Chapter Text
I kneel into a dream where I
am good & loved. I am
good. I am loved. My hands have made
some good mistakes. They can always
make better ones.
—Least of All, Natalie Wee
Joshua Hong is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.
There are several reasons for this.
First, the threatening swathe of gray on the horizon has morphed into a full-blown storm. He’s currently pressed against a brick wall outside the boutique, huddling underneath its drooping awning, his hair audibly frizzing at the ends. He doesn’t even have an umbrella with him. Drat.
Second, and more pressing, is that Joshua hasn’t sold a single piece of art for the past two weeks. How is that even possible? He’s been a featured artist in Mrs. Lee’s quaint little boutique for nearly two years and he’s never gone a week without a sale or commission request. Let alone two. Mrs. Lee had even double-checked her record books, a wrinkly little frown on her face, before conceding the truth. There was no sum of money to collect. She looked apologetic, at least.
“I’ll keep an eye out,” she promised. “I’ll have Seokmin call you as soon as there’s a sale.”
“Thank you so much,” Joshua said, bowing as he left.
Now Joshua clutches his consolation prize to his chest—a warm, crumbly chocolate croissant, courtesy of Mrs. Lee’s grandson. It smells amazing, but it probably won’t pay his rent.
Accepting his dreary fate, Joshua pushes off from the wall and hurries to his car. Visibility has dropped considerably since the rain began; a thin fog shrouds the streets of Sangdo-dong, stretching break lights into red streaks that wound his windshield. He tries not to sulk, he honestly does, but Joshua’s just… a bit upset.
Sales have been consistently petering out for a few months now. He’s tried freshening up his art to make up for the loss—swapped a few stale designs for new cylinder bowls, vases with gorgeous swan-like necks, beaded bracelets of rose quartz and obsidian. He’s trying, is the thing. But no one’s biting.
Maybe he’s just not as good anymore. Maybe he’s losing his touch.
The apartment is dim and freezing when he lets himself inside. Joshua kicks off his shoes, places them neatly on the shelf, and shivers with his whole body, once, before flicking on the floor heating. It smells stale, and a little like clay.
Jeonghan’s voice reaches him from far away, a memory that returns at the wrong time. You need roommates, Joshuji… all alone in that big scary attic, you’re gonna forget how to socialize…
Ah, but that’s not a problem. Joshua sets the kettle on and fetches thick socks from his drawer. The apartment is a fourth-floor walkup with consistent electricity issues, but it’s cheap, and it’s large enough for a mini studio set-up. Mostly, a box of handmade beads, a tiny kiln he’d inherited from his grandmother, and a gilded pottery wheel.
Speaking of. Joshua sits heavily on the hardwood floor, his jeans still damp from rain, and stares reproachfully at the pottery wheel. For some reason the foot pedal is strung halfway across the living room. How careless of him.
“What do you think?” Joshua asks softly. “Have we lost our touch?”
The pottery wheel, obviously, doesn’t answer.
Joshua sighs. “Yeah. I dunno, either.”
If Jeonghan could see him now, he’d definitely be concerned.
As the kettle starts whistling, Joshua’s eyes catch on the brick of clay on the bottom shelf. It’s, frankly, huge, and he’d purchased it without a particular plan for what to make. He shuffles to the kitchen and pours himself a mug of whatever-the-heck black tea he has drooping in his cabinet, considering what to do. Something new. Something really new, for real this time, something that people will love. Something that will make them happy.
He feels weirdly inspired right now, driven partly by spite and partly by the hot, noxious fear of missing an upcoming payment.
Joshua can remember the first time he ever turned clay into art. He was thirteen, in his middle school Home Economics class, and he’d run home from the bus stop to show his mom. It was a lumpy, imperfect baby blue guitar that took forty-five minutes of careful crafting and an hour in the kiln.
“Pretty,” his mother had said. “Jisoo-ya, did you match my nails on purpose?”
Joshua straightened his shoulders with pride. “Yes, Eomma.”
And—her smile! Better than a sunrise. Joshua will never forget it. If he could get back to that, maybe, that simple joy of creating beautiful little trinkets that make other people smile, maybe it would help. Maybe he just needs to bring himself back to the basics.
He carries his mug and settles criss-cross in front of the pottery wheel. Thunder rumbles in the distance, a low growl that makes the hairs on the back of Joshua’s neck stand on end. He queues up a soft playlist, plugs in his earbuds, and lifts the brick of clay into his lap.
Deep breath. Here goes nothing, Joshua Hong.
/
Bzzz. Bzzz.
Joshua’s phone is vibrating. He rises to consciousness with this awareness pinging an alarm bell in his head. Someone’s calling! Oh, jeez, his neck hurts. Joshua blinks blearily at the exposed beams of the living room ceiling. He fell asleep at the wheel.
He reaches for his phone as he sits up, groggy-eyed and stiff. It’s Jeonghan, because of course it is.
“Hello?”
“Shua! I have a favor to ask.”
Joshua briefly checks the screen of his phone. All the light in the room is liquidy and sheer. “It’s like, 6am. What.”
“You know the guy I’ve been seeing recently?”
