Chapter Text
Taesan finds him down by the shore.
The wind from the waves is bitter cold. It bites with icy teeth, pimpling gooseflesh over the exposed bits of his skin, making him pull the blanket he carries closer. His quarry, annoyingly so, appears unaffected. Leehan sits on the beach by a sputtering fire dressed in only a loose shirt and trousers, a pillar unmoving in the wind and dark of night. Looking at him only makes Taesan feel colder. He approaches, heavy footfalls slipping in the sand, and comes to a stop just inside the ring of light cast by the flames. Leehan doesn’t look up at him. He just keeps staring out at the shifting tide, that same-old unreadable expression on his face. And Taesan stands there, waiting in this stalemate, unwilling to cede any more ground. It’s bad enough to come out here in the first place, seeking him like a lost child, begging for attention when the other clearly wants to be alone. He’s not going to be the one to speak first. Finally, after what feels like an aeon, Leehan graces him with some acknowledgement. His voice is so soft Taesan has to strain to hear it over the waves.
“You should go back inside. You’re gonna get cold”
“ I’m going to get cold?” Taesan scoffs.” You’re the one barely wearing anything. I’ve at least got a cloak” He bites back, winding the stolen blanket around his shoulders tighter. His tone is purposefully pointed, trying to get some kind of reaction out of the other man. But Leehan only shrugs. He’s sitting cross legged, hands resting gently on his knees. Taesan can see a sliver of exposed shoulder, past where his shirt has slipped, the firelight dappling over tanned skin. The sight is maddening, doubly so when he notices that the other man isn’t even shivering.
“....Fire’s warm.” Leehan replies, like it’s obvious, like Taesan is the weird one here. Not unkindly, Taesan has never known the other to contain even a shred of malice. Just in the manner of one stating a well-known fact. It infuriates him even more.
They lapse into silence again, and now is usually the point in conversation when Taesan would give up. Beat a retreat, slink back into his own world and leave Leehan to his. But he’s feeling petulant and spiteful and dogged today, so instead of turning right around and heading back to the cottage, he drops down into the sand beside Leehan. This finally elicits a proper reaction, the other man turning to stare with dark eyes blown wide in surprise. And now it’s Taesans turn to ignore him. He tucks the blanket around as much of himself as possible, staring the fire down like it holds the answers to his questions. Leehans gaze burns into the side of his face, warming his skin and chilling his core in equal measure.
Taesan sniffs, trying to work feeling back into his nose. Leehan blinks owlishly. Probably. Taesan can’t actually see him all that well from this angle, not unless he wants to turn to face him. He doesn’t. His courage and bullheadedness have propelled him this far, but now faced with the choice of staring down the dark or locking eyes with his elusive companion, the dark wins out. It’s safer. There’s nothing out there that can gaze upon him and find him lacking, no one whose disapproval can sting quite the same.
“Are you always down here?” Taesan asks in spite of himself, the silence sitting too uneasily for his liking. He’s perfectly fine with the quiet when he’s alone, but as soon as there’s another soul present he just can’t let it lie. Has to fill the air, usually with nonsense. Besides, this has been bothering him, like a burr stuck just under his skin. How at some point almost every night after he’s retired to the guest room he’s claimed, the front door will creak and the cottage will fall silent and still, dormant. And Taesan will wait with it, aching for a return he is too proud to seek.
Until tonight, that is.
“Most nights” Leehan replies, open and easy. Taesan is never sure if the other man is simply unaware of his feelings on the matter, or if he knows and just isn’t outwardly showing his reaction. He hopes it isn’t because Leehan doesn’t care. His ambivalence would injure far more than any tangible blade.
“What are you looking for? Is there even anything out there?” Taesans voice rankles with bitterness that he knows is uncalled for. His experiences with the sea have not exactly been pleasant as of late, but he’d be a true fool not to see how fond Leehan is of it. Fond isn’t even the right word. Entranced? Obsessed?
“I’m not looking for anything” Again, he is as calm as a still lake, and again Taesans hackles raise.
“Bullshit. What even is the point of sitting here in the cold then?”
Leehan sighs, the most agitated Taesan has ever heard him.
