#sha writes

"O-kay! Well this has been fun, but I better be going. Trinity can take care of this, yeah? She should be here soon? Cool. Well I'll see you around gentlemen." Dennis made for the door, fingers just clasping around the handle when a deep voice sounded behind him.

"Stay."

He'd heard the big man talk before, heard him bark out orders to his seconds through that dainty little microphone in the pizza shop. But God, hearing the command directed at him sent a shiver down his spine.

He heard Robby's footsteps, saw the plastic under his feet pull tight as the older man moved towards him. The temperature of the air changed behind him just as two hands landed on his shoulders making him jump. Robby turned him to face the room once again and he cursed his uncooperative limbs, leave it to his body to betray him.

"Thank you, Dennis." His voice was like honey, sweet and syrupy and languid enough to make Dennis twitch with something that felt an awful lot like arousal.

The boy loves him and he lets him. The smell of coffee, of cheap laundry detergent and body wash, of him is everywhere around Goro and he feels drugged. He might just be. Thoughtless laughter lulls him to sleep, tender kisses keep him awake. It's the indelible fear of it being the last time and ending up alone again, the relic of a past that isn't his anymore.

The skin is smooth, the body is pliant, and his fingertips aren't desecrating either. Not the skin, or the body, or the the will of the boy who once rose higher than all. There isn't much left to desecrate, after all.

The boy loves him and he doesn't wish to die but he does, just a little, and he doesn't know why.

The boy loves him and he doesn't wish. Maybe that's why.

(He doesn't wish, he doesn't want or crave or hurt anymore and this is how he remembers every time, not nearly often enough, that none of this is right. He pushes the boy—Ren, not Joker, never Joker anymore, he doesn't deserve it—and they both end up on the ground, where Goro thrashes and punches until he can trap Ren's wrists on the creaking attic floor. Ren, who doesn't put up as much of a fight as he normally would and should, as he surely can. Could?

Rays of dawn fall upon them through the window. They highlight the swinging dust and the wrong, fleeting iridescence that taints the world. Ren's eyes are a dull grey, just like when Goro shot the him that wasn't him, so he would know. Know what it's like when Ren isn't being Ren, know how Ren looks when he is dead even though he actually isn't.

And Ren, by now, should know how it's like when Goro is alive but actually isn't.

But all he does is stare up at him in confusion and fear. Fear? How dare he. Goro should be the one afraid. He is afraid, has been since the night when all hope died. Trapped inside his own body inside a city he doesn't recognize inside a madman's fantasy. His own dreams handed on a silver platter to him as the other hand chokes his throat, another opens his mouth, and another pulls the corners of his lips up in a smile. And because God's hands are infinite, another one is rummaging through his head, erasing again and again, right now on the doorstep, too fucking close. No words and no thoughts allowed. Just swallow and smile and choke on the parentheses of lucidity.

Goro takes a pained look at Ren. He thinks about how he used to dream of this sight; of unraveling him more softly than he knows how to, maybe after a fight that would leave both of them bloody and bruised, see if he can steal more than the thief. Kiss him stupid and maybe more. Mark him in all different kind of ways. Give up too many words again. Drink the power oh so fascinating, the love oh so confusing, right from his lips. Perhaps the only way to gain everything that he doesn't have, who knows?

Now, Goro looks at Ren and all he sees is overflowing love—the result of an indelible fear, too. He can't let himself be drowned, but they already sank to the depths. Still, he won't ever stop trying. He shouts at Ren to wake up, wake up, wake up, this is wrong, so wrong, how can't you fucking see that? Ren looks sad. Goro wants to choke him, so that maybe then he would understand. This is moronic; Ren already can't breathe anymore—nothing else than Maruki's laughing gas, that is. And the worst of it all is that he agreed to it, because he's a coward. Goro tells him just that, as he lets his head fall on Ren's chest. He wrenches the soft cloth between his fingers and almost misses the sharp inhale Ren takes. Almost. So he says it again, says everything that's too harsh for this world.

This time, when he meets Ren's eyes, there is a sliver of recognition in the depths of their grey. He can almost see a hundred demons trapped inside, smell the not entirely accurate smell of metaphorical gun powder, and reach in between weakened ribs to find Ren's will again. Desecrate it himself, just a little and truthfully. Just enough for Ren to fight back.

Not yet, though. It's too soon and he will be here in no time, in their heads again.

All Goro can do is bet all he has on this sliver of truth. On Ren, despite how much he would prefer never to trust him again. He'll have all the time not to forgive him in their reality. For now, they juste have to cut the strings and escape. Perhaps Goro can help him remember? Share the drink and give too, for once. Pull him in the parenthesis.

Finally, Ren looks at him like they're both afraid of the same thing.)

one.

You are currently having an incredibly bad day, thank you very much.

The case files from the neighbouring precinct were accidentally brought over with evidence from the NCT heist from weeks ago, causing the entire police task force to be completely behind everything. 

This meant having to carry out your hero duties without your usual squad feeding information into your ear, which in turn meant that you did not see the comically large villain barrelling out from the side of a bank and right into oncoming traffic. Which, of course, meant that there was not only heavy damage to infrastructure, but also having to fill out forms at the office about why nearly fifteen civilians might need therapy from seeing a half-lizard-half-man bank robber go splat against the pavement after being hit by a bus. Which is how you end up here: temporarily demoted and trying to talk a graffiti artist from tagging the (unimportant) statue of a well-known superhero. 