“Uh-huh.” Joshua very kindly refrains from correcting Jeonghan: the guy he’s been fucking for almost two years? Yeah, Joshua knows Kim Mingyu. They’ve met peripherally like five times already, a fact that Jeonghan likes to gloss over. “What about him.”
“So his roommate is really down on his luck. He hurt his back last month, briefly underwent a haunting, and now has been on a string of lame dates—”
Joshua groans and slumps backward, letting his head thump painfully against the floor. “And you want me to meet up with him?”
His foot brushes something when he moves to stretch. There’s a lump of clay at Joshua’s feet that he recognizes as the remainder of last night’s brick. Wow, he’d used a lot. Most of the clay is gone now. He can hardly remember what the final products looked like; he’d stayed up until his eyes started crossing with exhaustion. He pokes the remaining lump with a toe.
“He’s a cute kid,” Jeonghan insists.
“This isn’t like with Soonyoung, right?”
Jeonghan’s voice drops. “Yah, I said I was sorry for that. I didn’t know he was in a relationship.”
Joshua stretches out his fingers and adjusts the phone against his ear. His hands are sore from moulding. “I know.”
“This is different. I’ve met him a bunch of times, really, he’s nice. Owns a tea shop. You’d like him.”
Joshua says nothing. Internally, he’s debating how long he can hold Jeonghan at bay by hanging up. A flash of color in the corner of his eye makes him whip toward the dark hallway and pause. What was that? A reflection of some kind?
“Plus, if you guys hook up,” Jeonghan continues, “Kim Mingyu will owe me big time.”
“You actually sound invested in this.”
“It’s for our mutual benefit. Consider this, my friend—didn’t you say last week that you wanted to meet new people?”
Joshua sighs. “Yeah, but…”
Blind dates are scary. Joshua never ends up being what people expect. They always see polite and think boring.
Suddenly a skittering noise interrupts his thoughts. It’s faint but terrifying, the unmistakable sound of a creature sliding over wood. A large insect, maybe, or a rat. Joshua’s heart starts to pound. He draws his knees to his chest and scans the shadowy corners of the room.
Jeonghan’s voice floats back over the line, softer this time. “Joshuji? You can say no, you know. I haven’t told Myungho anything about you.”
Joshua is too distracted by the thought of an unknown pest rooting around his apartment; he starts apologizing reflexively. “No, sorry, of course I’ll go. He sounds nice. Um, you can give him my number, I guess?”
Jeonghan’s smile is thick in his voice. “Okay. I’ll have Mingyu set everything up. Just text me your schedule for this week.”
“Sure.”
“Soon. Not three days from now.”
There’s a gentle thump from the next room.
Joshua breaks into a cold sweat and staggers ungracefully to his feet. “Okay, yeah, just. Text me the details. I have to go… make breakfast, sorry. I’ll talk to you later!”
He waits until Jeonghan is halfway through a suspicious farewell before he hangs up and sets the phone carefully on the floor.
Now. What is crawling around in his apartment?
Joshua slinks down the hallway and peers into his bedroom. The light here is brighter, rose-pink from the sunrise through the window, and at first glance nothing looks amiss. His bed is neatly made. His laptop is sleeping peacefully on the wobbly wooden desk that extends directly from the wobbly wooden wall. Dust collects on his dresser.
Then he spots it—another flash of color! Green as fresh grass, a blur that catapults underneath his bed.
Joshua throws himself onto his hands and knees to lift the edge of the duvet. “Gotcha!”
The creature is larger than he imagined, about the size of a kitten, and they’re green all right. Green and scaly. With a short snout. And a long tail. And thin, filigreed wings that flutter with agitation the longer Joshua stares at them.
He makes startling contact with a big pair of slanted yellow eyes. The pupils would be reptilian if not for their intelligence; the creature looks right back at Joshua. Like they recognize him.
They’re a dragon.
Joshua yelps. He drops the duvet and springs back, heart flying into his throat. That can’t be possible… they must be some sort of weird lizard. Dragons aren’t real. Or at least, they’re extinct, right? How did this one get into his apartment?
Their little face did look familiar, in a weird way. Joshua carefully reaches out to flip up the blanket again and get a better look, but the dragon is gone.
Great. Now he has to find them and catch them.
A weird huffing noise makes Joshua whip towards the window. There’s another dragon there—same size, same wide yellow eyes, with bright blue scales—tottering across the sill, their claws clicking, slow and ungainly like a newborn antelope. As Joshua watches, the dragon huffs a plume of steam and topples right off the sill. He hears a pitiful thump where their body hits the rug.
“Oh, my God,” he mutters, rounding the bed to drop by the dragon’s side. They crouch, belly low, when he approaches. “Are you okay? That was a bad fall. I don’t—what are you?”
The dragon looks at Joshua for a moment. Their hind legs bunch together, and Joshua has exactly half a second to think uh oh before the dragon launches themself into Joshua’s chest.
He screams. He’s not proud of it, okay, but Joshua falls back and braces himself for impact and screams. His head bounces on the rug painfully. A weight comes to rest on his chest.
Eyes clenched shut, arms stiff as stone at his sides, Joshua gives himself a minute to absolutely freak out before assessing the situation.
