Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It appeared in the spring. After the winter’s bounty of compacted snow melted into mud and soaked into a new growth of wildflowers and wheatgrass, a large commodious hole far bigger than the black and white printings of space craters on the moon smacked front and center on every newspaper in town. A spectacle for such a little town, where nothing ever happens and new faces are a dime between a fresh mound of dirt and a wailing newborn.

But something about a giant pit in the middle of the wild wheat fields seemed to stir up a storm of blabbering mouths from high noon to the late hours of the night. No matter if you stood on the corner of Magnolia across from the feed and supply store or sat in one of the old rickety chairs in the ‘seen better days of care’ library— everyone talked. Except for you, or maybe you did, but never to anyone who asked. You’d keep your lips sealed, hoarding the secrets of small to yourself. While Ms. Cha spoke conspiratorially about the pit being some open byway directly from hell; all while clutching knobby jointed fingers into the worn leather of a bible, old man Lee spat and muttered around loose dentures that the hole was from some byproduct of an enemy attack, a warning out of many sure to come. Mr. Ahn who worked at the school was quick to step in with a more realistic theory— a sinkhole. A March rainstorm had flooded the fields just a couple days ago, a good couple feet of standing water and soft grounding could make such a phenomenon appear.

You didn’t care about the how or the why or the what. That pit was an answer to many of your inner pleadings stretching long and arduous over the years.

The beatings still burned heavily into your skin, welts like worms crawled over the flesh from one end of your body to the other. You could feel the rope burn around your wrists, the belt with a freshly shined buckle over your shoulder blades, the blood trailing over the stuck curve of your spine, the sting of dirt rubbing raw into your knees. There was an old lamppost in those wheat fields, right behind the house you refuse to acknowledge as a home; it lacked the inviting comfort from years of love and conditioning simple things into tender commodities. The light had long been broken, the bulb dead and broken from seasonal transgressions, yet that didn’t stop the moths from hovering around it. Seeking the waning fragrance of something long gone.

Those moments in the aftermath brought a sense of solidarity. You, tied to the post, left to your wounds in the dirt with nothing but the glare of the moon on your shredded back; the moths, aimlessly gathering around a mere memory, only to be faced with the same judging audience hovering over their heads. One and the same.

But the pit had swallowed that commonality.

Where that pole once sat was now the wide mouth of a seemingly bottomless hole. The lashes, the blood, the raw skin licked at by the cold of night, gazed upon by the watchful moon, the worn wood and broken light; gone. The moths, you wondered, over a day old mug of flat cola; had they also in their mindless whims chose to follow the lamppost into the deep seated throat of the pit? You never saw them again. But that could plainly be because you weren’t ever crossing their paths, seeing as the one thing that you both had in common was now nothing.

You stared at the poster like it would tremble beneath your scrutiny. Today, a new year, hardly an ordinary anniversary but something akin to an annual celebration marking the fourteenth year since the pit had emerged. That was fourteen less faces around town, fourteen missing amongst the odd three-hundred and something population recorded by the census in town hall.

Fourteen to be thought dead.

The raffle in town square had just been finished with the mayor swiping sweat from his top lip and reflecting far too many teeth towards the awaiting crowd. Between damp fingers was the newly anointed volunteer on a small rectangular piece of paper.

“As you all know, fourteen volunteers doesn’t seem like a lot when comparing it to hundreds. But fourteen years is a long time in any context— marriage, divorce, the life of a beloved pet, the day your child was born but in the past, the food sitting in the back of your refrigerator…” Several rehearsed laughs floated over the crowd. It made your ears buzz unpleasantly. “Past a decade and nearly approaching a century, fourteen years of the unknowing. The pit, in all its cavernous glory, made its mark in our wheat fields, in our small town without a single trace of reasoning. Had us scratching our heads, tapping our chins, pace our porches and grow restless in its presence.” He pauses, shifting the microphone in hand— once to the left, thrice to the right. “But we’ve stood our ground against its silent existence! Never once did we plunge into the small-minded depths of hysteria. We stood strong, standing here now just as unmoved as the first year, the fifth year and the marking of ten whole years.”

Murmured agreement, some whoops of blind faith and the obligatory head bobbing— like the followers of some harebrained prophet. Sparing a glance about the gathered crowd, the looks of idolatry made a heavy rock of unease lay heavy in the bottom of your gut.

No amount of years passing could ever quell that sickening sentiment.

The buzzing in your ears continued while the mayor spoke his aimless words, something encouraging, something disheartening, something embraced.

“— Nobody is sent without a cause. Each person, big or small, young or old, serves a purpose. To bring us, this community, closer to an understanding of where the pit came from, why it chose us, and what it plans on doing once the time comes. We— all of us standing present now, will be better prepared for when that day arrives. Might be tomorrow, or possibly next Thursday or even one random day fifty years from now but we will be ready. Darkness has no hold over our heads, we will not be blindsided by the inevitable!”

Someone moves from beside you, easing into the empty spot with only a mild bit of stirring dust.

“He makes it seem like it is something that’ll end the world.”

“A fly could land in his grits and he’d spew of bad omens.”

You deposit your hands into the front pockets of your well-worn jeans, not even looking at the owners of the quips.

“I think the late night brandy binges have smoothed his brain out.”

“Might be early onset of dementia. Or is it Alzheimer’s?”

“Doubt it’s either one of those, he isn’t old enough… at least, I don’t think?” An elbow nudges you, “Think he’s old enough?”

“I think you both speak far too casually when either one of your names could be on that paper.”

“She speaks, finally!” A swift ‘shush’, and a pointedly glare from one of the towns leading gossip mills had Yeonjun snapping his jaw shut. But only for a moment, just until the woman turned her attention back to the droning mayor.

He was settling back onto you with furrowed brows and an overly-dramatic pout. “You’d think the old hag would have been in a trance with how much she flaps her lips about the man… and the pit. Isn’t that how it goes? Someone hangs the stars or quotes something about love and cannibalism, maybe reads off some dead guys poetry and the easily weak-minded fall into this glassy-eyed blind worship.”

“Just say rose-tinted glasses, idiot. You fill your mouth with a mile long amount of words when a term already exists for what you’re blabbering about.” Taehyun hardly blinked when Yeonjun craned his neck to peer over at him from your other side. He didn’t even move his head from its face-forward position, remaining completely settled on the mayor and that piece of paper between his fingers.

“— no sacrifice in is vain. Our fourteenth volunteer to mark the fourteenth year of the pit is…”

You hardly felt the harsh hand wrapping around your upper arm, nearly tugging your arm clean out of its socket.

“— Mr. Lee Kwangsun! It is an honor to have you taking this pivotal step towards retrieving knowledge not only for the town hall but your community of family and friends. You are delegated as a truth-finder, one that will be encapsulated for many generations to come! Everyone, let us give Mr. Lee a hardy send-off. One that’ll provide him comfort and strength in his descent.”

The applause was deafening, and that buzz from earlier grew louder. But not enough to keep the cold edge of the one belonging to the grip on your bicep from cutting through.

“I work my ass off with the expectation of coming home to a cooked meal and a clean house but instead, the sink is filled with half-washed dishes and there isn’t a single plate of supper waiting for me.” His voice remained as sharp as the buckle on his belt, both digging into and under your skin.

You wouldn’t fight him, not now and not every year in the past when he would do the same thing. The ring on your forefinger was a reminder of what you pledged yourself to, who you gave your freedom away to. You wished to look back and beg for help like you used to, to plead and cry and hopefully someone’s heartstrings would be pulled enough to save you. But when you do, Yeonjun’s shoulders are slumped inward and Taehyun’s gaze quickly flickers away.

“Still hanging around those boys, huh? Whoring yourself out, making a spectacle in front of everyone, running my name into the dirt in front of everyone in town. You are more worthless than a bent nail.” He cared nothing of your footing, not of the pain in your arm or the macabre celebration going on around your retreating forms.

Old Man Lee had been chosen, the fourteenth volunteer of the fourteenth year.

The riding crop wasn’t new. Had been around since you were little, hanging from a nail by the kitchen doorway. It wasn’t his favorite to use, rather his trusty belt and shined buckle but he relented on putting it to service. Something about blood soaking into the grooves and being difficult to reach.

While you laid on your stomach, hands knotted behind your back and well-worn jeans pulled around your ankles on the bed you wished housed monsters underneath, the lashes of the crop raining down on your skin did something akin to finality settle within your chest. You hadn’t a plan, nothing sound that could offer the most success or even a complacent amount of comfort. But you couldn’t keep going anymore. Not like this. Not when your days ended with a belt and buckle, a riding crop, a wooden paddle, a rough hand, a booted foot. You wouldn’t linger in acknowledging the other means by his desire. Those instances made you want to curl up into your own flesh, burrow deep into muscle and organs and tissue until you felt like nothing could dig hard enough to reach you.

Thirty-seven licks and he was done. A panting mess that offered nothing but a last minute wad of lukewarm spit on the back of one of your whip-red thighs. His hunkering steps departed from the room and continued down the short hallway towards the bathroom. You knew to wait, even if your mind was screaming for you to move now. But the water to the shower wasn’t on yet, and he would know you were on foot.

The riding crop, upon turning your head against the quilt stretched across the bed, had been thrown down beside you. You offered it a watery glare, shifting and jerking your hands around from within their rope prison to loosen the binding. He was getting sloppy, lazy. It used to be futile trying to free yourself but with a bit of tugging, the rope loosened and you eased your hands from behind your back.

You paused, listening.

The water was on, the sound of hushed droplets gathering into loud pools on the bottom of the tub echoing through the paper-thin walls. This was your chance, one that wasn’t planned and had no thought behind it except— you needed to run.

You bite back the hiss of your jeans rubbing against the raw skin on your thighs as you pulled them up and fastened the button into place. Stilling again, you listen. The shower was still going.

The blur from the bedroom to the front door and clear off the porch was very dream-like. It didn’t even feel like you were running, in such a haste comparable to prey facing its inevitable demise. Escaping the jaws of cruelty knowing that they were always at your ankles, nipping at the flesh there with taunting vehemence. You barely heard the sound of the front door slamming open and the booming threats drawing the moon closer to watch.

There was a lot you failed to realize. The shower had turned off when you were halfway through the living room, that you left a clear path of bumped over objects in your wake, the door slammed closed and sounded off the alarm of your escape…

… and the pit.

It started with one unlucky volunteer with each new year, chosen from a folded slip of paper piled within an old ball cap. A retriever of answers, the bringer of solutions, messenger of the unknown— whatever false title the mayor could pin to the heads of the chosen only served as empty rhetoric.

To you, at least.

Everyone else soaked up the verbiage like sponge-brained sheep, crowding their trustworthy shepherd in a state of blind trust against the strange and unusual. It felt stupid to follow, and while your intentions weren’t to do so; the nosedive you take into the gaping mouth of the pit while trying to flee the hands of a real small town monster only made you half as rash and just a quarter-inch naive.

It may have been the fourteenth year, but you would be the fifteenth volunteer.

Chapter Text

The expectation was death, how could it not be when you’ve taken a headfirst stumble down into a cavernous hole. It had to have a bottom. A means to an end. A place where you’ll rest, where your bones will be shattered and scattered for soil to eventually cover, blood to water the ground and guts to feed the insects lying in wait.

But you didn’t.

Plummeting through inky darkness didn’t conclude with your demise but rather after what felt like hours (but simply a handful of minutes) falling down an infinite rabbit hole did the shadows fade from your vision and a cacophony of lights gather in a swirling tunnel below you. To you, in a fleeting thought, did they look to be dancing. Like fireflies in the summer, blinking in and out of sight. A part of it made you sick to look at, thinking that this was that metaphorical light at the end of it all. And of course, yours just had to be something drowned in bitter feelings. Summer and fireflies and the blinking of their lights in the humid evenings— dancing around your beaten body with ignorant glee. You loathed them.

You wished they would hurry to you, and drown you in their luminescence. End every bit of your suffering through this free fall. Make the welts that have scarred over so much that the skin is bubbled and uneven, rough and layered, completely disappear.

