Virryth

It’s quiet in the gallery. 

The usual buzzing of excitement and exclamations of epiphanies and wonder for the genius pieces of artwork decorating the white walls are nowhere to be heard today. Then again, the gallery isn’t opened yet, and you’re pressed against said wall by the genius artist himself.

It’s so quiet that you can hear his breath overlapping with the heartbeats in your ears, quickening your pace. Minghao leans so close with all this space around that you’re sure he has to be doing this on purpose, and your adrenaline picks up rapidly when his chuckles ghost your lips. 

You can run. His hands are in his pockets, and all this open space provides you enough room to escape.

But you’re left standing underneath his gaze like you’re entranced, and when his fingers drum on the skin on your neck, you shiver visibly.

“Nervous?” He drawls, and if you dare to look up, you’ll catch his sweet smile, poison-like honey dripping from his eyes.

He loops a finger into your silver choker, playing with the material, before pulling on the string.

You let out a small sound, a whimper too small to hear if he isn’t already inches from your lips.

He leans down in his low v-neck cardigan, the dip of his neck and his chest go into full view, and presses his mouth against your ears.

“I would fuck you right here,” he groans, your eyelashes fluttering shut, “but there are cameras. Unless you’d like that?”

His hand makes its way to loop around your waist and you fight the urge to lean your cheek on his shoulder. You shake your head.

“Thought so.” 

He laces your hands together and pulls you away into the back room, promising to be gentle.

-------------------------------

But when Soonyoung shows up half an hour later with stains of dirt and blood on his clothes, you forget about the lecture you had prepared to shower at him. 

“What the heck happened?!” 

Soonyoung stops at the sound of your voice and faces you with a goofy grin. “Sorry I’m late again.”

“Never mind that! What happened to you?”

Soonyoung stands still as you fuss over the cut on his lips, gently turning his head with your hands to inspect his wound. He’s got a bruise underneath his eyes, on his left brow, and another cut on his right jawline moving up his ear. He winces when you turn too much and the cut spills a bit of blood onto his collar.

You don’t hesitate to pull him to the infirmary, calling the TA to reschedule your lab session. 

“I’m really fine,” Soonyoung mumbles as you press gauze on his wound, trying his best not to flinch at the pressure and the pain. “Sorry, I’m always late. Now we have to reschedule.”

You pause, looking up at him with an unreadable expression. You search his eyes for any sign of jest and find instead sincerity from a boy who keeps apologizing to you.

“No lab project is worth overlooking your injuries for.”

“Right,” he mumbles, bashful at the sudden softness in your voice. 

“What happened, Soonyoung?” you ask for the third time that day, determined to hear his story seriously this time.

“I got mugged.”

“You what?!”

“Yeah, I was getting you coffee to make up for the other times, but someone snatched my wallet so I chased him for ten minutes. Then when I finally got it back, I tripped over a railing and fell onto the pavement.”

You’re speechless. The boy in front of you sits so close you can smell the stupidity radiating off him, but you also see the responsible side of him, the one that sprints to class instead of the hospital just so you’re not left outside the laboratory waiting for hours. Maybe you were too quick to judge. Maybe his tire really was flat; maybe he really did lose his cat. Either way, you think you’re ready to forgive him now. 

“You can still make it up to me, Soonyoung. Are you free tonight?”

Soonyoung pauses, eyes wavering at the sight of you. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out, his hands trembling a little at what he knows might come out of your mouth, what he wants but never had the nerve to ask.

“Buy me dinner.”

-------------------------------

He sees a bit of himself in both of you, maybe even more so now than back then. The way you calmly sit down as instructed, curious eyes roaming the cold back room where he does his work. The way Mingyu fidgets with the hem of his shirt and slouches in fear something would jump out and scare him. Some time within that interval of waiting, Mingyu has decided he couldn’t watch you getting stabbed and settled in the little chair outside, occasionally peeking from the curtains to check if you’re still alive. 

“Seems like your friend isn’t getting one today.”

“No,” you laugh as he takes your arm in his hand. “He’s not good with needles.”

Your tattooist massages the spot you wanted on your forearm, slowly and gently, sending chills all over your body. He grips your upper arm and pulls you closer to inspect the spot as you catch a glimpse of his name tag--Jihoon.

“Are you scared?”

“N-no. Should I be?” 