There is a dragon on his chest. Trying to snooze, he realizes with a mix of horror and confusion upon opening his eyes. The dragon has curled into a tight ball on his chest, their tail tucked underneath their snout. Their nostrils flare. Their breath is warm—unusual for a lizard, right, aren’t they cold-blooded?—and smells of woodsmoke.
“You’re alive,” Joshua says to the little dragon. “Like, actually alive.”
He says something in English that his mother would smack him for. The dragon cracks open one unimpressed eye, closes it, and starts purring like a cat.
/
So there are three living dragons in Joshua’s apartment.
The longer he lays there, supine and still on the floor, the more comfortable the dragons become. The green one creeps out of his closet and curls up in the crook of his elbow to nap. A third one—bright red, with a beautiful pearl-white belly—glides down from the leaves of his hanging pothos to perch on his kneecap. His body becomes a glorified pillow. They make little snuffling and cooing noises at each other, and at Joshua, as if they think he understands.
Slowly, gently, Joshua lifts a hand to pet the little red dragon. They nuzzle tenderly into his fingers, rubbing their snout against his skin so forcefully that Joshua is forced to flip his wrist around. A thin forked tongue slips out to taste the air around Joshua’s palm.
The dragon proceeds to climb into Joshua’s wide hand, claws catching between his knuckles, and go limp like a tired puppy. Their scales are warm, pulsing with a strange and kinetic energy that Joshua feels as a pleasant buzz against his skin.
Joshua considers weeping. He considers calling his mom and moving back to America.
He considers how, last night, deep in the zone, hardly aware of what his hands were doing, he crafted three little clay dragons and set them in the kiln.
Now here you are, he thinks, and something like awe starts to crack open his chest.
Joshua made this creature. He can recognize his own handiwork, see the delicate grooves between each scale that he drew on with a toothpick, and he can see where his touch took on a life of its own.
He—somehow—created life.
/
The fifteenth time Joshua finds himself hissing, “Hey! You—Don’t sniff that!” he decides the dragons need names.
Namu, the green dragon, is rabidly curious but also the first to skitter under the bed if the downstairs neighbors slam their door.
Nancho, the blue dragon, builds a nest under Joshua’s bed of kitchen towels and keeps disappearing under there to nap. It takes Joshua a few days to notice certain things going missing. One of his silver hooped earrings. A spoon. The aglet on his shoelace. He’s forced to lay out a plate of grilled chicken and canned peaches as a distraction while he raids the nest.
Jangmi, the red dragon, is clingy. They’re a lap dragon. They nestle into Joshua’s neck while he’s cooking, or crafting bracelets, or sometimes even when he’s trying to sleep. It’s annoying, but also unbearably cute.
He learns the good (garlic samgyeopsal, chin tickles, his hoodie pocket) from the bad (open windows, loud noises, anything flammable) pretty quickly. The learning curve is steep. The first few days pass in a blur of shock, exhaustion, and a weirdly resilient joy that makes him tear up while looking at the dragons doing the most mundane things.
Jangmi flaps ungracefully into Joshua’s shoulder and settles there like a gargoyle as he beads.
“Hi there,” he says, tickling their stomach. “Keeping me company?”
Their tongue flicks out rapidly, as if they’re saying, yessss yessss yessss.
/
Mrs. Lee calls one afternoon with exciting news: he’s made a sale!
Joshua, like, desperately needs to pick up that cheque today. There’s only one problem with that. Well, three problems, and they’re all winged little monsters who are currently blowing smoke rings at each other and singing his curtains.
“This floor is wood,” Joshua moans, scooping Jangmi into his hands. They flip belly-up and make a high-pitched call of delight. Joshua absently strokes their soft belly, the scales smooth as butter against his fingertip. “Please, please don’t set anything on fire. I can’t explain that to the landlord.”
Nancho hears the distraught tone of his voice and scurries away to hide under his pillow.
Joshua sighs. “I can’t leave you here unsupervised. You broke out of the kiln that first night, I’m assuming, and I don’t have any cages conveniently lying around. If I take you in my car will you promise not to claw the upholstery?”
He feels so silly, talking to the dragons like they understand, but—Nancho immediately perks up, sticking their snout out from behind the pillow and tasting the air. Across the room, Namu stops trying to blend in with the pothos and hangs upside down by their tail to stare inquisitively at Joshua. He didn’t even know lizards could do that, anatomically. Well, dragons. Whatever.
Jangmi gnaws on Joshua’s thumb in apparent excitement. Their little fangs are sharp, but they’re careful not to break skin, and it feels like a kitten teething moreso than a dragon trying to eat him. A wonderful fondness rises in Joshua’s chest as he looks down at them.
“Okay,” he decides. “Okay. Fine. You can come.”
Nancho blows a tiny plume of real fire and briefly sets his sheets aflame. After the screaming and pounding and flailing are over, Joshua seriously considers dropping the dragons off at a veterinarian’s office and moving to South America. His Spanish is decent. He could do it, okay? He totally could.
(He won’t.)
The weather isn’t much better today. Sleet slinks down his windshield. A few frozen, half-hearted tufts of snow dot the parking lot of his complex. He feels the dragons, stuffed into the pocket of the largest hoodie he owns, shudder and curl together. Someone presses their snout into his wrist and makes an unhappy gurgling noise.
“Shhh,” Joshua soothes them as he starts up the car. “Go take shotgun. I’ll turn on the seat warmers.”