With a pop, and the realization that there hadn’t been not a single sound since you’ve entered the pit, a grand orchestra of noises blasted through your ears and bounced around your head until it became too much to bear. Something wet caught around the curve of your earlobe and dragged like a dog’s tongue up and over the outer shell. You’d lift a hand to wipe at whatever it was, facing red stains that smeared across your fingertips when pulling your hand back to observe. The lights had grown brighter by now, their approach swirling together and stretching into finely pointed lines that threatened to snag your body and sink into every battered fiber of your wrought soul.

Wishful thinking or perhaps, depressive thoughts.

But no matter the steadfast approach of those lights, you wouldn’t be meeting them in any death riddled embrace. Instead, you and something else or another collide mid-air, the impact yanking you harshly off-course and barreling into a netted roof. You bounce harshly, smacking into the rope and flipping over the edge of it with what— or who— right on your heels.

The second landing proved much harder, clipping a well-worn canopy that didn’t stand a chance against you and the ‘who’ that tore right through its weak fibers. Below it was the ground, hard and wet. Your body hit it with a rather heavy ‘plap’, stomach down, halfway into a sludge puddle that jumped and scattered to soak into your clothing. A bit off from the mark was the tag-a-long, crashing into several stacked boxes that splintered into many fragmented chunks, some of which ricocheted off the backs of your legs.

Logically, you’d be dead. Realistically, you’d also be dead— or at least heavily injured to the point that death would be the only solution.

But you weren’t, just a bit dazed and pressed for the sweet feeling of air passing through your lungs; having it knocked and stolen never was a pleasant experience. The fabric of your jeans felt heavy and oddly sticky, clinging to your legs as you shifted onto your back, allowing more of the puddle’s remaining ichor to soak into the cotton of your tee. A small gripe at the back of your mind, groaned in hopes of it just being rain water and not something vomit-inducing. You don’t think you’d be able to stomach the possibility of lying in… well, waste of some sort.

Beyond your bare feet was a groan capped off with several foul-mouthed grievances, a bit of shifting and the occasional wood bit sliding rough across the ground. It was stone, you could feel the partially smooth surface and bleeding jagged edges beneath your hands.

“Hey, are you dead? ‘Cause you better hope you are.”

You stir enough to bend a knee just as the owner of the voice (and the several rounds of pearl-clutching ramblings) was suddenly leaning over into your vision like a curious bird does a small and insignificant lizard. While his face was difficult to see with the varying stringed lights crossing over one another just above where you landed, what wasn’t was his clearly projected threat.

“Oh, guess you aren’t.”

Very much like a beetle who had been overturned by a handsy child, you scuttled as best as you could across the stony ground and away from the stranger but the traction of your soaked jeans mixed with the wet stones only made you kick around in place comically. Well, at least he seemed to find it a little amusing if not by the teasing giggle and tilted head. Still, you couldn’t make out what his expression was.

The humor could very well be misplaced and the opening for some entirely different emotion— a close relative to his threat only seconds ago.

“Did the stag’s get your tongue or what?”

You coughed, throat feeling hoarse and dry as dirt after a month long drought. “Stag’s?”

“Yeah, the stag’s— you know, down by the rot.” He waited for you to give any kind of indication that you knew what he was talking about but seeing as you still looked up at him like he was some kind of bizarre entity spewing utter nonsense (which wasn’t exactly far off); it was telling that you didn’t, in fact, know what he was referring to.

“Forget it, you clearly weren’t there. Otherwise, if you were then you wouldn’t have been able to say anything.”

You blink, once then twice and contemplate screaming for help but who, in actuality, would? In a foreign place that you happen to crash land into after nosediving into a gigantic hole, whoever resided here in this place were patrons of the pit. Mysterious and strange and foreign—

And possibly dangerous.

That thought alone settled a heavy rock in your gut, a wariness building up in the back of your legs that traveled all the way up your neck where the hair there stood on edge.

You hadn’t realized he had still been talking.

“— so that could really only be the case. Obviously only recently winged moths would fly as terrible as you. I mean, seriously, no offense but your form was atrocious. Who even fly’s straight down like that?” He pauses, and for some reason that makes you tense up. Nothing good came from a halted thought.

“Unless,” He starts after a brief moment, head eerily adjusted into an uncanny downward crane that looked ever more ominous by the obscurity of his face. “You aren’t a moth at all… say, what did you say you were?”

The warning sirens blared hard and loud within your head, screaming at you to move, to kick off the ground and run and to not be so helpless for once. Because that was what you were— are.

“I… I didn’t say I was anything.”

“Oh? I guess you didn’t. But that wasn’t the answer I was looking for, I want to know whether or not you are—“

“Wooyoung!”

The man quickly turns on his heels, and the ever-growing stronghold of his presence shrinks as another figure appears with some kind of flourishing of fabric at their back. You couldn’t tell by how the man standing by you seemed to block your sight from painting a fuller and clearer picture, but you assumed it was some kind of cloak.

“What the hell happened? I took my eyes off of you for one second and the next thing I see is you eating roof rope and disappearing to the ground.” Steadfast did the newcomer approach, oblivious of you soaking in stagnant puddle water.

Wooyoung huffs, kicking a booted toe at the stone ground. “Wow, Yunho, not a single— ‘Are you okay?’ or even, ‘Are you hurt anywhere? If so, let me kiss it better’. I’m really beginning to think that my well-being is nothing but lint on your blouse.”

“You and I both know that if you were well and truly injured then you wouldn’t be yapping to yourself.”

Yet he wasn’t, this Wooyoung. He hadn’t been talking to himself this entire time and he knew that, and you knew that and now you were sure that the freshly inserted stranger would come to know as well.

“Funny, but I wasn’t talking to myself.” He shifts his body to the side, enough to remove the wall blocking your view of whoever he was speaking to and give said person a shabby eyeful of your surely unpresentable form.

A tall man with broad shoulders and lanky arms and slightly humidity-curled brown hair stood perplexed at the sight of you. Like the unveiling of something unexplainable that— rather— than urged forth the need for further inquiries, just completely swiped everything into an empty space of utter silence.

You looked at him like he was another Wooyoung.

“Oh… hello.” His gaze jumps to the other man, a jolt of his eyebrows upwards feeding for an explanation.

“She’s the reason I crashed.”

“Her? Seriously?” Yunho glossed over you from the frazzled state of your hair to the dirt powdering your bare feet.

“You’re joking?”

Wooyoung throws his hands up, something on his back fluttering restlessly, the movement catching your attention. “Do I sound like I am joking? She smacked right into me and sent me hurling to the ground!”

“I did not— you… you… whatever you did or were doing had hit me hard enough to throw me to the side.” Not exactly sure what bug of confidence had crawled into your head, but you found your voice enough to retort defensively.

“If you had been watching where you were going and didn’t fly into my path—“

“Fly? I was falling, you motor-mouthed idiot!”

“Motor-mouth?!” Wooyoung took a stiff step towards you, his fists balled at his sides.

Yunho reached a hand out to latch onto his upper arm before he could close in on you any further. “A word, Wooyoung.”

The shorter man let himself be maneuvered several feet away, enough distance to drown their whispers into a dull hum. You couldn’t pick up what they were saying, only watching cautiously when Wooyoung’s hands fly up and wave around and Yunho clapping him on the back of the head before huddling him closer. It was like a barrier of secrets between the two of them, no space spared an opening to let anything slip through.

And then they went silent, turning to face you with partial obscurity graced by the shadows and lighting now at both of their backs.

You swallowed, wishing your tongue would have slipped down your own throat, suddenly regretting your outburst.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t like you didn’t put up a fight. In fact, you might have looked akin to a wild alley cat spooked by the sudden stumbling of a late-night drunk deciding to seek refuge by the dumpster cat-you had been dining out of. But both men had a quickness to them, grappling at your arms and hauling you up onto your feet. And rather than letting you go on your merry (and very lost) way; instead, the shorter of the two began to tug roughly at your bicep, trying to turn you around so that your back was facing his front. It was bizarre how frantic he seemed, and his companion was no different. Yunho attempted to redirect you by your shoulders, but you simply swatted at his hands and jerked around in Wooyoung’s hold.

“Let me go!” You swiped a hand up and forward, grazing Yunho’s jaw. The hit hadn’t been backed with enough force to jerk his head to the side, but it did seem to stun him enough to stop his movements.

He looked down at you with wide eyes, perfectly visible to your own.

“Did… Did you just hit me?”

Wooyoung had also paused, mouth agape as he stared at Yunho and the slightly reddened skin that looked no more than a little discolored. It wasn’t severe, nothing that would leave lasting damage. If anything, it just appeared as if he rubbed at the spot a bit, maybe scratched it softly.

“Yes,” You found a bit of courage to bite into, allowing it to tether itself into your nerves, “—and I won’t hesitate to do it again.”

Yunho’s eyes bounced to Wooyoung’s from over your shoulder, remaining locked for several tense seconds before both men erupted into a loud fit of irrepressible laughter. Something flutters behind Yunho, catching your eye as it shakes with his entire body, expanding up and out until a shadow is casted over your entire form. A dusty grayish brown with white markings, fuzzy and shaped like a smeared rain drop were… wings? You were positive they were wings. A man with wings— a man with wings who lived in the pit in the wheat and wildflower fields of your small town out in the middle of nowhere.

And he was laughing, loud and deep within his belly, and those wings were fluttering with each heave and stunted breath.

Wooyoung was in your ear, equally as obnoxious in his cackling. Neither one of them sounded like bells, something often to describe a demure sound from a place of amusement, a notion you read in one of those paperback romance novels on the rotating rack at the convenience store. A rare moment of escape for you in the hours before hell broke the horizon on a horse. No, they were very much deep-chested and rough and made your inner ears vibrate like thousands of little marching drums.

“For a birdling, you sure are funny.” Wooyoung huffed the rest of his dying quips until he was no longer laughing to the high heavens.

Yunho finally ceased as well, although he seemed to be struggling a bit to contain what little lingering giggles he had within his puffed-up cheeks. His sight, however, finally anchored itself back onto you in a swirling pool of earthly soil.

“Can’t say I’ve met any that had a funny bone, unless they stole one. But taking another’s doesn’t really make you a court jester… just a thief.”

For some reason, that felt a bit like an accusation. One that was completely baseless and— wait, “Birdling? What the hell is a birdling?”

Wooyoung scoffs into your ear, both the feeling of his hot breath and the close proximity of his face to the side of your head makes you jerk away with a disgusted frown.

“Don’t play coy. We know what you are so you might as well give up the charade.”

You were positive that you looked like one of those bug-eyed fish out of water. Mouth opening and closing, eyes wide in reflected confusion.

Yunho’s wings catch your attention again, drawing closed in their descent against his back. “You have wings— how do you have wings?”

“All moth folk have wings. And don’t change the subject unless you want me to pluck each and every little feather from your wings, birdling.”

Truly, you couldn’t have been more depleted of knowledge than right at that very moment. They thought you were, what, something with feathers? A bird? That made sense— birdling. But you weren’t a bird, not even close.

“I’m not— I don’t have wings! Or feathers, or even a beak. Do I look like a bird to either one of you?” You frantically tried to sidestep Wooyoung but one of his hands enclosed around the back of your neck and held you with a surprisingly strong grip. Something that wasn’t put to use earlier when you were fighting against their attempts to subdue you. It made you freeze, and like a cold chill during winter, brought forth uncomfortable feelings encased in unpleasant memories. He was at your back, holding you by your scruff and stealing away bits and pieces of your soul with every infliction.

Yunho seemed to pick up on your change in behavior, head tilted, watching in rapt fascination at the color draining from the skin on your face. “I didn’t know birdling’s could change colors.”

Wooyoung’s interest was piqued enough to crane your head manually by his hand to take a look, a big mistake on his part. Once he got you facing him eye-to-eye, you waded up a good ball of spit on your tongue and launched it right onto the spot between his eyes. He jerked back with a yelp, the hand he had on your nape quickly removing itself in favor of wiping away the saliva. It was a small opening, but you’d take what you could get.

While you weren’t the strongest person in town, let alone a candle holder to the rest of the world, you did know that even with the smallest of force a good elbow to the gut could take anyone down a few pegs.

Unfortunately for Wooyoung, he’d receive that as well.

