Archive of Our Own ^beta

Doyoung is not a fidgeter, okay? Fidgeting is for humans. He does not fidget. 

Right now, he’s merely squeezing the head off of a $170 pink rabbit plushie that he bought specifically for this moment because Taeyong always liked to emphasize how premium cotton batting did a better job at holding magic than anything he could get at build-a-bear. 

Not so much fidgeting, then, as preemptively letting out his rage.

He remembers Taeyong having a porcelain phase of mostly collector dolls and teacups, and figures it’s best not to complain about a fabric toy.

Internally sighing, he looks down at his gift and wills his hands to calm down, realizing Taeyong will appreciate it much less if it's given to him ripped straight in half.

He takes a deep breath and rings the doorbell, loosening his hands around the rabbits neck and resorting to impatiently tapping his feet.

After an agonizing thirty seconds, Taeyong opens the door, looking as beautiful and unimpressed as ever.

Doyoung sputters, opens his mouth to say hello, I love you, I’m sorry, anything at all, really, but nothing comes out. 

“I’ve switched to sea creatures, by the way.” Taeyong says impassively. 

Clearly, choking the bunny didn’t work. Doyoung has to hold himself back from groaning out of frustration. He clears his throat. 

“Sea creatures?”

Taeyong takes a step back, motioning for Doyoung to come in, then gestures to the shelves lining his hallway walls leading into his living room, lined with an endless plethora of plushies; a vast animal collection now accompanied by whales, sharks, and fish. It’s more than he remembers, but that’s to be expected.

A lone octopus plushie sits on the fireplace mantel. 

Doyoung wonders who it was.

“Right.” he huffs.

*

He gifts Taeyong the bunny anyway, because that’s all he brought, and Taeyong mutters a quiet thanks and places the bunny on a lone wooden chair, completely avoiding eye contact before walking down the long hallway into the kitchen. The bunny stares back at Doyoung pathetically and he feels like shit all over again.

Doyoung isn’t bad at saying sorry, in fact it’s actually something he’s usually pretty good at. 

Saying sorry to Taeyong is the problem, because Taeyong knows how well Doyoung has mastered the art of apologizing, and simultaneously mastered completely ignoring the equally important art of feeling guilty.

Doyoung feels bad, sure, about what their relationship has come to. He feels bad about how they never quite reached an understanding, and about how it’s been at least fifty years now of clipped conversation and biting words.

But, truthfully, in defense of Taeyong’s cold shoulder, he doesn’t feel guilty about any of it.

*

He thinks back to that night, just as he always does whenever he finds himself wandering back to this house, back to Taeyong.

His lips tingle with the memory; a feather light press of skin against his.

That’s what he’s held onto, all these years. Three words and a flesh memory.

Frustratingly, it’s a memory Taeyong seems to barely have a grasp on. Admittedly, he was quite drunk when it happened, and also devastated… and furious… and, well, altogether crushed.

Taeyong refuses to bring it up. Shows no acknowledgement whenever Doyoung alludes to it.

Doyoung knows how to take a hint. 

He’s backed off. Moved around. Started a business.

He’s built up a life with a piece missing, and every now and then he finds himself wandering up a familiar trail to get it back.

*

He’s got magic infecting his blood – just the same as Taeyong does –  and he knows how easy it is to get lost in it. He knows how the magic coaxes him, how it pulls at his loose threads until he’s completely untethered, floating on air, unwilling to look down.

Taeyong is the only thing that brings him back to earth. 

Taeyong’s tether is a different story. 

*

When Doyoung steps into the kitchen, Taeyong is at the sink, hands buried in a mountain of bubbles and scrubbing at a black cauldron. Black silk gloves peek out from underneath cheap red rubber ones. 

His mind flashes a familiar dream. He’s dreamt of Taeyong taking off the gloves. Dreamt of Taeyong letting himself touch. Letting himself feel. Letting himself be free.