And, lo and behold, they tumble out and follow his instructions.
Just how smart are you? Joshua wonders as he drives. The dragons remain an unmoving, colorful lump until the seat warmers start to really kick in and they detangle themselves. A stray blue scale sticks to the seat when Nancho slithers down to inspect the floor.
“Don’t eat the—” Too late. Joshua sighs. “Trash.”
A text from Jeonghan comes in. Joshua waits until he’s parked outside of the boutique to check it, and he’s unsurprised to see a day and time with nothing else in the body of the message. Tomorrow evening. His blind date.
To: Jeonghan
do I get to pick the restaurant?
To: Joshyyyy
just don’t say shake shack ㅋㅋㅋ
Myunghoyah has good taste
Joshua rolls his eyes. Great, no pressure. He sits there thinking for a moment, letting the car idle, chewing his bottom lip, before Jangmi crawls into his lap and noses open his hoodie pocket. It’s starting to look like the dragons have separation anxiety. Which introduces a whole new host of problems.
He simply doesn’t have time to worry about picking a restaurant for dinner! He sends along the name of a nearby fusion place, one of his fancier regular spots, and calls it a day. Hopefully Minghao will be amenable to the choice.
Pressing a kiss to the top of Jangmi’s head, Joshua moves them gently back to the other seat.
“Be good,” he instructs.
The boutique is bustling when Joshua enters. Families flit amongst the displays, pointing out paintings and sculptures and greeting cards. He peeks at his own display, in the far right corner, and sees an elderly couple inspecting one of his new vases, the one with the carnations pressed onto the body.
They’re considering it! He can see their smiles from here. How nice.
There’s a spring in Joshua’s step when he approaches the register. Mrs. Lee is deep in conversation with two young girls about, presumably, the puppy portraits on display in the dining area. Seokmin sees him, though, and comes around from the kitchen to offer a bright smile and a bow.
“Good morning!” He tugs off his gloves, which seem to be covered in a gloopy mix of sugar and flour. “Here for your cut?”
“Yes, please,” Joshua says. “And, thank you for the croissant last time. It was delicious.”
“Ah, it’s nothing.” Seokmin waves him off, but his smile, if possible, grows. His wattage could power the city. “You’re Halmeoni’s favorite.”
He digs around in a disorganized drawer and emerges clutching an envelope with Joshua’s name scrawled on the side. It’s heavy, and Joshua is stunned when he takes the wad of cash from Seokmin. Just at first glance he knows it’s too much.
“What… what did we sell?” Joshua asks, arm still extended, like he’s considering giving the money back.
“The black tea set.” Seokmin relocks the drawer. “But, Halmeoni also upped your cut. We’re doing well recently.”
What a kindness. Mrs. Lee didn’t have to do that, no matter how much traction her store was getting. Joshua pockets the money, feeling a little choked up with gratitude, unsure how to thank Seokmin for his family’s generosity.
“I really appreciate it,” Joshua says. “Let me—let me buy a coffee, then.”
“Sure!” Seokmin beams.
He takes the order and bolts back into the kitchen. There’s another voice in there, unfamiliar to Joshua, yelling about peach juice and pajeon, and when Seokmin returns there’s a laugh caught at the corner of his mouth.
Joshua pays and heads out. He wants to thank Mrs. Lee directly but she’s still deep in conversation with a customer—it will have to wait. Joshua can always text her later.
He can’t leave the dragons unsupervised for much longer.
“Didn’t I say not to claw the upholstery?” Joshua groans when he slides into the driver’s seat. The dragons bombard him, crawling up his chest, digging their claws into his thighs. Namu bats their wings and settles comfortably on Joshua’s head, like a fried egg perfectly balanced on a cup of rice.
Sigh. He can’t say he doesn’t enjoy it. They make him feel so—important.
Not for the first time, he wonders, what did he do to deserve this? Not enough, that’s for sure.
Joshua starts the car, careful to keep his neck straight so Namu doesn’t slide right off. Jangmi goes limp as a noodle, content in his hoodie pocket.
“How do you feel about chicken teriyaki take-out?” Joshua asks.
He means it rhetorically, but Nancho sits up so fast they lose their balance and tumble right onto Joshua’s feet, causing him to briefly press the gas. The car jolts forward before he can stop it. The tires bump forcefully against the parking block.
Joshua yelps. He slams on the brakes. A hand jumps up to cover his mouth. That could’ve—that could’ve been really bad. There’s a car not six inches in front of him.
“Back on the passenger seat, please.” He grits his teeth. These little devils.
They catapult themselves into the opposite seat. Nancho lands on top of Jangmi, their claws narrowly missing Jangmi’s wing.
At least they listen well.
Joshua buys them a ridiculous amount of chicken.
/
Dragons tuckered out, paycheque acquired, outfit arranged, Joshua Hong arrives at Viva Arbol in the nick of time.
It’s been a while since he had the free time—or funds—for Korean-Italian, but the place hasn’t changed a bit. Fake ivy climbs the frosty trellises outside. When he pushes open the heavy glass door, he’s accosted by the rich red smells of tomato, garlic, and fresh bread. Warm air instantly melts the snowflakes trapped on his shoulders.