You jabbed the knobby end of your elbow right into his stomach, immediately stumbling off to the side as he buckled over and onto his knees roughly. Wooyoung groaned, cursing a string of expletives that would have made your long dead grandmother summon her favorite wooden spoon. Yunho, taken off guard by the quick turn of events, looked every part conflicted on whether or not he should crowd his companion and try to comfort him or make an attempt at grabbing you. His delay would only work in your favor, taking his momentary lapse in action to turn tail and run off into the alley settled between the building’s canopy you had fell through and its neighbor.

If this had been anywhere above, then managing to summon help would have been nothing short of easy. But down here, wherever here truly was proved to be much harder you realized. No matter what turn you took, left or right, alleyway or side-street, nobody was ever present.

Like a ghost town, not a single person in sight. Empty and desolate. You felt far from unnerved, even more-so upon passing discarded toys left on sidewalks, dishes with partially eaten food still sitting on iron wrought outdoor tables (not a fly or maggot in sight), laundry hanging from clotheslines in dead-stillness (you chanced a reach for a cleaner shirt and felt it was still damp, like it had just been hung to dry not too long before you appeared). But while everything seemed to be in a state of abandon, nothing had that forgotten appearance; aged and stuck to a time without use.

Not even the strings of lights that connected each building to each misshapen house looked timely. The bulbs were bright, clean of dust and bore a taunting glow of orange down on you while you scurried from one end of an unidentifiable street to the next.

At a four way stop, did you take a moment to ground yourself. It wasn’t a good idea, not when being out in the open like you were guaranteed immediate capture but you had been running and hiding for an undisclosed amount of time now and really— you needed to fucking think. Not once did you happen to see a street name, not even an address on the side of copper mailbox. Nothing told you of where you had managed to end up. For all you know, you could simply be a single block over or even a few streets down from where you landed.

The anxiety of not knowing just how screwed you possibly were made it all the easier for you to be suddenly thrown to the ground on your front. The impact knocking hard against your chest and shoving what air you had in your lungs completely out.

“Gotcha.”

Like an upturned beetle under a rock, you tried to scuttle away to the best of your ability but the hard press of a booted sole between your shoulder blades pinned you down in place. Now you were simply a butterfly stuck to a velvet board.

“You really aren’t the brightest bird in the flock, are you now, birdling?” Wooyoung sounded winded but that didn’t stop the cockiness in his tone from seeping through. He was beside himself, like the cat that caught the canary.

“Please, just let me go! I don’t— I have no clue what you’re talking about. I’m not a birdling, I swear!” You could feel the buildup of snot in your nose before you could even see the tears gathering at your waterline. “I fell in the pit— from above! I come from above, please, you have to believe me. I’m human—“

Something hits the ground by your head, and through the collection of saline, another pair of boot's dancing through your blurry vision.

“Human?”

Yunho looked down at you as you sniffled then to Wooyoung across from him. The younger looked equally as perplexed if not hesitant to give your babbling the time of day. That made the taller of the two’s brows furrow, the brown rucksack in his hand momentarily forgotten.

“I thought you said she was a birdling, Wooyoung?”

“She is! I know she is…” After a dip in silence, “I think she is…” He looked abash as he peered down at his foot still pressed to your upper back.

“Did you even check?”

“What do you think I was trying to do before you let her spit in my face and elbow me in the stomach!”

Yunho pointed an accusatory finger at Wooyoung, wings bristling under the redirected blame. “You should have checked first before coming to the baseless conclusion that she is— was a birdling!”

Wooyoung throws his hands up, the heel of his boot digging into your spine from his movement, making you wince into the cobblestone road.

“She could still be one!”

“Do you think if she was, she would have just flown off rather than stumble around like a cockroach without a head?”

That made you sober up just a smidgen, realizing that they had in some way or another been watching you run through the streets and alleyways this entire time and decided to wait until you found a moment to stop to ambush you.

“I don’t know, maybe…” Wooyoung trails off, pulling his attention downward when he takes notice that you have quieted while they argued.

Yunho would have continued his barrage if not for the chime resounding from the semi-gold dome on his wrist. Wooyoung’s followed shortly after. And so did the empty streets, like the toll of a bell tower, ringing lethargic and heavy.

“Oh, that’s just great. Captain will have our wings over a mantle for being late!”

“This is on you. I won’t be taking the blame for your rashly crafted theories.” Yunho ignores Wooyoung’s scoff and his following pout, taking the rucksack in his hand and yanking it a few times through the air so that the belly of it would inflate.

“Pick her up.”

The boot was gone and, in your mind, you could have attempted another try at escaping, but the back of your shirt was fisted, and the ground was pulled out from under your body. You only had a single second to see the bag in Yunho’s grasp before it was swiftly tugged over your head and cinched shut at the base of your neck.

“What—“

“Hush, you’ll draw attention.”

Like a drain stopper had been pulled from your ears, suddenly the streets had come to life with all sorts of sounds. Chatter of people, laughter of children, the scraping of shoes on stone and soft lure of music. You couldn’t see but you could feel— sense the presence of others around you. You weren’t alone in a ghost town anymore but that only made the already pile of mounting questions grow taller.

Where had everyone been this entire time?

“Please… you can still let me go. I won’t tell anyone—“

“Sorry, but letting you go is out of the question.”

Hands grabbed at your own and the rough drag of rope wrapped tightly around your forearms, encasing them together and knotted at the wrists far enough from any attempts at untying them. You yelp when you are picked up and not-so kindly swung over someone’s shoulder.

“If you feel sick at any moment, try to keep it from coming out of your mouth… or any other place.”

That was your only cue before you were airborne, the turbulence making your stomach flare up uncomfortably. An arm wrapped around the back of your legs with whoever’s hand curled to set on one of your knees. It wasn’t comforting in the slightest and just another reminder that you were helpless once again— as above, so below.

Chapter Text

The heavy smell of rain and sodden soil permeated through the fibers of the rucksack. You would have thought you were back above, out of the belly of the pit, in your small town just after a downpour. But the constant blanket of humidity wasn’t just a haze on your skin but rather, a suffocating molasses lying thick in your lungs. You could feel the droplets congealing together at the back of your neck (or was it just sweat— it was hot after all), soaking into hair and dampening strands to stick like grass clippings of a freshly mowed lawn.

The bag over your head amplified everything in the worst of ways.

And the rope wrapped securely around your lower arms served no better, rubbing raw against your damp skin. A promise of water blisters to surely be present once removed.

Landing was rough, having a shoulder digging into your stomach anything but pleasant. But knowing that you weren’t up in air anymore made the decision easier. Plotting had always been a past time of yours when lying awake at night (hard to fall asleep when raucous snores made sure to pluck at finicky nerves) or left alone to attend to the house. You’d even think of a thousand means to get far away when standing amongst the other towns folk and watching the mayor wipe the sweat from his upper lip and happily announce the sacrifice of another person for an inexplicable cause. And now, having been left in the silence of your rucksack with a mind that ran on every ounce of wind scattering caution— you’d try again.

“Down you go.”

The voice of Yunho, whom you have identified as the taller man that appeared secondary to the one that flew into you, was the one to offer his shoulder for you to uncomfortably fold over. He slipped you off by using the hand he had wrapped around the backs of your legs and settled you to— assumedly— face him. But that wasn’t your mark yet, the signaling flare within your head poised at the ready but not fingering the trigger just yet. You couldn’t risk doing this prematurely, not when this was most likely the only chance you had left; one cut down by more than half.

The ropes around your forearms loosened after a bit of tugging. Your heart pounded like drums in your ears, waiting, ready.

At that last slip of the rough fibers against your skin did you lunge forward. Blind as you were, landing several erratically thrown punches at least struck somewhere by the telltale push back against your fist.

“Hey! Hey— stop!”

Yunho tried to fend off your attacks, but having one clip him in the nose was enough to bring tears to his eyes and a stumbling retreat. Wooyoung wanted to laugh, yap at him about how it felt being on the receiving end of your spontaneous retaliations but the continuous buzzing of the bi-sphere on his wrist was like a lurking omen of unfathomable misfortunes. After the chiming had clocked itself for the turnover hour did the warning vibrations begin. He knew Yunho could feel it, catching the way he seemed to pick up speed in the remaining minutes before touching down on the rickety wood-rot landing.

You tore at the ties that cinched the rucksack over your head, yanking the brown bag off and throwing it off to the side where it plummeted over the end planks of the pier. Yunho was bent off to the right, hand cupped over his nose with a wince. Wooyoung stood off to the left, hands raised and inching ever so slightly towards you.

“Can’t say I liked that rucksack. Too drab, and itchy.”

You weren’t amused by his attempt at consoling you by making lighthearted jokes about the suffocating bag they had tied over your head. And it must have been known to him, if going by the pursing of his lips to the side.

“Okay, not the time. I get it.”

“Do you?”

It wasn’t meant to be a real question. More or less the stressing of how mentally frazzled you are by the last— to be fair, you had no clue how much time has passed. Could be hours for all you know. The thought conjured another, one you would have preferred never to have crossed your mind.

Had he alerted the town of what happened to you?

Would it truly have mattered if he did— another sacrifice ensured double the efforts and with that, closer to an answer. The mayor would preach as such; meaty hand curled around one flap of his ironed suit jacket while the other dapped a hanky at his forehead. You could almost picture Yeonjun and Taehyun’s expressions— eyes wider than the belly of the mayor, mouths parted to mirror their own shock at the news.

Another casualty to the pit.

Wooyoung locked his lips, shuffling forward at a cursory pace. “Mhm. Clearly, we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”

You scoff, stepping back with every minute inch forward he took. Like a slow dance, except neither partner is on the same playing field.

“You slam into me, threaten me, watch me run around only to pin me down like a bug with your boot, accuse me of being something I am not and have no knowledge of and then—“ You take a breath, finding your chest squeezed uncomfortably from your hurried ranting, “—then you shove a bag over my head and bound my arms and abduct me with the help of your flagpole of a boyfriend! So your deduction from everything that has happened up until now is a major understatement.”

“Flagpole!?”

“Boyfriend!?”

The simultaneous outburst from both men would have been something to laugh at if not for every little circumstance leading up to this entire ordeal. Yunho, standing back to his full height, hand pulled from his nose to reveal a small blood streak and a very ruddy tip looked at you like you had been the one to bag and bound him and sweep him away to—

Your gaze flickers from left to right, noting nothing but the wooden landing the three of you are on and a singular entrance to a cave. The outer walls looked wet, and oddly… squishy?

Wooyoung stops in his tracks with an exasperated scoff, “He is not— we aren’t— I mean… sometimes— okay more than sometimes— but we aren’t exclusive.”

Yunho tosses an offended look over at the shorter man, “Are you saying we aren’t boyfriends?”

“No— Yes— I mean, we are but like… you know, it’s complicated. You know that Yunnie.”

“Well that’s news to me. I wasn’t aware of how complicated things were.” Yunho cast his gaze off to the side, the pilot goggles hanging around his neck swaying with the jerk of his head.

“It isn’t just— ugh, I’ve put my foot in my mouth again but look…” Wooyoung grows quiet waiting for Yunho to look at him, which he does, a bit begrudgingly.

A sigh, “It’s not you… it’s me.”

You couldn’t keep yourself from deadpanning, a complete bystander to the sudden soap opera taking place before you and the downward spiral of a sort of-kind of-maybe relationship between your abductors.

“Well, no shit it’s you! I mean for cicadae's sake, Wooyoung. You can’t even be serious enough for a single second and treat this conversation with the utmost importance.”

Moth, in the midst of your anger, did you forget to truly analyze just what the hell these two men were. The tallest, Yunho, had wings. You’d seen them fully drawn at his back and felt the air they blew while incapacitated. You hadn’t really seen Wooyoung’s but squinting over at his form, beyond the brown leather of his short, cropped coat could you make out the darker fuzz lined brown of equally matching wings folded against his back. They couldn’t be real. No human could be born with wings. It was impossible, unheard of. A medical anomaly. Something only explainable by a genetic mutation.

Blame it on your small-minded outlook groomed by an equally smaller town but only those born with such abnormalities were freaks belonging to traveling circuses and sideshows.

