Chapter Text
Seokmin used to catch fireflies. When he was little, he would hunt for faeries in the woods, bringing home lightning bugs in glass jars that his mother let him keep until it was time for bed, telling him then that they had to return to the other side of the veil and couldn’t stay with him any longer. Seokmin was delighted by the game, still in that youthful season where magic seemed very real and nothing could keep his spirits down for long. Unperturbed by the loss of his faeries every night, he simply went out to catch more the next night, trapping those as well in the same glass jars to be lined up along his windowsill where they would dance and glow for him against the gathering darkness, a beacon to guide his sisters home from their jobs in the market and governor’s house.
He never thought it cruel. But then, he never considered it from the fireflies’ point of view.
The window ledge he sits on is wide and comfortable, the wood smooth and strangely soft beneath his bare knees as he stares out and down, down, down at the dense silvery nothingness that is all he can see below him. He has been awake for several hours now and there is no sign of any life here. The room’s only door has no latch and the only window is set in what appears to be the side of an impossibly tall tower, stretching up into the clouds where Seokmin now huddles against the frosty winds of the upper atmosphere.
He has explored the room thoroughly and found a great deal of interest, but reading finely bound books and running his hands over the many golden trinkets that clutter the shelves and surfaces lose their appeal in the face of kidnapping and imprisonment. And what else could be happening to him? His mother always did warn him not to stray too deep into the woods. The woods, she said, are full of creatures that would just eat him up.
Well. He has not been eaten yet, but something about this place makes him feel like prey – like he is being watched, like he is being toyed with, like he has no idea what he has gotten himself into, ensnared in the machinations of a being much larger than himself.
A firefly, trapped in a prison of glass, waiting for the dawn to break.
He isn’t even sure where he’s getting this sensation from, that is the strange thing, but it feels viscerally true that he is in danger here. Maybe it’s how very large everything is; the shelves extend nearly up to the ceiling, which must be at least twenty feet high, and the window Seokmin occupies is wider than his spread arms and twice again as tall. The many baubles and curiosities scattered around the room are both familiar and unfamiliar, but even the treasures he has seen before in books and the finer shops in town are warped and peculiar, their proportions seeming just that slightest bit off. The bed in the corner is the most bizarre, taking up nearly a fifth of the room – no small feat – and with twisting wooden bedposts that arch overhead like trees, thin but strong and almost seeming to be alive somehow, whispering to Seokmin a faintly echoing song in the back of his mind when he wanders too close.
It is all very odd. Disconcerting. Alarming, mostly because Seokmin has no idea where he is, knows only that when he went to sleep he was in the woods, lying across the thickest bough of his favorite oak tree and napping in the sun.
He has, of course, considered that he might be dead, but he doesn’t think he is.
He hopes he isn’t.
He would really, really like to not be dead.
A sound at the door makes him turn, nearly losing his balance in the windowsill as he whips around to stare wide-eyed at the other side of the room. He catches himself on the gently curved edge of the window frame, his fingers white-knuckled, his legs splayed out to prevent himself from falling to his most assured death. In his chest, his heart is beating wildly, and he could almost swear he sees his shirt flutter with its motion – though perhaps that’s just the wind.
“Are you awake, little one?” someone calls, the door beginning to open as the sound carries through it.
Seokmin climbs down off of the windowsill – a four foot drop to the floor – and stands to face the doorway. Self-consciously, he brushes his hands on his pants, trying to clean himself up a little. He immediately feels stupid. Why should he try to look presentable for his kidnapper? They’re the one with something to explain themselves about, not him.
Petulantly, he ruffles his hair up, then quickly smooths it down, feeling dumb all over again. He barely has time to cross his arms hurriedly over his chest before the door opens completely, revealing what is easily the most beautiful person Seokmin has ever seen.
The man’s face is perfect, chiseled but soft somehow, his eyes bright as sunbeams and his lips clear-sky blue. His hair is long, brushing the floor gently behind him in silver-white arcs as he steps forward, smiling – oh, he’s smiling, and it is beautiful, and Seokmin feels happier than he ever has in his life – and radiating goodness in a way that makes Seokmin want to fall to his knees and thank this man for existing.
“Come now, my pretty blossom, no need to kneel,” the perfect man says, chuckling like birds in flight, like Seokmin’s mother hugging him after a long day, like, like –
Like a god, gracing Seokmin with his presence so undeservedly.
The man – god, whatever he is – walks towards Seokmin with long strides, and Seokmin can only stare at him as he does. As he comes closer, the man seems to shrink, not becoming small but no longer filling the room so completely, no longer towering over Seokmin and everything in Seokmin’s sight; by the time he is within reach of Seokmin, he cannot be more than seven feet tall – still much, much taller than Seokmin is but in a way that is almost … comforting. Seokmin stares up at him, and the impossible man looks down upon him.
It is a gift.
Seokmin shudders as the beautiful man helps him to his feet with strong hands, his skin hard and freezing cold. It feels like touching glass, and Seokmin closes and opens his fists a few times as his palms tingle with the sensation of a million tiny cuts. When he looks down, though, there is no blood and he appears to be uninjured.
“Of course you are, my darling,” the man says – he called Seokmin darling; Seokmin blushes furiously, his cheeks beginning to hurt from smiling so hard – “I would never hurt you.” He reaches out, brushing the back of his hand against Seokmin’s cheek. The same strange sensation follows his touch, but Seokmin doesn’t mind it – he could never mind anything this man did. “What is your name, little flower?” the man asks, his voice like honey, catching in Seokmin’s chest and drawing his answer from him thoughtlessly.
“Seokmin, my, I –” Seokmin does not know how to address him. He feels embarrassed, flushing and wanting to look away, but –
He can’t.
“You may call me Numen, my little rosebud,” the man coos. “Do not be afraid to speak to me. I wish us to converse easily, if you are to be mine.”
Seokmin is nodding, eager, agreeing already before the last part of Numen’s speech catches up to him. Then, he stops.
“Wait, what?” he asks, confused, his head feeling water-logged, the room seeming to waver dizzyingly as his lips part. “Belong to you?” His stomach churns, something deep inside of him whispering to just look at Numen, hold his gaze, stay still, it’s okay. He swallows thickly, inexplicable nausea churning in his gut.
“Yes, little Seokmin, my precious rose,” Numen says, smiling – and oh, a shudder runs through Seokmin again, the sight as breathtaking the second time as the first – “I have brought you here to be mine. Do not be afraid; I will take good care of you.”