Joshua braces himself. Okay. He’s ready. He’s got this!
He scans the room for a man matching Jeonghan’s description (Tall, overdressed, earrings, uh… he said he’d wear a boutonniere. Kim Mingyu. Hey. What the fuck is a boutonniere?) and sees no one at first glance. But—oh, is that him, sitting at the bar in black jeans and a button-down, thumbing through his phone?
Minghao is long. That’s Joshua’s first thought, before his eyes catch up to Minghao’s face and he thinks oh my god. Because he’s hot. Really hot. Bitchy eyebrows are Joshua’s biggest weakness. A curtain of dark hair falls across Minghao’s face, and as Joshua watches he flicks it back with one casual hand. His nails are painted a glossy black.
All of Joshua’s courage deserts him. He would’ve spun around, walked out, and made up some excuse for Jeonghan, had Minghao not looked up in that exact moment and seen him.
“Joshua-ssi?” Minghao lowers his phone. His eyes are prettier up close, dark and wide. There’s a sprig of baby’s breath and the head of a pink rose pinned to his chest pocket.
He looks at Joshua, for a moment, in utter shock.
“Hi,” Joshua says, warily, blinking slowly.
“Hi,” Minghao parrots. He composes himself; the shock slides off his face like it was never there.
“Would you like—”
“Do you wanna—”
They break into identical shy smiles, but somehow it’s not awkward. Minghao’s expression is soft and warm, totally at odds with the rest of his image. He slips off the barstool gracefully. When he searches Joshua’s face, he has to tilt his neck down a bit.
“Let’s get a table?” Joshua asks, suddenly breathless. His face feels like a summer’s day.
Minghao inclines his head politely. “Lead the way.”
The waitress sits them in a corner booth with dim orange lighting and a succulent nesting in the center of the table. Through the window, they can watch snowflakes gently flurry onto wet cement, and passerbys wrangle their coats tighter as they wait at the intersection.
“Do you have any recommendations?” Minghao flips through the menu. Joshua tries not to stare at his lean fingers.
“Oh, I usually just get the penne, it’s really good,” Joshua says, before realizing that makes him sound like an eight-year-old. “Or, um, the veal.”
Minghao makes a thoughtful little humming noise. “I think I’ll get the penne, then.”
Joshua relaxes.
They agree on a bottle of Cabernet. Minghao is soft-spoken and kind, deferring to Joshua’s preference on the wine and asking after his day like they’re already friends. It makes Joshua feel warm all over, and a little flustered. People aren’t usually this nice to him. What’s been in the water this week?
“What about you?” he says, just as a basket of steaming bread is deposited at their table. Banchan plates are quick to follow.
“My day was good.” Minghao folds his napkin in his lap. “Our latest shipment from Yunnan came in with no hassle. We’ve got this new blend of—” he pauses with a word in his mouth. “Sorry, I don’t know the name in Korean. 滇紅茶. Red tea?”
That’s right, Jeonghan had said he owns a tea shop.
“I have a confession to make,” Joshua says. “Before we take this any further.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know a single thing about tea.”
Minghao laughs.
The conversation flows from there, smooth and uninterrupted as a river. Their matching penne dishes are delivered in a cloud of aromatic steam and punctuated by grated cheese. It doesn’t quite taste like the penne from home, the kind Joshua used to scarf down at an Olive Garden after middle school choir shows, with his guitar case hanging proudly from the back of his chair—but it’s still good.
Joshua hasn’t been on a date in a while. When he first quit baristaing and launched his own business, almost three years ago now, the orders started piling in so fast that he could barely keep his head above water for the first six months. His pottery Instagram exploded with followers. Commissions, too. He remembers falling asleep in front of the kiln multiple nights a week.
He remembers slouching on Jeonghan’s couch and saying, “I don’t know where all this attention is coming from. I don’t think I deserve it, you know?”
Jeonghan had spitefully gone online and purchased an 80,000 won set of matching plates from Joshua’s shop, just to prove that he did deserve it. Jeonghan denied Joshua’s fervent attempts to give him a refund or discount.
Those were tough days. Work was art, and art was good, so work was good. But he was dog-tired. Things have slowed since then—radically slowed, recently—and it helped when Joshua hired the friendly couple two floors down to manage his company’s socials. Seungkwan does an amazing job.
Still. He always works weird hours. His circle of friends is small and tight-knit. He’s not lonely, of course not, that would be silly; he just doesn’t meet new people very often.
He’s forgotten how nice it can be.
Joshua learns that Minghao is two years younger than him and has lived in Korea for five years now. They share winter birthdays. They disagree on television (Minghao likes dramas, Joshua likes variety shows) and their mutual friends (Minghao claims that Mingyu could beat Jeonghan in a fistfight, Joshua disagrees because he knows better). Joshua learns that, when Minghao isn’t handling the logistics of an independent tea shop, he likes to dance and paint.
“You’re an artist,” Joshua realizes, with some measure of surprise.
Maybe Jeonghan was right about this, after all.
“I like art,” Minghao corrects.
“I would love to see your paintings sometime. If you’re comfortable sharing.”
“Okay. Sure.”
He might be imagining it, but Minghao’s ears look a little pink. Joshua tries to meet his eyes, to make sure he hasn’t overstepped, but the waitress returns at that moment to refill their water. It’s quiet in her wake.
