonghan and Seungcheol arguing about… something, Jihoon seated between them with a look screaming for help. Lips that are parted and too close, looking sweet in the moonlight – f u c k.

Jisoo collapses into his seat with a groan. Jeonghan and Seungcheol find that more important than their (probably petty) argument.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jihoon asks, raising an eyebrow even as relief floods his eyes. “Did you get alcohol poisoning?”

“That was one time,” Jeonghan mutters under his breath indignantly.

“I think I like Minghao,” Jisoo whispers, face buried in his hands. He half expects the world to stop at the quiet admission, but it doesn’t. The waiter in the next table is still talking, the cars are still running and Jisoo hasn’t dropped dead.

His friends, however, are quiet – a worrying occurrence. He peeks out from between his fingers. “Guys?”

Jihoon is staring at Jisoo like he’s grown a second head. Seungcheol’s mouth is hanging open unattractively. Jeonghan’s eyes are narrowed suspiciously. Jisoo feels like an animal at a zoo.

Seungcheol is the first person to break the awkward silence. “Called it,” he says proudly.

“Fuck,” Jeonghan says with feeling.

“What?” Jisoo blinks, looking between the trio indignantly. “Did you guys place a fucking bet on me?”

“Not me,” Jihoon says hastily, more than happy to throw his boyfriends under the metaphorical bus. “I told Jeonghan hyung and Seungcheol hyung not to, but they didn’t listen.”

Jisoo wants to be surprised, but he’s not. He’s just disappointed.

- Jeonghan thinks Jisoo should go for it. Jeonghan is wrong.

Jisoo will not go for it, because Minghao is his dance teacher. It’s like if Jeonghan and Seungcheol started dating Jihoon – wait, that’s a bad example.

“Why not?” Jihoon asks, once Jeonghan and Seungcheol leave to go to the bathroom (or sneak in a public fuck; Jisoo literally doesn’t want to know).

Jisoo sputters. “Be-Because! He’s my dance teacher!”

“And?”

“And? That’s a pretty big ‘and’!”

Jihoon rolls his eyes, spooning sugar into his coffee. “And,” Jihoon drawls, “it’s been done before. I’m doing it.”

Yes, Jisoo wants to argue, but it’s different. It’s different because it’s Seungcheol and Jeonghan. They’re not Jisoo – the awkward one, the quiet one, the non-flirty one. It’s different because Jihoon isn’t Minghao – the man who’s been too nice, too believing, too much to be into Jisoo.

There’s no way Minghao would be into Jisoo.

- Minghao is so into Jisoo that it’s ridiculous.

The moment he reached home, he’d called up Seokmin and Mingyu and ranted about Jisoo and the not-date and how soft Jisoo’s smile was in the dim moonlight.

He’s so into Jisoo that he refuses to acknowledge that he’s into Jisoo.

“There’s no reason for me to like him,” Minghao insists. He’s having dinner over at Seokmin and Mingyu’s apartment – a weekly ritual since they were college students. Rather than actively helping Mingyu, Minghao just sits on the kitchen counter. It somehow works.

Seokmin sighs, rolling his eyes from where he’s clinging to Mingyu’s back as he cooks. “Isn’t he the guy you’ve been talking about incessantly for like a month?”

Minghao’s cheeks heat up. “I don’t talk about him that much!”

Somehow, despite Seokmin being behind Mingyu and half a head shorter than the latter, they share an exasperated look.

“I don’t,” he protests weakly, curling into himself at the combined force of the couples’ gaze. “Do I?”

“The other day, you spent fifteen minutes complaining about his dumb corkscrew move,” Mingyu states. Minghao blanches.

“Just yesterday, you went on and on about an article he wrote – for half an hour,” Seokmin adds, leaning around Mingyu to steal a taste of the kimchi stew Mingyu is makjng. “You don’t even read the newspaper.”

The dancer winces. He can’t possibly have been that blind.

To put a nail in the coffin, Mingyu adds, “Last night, you called me to wax poetic about Jisoo’s ass in jeans for an hour.”

