Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

Infinitea is located thirty minutes north of Joshua’s apartment, off the blue line, halfway down a cobblestone alley in the heart of a posh and quiet neighborhood. Several high-end retail establishments are nestled into the adjoining building. Armani. Coco Chanel. Louis Vuitton. Brands that Joshua has never touched in his life, but that he can imagine Minghao wearing.

He’s expecting Infinitea to be equally as upscale, but—it’s cozy. Quaint. A bell rings softly when Joshua pushes open the door.

The first thing Joshua notices are the plants. Greenery of all shapes and sizes dominate the space; a row of ferns hang from wicker baskets above beautiful mahogany tables; succulents dot the stained glass windowsill. In every corner there’s a ficus or a palm. Tucked between the plants are secret little cove-like booths and fluffy chairs. The sound of running water trails faintly through the space.

It’s, in a word, paradise.

Joshua has to reach up and touch his own mouth to make sure that he isn’t visibly gaping. Holy wow.

He navigates slowly through the melee to the register, where an intricate set of what he assumes are coffee-making machines sit—he’s not an expert, okay—beside rows upon rows upon rows of wooden cylindrical tea canisters.

The kitchen door swings open and Minghao strides out. He looks different here, more relaxed, his hair fluffy and unstyled, his sleeves rolled artfully to the elbow. He looks like all of Joshua’s softest, most domestic fantasies.

“Hi,” Minghao calls, not looking up, his eyes glued to the tablet in his hands. “What can I get for you t—ah.” He meets Joshua’s eyes. Blinks rapidly. Breaks out into this gorgeous little smirk. “Hi, Joshua.”

“Hi,” Joshua says dumbly.

“Your cardigan looks nice.”

“Oh!” He looks down at his ratty lavender cardigan. Minghao complimenting his clothes? “Thanks, yeah, it’s really soft.” He extends an arm over the counter without really thinking about it. “Do you wanna feel?”

Minghao giggles. His whole face folds into the laugh, in a really charming way, and when his fingers arrive to caress the purple fabric over his wrist, Joshua’s heart skips a beat. Silly. What an effect Xu Minghao has on him.

“Ah,” Minghao sighs, retracting his hand. “Really soft. I might have to buy one for myself.”

You can just borrow this one, Joshua thinks, but the mental image of Minghao in a soft purple cardigan that smells like his own laundry detergent is enough to stall Joshua’s higher processing skills. Oops.

He clears his throat and refocuses. Tea house. Right.

“What do you recommend?”

Minghao goes quiet and narrows his eyes, like he’s looking deep into Joshua’s soul. It might be an intimidating expression from anyone else, but Minghao is soft-spoken and kind and has done nothing but make Joshua feel good about himself.

So it feels less like judgement and more like appreciative appraisal. Like Minghao is checking him out, down to the bone. Joshua self-consciously stands a little straighter.

“How do you take your coffee?” Minghao asks, already reaching for a mug.

“I like it with milk and sugar. Um, sometimes vanilla syrup.”

“Any allergies?”

“Nope.”

“Great. I’ll make you a London Fog.”

“Is that tea?”

Minghao purses his lips into a smile. “Hyung. Yes, it’s tea.”

Joshua lifts his hands, laughing helplessly. “I told you I don’t know anything! You have to explain, like, the basics. All I know is that leaves are involved.”

“Leaves are involved,” Minghao mouths, his hands a whirlwind behind the counter, flicking levers and pulling dark steaming liquids from unknown places. He’s unreasonably graceful in that tiny space. “You’re hopeless. Can you name any type of tea?”

“Black tea!”

“Okay. Great.”

“And… Lipton?”

Minghao peers at Joshua over his glasses. “That’s a brand. A really bad one. Don’t tell me you drink Lipton tea, please, it will break my heart. Just lie.”

Joshua stutters into laughter trying to defend himself. It’s a lost cause. He pulls out his wallet as Minghao finishes the drink and slides over a steaming, milky mug. To his credit, it smells fantastic.

Minghao waves his card away. “On the house. I invited you here.”

“Thank you,” Joshua says, unreasonably touched. He likes to do the same—offer friends and family free pieces—but he knows not every small business owner is able or willing to do so.

He and Minghao seem oddly alike. He enjoys that.

Minghao abandons his apron somewhere behind the counter and sticks his head in the back to shout, “Chan-ah! I’m going on break.”

They find an empty corner of the tea shop to sit in, a sunny booth surrounded by glass windows that overlook a little garden. From this vantage point, Joshua can’t see the source of the running water, but the sound is loud and soothing in the background. Ivy brushes his ankles when he sits.

“This place is beautiful,” Joshua says, and something in his tone must come across as reverent because Minghao’s face goes soft and serious.

“Thank you. I worked really hard on it.”

“You’ve done an amazing job.”

“Mingyu built these.” Minghao taps the booth’s table, that same gorgeous dark wood that dominates the indoor space. “I commissioned him. It took nearly six months, and I thought for sure I’d go bankrupt in the first month of business, but… we’re still here.”

Joshua feels their boots brush against each other underneath the table. He flushes. “I’m really glad.”

Minghao sips from his own mug—something clear and green and sweet, judging by the aroma—and levels Joshua with another intense stare. He’s good at that. At looking. Joshua looks back, halfway to infatuation already.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” Minghao suddenly asks.

Joshua’s stomach drops. “From—?”

“We met once before. I didn’t expect you to recognize me, don’t worry.”

“Oh, my god.” Joshua’s hands clench around his mug. “I am so sorry. No, I don’t think I remember, I… when was it? With Jeonghan?”

“No, it was about five years ago now,” Minghao muses, tapping his fingers against his mug. The shock must be apparent on Joshua’s face, because he quickly adds, “You were busking on the steps at Chung-Ang.”

Unexpected. Joshua manages an, “Oh.”

“I came and sat on the bench near you. It was my first weekend in Korea, and I’d accidentally signed with an entertainment company that was about to go bankrupt.” Minghao’s throat bobs. “I’d never been so lonely in my whole life. It’s silly, but. I started crying. You noticed, and then you stopped playing to talk to me. I couldn’t understand it. But then you played a song that made me stop crying.”

Oh. Oh. Joshua does remember.

He remembers the warm spring evenings he used to spend wandering down to the grassy Chung-Ang campus, pretending he wasn’t so different from the kids there, even though he’d never made it to college. He remembers sitting on the steps to the student union, underneath a cherry blossom tree. That was back when he had two friends in the whole country: Jeonghan and Maple, his guitar.

The face of the boy he saw that night—because Joshua remembers that night more vividly than most—is still clear in his mind. Cute button nose. Short dark hair. Puffy eyes. Rumpled sweatshirt.

The boy caught his eye because he looked so different from the put-together college kids. His posture sagged; he looked more like a lost, gangly puppy than an undergraduate. When he started crying, Joshua almost threw his guitar away in his haste to sit next to him, and gently touch his shoulder, and say, “Hey, it’s okay. 괜찮아요.”

But the boy hadn’t responded to Joshua in Korean or English. He hunched inwards and refused to meet Joshua’s eyes, embarrassed and closed-off. So Joshua went back to his guitar, an uneasy pit in his stomach, feeling jittery and heartache-y.

He remembers singing for that kid. Not the song, particularly, but the feeling of it—how his own voice filled his chest, clear as a bird, purposeful and soothing. He remembers the weirdly intense eye contact they made, how the boy’s shoulders relaxed and his tears dried.

Until Joshua glanced down at his guitar for the final chord change. When he looked up, the boy was gone. Music hummed in the air. A nearby group of girls in parkas clapped politely.

He’d forgotten about the whole exchange.

Until now.

“That was you?” Joshua asks, a lump in his throat. He can’t reconcile the image of that sad boy with what he knows of classy, successful, charming Xu Minghao.

Minghao does a little twirling bow with his hand. His ears are pink. “That was me. I couldn’t believe it, when you walked into the restaurant. Like something out of my dreams. I’d always—” He looks sharply down at the table. “I’d always wanted to thank you. For cheering me up. It’s kinda pathetic, but I thought of you so often afterwards.”

Joshua has to glare at the ceiling and bite his bottom lip hard to keep from tearing up. Minghao wanted to thank him? He cheered Minghao up? The concept is so unexpected, so humbling, that Joshua is at a total loss for words.

His silly little guitar sessions meant something. He’d made a difference in someone else’s life, however small.

Joshua clears his throat. His voice wobbles anyway. “There’s no need to thank me. I wish I could’ve done something more. I worried about you afterwards.”

“It was enough.” Minghao shakes his head, reaches across the table to lay his warm hand over Joshua’s. “To know that you’d seen me. That you’d tried.”

Joshua breaks into a startled little laugh. It’s an inappropriate response, and he instantly feels guilty, but Minghao grins, too, so it’s okay. They both discreetly wipe their eyes and take deep breaths. Joshua recenters himself. A catharsis settles over the table.

Well, Joshua hadn’t expected that out of today.

“You’ve come a long way since then,” he says softly.

Minghao nods. “I’m in a good place now, don’t worry. That kid turned out just fine.” His eyes latch onto Joshua’s face. “You still play guitar, right?”

He doesn’t remember the last time he touched Maple. She’s probably horrifically out of tune. “A little.”

“I’d love to hear it again one day,” Minghao says, sweet and straightforward.

Their conversation shifts to easier topics. Weekly routines, their childhood extracurriculars, nearby sushi restaurants, Standing Egg (a mutual favorite group!), fruity cocktails, difficult Korean idioms. They spend a long time laughing and commiserating about how difficult it was to first adjust to Seoul.

Talking to Minghao is easy. Time flies. It’s a little disappointing when Joshua drains the last of his—what was it called? London Fog. He’ll have to remember that.

“This was delicious, thank you.” He wiggles the empty mug.

Minghao nods seriously. “I know. It’s one of our best.” His eyes dart to the register, where a posse of elderly men with newspapers under their arms have collected. They’re gesturing energetically at a frightened-looking guy with a handsome jaw and an Infinitea visor. “I should get back to Chan soon, but—could you wait out here for a minute? I want to give you something.”

“Oh, that’s okay!” Joshua stands with Minghao, his heart jumping. “You don’t have to give me anything, I didn’t—”

I didn’t get you anything, he thinks. It’s not fair if he receives free tea and a gift on this date. He ruined the last one, doesn’t Minghao remember?

But Minghao waves him off and ducks behind the counter. He pauses to check on Chan, then disappears into the back room, his shoes squeaking on the linoleum.

Joshua wonders how on Earth he can worm his way into a third date. Because he wants one. Badly.

Minghao returns with a wooden canister that he presses into Joshua’s hands. Their fingers briefly tangle. He ducks his head a little and looks serious.

“This is a lavender chamomile blend. It’s meant to be relaxing, and I drink it when I can’t sleep.” Minghao’s sombriety cracks. He smiles. “But it’s also delicious. With a little honey, I think you’d like it.”