Numen’s voice is soothing, lulling like a warm breeze in summer, and Seokmin feels pulled by it, drawn into another nod, an acquiescence on his lips, but he stops himself … barely. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Numen’s smile flickers and Seokmin feels a pang of regret, of self-directed anger, at taking that smile from him – and from Seokmin himself. But, no. Wait. Wait. He shakes himself again.
“Wait,” Seokmin says, taking a step back. He brings his hands up, fussing with his sleeves where they come down over his wrists. “Wait, I don’t – I don’t belong to you. Slavery isn’t legal in –”
“Oh, no, dear one, you misunderstand,” Numen says, booming out a laugh like church bells.
Seokmin grins, relieved, swaying back into Numen’s space. “Oh, good,” he says, feeling light, feeling happy and full of sunshine and air. “That’s good.”
“Yes,” Numen says, seeming amused. “You are not my servant, Seokmin; you will be my bridegroom.”
For a moment, Seokmin’s mind is empty. The words don’t seem to be processing, though he knows Numen said something, and it must be something nice, Seokmin knows it was something nice, because Numen is smiling at him, is happy, is reaching for Seokmin again and Seokmin wants to touch him, to be held, to belong to Numen, yes, he does, he belongs to Numen, he belongs here, with him, he belongs –
A sudden crash from behind Numen makes Seokmin jump, his socked feet slipping out from beneath him on the marble floor and sending him down on his ass.
He blinks up at Numen, whose expression is terrifying.
Suddenly, Seokmin has no trouble at all remembering that he does not – does not, does not, does not – want to belong to Numen in any capacity.
He scrambles away, keeping Numen in his line of sight, as the man grows again before Seokmin’s eyes and spins on his heel, the very air in the room seeming to compress, sucked out to make space for his unearthly presence. The sunlight darkens, thickens, turns green and sickly, and Seokmin presses himself against the cold stone of the corner he has backed himself into.
“Maggot, I thought I told you to prepare the silver for supper,” Numen hisses, his voice like thunder but petrifying in a way a storm hasn’t been since Seokmin was very, very young.
There is someone in the doorway, someone human-sized and swaying – or maybe that’s just the way Seokmin’s vision is swimming. Everything is tilting, getting hazy. Suddenly, the light in the room is too much, too bright, stomach-churning, and he closes his eyes but it doesn’t help.
“Get out, and don’t show your sniveling face again unless I call for it,” Numen spits, a hurricane of fury in his words.
Seokmin doesn’t hear what the person in the doorway says. He doesn’t hear if Numen stays or leaves. He doesn’t hear anything else, because as Numen’s wrath shakes the very air in the room, all oxygen spinning out of Seokmin’s reach as it, like everything else, like all light and hope and terror, pulls in tight around Numen’s towering form, Seokmin’s eyes close, his lungs shut down, and, between once second and the next, Seokmin slips from consciousness.
~~~
When Seokmin wakes for the second time in the tower room, he is alone, but he does not stay that way for long.
The door opens only slightly, the crack just large enough to permit the entrance of a wispy figure in a gray cloak.
“Hello, oh, thank goodness,” Seokmin says, sitting up in the bed. He awoke to find himself carefully swaddled in silk and cotton, the expensive-feeling covers sliding smoothly against his skin and stretching out from his position in the middle of the bed to extravagant size. He has never seen a bed so lavishly made up before – nor has he ever been so off put by waking up in a place so comfortable.
The cloaked figure makes no reply, and Seokmin quickly realizes why – it has no mouth. It has no mouth, no eyes, no nose, no face, just a dark void dotted with points of light, like miniature stars beneath its cowl … like fireflies trapped in a dark wool jar.
The faceless figure does not speak, but it communicates well enough despite this. It works in the creature’s favor that Seokmin is too terrified to resist as it bullies him out of bed and through a second door that he is absolutely certain did not exist before, into a washroom, and then into the steaming pool set into the floor. The water is warm and soothing, but all too soon the faceless entity – man? Woman? Thing? Seokmin doesn’t want to be rude, and it won’t answer when he asks for a name, so he decides to settle for calling it Quiet Person – ushers him from there as well, with just as much persistent force as it used to get him into the room, and back into the main chamber.
Now, there are clothes laid out on the bed. Seokmin has a bad feeling about this. He turns, hoping to retrieve his own clothing from the washroom, which he forgot as Quiet Person shoved him impatiently along ahead of itself, but finds that the door has vanished. Which is … fine.
So, okay, wherever he is, there is magic afoot. He can work with that. He has read so many books about magic – mostly he looked at the pictures and made up his own stories, but sometimes his sisters would read to him, or his uncle, and he read some for school; he knows things – and he is prepared for this. He’s spent his whole life preparing for this – all those long days in the woods, running and playing where most of the other children dared not go, warned off by parents with wary gleams in their eyes. His own mother tried to do the same, but Seokmin didn’t listen. He never listened.
The things that live in there would eat you alive.
He hopes she was wrong on that one. She has never been wrong before, in Seokmin’s relatively short life, but. Well. If ever there was a time for hoping.
Quiet Person urges – hassles, demands – Seokmin to get dressed. He doesn’t really want to be naked, so he does, pulling on the clothes with mild trepidation. The pants fit well, the cut nice and the fabric soft. The belt is embossed with delicate little flowers, roses and bluebells and daisies, all forming a continuous thread that connects when he tightens it, the ends overlapping seamlessly. He feels a little less certain about the shirt, once he puts it on and finds that the buttons only go up so far – not nearly far enough – but the material is sturdy and shimmers slightly in the fading sunlight that streams in through the window, like it’s been dusted with diamonds. There are no shoes and his socks are gone, left behind in the disappearing washroom, so his feet are bare, sending shivers up his spine every few steps across the cold floor as Quiet Person herds him out of the room – the door swings open magically when they approach it in a way it most assuredly didn’t when Seokmin tried to open it earlier – and down the hall outside, hurrying him along through a couple more winding passageways until they arrive at what is clearly a dining hall.
Only, it just as clearly isn’t, because Seokmin has never in his life seen or heard of any dining hall anywhere that looks like this.