But even then, you never heard of anyone with wings. Perhaps an extra set of arms and legs, maybe another head, or even some kind of disfigurement. And looking at either one of them— neither looked to be deformed in any kind of capacity unless they had an extra toe or a tail hidden somewhere in their pant leg.

You hadn’t a single desire to find out.

“I am being serious! Look, completely serious Wooyoung having a completely serious conversation.” Wooyoung threw his arms out and waved them around, letting them fall after a brief moment to smack against the stiff fabric of his oversized jeans.

Yunho jabbed at the inside of his cheek with his tongue, looking at Wooyoung like he was the most frustrating creature to ever grace his presence. But there was a mask of hurt there, one that the taller tried to conceal by averting his gaze away to settle onto you.

Except you weren’t in the spot you had been before the two men began their petty squabbles.

While distracted, you moved to the edge of the landing, looking over the wooden ends to see exactly how far you may or may not be from any kind of ground. And much to your dismay— you couldn’t even see the illuminated city you had crashed down in. Only an eerie fog of ash-blue that curled ominously around the thicker wooden beams keeping the landing elevated against the cave entrance. Like an illusion of the sea in the night hours, the thick mist rolled and bubbled as if moved by an orchestrated tide brought forth from an invisible moon. Only difference is that if you were to fall into the ocean, you could keep afloat. But fog had no substance to it, and you would be no better dead after taking a step off the landing.

“Don’t do anything rash now— we can still talk this out, yeah?”

You fixed Yunho with a nasty little glare, “Are you fucking with me?” Ignoring the way he winces at your hostility, you ease even closer to the ledge. “You think after all of that, I would want to have a little chit-chat with you— either of you?!”

“Woah, hey, you’re getting a little too close to the edge there.” Wooyoung let out a nervous laugh, moving from foot to foot in an antsy manner.

A chime suddenly begins again but instead it is coming solely from the shorter man’s wrist, the golden semi-dome unfolding open and a blue beam with a gridded face comes into view. Wooyoung curses at the sight of it and even more so at the voice that comes out of its gaping mouth.

“I truly hope you’ve been snatched up by those pretty little wings of yours and swallowed whole by the South-End Jackdaw’s because then I will only have half a mind to be angry. ”

You can only stare on, brows jumping upward and jaw slackened. It was like something out of a movie, one crafted by the progression of a futuristic world bathed under copper and grit.

“Not even a ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’? Captain, where are your manners?”

“Wooyoung—“ Yunho was swift to warn the younger, an all-knowing awareness to the tone and voice emanating from the projection.

The silence and stillness coming from the motionless face made you shift uncomfortably, the movement catching Yunho’s eye— you acknowledge the nonverbal warning to stay put.

When the voice stirs awake, it is sickly saccharine. “Wooyoung?”

“Yes?”

You couldn’t even brace yourself for the incoming screech, the vibrations from whoever’s voice causing the hologram to stretch and collapse and vibrate erratically.

“WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU—”

Yunho was at Wooyoung’s side in a blink of an eye, one hand wrapped around the other’s forearm where the half-dome was located, cranking the limb up so that it was close enough for him to speak without having to bend down.

“We’re at the Northward entrance on the landing.”

“Then what is taking you both so long?! I’ll excuse the first few minutes of tardiness on Wooyoung,” The younger lets out a ‘hey’ in protest, “but I have different expectations of you, Yunho-ah. That’s why I sent you to accompany him in the first place— a big fucking mistake on my end.”

You wince at the same time Yunho does. A ripple effect of the brash scolding.

“Sorry, Captain.”

Yunho’s apology was soft, weak. A whisper that hardly parted his lips when spoken.

“Save it. I’ve heard enough apologies to know they mean nothing but empty air.”

Wooyoung tugged his arm from Yunho, his grasp now slack. The younger cast a glance over at you, still standing by the ledge as a lone audience to the debacle.

“Captain, listen, we found something— er— someone and—“

“Meet me in the war room— and don’t make me wait another second.”

The projection shrunk, and the half-dome reformed itself back into the partial spherical shape it was before opening.

“Well, that could have been worse.”

Yunho scoffed, “Why is it that when you fuck everything up, I get the blame! If you had watched where you were flying or better yet— left the… whatever she is alone, rather than meddle around in something you weren’t even sure of then we wouldn’t have been late, nor would I have gotten the tongue-lashing from Hongjoong.”

Wooyoung jabs a finger squarely into Yunho’s chest, brows furrowed over narrowed eyes.

“We were sent out to scout the area for anything suspicious and therefore— that,” He throws a hand in your direction, “is redeemable enough to be labeled as such.”

“That?!” Your outburst was ignored, falling upon ears that couldn’t care less for your feelings.

“Right, the thing you swore was a birdling but clearly is anything but is a means for suspicion. Do you even hear yourself? Did that fall knock all common sense out of that head of yours?”

That— Thing— at this point you weren’t sure what else the both of them could say to further drive your entire being further into the dirt. You were human, a person with feelings and emotions but the disregard either one had for you settled like a nasty jagged edged rock in your stomach that jabbed around until your nerves prickled. Both were no different from each other and exactly the same as him. The thought brought bile to your throat, a shaky swallow sending it right back down to burn within your chest.

“Good one,Yunnie. So getting chewed out by the Captain means you can start being a major ass now, huh? Does it make you feel good to lash out at me after acting like a kicked aphid just moments ago because I refused to lie and say our relationship was peachy while it is actually on the cusp of falling to fucking ruin? I mean, please, go ahead make us stand here and waste more of his time so he can really bite your head off because you want to rehash this pointless conversation.”

You, in that moment (and every moment between the two since you’ve gotten to this point), felt like a bystander looking into the window of a house and witnessing things you shouldn’t. And while that instance could easily be dealt with by you simply departing and carrying on your way and ultimately forgetting about it— this one wasn’t as opportunistic. You had nowhere to go except down through the fog and surely that would end with a very painful death. So, your only option was to stand there and listen on and try to keep your attention off to the side and hope that you could simply disappear before they remember you are still there and now unwilling aware of their… issues.

Yunho stands unmoving, glaring down at Wooyoung who refuses to back down beneath his gaze. Both are riddled with a palpable tension, running solid from one shoulder to the next. A lit match could easily spark something explosive.

“If you truly loved someone, you wouldn’t view this conversation as pointless.” Yunho refused to give anymore of his breath to the other, shouldering past him and directly beelining it towards you.

You readied yourself to be grabbed but Yunho simply stopped beside you, keeping his gaze trained to the entrance.

“Let’s go,”

Opening your mouth to protest, to refuse going anywhere else with the two of them, the word of rejection just barely crossing your tongue.

“No—“

“Either you come willingly, or I send you over the landing. You haven’t been afforded such an option up until now, don’t be stupid and throw it away. Hospitality isn’t granted to anyone— threat or otherwise.”

You wished to argue but the looming threat of being thrown over the wooden pier and ultimately to your death was enough to kill off any grievances. Rather, you curl your hands into fists against your upper legs to keep yourself grounded, to stave off from mouthing what would surely have you meeting your demise in a swift manner.

“The only way I’d cross over this landing is by my own volition.”

Yunho tilts his head a smidgen, “Good to know.”

He sets off to the entrance and you, begrudgingly, shuffle after him. Wooyoung remained quiet during the exchange, watching with a hardened jaw that clicked every so often and an equally stoic stare. He took up the rear, the tips of his boots knocking into your achilles heel when you paused just outside of the entrance.

You could feel his breath shifting strands of grime coated hair at the back of your head, the heat from his body like a suffocating blanket.

“You should have chosen to jump.”

Chapter Text

Guts, innards, some kind of organ— whatever resided on the inside of the body that wasn’t bone and could rot without use always had a certain poignant smell to it.

That’s what the tunnel of the Northward entrance smelled like. A gag inducing smell of fish carcass and spoiled meat-product amplified by the abnormal humidity made your stomach churn in the most vomit-inducing way. You already felt on edge, walking to an undisclosed location in an undisclosed place with two complete strangers that have been anything but welcoming— it wasn’t like Wooyoung’s last spoken words to you made you feel like an honorary guest. In fact, he practically told you that you should have killed yourself when you had the chance.

A small insufferable voice at the back of your head seemed to agree with him, maybe you should have flung yourself off that landing. It’ll bring an end to a lot of things— the years of abuse, the trauma you carry in a tightly secured bag, every bit of emotional instability that has left you feeling more like a stranger than the woman you’ve grown to be.

The possibility of ever seeing the monster who has left more scars on your soul with the buckle of his belt would cease to end.

But wouldn’t that already be in motion? You’ve gone down into the wide mouth of the pit, far from that hollow shell of a home and away from the beast that stalks its faded periwinkle walls. Unless he, at some point after you did, dived in with the intent to recapture his beloved prey. Yeonjun often joked in the beginning that you were a canary, with sunflower yellow feathers reminiscent of the wild splendor of spring. But those little playful quips turned into solemn reminders; a canary with broken wings and clipped feathers confined to a rusted cage to never flourish once the winter snow has all but melted.

Something damp fell heavily onto your shoulder, immediately soaking into the fabric of your grime covered shirt. It pulled your attention from out of your dagger-ended thoughts in an instant; the warmth and awful smell made you gag hard. Like sewage and fish left under hours of constant daylight.

“It’s not so bad once you get used to it— if you do, you know, stay around long enough. That’ll be up to the captain.” Wooyoung hadn’t spoken a single word since telling you that you should have definitely ended your life while the choice was on the table. You had looked back at him with the deepest crease in your brow, sputtering a lilted ‘what?’ that was answered with the most nonchalant shrug. Then he shoved you forward by knocking his knees into the backs of your own, making you stumble over lumpy grooves in the floor.

Yunho remained silent, walking ahead without ever once turning around to see if you were still following along. In his left hand was a small oil lamp he had snatched up just a step past the tunnel entrance.

“What do you plan on doing to me?”

“I don’t plan on doing anything to you. However, I can’t speak for our leader. He’s not the most… friendliest of moths. To be fair, he’s kind of an ass—“

“Wooyoung.” Yunho had stopped dead in his tracks, making you halt and the other man to follow in kind. He didn’t turn, keeping his back to the both of you.

“But—! I love him— we love him. Couldn’t ask for a more stubborn, temperamental—“

“—Jung Wooyoung, you’d be a wiser man if you didn’t finish that sentence.”

The sound of someone new made you stiffen, toes curling into the damp ground hard enough that whatever made up the surface collected between your toes. Wooyoung bumps your shoulder as he passes by, huffing out a callous little laugh while rounding to Yunho’s side.

“All jokes, Hwa.”

Hwa wasn’t amused in the slightest, eyeing the younger man with pursed lips and an uncanny stare— all wide eyed and unblinking.

“Did Captain send you?”

“Yes, in fact, he did. Figured you both have dawdled long enough… plus his curiosity has peaked despite his anger.” Seonghwa’s gaze drags over to Yunho, “Don’t take it to heart. What he said, you know how he gets especially as of late with… everything.” A hand rises to wave almost elegantly about, motioning to nothing in particular.

“Yeah, right.”

“So where is it? The someone or something or what-have-you?”

Wooyoung reached back to snatch at your arm, expecting to feel the warmth from your skin and the dried grime along the hair covered surface but instead he pawed at empty air with a few outstretched swipes. His brows furrow, something Seonghwa mirrors as if he was also greeted by the opposite of what he was anticipating. Yunho looks between the two in confusion, turning his body to the side and glancing back at where Wooyoung’s arm is flailing about.

He expected to see you standing there, waiting in his shadow but instead there was nobody occupying the spot.

You were gone. The realization making Yunho curse under his breath. “She’s fucking gone.”

“Gone?! What do you mean—“ Wooyoung spins around in a rush and nearly topples over his big, booted feet, wings flaring out and whipping across the front of Yunho’s legs. The older bites back a hiss.

“What do you mean by ‘gone’? Who is gone?” Seonghwa wedges himself into the space between the two, glancing about from each fleshy wall of the tunnel as if the ruddy grooves would give him a clue.