“You won’t understand”
The sadness in his voice is what finally draws Taesan to turn. He hadn’t been expecting it, and now looking at the grief plain on his companion's face, guilt floods his system, driving out the petulance. He doesn’t even know the reason why Leehan mourns and yet his heart aches in sympathy. The fight leaves him all at once.
“Try me. I’ll listen. I’ll even be quiet, promise”
Leehan huffs out a tiny, sad little laugh, head drooping down. His hair falls in a curtain over his face, shuttering him from the world, from Taesan. He longs to reach over. To bridge the gap between them, to push the hair back and cup his jaw and stare into those dark eyes.
“Another night” With his words Leehan digs another trench in the space between them. They’re so close as to be almost touching, and yet he feels miles away. Leehan is slipping through his fingers no matter how hard Taesan grips, and it stings panic deep in his chest.
So he does something stupid.
~~~~~~~
Taesan doesn’t remember being pulled from the ocean. Doesn’t recall much at all of those first days if he’s honest, and it’s not like Leehan is particularly inclined to remind him. His host had told him the plain facts: You washed ashore, wounded. You almost died. I brought you here to help and offered him the spare bedroom and-
And it’s been a month now and he hasn’t left.
There’s been ample opportunity. After the first week he had fully healed from his wounds. The medicines and poultices and gently spooned hot soup had sped his recovery, so there’s been nothing physically stopping him from getting up and walking out. And despite how isolated Leehans cottage feels, theyre actually quite close to the nearby village. Taesan could walk away and catch a ride and be miles away in no time at all. He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t thought about it.
But he also thinks about Leehan. A lot. Thinks about his soft brown hair falling into his eyes as he’d tended to Taesans wounds. His quick hands stringing bait onto fishooks. His strong arms hefting the axe to split firewood. The sweet, open smile that feels like it's just for him. Faced with that, with the prospect of leaving him behind, all thoughts of walking away seem inconceivable.
Besides, it’s not like he has anywhere else to get to. Taesan’s been drifting aimless through the world for some time now, picking up work here and there, enough to keep him fed and going. Three long years of travel (not running, Taesan doesn’t run , he’s not a coward) and there’s a large piece of him that longs for stability. Roots. A place to call home. He’d thought he’d found it that last time, had dared to stay longer than usual in a cute little town not too dissimilar to where he finds himself now.
He was a fool. Got too comfortable, too free. Forgot the lessons that had been burned into his head and heart by fire and blood. Taesan began to Practice again. And it’d been no time at all before it caught up to him.
By contrast to his first days next to Leehan, he remembers the moments before the ocean far too well. The baying of the Hunters' horses. The mad dash across rolling hills and bog. The inevitable fall. The rope, harsh and cutting into his wrists and ankles as he was dragged through mud and stone onto that ghastly ship. The knife biting, sawing, carving into him.
Their voices snarling Witch.
The cold plunge.
Darkness.
~~~~~~
Taesan moves with purpose, if not with grace, as he pushes himself up from the sand and into Leehans lap. It takes very little effort to swing one leg over to bracket the other man's hips, cold hands coming to rest like laurels on his shoulders. Leehans hands spring up to help automatically, and end up pulling the blanket back up from where it’d slipped, snug around them both. Even now, when Taesan is being unfair, Leehan is still caring for him. It ignites the fire smoldering in his gut into an open blaze.
The kiss is electric. Leehan is somehow so warm despite the cold night, his lips soft as silk. The moan he lets out as Taesan winds hands into his hair is downright sinful. He’d been mostly expecting Leehan to pull away, to scorn his sudden, impulsive advance. But Leehan does no such thing. Instead of pushing away, he draws Taesan in, winding an arm around his lower back and settling him further in his lap. Taesan kisses fast and hard and desperate, the frustrations of the night, of this week, of everything boiling over and being funneled and distilled into desire. And Leehan weathers him, stays solid and grounding, though no less intense. Leehan is the first to open his mouth, to lick into Taesan, to intertwine them more. He tastes of salt spray and woodsmoke and the slightest hint of the chamomile tea Taesan had brewed them earlier. Taesan immediately wants to bottle this essence of him. He’s selfish to his core, covetous, possessive. He wonders at what it would be like to keep Leehan, to be kept by him, and the shock of want that thought inspires drives him even further into the other.