There is a table in the center of the room, yes, long and darkly polished and set with two places, one at either end, but nothing else in the room speaks of breaking bread so much as it does of dragons and their hoards. The walls are set with gemstones, the light they reflect painful to look at as it assaults Seokmin from every angle, catching the periphery of his vision when he tries to look away. Across from the entryway Seokmin came through – one of three doors into the room – the wall is … well, there is no wall. The room drops off into nothing, like the huge window in Seokmin’s room but the effect so much greater, that same swirling silver mist of clouds and light stretching out and down to fill the view while leaving Seokmin with the distinct feeling that it does not actually fill the space at all, its essence insubstantial like dust motes catching sunbeams.
Numen sits at one end of the table, dressed in a formless robe of shimmering light. Seokmin thinks it might be made of diamonds, shining just a shade brighter than Numen’s skin, which also reflects and refracts the light around him. He looks splendid, a god-king of legend and faerie tale.
At the sight of him, Seokmin wants to run, his deepest instincts warning him to be very, very afraid. He listens. At least for the moment, though, he does not run. He is quite certain that in this moment it would not do him any good to try.
“My precious rosebud,” Numen says, gesturing to the empty chair across from him. “Please, sit, my darling, and eat with me.”
Seokmin doesn’t want to make him angry, so he does as he is bid, hurrying into the other seat. At least the entire length of the table is between them. Numen cannot reach him from there … probably. Seokmin has a bad feeling that he has seen only the least of what Numen can do.
The thought is terrifying.
“I know it is the fashion now among mortals to enjoy sweets,” Numen says, either not noticing or ignoring the way Seokmin is huddled in his seat, his shoulders hunched up by his ears, “so I have had a selection of sweet meats and fruits prepared, some of which I am certain you have never tasted before.” He snaps his fingers, the door behind Seokmin opening with a bang that makes him jump. Numen smiles at him. It looks much less charming now than it did in the bedroom, and Seokmin wonders if he is becoming immune to whatever unsettling spell the man had been casting on him before.
He certainly hopes so.
From over Seokmin’s shoulder, a golden tray descends, piled high with candied fruit, sugar-covered nuts, sugarplums, bonbons, and other delicacies Seokmin doesn’t even know how to name. It is a staggering show of wealth – but then, perhaps not in comparison to everything else about this place – but also an odd choice for supper. Seokmin assumes this is supper, anyway; the light out the windows is fading, supplemented in this room by ten enormous chandeliers draped in strands of sapphires and emeralds.
“Um,” Seokmin says, “Maybe something more … substantial, first?”
He looks up, over his shoulder, to address whoever is serving him, and halts, frozen, at the sight.
It isn’t another faceless figure holding the tray; it is a man. It is a young man, tall and thin, his black hair falling in silky waves around his face, his expression so neutral it must be by design but not doing anything to disguise how handsome he is – and he is handsome, exactly the kind of boy Seokmin would stare at when he went to the big cities and was able to people-watch for an hour or two, mesmerized by the great variety of passersby he saw – but none of that is what makes Seokmin pause.
Running vertically across the young man’s face are jagged lines of shiny pink and white, their thickness varying, none perfectly straight but all drawn from brow to chin and extending below that, onto his neck, and disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt at his breastbone. The scars are vivid but not new, grisly but somehow separate from the rest of the man’s appearance, as though Seokmin’s brain knows they are not meant to be there and is processing them as a distinct feature from the dark eyes, round nose, and rose-petal lips.
“Take that away for now,” Numen says, breaking Seokmin’s transfixion upon the server as the young man steps away, out of Seokmin’s sight, reappearing moments later with a different tray, this one bearing a variety of meats and cheeses. “Perhaps this is more to your tastes, my dear?” Numen asks, but Seokmin is once again staring at the server.
“Yes,” Seokmin says, his throat tight, his eyes darting across the ruined – no, not ruined, just marked – skin of the server’s face and neck. The server does not look directly at him, but Seokmin feels a kinship, a closeness, with him all the same. Did Numen do this to him? Is this what will happen to Seokmin?
When Seokmin makes no move to take food for himself, the server does it for him, balancing the golden tray in one hand and using the other to serve a selection of foods onto Seokmin’s plate. He stands with his body angled towards Seokmin, leaning slightly in front of his seat, as though to come between Seokmin and Numen. Seokmin cannot say for sure that that is the man’s intent, but it makes him feel safer all the same, even if it is only his own thought.
“Go ahead, sweet one,” Numen commands, the server moving away from Seokmin, almost seeming to float he’s so graceful and silent, over to wait on Numen as well. “Eat up.”
They will eat you up, my darling boy, the things that live in the woods. They will eat you up.
Seokmin is not hungry, despite the rumble in his stomach, but he spears a bite of a dark meat anyway and lifts it to his lips, not wanting to anger Numen.
It smells heavenly. It tastes even better.
He has never been a picky eater, nor someone with a small appetite, and Seokmin quickly finds himself to be starving after all and sets about demolishing anything and everything that is put in front of him. This ends up being quite a feat, as every time he comes close to emptying his plate, the servant reappears from behind him to give him more, seeming to know which things Seokmin enjoys most and replenishing them while providing a never-ending cycle of new things to replace those Seokmin is not so keen on.
Seokmin has never had food this good in his life, and he has a moment of guilt over the thought, the betrayal of his uncle’s cooking, but even his uncle would readily admit that this is far beyond anything he has ever made, surely. It’s almost unearthly, how good the food is, and all too soon Seokmin is full, unable to eat any more and genuinely disappointed by this fact.
As if reading his mind, the servant removes his plate for him, replacing it with a small dish of what Seokmin can only assume is ice cream. It looks like ice cream, smooth and cold, but he’s never had any before nor even been this close to any when it wasn’t behind a glass storefront, so he can’t be sure until he tries it.
It is. It’s ice cream, and it’s amazing, and he does have room for it after all, his stomach near to bursting when he’s done but it’s so, so worth it.
“So you do have a sweet tooth after all,” Numen says, reminding Seokmin of his presence for the first time in – Seokmin doesn’t know how long they’ve been in this room, actually, how long he’s been eating. He feels stuffed full and stupid, heavy with a good meal, his eyes trying sluggishly to close. Numen chuckles, sending a bolt of uneasiness down Seokmin’s spine to wake him up a little.
He struggles to sit up straight, finding it more difficult than he thinks it should be, his body not wanting to follow his instructions. He blinks heavily at Numen across the table. Numen’s face wavers in the candlelight, sunlight all but gone now, his smile deformed and unsettling.
“I am glad you are enjoying yourself,” Numen says, sounding entertained.
For some reason, this strikes a chord in Seokmin, telling him to run, to be wary at the least, and he’s trying, he’s trying, but he feels so very warm and heavy he can barely keep his eyes open.