It’s all Doyoung’s ever wanted.

He turns his gaze to the rest of the kitchen, and barely holds back a horrified gasp at the sheer amount of things lining Taeyong’s walls. Floor to ceiling plushies, ornaments, trinkets, knick knacks galore. He dreads to imagine if the rest of the house just looks like this now.

The last time he saw Taeyong– 

He interrupts his own thought. “Taeyong, if it’s getting worse, you should tell me. We can work through this together– ”

“Oh, like we worked through it together the first time?” Taeyong cuts in. “It’s not getting worse, and those aren’t souls, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Despite the jab, Doyoung finds himself breathing a sigh of relief.

The last time he saw Taeyong, it was definitely getting worse. He spent an entire decade worrying about it, and finally managed to find a flimsy excuse to come by again.

“What are you doing here?” Taeyong breaks him out of his reverie. 

Doyoung’s eyes dart from Taeyong’s hands to his face. He looks sad, Doyoung thinks. He looks sad, and lonely, and vulnerable, and probably a heck of a lot like Doyoung looks right now.

All of his thoughts must be echoed on his face, because a second later, Taeyong gives him a hostile glare, then returns his focus to scrubbing the stained cauldron in front of him. 

“One of my clients is having premonitions,” Doyoung says, slowly, “He said he’s never had them before,” pauses before making his point, “thinks it’s a curse.”

Taeyong hesitates for a moment, before responding, “And where do I come in?”

Doyoung fidgets again, pushes his sleeves up then pulls them back down, reminds himself to have some decorum and shoves his hands in pockets. “I need to know if it’s blood magic.”

Taeyong slams the cauldron back down into the sink. Doyoung doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone stare so furiously at a pot full of soap bubbles. 

“I don’t know why you’re coming to me,” Taeyong bites out icily, “I’d assume you already know enough about blood magic.” He spits out the last two words so harshly it almost makes Doyoung flinch.

Doyoung lets a silence stretch on between them. They have time, he knows. They have all the time in the world to work this out. None of it changes the fact that he hates this. Hates that they can’t talk to each other anymore without it devolving into them spitting venom laced words in each other’s direction.

He remembers when they used to argue with each other for fun. A wry smile grows on his face. He used to look forward to it. He liked riling Taeyong up, loved it when Taeyong would try to rile him up. He knew that no matter what they said to each other, no matter how much they drove each other up the wall, they would always come down, always meet in the middle, always come back to each other.

He misses it like hell.

“How long are you going to be upset with me?”

Taeyong doesn’t bother with a response, but doesn’t move to resume cleaning. He stares, emptily, at the cauldron.

“It’s been decades, Taeyong-ah,” Doyoung feels that familiar desperation climbing up his throat. Nothing about this conversation is new to them. Mutual frustration that has stayed long past its welcome. 

“Please.” He whispers.

Taeyong finally opens his mouth to speak. He takes a moment to breathe before responding, makes Doyoung wait just a little longer. “Fifty years,” He whispers back, “It’s been fifty years, and that doesn’t even matter because we’ll both have five hundred more.”

And this… is not what Doyoung came here for. He’s tired of the fights. Tired of the pain. Tired of the bad blood between them.

He doesn’t regret turning. He knows in his heart he would never consider wanting to go back on that. 

His turning was assurance. It was a promise to himself that Taeyong would always have someone. Someone close and someone caring. 

He knows now though, personally, how lonely the magic can make you feel. How it courses through your veins and molds you into a vessel. His heart pains as thinks about all the years Taeyong had to go through feeling like this on his own. Knowing that he would live like this for eternity. Knowing that he cannot touch without killing.

Despite the fact that he and Taeyong are diametrically opposed, just knowing that he will be able to stand here and argue with him, five hundred years on, is a blessing that makes all the death worth it.

Taeyong won’t admit he agrees. Doyoung’s grown tired of walking around it. He came here today knowing that he doesn’t want to do that anymore.