So yeah, your day’s going fucking swell.

“No need to be so rude,” he chides, “I was just being polite.” 

“Spare me,” you deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest as you stare him down. Your suit feels uncomfortably hot and sticky against your limbs; spandex – yet another ridiculous company requirement for heroes. “Just leave the spray cans and go, will you? I seriously do not have the energy to do this back and forth thing.” 

The vandal pouts, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. His gas mask is slung over his neck, a utility belt with numerous different spray cans hanging from his waist. Bright red hair peeks out from underneath the hood of his jacket. You feel another exasperated sigh rising; the punishment for failing to catch a criminal is dealing with delinquent college students, huh? 

You walk over, closing the distance as you speak, “Don’t make me use my powers, kid.” 

“Kid?” he laughs. The audacity- god, is that a migraine coming on? You nearly scream an expletive. “We’re the same age, Psyche.”

An eyebrow twitches; you can quite literally feel a vein about to pop on your forehead. Curse the public hero records. You take a large, steadying breath. The snap of your fingers yanks the spray cans from his waist and into oblivion. One flick of your wrist in the tagger’s direction lifts him off the ground, his startled yelp echoing through the deserted park. You flash him a disinterested grin and, snapping a fist shut, watch as he promptly disappears from your vision. Ah, the amazing power of psychokinesis. 

Another day, another statue saved. 

Still grumbling about the incident from this morning, you make your way towards the nearest McDonald’s. A McFlurry might just save you from telekinetically dumping hot coffee over your boss’s head when you return to the office. 

You wake up the next morning to twenty texts and several dozen missed calls from the company. The first thing you see on Twitter is a photo of a tiger’s head graffiti-ed on the side of the bank from yesterday. Around it, colourful letters in bright purple that matches your suit reads: lovely to meet you Psyche! xoxo Hoshi.

A lightbulb shatters.

two.

“Psyche, you’ve got a job.” 

You get up from your desk at the mention of your alias and retrieve the file from your manager. Excitement races through you at the thought of a case; sitting at a desk these past days has been torture. “Am I finally going to be allowed back on the field? It’s been a while since the bank.” 

“Technically.” 

The excitement fizzles out. You gape at the man before you, stumped, fingers halted from edging the file open. “Well,” S.Coups shrugs, a sheepish hand rubbing against the back of his silver head. “You’ll be heading out but you’re not going to like why.” 

You flip open the file and immediately groan. Not again-

“Hello, Psyche!” he beams at you from beside a half-done graffiti of a sleeping tiger. “I hope your day is going better than the first time we met.” 

“Hoshi,” pinching the bridge of your nose, you exhale. The mask plastered across your eyes feels tight as your patience starts trickling out. “Don’t you have better things to do?” 

He blinks owlishly at you. “Like what?” 

With your fifth groan of the day, you push off the wall you were leaning on. The location of the tag is weird – the back of an apartment complex only two blocks away from your office, hidden away from the prying eyes of the dinner crowd. The streetlamps flicker on in the alley you’re both standing in, suddenly bathing you in a dull yellow light. In the distance, the sounds of the city continue. 

You come to a stop in front of him. Hoshi is wearing the same dark hoodie from the day you first met him, this time with a bright purple gas mask hanging from his neck. You gawk at how badly it clashes with his hair. Instead of a utility belt jammed full of spray cans, there’s a box of at least six of them sitting beside the incomplete graffiti. You wave your hand over it, forcing it to lift upwards and blink out of existence. It’ll land on your desk safe and sound (but probably giving S.Coups a scare; it’s a win in your books).

Hoshi lets out a whine at the sight. “That’s the second time you’ve gotten rid of my spray cans. They’re not cheap you know!” 

“Maybe you should think about picking up a different hobby.” You raise an eyebrow, wriggling your fingers in the direction of the gas mask. It removes itself perfectly from his neck despite his attempts to grab on. Then, like the box of spray cans, it disappears. Grinning, you turn your attention back to Hoshi. “What should I vanish next?”

“Woah- easy, tiger.” He puts his hands up in surrender, a lazy smile on his face. He’s slowly backing away from the wall and towards the open mouth of the alley. Good, you think, though the nickname makes your face heat and your skin crawl. “I just wanted to say hi.”

You roll your eyes; this is such a waste of time. “Okay, hi Hoshi. It’s time to go now. Bye bye.” You bring your hand up, ready to flick it in his direction and send him to some random garden-

“Til we meet again, Psyche.” 

Hoshi winks – the nerve! – and gives a little performative bow. Irritation rushes through you so quick you let out a growl. Cheeks flaming, you wave your hand and deposit the ridiculous, shameless excuse of an ugh in the middle of the zoo, right in front of the tiger exhibit. Then you pop yourself back into the office and lug a box of spray cans (and a mask) home, mumbling curses about tigers and graffiti artists and wondering why you can’t get one day of normalcy. 

three.