“Thank you.” Joshua clutches the tea like it’s made from flakes of gold.

“Text me what you think.” Minghao squeezes his wrist and glances back at Chan, who is nearly finished juggling the posse of men. “Maybe we could hang out again next week?”

“I’d love to,” Joshua says as he pulls away. “I’ll text you. For sure.”

He leaves the shop with a stupid, silly little smile on his face and stupid, silly little butterflies dancing in his belly. That was so… nice! Fun. Sweet. Not scary, not like he’d imagined after leaving Minghao high and dry.

He wants to do it again.

Joshua takes the train home and daydreams, daydreams, daydreams…

/

The lavender-chamomile blend is delicious. Joshua drinks two cups that night, sitting upright in bed, letting his muscles relax one by one, feeling the stress of the past few weeks slough off with every deep breath—then brews another cup because Jangmi won’t stop sticking their snout into his. Greedy nuisance.

All three dragons crowd around their offering and lap gently at the tea. Honestly, they look ridiculous with their thin forked tongues catching a single droplet at every attempt. Nancho is more interested in gnawing on the handle of the mug, but. It keeps them entertained.

Twenty minutes later they’re all dead asleep.

Joshua covers his mouth with one hand to keep from laughing. The bed shakes underneath him. Minghao did say to drink it before bedtime, didn’t he?

He takes a few pictures of the dragons, passed out belly-up in his sheets. Idly he wishes he could post the photos somewhere, to show off these beautiful creatures, at least to his friends and family.

But he has no idea how they’d react. Joshua himself is still in shock; he doesn’t want to burden anyone with carrying a secret like this.

He pats Namu’s soft, scaly belly. This is alright for now.

/

A month or so into parenthood, Joshua is forced to acknowledge that he’s avoiding the kiln.

He’s made a few bowls recently, filled an order or two, but nothing else. Part of him is worried. He has no explanation for how the dragons came to be, and thus no way of stopping it from happening again. Animals are often incorporated into his designs—what if he makes a vase with snake handles that spring to life? What if the cherry blossoms etched onto his cutlery grow real petals? What if his next mug is sentient?

The fear is enough to stall his business. He can’t make an official statement that he’s halting production, because his friends and family would freak. Plus, he does need the money. So he just lets the orders slowly, slowly pile up. He shelves anything he deems too risky.

Minghao is a wonderful distraction.

Joshua texts him on-and-off for a week or so before an opportunity arises for date number three. Minghao invites him over to his apartment, across the river in Mapo-gu. Joshua is surprised to remember that he’s actually been there once before, when he picked up a hungover Jeonghan for brunch, and he can recall the tall, boxy building with relative clarity.

They could’ve met so much earlier, he laments.

The drive is only about twenty minutes. Joshua panic-buys a bouquet of flowers at a corner stop on the way, ivory gardenias and baby’s breath punctuated by a handful of yellow tulips. His hand crinkles the protective paper as he approaches the door to Minghao’s apartment… where he hesitates. Joshua dressed a little nicer tonight, despite their plans to stay in and watch the livestream of a concert, and suddenly he wonders if this is all Too Much.

Nice clothes. Flowers. Cologne he borrowed from Jeonghan last year and still hasn’t given back. Is he trying too hard? Is he coming on too strong?

It’s too late to change anything now, though. Joshua takes a deep breath and knocks. He sticks a hand in his pocket to appear more casual and feels something cool and sharp against his fingertips. He pulls out a bright green scale. Namu’s scale.

Oh, shoot. Without thinking, he chucks it down the hallway.

Immediately, Joshua regrets it. Someone could find the scale, take it to a veterinarian’s office, and discover a strange claylike DNA strand that would shatter the world of science. Obviously, he can’t let that happen. So he bolts down the hallway, squatting to peer under the threshold of the neighbor’s door. It landed over here somewhere…

Hinges squeak. A voice calls, “Joshua?”

Joshua turns over his shoulder so fast his spine cracks. Pastes a frozen smile onto his face. “Hi.”

Minghao blinks. He is, in fact, dressed down today, in stylish ripped jeans and a fluffy, oversized sweater that gives Joshua’s heart the spins. Light from his apartment spills into the dim hallway—enough to catch the face of Namu’s scale and illuminate it, tucked nearly underneath the corridor’s crown moulding. Joshua snatches it and stands up, discreetly slipping the scale deep into his back pocket.

“Are you… okay?” Minghao asks.

“Yeah! Just dropped a hundred won,” Joshua lies. He thrusts out the flowers as a distraction. “Um, these are for you.”

Minghao’s face goes soft and wide-eyed. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

What’s actually beautiful, Joshua learns, is Minghao’s bedroom.

They skirt through the living room with pleasantries to Mingyu (who is shirtlessly devouring an entire pizza on the couch by himself; who waves to Joshua so energetically that a chunk of cheese slips onto the crotch of his pants) and barricade themselves in Minghao’s space.

The first thing he notices are the fairy lights. They’re strung in a neat spiral moving outwards from the overhead lamp, a hypnotic maze that ends in a twinkling perimeter. A row of empty wine glasses rest artfully atop a minimalist bookshelf. Poetry and self-help books are scattered over the shelves, interspersed with succulents, a classy Polaroid, and neatly-stacked painting supplies. The bed is pristinely made.

It’s everything he expects from Xu Minghao. It makes Joshua shiver somewhere deep inside, to be so far into his space, to smell Minghao on the sheets and in the rainbow of clothes just visible through the cracked closet door.

“Wow,” Joshua says, sort of stunned. Maybe Minghao should be an interior designer.

Minghao busies himself moving the flowers into an empty wine bottle. He arranges them strategically on the desk, his fingers caressing the gardenia petals, as gentle as the autumn breeze. “No one’s ever bought me flowers before,” he says, quietly. When he turns to look at Joshua his eyes are dark.

Joshua’s throat clicks when he swallows. “They suit you.”

The atmosphere in the room shifts. Joshua doesn’t feel overdressed anymore—he feels like he fits here, like he’s wanted here. Minghao sits at the head of the bed, his weight making a dip in the mattress, and pats the spot next to him.

“I hope it’s okay if we watch from here?” Minghao tugs his laptop onto the bed. “Mingyu beat me in rock-paper-scissors for the living room TV tonight. He’s binging Squid Game.”

“That’s fine!”

That’s more than fine. That means Joshua can sit on the duvet, crossing his legs politely, deliberately not paying attention to how their elbows brush. The bed isn’t particularly large, but it’s comfortable. He can feel heat radiate from Minghao’s long body. It’s wonderfully intimate.

Minghao queues up the Standing Egg concert. After logging in to the stream, he pauses with his hands splayed spiderlike over the keys. “I almost forgot.” His eyes stretch wide. “Do you want some wine?”

“Sure,” Joshua says easily.

“Okay—just stay here!” Minghao jumps off the bed and hurries out, presumably to wherever the kitchen is.

Joshua considers, for the first time, that Minghao must be nervous, too. Maybe even more nervous than he is. Minghao’s younger, after all. This whole thing feels a little juvenile in the best way—crawling into someone else’s bed without the intention to at least make out. What a novelty.

Though he wouldn’t mind making out, too.

Joshua runs a hand through his hair and dispels that thought. He’s not totally sure Minghao has those intentions and he wouldn’t want to assume.

He’d be silly not to consider it, though.

Minghao returns with a purple bottle and two gorgeous glass goblets. There must be a film in the glass, because they reflect a pinkish hue in the light. At this point Joshua is simply in awe. Is he going to open the closet and find a Fabergé Egg in there or something?

Minghao pours them a generous amount. His hand shakes, just the tiniest bit, and Joshua’s heart goes out to him. He is nervous. Gosh, that’s endearing. When Joshua accepts his glass, he lays his hand right over Minghao’s and lets the contact linger.

“Service in bed?” Joshua teases. “I feel like I’m at a hotel.”

Minghao holds out a palm. “Welcome to the Chateaux. Two million won per night.”

Joshua laughs, Minghao relaxes, and the concert kicks off.

It’s pretty serendipitous that Minghao already had a ticket to this concert before they met and realized they both liked the group. And it was generous of him to invite Joshua to share in the experience. It feels a little fateful, like the universe is arranging golden tickets for Minghao and Joshua to meet under good circumstances.

They gravitate towards each other throughout the show, slow as melting honey, whispering commentary until Joshua struggles to focus on the music because he can feel Minghao warm against him from thigh to shoulder. Where their skin meets, tingles. He shakily drains his second glass of wine and sets it aside. His breaths come quick and shallow.

“Do you need more room?” Minghao murmurs during a set change. When he whispers, his mouth does this natural pout thing, and unfortunately Joshua isn’t strong enough not to stare.

Minghao probably wouldn’t like it if Joshua called him cute. But wow, is he ever.

“I’m okay!” Joshua sits up a little, adjusting his legs, careful not to disturb the laptop.

Minghao takes that opportunity to slide his arm around Joshua’s waist and settle him more firmly against his side.

Oh, he’s good.

Joshua bites back a smirk as he sinks into the embrace. It feels nice, like this, with Minghao holding him so carefully. It’s been a long time since anyone touched him this way. He leans into it, propping his chin on Minghao’s shoulder.

“Do you ever want to have a concert like this?” Minghao asks suddenly. “With your own music.”

“Not really,” Joshua admits. Maybe, when he was much younger. “I like to play for myself. I already turned one hobby into a career, I don’t think I could survive another.”

Minghao makes a commiserative noise. “I think I get that. I still love to dance, even though I never went pro, but I never want to compete again. I just dance for fun now.”

They’re too close to turn and make eye contact, but Joshua wants to do it anyway. The concert has fallen from the foreground of his attention. Gently he reaches out and lays a hand on Minghao’s thigh, his thumb poking through the rip over his skinny kneecap.

“What kind of dance do you do?” Joshua asks. He feels his own voice emerge huskier and lower in his throat.

“I used to b-boy a lot. Now, it’s mainly hip hop and contemporary. I waltz sometimes.”

Okay. Joshua has to sit up for that. He dislodges Minghao’s arm from around his waist, which is regretful, but he gets to see his face—soft, pink, starry-eyed—which is better.

“You waltz?” Joshua can feel his eyebrows creep up his own forehead. “I’m sorry, you… That’s too much.” He laughs, feels deranged, feels the whole summer sky in his chest. “You run your own business, you dress like a model, you give out free herbal tea, and you know how to slow dance? Who are you?”

Minghao looks stunned. His eyes go wide and totally blank. Joshua thinks he’s overstepped for a moment, spoken out of turn, until the biggest smile takes over Minghao’s face.

“You learned a new type of tea!”

Joshua pitches forward, laughing, knocking his forehead into Minghao’s shoulder. ”That’s what you got out of that?”