He’s achingly turned on already just from kissing, head spinning, only staying grounded by the firmness of Leehans hands on his hips through the blanket. The slick-slide of their tongues sounds obscene against the quiet of the night. He shoves a hand under Leehans shirt, wanting, needing to feel the soft plane of his stomach unburdened by fabric. Leehan hisses, pulling away slightly.
“Cold hand, that tickles” He murmurs against Taesans lips, 25 percent reproachful, the rest teasingly fond.
“Warm me up, then” Taesan bats back, also unwilling to fully break the kiss. But he does pull his hand back and tuck it under the blanket in between them, grasping at Leehans side through the barrier of cotton. He can be patient for a while, if only in service of not getting shoved away, not yet. He’s barely had a taste of Leehan, not nearly enough to have his fill.
Leehan rewards his good behavior by shifting his mouth to Taesans neck, kissing his way across his cheek, his chin, the underside of his jaw. Taesan throws his head back to accommodate, clumsy in his eagerness. His skin buzzes where Leehan touches. Taesan never knew that lips could sear like this, could leave him so breathless and flustered and wanting. He’s had trysts, here and there. Meaningless nights with strangers he’d never seen again. But this is different, leagues apart. There is no piece of him that wishes to disappear after tonight, not when Leehan is busy sucking a bruise into the side of his neck, the pleasure-pain melding deliciously. Taesan feels borderline drunk off of it.
He feels even less sober when Leehan whispers into his neck “You know, it’ll be warmer inside”
“God- fuck, yeah” He agrees, punctuating with kisses, making no attempt to hide his frantic desire. Leehan laughs softly, resting his forehead in the crook of Taesans neck. It’s adorable enough that he pauses, just for long enough to savor it, before he’s fumbling his way out of Leehans lap. If he’s lucky, they’ll have plenty more times after this to go slow, to bask in togetherness and stretch the pleasure out. But he’s a taut wire primed to snap, too impatient and worked up to justify staying a minute longer than he has to on this beach. Not when a proper bed awaits them.
Walking up the gentle incline back to the cottage proves difficult, entangled together as they are, unwilling to part for longer than a moment.
They manage.
~~~~~~
“Let me fix that”
Leehan looks up from where he’s stringing a fish hook onto a new line. They’re in the living room, Taesan bundled up on the couch practically swimming in blankets, Leehan perched on a stool by his worktable. Leehans eyes follow where Taesan is pointing, to the rip in the fabric of his shirtsleeve. He frowns, bemused.
“You don’t have to, it’s okay”
Taesan flings a hand over his eyes, groaning loudly. Leehan barely bats an eye at his dramatics. He’s used to this by now, after only a week spent together. Taesan’s healed enough to walk, but his energy is still so low that he’s been practically melded to the couch. There’s only so much more reading of Leehans small novel collection and staring at the giant fish tank he can do before he fully loses it.
“If I don’t do something with my hands soon I'm going to go insane . Besides, it’s annoying me. And I like mending things. I’m good at it, I promise” He cajoles, fully aware of his pout and unwilling to hide it.
Leehan observes him for a long moment, long enough that Taesan wants to squirm away, regretting saying anything. And then he’s pulling the shirt off in one clean motion, no warning, no time to protest. Taesan chokes on his own spit. He’s suddenly faced with the spectacle of Leehan shirtless, grinning down at him. He tries not to look, but well. He’s only a man. And Leehan is a particularly beautiful distraction, all soft, tanned skin broken up by faded scars and the hint of lean muscle.
Luckily, Leehan gives him something else to focus on by throwing the shirt into his lap.
“I think the threads in one of the drawers? Be right back” He says, turning away to the kitchen. Merciful and yet cruel because now Taesan can see the smattering of moles on his back and all he can think about is tasting them one by one. He returns with a smile of victory, needle and thread clutched in one raised hand, and deposits them also in Taesans lap before turning back to his task. He doesn’t put another shirt on, because he hates Taesan and wants him dead. There could be no other possible reason.