“She— the someone! The one we found and were bringing back to Hongjoong. She was… right here!” Wooyoung jabs a finger at the spot he definitely remembers you standing in.

“Well she clearly isn’t there anymore. Which means she’s running loose through the tunnels.” Seonghwa turned to fix Wooyoung with a hardened glare.

Yunho raises his wrist when the half-dome chimes, unfolding open and letting the blue hologram expand into sight. Wooyoung cursed at the sight of it while Seonghwa straightens, attention trained solely on the floating head.

”Hey.”

“Seriously, Jongho?!”

"Where are you?"

Choosing to ignore Wooyoung's outburst, Jongho continues albeit with a bit of cocky lilt. "Ah, Wooyoung... don't sound so happy to hear from me. Actually, you probably should. If only you knew what I know then you would rather it be my voice than captain's."

"Jongho, where is Hongjoong?" Seonghwa inquired without a second to spare. The chime was specific, one that was used solely by Hongjoong. The rest of them had their own, specifically created for identification purposes when trying to communicate from great distances-- and when the hologram communicator malfunctioned. Something in a long list of things needed to be fixed by Yunho and Wooyoung.

"Nuh-uh, I asked first."

Seonghwa pinches the bridge of his nose before, ever-so-sweetly, replying back with a strained smile that would go unseen by the man on the opposite end. "As cute as you are, I really don't find you at all endearing at the moment. Now, where is Hongjoong?"

"Captain's in the brig."

Yunho looked over at the other two with wide eyes, "The brig?"

“Why is he in the brig, Jongho?” There was a hint of urgency in Seonghwa’s voice, something that put both Yunho and Wooyoung on edge.

Nobody ever went down into the brig unless it was in use, not the crew and certainly not the captain. The last time it was occupied had been nearly five cycles ago. An unspeakable time shoved far into the dark and away from prying inquiries. Yunho could remember as clear as spring water near the Hot Coves of the captain's wrath when San had tried to bridge a conversation into the traumatic event, his intentions doing more harm than good. It would cost him a small price, but his sworn loyalty didn’t sway his devotion— to the crew, to his mated ties, to the captain. So, if Hongjoong was down there, that only meant one thing…

”Why else would he be there?”

The question was rhetorical— they all knew the exact reasoning, didn’t need it spelled out in front of their eyes to understand. But Jongho would do so anyways, cementing everyone’s thoughts into a tangible mass.

”You know what happens when pests end up in the web of a spider and unless either of you want your little…escapee gutted from belly to chin then you’d better get to running. And good luck, captain is in his foulest mood yet.”

The hologram shrunk, and the half-dome retracted, leaving the three in complete silence.

“We are so fucked—“

Seonghwa scoffs, distancing himself slightly from the other two. “No, we are not fucked but you two are. I refuse to be dragged into your little mess.”

Yunho plows a hand through his hair, making the sweaty strands clump together into a human version of a bird's nest. “What do we do?”

“She couldn’t have gotten that far, not without some kind of preexisting knowledge of the tunnel system plus,” Wooyoung pauses to nudge a finger against the oil lamp still clutched in Yunho’s left hand. “—she’s as blind as a cave beetle without any light to guide her way. Shouldn’t be too difficult to seek her out.”

“Who even is she? You’ve completely avoided answering my earlier question… which, isn’t even worth having an answer for since I’m only partially aware of the ‘who’.” Seonghwa sighed, placing his hands on his leather-bound hips. Had he known this would have happened he probably would have forfeited Hongjoong’s clipped request of finding the two— three-time wasters.

Wooyoung looks to Yunho to answer but the taller avoids his gaze with a frown.

“Just… someone.”

“You wouldn’t have gone through all these inconveniences for just some someone, Wooyoung.”

He winces slightly, scratching at the skin on his cheek.

“Well, you see, it’s really a funny little story. Just a small jesting tale, a bit of joke foreplay—“

“He’s blindly sworn up and down that the ‘who’ is a birdling.” Yunho knew they were pressed for time and could not stand another round of Wooyoung’s bush beating.

Seonghwa jerks his head in Wooyoung’s direction, brows furrowed. “You brought a birdling here?!”

“No— yes— I don’t know! Maybe… I’m not completely sure and— and Yunho is just as guilty of the assumption!”

“Don’t put your blame on me! It was your idea to bring her here and let the captain—“

“Enough, both of you!” Seonghwa rarely raised his voice, but the dire situation was getting even more worse the longer they stood around and pointed their fingers at each other. “I’ve heard enough to know that you two are absolutely fucking brain-dead when it comes to making cognitive decisions.”

The two look away from each other with a properly scolded expression, perfectly mirrored and equally reflecting of the eldest’s words. Seonghwa was right, they fucked up and now was not the time to be focusing on how sour things were quickly becoming between the two.

If Hongjoong got a hold of you somehow, then they would be in deeper shit beyond just being late.

Yunho tilted his head in thought, “Who’s on tunnel shift?”

“Yeosang, why?”

It didn’t click at first when Seonghwa relayed the information but watching Yunho’s eyes widen and Wooyoung’s head nearly separate from his neck as he whipped it around to face Seonghwa with an equally nonplussed expression made the switch flick and the dawning creep uncomfortably along his folded wings.

His mated tie didn’t take kindly to strange happenings and unknown encounters, and his loyalty to Hongjoong and the crew rivaled that of San’s. Only difference between the two, however, was the latter could be reasoned with.

The moment everyone’s attention was adverted, you ran. Took off down the tunnel blindly while trying to remember anything familiar about the turns and adjourning tunnels that seemed to drag on and on. You compared the connective system to that of a grand garden maze you’ve seen on prints of whimsical paintings lining the walls in the town library. Soobin often rambled about them like a madman, wondering what it’d be like to get lost within the manicured hedges, having time escape you with every twist and turn. You’d look at him with a raised brow, observing the way his eyes would gloss over from behind his round framed glasses. It was a fantasy you couldn’t understand the appeal of. Not even now, as you stumble in no direction in particular and all directions at once.

Everything was an exact carbon copy of itself— each tunnel bathed in fleshy reds and pinks that felt squishy and slick to the touch. The smell had grown to linger, weighing heavier in certain directions as you trodded down one end of a winding passage to the beginning (assumedly) of another. Rotten sea life and dank algae you’d often find growing into stringy sludge ropes around the mouth of the outside spigot after removing the worn garden hose. The thought alone mixed with the smell had you gagging without a single chance to catch it, making your chest and throat burn and the warm acrid taste of your saliva to pool uncomfortably in your mouth.

You pause to spit, hand resting against the slimy wall, second-guessing the almost uncanny shifting beneath your palm. If you acknowledged it (as if you weren’t already), surely more than just spit might make home inside your mouth. Bile churned uneasily in your gut, and the more you wished to ignore the undulating the more it sunk into your head that the walls were definitely moving. You stumble back and away, knocking into something hard and immobile.

Wishful thinking hoped it was just a normal wall or perhaps a stack of wooden boxes filled with something to aid in your hasty escape. But walls nor boxes could grow arms, couldn’t possess the type of strength currently crushing your throat and ribs.

And they certainly couldn’t talk either.

“You will stay quiet if you know what’s good for you.”

Chapter Text

The worst thing wasn’t finding out that you had been stumbling around in circles the entire time after you had run off. Or even that, if you had just taken a moment to get your bearings instead of blindly wandering through tunnel after tunnel, you would have seen just the smallest traces of light pouring beyond the edge of one of the corners. The exit— or Northward Entrance was right there behind the outcrop of the wall.

That might have nicked your ego. Reminded you that despite your poorly executed escape from above, just barely making it on the whim; luck wasn’t on your side and the chances you thought you had were slim to none in the pit.

Perhaps going on the fly wasn’t the smartest thing, another hasty decision brought on by a spur of the moment decision during a small window of opportunity. One that, yes, you completely fumbled with your impatience. And now the consequences surrounded you with rusted bars and splintered floorboards which creaked and groaned every time you shifted. The man who had snagged you from your errant bumbling stood at the bottom of a well-worn staircase adjacent of the prison cell he shoved you in. He looked no older or younger than you, with a shapely jaw and wispy brown hair that laid flat against his forehead and hung longer where it was tucked behind his ears. Saddled with a beige peasant shirt fastened with a strappy holster in a darker washed leather, black trousers and clunky boots. His wings, brown and fuzzy, fluttered every so often against his back; the rounded ends reaching the crease of his knees where his shoes stopped (or began depending on where you considered a shoe started— at the toe or the tongue).

Something red smudged along the outer corner of his left eye and temple.

Not a single word passed through his lips since he brought you here, not even when you tried to pry him apart with a futile game of twenty-something questions. He remained as stoic as a fountain statue, tight-lipped and unblinking. The only bit of him that moved were his wings and the perimeter of his chest— inhale, exhale.

“Seriously? I’m beginning to put together a theme amongst the men here. Threatening and abducting innocent people because, let me guess, a completely hare-brained assumption about some absurd thing called a birdling— am I right? You can tell me that I am because I really can’t seem to grasp at the loose threads those other two idiots were rambling about aside from that.” You pause to catch your breath, resuming momentarily despite the man across from you not seeming the slightest bit interested in what you have to say. “Which I’m not for the record. I don’t even know what that is— a fucking birdling. Sounds stupid and childish and exactly like something the short one would have made up.”

You watch and wait, shifted forward onto your knees in front of the cell door, hands wrapped around the lower bars. Yet despite your attempt at trying to get him to at least tell you to shut up, he didn’t so much as sigh or twitch in his spot.

“Are you… some kind of law enforcement? Is that what this is, I’m being detained for something I didn’t even do. If anything, you should have those idiots put in here!”

Nothing.

The silent treatment was beginning to chew at your nerves, not that they weren’t already bitten to the high heavens from everything that has transpired within the last… well, whatever amount of time has passed.

Then it occurred to you of an aforementioned person of caliber, someone with a title and a rather demanding personality— at least you’ve gathered as much from that singular exposure out on that rickety landing.

“I want to speak to your captain.”

It wasn’t much, and to be fair it could have just been the slight of sight, but you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Like he was nearly tempted to snap back at you.

“That’s who we’re waiting on, right? I heard the little chat between him and the other two. Got to say, he’s a bit of an asshole—“

“You talk too much for your own good—“

“Don’t waste your breath, Yeosang. The weak only babble out of fear… as they should.” A new voice, and yet not so new at all suddenly drawled somewhere along the stairs obscured by your position and the shadows casted from the outcrop of the ceiling.

Each heavy booted foot landing on the wooden planks felt like the impaling of a nail into the line of your spine. You had to tighten your grip of the bars to keep yourself from flinching, the sound all-too familiar to the beast of a man that you lived with— every echo lingering like a ghost. The saliva that pooled into your mouth was every bit as bitter as the glare you were met with the moment the boots hit the common ground floorboards. Only difference between the two was that your spit was warm, and his eyes held nothing but a cold edge.

Truly when needed, the will to keep your mouth sealed shut seemed to elude you.

“Who are you?”

His head tilts to the side, causing the fawn-colored fringe hanging over his forehead to sway. “Who am I? Why, shouldn’t you know— you were insisting on speaking to me just seconds ago.”

Beneath the dim lights of the brig stood the very captain— a face to the voice of the hologram, a body to match the snide comments made by Wooyoung, the concept and the product molded together into a singular and very real person. Brown leather boots folded over at the tops worn by wear bled into baggy trousers decorated with varying buttons and fastened chains. An open shirt untied at his collar bones beneath the heavy sag of a trench coat layered by unrecognizable patches with odd symbols and miscellaneous intricacies amalgamized into a peculiar mixture as far as fashion went. Something very pre-of today yet you could with a bit of thought digging find some similar echoes of the same exact style worn by the younger crowd in town. His hair hung longer in the back with sides shaved short, ear sporting varying pieces of rudimentary jewelry; some gold, some bronze, some silver. Like he was indecisive and figured the best outcome would be all of the above, that reflected on his choice of rings lining both hands as well. The casual sway in them as he strode nonchalantly towards the cell caught every bit of light and made every other jewel glint like a visual warning.

You clear your throat from an invisible obstruction, "Ah, the captain..."