“An hour and twenty-six minutes,” Seokmin corrects with a wrinkle of his nose. “I was watching the clock. We were in the middle of a very nice fucking – ”

“Some things I don’t need to know,” Minghao barks, face turning scarlet. “I was drunk.”

“You weren’t that drunk.”

He wasn’t that drunk. He just couldn’t get the image of Jisoo in jeans out of his head, or the way Jisoo looked bathed in moonlight, eyes closed and face upturned. For a moment, before the taxi arrived, Minghao swore they were going to kiss.

He can’t stop wondering what would’ve happened if the cab had come just a little bit later.

- the next class Jisoo attends after the Wine Date-Not-Date, Minghao simultaneously spends too much and not enough time paying attention to Jisoo.

Jisoo feels Minghao’s gaze on him the entire lesson. (Minghao can’t tear his eyes off Jisoo.)

He keeps messing up, but Minghao never comes over to correct him. (He knows Jisoo is making mistakes – more mistakes than usual – but he doesn’t trust himself to go over and help him like he always does.)

Jisoo wonders if he’s the only one feeling the strange energy that’s taking over this class. (Minghao wonder if he’s the only one feeling the strange energy that’s taking over his class.)

- Jisoo lingers after his class, too awkward to outwardly ask if Minghao wants to end their little arrangement. Some part of Jisoo – the part that freely admits he’s nursing a small crush on Minghao – laments the loss of those classes. Even if they were informal, they brought about some improvement to Jisoo’s dancing. Jihoon’s even almost impressed when he sees Jisoo practicing his routine.

Minghao takes his time answering a girl’s question. Jisoo tries not to stare, but he can’t help but keep glancing over. Minghao’s in another of his oversized tanktops, his golden skin shimmering with sweat. His hair isn’t hidden under a cap today, but it is damp with sweat and sticking to Minghao’s forehead.

Jisoo is reminded of shoulder brushing, the sweet scent of wine and a smile that’s just a tad too close.

Get yourself together, Jisoo.

Jisoo glances over at Minghao again, cheeks flushing when he realises Minghao is staring at him too. Oh, wait, he’s the only other person in the room. Right, right.

“Hey,” Jisoo says awkwardly. Off to a brilliant start.

“Is something the matter?” There’s a polite smile on Minghao’s lips – nothing like the cheeky grin he had graced Jisoo with last week.

“Er, no…” Jisoo fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “I – uh, I still have your jacket.”

“Oh… right.” There’s a smattering of pink across Minghao’s cheekbones. “Did – did you get home okay?”

“I – yeah. Yeah, I did.”

It’s so awkward. Jisoo swears he’s about to spontaneously combust. He should probably say something.

“Did you get back – ”

“So where’s my jack – ”

They both fall silent, grinning sheepishly. Minghao rubs the back of his head and lets out an awkward laugh. (Cute.) Jisoo bites his lip and chuckles. (Oh, fuck, that’s adorable.)

“You go first,” Minghao offers. His smile isn’t as stiff anymore, some of their previous camaraderie returning. Jisoo’s stomach swoops as he glances at Minghao’s lips – hopefully fast enough that Minghao doesn’t catch it. (Minghao does catch it and his ears burn.)

“I, uh…” Jisoo clears his throat; he’s a journalist, talking to one man (albeit a very hot man) shouldn’t be this hard. “I hope you went back home okay?”

Minghao blinks. “Me?” His lips curl into a small smile. “I – heh. Yeah, I did, hyung. Did you say you still have my jacket? Where is it?”

Jisoo turns to his bag – and freezes. He’d left it on the goddamn couch.

“Ah, fuck,” Jisoo mutters. “I left it back home. Let me head back and bring it over.”

“Or,” Minghao interrupts awkwardly, “I could, um, head over and pick it up? Because this is my last class for today.”

“Is it? I thought you had another – ”

“Not this week.” Minghao peers at Jisoo expectantly. “I mean, if you don’t mind me coming over?”

His apartment is a mess. He can’t remember the last time he vacuumed. He’s pretty sure he has takeout boxes on every available surface. Does his apartment smell funny? Probably.