*

Taeyong will live for at least another millenia. Doyoung’s one of the lucky few who got close enough to hear his story. 

He kept it pretty short; falling ill, praying to any god that would listen, waking up one morning to a household with loving parents and a sister, and ending the day in devastation, with the energy of three souls sparking at his fingertips, and three bodies at his feet.

Blood magic can’t be reversed.

Taeyong knows that now. Doyoung knows that now too, as they both spent years searching for an answer that didn’t exist. 

Where Taeyong eventually accepted his own fate, Doyoung found his own solution.

The day he turned is a blur to him now. Hell, the entire first year after turning is a blur. 

Doyoung remembers keeping it a secret, at first. He knew Taeyong would never forgive him for subjecting himself to this, for putting more people in danger. 

He’s kept lots of things from Taeyong. They spent years alongside each other, most of it spent researching magic, a good deal of it sparing each other longing glances and stifling confessions dancing on the tips of their tongues.

He remembers their discovery of blood magic, the origin of Taeyong’s curse, an irreversible and ceaseless cloud, something destined for him the day he was born.

Even months after Taeyong ended his search for answers, Doyoung kept looking, in secret. Kept the whispers secret. Never let Taeyong know how the magic spoke to him in dreams, told him how he could keep Taeyong safe, for all the years Taeyong was set to live.

So he let it in.

He remembers his blood screaming and his heart stopping.

Then suddenly, there was only hunger.

Unceasing, and untamed.

Hiding it from Taeyong meant hiding from him completely. Months went by where Taeyong surely thought he was gone for good.

And then there was… that night.

Doyoung pushes those thoughts away.

*

“Fifty years,” Doyoung echoes Taeyong’s words back to him, “fifty years and I’ve tried so hard to stay away, but it has to end at some point, doesn’t it?”

This conversation feels far too familiar. 

How many times have they had this argument?

A disconcerting feeling overtakes him.

No matter how many times they’ve tread this ground, no matter how many times he thinks he’s this close to getting Taeyong to understand him, to even forgive him, it’s as if the moment Doyoung leaves, the moment he turns his back, it all resets.

They always end up back to how it was that night.

He doesn’t know what to do. 

He doesn’t know what to do except try again.

“You were right,” He blurts out. “I shouldn’t have messed with blood magic. I lost myself along the way. You’re right to be upset with me.”

He can see Taeyong absorbing his words. His eyes have yet to move from staring down at the sink, but he can see his jaw working, considering.

Doyoung knows he’s lucky to have gotten this far. It’s the longest he and Taeyong have spoken in years, but he can’t help himself from baring his soul even more, even if he knows Taeyong won’t like it.

“It doesn’t change why I did it, though. It doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

Taeyong freezes, for a moment, finally turning his body incrementally towards Doyoung. He has a pained expression, and Doyoung can see his hands tightening into fists.

“I did it for you.” Doyoung whispers into the silence.

“How much death have you caused, Doyoung?” Taeyong says quietly. “All the people you’ve killed, all the people you’re going to kill… that’s on me. None of this should ever have happened.”

“You told me,” Doyoung pauses, as he takes a moment to recover an old memory, “years ago, before I turned, if we couldn’t find a way to break the curse, you would find a way to use it for good.”

He takes a step closer. He wants Taeyong to understand.

“You’ve done that, Taeyong. You’ve saved people. You saved me. I’ve spent the past fifty years trying to– ” He cuts himself off, unsure of what he was about to say. “ –trying to do the same.” He settles on. “Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

Taeyong stares back at him with furrowed brows, a face of anger and confusion. He shakes his head and opens his mouth, looking ready to respond, before casting a suspicious glance at the shelves on the wall. 

Doyoung follows his gaze, glimpses briefly at the blue whale on the top shelf, before turning back to Taeyong.

The rage on his face looks to have been replaced by a worrying, almost guilty expression. He won’t look up.