Of course the day you finally go back out into the field is also the day you fail spectacularly at doing your job. The case was simple: teleport into the facility with Dino and wait while Woozi hacks the cameras, then signal The8 to attack while ambushing the guards from behind. On a normal day, you and your team would have been in and out in half an hour max. 

Today, an unexpected wrench by the name of Shownu is thrown in your path and two of you end up injured. With super strength abilities nearly surpassing the Dino’s hardening, the instigator of the weapons exchange deal managed to hurl both you and your colleagues in opposite directions before you could grab them with your telekinesis. It’s a miracle how you’ve still managed to capture all the dealers in the end. 

So here you sit, nursing a broken leg in the infirmary as Seungcheol (outside office hours, you’re allowed to call each other by name) paces the length of the room. Minghao had already healed you as best he could with his healing powers but he said the fracture would take longer to heal and that you’d probably be out of commission for a week. Chan, with only a few bruised ribs, would be ready to go after a good night’s rest. 

Still grumbling, you pop into the alley beside the office building, dressed in your regular clothes. The smell of greasy burgers from the restaurant next door wafts into the air. You nod, okay – grab a burger and a milkshake and then teleport home, easy enough. With a wince, you drag yourself towards the pavement and- 

Sigh. 

“I really think it’s time you look into other hobbies.” 

The vandal laughs, setting down the spray can and pulling his mask down. On the wall is the incomplete graffiti of a tiger’s paw. Hoshi pushes the hood of his jacket down as he stands, ruffling his wild red hair. He turns to you and pauses, tilts his head. 

“Psyche?” 

You’re about to roll your eyes again and grumble of course it’s me who else could it be, before you realise that you’re not in your usual superhero outfit. There’s no spandex clinging uncomfortably to your butt cheeks today. Eyes wide with the sheer mortification of being known, you stumble backwards. Oh shit, oh shit ohshit ohshitshithit-

“You’re just as cute as I imagined you’d be without your mask on.”

Cheeks flaming and blood roaring, your balance skews. You wince as your injured leg takes the brunt of your weight, crumbling; you gasp at the pain. Your vision swims. 

Hoshi unexpectedly appears, eyes narrowed and face screwed in what appears to be concern. Two strong arms wind underneath yours, suddenly lifting you upwards with no warning. He drags you as gently as he can over to the wall he was just tagging and leans you carefully against it. 

His fingers, hot against your skin, nudge your chin up to look at him. Without his hood on, you can see the furrow of his brows, the thin line of his mouth, the clenched jaw, the worry in his wide, imploring eyes. Worst of all, you can see how he is most definitely not a kid. Your stomach flip-flops so violently you nearly gag.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly, thumb still pressing gently your chin as he angles your face around, eyes scanning for injuries.  

Oh no, oh nononono- 

With an undignified squawk, you push his hand from your face and promptly blink yourself back into your apartment. 

four.

The latest episode of some cheesy soap about doctors is playing on the TV. Relaxed for the first time in a while, you lean back into your pillows. Maybe being on mandatory bedrest is a good thing. Articles about your injury sustained at the ambush-gone-wrong has spread widely across social media. Fans and friends alike spam your inbox with messages and well-wishes. You’ve muted them all. 

Still, your phone pings loudly from its position on your bedside table. You bring it over with a wave of your hand; only one person could manage to get through your phone’s defences.

[5.12pm] Lee Jihoon: you’ll want to see this.

[5.12pm] Lee Jihoon has sent you an attachment.

You open the text message thinking it’s just another work-related thing but when the image loads you find yourself lost for words. It’s a picture of Chan and Minghao doing peace signs in an alley. But that’s not the important part.

There is a huge mural of you on the side of your office building. 

Your face stares out into the street, partially hidden behind a purple mask. There is a small tilt to your lips, as if there’s a joke that only you are privy to. A wreath of bright yellow flowers decorates the outer edges of the mural, a contrast to the various shades of purple splashed in the backdrop. From what you can tell, this was done in complete graffiti – in a style you’re now beginning to recognise very well. As if to confirm your suspicions, you catch a glimpse of something in the corner of the photo.

Beneath the mural sits a tiger’s paw.   

Heart racing, you click on the little blue application and see one Tweet with a photo of the mural sitting at the very top of your timeline. A laugh bubbles past your lips.

@ Hoshi1010Tags – Psyche. I’ve bought more spray cans. 

five.

Three days later, you find him vandalising yet another piece of public property. This time it’s a tiger cub swatting at the road sign sitting at the corner of the street. The box you’re carrying drops with a loud bang, startling the vandal so badly he falls back on his elbows. You turn your chuckle into a cough.

“Don’t give me a reason to take those away again.” 

Hoshi smiles, dusting off his hands as he stands to greet you; his mask and utility belt resting against the pavement. He jerks his head in the direction of your leg. “Are you feeling better?” 

“Much,” you find yourself smiling back. 

“I’ve missed you,” he says, and your heart stutters in your chest. “It’s not fun without you grumbling after me.” 

“I can’t say I’ve missed seeing you pop up everywhere.” 

He shrugs, “You’ll get used to it.” 

“Oh,” you quirk an eyebrow, hands on your hips. The smile that’s on your face only spreads wider as Hoshi beams back. Your stomach swoops. “Will I?”