Minghao straightens his shoulders and looks up. “You play guitar, right?”
“How did you—oh. Jeonghan really told you that?” Joshua laughs a little self-consciously. Music isn’t something he does professionally, or anything, it’s just a hobby. It’s not like ceramics.
Minghao scrutinizes him over his half-empty glass. “He mentioned it, I think.”
“I’m not very good.”
“I doubt that.”
Minghao sips his wine and places the glass delicately on the table. Their food is nearly gone already, and Joshua is shocked to realize the date is sort of… coming to a natural close. He doesn’t really want to leave. He likes talking to Minghao.
(He also likes looking at Minghao. Joshua could happily stare at his pretty face for, like, an hour without getting bored. Oh, man, is he turning into Vernon?)
“You’re not what I expected,” Joshua admits. He rests his elbows on the table, leaning closer, hoping not to be misunderstood. “I mean, you’re really…” He flaps a hand around. Feels his face heat up. “Cool.”
Minghao giggles. He’s cute like this, a flush on his cheeks, his teeth flashing. “Thanks. So are you.”
They wrap up the meal without dessert, and split the bill, but it doesn’t feel like they’re losing steam. Minghao wraps himself in a stylish chestnut-colored trench coat and leads the way outside.
Conversation slowly trails off. Hot anticipation uncurls inside of Joshua. He thinks he might know what’s coming next.
Minghao’s eyes flick down to Joshua’s mouth. Already there’s a snowflake caught on his eyelash. “Do you…”
Then Joshua’s phone rings.
The spell shatters. Reality rushes under the awning. Joshua wants nothing more than to slip his phone down the flood drain and listen to whatever Minghao was about to say, but—
It’s Vernon.
Joshua makes an apologetic face. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
Minghao nods emphatically. “Of course!”
Oh, he’s so nice. Joshua sighs, inwardly, and picks up the call. He buffers, for a minute, English lurking behind a closed door in his brain.
“Hi,” he manages after a split second too long. “What’s up? Now isn’t, like, a great time…”
“Dude, you need to come home.”
The pitch of his voice is slightly elevated, which, for Vernon, means he’s freaking out. Joshua frowns and shifts his weight. “Are you okay?”
“The place reeks of smoke and we think it’s coming from the fourth floor. Mr. Park is about to call the fire department, just in case, but do you know if there’s anything in your place that could’ve started a fire?”
“Oh my god,” Joshua says. His face goes numb. “Oh, my god, yeah, there’s—”
Three fire-breathing dragons living under my bed. Could something have caught on fire? Absolutely. His blood runs cold.
“I’ll be right there,” he promises. “I’m coming now. If the fire department gets there first, can you call me?”
“Yeah, okay. Do you want me to try breaking in?”
“No! No—just. Leave it. Be safe.”
Vernon already sounds distracted. There’s a loud noise in the background that might be Seungkwan panicking. “Okay. We will.”
Joshua hangs up and turns halfway towards his car before remembering that he’s on, like, the best date of his life. Oh, man. Seriously? He walks backward towards the parking lot, facing Minghao.
“I’m so sorry,” Joshua calls, fumbling for his keys in one pocket. Minghao’s forehead is creased with concern. “My—there’s a fire at my apartment, I really have to go. I had a great time. Thank you so much. Um.” He hops off the kerb, nearly slips on a patch of ice, and pops the driver’s side door. “Can I get your number?”
But Minghao, still standing under the awning, can’t hear him anymore. He gives Joshua a puzzled little wave. When the wind blows a flurry of snowflakes into his face, he flinches. Even from here, the redness of his nose is apparent.
He looks disappointed.
Joshua’s heart breaks a little as he gets into the car. He doesn’t look back, can’t look back, as he speeds off. So much for that first date. He’s gone and ruined it now. Minghao will never want to speak to him again.
And his apartment is apparently burning down. Joshua tries really hard not to cry into his steering wheel. Anxiety catches in his throat like a sob. What if the dragons get hurt? What if his neighbors get hurt? It will be Joshua’s fault. He should’ve known better than to leave three mythical creatures alone in his apartment even for two hours, he should’ve known...
The streets fly away beneath his wheel. Joshua has never driven so recklessly in his life, with his heart pounding hard enough to drown out the normal noises of evening traffic. Turning onto his street, he hits a little snowbank and almost spins out.
Joshua screws up his face. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry…
It’s okay, he tells himself, winging into the parking lot. It’s okay. He can fix it.
He runs upstairs, heedless of the reek of smoke, its bitter tang growing stronger as he passes Vernon’s doorway. There seems to be no one left in the building.
Joshua covers his nose and mouth with a sleeve as he unlocks the door. “Jangmi,” he calls, coughing on the last syllable. “Nancho? Namu?”
His living room is on fire.
Only slightly, he realizes, stepping into the room. Scorch marks are gouged into the wood, but only two spots are actually aflame—the towel he keeps by the pottery wheel to clean up spills, and one of his running shoes, laces undone.
Jangmi is actively rolling over the towel like they’re trying to scratch their back. They smother the flames with their body, lashing their tail, and squirm around until the fire dissipates. As Joshua watches, it’s extinguished entirely.