“You were uncertain before, I can understand that,” Numen continues, honeyed and golden, so beautiful as he stands and begins to slowly circle the table towards Seokmin.
He’s gorgeous. Seokmin’s neck is hurting from the strain of looking up at him, his muscles falling lax everywhere else, but he can’t look away, he doesn’t want to look away, he wants to look at Numen forever, he wants to stay with Numen forever.
“Yes, that’s right, little flower,” Numen purrs. His hand is cold, so cold, fracturing Seokmin from the inside out, tiny cracks surely running out from every point of contact with Numen’s splayed fingertips upon his cheek and brow. “Just look at me, my pretty, precious iris,” Numen murmurs, so gently, so pleasantly. “Look at me.”
Seokmin does. He never wants to stop.
Or.
Or – does he?
There is coldness in Seokmin’s stomach, growing stronger by the second, that distracts him from the warmth of Numen’s gaze and forces his vision clear. The fog in his head lifts in increments, and he closes his eyes, pressing his hands over them to block out the noise of light and shimmering, overwhelming attention.
He doesn’t want to look at Numen. Numen is doing something to him, something bad, something dangerous that will rob Seokmin of his will forever if he lets him. He doesn’t know how he knows this but he does know it, he is completely certain of it, and the knowledge is terrifying because now that he has it he has no idea what to do with it.
“Seokmin,” Numen says, not sounding so alluring now, sounding cold and hard. “Seokmin, open your eyes. Look at me.”
Seokmin shakes his head, keeping his hands where they are and his eyes tightly closed. He won’t look. He isn’t going to look.
Numen hisses, the sound like a snake but deeper, more guttural, and so much louder. Seokmin cringes back, the sound echoing around him, ringing in his ears.
“Is this your doing?” Numen demands, the question confusing Seokmin – and all the more so when he continues, “Some Aesir trick?”
Seokmin flinches at the sharp sound of someone striking flesh and the answering thud of a body hitting the floor.
He doesn’t want to open his eyes, but he’s afraid, suddenly, not just for himself but for the servant, the one with the long scars and downcast eyes who put his body between Seokmin and Numen, and so he opens them anyway, arms pressed protectively to his chest as he shrinks in on himself.
The servant is on the floor, his head angled down and hair in his face, but the red mark across his cheek is visible all the same. The injury covers most of what Seokmin can see of his face, not restricting itself to the side, but extending up above his eye and across his nose as well. There is no blood, but it looks painful. Seokmin has never seen anyone get hit like that.
His stomach churns and he looks up, looks at Numen, who is burning with anger, almost literally it seems. His hands twitch at his sides and his brow is furrowed, eyes narrowed at the servant at his feet. His skin crackles with what can only be described as lightning, sparks shooting off at random to lance through the air, radiating heat. He lifts his hand as if to strike the prone body again, and Seokmin jerks forward reflexively.
“Stop!” he cries, a stumbling, lurching step out of his seat taking him closer to the other two figures.
Numen pauses and turns his head to stare at him, his long hair whipping frenziedly around the hard planes of his face. The servant does not move at all, frozen on the floor at the feet of this specter of diamond and thunder.
“I –” Seokmin fumbles, his words petering out as soon as they begin. He glances frantically between Numen and the servant with no idea what to say.
Instead, Numen breaks the crystalline silence.
“My darling,” he says, his words like cut glass with sharp edges, “you need not concern yourself with this. How I punish my staff is a paltry matter you have no need to harken to.” He turns his head slightly, then, but keeps his eyes on Seokmin as he calls, “Take Seokmin back to his room; he is tired now.”
Quiet Person begins to approach them from its station by the door Seokmin had entered from. Seokmin looks at it wide-eyed, feeling desperate, and dances away from the folds of the cloak that lift up to grab at him.
“No, wait, I – wait,” he pleads, looking at Numen.
Numen nods, and Quiet Person falls eerily still, as though Numen’s mere whim has rendered it inanimate.
“Wait, I –” Seokmin doesn’t know what to say, what he can say, but he desperately does not want Numen to hurt this servant. He wants to leave this place, to take the servant with him and have Numen leave them both alone, but he knows that isn’t likely to go over well just now – or ever, probably. He doesn’t know what Numen wants from him – Numen said what he wants, told Seokmin in no uncertain terms, but he can’t have meant that, surely, he can’t have; Seokmin is open-minded and has never considered himself to not be someone who would, theoretically, be interested in men, but surely this terrifying monster-person cannot actually want Seokmin to marry him – but whatever it is, he does not think Numen is likely to let him go before he gets it. He thinks, chillingly, that Numen is not likely to let him go at all.
“Seokmin,” Numen says, his words still sharp and hard. “My darling flower, why don’t you go to bed. You will feel better in the morning.”
“No, I –”
Why is this so hard? Why is it Seokmin here, instead of someone who could actually handle this? Soonyoung would know what to do. Jeonghan would know how to talk his way out of this. Junhui would charm his way home without even needing to try all that hard; Numen would be eager to do as he asked, like everyone always is, and Seokmin wouldn’t have to be here, trapped and confused and lost and afraid, so afraid, so very, very –
Numen shifts, the sparks flickering across his skin skittering as he slides his foot forward, his gaze falling down to the servant on the floor. Seokmin’s chest seizes up.
“You can’t just bully people like this!” he says, impulsively, his voice ringing out surprisingly loud and firm in the quiet of the dining hall.
Numen turns back to look at him, his expression faintly amused.
Seokmin swallows, cringing back but not letting himself actually retreat. “You –” he hesitates, unsure of where to take this, “you can’t do this. You can’t kidnap me and hypnotize me and force me into marrying you, and you can’t hit him, you can’t do this, you can’t –”
“Can’t I?” Numen asks, the question almost coy the way he says it. There is nothing charming at all about his smile now. “I am a god, Seokmin, a being your pathetic mortal mind cannot even comprehend. If I want you, I shall have you. And so I shall. You will come around with time.”
“I won’t,” Seokmin denies. “You can hurt me –” his voice wavers, but he doesn’t let himself stop, no matter the condescending, predatory look in Numen’s burning sunlight eyes “– but I won’t.”