“Kwon Soonyoung, performing arts student by day and vandal by night.” 

He holds out a hand, confident; waiting. 

You put your hand in his, relaxed; laughing.

+ one.

Soonyoung was having an incredibly nice nap, thank you very much. 

Which begs the question: who gave you the right to wake up him with a cold splash of wet spray paint across the back of his hand? 

Spluttering awake and nearly adding a magenta streak to his face, Soonyoung is beginning to question if his superhero is starting down the wrong alley. You sit at the edge of your bed, cackling at the disgruntled look on his face. 

“Now you know how I felt when I was assigned to your case only to meet a loudmouth.” 

“Oh yeah?”

He reaches across the space and wraps an arm around your torso, hauling you backwards and into his chest, the wet paint smudging all over your forearms. Two spray cans float over and, before Soonyoung even notices, starts trailing lines of neon blue and green down the back of his white t-shirt. His fingers start digging into your sides; you howl, twisting away as he tickles you without mercy. The spray cans blink away and he finally stops, gathering your wilted form into an embrace.

“I thought I was the vandal in this relationship?”

Your tongue darts out and blows a raspberry. “You’re a bad influence.”

Soonyoung leans down, closes the distance between your grinning faces, and captures your lips with his own; soft. His stomach churns, butterflies dancing as he presses closer, arm pulling you in tighter. Your hand snakes up to cup his face, thumb placed gently at the corner of his lips. And, as always, he kisses you deeper, like there’s more to you that he can’t wait to explore. You reciprocate in kind as his hands wander lower and lower and-

Memories of your life fly by, blurring together as the dreams progress. When the figure appears, Jeonghan holds you by the wrist, tight. A warning. No matter how much you attempt to shake him off, the angel manages to snap his fingers and woosh you back to reality. Try as you might, you have yet to remember the face of the person who taunts you in your dreams. 

Tonight is slightly different. 

The reel playing in your head is a memory from ages ago; when people were swinging and laughing their way across the dance floor. The Roaring 20s were fabulous: short skirts, glamorous parties, a copious amount of alcohol – they truly had it all. Your constant companion slides up to you in the lively pub you’ve landed in, hair slicked back and wearing a ridiculous white suit. 

“Hello, Jeonghan.” you greet, smoothing your own hair back as you watch the people dance to the best swing music you’ve ever heard. The band in the front of the room tap their feet their own rhythm. “Has it truly been a hundred years since this?”

A glass presses into your palm. Jeonghan’s lips curl into his habitual smirk, a laugh bursting from his chest. He’s leaning against the bar, staring at out into the dance floor. For a guardian angel, he’s not got much virtue and innocence about him. “It’s hard to believe but yes, time has certainly flown.” He turns to face you, sipping his own glass of what you’re sure is bourbon. “How have you been holding up, love?”

You roll your eyes. That irritating pet name again. “I’ve been great,” you deadpan, lips pressed into a mocking smile, head cocked slightly to the left. “And how have you been, my beloved angel?” 

“How nice of you to ask!” Jeonghan beams. His hands start waving around wildly. “Yesterday, we held a meeting about our charges and oh, you should have heard what Minhyuk – that arrogant git -  had to say about his immortal-” 

Sighing, you take a large gulp of your drink. Here we go.

You let your eyes wander around the dingy pub, the smell of smoke filling your lungs as more people file in. You vaguely remember this night. It had been your first time visiting this newly opened pub to check out their jazz but – and here is where the problem lies – you don’t remember why this memory was so important that it still plays out so vividly in your mind. Eyes narrowed, you continue scanning the scene.

“-honestly, we’re angels; we don’t get to quit. Besides, there’s certainly no way the vampire could have hurt him in dreamscape. They don’t even sleep for that long!” 

There. 

In the far corner of the pub, lingering by the entrance, is the familiar dark shape of your mystery. No one else seems to be interacting with it; the shadow just hovers from afar but still, something about it feels like its staring right at you. You risk a glance at your companion – Jeonghan is still prattling on about his colleagues. Quietly, with your head still bopping up and down with fake enthusiasm, you start your way towards the crowd.

Fingers wrap their way around your wrist. “Ah ah ah, where do you think you’re going?” 

“Let me go, Han.” You growl, wrenching your arm away. Jeonghan’s pleasant expression freezes. You meet his gaze with a scowl. “The shadow is here; I have find out who they are and why I can’t remember them.” 

Jeonghan’s smile disappears. “Drop it.” 

Scoffing, you nudge him aside roughly with your shoulder. This night is going to be the night you meet this man. Before you can even make it past the first straggler from the crowd, you’re tugged backward so harshly you stumble. 

“You will drop this right now, or I will be forced to remove you.” 

His eyes have turned red – a sign that his magic is simmering under the surface. Lucifer was, after all, an angel who fell from heaven. His stare screams danger (but wait, is that concern?) and the grip he’s re-established on your wrist is so tight you know it’d bruise if this were reality. You wilt. 

“Please,” you beg, even though pleading has never worked before. Your eyes water. “I need to know.” 

Jeonghan, for the very first time, lets go; irises flickering back to their usual gold. He presses a shaky fist to his mouth and takes a sharp inhale. Your breath catches. When he looks back at you, his eyes are forlorn.