Namu and Nancho are attempting the same thing with Joshua’s shoe. They slide snakelike over its charred shape, huffing like they enjoy the heat, until the flame slowly, slowly flickers out.
Joshua coughs, wet and forceful. “What did you do?”
The fire department. They’ll be here any second. Joshua stumbles through the destruction and scoops up each dragon, holding them close to his chest. Jangmi struggles.
“Stop,” he snaps at them. “Look what you’ve done! You could’ve—you could’ve hurt people.”
They fall still.
There’s no time. Joshua slides the dragons underneath his bed, careful not to knock their wings together, and tosses them an extra pillow.
He says, emphatically, “Stay.”
Just in time. There’s a heavy knock at the front door.
Joshua rushes over and pulls it open. The smoke has started to dissipate, but it still casts a thin gray film over everything, and he has to blink his irritated eyes several times before he can accurately make out the man in the doorway.
He’s handsome and a little shorter than Joshua, his shoulders broad underneath the thick yellow uniform. “Seoul Fire Service,” he announces. “We received a call about a potential fire, sir. Are you the homeowner?”
Joshua coughs and locates a name tag. Kim Minseok. “I’m the renter,” he says. “But it’s okay, false alarm. The fire is out.”
“Could we come in?”
Joshua’s heart pounds. “I don’t want to waste your time, Kim Minseok-ssi—sorry you came all the way here—it’s just, it was an accident.” He lets the door swing open a touch farther and does a nervous little laugh. “Left a book on top of the kiln. One of those romance novels, you know, haha, totally silly of me.”
Minseok frowns. “We’ll help you clear out the smoke.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Mistakes happen, sir. Don’t feel obligated to fix the situation—that’s our job.”
Joshua almost caves. It would be so nice, he thinks, to hand the problem over to someone else. To let the firefighters throw open his windows and fan a few wet towels around.
But he knows what they’ll see: inexplicable claw marks. Piles of ash. Shedded scales. The disarming smell of reptiles, earthy and warm.
“Thank you,” Joshua says with feeling. “But, honestly, I’m totally fine. Just embarrassed.”
Minseok wavers. Joshua has no idea if there’s a legal requirement here, if his apartment has to be searched because it posed a direct threat to others’ property, not just his own. But he smiles politely and tries to look exhausted and hopes Minseok will grant him this privacy.
It works. Minseok glances back over his shoulder, at the two women waiting in the hall, and steps back.
“You’re sure it was a false alarm?”
“Yep.”
“Do you live alone, sir?”
“Yes.”
Minseok sighs. “Alright. Call us if you have any problems.” His voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “Or if you need fire insurance. I know a guy!”
They part after a few more platitudes. Joshua maintains his smile until the door finally closes, softly, a physical barrier between himself and the rest of the world.
Then he slides to the floor and cries.
/
Later, Joshua will walk downstairs and apologize to Vernon and Seungkwan and Mr. Park for scaring them. He’ll repeat the lie about the book and the kiln. Seungkwan will hug him tightly. Vernon will pat his back.
Later.
For now, he puts his head between his knees and wonders how the hell he’s going to pull this off.
Whatever the dragons do, he’s responsible for. He made them. He brought them into the world. That’s humbling, and terrifying, but now Joshua also considers how scared he was that the dragons might’ve been injured.
He loves them.
He loves them in ways he didn’t even know were possible—like it’s a physical sensation, a tug deep in his chest. A tension in his bones. An ache in the basement of his heart.
They deserve good lives, and he’s the only person who can provide that.
It feels oddly like becoming a parent overnight. His whole life has changed. Joshua can’t help feeling like he’s not the right person, that he doesn’t deserve this—this blessing and responsibility—and that someone else could take care of the dragons better than he ever could. Except... there’s no one else here. He doesn’t have a choice.
This is the piety of creation.
Joshua’s breath hitches. He wipes his snotty face on his sleeve, heedless of the ash, and blinks the last of his tears away. From the kitchen he fetches a glass of water and brings it to the dragons, who creep out from under the bed and nose into his lap, wings flat, apologetic and deferential.
“You have to be a secret,” Joshua whispers. His voice cracks. “Do you understand? You have to be safe.”
Nancho makes an unhappy yipping noise.
“I know,” Joshua soothes. “I’m sorry.”
He gathers the dragons in his arms and gently rocks them, back and forth, until they drift off to sleep. He stays awake for hours like that, until his arms go numb.
/
So far, Joshua is doing an excellent job at keeping the dragons a secret.
He orders frozen chicken in bulk. He dodges every potential opportunity where Vernon or Seungkwan might need to enter his apartment. During the day he entertains the dragons for several hours with games of fetch, hide-and-go-seek, and a rudimentary red light green light that they don’t really know the rules to. When night falls, they’re tuckered out and ready to sleep for a few uninterrupted hours. He keeps them happy and healthy and confined.
Joshua’s doing an excellent job up until the moment Yoon Jeonghan catches a whiff of something fishy.
“Are you home?” Jeonghan asks idly over the phone one afternoon. “I left a blanket on your couch. I need it back soon, Mingyu’s taking me on a picnic.”
“That’s been here for three months. I thought you’d gifted it to me.”
Jeonghan scoffs. “I’d never get you a used gift.”