He invites Minghao over anyway.

- Jisoo erupts into a nervous sweat when they hit his apartment building. It’s only five blocks away from the dance studio Minghao teaches at. He doesn’t know how to tell the physically fit specimen walking next to him that those five blocks are usually enough to wind him – and that’s on a good day.

He even has to dry his sweaty palms on his trackpants before his inputs his apartment code. Jisoo is a Mess and it’s all Minghao’s fault.

“D’you want to come in?” Jisoo asks, his mother’s impeccable upbringing taking over his brain for a moment. Some part of his brain is frantically screaming that he’s letting a hot guy into his gross apartment.

Minghao shrugs and nods; Jisoo opens the door wider, holding his breath as if it’ll stave off the musty, bachelor smell of his apartment. He pays no attention to Minghao’s judgement as he sweeps grabs pizza and fried chicken boxes off the coffee table to punt it into the kitchen (out of sight, out of mind, he thinks frantically).

“Nice place,” Minghao comments, toeing off his shoes and placing them to the side. Jisoo offers a nervous giggle, rinsing his hands quickly and skidding out into the living room, where Minghao’s surveying the photo frames Jisoo has.

“It’s a roof over my head,” Jisoo answers lamely. He hands Minghao his jacket. “Here. I hope I didn’t, uh, drool on it. Or whatever.”

“It’s fine.”

Jisoo’s just realising how close they are. Their hands are quite touching, but they’re close enough that Jisoo can feel the heat of Minghao’s skin. If Jisoo tiptoes, he’s pretty sure he could kiss Minghao. He can’t even blame his drunk mind on the thoughts running through his head – lips, teeth, tongue. He’s stone cold sober and he still wants to kiss him.

He should probably let go of the jacket. Minghao has a good grip on it, so it won’t fall. Jisoo licks his lips nervously, glancing down at his fingers. Yes, he should let go.

“I should go,” Minghao murmurs. His voice is startlingly loud in the quiet of Jisoo’s apartment.

“Y-yeah, probably.”

Minghao still doesn’t move. Neither does Jisoo. They’re still too close; Jisoo has a thing about personal space (so does Minghao), but he doesn’t mind it now.

“A-about the other night – ”

“Hyung, I – ”

Jisoo cuts himself off. Minghao does too. They both share a chuckle, leaning closer like they’re pulled into each other’s gravity.

Now that it’s quiet again, Jisoo doesn’t know what to say. He glances down at Minghao’s lips before his eyes dart upwards guiltily, but Minghao’s looking at his lips too. His heart is hammering in his chest, threatening to burst out of his ribs and escape.

“I…” Minghao’s fingers are warm when they brush Jisoo’s cheek. “Hyung. Is it okay if I…” He leans down, breath brushing Jisoo’s lips.

Before he can second guess himself, Jisoo’s hands are balled in Minghao’s collar as he pulls him down for a kiss.

- They makeout for a solid hour. They don’t mean to, but there has been a lot of sexual tension between them for the past three hours.

“So… what now?” Jisoo asks, resting on Minghao’s chest after one of the most intense makeout sessions in his life. They somehow made it to the couch and Jisoo doesn’t even care that they’re both sticky – from sweat, because they just came from dance practice. Not because of – you know. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Minghao’s eyes are closed, so Jisoo feels no shame in the way his eyes trace his features; from the swollen lips to the mussed hair and pink cheeks, Jisoo thinks Minghao looks like a greek sculpture brought to life.

Jisoo can’t help himself from touching – just to convince himself that Minghao is really here and not a figment of his overactive imagination. Minghao’s cheeks shift as he smiles.

“Well, since you asked me out on the last date, I’ll ask you out on the next one,” Minghao murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he watches Jisoo.

“Didn’t know that was a date.”

“It is now.” Minghao’s smirk softens into a gentle smile. “I – I mean, if you want it to be?”