“Not him,” he says, gently brushing strands of hair away from your forehead. His voice trembles. “You don’t need to remember him.”

Before you can ask any more questions, he snaps his fingers. 

You wake up. 

The sheets have tangled in your legs, pillows strewn all over the bed. Sighing, you push yourself up on your elbows, skin feeling disgustingly sticky; the smell of sweat hangs in the air. Another night with the mystery slipping right through your fingers. Though this time… you frown at the memory of Jeonghan letting go. What made tonight so different? With another languid sigh, you drag yourself out of bed, mumbling curses at the angel as you shuffle toward the bathroom to freshen up. 

You’d think having been a witch for nearly two centuries would have taught you a thing or two about using magic to make your life easier, but for some reason your own magic refuses to come when it’s called. It’s been that way for thirty years now. Here one day and then gone the next. Instead, your magic curls around you like a warm hug when its needed; an instinctive but protective barrier that stops harm from coming your way. So unless you’re in imminent danger (like that one time a car decided it was a brilliant day to just hurtle down the street as you were crossing), your magic shrivels into nothing and you become an ordinary human being. Sure, it’s useful, but so is being able to cast a charm that could keep your coffee hot throughout the day. 

As you hobble around your tiny apartment, blearily looking for your favourite cardigan, you take a mental note of the things you should do today. Number one: buy a potted plant for the balcony on the way home from work; number two: open up the café and shelve the new books that arrived; number three: learn how to make that dalgona coffee thing you heard of recently. “And number four,” you say aloud as you twist the lid on your thermos shut, “refill prescription for sleeping pills so that I can pummel Han into a pulp.” 

The walk to the café you own is short; only ten minutes down the road sits the charming Rêves. It’s still too early to open shop - it’s not even 6am yet (that damned angel) - so you take the time to sort out the new arrivals onto their shelves. The café has been running for only five years but the part with all the books? The nooks and crannies built for bookworms to squeeze into, the rows upon rows of books kept in pristine conditions, the smell of paper – the bookshop has sat here for more than fifty years. It was only after the café craze began that you started looking at expanding the shop to include a wider range of clientele. Still, your favourite part of Rêves will always be its books. 

With magic, putting all the books away would take a simple flick of the wrist. Chan, the university student who works part-time at the café, will only be here at 8.30am to prep the actual café side of things before it’s time to open. Reluctantly, you stack the books on the cart and make your way towards the shelves. The tables and chairs are thankfully still neatly organised despite the late closing yesterday evening. You make a mental note about watering the plants dotted around the café as you pass the sullen-looking succulent sitting on the counter. The large window, with “Rêves: est. 1970” gleaming in gold cursive, will need a quick wipe down; the pillows lining the window seat need to be given a healthy shake. And so, you get to work, all the while thinking of the mystery figure in your dreams. 

You don’t recall your first time seeing the shadow. Each time you do catch a glimpse, the void seems to grow deeper, sucking you in. Who are they? What do they want? Why can’t you remember them? Immortality has a cost, you know this; but having no recollection of a person from your memories is not it. No, this came after. This came around the time your magic disappeared. 

Light has begun to streak in from the window. The stack of books on your cart has decreased but there’s still the task of organising the ‘Recommended Book of the Month’ table by the counter and adding more copies. Sighing, something you seem to be doing a lot these days, you abandon the cart and head towards the storage room in the very back of the café. Just as you disappear behind the shelves, the bell from the entrance rings. 

“I’m sorry, we’re closed!” You shout from the back, hastily grabbing an apron off the storeroom shelf to tie around your waist. “Please come back later at 9.”

The bell doesn’t ring again and there’s no sound of the door closing. For fuck’s sake, you heave yet another sigh as you clamber out to the storefront, wiping away the thin sheet of sweat dotting your forehead. “Hey, I’m so sorry but we’re still not ready to open ye-“  

“What the-“

“It’s nice to see you too, love.”

“-fuck is this?” 

  Jeonghan shrugs, the picture of nonchalance, and plops into the nearest chair. Sitting the middle of your beloved café, in what is going to be daylight, is an angel (well, demon) with the cockiest smirk on his face. A sharp pain races its way up your arm after you give it a pinch; you hiss – this is not the dreamscape. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, part scowling as you fold your arms over your chest. “I thought you could only visit me in the dreams?” 

“Is this not Rêves?” Jeonghan smiles. Out of the dreamscape, his features look sharper, suddenly upgraded to 1080p without the usual slight-blurry effect that dreams have. You roll your eyes. He rolls his own, teasing. “I just wanted to check up on you in person after what happened last night.” 

You frown, feet involuntarily taking a small step backward. “You’ve never done this before.” 

“Really?” he says, eyes growing impossibly wide as he leans forward, placing his chin atop interlocked fingers. “Perhaps I have and you just don’t remember.” 

“I’m pretty sure I’d remember if my watcher came to see me for lunch.” 

“So you do remember the ebi tempura we had two weeks ago!” 