Harrumphing to himself, Taesan focuses on the problem at hand, promising himself to not look up again till it’s done. Practiced hands thread the string through the eye and tie it off, and then it’s just a matter of repetition for the stitches to pull the shorn fabric back together. It’s easy to sink into mindlessness, with his hands occupied with a familiar task and the room quiet aside from their shared breaths.
It’s only when he pulls the needle through the final stitch that he realizes his mistake. The cord thrums in that slight little way it always does, his power resonating through it as the spell takes hold. Numbly, he ties off the end, severing the stray thread. The scar from the rip is almost imperceivable now, both to the eye and to the touch. Taesan thumbs the tiny bump of it as he surveys his handiwork, anxiety swirling in his gut. It’s not a complicated charm. Just something to ward the fabric against tearing again, enough to render it slightly more hardy. The tiniest pinch of Will exerted, though accidental.
He’d gotten into bad habits in his previous lodgings, bandying his gift around freely, and it seems his stint as an invalid hadn’t rid him of them. Troublesome.
For a brief moment he considers ripping the damn stitches out and starting afresh. He discards the idea immediately. It’s a waste of thread, of Will, when he’s done a perfectly fine job as is. The chance anyone would notice such a charm is miniscule, the risk not nearly enough to justify redoing the whole thing. Besides, he obviously can’t be trusted with the thread right now, not if he’s going to go accidentally magicking things like this. Well, not Magicking. He can hear his Mothers voice scolding him in his head now.
The first he’d really learnt of how their powers worked, she’d taken him out into her garden. He can still feel the cool earth beneath his hands and warm sunlight on his skin, can smell the fragrance of myriad herbs on the wind.
“What we do isn’t magic.” She’d instructed, as serious as she ever got. Taesan had been an unruly child, but even then he’d known the discussion was important enough to sit still. ”True Magick, the type of power leveraged through your Will alone, is exceedingly rare and even more dangerous. What we do is not that. We Practice. The Practice requires a conduit other than yourself, materials or Channels through which your Will flows. Anything can be used in a pinch, if you’re clever enough, but you’ll find what fits best for your own Practice. Some things resonate easier than others, call to us, produce better spells.”
“Like your potions!” He’d exclaimed, proud at his own deduction. His Mother had smiled down at him, just as warm as the sun. He can barely recall the shape of her face now, but he still remembers the feeling of that smile turned towards him.
“Yes, exactly like my potions. Can you think of any other Channels?”
He’d thought about it quite seriously. Scrunched his eyebrows up and put his hand on his chin in a comical imitation of his Father and everything. His Mother had to hide her snort of laughter behind her hand.
“Aunty Lia uses her plants! And Uncle Z has his cards and-and his crystals?” He’d guessed, brightening at the encouraging nod she’d sent him.
“So perceptive!” She’d ruffled his hair, sweet and soft, messing up the careful layers as he squirmed away. He’d been too excited at the sudden thought of finding his own Channel to sit still anymore.
“Mama, what will mine be?”
“I don’t know! But that’s part of the fun of it, finding out. It’ll come to you, eventually, and I’ll be right here to guide you.”
It was only a few years later that he’d picked up a needle and thread and felt that resonation, the sensation of his Will extending and had known he’d found his place. And he’d been happy, for a time. Unburdened. The thought is alien to him now. He wonders what his Mother would think now seeing him like this, gut twisted up over such a tiny charm. Would she be disappointed that he shies away from who he is? Or would she understand his pragmatism, his desire for survival above all else.
He can’t know now. The Hunters made damn sure of that when they razed his village to the ground. They hadn’t cared that they were peaceful, that they were Practitioners rather than the Witches they’d been taught to hate. They’d just seen an enemy, a pest to eradicate. A threat .
Taesan doesn’t feel like much of a threat right this second, caught up over a fucking scrap of fabric. And of course it’s in that moment of weakness that Leehan approaches.
He hasn’t noticed the other rising from his stool and padding over to the couch, so wrapped up he is in his own mind. But he’s suddenly painfully aware, as Leehan leans over the armrest into his space and runs a finger over the now whole shirtsleeve.
“You are good at this, it looks brand new.”
Taesan clears his throat, turning away. He’s usually good at taking praise, especially when well-deserved. But his mind is too busy dealing again with the fact that Leehan is still shirtless and right there. For once bereft of words, he pushes the shirt into Leehans hands. Thankfully, for the sake of his heart, Leehan pulls it on with another placid smile and retreats back to his work.