“I mean,” Minghao stammers, the smile heavy in his voice. A hand comes up to rest between Joshua’s shoulder blades, holding him even when he scoots back against the pillows so they’re face-to-face. “Ah, I’m not that cool. There are many things I can’t do well—like cooking. Just ask Mingyu.”

“I can cook,” Joshua says confidently, even though he can’t. Unless it’s grilled chicken or a pb&j. “I’ll cook for you next time.”

“Next time,” Minghao repeats. His hand moves gently up Joshua’s back until he’s cupping the nape of his neck.

The temperature of the room rackets up. Joshua’s heart kicks into gear. Is it happening? Is this it? Minghao looks intensely at his face, the music forgotten in the background. He’s haloed by the string lights. He looks divine.

Joshua takes a shuddery breath, thinks, I don’t deserve this, and kisses Minghao anyway.

Minghao meets him halfway. His mouth is plush and tastes like the wine, sweet and dark. Their kisses are slow, chaste. Joshua returns his hand to Minghao’s exposed knee, tracing his thumb over the skin there, feeling him shiver. The hand on Joshua’s nape gently squeezes.

The touch emboldens Joshua; he leans in, tilts his chin, runs his tongue gently along Minghao’s lips. He’s rewarded by a soft, breathy noise. Oh, how he loves this. It’s intense for almost no reason—his heart is pounding, his hands unsteady. The muscles of his thighs clench and unclench like, subconsciously, he has to stop himself from throwing his body over Minghao and diving in.

Joshua pulls back a little to gauge how Minghao is feeling, and the sight nearly knocks him off the bed.

Minghao is red in the face. His eyes snap back from a pretty glaze. His mouth, gently parted, has the wisp of a smile at his lips… Joshua smiles.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

“Only if you do that again,” Minghao says, and tugs him back in.

They overbalance and slide sideways onto the pillows. Joshua accidentally nudges the laptop with his foot. He jerks it back, about to apologize, but before he can, Minghao is straddling him and sticking his tongue into his mouth.

Joshua makes a muffled noise of surprise that comes out a lot more seductive than he intends. His hands fly tenderly to Minghao’s hair, tilting his neck back, giving back as good as he’s getting. He scrapes teeth gently along Minghao’s bottom lip and swallows his gasp.

It’s driving Joshua a little wild, the way Minghao holds him. Gathered, tightly, like Joshua is precious. He sinks into the embrace, goes limp just to feel Minghao’s firm hold around his waist.

The intensity starts to slow. Minghao’s hands move to cradle his face instead. The warmth between them shifts, to something languorous and relaxed, where Joshua can take his time learning every way Minghao squirms when he’s being properly kissed. Time goes fuzzy. They kiss like they have years at their disposal.

Joshua has no clue how long it’s been when he shifts his weight on the bed, hands steady on Minghao’s lean thighs, and his foot accidentally makes contact with the laptop. Hard.

“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry,” he gasps.

He sits up so fast Minghao almost falls over. Minghao grabs Joshua’s shoulders for purchase and turns to look at the screen, gone black from disuse. There isn’t even a scratch.

Minghao squeezes his shoulder. “It’s fine!”

He climbs off Joshua’s lap to put the computer away. His hair is fluffy and mismanaged, sticking up dutifully in all the wrong directions, and it turns Joshua’s heart into a merry-go-round. Minghao is so pretty. And so nice. How did Joshua get into his bed?

Joshua discreetly wipes his mouth and rearranges his clothes. When Minghao returns, he sits next to Joshua, instead of crowding up into his space, and Joshua pretends not to be a little disappointed.

He wonders if Minghao wants him to leave. The concert finished a while ago, after all, and he probably has work at the shop tomorrow.

“It’s getting late,” Joshua says, to test the waters. His mouth is sort of numb from kissing. “I should probably head home soon.”

“Yeah, of course,” Minghao says, nodding seriously at Joshua, and Joshua thinks that’s it, he’s going to awkwardly flee the scene without talking about anything, and probably daydream about Minghao’s mouth and hands and gorgeous neck for the rest of his life—

“I’ll walk you out in a sec,” Minghao says. He cups Joshua’s face and kisses him again, confidently, attentively.

Again, again, again, until Joshua’s brain is soup and he’s memorized the texture of Minghao’s bangs between his fingers. Again, until Joshua is breathless and so happy that it must be shining, incandescent, from his face.

Only then does Minghao let him drive home.

/

Joshua stays up late the next few nights, furiously crafting new jewelry for exhibition in Mrs. Lee’s shop. Ignoring his ceramics has one upside: his jewelry-making has been pushed to new heights. He’s drafted three new necklace designs in the past week alone. He feels on fire. He stays awake until the sky lightens with day.

That’s why, when there’s a knock at his door early on Saturday morning, he forgets to close the dragons in his bedroom. He shuffles groggily through the living room, led by Seungkwan’s soft voice calling through the wall, “Shua-hyung… Hyung… Are you awake?”

Joshua opens the door and makes an unintelligible sound of greeting. He pats down his own bed head. “Mm-hmm? Morning.”

Boo Seungkwan is fully dressed for the day already, because he’s Boo Seungkwan. His jeans are cuffed. He smells like a freshly-peeled orange. He gives Joshua the fondest, most patronizing smile possible.

“Did you stay up all night talking to strangers on that website again?”

Joshua is so thrown he forgets what Seungkwan even means. “What. No. I show you Omegle one time and you think I’m addicted—”

“Hyung. No time. I really need to borrow your plunger.” Seungkwan brushes past Joshua and heads for the bathroom down the hall. “Hansol and I did a wasabi challenge last night and you don’t want to know the state of our bathroom right now. It’s giving me angina.”

But he comes to a full and complete stop in the heart of Joshua’s living room.

Oh. Oh, no.

“I can explain!” Joshua lets the door fall shut behind him. He looks at the disemboweled throw pillow on the couch, the scorches he couldn’t scrub out, the obvious claw marks on everything. Scales litter the ground like glitter. “I… got a cat.”

Seungkwan’s mouth parts with horror. “A feral cat? Oh, my god. Look at this damage.” He wipes a finger over the side table. It comes away black with ash.

Joshua winces.

He gears up to launch into a full defense of his imaginary cat, but before he can, there’s a skittering noise from down the hall. His heart freezes in his chest.

“No,” Joshua says, in a wet and ugly voice, but it’s too late.

Jangmi rockets out of the bedroom in a blood-red blur. They knock directly into Seungkwan’s chest, and Seungkwan—dear, blessed Seungkwan—lifts his arms to catch the projectile without a second thought.

Then Seungkwan looks down and screams.

Chapter Text

“This is my iguana,” Joshua says, bouncing Jangmi in his arms.

Vernon and Seungkwan sit side-by-side on the couch, hands clasped, like a tribunal. Vernon’s snapback is attempting to be backwards but it’s mostly just off-center. His eyes are only half awake. Seungkwan woke him up thirty seconds ago by pinching his ear and saying, “Babe, I need emotional support. Come upstairs with me right now.”

So here they are. Ready to unleash their ire onto Joshua and his… iguanas.

Seungkwan bites his thumb nail. He speaks around it when he says, “Hyung. I hate to break it to you, but that thing has wings.”

“Yes. Their name is Jangmi. I bought them from an exotic pet store.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” Seungkwan springs to his feet and begins to pace in front of the couch. “I’ve never seen anything like that. It’s got wings, claws, fangs… oh, god. Does it breathe fire? Is that what all the smoke was really about last month?” Seungkwan stops and pivots to face Joshua. “Just tell us honestly. Is that a dragon?”

Joshua swallows hard. Scrambles for a lie, but can’t find one—he isn’t as quick a thinker as Jeonghan. He can’t talk his way out of this. He gave it a good, honest effort, and Boo Seungkwan is not a person to be denied.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a rush. “You were never supposed to know, I didn’t want to bother you with this. Yes, they’re dragons, I made them in the kiln…”

And suddenly the whole story is pouring out. The floodgates burst open. Joshua sits hard on the floor as he describes the past few weeks in exhausting detail, every nitty-gritty discovery, the wins and losses, the late nights and stress. He lets Jangmi scamper away and sniff delicately at Vernon’s bare feet.

“…and that’s why I haven’t stopped by for dinner in a while,” Joshua concludes. There’s a lump in his throat he has to breathe through. “Sorry.”

Seungkwan sits back on the couch. He stares blankly ahead, visibly processing. “Does anyone else know about this?”

“No. It’s a lot to deal with… I didn’t want to worry anyone.”

And I wasn’t sure if they’d believe me, Joshua thinks, his eyes skirting to the kiln. He hardly believes it himself. Selfishly, he just wants to avoid the fallout of his own actions.

Vernon scoops Jangmi up with one hand. They immediately nuzzle into his chest. He goes with it, falling back against the cushions, letting their tiny little tongue taste the air between them. He breaks into a goofy grin.

“That’s really cool,” Vernon says.

Relief starts to break through the clouds of Joshua’s panic. He laughs a little bit. That’s so like Vernon, isn’t it? To hear world-altering news and to say… cool.

Joshua takes a deep breath. Feels his anxiety begin to ebb.

“Yeah,” he says. “They’re really precious to me.”

Seungkwan softens. “Ah, let me see. Hansol-ah, you’re hogging them. Can they fly?”

“A little. They’re still learning.”

“What do they eat?”

“Anything. I mean, mostly meats and fruits. Namu really likes raw onions.”

Vernon runs two gentle fingers over Jangmi’s wing. They flex their shoulders into it, and Joshua can tell by the angle of their neck that they’re starting to purr. “Can we see the others, too?”

Joshua whistles. Namu and Nancho come scampering out. They’re far less bold, hiding behind Joshua’s waist until Seungkwan makes enough cute little cooing noises to entice them closer. Seungkwan gently lifts Nancho into his lap. His face cycles through a mosaic of emotions: shock, pleasure, joy, awe.

Relief fully sinks in. The room warms. Joshua almost feels light-headed. He didn’t know it had been weighing on him so much—the secret. The isolation of it all. It’s not ideal that Seungkwan and Vernon have to carry the secret, now, too, but there’s a pleasure in not being alone anymore. He leans back on his palms and feels absurdly grateful for this moment.

“They’re like puppies,” Seungkwan marvels. He boops Nancho’s snout. Nancho nips at his pointer finger, then loses interest and licks at their own eyeball. “Well, sort of.”

Vernon levels a somber look at Joshua. He’s more alert now, his posture ramrod straight against the back of the couch. “Do you think you could do it again?”

Joshua stiffens. “What?”

“Like, make another dragon.”

“I don’t know.” He draws his knees to his chest. Namu takes that opportunity to scamper up his back and drape themselves around his neck like a heavy shawl. Their tongue flicks adamantly into Joshua’s ear. “I don’t think I wanna find out.”

He catches Vernon and Seungkwan exchange a look, but he can’t read it. Awkwardly, they segue into asking more questions about the dragons—how much they weigh, the differences in their personalities, their quirks and idiosyncrasies. Seungkwan soon has to head out for brunch plans with his coworkers, plunger completely forgotten, but Vernon sticks around into the afternoon, trying to teach Jangmi how to roll over.