A single shapely eyebrow pulls upward, "Yes, the captain. The one you've deemed as 'a bit of an asshole'." He watches the way you wet your lips out of discomfort, the corners of his own seeming to curl at the action.

"Slip of the tongue."

"Of course, most baseless assumptions are."

You shift to stand, facing him eye-to-eye through the bars of your cell. "Speaking of assumptions," Swiping at the stiff grime-soaked fabric of your jeans with your sweaty palms didn't give you as much confidence as you wished for the feeling of dirt rubbing along your skin reminded you of how utterly gross you probably looked, "I have been wrongly accused of being something without any proper evidence by two of your idiotic friends. Not only that, but they jointly decided too not only man-handle me but also bring me here against my will. Now, I will ask kindly that you let me go without any trouble in exchange for my silence in regard to whatever lack of human ethics-"

“Let you go?” His question was trailed by a burst of laughter, one that rocked his shoulders and caused the wings that blended into the color of his coat to flare out to the side. They shook like leaves in the fall and emitted a soft whoosh.

You spared a glance over to the other man, seeing his expression just as blank as it was before the captain had appeared.

Had you been paying attention, then you’d notice that the laughter had stopped and the hand hurling down onto one of the bars right in front of you. The clang of metal hitting metal sounded off and startled you enough to stumble back. The captain stood closer to the cell, his face perfectly lined within the space between two of the bars. He looked at you like you were something insignificant, a nasty piece of nothing that deserved just as much— nothing.

“Bold or simply stupid, I can’t really decide on which of those fit your pathetic demands more.” His dark eyes look you over, nose scrunching in a show of disgust.

It wasn’t like you purposely chose to roll around in dirty street water.

“Tell me, what is so important about you that those two idiots would go through the trouble to bring you here? Hm, do you even know where here is?”

“Nothing… there’s no importance surrounding me. So, you are just as much in the dark as I am. And no, I have no idea where I am— I wasn’t even aware that the pit wasn’t just a big giant hole!” You throw your hands up only to let them fall down onto your thighs with a plap.

“Pit? Speak clearly for I have no patience for childish runarounds.”

One of his rings, on his right middle finger had the head of a wasp on it with emeralds for eyes. It was perturbing to look at. And to have looking at you.

You parted your lips to retort but several rounds of steps rushing down the steps not only hooked your attention but also that of the other two men. Yeosang turned first, greeted by the sight of a blonde head of hair and another mop of brown with chunky highlighted strands.

Both unfamiliar to you.

“I told you both to stay in the war room.”

“Jongho told Wooyoung, Yunho and Seonghwa that you were down here with the… whatever it is.”

“And? That required the both of you to come running down here— to what? Fight the unknown? Well, there it is.” A hand jerks in your direction and their attention follows it, landing on you.

The shorter blonde approached first, peering at you through the bars like an animal at the zoo. To be fair, you were beginning to feel like it.

“Could use a good bath.” He whispered, staring at you like one would upon seeing a dirty stray. Although with less pity and more casual nonchalance.

“Don’t get too close, Sannie… we don’t know if it’s a biter.” The taller of the two, with the discolored bits of hair sidled up beside the other with a hand wrapped around his bicep.

Yeosang scoffed, “Hardly a fighter let alone a biter, Mingi.”

“Doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

Hongjoong stepped forward and latched a hand onto both men’s shoulders, yanking them back and to the side with a huff. This was to be an interrogation and yet all he has gotten so far was something about a pit and knowing how the meddling of San and Mingi would go, certainly nothing of use would be gained.

“You spoke of a pit… what is that and how does it correlate with you being here?”

“Yes, the pit… big, giant hole in the wheat fields up above. Couldn’t miss it unless you were blind.”

“Above?” San turned to Mingi who turned to Yeosang who simply shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you take me for a fool?” Hongjoong was once again pressed against the cell with a knit to his brows. He took no kindness to being made out like a brainless idiot.

You squinted at him, “You don’t believe me— how can you want answers when you refuse to acknowledge the one’s that I give you? A pit, large and wide from above, what is so hard for you to grasp? You are literally inside of it!”

“Never heard it called that before, do you think it has multiple names?” Mingi whispered to San from the side.

“I could ask you the same thing, how can I acknowledge any truth to your answers when you give me such incompetent ones? Truly, does it look like we are in a massive fucking hole?”

“Of course not! At least not in here, in whatever this room is. But out there… sort of.” You frown, realizing that no, nobody could tell they were in a ginormous hole even when on the landing or in that string-light city.

“Sort of?” He chuckles dryly, “Right, tell me more. How did you end up in all of this pit nonsense, hm? Take a tumble, hit your head, get a bit scattered.”

The man was openly mocking you, sneering through the bars of your prison with such contempt.

“You talk about me making you out to be a fool but what you are doing is the exact same thing.”

“That’s where you are wrong— I don’t need to do or say anything to make you what you already are… a blabbering liar, not even a fool could make up the utter nonsense coming from your mouth!” His hands slam against the bars, the echo of metal on metal hardly audible over his harsh breathing. Surely if a mirror was held before him he would have a rapid dog reflected back.

“Captain.” Yeosang wasn’t exactly interested in stepping between his leader and the target of his ire but things were beginning to derail and unless he wanted to be held back to clean up a mess he’d rather avoid entirely (that and returning to his wing-bound covered in freshly spilled blood would set Seonghwa off into a frazzled state of clean-up mode), interjecting while the coals were barely starting to shift in temperature would right everything back on course.

“She was found wandering through the tunnels, not too far from the Northward Entrance. Yunho and Wooyoung couldn’t have been—“ But his relay in information was cut short by the captain's own voice, tone bearing no sort of interest in what the moth had to say.

“I don’t really care what and where those two might have been. Considering this,” Hongjoong juts a finger in your direction, the black polish on his nail catching your eye briefly. “Was their issue to sort in the first place and rather than keep a leash on her, they let her run in circles while fucking off in the whacon. So now, I will have to once again clean up the mess of two irresponsible idiots.”

Yeosang pursed his lips, decidedly accepting the decision to keep his mouth shut. San placed a hand on his shoulder as a silent means of solidarity.

“It could have been a simple mistake. Plus, wasn’t Seonghwa sent to get them? Perhaps they got distracted by his sudden appearance. You know how Wooyoung gets around him.” Mingi tried his own hand at appealing to the irate captain, his wing-bound, while also choosing to ignore the way Yeosang shifted in his peripheral. Perhaps that little detail could have been spared.

Hongjoong was silent, staring you down as you slumped against the back of the cell. It looked like he was pondering something, not exactly looking at you but rather through you at an indecipherable spot. And then his head tilts, one dangling earring pooling over his jawline. The curl of his lips made the hair on your arms stand on end, rising in salute of the goosebumps littering your skin. He was, in no other word, scheming. You could see it just by the sudden wicked gleam in his eyes.

“So what I hear parting from my beloved Mingi’s lips are that Seonghwa is to blame, is that right? Hm?” His voice carries the same saccharine tone you’d heard him use on the landing, artificially sweet to coat the poison bubbling beneath.

Mingi’s eyes widened, quickly looking over at Yeosang. San still had his hand on his shoulder but you could see the way his knuckles had turned white and the grip made the peasant shirt he wore bunch up. Yeosang might have kept his features neutral but there was a fire in his eyes and a tick in his jaw. His own hands balled tightly at his sides.

“No— No that’s not what I’m saying—“

“Then I should scalp him of his pretty little wings and have him hang by the wounds from the Southway Bridge for being such a distraction to my crew. Seeing as nobody can seem to fucking function in his presence then I’ll just get rid of him entirely. Is that what I should do, Mingi? My wing-bound, my soul, my heart in every living beat…”

Every single word that fell past Hongjoong’s lips solidified one thing in your mind. That he was absolutely insane, a mad man far off of his rocker. San gripped Yeosang with both hands now, one around his waist and the other falling to his upper bicep. He seemed to tremble under the entrapment of his rage.

Despite the captain’s verbiage being directed at the tall man behind him, his eyes never strayed from you. Like the threat he was making against someone else wasn’t just dedicated to them, but to you.

“You are fucking sick.” You glared at him through the bars, planting your hands flat against the wall behind you.

Hongjoong’s lips peel back to reveal a perfect set of teeth, ones that he quickly swiped over with his sharp-tipped tongue.

“I wouldn’t be the notorious captain that I am if I wasn’t just a little bit depraved… birdling.”

You froze hearing that word, the accusation to start all of this mess, realizing that he had probably heard everything you had said to Yeosang before his abrupt arrival. He knew to an extent of why you were even in the tunnels in the first place, what had Wooyoung and Yunho insist on dragging you from the stringed-light city to be brought before their captain. You knew that word was spoken negatively, like an omen or some unspoken enemy shared between them.

You, in their eyes, were that enemy.

Suddenly the sound of metal clinking together tethered your attention into focus. Hongjoong had a keyring in his hands, gold in color, with several intricately shaped keys of varying sizes. One was shoved into the lock on the cell door. You looked up to see that he was no longer sporting that devious grin but rather a serious countenance devoid of his earlier sick-humor.

The door creaked open within his hand, eyes unreadable as he gazed at you.

“San,” Said man’s head jerked to attention, “Grab her and put her on her knees. I wish to see the wings that I plan to put above my bed.”

San hesitated for a minute second but ultimately did as he was told, letting go of Yeosang and beelining it to the cell. You knew this was a fight you couldn’t win. Not by a long shot. But you had to try. What was the point of getting this far without that— trying. Could you even consider this point as far? Maybe it will be if you survive.

Chapter Text

“Wait—“

Except there was no waiting.

The man the captain ordered to remove you from the cell, San, moved without a hitch. One fingerless gloved hand snagged a hold of your left sleeve, balling the dirty fabric around his fingers and yanking you away from the wall with far more strength than needed. You stumbled over your feet, toes snagging against the wooden floorboards uncomfortably enough to make you hiss between your teeth. If and when you have a moment at some point (it was really seeming to be unlikely in your current situation), checking for splinters would be in the books.

Hongjoong’s eyes never wavered from your form, completely zeroed in on every bit of your wayward shuffling.

You tried to turn in the hold that San had on you, but his grip simply tightened, balled fist nudging roughly into your shoulder. The yanking and shoving ended with your knees hitting the ground, back facing towards every pair of eyes in the room. San’s hand still remained weaved in the fabric of your sleeve.

The positioning felt like an execution. On the knees, entrapped to the decided damnation of death before an audience with the licks of humiliation lapping hungrily at the open wounds of shame, despair. All that was missing was the rope, or the guillotine, or even the blade of some medieval axe or sword. Anyone of these men could be your finishing blow…

If you allowed them.

“Can’t we just talk this over for a second? Whatever it is you want to know or— or need to be made crystal clear, I swear I will be completely up-front and honest.” You angled your head off to the left to look up at San, but he refused to even engage in any sort of eye contact. That left the other two, standing off just past him shoulder to shoulder.

Yeosang, the one that had found you in the tunnels, stared at you without an ounce of emotion. Nothing in his stoicism betrayed how he felt, what he was thinking, or if he was inclined to heed your words. Beside him, Mingi at least bore no mask to his thoughts. He looked at Hongjoong with a nibbling of worry, something about the unspoken and self-made decision of the captain on the whim wrought an anxious jitter throughout his person. Violence was something he preferred to avoid especially when the hand that tended to wield it was his wing-bound, the light of his love.

The dawning settles again that nobody was to aid you. You are alone, just like above.

“I’ve grown exhausted talking to you. And to be completely fair, you had your chance to come clean but instead you decided to give nothing but useless utterances. Now,” Hongjoong moves closer, each heavily weighed step making you twitch restlessly on your knees. San’s grip remained firm, practically stretching your left sleeve far past its elasticity. “You will keep your mouth shut unless you want that wagging tongue of yours pulled cleanly out of your mouth.”

The threat felt like a suffocating blanket across your neck, his breath sounding far more closer than it actually was. Hongjoong stood over your body, feeble in its attempts to turn, to keep him in direct sight. You were no different to him than the puny weevils that congregated in the Birch District. In fact, perhaps you might be related to them. A notions he plans to dig out of that brain of yours if you happen to not be the aforementioned birdling so keenly tacked upon.