“What about the box of Lotte chocolates that you ate half of?”
“What about the time you re-gifted me a personalized necklace with a J on it?”
Joshua groans. “We have the same first initial! Also, I still don’t know how you figured that out. I felt so bad about it.”
“Ah, don’t.” Jeonghan’s voice softens. “I look better in chokers anyway.” There’s a burst of static over the line like he just stepped into a gust of wind. “So, you’re home now, right?”
“Yeah, but I can just drop it off—”
“Too late! I’m coming up!”
Jeonghan hangs up. Joshua has a split second of pure, unadulterated panic.
His living room still looks like a nuclear war zone. There are claw marks on the couch. Soil from his potted plants is strewn over the wood. Nancho is pushing open the kitchen cabinets with their snout and making unhappy cooing noises while the other two dragons play-fight under the couch.
Absolutely none of this is fit for public consumption.
Joshua runs to the closet and grabs Jeonghan’s blanket. He has just enough time to throw himself outside his own front door, slam it behind him, and turn to be face-to-face with Jeonghan ascending the stairs.
He’s blonde again, which Joshua didn’t know, which sends a twinge of guilt down his spine. It’s been a while since they last saw each other. Jeonghan takes him in—the sweaty, nervous mess of him—and his smile fades.
“You didn’t have to bring it out for me.” Jeonghan accepts the blanket with open arms. “How nice of you. Are you feeling ill? You’re never this nice to me.”
“Don’t get used to it,” Joshua says, reflexively.
Jeonghan’s nose scrunches up like an accordion. They share a slimy smile that simultaneously signifies nothing and also signifies ten years of friendship. Gremlin-to-gremlin communication.
Then Jeonghan’s smile drops. “Hah. Where are you headed?”
“Oh, just. Going for a walk.”
“Perfect.” Jeonghan pivots and starts ungracefully down the stairs, weighted down by his overly large red blanket. “You can walk me out.”
“What are you up to today?” Joshua discreetly wipes a smear of ash off his sleeve.
“I think I’m going to ask Mingyu.” Here his voice drops conspiratorially. “To date me.”
Joshua nearly trips down the stairs. They break into the tiny foyer-mailroom, where a stack of packages balances precariously on the countertop. This shouldn’t be a surprise, considering how long Jeonghan has let Mingyu hang around, and how many aspects of their lives have become merged over the past few months, but. Joshua is still surprised.
He can’t help smiling at Jeonghan. He feels weirdly proud. “That’s awesome. So, you really like him?”
“I guess.”
Joshua holds the door for them both. It’s a crisp, sunny afternoon. A few errant brown leaves get kicked to the side as they loiter on the porch. Construction on an adjacent apartment building punctuates the air with regular booms.
“You guess,” Joshua repeats.
“He’s good to me,” Jeonghan admits. He looks down at the blanket, a funny little smile hanging around his face. “Even though he’s gotten to know me, he’s still good.”
“Well, he better be.”
“Also, his dick is seriously s—”
“Okay!” Joshua says loudly. “Got it. I don’t need to hear that again.”
Jeonghan hip-checks him and Joshua nearly trips into a putrid pile of leaf mulch. Cackling, Jeonghan tugs him back to safety and foists the blanket onto him.
“Mind holding that?” he asks, eyes twinkling. “You can walk me to the station and tell me about Myungho.”
Joshua adjusts the fabric in his arms as they step off the porch and head towards the metro station. They’re lucky they live only three stops apart—except in times like these when Joshua becomes a chaperone or an amatuer pack mule or just a source of entertainment for Jeonghan who is easily bored.
He’s gotten better at saying no to Jeonghan over the years. Not today, though.
“Oh,” Joshua says, absently, when the words sink in. “We had a nice time. I had to leave really quickly, I feel bad, I didn’t even get his contact information.”
“Do you want his number?”
“No, no, he’s probably upset with me. It’s better if I just let it go. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
Joshua probably didn’t deserve a first chance with Xu Minghao, let alone a second.
“He’s not.” Jeonghan cuts him a sideways glance. “Upset with you, I mean.”
Joshua slows to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. Across the street, a handful of children run screaming out of a laundromat, bursting through a full clothesline like human fireworks onto the asphalt. A gust of chilly wind rocks him onto his heels. He waits until Jeonghan turns around, brows high on his forehead, eyes sweet.
“You know that for sure?” Joshua asks. He can feel his eyes bugging out a little and takes a deep breath. Readjusts the neutral expression. “You’re not screwing with me?”
Jeonghan tucks his fluttering hair behind his ears. “Not about this. I know he thinks you’re cool.” He reaches into Joshua’s back pocket and takes his phone, ignoring his half-hearted sound of protest. “Let me share his Kakao. You should text him.”
Hope is a special thing. It makes Joshua Hong do silly things, like agree with Yoon Jeonghan.
Before they part, at the mouth of the metro station, Jeonghan takes the blanket back and convinces Joshua to send an innocuous message.
To: Xu Minghao
Hey! This is Joshua. I got your number from Jeonghan, hope that’s alright. I wanted to say sorry again for leaving so quickly last time, my apartment actually was on fire… but everything’s okay now. How are you?
Minghao, to his surprise, invites him out for tea.