Numen coos, turning to face him completely now, the servant forgotten as he fixes his full attention upon Seokmin. Seokmin is relieved that he isn’t looming over the poor servant anymore, but he is terrified by the way Numen is looking at him. He takes a shuffling step backwards as Numen paces forward, failing to keep the distance between them, and Numen all too quickly reaches out and slides his hand behind Seokmin’s head, forcing him to stop retreating and to look him in the eye as Numen holds his head rigidly in place.
“My most precious rose,” Numen murmurs, dipping his head low to meet Seokmin’s eyes nearly on his level, “I would never hurt you. You will be mine, but you will beg me for the honor before it comes. I promise you.”
“I will never want that,” Seokmin whispers, wondering if this is bravery or stupidity. He has never been able to properly distinguish between the two.
Numen’s fingers flex against the back of his neck and a chill seeps into Seokmin’s bones. The god’s expression is frigid, his smile showing all his teeth, pointed and razor-sharp like a predator. At the point of contact, Seokmin’s neck begins to ache, then to sting, then to burn. He flinches, trying to duck away, but he can’t. He whimpers, ashamed of the sound but unable to hold it in; he squeezes his eyes closed, mouth trembling. In the next instant, the pain is gone, and, when Seokmin’s eyes open, Numen’s smile has lost its manic edge.
“You will learn your place, my dear,” Numen says mildly, his fingers rubbing gently at Seokmin’s neck; it stings like it did before, like miniscule shards of glass being pressed into his skin, but it does not burn. “And, in time,” he adds quietly, “you will learn to love it.”
Then Numen steps away, his hand brushing through Seokmin’s hair and drawing one last shiver from him. He glances briefly at the servant, who has not moved at all, not even to breathe, Seokmin thinks, worriedly, looking at him as well. Fortunately, though, Numen makes no move to strike him again, instead passing his prone form and crossing the length of the room in quick strides to reach the door behind his chair.
“I will see you in the morning, my flower,” he calls, looking over his shoulder as the door swings open in front of him. “I hope you will have a more grateful perspective then.”
He does not wait for a reply, which is fortunate because Seokmin does not have one in him. He has done quite enough mouthing off to actual gods – and oh, that’s bad, if Numen really is a god, that is so bad, so, so, so, so bad – for one evening.
His hands are shaking, he realizes as he looks down, and it almost makes him laugh. He doesn’t know why. He chokes down the sound, not letting it out, just in case vocalizing it – vocalizing anything – makes him cry. He feels like he might cry.
The servant shifts, making Seokmin jump and look at him. He does not meet Seokmin’s eyes as he stands, straightening up slowly to his full height, his shoulders back and chin held high. He is slightly taller than Seokmin is, he can now see, and the lines of him are even more graceful and fluid than Seokmin first thought. He looks regal, even with the bruise on his face, the scars under it.
Seokmin wonders what Aesir means. Numen must have been talking to the servant when he said that; it is a word Seokmin has never heard before. It sounds like this servant looks.
“Socius, would you see our guest to his room, please?” the servant says, directing the request to Quiet Person. His voice matches the rest of him – Seokmin does not know where his accent is from, but it sounds like that word again. Aesir.
Quiet Person – or, Socius, apparently – steps forward, brought to life again by the servant’s words, and extends a cloak-shrouded arm in the direction of the door Seokmin entered through before supper. This time, Socius does not attempt to manhandle Seokmin, and Seokmin takes the opportunity to linger, wanting some answers and hoping that this servant will be more reasonable than Numen is. He has no reason to fear the servant, at least, which already makes him much more appealing to talk to than the person who kidnapped and tried to hypnotize him.
“What’s your name?” he asks first, politely.
The servant stares at him. “I do not think we should address each other by name,” he says quietly. “It will only breed attachment.”
Seokmin feels his friendly expression falter, hurt by the rejection. “Shouldn’t we band together, though?” he asks hesitantly. “We are in the same boat, aren’t we?”
“We are not,” the servant says bluntly. He gestures toward Socius. “Please, go with Socius. You will be safe in your room.”
“I – oh,” Seokmin stops short as the servant turns and walks away, disappearing through the third door, the one behind Seokmin’s supper chair. Socius stands patiently, waiting for Seokmin to follow it – him? Her? He doesn’t like calling Socius “it” now that it has a name: names are for people, and people aren’t its.
“Socius, are you a person?” Seokmin feels stupid for asking, but he doesn’t know how else to find out.
Socius shakes its head.
Seokmin startles. “Oh. Are you – not a person?”
Socius nods.
“Is Socius your real name?”
Socius shakes its head.
“What is your real name?”
Again, Socius shakes its head.
Seokmin frowns. Socius beckons for Seokmin to follow it, so Seokmin does, still puzzling over the response. “You – do you not have a name?” he asks, feeling clever when Socius nods. “And can you only answer yes or no questions?”
Socius nods.
“Okay,” Seokmin says, mostly to himself. Socius is probably magical, then, if it isn’t an actual person – and that should have been obvious, with the night sky facelessness and everything, but Seokmin doesn’t like to assume – which means that Socius is probably enchanted to not help Seokmin escape. That would be logical, he’s pretty sure.
He wishes Jeonghan were here. Or Wonwoo. Jihoon always has a way around things; he’d get out of here in no time, but it’s just Seokmin so he’s stuck here, maybe forever, and maybe he’ll die here, maybe he’ll never get out.
Maybe he’ll never get to go home. Never see his family again. Never get to marry anybody for real, forced to wed some crazy god and live in his magical tower for the rest of his life.
Seokmin wipes at the tears on his cheeks, impatient with himself. He doesn’t have time to cry; there’s no point to it. He needs to figure out a way to escape, since now he knows that Numen is serious about marrying him and is very dangerous and Seokmin is completely alone –
He sucks in a sharp breath, pressing down on the sob in his chest. He shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes but it doesn’t help much.
When Socius touches his arm, he jumps, jerking his hands away from his face, to find them back at the room he started this nightmare in.
He doesn’t want to go inside.
Maybe he doesn’t have to.
“Socius,” he says, slowly, “Are the four of us the only people in the tower – you, me, Numen, and that servant?”
Socius nods.
“Okay,” Seokmin says quietly. He looks up, staring into Socius’ faceless void. “Thank you, Socius. I’m at my room now. You can go.”
He almost didn’t expect for it to work, didn’t expect his orders to be followed like Numen and the servant’s were, but, miraculously, it does work. Socius turns and walks away immediately, disappearing down the hall without hesitation.
Maybe Seokmin isn’t hopeless after all.