“What… What are you going to do to me?” You inwardly cursed at how feeble you sound. Nothing of the momentary spirit of courage that drove you to dive into the pit and away from that monster of a man could be accounted for.

Suddenly the ring on your finger felt like his calloused hand around your throat and the ache of those lashes you had received on the backs of your thighs before your escape tethered you to those nights tied to the old lamp post beneath the unblinking eye of the moon. Where your company dwindled down to a small grouping of moths dancing against the fading yellow bulb.

Something seemed to press a bit urgently within your thoughts, like it wished to bring a bit of light to the subject. But that was quickly snubbed the moment another hand twisted into the back of your shirt, not at all mindful of what hair might be in the way.

“That has yet to be decided.”

There was just a split second between your fumbled gasp, the hand on your shirt yanking back with the dirty fabric woven between ring-laced fingers and the sudden onslaught of footsteps rushing down the singular staircase where you truly wished that the pit had a bottom to it. One that you would have preferred splattering against in an array of every spineless piece of you.

“Let’s be rational, Wooyoung. Yeosang wouldn’t do anything unless authorized to.” Seonghwa knew his wing-bound better than most, and while the moth wasn’t one to hesitate in defending not only their home but the rest of the crew if even the slightest bit of danger reared its head, the transgression to act was ultimately decided upon by their captain.

Wooyoung scoffed, scurrying as fast his legs would allow. The squishy floor of the tunnels didn’t offer much aid, not that they ever did.

“You think I don’t know that?! It’s the fact that Yeosang is patrolling the tunnels— or was, and Hongjoong is in the brig. Put the pieces together, Hwa.”

“It could just be a coincidence. We don’t know why—“ Seonghwa attempted once again at playing the middleman, a mediator in the realm of opposing that dire.

“Did you not hear what Jongho said! He knew about the birdling running off, which might I add couldn’t have been known unless she was found and then proceeded to tip us about Hongjoong being in the brig. What part of either one of those things is a fucking coincidence?”

“He’s got a point.” Yunho merely shrugged, casting a look over his shoulder at the oldest.

Seonghwa wanted to argue back that there could still be a slight chance that none of that correlated but even he knew from both Jongho’s cocky slight and the fact that so far none of the three have yet to encounter Yeosang despite having traversed through several of the tunnels assigned to his patrol route; adding on Hongjoong’s presence in the only place ever used when an intruder has been captured and kept in holding until dealt with personally— it all definitely went hand-in-hand.

“Fine, but please smother my curiosity over your distress. Why are you so hellbent on getting to the brig? Shouldn’t you be relieved that Hongjoong has custody over the supposed birdling?”

They were just outside of the entrance to the brig before Wooyoung even mustered up the words to reply back to Seonghwa, turning on his heels and fixing a picture-perfect expression of wide-eyed surprise. “Relieved? What for? Captain will have both of our wings fashioned as rugs in front of his study’s fireplace for letting the thing escape. We already have a punishment lined up for being late and now it’ll be doubled for the slip-up.”

Seonghwa’s brows raise, and Yunho couldn’t help but catch what his question was more-or-less implying. “Did you think our haste was out of concern for the runaway?”

“Of course not. I just wasn’t sure where your heads were at is all.”

“Well it certainly isn’t there doing a backstroke with the birdling. And it definitely won’t be attached to our necks if we continue to stand around.” Wooyoung turned on a dime and practically threw himself down the stairs. Yunho wasn’t too far behind, although with less haste and more caution for his safety.

Seonghwa remained rooted for a moment, staring at the entrance and then at the tunnel’s moist ceiling.

“I have a terrible feeling digging beneath my skin and yet I cannot scratch at it enough to relieve its insistence.” His musings were only for his own singular audience, spoken out in a low hush.

The shock had worn off into panic which mixed into a concoction of embarrassment and anger. You wanted both to throw up and thrash around like a madwoman reaching the peak stages of insanity. But instead, like a defenseless newborn deer, you froze.

Hongjoong stood behind you with the back of your shirt in his hand, torn into nothing but an irregularly shaped rag. Your back, to him and everyone else, lay exposed to the stagnant air of the brig and the prying eyes picking apart every bit of bare flesh.

“Captain—“

You recognized Wooyoung’s voice now entering the scene, mixing into the fray of silence. But you wouldn’t budge, curling forward into yourself with the burning reminder of why you even escaped from above plastered all over your back. The grip on your sleeve refused to slacken, rather it tightened upon feeling you slump forward.

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed, glancing from one stray beauty mark to the next, bouncing over bruises both old and yellowed to newer smudges of deep violets creating a path of pigmented steppingstones to raised flesh gnarled into ugly deformations. And while the scars, bruising and speckled flesh here and there were visually apparent what wasn’t, however, were the aforementioned wings usually accompanying the likes of bird-folk. He could picture them as clear as day— black like the Southend jackdaws, earthen dirt like the Westbound waxwings, lustrous blue-purple draping over the backs of the Northway martins— the list was still an ongoing task twisted into a roll of parchment and stabbed directly through the center and into his desk with a pocket dagger gifted by Seonghwa. The expected folding of two wings molded to your back for easy hidings beneath clothing and safe keeping when not in flight remained nonexistent.

You had no wings to your person. Not even the usual scarring associated with wing scalping could be seen. And none of the ones you did have were even remotely related.

Instead of providing a soothing wave of relief for the captain, it made him choleric. The hot burn of ripened fury mounting from the soles of his boot-clad feet all the way to his scalp, every nerve along the path sizzled under his skin, under his clothing.

He looked from San, who was gazing down at your back, curved over in your hunch of self-soothing, from the corner of his lone uncovered eye. Then swept his attention to Yeosang, also looking with a shielded expression. Mingi appeared confused, worrying his lower lip between blunt teeth.

“Well, would you look at that… not a single feather, wing nor scalping scar in sight. If I had to make a gigantic fucking guess,” Hongjoong turns, finally settling his eyes on the trio at the foot of the stairs— but more specifically, Wooyoung and Yunho. “I’d say there was no birdling to begin with. Just a pathetic creature cradled in the idiocy of two cretinous bastards.”

“Hongjoong-“ Seonghwa stepped around the duo with the intent to try and calm the captain down before he let the poison of his short-temper thrust irreversible daggers into the bond between the three.

Hongjoong took his strides in quick succession, reaching Wooyoung whose position placed him closer. His hand latched onto the long strands of hair at the back of the younger man’s head, using the leverage to yank Wooyoung’s head back and then forward as he all but dragged the latter over to where you still sat on your knees. Wooyoung yelped, hands immediately flying up to the one nestled within his hair, clawing wildly at the top of Hongjoong’s hand. Each snag of Wooyoung’s nails on his skin only added more oil to the fire, making it grow and fester. Yunho was quick to follow, knocking Seonghwa’s futile attempts in stopping him from the same fate as his wing-bound. What kind of mate would he be, despite their mounting issues, to let his beloved suffer while he stood idle? He played a part in this entire incident as well, he was just as deserving of Hongjoong’s ire.

You stiffened upon feeling the thudding of their combined encroaching come to a swift halt somewhere behind you.

“Pry your lids open as far as they’ll stretch and take a good long look. Do you see any wings, Wooyoung? Perhaps a feather or fuzzy down? Tell me my eyes do not deceive me and that two of those scars out of several bunches belong to the possible removal of a pair of birdling assigned wings? Tell me!” Hongjoong’s grip constricted hard enough within Wooyoung’s hair that the younger could hear, let alone feel, the strands snap and break off. It wasn’t pleasant in the slightest.

“Please, captain, don’t hurt—“

“Bite your tongue good and hard, Yunho unless you wish to have it removed and served to you for dinner.”

Yunho knew he could use his height and stature to his advantage in disposing of Hongjoong’s grip on his lover, but he’d be granted a swiftly executed take-down not only by the captain's own wing-bound, but also by his two loyalists— Yeosang and San. Betrayer would be burned into his forehead for the act of mutiny and his death would hang on the walls of the captains' quarters. That thought didn’t disturb him as much as the reality of Wooyoung being widowed-bound, despite having seven other mates, some who wouldn’t mind doting on him with more than enough affection if needed but the severed threading holding their sacred bond together could never be healed. That was a living purgatory Yunho wouldn’t dare put Wooyoung through.

“No— I— I don’t see any wings— or— or feathers—“

“And? What about scalping scars? Do you see them?”

Wooyoung swallowed thickly, eyes dragging over your back from one jagged edge of a gnarly scar to the next.

“I don’t— I don’t see any, Captain.”

Hongjoong hums, pressing a whispered kiss against the outer shell of Wooyoung’s right ear. “Last question… do you see a birdling before us?”

You shifted, knees going numb beneath your dead weight and rigid body. It was like being put beneath a microscope or on a metal tray with your stomach freshly dissected for every curious eye to see.

“No, s’not a birdling—“

Wooyoung slamming into the ground startled you enough to jerk out of San’s grip, the sleeve he had in his hand stretching enough to cause the threading to snap. The leeway provided you with the space to turn, immediately zeroing in on the body just a foot or two behind you. Wooyoung groaned, not expecting the aggressive shove used by the hand in his hair so suddenly. If he had just a moment to prepare himself (although he should know by now how the captain’s actions usually framed themselves) then the impact against the floorboards wouldn’t have nearly hurt as bad as it did. His chin ached, having landed harshly enough to seal his jaw shut on his tongue. Blood soaked into his taste buds like soapy water does a sponge.

Yunho was quick to descend on his wing-bound, wrapping his arms from under his armpits and up his back to both cradle Wooyoung and inch him away to the sidelines.

Hongjoong watched every second as if he was looking upon two insignificant ants struggling to find somewhere to hide, somewhere that offered a shield of protection.

The thought alone made an uncomfortable laugh burst past his lips, his hands settling on his hips. You swore with enough focus that you could not only see but count several dark strands of hair caught within the facet of rings on his fingers.

“I’m glad you could clear that up for us, Wooyoung…” He pauses, wiping away a fictitious tear at the corner of his eye. “Truly, because I don’t think I could even imagine fabricating a false cause without a singular speck of viable evidence. But you— and your oh-so loving Yunho, seem to have quite the knack for it, hm?”

Seonghwa cleared his throat, casting a wary glance to the duo before side-stepping in front of them in a makeshift shield of his legs and lax wings.

“Hongjoong—“

“Captain, let’s not forget where we stand, Seonghwa. Unless you wish to be rattled around by the scalp as well.”

The threat had Yeosang easing forward, chest pressing to the side of Seonghwa’s arm while partially placing half of his stocky build before his lover. The soft touch to his waist would have provided an ounce of comfort if not for the erraticism of the captain.

“Captain,” Seonghwa pauses to clear his throat, hand curling into Yeosang’s waist to ground himself. “I will not regard your anger at Wooyoung and Yunho as unjustified but surely you could see reason for their actions?”

“Reason?” Hongjoong tilted his head over his shoulder, the movement eerily resembling that of a ball-jointed doll whose connective joint has rusted over making the action jerky and unsettling.

“Let me explain, please…”

The captain waved his hand, the signal enough to kick Seonghwa’s attempt at tampering down the other man’s anger into overdrive.

“They couldn’t have been sure on whether or not she posed a threat. Even by her own words that she wasn’t a birdling, that still doesn’t provide enough reasoning to just believe that she isn’t. And yes, checking her before coming here would have been a better course of action rather than—“

“We did— well, we tried but she kept fighting our attempts at seeing if she had wings or not beneath her shirt. Hell, she even managed to get away once.” Yunho cradled Wooyoung into his chest, concealing his bubbling affection when his wing-bound pressed tighter into his hold.

“I fought for a good reason! Tell me, would you stand idle while two strangers decided to not only ambush you but try and undress you?! I truly wish you would tell me that I am the one who is unreasonable.” You couldn’t believe the blatant attempt of making you out to be the problem, that because of your actions to protect yourself— you were the sole issue for everything up to this point.

“Is… Is that true?” Seonghwa wished to have asked that question with a bit more neutrality, but it came out far more imposing and daresay— interrogative.