“I-“ your fingers twitch, as if trying to grasp a fleeting memory. Your head starts to throb. “We had lunch? I- I don’t remember-“

“I don’t blame you,” he says, “though I am surprised that you’d forget about that girl who was hit by a car-“

“-and there was a man standing on the pavement while it happened.” You blink, the foggy memory of screeching tires followed by the thudding footsteps of the man dressed in all black. It disappears before you can even register the thought. Finally, you meet Jeonghan’s stare. “Why am I only remembering this now?” 

His eyes have turned sharp, the curve of his lips crooked. You let his gaze trail down your face as the pounding in your head continues to grow. Jeonghan’s eyes flicker red when he catches you wincing. “Interesting.” 

“What’s going on?” you press your palms against your temples, eyes screwing shut as the pain grows and grows and grows- your knees hit the floor. I can’t breathe- you gasp sharply. “Han- help me.” 

“I can’t.” 

The ringing in your ears grows louder as the stabbing pain in your head turns your vision blurry. Chest tightening, you heave for air. You’re going to die. You’re going to fucking die and he’s not going to do anything about it. “Han-“ 

Two hands press into the sides of your face, so hot it feels scalding. Tears have started to slip; blood rushing and burning through your body as it trembles. Jeonghan carefully lifts your face. You can’t see- oh shit ohshitohshit fuck I can’t see, I can’t see- someone’s calling your name.

“-hey, hey! Listen to me!” The voice yells. You feel like you’re being burned alive. “Focus on my hands, they’re on your face. Just focus on them and on the sound of my voice.” 

There’s something on your face, something that feels extremely hot on your cheeks but also gentle. Okay, okay okay oka- hands. These are Jeonghan’s hands. You take a shuddering gasp as you lean into one of his palms. His hands are large, soft. Your vision is still swimming but the heat has started to concentrate on only your cheeks; as if it were being sucked out through his touch.

“Good, just like that. Keep breathing.” The voice is back, this time a soothing drawl that prickles across your skin. Jeonghan whispers your name, coaxing the air into your lungs by going in, and out repeatedly until your breathing evens and it doesn’t feel like there’s a weight on your chest. Just like that, it’s over. 

With an exhausted moan, you pitch forward, forehead resting in the crook of Jeonghan’s neck. You pretend not to notice how stiff he’s become, the hands that were on your face freeze just above your shoulders. “What happened?” 

Jeonghan sighs, posture collapsing as he pulls you inward. His fingers comb through your hair gently. “Your magic kicked in.” 

“But I wasn’t in any danger.” 

“Yes you were,” he says, his other hand pressing gently against your back, thumb drawing the faintest of circles. “You remembered.”  

I remembered? You turn to look at him but his eyes are fixed firmly at the wall. You realise with a start that they’re gleaming. “Jeonghan, your eyes are red.” 

Almost immediately they fade to gold, though there are still small flecks of crimson present. “Sorry,” he says absentmindedly, still stroking your back. Warmth floods your cheeks - you don’t recall ever being held like this by him. “I had to siphon the heat out so that you wouldn’t be burned alive. Immortality does not mean invincibility.” 

Okay, that’s it. You pull away and stumble to your feet, wobbling unsteadily. A hand latches onto your elbow. Jeonghan eases you into his abandoned chair, a look etched on his face that you can’t decipher. “Why are you telling me this?” you ask. “Why are you suddenly answering my questions and helping me?” 

Jeonghan pulls out the opposite chair, sinking into it with a sigh. He ruffles his hair roughly with a grunt before straightening. He catches your still trembling hands with his own and exhales, eyes shut. When he opens them, his eyes are brown. You gasp.

“Since when do you have brown eyes?” 

“People are starting to walk around the street. Rêves, with its massive window, means people are more likely to look into your shop.” he says, head tilting towards the large shop window. “Which means if they see me with gold or red eyes, they’re going to have a bloody heart attack. Hence the brown. Are you satisfied?” 

A burst of incredulous laughter. “I just want to know what’s going on, Han. Watchers can’t visit their charges outside of dreamscape and yet,” you gesture wildly at the demon sitting before you, “here you are! And last night, you told me not to remember that shadow. Why?”

“You have a lot of questions that I don’t have the authority to answer.” Jeonghan grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m here, out of dreamscape, to protect you. The council doesn’t know.” 

“I don’t need prote-” 

“Oh yeah?” he scoffs. “You’re a magic-less witch who is so insistent on remembering someone that you haven’t even noticed that you’re being followed.”

You frown. “Followed? What- why-” 

“I don’t know why I bother,” Jeonghan laughs, hand waving flippantly in the air. He seems almost unhinged. “You’re not going to remember this anyways.” 

His eyes flash crimson. 

“Hey boss,” comes a voice and suddenly you rush back to the present. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you blearily look up. “You must be really tired. You can go take a nap and come back after lunch if you’d like - I can manage just fine on my own until Seungkwan gets here.”

Chan’s face snaps into focus, his lips pulled into a wide grin. Oh, you stretch your arms behind your back, twisting to look at the clock on the wall, is it 8.30 already? 

“Sorry,” your head throbs a little at the light shining through the window. “I must have fallen asleep after rearranging the books. Thanks for waking me up.” 

“No worries! I’ll just put my things in the back before preparing the coffee machines. Would you like another latte?” 

“Yes, please. Thanks, Chan.” 