Something about it causes a heavy feeling to form in Doyoung’s belly.

Doyoung steps closer to him, and reaches out a hand to brush Taeyong’s gloved wrist.

Taeyong repels with a gasp, stumbling sideways into the counter.

“Don’t touch me.” He forces out desperately, continuing to shuffle backwards until his back hits the wall, and he crumples down.

“You can’t– ”, he hiccups, “You can’t touch me.”

Doyoung crouches down in front of him, willing him to just look up.

He hates it when Taeyong gets like this. Acts like this is all brand new. Like he could still hurt Doyoung with just a graze.

“Taeyong,” He whispers, “I have no soul for you to take.”

He reaches out again, slowly.

His fingertips are the first to brush Taeyong’s cheekbone. Taeyong freezes, and squeezes his eyes shut, hard.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he cups his palm around Taeyong’s cheek. Taeyong gasps out a sob, and a wave of tears begin to gather on his eyelashes. Doyoung catches it on his thumb, wipes it away.

Finally, he closes his eyes, leans forward, and places his forehead against Taeyong’s.

“I’ve always wanted to touch you like this,” Doyoung murmurs, “I’ve wanted this for so long, you have no idea.”

*

They sit there like that for what feels like hours, as Taeyong’s breathing evens out. He feels Taeyongs lashes flutter, and he opens his eyes to see Taeyong’s are half open, glazed over, unseeing.

“It’s not on you Taeyong.” He states plainly, assuredly. “None of what I’ve done is on you.”

“You can’t say that–”

“It’s the truth.” He breathes out. “It’s the truth, Taeyong.”

Taeyong has trouble holding his tears back after that. 

*

They continue to sit there together as the minutes on the clock tick by, soaking in each others’ touch, evening their breathing until the two of them are in sync.

“You don’t even know if I want you back.” Taeyong mutters.

I do, Doyoung thinks. You told me. Doyoung remembers. 

He knows Taeyong is still holding back. Still won’t admit that they’re treading familiar ground. 

Doyoung wants to push, push Taeyong until that night is more than just glimpses. Until he realizes it wasn’t all a dream.

He can’t remember the last time they even got this far.

“Feel me.” Doyoung says under his breath. “Please, feel me, Taeyong.”

Taeyong stills, and for a brief second he seems to truly be considering Doyoung’s words.

After a moment, upsettingly, he pulls back.

“It’s part of me, you know? Hating you.” Taeyong says grimly.

As strange of a sentiment as that is, Doyoung understands.

Where Doyoung’s tether to the earth is the love he has for Taeyong, enough to sacrifice his mortal soul and steal countless others, Taeyong’s tether is guilt.

Guilt from all the souls he’s taken, and from all the souls Doyoung has taken too.

Doyoung didn’t understand it when he was human. Didn’t understand what it was like having magic pull at his strings like a puppet.

He understands it now. 

He reaches out again, and stops with his hand hovering over Taeyong’s. There’s still a glove separating them, but even then Doyoung isn’t sure if he can touch.

He breathes in raggedly, chest suddenly tight. 

“I’ll do anything. Anything for you to forgive me.”

Taeyong looks as if he’s in his own world. 

Doyoung can imagine, the guilt must be dragging him back down to earth.

“I can’t remember,” Taeyong says softly, “what it’s like not to hate you.”

Doyoung pulls back as if he’s been burnt. 

He won’t touch Taeyong like this. Not when he’s trying to put himself back together.

Not without forgiveness.

Despite speaking of hatred, Taeyong’s eyes are full of sadness.

Doyoung wonders if he’s remembering that night.

*

Taeyong finally comes back to himself, and clears his throat to speak. “The bunny. That you brought. Can you bring it to me?”

Doyoung feels his forehead scrunch in confusion. He isn’t exactly sure why Taeyong wants to see the bunny now, but it's the first time Taeyong has properly looked him in the eyes all afternoon, and he knows he’d do anything to keep Taeyong like this.