You don’t know what to expect from your tattooist, but certainly not the way he’s circling the spot on your arm with such tenderness. Maybe it’s the sudden rise in temperature of the room, or because he’s sitting closer to you now that it’s gotten hotter. You know he won’t hurt you, he seems too gentle for that, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes the blood rush right up to your ears.

And just like that, Jihoon chuckles and lets go of your arm. “Hold on to my arms if it’s painful.”

You thought you’d be more scared, seeing the needle and all, but his voice is a strange and soothing melody that draws you in, and you don’t notice he’s already started until you feel the sharp pain. Strange, you wonder why, despite his line of work, Jihoon doesn’t have any visible tattoo or piercing while Seungcheol, the man in the front, is almost fully inked on both arms.

Jihoon does his best to be swift and precise. He’s done this for years, yet it always leaves a sour taste in his mouth every time he starts the process. Only at the start, though, because the moment he sees the blood, his hand glides through mechanically, robotically. He’s gotten so used to this that the needle or the scent of blood doesn’t faze him anymore.

The scent of you and the mark you’re leaving on his arms do faze him, though, as you dig your fingernails into them. You’re not screaming or crying like most first-timers, but he can see you’re trying your best to contain the sound escaping your throat. You take slow, deep breaths as the sweat pools on your forehead and temple, and Jihoon becomes nervous not for you but for himself.

Half way through the process, Jihoon sees the tears welling up in your eyes and the delicate movement of your throat as you gulp down the shakiness and fear you’ve been trying to contain, keeping them safe inside so others won’t see.

“You don’t have to hold back,” Jihoon gives you a reassuring smile, peering at you through dark locks of hair. “Crying is expected.”

You tilt your head a little to the side and finally let your emotions out at his words. “You must h-have dealt with this a lot.” 

Jihoon wants to say yes, of course he has, but the moment he sees the tear running down your cheek, he stops the needle, entranced at the sight of you trembling slightly underneath his touch. Something inside him snaps so loudly he’s sure you can definitely hear it. 

“U-um,” you sniffs, your voice almost a whimper as you ask him to continue. “I’m fine now, you don’t need to stop.”

Just like that, Jihoon snaps back to his work, and the last half goes by quickly. He barely looks at you as he works on your tattoo, and you’re left feeling a little bit lightheaded after having a good cry. Mingyu peeks in occasionally to make sure you’re alright, giving you thumbs up and covering his face when the needles get in his line of sight. By the end of it, when you’re almost used to the pain, Jihoon wraps up your new wound with gentleness you wouldn't expect from a tattoo artist, his pretty fingers gliding over your skin with such docility.

“Jihoon doesn't offer his arm to just anyone, you know?” Seungcheol hands you the receipt from across the table along with a box of tissue for your sweat and tears. Mingyu looks horrified at your forearm, and even more so when Seungcheol winks at him. 

“Leave the kid alone, Cheol.” The store owner, Jeonghan, chimes in as he slaps Seungcheol’s arm. “But he’s right, that’s some mark you left on him in there.”

Before you can apologize, Jihoon walks out and throws a towel at Jeonghan while making his way towards you. His face is a bit flushed and you chalk it up to the temperature of the room again. He reads you the instruction for aftercare and you watch as he fiddles with the aftercare kit, trying your best to listen to his mumbles as you envision yourself back at the small room again, his fingers rubbing circles on your skin. 

“Are you listening to me?”

You’re pretty sure either the pain or the way Jihoon looks with his hair now pushed back is making you a little woozy in the head. “Yes. Of course. Rub it when it hurts.”

Jeonghan snorts at the same time Jihoon sighs. “Don’t touch it even if it hurts.” 

“Oh, right.”

“Do you need Jihoon to come and take care of you?” Seungcheol suggests, ducking behind the table just before the aftercare kit flies out of Jihoon’s hand and hits the cabinet behind Seungcheol’s head.

“Cheol, stop teasing him and get back to work.” 

Seungcheol pouts and glares at Jeonghan. “Boss, you’re always on his side!” 

“Anyway,” Jihoon dismisses, turning away from the potential argument Seungcheol is bound to have with his boss. Just a typical day at the shop. “Come back if you need more antiseptic. You can call the number on the back if anything comes up.” 

You turn over the card in his hand and point at the number scribbled hastily next to the shop’s official line. Must be what Jihoon was writing after cleaning up his tools. 

“C-can I call you just to talk?”

Mingyu gasps from beside you, covering his mouth with both hands as he looks excitedly from you to Jihoon to Seungcheol and Jeonghan at the back. The room has gone terribly still, and you regret not asking him out earlier in the back with just the two of you.