That should’ve been the end of it. He should’ve realized his mistake and course corrected, pulled back. He should’ve been smart.
But the next day there’s a box waiting for him outside his door, filled to the brim with crafting supplies. Paints and paper, spare fishing line, a collection of buttons and beads and shiny rocks. Best of all, there’s the needle and thread, and a small pile of fabric scraps and torn clothing. It sets his heart singing, blush seared onto his cheeks for the rest of the morning. In the face of such a gift, and the hospitality he continues to receive, what is he to do but repay it the only way he can?
He starts small. Tiny charms of twine and beads hung on windowsills and stitched into clothing. For warmth, for protection, for mending. But the supplies keep coming and his hands remain busy and before he knows it the cottage is filled to the brim with wards and charms and spellwork. His flimsy justification is that they’re the only ones who’ll see them, that his problem the last time had been his lack of subtlety. He’d started trading, been open about his Practice, trusted those around him. He’d paid for that dearly with his flesh and blood, nearly his life. But it's only him and Leehan in the cottage, the village far enough away for privacy with few visitors. It’s as safe a haven he could have hoped for.
So he keeps his mouth shut and his hands full of Projects. And everytime he adds something new, Leehan will inevitably notice. Will pick it up and examine it in the middle of cooking, or on his way in from the water catch in hand, and he’ll compliment it. Never anything about the spellwork of course, Leehan’s just a human. But the craftsmanship, the colors, the arrangement. Little things few others would notice, paired with that beautiful, lethal smile.
In the face of that , how could he be expected to stop?
~~~~~~
Taesan snuggles into Leehans side, pressing his nose into the crook of his neck. They’re both sweaty and sticky and honestly pretty gross, but a little discomfort is worth it for the calming press of skin against skin. Leehans bigbbed is far comfier than the double in Taesan’s room, the sheets a soft flannel. They’ve kicked most of them off by this point, somewhere in between rounds one and two.
“If it’s gonna be that good every time I think i’ll have to keep you” Taesan murmurs into his neck. Leehan snorts, eyes closed, smile not budging an inch.
“You’re keeping me? Wouldn’t it be the other way round? You’re the one in my house”
Taesan sighs dramatically, making sure to exhale directly into his skin, delighting in the shiver and the goosebumps that follow. He can’t help his desire to push for a reaction, for proof that Leehan is right here against him, and won’t squirm away no matter how much of a pain he is.
“Well if you’re going to be pedantic about it, I suppose you can keep me instead”
Leehan hums, pleased.
“Good. I was worried you’d leave soon, but… I'm so glad you’re staying.”
It’s achingly sweet, spun candy melting on his tongue. He should lie here and burrow closer to Leehans warmth and savor it. But Taesan is unpracticed at savoring. He’s spent years looking for the catch, for the danger hidden behind the comfort. He’s worn a collar of spikes for so long that turning them outwards is less intentional and more reflex.
“Even if it’s dangerous for you, being around me?” The words spill out and he regrets them the second they leave his lips. For someone with a gift for mending, he sure is good at tearing nice things apart. But Leehan doesn’t seem offended. His tone is just as sweet and reassuring as he says the five little words that flip Taesan’s world upside down.
“Why? Because you’re a Witch?”
Taesans heart stops in his chest, and a wretched lurching beast takes up its mantle. He sits upright, abrupt and shaking, pulse ringing in his ears. This can’t be happening. Some strange, awful nightmare has leached into the real world and sucked him in.
“What?” Is all he can manage to say, tongue tied up and lost with the rest of his mind in panic. Leehan is looking up at him with those big brown eyes brimming full of concern. His hand is gentle and yet firm as he clasps it around Taesans wrist.
“It’s okay, the town's safe-”
He doesn’t let him finish, still caught up on the very first thing Leehan said, breath stuttering in his chest and ribs winching inwards.
“I’m not a fucking Witch!” He spits, half poison and half pure, distilled fear. Leehan sits up at that as well, and if he wasn’t in real danger of falling off of the bed Taesan would squirm away. But his limbs are leaden and his head is swimming and he wishes so badly to go back in time before he’d opened his stupid mouth.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand” Leehan stutters as a confused frown spreads over his face. “You made all the charms and wards, right?”