He scrambles to his feet and rushes back into the front hall to grab the plushie, squeezing it hard and sending a thank you to his past self for going through the effort to get something so costly.

By the time he gets back to the kitchen, no longer than a few seconds later, Taeyong is standing again, gloves removed and draped delicately over the back of a chair. This time, he’s staring longingly at the toys lining the wall.

Most of them look older, from when Doyoung would still come by often enough, when he would spend hours pleading with Taeyong, only to end the night with both of them in tears, another failure to understand each other.

Those aren’t souls, Taeyong had said.

He trusts Taeyong. Those aren’t souls, he believes, but they must be something, surely.

Something meaningful enough for Taeyong to be studying them so anxiously.

He passes Taeyong the bunny, who turns and gives Doyoung a scanning look, before tearing his eyes away with an almost shameful expression. Taeyong gingerly holds the rabbit in his hands, and lightly strokes his thumbs along the toy’s velvet belly.

Doyoung instinctively moves to turn his head, before realizing Taeyong isn’t trying to hide this from him. Not this time.

This was the one thing Taeyong never let him see. 

Taeyong shudders, and begins mumbling slightly under his breath.

A faint glow passes from underneath Taeyong’s skin into the pink bunny. Doyoung can feel more than he can hear the hum that fills the room, a telltale sign that magic is at work. 

It’s a deceptive thing, blood magic. He would almost mistake it for light magic, if he didn’t know what to look for.

The shade passing over Taeyong’s eyes. 

The strain in Taeyong’s throat, the magic weighing on his lungs, rendering him silent.

Even if he’s not the one currently wielding it, he can feel the magic pulling him into a trance.

He feels thirsty, for a moment. His mind begins to focus on the dryness in his throat, the loneliness in his heart. 

He won’t drink unless he’s found someone who deserves it, but it’s been months, and he feels starved. A familiar metallic taste sits on his tongue, teasing him, asking him for more.

He shuts his eyes hard. He can’t think. He can’t-

Just like that, the hum disappears, and he hears Taeyong catching a breath.

Doyoung’s mind comes back to him, slowly. He peels his eyelids back open.

Taeyong looks… different.

Peaceful, almost.

“What did you do?” He asks.

“I put it away.” Says Taeyong, eerily calm. 

He fixes his gaze back on Doyoung. 

“I don’t want to hate you anymore.” He says earnestly.

Doyoung doesn’t understand.

“Why?” Is all he can think to say.

“It hurt.” Taeyong gives a shadow of a smile, “But it’s gone now. I can’t even remember how it felt.”

Doyoung can’t understand.

“I’ve missed you.” Taeyong sniffles out.

This isn’t forgiveness.

“Take it back.” Doyoung responds, voice desperate.

“I don’t want to, Doyoung.”

“Take it back.” He repeats.

“I can’t,” Taeyong says softly, turning back to the shelf and gently making space for its new tenant. “I can’t take it back.”

*

They stand there, for what feels like a lifetime in silence. 

Doyoung processes.

Taeyong reaches out, touches Doyoung’s hand slowly.

“You did this for me, Doyoung.”

It’s Doyoung’s turn, to stand in quiet anguish.

This isn’t forgiveness.

There never will be.

A century passes in Doyoung’s mind. It’s the clearest he’s felt since turning. Since he let the infection in. 

Taeyong isn’t stupid. He would never in a million years think that this is what Doyoung wanted from him. 

Letting go of his tether to humanity, just so Doyoung can keep hold of his.

Forcing out his own guilt and anger.

For Doyoung.

Doyoung can feel the wetness on cheeks, hadn’t even noticed when he started crying.

Doyoung hates himself, he thinks. Just a fraction of the betrayal Taeyong felt all these years is enough to reduce him to a sobbing mess.