He still wishes Jeonghan were here, though. Or Seungcheol. Or Seungkwan. Or Chan or Hansol or –
He doesn’t want to be here anymore, so he leaves. He hurries, not quite running, down the hall in the opposite direction from the way Socius went, having no idea where he’s going, just knowing that he won’t be here once he gets there. And that, for this moment, is enough.
~~~
He finds the top of the tower. The door leading onto it, strangely, is in the wall like a regular door, but when he opens it and steps through he is suddenly standing on the edge of a wide, circular space with nothing above or around it, just emptily shimmering darkness broken by strands of silvery clouds. It is disconcerting, but he is too relieved to be out, after what felt like hours of running, of the maze of hallways that makes up most of the tower, to go back now. And besides, he isn’t sure he can; the door vanishes behind him as soon as he crosses the threshold onto the roof, so he has no choice but to pace farther out across the sparkling floor.
When he sees who else has found their way here, he does not know if he should be glad of the company or uneasy of its nature. He cannot deny that he’s lonely – more than ever after his futile attempt to find anything even resembling a way out of the tower – but the servant made it very clear that they are not friends, will not become friends, and should not act like friends. Being near him may just make Seokmin even lonelier, but it isn’t as though he can leave now.
He approaches the servant hesitantly, still not quite sure which course of action he should take even as his feet lead him towards the other man. It is strange that the servant has not noticed him; Seokmin has never been quiet in anything, even walking. Once he gets close, though, he realizes why the servant has not acknowledged his presence yet.
The servant’s eyes, previously dark, are golden, open unseeingly and staring at nothing. He is sitting cross-legged, his hands on his thighs, clearly meditating.
Seokmin shrinks away, not wanting to disturb him. It seems he got too close, though, because, before he can retreat, the servant’s eyes blink back to brown, still hazy for a moment, and then focus on Seokmin as he turns his head to see who has interrupted him.
Seokmin smiles nervously and waves at him, not sure what else to do and panicking, his body held awkwardly between footsteps, one foot extended behind him.
Surprisingly, the servant huffs a laugh, the wind tossing his hair around his darkened eyes, and Seokmin has a flash of hope that maybe he isn’t so unwanted after all.
“I see you found my solace,” the servant says, his voice soft but carrying to Seokmin easily in the still night air.
“Sorry to disturb you,” Seokmin apologizes. He straightens out his stance, shifting awkwardly to one foot. “You can ignore me. I’ll just be … over here.” He motions to the other side of the rooftop, already moving in that direction, hoping that they can just … be in each other’s presence – that he can be in someone’s company, not be alone, just for a while – and that this won’t be too much to ask.
Apparently, though, it is.
“No, I’ll leave,” the servant says, getting smoothly to his feet. He nods at Seokmin and walks by him, graceful and quick-footed, almost gone before Seokmin can say another word.
Seokmin wants to ask him to stay, even if he won’t, wants to try, but his tongue gets twisted up around the words, his throat suddenly dry. He doesn’t want to be alone.
He doesn’t want to be alone.
Behind him, the servant’s footsteps stop. Seokmin bites his lip, realizing he’s kind of crying again, just a little. He swipes at his eyes, smothers the noises that want to leave him.
There is a sigh, soft but distinct from the wind around them, and Seokmin tenses.
He tries harder to keep quiet, not wanting to make the servant angry, even as the tears come faster, the sting of rejection sharp after everything else today. This servant may not want to become attached to Seokmin, but he is the only other person in this tower with Seokmin who isn’t his crazed kidnapper or a magical cape that can’t actually hold a real conversation. Seokmin doesn’t want to be alone. He hates being alone, he’s never coped well when he is, and now he is and he just – he just –
“Okay, okay, alright,” that soft voice says, a note of defeat in it. “Why don’t we sit down?”
Seokmin sniffles, looking up to find the servant standing in front of him, even though he didn’t hear him move. He doesn’t look angry, but he doesn’t look happy either. Seokmin’s loneliness wars with his need to not make a nuisance of himself. The latter wins.
“No, I’m sorry, just ignore me, I’m fine.” He smiles, knowing it’s a bit watery, tears running down his face, but hoping the servant will take it at face value anyway.
The servant shakes his head. “No, I’m sorry,” he says emphatically. “I wanted – never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’m too weak to hold to it anyway. Come on, sit with me.” He reaches out, like he’s going to take Seokmin’s hand, but he stops himself just short.
Seokmin closes the distance without thought, feeling an overwhelming swell of relief come over him the second their fingers lock together.
Not alone.
The servant’s face flickers through several complicated emotions, too fast and the night too dark for Seokmin to parse them, and then he pulls Seokmin’s hand gently, leading them over to the edge where he was sitting when Seokmin found him. Seokmin goes willingly, trying not to press too close and scare his companion away. The servant seems unperturbed, though, settling with his legs hanging over the edge and, when Seokmin sits beside him with his knees folded to his chest, not brave enough to follow his example, he pulls Seokmin closer against his side.
Seokmin lets out a deep breath, his body relaxing as he leans in, only now realizing how tightly wound he was. He doesn’t even know this person, but the closeness is comfort all the same.
“I said I wouldn’t do this again,” the servant mutters, softly enough that Seokmin thinks maybe the words are not for his benefit. The servant sighs again, then, and closes his eyes. He looks even more regal up here, in the dim and iridescent night around them. The red mark on his face is visible even in the mostly-dark, out of place on someone so elegant and kind. “Minghao,” he says, very quietly, the wind whipping up suddenly and almost carrying the word away.
Seokmin licks his lips. “Minghao,” he says, trying it out as his eyes trace the lines of Minghao’s face, both natural and those torn across it. It’s a beautiful name. “I’m Seokmin.”
“I know,” Minghao says. “You’re difficult to miss.”
“Are you – I mean, do you live here with him?” He can’t imagine why Minghao would, if he has a choice. But then, Seokmin doesn’t have a choice; maybe Minghao doesn’t either.
Minghao shrugs, his eyes still closed. “If you can call it living,” he says.
Seokmin waits a minute for him to say more, but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to. The silence makes Seokmin jumpy, so he breaks it before the itch can settle under his skin.
“How long have you been here?” he asks next, watching Minghao, the way he tilts his head back as the wind comes across them again, harsh and cold. Seokmin shivers. Minghao wraps his arm more securely around him, saying nothing when Seokmin turns and presses his face against his neck.