“You can call me tonight.” 

——————————————————

“We still have a bit more to go, do you want to hold on to the flashlight?”

You hesitate. You’re scared shitless, but doing that would be a blatant admission that you’re scared, and Chan is never going to let you live it down once he hears about it. Plus, you’re not sure if you’re brave enough to hold it steady till the end.

“N-no,” you tremble a little bit. It’s strangely cold in here and you’ve only showed up in t-shirt and jeans. “Um, can I actually hold on to your arm as we go?”

You can hear Wonwoo chuckle at your request, but he doesn’t say anything and holds out his arm. Those many trips with Soonyoung at the gym has definitely done something because the arm you hold is firm and reliable, and you feel kinda funny, almost comfortable in the face of imminent danger ahead of you (the ghosts). The rest of the way is stocked full of scary music and noises and hisses of the winds that make you want to curl into a ball and cry. You jump at the slightest of sound. The staff here must think you’re a total wuss, clinging onto Wonwoo and shutting your eyes every few seconds. 

Wonwoo must think you’re a wuss.

“Can I say something?” Wonwoo suggests, hoping to distract you a bit from your trance. His low voice is a contrast to the howls of the darkness.

“Hmm?” your voice is barely there, feeling something touching your ankle. You step closer to Wonwoo, almost burying your head in the crook of his neck. 

“I told Chan not to come today.”

“W-what?”

“It’s summer, he doesn’t have homework.”

You hiss as a bloody hand come to grab you from the side. What is he talking about when you’re this close to crying? 

“But w-why? It would be less scary with three people--ahhh!”

Darn it! You turn so fast Wonwoo had a hard time following, and you both crash onto the wall behind. You’re basically pressed against him and he instinctively moves to hold you in case your legs give out. You’re shaking a lot more than he thought, and Wonwoo can’t help but worry. But before he can ask again, you look up. He can see tears streaming down your face from the bit of light he has. In just a few seconds, you grab a hold of his arm and the both of you sprint out of the haunted mansion. 

Wonwoo is baffled at your grip, but he follows you regardless, lacing his fingers to yours as he lets you drag him out while screaming at the slightest of movement. 

“Hey, are you okay?” his hands hold steady on your shoulders as the staff look at you in worries. His voice is low, gentle, and he brings your chin up to face him, searching for any sign of fear from your eyes. 

But he ceases all the questioning when you speak, barely regaining your composure and still clinging onto the material of his shirt.

“Next time just ask me out, idiot.”

----------------

He’s pretty. Angular face and jaws, taller than most people you know, and walks with a stride resembling that of a panther. Much too pretty and stealthy to reside in a neighborhood where nothing ever happens. But he’s different on Sundays. On Sundays, he puts on a black cap and leaves his home with a large bag just like you, and he walks and walks around the city, disappearing and reappearing to places you can’t trace. It’s this side of him that attracts you. This rough, mysterious side that stands as a stalk contrast to the friendly, almost unrealistic man you see during the week.

On such a day is when he found you, scuffling around the block where you usually stay, a coffee on the table to diffuse any suspicion that may befall you. You admit you’re not doing a very good job at staying incognito, but with so many people, who would pay attention to someone in jeans and t-shirt with a backpack? You look like any college student on the weekend, caffeinated with a long list of deadlines.

You watch as he disappears yet again into the sea of people across the street as you take your usual break. You know that in just an hour later, he’ll reappear at the same spot and return home like he does every Sunday.

Except he appears next to you ten minutes later and drags you by the wrist, slamming you against the calloused graffiti wall behind the shop.

“Who hired you?”

His voice scratches the back of your ear and you can’t help but feel… you don’t know what you feel. Not fear, but a rush of something else more depraved. A craving, perhaps. Hunger. The sound of a delicate lock clicking open in your mind.

He’s asking the right question. You’re outside his shop, his workplace, his house. You’re everywhere, asking questions about him, of course anyone would be suspicious of an unidentified entity basically stalking them. But is it to this extent? Does he feel this threatened by you to the point of nearly cutting off your airway?

All the excuses you packed at the back of your brain in case you’d be caught refuse to surface as he twists your arms tighter behind your back.

“Who hired you? Answer in three or I’ll slice your throat.”

Would this be the right time to say you have a crush on him?