You knead your knuckles into your temples, mumbling softly about sleep deprivation and cursing Jeonghan for snapping you out of the dreamscape before 7. Next time you see him you’re going to kill him - angel or not. The pile of books at the ‘Recommended Book of the Month’ table are strewn haphazardly across the dark green cloth. “Did I fall asleep before doing this?” Typical, you grumble, and head towards the back to get the necessary books. 

you catch his eye in the mirror of your dresser and seungkwan swears that there’s nothing emptier than the dark pupils of your eyes.

the silence in the room swells, a suffocating tension weighing on his chest, as if the air had been sucked out from his lungs. unable to stomach it any longer, he nods, whispering an apology before leaving the room. he isn’t sure if you’ll ever speak to him after what happened; the guilt churning in his stomach makes him gag.

but here seungkwan stays, doomed to marry a girl who hates him.

the ceremony is set for tomorrow, already established as the talk of the kingdom. servants dash in and out of the castle with arms carrying baskets full of decorations for the courtyard. the king himself prepares in silent glee; this will be the biggest event of the year. there’s an excitement in the air that seems to have infected everyone.

well.

everyone except the both of you.

seungkwan stares at the reflection of himself in the mirrors stood before him. the tailors hustle around him, poking pins into his cloak and muttering about lengths but he couldn’t care less. a glimmer of gold catches his eye, the ring on his finger shining under the sun. his lips tug into a frown.

tomorrow will be the day he marries the princess, unifying both kingdoms through a truce that would bring peace to the realm. there’ll be food and security for his people. so while the situation is… delicate, he understands that it’s for the best. that this is for his people.

he sighs, fiddling with the ring, thinking about the reason of tension between the both of you. seungkwan doesn’t blame you; no, not at all. if he had known beforehand, this wouldn’t have happened. he isn’t some monster with no heart at all – this marriage wasn’t what he wanted either. but here you are and here he is. and you hate him, and he’s drowning in guilt, and there’s nothing else he can do but stay away because he does deserve the rough treatment. after all, you can’t bring someone back from the dead.

seungkwan watches you walk down the aisle the next day with disgruntled respect bubbling beneath his cool exterior. you take graceful steps, each slow but poised, treading past the nobles and the king as you reach the priest. his eyes never leave you, not even when you kneel beside him in your beautiful white dress. there’s a gentle curl to your lips, a smile plastered across your face; it’s as if you’ve always wanted to be here. to be married.

(he knows better than to believe that.)

the ceremony passes dreadfully slowly. his hand taps against his thighs, teeth chewing on his lower lip as he prays for it to hurry up. get me out of here, he begs, please. seungkwan can feel your eyes on him but he doesn’t look back; there’s nothing in them for him other than fury and pain. no amount of pretending on your end will hide that.

when you press a kiss against his lips, sealing the treaty between your two kingdoms, he nearly jolts backwards. but he stays still, closes his eyes for the sake of appearances, and pretends to lean closer. pretends that the hand cupping the side of your face is there out of affection and not some pretence.

the kiss is cold; empty.

(just like you.)

seungkwan pulls away first, the awkward dropping of his arms the only thing betraying his discomfort. but the crowd doesn’t notice because everyone is clapping and praising the new couple.

long live the princess and prince! they chant, beaming at the pair stood before them as if this were the happiest moment in their lives. long live!

the advisors – and the king himself – force the both of you out onto the balcony. below, a large gathering of civilians from the kingdom cheer for the union. cheer for the fact that more supplies will be given to them, that there’ll be wool to last them the winter. seungkwan watches you wave at the crowd and wonders how heartless a person can be.

he keeps the practiced smile on his face tight, a hand rising to wave slightly. your grip on the inside of his elbow tightens momentarily; a brief chink in your armour, a moment where emotions come shining through. but the mask comes back on when your eyes crinkle as you grin and nod at the adoring crowd for you are a princess first and foremost.

you don’t even spare him a glance that night as you walk into his room in nothing but a nightgown. it’s unfortunate but the consummation of the marriage is tradition. seungkwan hangs back, stays near the door of his large room – or, he supposes, it’s your room too now.

“take the bed,” he says, voice soft and wary, but hinged with a note of finality. “i’ll sleep by the fireplace. your ladies-in-waiting won’t say a word, i know it.”

there’s silence and then rustling as you climb into the large bed, pulling woollen blankets over your body.

“goodnight, princess.”

no response but the blowing of a candle.

he supposes he’ll just have to get used to the quiet.

the routine settles in easily enough. a gentle but terse nod in the mornings, forced touching in front of nobles, soft whispers (“your shoes look dirty, my lord. maybe it’s time for a better servant; are you going to execute this one too?”) during meals involving the royal family, and the entire pretence is sold. seungkwan thinks that the way you’ve progressed from being unable to look him in the eye, to occasionally being able to sleep in the same room as him (even if forced by your father and the hundreds of years of traditions), is a huge step forward.

dinners where you and seungkwan are alone are typically a silent affair; as if any other time the both of you are together is filled with noise. no, seungkwan is learning to adapt to the coldness that stands by his side. even with all his little wins, you find new ways to crush any hope of reconciliation. each night ends with you barely touching the food on your plate, standing to leave as soon as seungkwan is done eating. later he finds out that your servants send the unfinished plate up to your chambers.