Taesan may not always consider himself the most intelligent. He’d call himself more sharp-witted than anything, fast on his feet and with his words, a good problem solver. But there’s something about Leehan that throws him, pulls him off kilter and shrouds his quick words with a tangle of apprehension. So when he replies it’s a muddled mess of a thing. Mindless.
“Yes, but how did you-I’m not a Witch! I’m a Practitioner, but I don’t- you knew ?” He manages to grind out, more of an accusation than a question.
Leehan flushes, guilt writ large upon his face.
“Yeah” He murmurs, deathly quiet. Fear and rage cease to be distinct to Taesan. They meld together in an awful brew within him, bubbling in his gut. The only thing clear in his mind is that he won’t let what happened with the Hunters happen again. He can’t be blinded by his affection for Leehan, not when the stakes are so high, when a wrong move could mean a death sentence.
“ How ?”
Taesan is expecting…. Actually he has no fucking idea what to expect. In three years of traveling alone, of secret practice, of nights spent warming strangers beds to stave off the cold, the only time his powers have been acknowledged is when he’s told someone of them up front (with a very notable exception. The dagger wounds on his chest ache). There’s been the occasional encounter with another magical being, but with the prevalence and aggression of Hunters in this part of the world most keep to themselves these days. He’s never heard of a human possessing the Sight, the ability to see beyond the physical world, to know the magic hidden beneath the mundane. But Leehan is just that. A human. His presence doesn’t register like a little twinge in the back of his mind or give off the slightest hint of aura, the telltale signs for those more than mortal. And yet he knows. If Leehan weren’t human, Taesan would be able to tell. Wouldn’t he?
The moment stretches on, as his mind races and Leehan watches him with wide, glassy eyes and his hand still loose around Taesan’s wrist. He’s taut as a drawn bowstring, ready to run, maybe even ready to attack. And then Leehans head drops like a marionette with its strings cut, a grimace marring his face.
“I’m sorry for scaring you. It…” He sighs thickly, nose wrinkling. “It’ll be easier to show you”
Leehan slides off the bed opposite of Taesan. The sudden movement and the loss of Leehan’s grip spurs him upright as well, making the bed into a barrier. Wasn’t it only a scant hour ago that Taesan was wishing to bridge the gap between them? How strange, how ironic that now he’s the one pulling away. But his heart still wants to draw closer and that’s the only thing keeping him in the room as Leehan drops to his knees and fishes underneath the bed for something.
He doesn’t meet Taesans eyes as he drags out the small chest and lifts it onto the bed between them. There’s a tense set to his shoulders, an uncharacteristic hesitancy to his movements. Leehan looks afraid and Taesan desperately wants nothing more than to reach out and soothe him. It’s his own fear that stays his hand. Especially when he registers that the chest itself is magic, covered in spiraling runes that to the naked eye just look like scratches. He lets the Sight shroud his eyes for a moment just to double check, and to his now heightened senses they’re all lit up, flickering as though by candlelight and gently undulating over the wooden surface of the lockbox. He can’t read them from this far away, but he can guess well enough at their purpose, to keep whatever is within safe and secure and hidden from eyes both magical and mundane. Anxiety is swelling to a fever-pitch within him.
Leehan leans down over the chest, not bothering to brush his hair out of the way of his face as he whispers something indistinct into the lock. Obviously a passcode of some kind, as the runes flash white and then fade, the lock at the front opening with an audible click. His hands are shaking as he pulls the lid up and steps back. Compelled by curiosity and dread in equal measure, Taesan leans in to look.
It takes him a second to even parse what he’s peering down at. At first he thinks it’s just a bundle of fabric, dark brown and stained, dumped in a heap. But then the smell of saltwater and musk hits his senses and he feels like he’s drowning all over again because he knows what that is and he has to grip the bedpost to not fall over as his knees go weak.
Because that’s not a bundle of fabric lying limp in the chest.
It’s a seal pelt. A Selkie’s pelt. Leehans pelt .
And it’s been torn apart.
~~~~~~