---

The man appears suddenly at the turn, cornering you as he leans against the wall. His shirt is opened just enough for you to see the muscle underneath, and he’s close, a little bit too close for comfort, but you don’t let it get to you as you take a steady step closer. Smiling calmly and unfazed, your gaze slowly traverses the top of his body, looking back at him every second before settling them on his open collar. 

Something about you makes the hair on his skin stand up, but not out of fear, and he feels the blood rushing to his ears and cheeks. Unconsciously, his hand starts to button the exposed area but not before you stop him.

“Mr. Kwon,” you draw, a hand cuffing his wrist as you remove his hand from his shirt button. “Just a moment, please.”

You pause, noticing his frozen feature, and your mind runs wild with the idea of making him squirm a little in your hand. You scoffs softly, but not unfriendly, as you reach further into his collar, cold fingers making him shudder as you feel the toned muscle, and Soonyoung wonders mindlessly if you can feel his deafening heartbeat underneath your touch. In just seconds, you find the paper material as your fingers reach under the shirt and feel the band of his suspender as you pull out the hidden card.

“Very clever,” you said, turning over the missing card--the card you had seen him shuffle out during the game with such skills and precision--in your hand.

“How did you—“ 

You hand him the card, patting the invisible dust off his chest as you lean in close, whispering. “You’re good, but not fast enough.”

If Soonyoung’s eyes can get any wider, they would have as they watch you unveil the trick to his earlier win. The millions of dollars vibrate within the many poker chips he’s holding, and for the first time since his first games, years prior, he feels anxious and excited as he watches you. 

“You’ve caught me.” He laughs, a slight nervousness and bashfulness in his tone. Strangely, he doesn’t feel threatened at all. If anything, he feels a newfound admiration for you who managed to uncover his tricks when even his closest friends could not. A swindler is never as amazing as someone who discovers their trick, and he’d be a fool to let you go after you have essentially defeated him, and it definitely doesn’t help his case that you’re quite beautiful. 

Soonyoung figures if he doesn’t ask you now, he won’t be able to meet someone else as brilliant. “Do you perhaps have time tonight?”

You can see the wirings in his brain dashing many miles a seconds, and you see it in the way he grins, a broadening and exhilarating grin that sends chills up your arms. You have no intention to take his win, or his money, you just had a terrible habit of spying and extremely keen eyes for talented individuals. But before you can express your reverence, his next words surprise you all the more. 

“Have dinner with me.” 

--------------------------

His voice draws out like a whisper inside your mind, and you’re not sure if you’ve even seen his lips move. He was dressed in a deep-cut white cotton shirt and black trousers, the zig-zag lacing details in the front of his shirt displayed prominent muscles that put all the men you’ve met to shame. He walks towards you, kneeling beside the casket until his face was only inches from yours. 

His hair is jet black, slicked back with a hand and blended into the darkness of the room, and his eyes a deep glistening red in the moonlight. His skin is clear, pale, and almost translucence as the purple veins line the bit of skin along his chin. He’s beautiful, a timeless handsomeness that doesn’t seem to belong in this world. You don’t know who this man is--you’ve never seen him before in your life, but something about the upturn of his lips, the shape of his face, and even the mole underneath his left eye is familiar. They evoke a certain feeling in you, something so sweet, tangy, and painful that you’re sure this is what yearning feels like. 

“Who are you?” you ask, neck tilting slightly to study the man, yours eyes still not seeing as clear as you’d like. 

He smiles, sharp canines catching your eyes, as he moves closer, taking in your scent. So close that his eyelash flutters on your temple.

“You know who I am.” 

His breath tickles your ear as he begins carding your hair, moving the locks away from your neck. You’re simply entranced, your mind is as foggy as the clouds that hide the moon. Your thoughts hazy, your eyes threatening to close as you let the man approach you. You don’t feel a little of danger as he cups your face and leaves cold, sweet kisses on your skin. 

There’s no voice in your head that screams about the danger you’ll face. You know this man. You know him from a distant memory too far back to recover. You know it in your heart, in your soul, that he can never harm you.

You know that you’ve awoken him from his slumber today, as you did many years ago.

“I do know you,” you reply, giving in to the familiarity of his hand as he plants yet another kiss on your collarbone. It sends fire up your skin though his lips are cold as ice. 

“I’ve missed you, so dearly.” 

The man undoes the first few buttons of your blouse and presses a kiss on the spot beneath your ear. There is utmost tenderness and affection in his actions, and his breathing draws out long and even as if he’s used to this in the same way your body relaxes in his arms as if you’re used to this. 