Joshua offers sliced cucumbers as treats. Namu sniffs one, dry-heaves, and immediately burns it to a crisp in vengeance. Vernon laughs so hard he almost topples off the couch.

“Do you want ramen?” Joshua calls from the kitchen. He fills a pot of water and sets it on the stove.

To his surprise, instead of answering, Vernon shuffles around the corner to join him. He leans against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. “Josh,” he says in English. “You can’t keep them inside forever.”

Joshua feels his face flush hot. He knows that. Of course he does—the apartment is a wreck. His cupboards are tied closed with bracelet strings. One of his pothos has wilted beyond saving because Nancho keeps pooping in the dirt. Living like this is unsustainable, he knows.

But it’s uncomfortable to be cornered like this. Even if Vernon means well. Even if he’s right.

Joshua sighs. Jangmi scampers into the kitchen, makes a beeline for Vernon, and gets distracted by a square of sunlight on the tile. They watch the dragon flatten themselves to the floor like a pancake.

“What else can I do?” Joshua asks helplessly. “There’s no place safer.”

“They need space to roam. Fresh air, grass.” Vernon nudges one of Jangmi’s claws with his toe. Brave man. “I don’t think they’re meant to be household creatures.”

“I know.”

Vernon looks at him. His face is open and sincere. “How can I help?”

“You can’t.” Joshua hears the bitchiness of his own voice and runs a hand through his hair, resisting the acidic urge to pull it. “Unless you own a huge private property somewhere in the woods that isn’t being used.”

Vernon frowns. “We could look into buying one… do you know anyone in real estate?”

The water begins to boil. Joshua pauses to rip open two packets of ramen and dump their contents into the pot, trying to dump in his frustration, too. When he turns back to Vernon, he places a comforting hand on his shoulder. They’re almost the same height, but Joshua has a scant half an inch or so on Vernon, and he uses that to his full advantage now.

He can remember their first meeting. It was on the stairwell, less than twenty minutes after Joshua had started moving into the attic from his aunt’s house in the suburbs, his arms laden with a menagerie of boxes. He wobbled up the staircase blindly and stopped at the wrong door. For three long minutes, he tried to shove his key into the keyhole, growing upset enough to mumble unfriendly curses out loud in the quiet hallway.

Then the door swung open and a shockingly handsome guy said, “Hey, man. Do you need help?”

Vernon helped Joshua carry his things upstairs. So did Seungkwan, when he arrived home fifteen minutes later. They’re all friends now, but Joshua has felt a little indebted to them ever since. Like he’s always working to return that first selfless act of kindness.

Now, Joshua squeezes Vernon’s shoulder.

“Hey,” he says softly. “The last thing I want is you to feel obligated to fix this for me. It—I made this situation, and it’s my responsibility to tend it. No one else’s.”

“Ah, hyung.” Vernon grabs his hand and squeezes, switching back into Korean. “Just because you can handle it alone doesn’t mean you have to.”

Stupidly, Joshua feels a lump rise in this throat. “Okay, okay,” he says weakly, turning back to the ramen so Vernon doesn’t see the shine in his eyes. “I get it. I’ll ask you guys when I run out of sesame oil.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Joshua discreetly wipes his eyes. “I know.”

They split the ramen. Joshua plucks out a few springy noodles to hand-feed the dragons. Vernon follows his lead, tossing a little ball of noodles directly down Nancho’s throat, his mouth a wide oh of delight.

Joshua feels so, so light.

/

But.

Joshua thinks about it all night.

The logistics. Where he’d keep the dragons, if he had options. How they might live under the fresh, buttery sunlight, how they might frolic and flourish.

He wonders about Vernon’s first question, too. Could he make another dragon if he tried? A dragon like this?

His hands shake at the thought. Wouldn’t it be better to know, a voice whispers in his head, one that suspiciously sounds like his mother. Wouldn’t it be better to have all your skills on the table?

What ultimately changes Joshua’s mind is the number of ceramics orders that have been piling up. He has too many, now, to ignore without losing a substantial amount of customers and a good chunk of his next rent payment. He needs to confront his fears.

So he plugs his ears with music—something poppy, soothing, neutral—and sets about working on a new brick of clay.

It takes hours this time. The dragon emerges from the clay with painful slowness. One leg. Five tiny claws. The swoop of a smooth, scaly stomach. He drops the carving tool on his toe, which immediately bruises.

While Joshua works, Jangmi prances around the room and peers over his shoulder like a kid in a candy shop. They can sense what’s happening. It makes Joshua a little nervous, and his nerves rile the dragons up, and he keeps having to pause his work to wrangle Namu down from the teetering lamp.

This is, of course, when Minghao calls.

“Hey,” Joshua says, trying not to sound breathless.

“Hi,” Minghao says. “I was wondering…”

“Yeah?”

Joshua tries to concentrate on the conversation. He really does. But he’s on his tiptoes with a hand wrapped firmly around the body of a squirming dragon, one elbow pillared on the wall for balance, sweating from the exertion. Namu wriggles free, violently lashing their tail as they petulantly climb into the base of the ceiling-facing lamp. Their body casts an engorged shadow on the wall.

Seriously? Joshua fumes. Now?

“...if you’d like to come with me to that this weekend.”

Joshua realizes he’s missed a handful of vital words. “Oh,” he says, dragging the lamp over to the arm of the couch and climbing up for better access. There’s a metallic screech. Namu hisses. “What are the details?”

“Sorry if this is a bad time, I can call back—”

“No! No, it’s okay, sorry. What were you saying?”

“Just, Saturday night. I can pick you up.”

Joshua has a brief, horrible vision of Minghao earnestly knocking at his door. He can imagine the way Minghao’s face would drop if he saw this place—like Seungkwan, but with more poise. Joshua’s knuckles go white around the stem of the lamp. “I’ll drive!”

“Are you sure? It’s closer to you, I think, it might be—”

“I love driving,” Joshua interrupts, deadpan.

There’s a moment of silence. When Minghao speaks again, it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “Okay. I can send you the address. You don’t have to bring anything, just wear clothes you wouldn’t mind getting dirty.”

Joshua slowly inches his hand into the circle of the lamp. He grabs Namu and this time doesn’t hesitate to yank them from their hiding place and toss them gently on the couch in one smooth motion. Their wings flap indignantly.

Phew. Okay. Crisis averted.

“Dirty?” he echoes thoughtlessly, half his attention focused on finger-wagging at the naughty dragon.

Namu slithers to the floor and scampers away. Probably to cause chaos with Nancho in the bedroom. Joshua can’t help it—he sighs, heavy and slow, exhaustion like a shawl pulled over his head.

“Yeah,” Minghao’s voice returns, quiet and tight. “I thought…” He pauses. “Hyung. If you don’t want to go, it’s okay. You can be honest with me.”

Oh, the guilt! Joshua tucks himself into the corner of the couch, drawing his knees to his chest, his eyes sore from getting too close to the lamp and his hands already aching from carving all evening. He instantly feels terrible.

“I do want to go. I’m sorry. I’ve just… been really distracted today.” Joshua sinks his teeth into his lower lip and tacks on a lie. “I’ll tell you about it on Saturday?”

“Okay,” Minghao says. Mullish but generous. “I’d like that.”

It feels like the line surges, like Minghao’s voice gets sharper and clearer, like he’s suddenly sitting right next to Joshua. The conversation recovers from its rocky beginning and sails into smoother waters. Joshua accidentally spends an hour talking to Minghao like that, his arms gesticulating wildly as he tells the story of how he almost died tripping over Vernon’s cat in the stairwell last week. Minghao, in return, talks about how he accidentally washed his AirPod this morning.

Joshua laughs. Liquidizes into the couch. Feels, for the first time all day, relaxed.

The process of hanging up is luxuriously slow. They sit in a soft silence for several moments before Joshua reluctantly admits that he should go.

“Sleep well,” Minghao murmurs, his voice low and sweet.

Joshua’s heart lurches. “You too.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

He sits around smiling at absolutely nothing for a while before getting back to work.

God, isn’t he lucky?

/

The following morning Joshua wakes up in a bedraggled heap on the couch. His head vaguely hurts. He can hardly remember finishing the piece last night, or firing up the kiln, but when he sits up there’s an unfamiliar dragon sitting on his chest, a shock of blazing purple in the midmorning light.

The dragon’s tongue flicks out in greeting.

Joshua bursts into tears.

/

It turns out, the date Minghao has planned is a wine-and-paint night at a local studio.

It’s a short drive away, through a neighborhood of stocky white buildings interspersed with tiny restaurants, PC bangs, and billiard halls. Joshua has told Vernon and Seungkwan that he’ll be gone for a few hours, and asked them politely to keep their eyes and ears peeled for signs of dragon misbehavior.

(“What…” Seungkwan’s voice had risen over the phone. “What does dragon misbehavior look like?”

“Um. The fire department, mostly.”

“Okay.” Seungkwan squeaked. “Gotcha! You know what. I’m just going to buy us our own personal fire extinguisher.”)

The studio is perfect. The date is more fun than he’s had in weeks.

Joshua was already half in love, but this sends him tumbling over the edge into some bottomless pink abyss. He can’t concentrate on the artist’s presentation or what their own work is supposed to be—a field of sunflowers along a winding river—because he’s too busy sneaking prolonged, honeyed glances at Minghao between sips of sweet Pinot.

Minghao, who has added a layer of glitter to his black nail polish. Minghao who is wearing those fake specs again, the thin round frames that make him look frosty and intellectual. He’s rocking a sheer shirt with nothing underneath and skintight jeans. When Minghao laughs, he leans into Joshua, posting one long arm on Joshua’s thigh for balance, and the warmth from his body is so distracting that Joshua accidentally slashes across his petals with bright blue paint.

“I’m taking creative liberties,” he defends.

Minghao presses his lips together in a stifled smile. “Hyung. It’s okay to admit you fucked up.”

“This?” Joshua adds another incongruous streak of blue. “Totally on purpose.” He dares to reach across Minghao and add a swipe of blue to his canvas, at the bottom corner where his river tapers into the feathery strokes of a green-and-gold field.

Minghao’s face goes totally blank. “You didn’t.”

Joshua takes a long sip of wine, daring Minghao to retaliate. “I did.”

Minghao settles back into his chair, assuming an air of sulky indifference. For a moment Joshua thinks he’s overstepped, gone too far, and he draws a breath to apologize when Minghao lifts his chin and says, “Then these are collaborative pieces now. Switch canvases with me.”

“What?”

“I don’t want this one. You sullied it.”

“But mine is way worse!”

Minghao shrugs. “I bet I can fix it.”