“I don’t know,” Minghao says, his voice soothing, mixing with the beating of Seokmin’s heart and the breeze that keeps up a steady whistle. “A while. My kind lives longer than yours does, though I’m not sure I count as one of them anymore. Time moves differently here, as well. I’ve been here probably as long as you’ve been alive, I’d say – maybe longer.”
That is … a very long time. Seokmin cannot imagine being here for more than twenty years, living in constant fear of Numen, no one to talk to but an enchanted cloak.
He can hardly imagine anything lonelier.
Feeling a rush of commonality with Minghao, he pushes closer, lifting his face to see Minghao again but wrapping his own arm around Minghao’s waist, his hand sliding against Minghao’s back and side as he reaches. He feels something there, startling him: a rough patch of skin. Minghao shudders when he touches it, arching away, then settling back into their shared space when Seokmin’s hand comes to rest outside of his shirt at his side.
He shouldn’t ask. Minghao is already being so nice to him, and Seokmin doesn’t want to dredge up bad memories. If Minghao has scars on his back, they probably came from Numen too, and Seokmin doesn’t need to hear about it.
He’s just grateful for the company.
“Are you tired, Seokmin?” Minghao asks suddenly. He glances at Seokmin sidelong, and, as if cued, Seokmin yawns.
Seokmin’s eyes widen, surprised himself that the answer is apparently yes. Minghao smiles at him, and oh –
Now that’s a smile Seokmin doesn’t mind being dumbfounded by, the feeling coming not from a hazy place in his mind, put there by someone else, but from a place in his chest that catches on the way Minghao’s eyes light up brighter and darker than the restless sky around them, on the way he’s smiling at Seokmin like he’s fond, not like he’s tricking him or winning a game Seokmin didn’t mean to be playing. Seokmin likes to smile and to be smiled at; he has been on the receiving end of many, and he feels confident in assessing that Minghao has a very, very nice smile.
“You must be tired,” Minghao says, mild amusement in his voice. “You’re staring at me.”
“You’re good to stare at,” Seokmin tells him, feeling embarrassed immediately. He must be more tired than he thought.
Minghao doesn’t laugh at him, though; he stands up, tugging on Seokmin’s arm to get him to join him, and says, “You should sleep before you get any loopier; Numen’s magic can have strange effects on people. Saying silly things is pretty normal.”
Seokmin gets to his feet, swaying into Minghao as soon as he’s upright. It’s alarming how exhausted he suddenly feels, as if the entire day has caught up to him at once. He blinks, and they are suddenly on the other side of the roof. Again, and they are back in the winding corridors of the tower. Again, and they are in another corridor, probably going back to Seokmin’s room, where he really, really doesn’t want to go.
He plants his feet, stumbling as Minghao brings them both to a stop, supporting most of Seokmin’s weight easily.
“I don’t want to sleep there,” Seokmin says, having some difficulty getting all the words out. “I don’t want to go back there.”
“Then we won’t,” Minghao agrees. “You can sleep with me; Numen will never know if we don’t tell him.”
Seokmin stares at Minghao, whose face is cast in shadow now, the meager candlelight doing little to light the dark hallway but throwing his scars into relief all the same. Numen would probably be angry if he found out that Seokmin slept in Minghao’s room instead of his own, but Minghao is letting him anyway. He’s risking getting hurt again – Seokmin’s eyes track to the growing bruise on his face – for Seokmin’s sake.
“Thank you,” he says. It isn’t big enough, but there isn’t anything bigger he can think of that would express what he means, exactly. Thank you for talking to me. Thank you for letting me hold your hand. Thank you for telling me your name. Thank you for not leaving me alone.
Minghao frowns at him. He looks conflicted, something twisting in his dark eyes that Seokmin cannot even begin to read. Then he shakes his head and pulls Seokmin on, and Seokmin lets him.
Minghao’s room is much smaller than Seokmin’s, smaller even than Seokmin’s bedroom at home was in their old farmhouse, not even big enough to fit a real bed. It holds a small wooden box tucked in the corner and a bedroll, threadbare over a pile of straw, taking up most of the room.
“It won’t be as comfortable as your room,” Minghao says, not quite sounding apologetic but sounding … something. “Numen makes sure of it.”
“Why does he make you stay here if he hates you?” Seokmin asks, eyeing the room. He wonders if the bed has fleas in it. It seems rude to ask, and it isn’t like he’s going to leave even if the answer is yes, so he doesn’t vocalize the question.
“He has his reasons,” Minghao says. “I don’t have a washbasin in here, sorry; I use the well in the mornings.”
“That’s fine, I’m not really used to fanciness anyway,” Seokmin assures him. Minghao’s mouth twitches into a smile at that, and Seokmin feels accomplished.
Then Minghao turns around and takes off his shirt.
“Oh my –” Seokmin slaps a hand over his mouth, horrified and doubly horrified by his own reaction.
Minghao looks at him over his shoulder, seemingly unbothered by Seokmin’s reaction. “I know you felt them on the roof; I thought you might as well see, so you don’t wonder.”
Seokmin glances at his face, trying not to look at his exposed skin even as his eyes are drawn there, feeling vaguely nauseous but also disturbingly intrigued. Minghao nods at him, encouraging, so Seokmin lifts a hand, hesitating, waiting for a second nod of affirmation, and then he touches.
The scars are so much worse than Seokmin imagined them. He thought they might be like the ones on Minghao’s face, lines of gruesome but comprehensible violence. This, though, this is … this looks like torture. Seokmin has never seen torture firsthand, hopes he never does, has never met anyone who has been tortured and never thought he would, but that is all he can think this is.
Minghao’s back has been sundered in two, twin mounds of twisted, scarred, blackened flesh beginning at each shoulder blade and extending down, spreading out, all the way to his lower back. His skin is mottled at the edges of the scars, pale and dark spots mingling, some areas looking red as fresh blood though these wounds are clearly very old. The scarring is less dense the farther down his back it goes, but even at the bottom it is worse than anything Seokmin ever saw on the farm or in the city. Even the parts of Minghao’s back that are not taken up by these two massive scars are not untouched, dozens of smaller, more normal-looking wounds flecked around the larger ones, their lines sharp and clean, like incisions made by a surgeon’s knife.
It is horrifying. Seokmin has seen a great deal to be horrified by today, but this is by far the worst of it. He feels as though he may be sick. And, through it all, as Seokmin’s world spins around him at the cruelty on display before him, Minghao stands patient and calm, staring dead ahead at the wall in front of him.