Taeyong pulls his sleeves up and starts wiping lightly under Doyoung’s eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Doyoung pleads. “I’m sorry I put you through this. I’m sorry– ” He cuts himself off. He has too much to apologize for. Too many things that aren’t Taeyong’s to forgive.

He stays silent.

Taeyong rubs circles on his nape. It’s a touch he’s waited years for. A touch he’s gone mad for. A touch he’s killed for.

“I forgive you.”

Doyoung chokes on a sob. 

It isn’t real.

*

He can’t look Taeyong in the eyes, can’t stand to see that Taeyong has become the one with an apology in his gaze, a sorry balancing on the tip of his tongue.

Taeyong realizes it’s not the right thing to say. He averts his eyes as well, and ducks his face into Doyoung’s neck.

Hours must go by as they simply stand like that. Splayed on the kitchen floor, grasping each other tightly, too scared to look up, and too hurt to leave.

Finally, Taeyong parts his lips to speak. His mouth brushes over Doyoung’s jugular, and Doyoung shudders, knowing this is how his victims must feel. A last fleeting glimpse of pleasure before searing pain.

Doyoung braces himself for the words that come next.

“I can’t remember the last time I kissed anyone.” 

It hits Doyoung like a pile of bricks, because Doyoung knows now, knows why, that Taeyong doesn’t remember that night all those years ago, where Doyoung reappeared after months in bloodthirsty trance, the first ounce of self-control he could manage and he landed on Taeyong’s doorstep.

He remembers how furious Taeyong was, to find out what he had done.

Taeyong drank himself into a stupor that night, and they touched, for the first time.

They held hands, as Doyoung pulled him off the couch. 

Brought him to bed, laid him down, where he cradled his head, and brushed back his hair.

“I love you.” Taeyong had said, sloppily. Sadness tracing his tone. Eyes caught on Doyoung’s lips.

Taeyong’s eyebrows were furrowed. Doyoung remembers how it looked like his whole face was pouting.

Doyoung had brushed his thumb over Taeyong’s fingers. 

Taeyong had looked down at their hands briefly, confused, then understanding.

Then he leaned in for a kiss.

They never spoke about it. 

*

Doyoung realizes, now. Taeyong had put that night away.

Looking back at the shelves on the wall, noticing just how many trinkets Taeyong has, not just plushies, but tiny ceramic frogs, even a set of stone starfish.

Doyoung always tried to respect what Taeyong wished to keep hidden.

Never asked him how many of his toys were actually vessels. Never asked how often he really put things away.

He regrets not paying closer attention. Not putting his foot down, like how Taeyong had with him.

But it’s so clear now, he thinks. 

Taeyong’s entire house is stocked to the brim of everything that the magic has taken from him. 

Even if he can’t remember it, he can see it right in front of him.

It must be torture.

*

Doyoung doesn’t want to remind him of something he’ll never remember.

He dips his head, slowly, gives Taeyong a moment to lean his face upwards, finally gathers the courage to look at Taeyong’s face, just in time to see his eyelids flutter shut. 

Doyoung can’t remember the last time Taeyong looked so serene.

He captures Taeyong’s lips in his.

Doyoung knows his lips are cold. It’s probably not the warmth he was hoping for, but Taeyong is pulling him in like oxygen and it's almost enough to get his heart beating again.

He spent decades fantasizing what it would be like to kiss Taeyong again.

He feels alive. He feels breathless. He feels euphoric.

There’s no relief.

This isn’t love.

This is Taeyong, untethered.

*

He’s lived so much of his life alone. 

Taeyong has too.

Fifty years of heartache, culminated.

Everything inside him feels delicate, as if a single breeze would make him drift away.

*

He knows it’s a risk, the two of them together. 

The magic will only take and take and take, and there will only be so much they can do to appease it.

He wants it all to be worth it.

*

“I love you.” 

Doyoung finds himself nodding vigorously, as he feels the words pour out of Taeyong’s warm mouth.

This, he knows, is as real as it’s ever going to be.

“I love you too.”