Jisoo might have a reputation of being ruthless and heartless, but Seungcheol knows Jisoo feels something for Jeonghan. Sure, Seungcheol isn’t sure Jisoo is even capable of human emotion, but he imagines that it’s Jisoo’s version of being in love. Jisoo has been heartsick – he’s been mopey, easier to annoy and his kill count has gone from a mere handful a week to dozens on a bad day. As his self-appointed best friend, Seungcheol’s in charge of dealing with that. The last thing he wants is Jisoo in jail. Not in this condition.

Jeonghan is impossible to find. For someone who hates subterfuge and subtlety, he sure is a pro at finding secret hideouts that stay, well, secret. It’s hard to tail someone to their secret lair when you can’t even find the person.

Jihoon, however, couldn’t care less. He’s arrogant and brash, uncaring if he’s caught on camera because the cops will never catch him anyway. God, he’s a cocky bastard. (Maybe that’s why Seungcheol finds him so intriguing.)

However, the bastard is still too smart to lead Seungcheol right to the plant manipulator he needs to talk to. Be it loyalty or some fucked up way to torture Jisoo (and by extension, Seungcheol), but it’s aggravating. Three months is too long to find someone to un-sad Jisoo.

Seungcheol isn’t surprised when Jihoon slips into Pleiades and Andromeda – a strip club that’s frequented by some of Seoul’s most depraved criminals. After all, Seungcheol’s enjoyed his own nights there, either fucking around or fucking shit up. He’s not surprised, but he’s really fucking annoyed. That’s the only reason he stalks after Jihoon, caging him against the bar with his arms.

“Hello, fancy meeting you here while you’re stalking me,” Jihoon drawls, glancing at Seungcheol out of the corner of his eye. The cheeky bastard doesn’t even bother turning to face Seungcheol. The taller growls, pressing closer so Jihoon’s back is flush against Seungcheol’s front.

“No more games,” Seungcheol demands. His palms heat up, smoke curling along his fingers as the wooden surface of the table scorches. “Where the fuck is Jeonghan?”

“Fuck if I’ll tell you,” comes Jihoon’s snide retort. He leans forward, ass pressing against Seungcheol’s groin as he calls for a bourbon and soju mix. Seungcheol hates the fact that his cock gives an interested twitch, despite his don’t fuck the same ass twice rule.

Seungcheol exhales, smoke trailing out of his nostrils as he struggles to reign in his temper. “Jihoon,” he says in an even voice, “I’m doing this for Jisoo.”

“If Jisoo,” pure disdain drips off Jihoon’s tongue, “cares so much about Jeonghannie hyung, then why isn’t he here, threatening me?”

“Because Jisoo is an idiot and he doesn’t know he’s heart broken.” Seungcheol’s hands ball into fists as Jihoon spins in the cage Seungcheol traps him in, glaring up at him with eyes the colour of dark, bitter chocolate.

“I don’t give a shit,” Jihoon hisses, enunciating every syllable. “He left hyung for dead. As far as I’m concerned, he’s better off without The Gentleman.” Jihoon sneers, pushing Seungcheol back with a single finger. “And I sure as hell don’t want anything to do with you.”

Seungcheol bares his teeth – it’s not a grimace, but it’s awfully close. “Come on, doll – ”

“Stop right there,” Jihoon says with an imperious wave of his hand. “I’m not your doll, I’m not your babe. You don’t get to call me disgusting nicknames because you’re nothing to me.”

“You’re not still upset I left, are you?” Seungcheol asks helplessly. He’s always been the fuck ‘em and leave ‘em kind. Jihoon must’ve known that the moment he tumbled into bed with him.

Jihoon’s eyes are ablaze with rage. It’s such an attractive look on him that Seungcheol has to remind himself that Jihoon is officially off-limits.

“I’m upset that you think I owe you anything,” Jihoon spits. He’s only a hundred and sixty-four centimetres, but his anger makes him at least ten feet tall. “You think you can waltz in here, with your stupid mouth and your dumb-fuck pants and think I’ll just spill everything? Jeonghan hyung nearly died, and it was by his hand. I’m not letting him near us even if I was dying.”