His eagerness for art is so endearing. Joshua would never have thought to exchange canvases, to try and build off of each others’ work. Their styles are remarkably different. Minghao has no formal training, as he’s said, but his intuition is incredible. His colors blend exquisitely. Joshua’s taken a few painting classes here and there, mostly to learn shading for his ceramics work, and that shows—but painting has never been his strongest mode of expression, and that also shows. His strokes are shaky and uncertain.

Switching canvases halfway through the process brings a whole new challenge to the table. Minghao drains his glass of wine and returns to the canvas with newfound vigor. Joshua gets caught up for a moment admiring his profile, the slope of his cute nose, the pucker of his lips as he concentrates, the graceful swoop of his long bangs…

“You’re staring at me,” Minghao complains.

“S-sorry.” Joshua jerks head back to the canvas. His face feels like it might melt off.

Minghao’s left hand sneaks its way to Joshua’s knee. His palm is warm and broad. “It’s okay. I like it.”

Afterwards, they kiss in the backseat of the car until the windows fog up and Joshua’s jeans stick to the leather seats. When he gets Minghao in his lap, he thinks he might actually faint for a minute. Every ounce of blood in his body rushes south. His hands flex over Minghao’s thighs and trail up his gorgeous waist, feeling the planes of his lean muscles underneath the fabric of his sheer shirt. A few buttons have come undone. Where the collar gapes open, Minghao’s pulse pounds.

Minghao dressed for war tonight. Joshua is counting himself a casualty.

Minghao sucks Joshua’s bottom lip into his mouth, planting a deep, sensual kiss there once, twice, three times. He’s good at this. His hands are warm on Joshua’s neck. When he squirms his hips down, Joshua meets him halfway, his breath hitching.

Minghao breaks the kiss and leans back. It’s dark outside by now, rain gently pattering on the windshield, but his face catches an angular yellow beam from the streetlight. He looks angelic and untouchable. Totally unreal.

Then he giggles, and the spell is broken. He’s Minghao again.

“What?” Joshua asks, dazed.

“You just…” Minghao’s eyes jump all around his face. “You look really, really good right now.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Joshua blushes to the roots of his hair, he can feel it. Praise has never been a big deal for him before—but no one’s spoken to him with such consistent kindness since he moved abroad, and Minghao clearly doesn't say anything he doesn't mean. It does something to Joshua inside, turns over a leaf he thought had already browned.

Minghao looks at him. Joshua looks back. He cups Minghao’s cheek in one hand and says, “Do you want me to take you home?”

“Do you want to come with me?”

Joshua tugs him back into a kiss. That should be answer enough.

/

Minghao is unbearably pretty when Joshua takes him apart.

His hands have never done anything as valuable as this. He’s never touched something so beautiful before. He shakes when it’s over, his breathing shallow and uneven, until Minghao wraps his arms around him, buries his face in Joshua’s neck, and holds on tight enough to hurt. In a nice way.

For the first time, Joshua feels like—maybe it’s okay if he has this. Maybe he can keep this good thing going.

/

He names the purple dragon Mugunghwa.

It’s like raising an infant all over again. Mugunghwa knocks over two potted plants in the span of thirty seconds. They trip into their own dinner, shattering a perfectly nice bowl and spilling seolleongtang all over the floor. They cough smoke directly into his face. They’re whiney and nervous and full of frantic energy that Joshua has a difficult time managing.

Mugunghwa’s behavior demonstrates to Joshua how quickly the original three dragons have grown. Jangmi, Nancho, and Namu can fly decently well now. They eat neatly. They sleep through the night. They’re generally well-adjusted to life, if occasionally stir-crazy and fond of setting things on fire. Joshua is more grateful than ever that they can take direction well.

Mugunghwa just hasn’t learned those skills yet.

The straw that breaks the camel’s back is when Mugunghwa leaps from the couch, attempting to fly, and lands hard on Jangmi as they doze in a patch of sunlight. A claw catches on Jangmi’s wing and slices between the scales. Bright white blood gushes from the wound. Jangmi hisses. Fire curls along their fangs.

Joshua bolts over from the kiln. He separates the dragons before they can start properly duking it out. “Go!” He snaps at Mugunghwa, shoving them back with three fingers on their tiny chest. “I told you not to do that. Look, Jangmi’s hurt.”

Mugunghwa ambles away with imperial disinterest. Sometimes the dragons are like puppies—and sometimes they’re like prissy little cats.

Joshua sighs. He fetches water and cleans the wound, which Jangmi doesn’t like, but he holds them with a firm hand around their waist. The injured wing flaps petulantly.

“You’ll be fine,” he tells them. The scratch isn’t deep. “But, hey. Do me a favor and teach Mugunghwa how to be a dragon.” Jangmi gives him a dry look. “No, I’m serious! If I see you trying I’ll… I’ll take you to the park tomorrow night.”

Jangmi has absolutely no reaction to the bargain. Even though they understand Joshua’s speech surprisingly well—Korean moreso than English, funny enough—they’ve never heard the word park before. It means nothing to them. The outside world is a fantasy that they get to see every once in a while from Joshua’s tinted car window.

It makes him a little sad. Vernon was right. Dragons aren’t meant for confinement. They should know freedom, they should learn to catch dragonflies in the summer and to catch snowflakes in the winter.

Joshua can give them anything except that. Anything else.

(He can, most importantly, give them life. It takes every ounce of his self-control not to overthink what that means. What Mugunghwa represents.

That it wasn’t an accident. That something intrinsic within Joshua is capable of creating life. That he could do it again, as many times as he wants. Raise an army of dragons. Call the South Korean president and change the whole world right now. Build himself into a god.

It makes his hands feel hot and shameful. He would never. He shouldn’t even have this power to begin with.

Joshua desperately, desperately doesn’t think about it.)

/

Joshua compromises by filling his front seat with dragons the next time he drops by Mrs. Lee’s boutique.

It’s shockingly nice outside, cold but clear and breezy, and Joshua cranks up the radio as he drives. Nancho clambers into his lap for better access to the sputtering heater. When Joshua slides into a red light, Mugunghwa loses their balance and tumbles to the floor with a shocked burp of smoke.

Joshua accidentally laughs, then composes himself. “You okay?”

Mugunghwa makes a flying leap back onto the seat and slithers behind Jangmi to hide. Ah, they’re cute.

So Joshua’s in a good mood when he parks the car and instructs the dragons to behave. Through fluttering ivy at the front window, he can already see Seokmin at the counter, laughing with a customer. The bell chimes when he enters.

To Joshua’s surprise, Mrs. Lee is already standing over his exhibit. She’s rearranging one of the quartz carnation necklaces on the display, her fingers featherlight. The rest of the table is mostly empty—his ceramics gone, his jewelry scarce.

“Good morning,” he says gently to Mrs. Lee, trying not to startle her.

She turns with wide eyes. “Ah, hello! Perfect timing. I meant to call you today. Have you come for your cut?”

Truthfully, no. He hadn’t expected a chunk of money worth collecting; he’d come only two weeks ago and things still seemed slow. Joshua lifts the paper bag in his hand and jingles it, enjoying the familiar metallic music of jewelry clinking together.

“I brought a restock. It looks like we really need it.”

“Your things are flying off the shelves.” Mrs. Lee grasps his hand, her eyes alight. “I think we’re finally getting those early Christmas shoppers. Did you bring any tea sets? I’ve had a few people interested in commissions.”

“No, wow, I…” Joshua peers down at the jewelry in his bag, at the lone bowl he was brave enough to make after Mugunghwa came to life. “I’ve only made that one tea set before. But I’m happy to make more.”

Mrs. Lee insists on helping him table his work. The motions are familiar and soothing. Stringing out the bracelets, hanging the necklaces, highlighting the rare ring that he molds around a particularly pretty stone. The blue-patterned bowl receives a place of honor in the center of the display.

What a wonderful surprise to return home with a good chunk of money. Joshua feels like he can relax this month. That joy, that relief, is better than a shot of espresso. He buys three chocolate croissants from Seokmin, who compliments Joshua’s new ripped jeans.

Thank you, he almost says, I bought them with someone in mind.

But that would be super embarrassing and it’s not something he even admits to himself, let alone Seokmin.

(Who can blame him? Minghao is hot. Joshua wants to be hot enough to earn his company and keep it. If that means buying some fashionably ripped jeans he found at a secondhand shop in Hongdae, so be it.)

When he returns to the car, the dragons are in a tizzy. Namu flaps onto his head and perches there comfortably. Mugunghwa and Nancho clamber over themselves trying to get into Joshua’s lap. He bats them back and unwraps one of the chocolate croissants.

Joshua holds it up like a 50 thousand won bill. The dragons freeze. Their identical yellow eyes lock onto the prize. Jangmi briefly licks an eyeball to focus better.

“You will eat this so fast that there will be no crumbs left over,” Joshua says firmly. He’s manifesting it. He doesn’t feel like vacuuming his car today.

The dragons don’t move a muscle.

Joshua places the chocolate croissant delicately in the middle of the shotgun seat. He barely gets his hand back before Namu leaps down from his head and an all-out brawl begins. Everyone gets their fangs into a different side of the croissant and tears.

He drives away cackling.

There’s a reason Joshua bought three croissants. Infinitea is actually pretty close to Mrs. Lee’s boutique—okay, fine, not really, but he likes to tell himself that. He’s been texting Minghao nonstop these past few weeks, and although Minghao has invited him back multiple times, Joshua hasn’t had the chance to return to the tea shop.

Today is a good day to drop by. He can bring a midmorning snack to his boyfriend—boyfriend? Maybe? They haven’t exactly named this yet but it feels like they’re dating. Not superfluous dating, either. This feels real.

There is scant streetside parking near Infinitea, but Joshua does a few loops around the block before he finds a spot under a bare poplar tree. The dragons have entered a miniature food coma. They’re sprawled out on the seat and the floor, bellies full, half-asleep already.

“Behave,” he tells them sweetly. “I’ll be right back.”

Joshua grabs his things, careful not to forget the croissant, and heads into the shop.

It’s just as he remembers. Sunlight drowns the room, greenery at every turn. It’s a little crowded today, with kids in bold purple university sweaters coagulating in the corner booths, and a few young mothers entertaining their children at the tables.

Joshua looks up, and Minghao is already looking back at him.

Oh, the sight of him today. Beige apron over a soft black turtleneck. Veins prominent in his arms. He’s a little sweaty at the temple, his hair a fluffy mess. When he meets Joshua’s eyes he smiles brightly, a flash so quick and blinding it’s like a camera has gone off in Joshua’s face. He blinks.

There are several people ahead of him in line. Joshua waits his turn with those silly little butterflies eating away at his stomach again. He’s tempted to press a hand over his chest just to feel the way his heart has entered a horse race, pounding and pounding, pushing him forward. He can recall the warm taste of Minghao’s skin, the cadence of his breathy, intimate laughter.

He, stupidly, forgets every word he knows in every language when he steps up to the register.