still his heart yearns for just a little more.

his servants come back to him at the end of the day with stories of how you spend your day. sometimes, he manages to watch from afar as you take a walk with your ladies through the rose garden. it’s no wonder that the red flags disappear as soon as you start down the path with beautifully pink roses in your grasp, a grin so wide that seungkwan’s breath catches-

he’s never seen you smile like that.

a little voice, hauntingly familiar, whispers in his ear, “are you going to steal that?”

no, seungkwan backs away from the window, knuckles white. i’m no thief. 

there are times he hears you jerk awake at night, screaming another man’s name. there’s fear and pain and despair laced into that one word – soonyoung. he always remains in his spot by the fireplace, feigning sleep, but listens to the way you sob so hard into the sheets with guilt weighing heavy on his conscience.

“with all due respect my liege, this is all unnecessary. you don’t need to execute this man over something as small as this. we found the sword and he’s confessed. that’s enough for me, sire.”

“son, you will let me do this for you. this man will be executed.”

“… of course, your majesty.”

maybe he could’ve tried harder. could’ve done something, anything. there were multiple chances to slip a key into the boy’s cell. on a good day after a long hunt, his royal majesty was easier to persuade; maybe he could’ve tried then.

maybe.

could’ve.

bottom line? seungkwan failed.

and you’d never forgive him for it.

which is why he stays in his spot, doesn’t try to console you when you wake up in tears over a recurring nightmare seungkwan himself is the cause of. it isn’t his place to ask for forgiveness. he doesn’t know if he really wants it anyways. on nights like these, when you curl into the blankets and wake the next morning with puffy eyes, he thinks you’re better off hating him. he deserves it.

he finds himself falling for the facade. 

your smile, specially reserved for anyone but seungkwan, is wide. he notices that it starts from your eyes; they crinkle, turning into crescent moons before your lips follow, pulled upwards by forces he wished he knew how to control. if he’s lucky, he’ll hear the melodious laugh that the kingdom swoons about. how the princess, with her kind heart and open smiles, is the nation’s treasure. 

weekly carriage rides out to the villages with heaps of gifts (grain, wool, and sometimes seeds for their gardens), always bring an air of happiness and humility to you. he notices that you smile more, blush a pale but gorgeous pink when villagers shower you with praise. seungkwan tries to join in, slipping his own compliments between conversations, tries to make you laugh. 

“yes sir, we are very lucky to have her as a princess. i, especially, am eternally grateful.”

(he means every single word)

but when he tries, the smiles you shoot him never start from your eyes. the sharpness in them, however, will always be reserved for him and him alone. it’s a wonder how someone so generous can be so cruel. 

there are meetings with nobles, advisors and ministers. men to knight and women to bless. each affair grows and grows in number, the queen and king slowly but surely trickling their duties down to their heirs. which means seungkwan finds himself having to spend more and more time together with a princess who would much rather be anywhere else than be next to him. it comes to a point where seungkwan’s mask of polite indifference comes naturally to him.

he smiles at villagers, throws the casual arm around you when around people of importance. it has become such a routine to lie, to fake his happiness, that he thinks the both of you have the world wrapped around your pinkies. 

at the end of the day, retreating to your shared chambers, the silence is a welcomed escape. you with your flowers pressed into journals, the clip in your hair a reminder of a boy you once loved. this is your home after all - there will always be a haven waiting to hide you. loyal ladies-in-waiting, servants who bend over backwards to bring a smile to your lips, parents who worship you as if you were the sun, moon, and stars. 

there is no such reprieve for seungkwan. not in a kingdom so different and foreign than his own. he has spent so long in this place (has it been nearly a year already?) that he feels as if he’ll never belong. that try as he might, no matter how many friends he finds or people he makes laugh, it won’t feel like home unless he can make you smile too.

slowly but surely, the bounce in his steps disappear. the glow of his skin fades and the bags under his eyes are stark against its grey pallor. he’s losing himself, losing the joy and laughter he used to be oh so familiar with back home. his back starts to stiffen, neck filled with cricks because of the nights spent away from his bed. but still, seungkwan persists. he is anything if not bloody stubborn.

and at some point, you notice.

“did you try?” 

the sound of your voice cuts through the thick silence like a knife, the night air taut with tension. seungkwan doesn’t turn from his table. he’s been waiting for this question, waiting for quite a while now. the pause lingers, heavy and suffocating, but seungkwan doesn’t reply. not until you say it.

“did you try to stop it?”

and the quiet stretches even further, somehow managing to become so… so dense that it crushes against his chest like a mace. seungkwan’s hands start to shake, the quill in his hand trembling so violently that he puts it down with a violent sigh. the echo of your scream from that day rings in his ears. it feels just like yesterday. 

“not hard enough.”

he catches your nod out of the corner of his eye, a single drop of emotion brushed away with frantic hands. you straighten, lifting your chin, and stare down at him. he doesn’t have the heart to stare back. “they’re serving dinner shortly. i’ve asked for your favourite - tangerines.” 

surprised, he whirls around with a strangled what on his lips. but all he sees is the fabric of your skirt disappearing around the corner.