He is parched, very much so for being locked in this castle for so long. You should have come the very first day you feel the castle call your name. You feel his tongue lapping on your neck, the sound of his breathing grows quicker, and you know what’s coming. It’s a sensation you remember in the dreams that haunted you since childhood. A certain craving, a desire to give what is yours and take what is his. His name comes to mind as he continues to wet the soft spot on your neck, your head tilting willingly to the side as you feel his hunger. 

“I’ve missed you, too.” 

You belong to him, and he belongs to you. You know you’ll have your share when he’s done and you can hardly wait for it. You call out his name the moment he sinks his fangs into your body as the memories flood into your mind. He is your lover. 

“Jihoon.”

——————————————————

“Do not jest me, magician.” You turn your back on the man and step towards the garden, “I have neither the time nor patient to entertain you today.”

You half expected him to follow, but you didn't hear footsteps until you were far away from the main ballroom. And suddenly, you’re floating, feet dangling in the air as your body glides across the daisy field, straight on to the bench in the middle of the extensive terrain. 

The magician loves playing trick on you despite how regal he may seem. He loves pulling pranks, cheating his way out of his duty, and popping in and out of the palace as he pleases that not even the king can put a stop to his mischievous behaviors. At first, it irritated you to no end how irresponsible and carefree he seems, running around in the queen’s garden with his little subordinates as if he owns the place. What kind of frivolous man dares to visit the queen quarter without permission?

Eventually, you’ve learned to just let it go per the queen’s request. 

“He doesn’t mean any harm, my dear.” She had said on one of those days where you could no longer hide your annoyance. “The grand magician is like a son to me. As someone who often has to deal with the darker side of humanity, sometimes he just wants to be a child.”

And a child he portrays. He had accompanied you to the war and had lived through many months of hardship with you. The blood of the enemy splattered on his face is far more than the amount on your hand as a knight. The cruelty of war has given you a new perspective on the grand magician, and you now know his true self is much deeper than the surface he paints.

“Please stay,” he whispers before you manage to stand, “just five minutes.”

“Two.” 

“Four.”

“Two minutes.”

“Fine,” the magician concedes, “three minutes is all I’ll ask.”

“Fine.”

He leans against your shoulder in earnest and takes your hand in his, imbuing magic into your soul, and you watch as the blue and gold sparks glow like fireflies dancing up your arms. You’ve gotten used to this feeling, the aching warm that soothes your injuries as magic flows into your heart, but it doesn’t make it any easier. 

“You should let me heal you more often, what will you do the moment I am away for more than a week?”

“I won’t die.”

His gentle laughter sends vibrations all over your arm as he joyously intertwined his fingers with yours. 

“My dear,” his voice is soft like the lullaby you dream of when you were younger, but the urgency and sincerity in his tone makes you tremble slightly. “Please never say that you will leave this world, even as a joke.” 

You owe your life to the magician who put the fragmented pieces of your soul together on the battlefield, and you’re grateful to him. But sometimes you don’t know if the feelings you have are just out of gratitude or genuine affections for him. You won’t die if he’s not with you, truth be told, there are plenty of capable magicians in the continent, yet he’s the only person you have ever allowed help. The magic sustains your life, but also depletes his, and one day this burden will be too much for you to shoulder. 

“If I die one day,” he starts.

“You will not.”

“Well, all humans die, don’t they? Someday you and I, too, will perish from this world.”

You don’t want to imagine a world without Yoon Jeonghan. Your routines would simply be overturned. No one to annoy you at breakfast, nor before the sun sets over the mountain as you gaze out your window. No one to pick you up despite your protest whenever you’re needed in the magic tower. A life without Yoon Jeonghan would simply be… boring, not that you hold any sort of romantic affections for him. And not that he easily lowers your guard just by staying next to you.

“When I die,” he starts again, squeezing your hands to stop you from cutting him off once more, “will you be by my side until I take my last breath?”

“I won’t let you die.”

“That is not what I asked--”

“I won’t let you die,” you repeat plainly. “I’ll kill you myself before you can leave me. And didn’t you just tell me not to joke about that?”

He laughs, the vibration from his body makes you blush and you hope it’s too dark in the garden for him to see. 

“How reassuring that I’ll be able to see your face when that moment comes.”

The autumn breeze gets a bit chilly in a dress, and you snuggle closer to him, pretending to have forgotten the three minutes that have long expired.

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