Minghao tilts up his chin and gives him a sly look. “Good morning, welcome to Infinitea. What can I get for you?”

Jeonghan’s creaky drunk voice reaches Joshua at the most inopportune time. Hand in marriage?

Joshua clears his throat. “Uh. What was it that you gave me last time…?”

“Hyung. It’s a London Fog.”

“That, please! I’ll remember,” Joshua promises, though he won’t. They smile at each other for a second before he recalls—he has a purpose! “Oh,” he adds, lifting the bag at his side. “I also brought you something.”

“Thank you,” Minghao says, surprise coloring his voice. He accepts the bag.

“It’s a chocolate croissant. I know you don’t really eat sweet things, but this boutique uses dark chocolate, so I thought you might like it.”

Minghao’s face goes soft. His hands crinkle the bag a little. He looks up at Joshua through the dark fan of his lashes. It seems like he might say something else, for a moment, before he bites his lip and changes course. “Do you have to leave right away?”

Joshua thinks about the orders he’s procrastinated on. “Not right away,” he says.

“Okay! I’ll get your drink. Would you mind—do you want to wait out back? It’s a little quieter. We can sit alone for a few minutes.”

Joshua feels a shiver in his gut. “Sure.”

He’s never been to the backyard garden—he wasn’t even sure one existed—and he navigates there with difficulty now. A bright yellow sign hangs over the wooden gate: CLOSED FOR RENOVATIONS. Huh. He wonders how long Minghao has been renovating, what work he’s looking to do. Maybe Joshua can help.

A collection of tiny circular tables are dotted throughout the wooded space. It’s larger than Joshua expected, the fenceline tall and fully extended beyond his line of sight. In the summer it would be shady, but now, with all the trees like spiky carcasses, it’s a picture perfect autumn scene. He brushes stray yellow leaves off the closest table and takes a seat.

That’s when Joshua notices an odd weight distribution in his clothes. His hoodie pocket, specifically.

His heart stops. He knows that weight, that implied shape, as well as he knows his own hand.

Oh, god no.

Joshua lifts a section of his pocket and peeks inside. Jangmi’s little face stares impishly back at him. Their tongue flicks out once, twice.

“How did you get in there?” He hisses. “How the f—no. This is completely unacceptable behavior. I am so disappointed in you right now.”

His mistake is holding open the pocket for too long. Despite the stern tone of his voice, Jangmi wriggles out and tosses themself with an audible plop on the dirt. They bolt, a blur of red on the dusty ground.

“No, no, no, come back here,” Joshua whispers, springing to his feet. His legs are shaky. Adrenaline lights up his whole body with an awful, frenetic energy. “Someone could see you, please, Jangmi!”

But Jangmi is beyond his reach now. They fly into the closest tree, digging their claws into the bark with unrepentant delight and lashing their tail in excitement. They’re an animal frolicking in their natural habitat for the first time ever.

It breaks Joshua’s heart clean through the middle.

The dragon is simply insatiable. They glide down from the tree. Joshua makes a grab at them mid-air and misses, nearly losing his balance and tripping into a table. They make a high-pitched mrrrp of surprise and Joshua turns to see—

Jangmi is curled around a pale, delicate wrist.

Minghao looks down at his own arm, eyes blank, the mug in his hand gently trembling.

When Jangmi nuzzles their head into Minghao’s forearm, he drops the mug. It shatters on the concrete. Tea gushes wastefully into the dirt.

Joshua feels the ground drop out from beneath him. This can’t be happening. The sound of the mug shattering spooks Jangmi; they release Minghao and flap straight to Joshua, alighting on his shoulder, tucking their snout into his neck and puffing hot air down his shirt.

A dawning takes place on Minghao’s face. He holds his wrist far away from himself as if he’s not sure what to do with it.

He looks at Joshua with round eyes and says, “Hyung? What is that?”

Chapter Text

Minghao doesn’t wait for an answer. He steps closer to Joshua, peering at Jangmi like an archeologist might inspect a puzzling new fossil. His eyes are as wide as the sky. His posture is slightly hunched—poised to run.

Joshua doesn’t even try to lie this time.

“They’re mine,” he says, balancing Jangmi on his shoulder with one palm, halfway shielding them from view.

My joy. My fear. My responsibility.

“It can’t be real,” Minghao says. “That’s… I mean, do you know what that is?”

Joshua bites back a sarcastic quip. No duh. I made them.

“Yeah,” he says, shivering when a strong breeze filters through the trees. Remnants of autumn leaves rustle gently at his back. He’s scared, he realizes, when his heart rate doesn’t slow after the initial shock. This could make or break their burgeoning relationship. He never wanted to present Minghao—or anyone—with this ultimatum, but here they are.

If Minghao reacts badly, Joshua has to walk away.

He really doesn’t want to walk away.

“Where did you get it?” Minghao asks. He takes one more tiny, shuffling step. Joshua can smell his perfume even from this distance. Cool and floral.

“That’s a long story.” Joshua swallows hard. “But I can show you, if you want.”

Minghao gives him a jerky nod. “Yeah. Um. Okay.”

He turns around and walks mechanically back inside. Joshua takes a deep breath for the first time in eons, bundling Jangmi back into the privacy of his hoodie pocket. The cat’s out of the bag now. Whatever has been set in motion, he can’t stop it.

“Thanks a lot,” he mutters to Jangmi, who makes an affronted snuffling noise.

Joshua immediately folds. “I know,” he sighs. “I get it. Still. Why did it have to be him who saw you?”

He stands around in the garden, unsure if he was meant to follow Minghao or not, wondering if he’s been abandoned. Joshua finds himself wishing he could just go back to their first meeting—their real first meeting, on that concrete bench, with nothing between them but a guitar and a language barrier. Things were simpler back then.

Now Joshua knows how Minghao laughs, how he whispers when he’s particularly serious, how he looks when he’s been kissed halfway to ecstasy. He knows the warm silk of Minghao’s hands and the heat of his attention.

It would hurt to lose him.

Minghao returns sans apron. A stylish cross-body bag rests at his hip. His eyes dart over Joshua, settling on the lump of his hoodie pocket with trepidation. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You’re sure you’re okay to leave the shop?” Joshua asks.

Minghao gives him a blank look. “Yeah. It’s not every day your boyfriend shows up with a dragon in his pocket.” He sighs, the edges of his mouth curling up. “Does this mean I finally get to see your apartment?”

It takes Joshua a minute to respond. He reels from the word boyfriend, which fell from Minghao’s lips so casually, like it was obvious. Boyfriend! God. Sure. Well—hopefully. If things aren’t ruined after today.

“Yeah.” Joshua fishes his keys out of his pocket and starts trekking back to the car. “I mean, I warned you I had a ton of crazy roommates.”

Naturally, the dragons go ballistic with excitement when they see Minghao approach the car. Joshua takes off his coat and bundles each of them inside, speaking softly, asking them to stay quiet and calm in the backseat for just a few minutes, at least until they get home.

“If you scare him I will not grill you bulgogi for a month,” he whispers. Namu and Nancho go limp. Jangmi screeches in irritation.

Minghao watches this from the sidewalk, his hands tight around the clutch of his bag. He looks awfully young like this, wind-tousled and tense.

The drive is quiet. Joshua’s hands are unsteady on the wheel. If this is a mistake, it’s too late to back out—Minghao keeps turning over one shoulder to peer at the tiny faces in the backseat, as if checking they’re still real. Mugunghwa heaves a little puff of smoke at him and he inhales sharply, startled.

“I should’ve asked this before I got into the car.” Minghao turns to face forward, his eyes blank on the road. “But are they—are they dangerous?”

“No! Well, yes.”

Minghao raises his eyebrows.

“Not on purpose,” Joshua clarifies. “They would never hurt you. They’re just still learning what it means to have claws and fangs.”

“And fire?”

Joshua sighs. “And fire.”

“This is starting to explain a lot of things,” Minghao mumbles.

A flood of memories from the past few months makes Joshua wince. He's done so many odd or inexplicable things in front of Minghao. Eventually, he knows, he should offer an explanation for each one. The thought is daunting. Not today, at least.

They pull into his reserved parking spot. Joshua carries his jacket, teeming with dragons, upstairs and unlocks the door. Minghao follows mutely. Here goes nothing.

/

Joshua knows himself to be an intensely private person. When he was a teenager, he was forced to spend half of every summer visiting his aunt and grandparents in Banbae-dong, cooped up in that drafty two-storey house with blue stucco and broken basement windows. That’s how he met Jeonghan. They bonded over shared misery of being away from home—L.A. and Hwaseong, respectively—and spent every sticky afternoon lounging on plastic chairs outside the 7-Eleven drinking thick, lukewarm banana milk.

It had taken weeks for Joshua to tell Jeonghan his Korean name. He’d introduced himself as Joshua Hong, a habit more than a rebellion, and Jeonghan had never questioned it. Typically Joshua only heard his birth name from his mother and a few of the aunties at church—so it felt personal. Sacred. He didn’t like it living in some strange kid’s sarcastic mouth, even if that kid made him laugh so hard he choked on chicken feet.

Even now, Joshua has caution and boundaries. He hasn’t really grown out of that. Dragons aside, it’s been a long time since he invited someone new into his apartment. And this is Minghao.

So he’s nervous.

“Sorry about the scratches, I know they’re ugly.” Joshua moves to stand in front of the worst of the claw marks on the wall. He tries to look nonchalant. “It might smell like smoke but I promise there’s no fire. Can I get you anything to drink? Water, wine, tea—Uh. Maybe not tea. All I have is Lipton.”

“Water would be nice, please,” Minghao says, and sits down on the floor.

Joshua darts into the kitchen. He returns just in time to place the cups on the table and watch each of his dragons, one by one, fall head over heels in love with Minghao.

When Minghao settles himself comfortably on the carpet, sitting criss-cross with perfect, astounding posture, Mugunghwa climbs straight into his lap. He freezes. Stares. Rests a gentle hand on their spine. Joshua holds his breath until Minghao’s face softens, and just like that he knows—they’re gonna be okay.

Minghao scoops Mugunghwa up and cradles them like a baby, rocking them back and forth and making soft gibberish noises. Mugunghwa melts. They loll limply into his arms, belly-up, their purple scales catching the light like water.

Jangmi, jealous little beast that they are, takes that opportunity to nose into the available real estate of Minghao’s lap. Their tongue flicks over the loose fabric of his cotton pants.

“You’re a natural.” Joshua curls up beside them, resting his chin on his knees. He can tell his face is warm and irreparably fond.

Minghao looks up with starry eyes. “Tell me about them.”

So Joshua does. From the very beginning. He weaves the story of their creation, and he doesn’t hold back about his own shock or confusion, about the struggles and close calls. Minghao listens attentively.

This feels different from telling Vernon and Seungkwan. This time Joshua is more relaxed, more confident. It isn’t such a shock anymore. When he confesses to the real reason why he left their first date early—the truth behind the apartment fire—his voice breaks. Minghao reaches for his hand and links their fingers together.