“Is this what he’s going to do to me?” Seokmin asks, his voice small. It’s a selfish question, a frightened question, but he can’t help asking it, the thought building bigger and bigger in his mind as his fingers skim across the wasteland that once was Minghao’s skin. The texture is coarse, like batter thoroughly burned onto the bottom of a pan.
“You wouldn’t survive it if he did,” Minghao says, voice gone flat and hollow. “Fortunately, he can’t. Not to you.”
“What did he do?” Seokmin asks, not wanting to know, the question coming out anyway. He doesn’t think he can stand to hear anything that it is worse than what he’s thinking of.
Minghao is quiet for a moment, his shoulders tensing just a little. When he speaks, there is pain in his voice that Seokmin knows he could never begin to understand. “Aesir have wings,” he says, so softly, the words sounding damning in the quiet. “And now I don’t.”
Aesir. That word again, something Minghao is, or was, or – it is something that pains Minghao, clearly, and so Seokmin doesn’t want to hear any more about it.
Hesitantly, fearing to misstep, wanting to help, Seokmin presses his palm flat against Minghao’s scar, his hand not quite spanning the length of one of them. Minghao shudders, but he leans back instead of away, so Seokmin steps forward and hugs him, pressing his entire front to Minghao’s exposed back, covering up what was done to him.
Minghao lets him stay there for a long moment, both of them breathing together, no other sound daring to disturb them, before he pulls against Seokmin’s hold. Seokmin lets him go immediately, stepping back, blinking furiously against the new tears that want to fall, not for himself this time but for Minghao.
“We should sleep,” Minghao says, looking down. “I didn’t mean to upset you, I just thought that you should know now what kind of man Numen is, what he’s capable of, so you don’t underestimate him.”
“He isn’t a man, he’s a monster,” Seokmin corrects him, scrubbing at his face. “He’s a – a – a monster. No person would do that to someone. No one.”
“You haven’t seen very much of the world, have you?” Minghao asks, sounding not quite condescending but something approaching it, the same tone Jeonghan uses when Seokmin messes up an order he’s completed a hundred times before – fond but chiding, the voice of someone with experience who finds Seokmin’s own lack of such endearing.
Seokmin wants to tell Minghao that he’s seen a lot of the world, actually, just not those parts of it, not the parts that would do that to someone. He’s avoided those parts deliberately; why go to those places when he could be making people happy instead? He likes to smile, he likes to help, he likes to believe the world is a good place. He doesn’t want to see it for its ugliness; he wants to see it for its beauty, and for the beautiful people in it.
But he does know there is ugliness in the world. He knows. No one can escape it entirely.
Minghao doesn’t need him to say that, though, so he doesn’t. He says nothing as Minghao pulls his shirt back on, as he closes the door against the flickering candlelight in the hall, as they both settle down on the thin mattress together, pressed close because there is no choice in such a confined space and because Seokmin wants to be close and Minghao isn’t stopping him. Maybe Minghao wants to be close, too. Minghao has been alone for a long time; maybe Seokmin can be a good thing for him, if he has to be here at all.
A thought nags at Seokmin in the dark, though, something Minghao said on the roof.
“Minghao?” he whispers, not wanting to wake him if he’s asleep.
From over Seokmin’s shoulder, lying against his back, Minghao hums. “Yes?”
Seokmin shifts, trying to see Minghao’s face and then quickly giving up; it’s too dark anyway, even if he did manage to roll over. “What did you mean on the roof, when you said it’s normal to have weird reactions to Numen’s magic?” He fidgets, restless, when Minghao doesn’t respond right away. “Minghao,” he says, slightly louder, “am I the first person Numen has kidnapped?”
He feels the top of Minghao’s head press between his shoulder blades, his arm, draped over Seokmin’s side for convenience and comfort both, tightening.
“No, you are not the first,” he breathes out, his breath warm on Seokmin’s back though the words are chilling.
Seokmin nods, accepting that. He didn’t think he was, once the thought occurred to him. It makes sense there have been others. Minghao has been here for over twenty years; who knows how many people Numen has kidnapped in that time? The more important question is:
“What happened to the others?”
He doesn’t expect Minghao to lie to him. He also doesn’t expect Minghao to be quite so honest.
“They’re dead, Seokmin,” Minghao says into the quiet dark of the room. “He killed them. Always. Every single time, as soon as he got the slightest bit bored, he killed them.”
Seokmin shudders, grabbing at Minghao’s hand. Minghao holds his hand back, lacing their fingers together, holding on as tightly as Seokmin is. Seokmin wonders if Minghao knew the others. As Minghao wraps more firmly around him, his breathing rough in Seokmin’s ear, Seokmin thinks the answer is yes.
And one day, who knows how soon, Seokmin is going to die too.
“But we – it doesn’t have to be like that,” Minghao whispers, barely more than an exhale, the words taking a moment to register. He shifts closer, bringing their joined hands up to turn Seokmin’s head, pressing his lips nearly against Seokmin’s ear and dropping his voice even further as though afraid of being overheard by the darkness itself. “Seokmin, he didn’t get you today,” he whispers, so softly Seokmin can barely hear him, even this close. “We have a chance. We have a chance, if you can just hold on. It all depends on you, but if you can hold on against him, there is hope.”
“There is?” Seokmin asks, trying to be just as quiet, not quite succeeding but Minghao doesn’t seem to mind, his grip tightening as the excitement builds in his voice.
“There is,” he confirms. “It all relies on you, though. You have to hold out, and the other part – Seokmin, can you read?”
Seokmin feels almost offended, but he squashes it down. Minghao must mean something by the question. “Yes, of course I can,” he whispers back. “Does that matter?”
“Why, yes it does,” Minghao murmurs, dipping his head to rest against Seokmin’s shoulder. He laughs, lightly, more a puff of air on Seokmin’s skin than anything else, and he shakes his head. “Seokmin, that matters more than I can say.”
Seokmin isn’t sure what’s going on, what’s going to happen, but he feels bolstered by Minghao’s joy and hope, by Minghao’s arm around him. He’s still exhausted from everything that happened today, nothing now to distract him from the pull of sleep, and he lets his eyes close to the sound of Minghao’s breathing, close and warm behind him.
Tomorrow, he will find out why it is so important that he knows how to read. Tomorrow, he will have to face Numen again, probably. Tomorrow is a long ways away, though.
His mind is dragged down, hazing over naturally, and he lets it happen.
The last thing he is aware of is Minghao’s heartbeat, steady against his back, finding the same rhythm as his own.