Seungcheol knows he should be paying attention to the vitriol Jihoon is spitting in his direction, but all he can hear is the way Jihoon was – in a backhanded way – complimenting him. He licks his lips, smirking when he sees the way Jihoon’s eyes follow the motion.

“Come on, Jihoonie,” Seungcheol cajoles, placing a tentative hand on Jihoon’s arm. The mercenary glances at the hand sharply, missing the way Seungcheol steps in closer until they’re chest to chest. When Jihoon’s eyes meet his, Seungcheol allows a predatory grin to flit across his lips before leaning down to claim Jihoon’s hot mouth.

Maybe just this once, Seungcheol tells himself as Jihoon struggles for a brief moment, before he’s opening his mouth and licking into Seungcheol’s mouth.

Jeonghan can practically smell the sex wafting off Jihoon, even if he doesn’t see the dark hickeys peeking out over Jihoon’s collar. He tends to Baby, the venomous flytrap practically purring as Jeonghan prunes the weeds from its roots.

“Looks like someone had a good night,” Jeonghan comments with a wan smile. Jihoon’s hair is sticking up all funny, although he’s not walking funny. Must not have been that good of a fuck.

“Barely,” Jihoon grumbles, swatting away the grabby leaves of a nearby grapevine as he stumbles into the kitchen. “Fucking – asshole. He gave me second-degree burns.”

Jeonghan’s hands still. He takes a deep breathe, ignoring the way his inhale is extremely shaky. “I thought you said you’d never sleep with Seungcheol again?” He pats himself on the back for how level his voice is.

“It was the only way to shut him up,” Jihoon groans, sticking his head in the fridge. There’s a meaningful pause. “He’s looking for you, by the way.”

“Seungcheol?”

“No.” Another heavy pause. “Yes. But no. Jisoo.”

Baby rustles uncomfortably, spitting out acid at the mere mention of the name – a response that’s mostly Jeonghan’s. He takes a deep breath, steadying his heart and straightening his back. “Did you tell him where I am?”

Jihoon snorts, surfacing from the fridge with a carton of carrot juice. “Of course not. But… I figured I owed him this much, to tell you that he’s looking.”

Jeonghan frowns, squinting into the distance. “He just wants what he can’t have,” he mutters.

Jihoon leans against the door jamb, reaching up to stroke Baby’s vine that’s wriggling towards him. “You know,” he says in a gentle voice that’s completely out of character, “you say that, but you still keep all the things he left for you.”

He doesn’t ask how Jihoon knows – knowing the mercenary, he’s probably been snooping around. Jisoo likes to leave little presents from his heists, always somewhere Jeonghan can find. He still has the handful of diamonds Jisoo had left behind in a recent heist, a single Juliet rose resting over the gems. The rare rose sits by Jeonghan’s bedroom window sill, flourishing from Jeonghan’s magic and sunlight. There’s a middlemist red in the greenhouse, one of the world’s rarest and most beautiful flowers in the world – it had been pilfered from a greenhouse in England and delivered to a park Jeonghan had been looking after.

Jeonghan knows Jisoo is trying to buy back his affection. It’s the only way Jisoo knows how to apologise.

They’re all pretty things. But they feel meaningless.

“I care about the plants, not him,” Jeonghan says sharply, snipping a stray weed vehemently. “He can rot in hell for all I care.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Jihoon’s right. Even when he was dying in that desert, when he was staring at Jisoo’s tense and unforgiving back, his heart still beats for that damned criminal. When Jisoo had walked in with Seungcheol in tow, his heart still fluttered like a heroine in a goddamn romance novel. He could have crushed the light out of Jisoo so easily – an eye for an eye, broken bones for broken bones – but he hadn’t.

It hadn’t mattered that Jihoon had told him no.

It mattered that he couldn’t even if he wanted to.

Don’t get him wrong; he hates Jisoo. When he thinks of him, his blood boils. Rage beats unfettered in his chest and he prays there comes a time when Jisoo rots in jail.

But… deep down, he loves him too. He dreams of him, dreams of a life they might have had, if they were both normal. He yearns and he wants.

But he cannot forgive. He craves revenge.