“They’re incredible,” Minghao whispers, his voice high with excitement. He tears his gaze away from Mugunghwa’s twitching snout. “You’re incredible.”

Joshua immediately shakes his head. “That’s… I haven’t done much. They’re just themselves.”

“But you created them.”

Joshua winces. “Really, I shouldn’t have,” he says, scathingly honest.

Minghao’s mouth pulls into a tight line. He’s trying not to frown with two dragons curled up and starting to doze on his lap.

“Do you regret it?”

“Not exactly. I don’t think I should have done it, though. It’s not…” he hesitates. It’s not right, he wants to say, but that implies the dragons are inherently wrong, and he doesn’t believe that. “It’s not fair for me to have this power. It’s too much. No one person should be able to do this, and definitely not—not me.”

Joshua unfolds himself, letting their knees press together. The invitation of his position is enough to have Nancho scampering across the floor and crawling onto his thigh. Joshua tickles the underside of their chin. They sneeze out a tiny flicker of flame—luckily not pointed at anyone’s face. Minghao’s eyes stretch wide. He squeezes Joshua’s hand.

“You don’t think you deserve this ability,” Minghao realizes.

“Yeah,” Joshua says, relieved. “That’s it.”

His relief dies abruptly when Minghao laughs. It’s a breathy, incredulous laugh, like his giggles but off-key and serious. He sombers himself and brings their tied-up hands to his lap, nestled between dragons.

“Hyung.” Minghao looks at Joshua—really looks. “There is no one more deserving. There is no one who could’ve done a better job.”

“No,” Joshua brushes him off automatically, casually, instinctually. He begins to untangle their fingers. “I don’t think that’s true.”

Minghao holds fast, doesn’t let him wiggle away. “I do. I believe that. You’re one of the best people I know.”

He’s serious, is the thing. He’s got that tone in his voice that Joshua recognizes from their conversations about the past, about their families. Minghao means it. That conviction settles over him like a blanket, quieting the disquiets and soothing what he didn’t know needed soothing.

Minghao has faith in him.

What a nice feeling.

Clumsily Joshua says, “Um, thanks.”

That seems to be enough for Minghao. He redirects the conversation and asks further questions about the dragons. His line of questioning is, again, different from Vernon and Seungkwan; he wants to know the dragons’ personalities, their quirks, their relationships with Joshua and with each other.

“Mugunghwa’s a baby!” Joshua gasps at one point. “They don’t have a crush on Jangmi!”

“They’re different ages?” Minghao looks down at his lap full of dragons with his mouth in a cute little oh. “Oh my god, is that parent-child bickering? Hyung, that’s so cute. Is Jangmi raising them?”

Joshua grits his teeth through a smile. “Not very well.”

They talk until Joshua’s ass aches from sitting on the ground for so long. There are missteps—moments when he reacts harshly to something Minghao says, or vice versa, in their quest for mutual understanding. It’s still a difficult situation to explain. When Minghao makes an offhand comment about almost wanting a dragon for himself, Joshua flinches.

“I won’t carve you one,” he says immediately.

“Oh.” Minghao’s smile strains, then falls. “I—sorry.”

“It’s not personal. It’s just… irresponsible, to bring another dragon into the world. They’re not safe here.”

Minghao traces a fingertip over Mugungwa’s snout while they doze. Jangmi has grown bored and wandered off to sniff around the kitchen cupboards, but the youngest—the maknae, as Joshua has taken to nicknaming them—is content to stay liquified in Minghao’s lap.

“You really care about them,” Minghao says.

“Yeah.”

“You’re a good dad, you know.”

Joshua laughs, but—for all intents and purposes, he is their dad, isn’t he? He’s thought of himself as a parental unit before, but dad has a different ring to it. A complicated knot of emotions starts to loosen in his chest. The title makes sense. Feels good.

He’s a dad. Huh.

Who knew he’d love the sound of that?

He straightens his spine and offers Minghao a snack. They’ve been sitting, at this point, for the entire afternoon.

Minghao makes a rueful face. “I really should get back to the shop and help Chan close. But, do you think I could come by after?”

“Yeah!” Joshua helps him up with both hands and tries not to sound too eager. “I’ll drive you back. I’m just working on a cutlery set tonight, so you can stop by later. Come for dinner.”

“Okay.” Minghao squeezes his hands once, twice, before dropping them.

Minghao lingers in the open doorway before they can exit. His eyes follow Nancho’s quick path across the couch as they battle a throw pillow. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to Joshua’s cheek, quick and quiet. He looks like he’s about to say something important. When he opens his mouth to speak Joshua’s breath hitches in anticipation…

A loud mrrreow cuts across the hallway.

“Mrs. Claws?” Joshua’s hand falls from the doorknob in surprise. Vernon’s fat orange tabby stalks toward them, waving the friendly plume of her tail. “How did you get out?”

Instead of answering, she freezes. Her whole body goes stiff. Her eyes dilate into huge round saucers. Joshua hesitates, glancing behind himself, only to see Namu in an identical frozen position on the floor of the living room. The two animals are locked in an intense staredown—the first of its kind in the natural world.

Joshua has just enough time to say, “Uh, no,” before Mrs. Claws darts between Minghao’s legs and enters the apartment with a ferocious yowl.

Instantly, it’s war. Namu makes an awful screeching noise and bolts under the couch. Mrs. Claws follows, her yellow eyes crazed with newly-awakened predatory instincts. Jangmi dive-bombs her from the armrest. Joshua arrives just in time to catch the dragon in his arms before they land claws-first on the cat.

“Come on,” he wheezes through Jangmi’s irritated wiggling and the stream of angry smoke pouring from their nostrils. “Don’t do this—how hard is it to be friendly—”

Minghao rushes over to stop the cat from batting her paw underneath the couch and terrorizing poor Namu. He scoops her up like a kitten, one hand under the rump, like he’s spent his whole life caring for cats. Her legs dangle, limp and annoyed, beneath his arms.

He’s laughing helplessly. “That could’ve been so messy. Hi, Mrs. Claws. Nice to meet you. Sorry about this.”

“Go, go, take her outside!” Joshua gently tosses Jangmi onto the farthest couch cushion—and he should probably interrogate how fun it is to toss a dragon later because it’s become sort of a habit—and then he runs.

They careen into the hallway and slam the door shut behind them. Immediately there’s a thump as Jangmi slams into the wood, hot in pursuit. Their frustrated huff is audible from the hallway.

Minghao sets the cat down and she bolts. He’s still laughing, and he pauses like that, hands posted on his knees, face turned toward the carpet, wiry shoulders shaking.

Joshua can’t help it—he laughs, too. “Yeah, um. That’s the problem with indoor dragons, I guess.”

Minghao stands up and kisses Joshua.

His noise of surprise gets swallowed. Minghao kisses with a certain liquid-like softness today; he presses their bodies so close together their knees tangle and doesn’t wait for Joshua to catch up. He boldly coaxes Joshua’s mouth open and slips his tongue between them, wet and skillful and so, so hot. Joshua trembles. His jaw goes slack. His knees wobble.

When his body catches up to the situation he wraps both arms around Minghao, fisting a hand in his sweater to keep them steady. Their fervor slows. The river of their kisses trickles into a stream, a slow and simmering back-and-forth until Joshua plants a chaste kiss on Minghao’s lower lip and pulls back.

“Are we dating?” Minghao blurts out, then looks vaguely embarrassed. His ears are as pink as rose quartz. “I mean, officially. I called you my boyfriend but we haven’t really said…”

“Yes.” Joshua feels the whole summer sky in his chest. His smile is so big it hurts. “Yeah, we’re dating. Just, don’t tell anyone about the dragons, please?”

Minghao kisses him on the nose. “I won’t. I’ll be too busy telling them about you.”

“Nevermind. That’s worse.”

Joshua hides his face in Minghao’s neck. When Minghao giggles, he feels it echo in his own chest.

/

Later, Joshua calls Jeonghan to give him the gossip. (The boyfriend-gossip, not the dragon-gossip.) Jeonghan screeches like a banshee. He gets in a few genuine words of congratulations before he’s off to claim his debt from Mingyu, apparently.

“You’ve done me a great service,” he says solemnly. “But also, you’re fucking welcome.”

Joshua purses his lips, even though Jeonghan can’t see him. “Okay. Sure.”

He does not want to know how that debt will play out. He does have Jeonghan and Mingyu to thank for reintroducing him to Minghao, though. Maybe Joshua will send them a nice customized mug.

Later, after that, when the sun has set and a chilly evening fog has descended around the city, Minghao comes back. Joshua plays guitar for him and then Minghao plays Joshua, like an instrument—lays him out flat on the bed, tunes him, plucks noises from his throat that Joshua was unaware he could make.

It’s the slowest, messiest sex he’s ever had in his life. It’s better than he ever imagined.

Better than he ever dreamed.

Afterwards they split a box of peaches in bed and listen to the bumps, thumps, knocks, and bangs echoing ominously from the living room.

“Are the dragons always so loud?” Minghao whispers. They’re sitting shoulder-to-shoulder against the pillows, juice dribbling down their wrists. “What are they doing?”

“Probably just playing. I bet they’re upset we locked them out of the bedroom. They might be throwing a fit.”

“Ah,” Minghao’s nose scrunches up in a fond smile. “Cute.” He neatly arranges the pit of his second peach back into the box and gets up to wash his hands. From the bathroom, his voice floats out: “What did you mean earlier, about indoor dragons?”

“Oh, just.” Joshua pauses to suck a drop of sweet juice from his thumb. “I feel bad for them sometimes. I can tell they’d be happier living outside.”

He takes another bite of luxurious, golden peach flesh. He hurries through his second fruit, rubbing sticky fingers together, to join Minghao in the bathroom and kiss him against the sink while they both taste fresh and sweet and springlike. Minghao melts like candy in his mouth.

Joshua nearly forgets the thread of conversation entirely until they move back to the bedroom, all signs pointing to an indulgent round two, when Minghao sits on the side of the bed and says, “Are you looking to move them outside?”

“Um.” Joshua reboots his brain. Minghao looks divine like this, open-hearted and stripped to his boxers, his lips kiss-puffy. “If it were possible, I’d do it. But there’s no place safe enough.”

“What about with me?”

“What?”

A smile crawls across Minghao’s face. “Infinitea. We have plenty of space in the back. It’s tucked between a delivery ramp and a little parking lot for the retail stores. They’d be safe there.”

That’s unexpected. Totally and completely. Joshua moves to sit on the bed and nearly misses, his knee slamming into the bed frame. “I—are you serious?”

“Yes. If that’s alright with you, anyway. I’d give you a key. We could renovate the back however you’d like. Make it dragon-proof.”

The gravity of this offer hits Joshua like a freight train. He collapses back onto the sheets, a marionette with its strings violently cut. It would solve nearly all of his problems. It would be… so easy. He could go back to focusing on his art—could, maybe, claw his way back to comfortable earnings. The dragons would be safe and free. The ceiling fan spins gently, aimlessly above him. He stares blankly at its familiar shape.

Joshua feels Minghao lay beside him and looks over at his calm expression. “You’d really do that,” he says, and it’s not a question. He believes Minghao.

Something like awe spreads throughout his body, bright and infectious.

Minghao thumbs at the corner of Joshua’s mouth. “I would.”

“Then—yes.” Joshua grabs his hand, presses it firmly into his own face, so he can feel how warm it is. “Yes, oh my god, absolutely. Thank you. Thank you, thank you—”

He climbs on top of Minghao and says the rest with his hands.

/

The move-in process is slow.

Infinitea’s back garden isn’t quite suited for dragons. There’s a lot of work to be done: sweeping, weeding, checking for poisonous plants or insects, raising the fence another meter, building shelters. They spend the whole morning clearing the underbrush of twigs, dried leaves, and anything else deemed particularly flammable. It’s hard work. The air is sharp with late autumn.

Minghao calls for a break around noon, his hands posted on his hips, making an exaggerated face of weariness. He’s as bad as Jeonghan, Joshua thinks, and teases Minghao as they plod into the warmth of the kitchen.

“Tired?” Joshua lightly pinches the tuck of Minghao’s waist.

Minghao startles back, a laugh caught in his throat. He slides a pretty, mischievous smile in Joshua’s direction. “Are you worried about my stamina?”

“I don’t know, should I be?”

“Mmm, no.” Minghao twines his arms around Joshua’s neck, walks them backwards until the small of his back is pressed against the lip of the counter. He smells like wet soil, like green and growing things, tinged with the sweetness that Joshua is beginning to recognize as hibiscus tea leaves. “I can give you a demonstration if you need convincing.”

Joshua is struck by the reminder that Minghao is not insignificantly taller than him. He tilts his head back, eyes catching on Minghao’s full mouth, slightly chapped from the cold. He shivers.

“If we take too long,” Joshua says, his voice dropping. “We’ll run out of daylight for sweeping.”

“True.” Minghao sighs—audible, weary, long-suffering, as if he would like nothing more than to take too long. He drops a fleeting kiss on Joshua’s forehead and shuffles away.

This, Joshua thinks, is what happens in a relationship between two wildly pragmatic people: responsible decisions.

They set about on a wonderfully domestic series of tasks. Minghao puts the kettle on and digs fresh ingredients out of the fridge: gochujang, diced carrots, a handful of plump mushrooms. He directs Joshua towards the rice cooker.

It’s unreasonably nice. Joshua’s last sort-of relationship disintegrated in part because Wonho was a chronic going-out type of guy; he liked to dance and drink and spend hours sweating at the gym. Fun—but not a lifestyle that Joshua could keep up with. They never spent any quiet time together. Not like this.

It only takes a few minutes for Minghao and Joshua to whip up two ramshackle bibimbap dishes and huddle together in the closest booth. There’s a weird sort of excitement to having the entire shop to themselves, with all the doors locked and only half of the lights flicked on. It’s like they’re trespassing. Gangly shadows intercept their hands when they exchange napkins and cutlery.

Before they start eating, Minghao insists on pouring their tea the correct way.

Joshua sits up straight and folds his hands, uncertain but interested. He’s never seen a tea ceremony—even an abridged version—outside of dramas. Minghao emerges from the back room with a thin tray. A gorgeous black teapot rests in the middle, two tiny accompanying cups balancing near the edge.

A gorgeous black teapot that Joshua has seen before.

One that he, actually, knows very well.

He covers his mouth with one hand, shocked and delighted. Minghao pauses at the head of the table and gives him a concerned look. His brows shoot up his forehead. “What is it?”

“You bought that tea set from a little boutique in Insa-dong.”

Minghao blinks. “How did you know?”

“It was 85,000₩.”

“Yes…?”

Joshua looks him dead in the face. “It took me four hours to carve.”

Minghao sets the tray down too hard on the table. The teapot shudders. He looks at it like he’s never seen it before. “You made this!”

“I made that!” Joshua laughs, skimming his fingers over the smooth side. Running into one of his creations in the wild, so to speak, feels like an unexpected reunion with an old friend. How funny, to see this here! “I’ve only done one tea set, I can’t believe you ended up finding it. What a coincidence.”

Minghao slides into the other side of the booth and sits heavily. There’s something fragile in his expression. “Coincidence,” he repeats dully. “Can I ask you a strange question?”

“Of course.”

“Do you believe in fate?”

Six months ago, Joshua would have said no. Now he’s not so sure. He looks between Minghao and the teapot. “Do you?”

“I’ve been thinking about this poem I read recently.” Minghao lifts the lid of the teapot and lets steam crowd his face. “One of the lines says, Be the path. Open the way for another.”

“That’s beautiful.”

Minghao’s mouth twists into a smile. “It is!” He pours their tea, Joshua’s first, then passes over the cup with both hands. “I think the only thing people are meant to do is spend time together. To open pathways for each other. Fate isn’t supposed to be singular.”

Joshua considers this. He sips his tea—something clear and bright that sings all the way down his throat without a hint of bitterness. “So you’re saying you were meant to buy this teapot because it connects us?”

“Simpler than that.”

“Do you think it was our fate to meet each other?”

He’s expecting Minghao to back down, to reframe his words in a way that isn’t so intense. But Minghao sets his cup down and says, “Yeah. Exactly.”

“Oh.”

“I’m glad that we found each other again. Now I get to help you like you helped me.”

To his surprise, Joshua feels a lump grow in his throat. Tears prick the corners of his eyes. He has to blink them away as Minghao’s smile goes impossibly soft.

“When you put it that way,” Joshua says, laughing a little, helplessly and hopelessly in love. “I guess I have to agree. It’s fate.”

/

Two weeks later, Joshua pulls up to Infinitea with a sleepy passenger.

“I’m not much of a—” Jeonghan cuts himself off with a yawn hidden behind the back of his hand. His face scrunches up, and for a split second Joshua can see how he’ll look in fifty years—wrinkled, drowsy, smiling, persnickety. “I’m not much of a tea person.”

“We’re not here for the tea. The front of the shop isn’t even open today.” Joshua turns off the engine and climbs out. His coat flaps around his knees. “You know how Mingyu’s been building birdhouses for Myungho?”

“Mmm-hmm. He keeps complaining about splinters.”

“I wanted you to see the final product.”

Jeonghan cuts him an amused glance. “You did? Mingyu couldn’t show me himself?”

Joshua bites back the confession he knows will invoke loud complaints. The truth is—Mingyu’s already here. This is an intervention. Jeonghan is the last in Joshua’s immediate circle to know the truth about Infinitea. The truth about Joshua himself.

God, he’s been looking forward to this. It’s been too long since he got to one-up Yoon Jeonghan.

“Just follow me,” he says, keeping his voice light and unconcerned.

They wind around the side of the tea shop, approaching the wooden fence which has become so familiar to Joshua over the past few weeks. It’s cold today, properly cold, and heavy dark clouds are threatening snow. It would be the first snowfall of the season, though, so Joshua won’t mind if it does come today. He’d like to watch it with Minghao.

The gate creaks closed behind them. Tables once scattered the back garden, but they’ve been cleared away. Three enormous square birdhouses are nailed into the trees, painted with vibrant splatters of color—undeniably Minghao’s labor of love. Joshua’s heart swells every time he looks at them.

“Hey!” Mingyu sticks his head out the back window. His hair is tousled, his grin boyish. “You made it.”

Mingyu comes around the back door of Infinitea and sweeps each of them into a quick hug. His hand lingers on the small of Jeonghan’s back, but he looks at Joshua when he says, “Did you guys see the—?”

“Not yet!” Joshua rocks back on his heels. “Where’s Myungho?”

Jeonghan makes a confused noise. “Hi! No, no, I see the birdhouses. They’re great. Good job, Minggoo-yah.”

Mingyu blushes and looks at Jeonghan with the gooiest, most lovelorn expression known to mankind. “Thank you.”

Joshua hides his laugh in a cough. Jeonghan glares at him anyway. He’d tease them, as is his God-given right as Jeonghan’s best friend, but then Minghao emerges from between two trees, picking his way through the undergrowth. He’s in his apron and another overly-fluffy sweater.

Minghao abruptly stops a few paces away. A smile toys with his mouth. “Are we ready? Should I…?”

Joshua nods. Jeonghan stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets, probably growing more annoyed by the minute, though he doesn’t show it. Confusion is his least favorite emotion.

Carefully Minghao lifts two fingers to his mouth and whistles.

It happens in a flash. The birdhouses spit out dragons, bright flashes of red and blue and green and purple, who descend on Minghao like a flock of birds. Jangmi curls around Minghao’s neck. Namu latches onto his leg. Nancho and Mugunghwa flap around his arms until they can find comfortable perches in the tuck of his elbow. Joshua knows they’re nosing at him mostly hoping that he brought treats, dried persimmons or candied walnuts, but to an outsider it probably looks like they’re snuggling him just for kicks.

Minghao giggles the whole way through. His face scrunches up with pleasure as he whispers sweet things to the dragons invading his personal space. He’s like a reverse scarecrow.

He looks perfect. Joshua wants to kiss him. Well, he always wants to kiss him, but right now the urge is especially strong.

“What…” Jeonghan begins to say, expressionless, tense in the shoulders.

Joshua doesn’t even have to whistle. He lifts a hand and the dragons flock to him, their excitement doubled. Jangmi purrs into his ear. Mugunghwa gnaws on the laces of his boots. Namu and Nancho start racing up and down his legs, frisky like kittens.

Ah, how he missed them. It’s only been a day.

Turning to Jeonghan and lacing his fingers together solemnly, Joshua says, “I’m a father now.”

Jeonghan looks between Joshua and the dragons. Then looks between Mingyu—who is beaming and wiggling his eyebrows—and the dragons. His eyebrows are deeply concerned, but he pastes a smile onto his face.

“Hong Jisoo,” Jeonghan says. “What in the actual f—”

/

INFINITEA

REVIEWS ON MANGOPLATE

Chaeyoung
Local Guide - 93 reviews - 110 photos
☆☆☆☆☆

Excellent service and a huge variety of tea to choose from. The inside of the shop is gorgeous and perfect for sitting around to chat. I’ve had three first dates here and they all led to second dates ;) Only wish the backyard seating was open. Such a shame they closed it permanently.

Junmyeon
3 reviews
☆☆☆☆

I came here from the article “15 Most Instagrammable Spots in Seoul” and it did not disappoint! Four stars only because my boyfriend hated his tea and spat it all over my cashmere sweater. Great ambience, would come back!

Hyunjin
43 reviews - 18 photos
☆

swear to god i saw the biggest fucking lizard looking at me through the window today. so weird and gross. never again