Yunho looked abashedly to the side, bottom lip pulled down by the corners and a wince causing his eyes to crescent. Wooyoung mumbled something into his blouse, but it went unheard and unnoticed.

“For the most part… yes.”

“My ass!” You shuffled around to properly face the group convening behind you, ignoring the way San released the sorry excuse of a shirt sleeve from his hand to then latch onto your other one that fared in better shape. “Neither one of you even gave me the chance to explain myself— nor did you offer to hear me out! Instead, you both sandwiched yourselves against me and tried to remove my shirt while standing in that city of stringed lights. If either one of you would have just—“

“The city?” Mingi peers over at Hongjoong then down at Yunho and Wooyoung, his eyes abnormally wide. “Say you didn’t, Yunho.”

But the man in question didn’t answer, almost curling into himself and Wooyoung in his arms.

“Did anyone see you? Hear you? Know of your presence?” Hongjoong was teetering on the edge with his inquiries, dark eyes unblinking.

“No— I swear, nobody was around.” Yunho was quick to respond, looking up at Hongjoong then to Seonghwa and by extension Yeosang.

You, however, recounted differently those last moments before they lifted off with you thrown over the taller man’s shoulder. The sound of laughter, and communal din. Even silverware scratching and dinging against plates of food sitting idly on tables of iron wrought.

“That’s not right,” You mumbled, making San turn his head down at you with a narrowed eye. “I heard people laughing and talking and the scraping of forks and possibly knives on ceramic plates just a few seconds after they put a bag over my head. I’m not crazy— I heard it.”

Hongjoong said nothing, not after your divulging of information and not in the short seconds between him standing in the spot he had taken root to and the place that Yunho was holding Wooyoung. You stiffened, feeling a nasty twinge at the base of your throat upon witnessing the captain reel his leg back and hurling his boot covered foot squarely into Yunho’s chest just inches from Wooyoung’s head.

Chapter Text

You don’t think any amount of imaginative conjuring from places you’d never really seen or had the pleasure of being in the midst of could replace the brutal beating you’d bore witness to.

The sight of stray blood spittle coated the wooden floorboards in abstract blobs. Hearing the crunch of tooth or bone and the small wailing pleas made you sick to your stomach. Regret practically bubbled beneath your skin like a slice of cheese on heated bread. Perhaps you shouldn’t have said anything, kept your lips sealed and just let the verbal lashings continue. Those seemed to hurt the least, made it easier to bounce back from. But the feelings of being completely and utterly wronged by careless strangers brought forth a biting fight in you. Didn’t mean Yunho needed to eat the heel of a boot once-twice-thrice.

Consequences, that’s what it is.

Or at least that was what Yeosang had mumbled to Wooyoung who tried to gather his beaten partner into his arms only to be pulled away under the cold order for everyone (minus the incapacitated Yunho) to return back to the war room. Another, lesser command was given to San,

“Put her back in the cell.”

And one more for Mingi. His eyes just a tad bit watery.

“Throw him in the other one beside her.”

Both had hesitated for a moment, one that was a tad too long for the captain if by the narrow of his eyes and hollow cracking of his ringed fingers. You’d been scooped up none too gently and shoved back into your rusted birdcage while Yunho was lifted with a whole lot more care and dragged into the neighboring cell where he was lowered into a propped slump against the back wall. That was a little over an hour ago, give or take, by the rudimentary counting you’ve been doing beneath your breath. It was the only thing keeping your wits in the stagnant room. If your fingers weren’t covered in accumulated filth you’d probably be gnawing at the skin of your cuticles; a bad habit used to self-soothe.

You chanced a glance for the nth time to your right, whether it was to engage visually that the man also locked away was still breathing in his unconsciousness or to simply grasp at the estranged solidarity of not being utterly alone in such a mess. Either way it brought just the smallest granule of comfort. Even if he happened to be one of the reasons why you were even in this situation— and by extension; himself as well.

“I can feel… you starin’.”

Yunho had a cottonmouth, all swollen tongue and slurred speech. Figures he was awake, for how long you weren’t sure. Maybe he was never really asleep. Just playing possum. You couldn’t fault him for that if he was.

“Not staring just making sure you didn’t decide to kick rocks and fucking croak. Last thing I want is to be sitting here gagging on the fumes of your rotting corpse.”

The man shifts so that he’s cradled in the furthest corner away, one that happens to put him at a better position to face you. One of his eyes were swollen shut, lip busted, nose caked in a secondary wave of blood. The bruising and swelling along his cheeks and chin malformed the natural line of his face.

“How thoughtful.” He quipped in a tight voice, trying to maneuver his wings into a more comfortable position that wouldn’t have them crushed between his back the cell bars and wall.

You eyed him for a moment while he continued his shifting, finally glancing away to glare at the staircase that brought you down here and let everyone else ascend when the arbitrary fiasco was said and done. In true fashion, it was the staircase to hell. Or at least a smaller, more minor place of misery. If anything, the pit was the real door to damnation.

“Don’t suppose you know how long that lovely little prick plans on keeping us in here?” You took a chance on asking, figuring that since Yunho knew the man and all that he would have some kind of insight.

But much like a lot of things, you happen to be far from the bullseye.

“Nope… could be hours, could be weeks. All depends on his anger.”

“Great, just great.”

Death was definitely in your foreseeable future.

The lapse in silence was only brief, Yunho clearing his raw throat and huffing from the soreness of it.

“If you are worried then don’t be. Mingi will butter ‘im up in the next hour or two, it’ll at least work enough to get us an audience. Hopefully Seonghwa… he’ll be the easiest to sway.”

“That means he will let us out, right?” You didn’t want to appear hopeful but really, the possibility of this Seonghwa guy appearing and having some sort of empathetic reaction to the sight of your dirty appearance and Yunho’s pitiful state that he would let you both go (more or less— you) as an act of kindness made a bubble of desperation gather in your chest. One that was swiftly popped just as it formed.

“‘Course not. Just means he could put in a good word for us to the captain. We act like good little subordinates and then we have a higher chance of gettin’ out. Just gotta wait…”

You wanted to scream, lose your shit and punch at the cell bars but instead you scoffed. It was like calling customer service and getting transferred several times to different departments only to end up at square one without a single solution to your initial problem.

“Right… so is our chances at a hundred percent once he gets his dick rode?” Your jab wasn’t meant as a joke, but Yunho found it humorous enough to wheeze lightheartedly into a coughing fit.

“Can’t say I have an answer to that one… maybe I’ll ask Mingi later.”

Another scoff.

Chapter Text

Yunho was right when saying that someone would be coming down to check up on them (more or less for the man since he is considerably more important to the rest) but where he was correct meant everything else had been wrong. Rather than Seonghwa descending those stairs, it was someone entirely unrecognizable to you but intimately familiar to your neighbor.

“Jongho? What are you doing here? Where’s Seonghwa?” The questions were rapid fired, one right after another barely leaving room for answers.

Jongho, with his leathered pants, glinting buttons and dark hair simply shrugged. It wasn’t like he was banned from entering the brig, just not allowed to get close enough to the newcomer’s cell. His round eyes glance over at you, meeting your gaze in the fist size space between two of the bars.

What Hongjoong doesn’t know, won’t hurt him.

“He’s busy with Wooyoung. Captain said I could come down here instead.”

“Bullshit.”

You turn your head off to the side to look at Yunho, assessing the furrow in his brow and the subtle curling of his hand.

The corner of Jongho’s lips quirk up, caught red-handed despite his little game just beginning. But that doesn’t mean anything, he still has the upper hand and one thing about the youngest crew member was that he loathed to lose. Even to his own mates.

So he pouts, bats his wide eyes while slinking closer to your cell. His hands are tucked behind his back, out of sight and indiscernible for proper inspection. That unnerves you enough to move into the farthest corner you can, putting Yunho in direct line of your back and out of your sight.

“I’m hurt that you don’t trust me.”

“You’ve given me far more reason to be distrustful of you than the opposite. I’ll ask again— where’s Seonghwa?”

Jongho clucked his tongue, “What difference would it make? Me or—“

“Jongho?” The puzzled tone belonging to the aforementioned Seonghwa dragged the singular name from the bottom of the staircase. You could see his dark brows pinching together in a display of confusion.

The younger man sighed, turning on his heels to face the older. The timer on his fun seemed to end quicker than he would have liked, much to his visible disappointment.

“What are you doing down here?” Seonghwa’s gaze flickered towards the cells, more or less to Yunho before settling back onto Jongho.

“Just wanted to check on Yunho. He didn’t look too good after cap’n was done kicking him into the ground. Is that such a bad thing?”

"Coming from anyone else, no." Seonghwa moved further into the brig, "You know where you should be. I won't speak a word of your unadvised visit to Hongjoong, now run along."

The dismissal made Jongho pout, but nonetheless he backed away from the cells and disappeared up the stairs without a single word. Something unsaid was palpable in the tension, that much you could sense.

A meal wasn't guaranteed, nor was something as simple as a blanket. When you'd inquired about a bathroom, Seonghwa merely jutted his chin in the direction of a rusty bucket overlooked in the rust and silver of your cell.

"You...You expect me to piss in that?"

The man wouldn't even look at you, instead fussing lightly at Yunho's face through the bars of his own prison. "I expect nothing of you. Do your business how you want, where you want to. It makes no difference to me."

Something sour curled in the back of your throat, producing enough internal bitterness to look away from the two. You needed to get out.

“When will your captain let me go? He should have realized while he was down here that there is absolutely no use for keeping me hostage.” You didn’t even turn around to speak to Seonghwa, not even sure if he would answer back or care enough to give you an answer.

Someone sighs, the wispy sound irking you just a bit. “Do you live your life question by question?”

“Nobody gets far without asking them. So yes, every question I have either gets me two steps ahead or five back.” You pause, frowning. “So far it seems at the moment that I am stuck in a hamster wheel with a wet paper towel and a piece of dead meat. Going absolutely nowhere.”

Yunho, as quietly as he could, whispers, “What’s a hamster wheel?”

“Oh, poor thing.” Seonghwa’s voice shifts closer, the care in his tone misplaced. “Should the ground beneath your feet collapse and swallow you to save you from the misery you carry at the end of your tongue? Try as you might but pity has no place here. Whatever gathering you are trying to do by asking questions on what’ll happen to little ‘ole you is futile.” He’s right in front of your cell, the soft curve of his cheeks blending into sharp angles which dive into shadow-gathered caverns— a man both smooth and serrated.

“Fuck you. I don’t want you or your psychotic captain's pity. I want out! Let me out!” The speed of which you were up on your feet caused you to stumble off to the side, shoulder knocking into the bars on the adjacent side of which you had been facing. Fatigue settled heavy on your shoulders, causing you to slump a bit. Thirst, hunger, the tired ache in your bones and the phantom pain in your scars clawed beneath your skin all at once.

With the adrenaline thinning out, everything seemed to be throwing a fit from inside you.

“Hey,” Yunho had inched a bit closer to the cell bars right beside your own, “you don’t look so good. It’d be better if you sat back down, yeah?”

You land on your backside with a heavy thump, curing for arm to rest your heavy head on your knees. The fabric of your jeans smelt soiled and had stiffened uncomfortably after being soaked. You wanted to cry, perhaps the release in emotion would help you but know that once the tears dried and you couldn’t heave anymore then you’ll feel insurmountably worse than before your small breakdown.

“Will captain let us eat?” Yunho inquired after a few quiet seconds.

Seonghwa pursed his lips, eyes still settled on your balled form. “He hasn’t decided yet. If anything,” He switches to look over at his lover, a softness swirling about his gaze. “you’ll be let out on whatever conditions he has.”

You took a moment to peek at Seonghwa, to see him peering at Yunho through his cell bars with the smallest of smiles. A soothing gesture, one with the slightest of promise. Yunho looked at the man like he hung every single star in the sky, an equal reflection of care in his own eyes. That bitterness from before clawed at your throat once again and while many realizations would barge into your head like a meddling mother of an independent teenager, the knowing that you weren’t part of the equation in being let out made a heavy dent in your mind.

“What about her?”

“I didn’t ask. What he does with her is no concern to me.”

Long after Seonghwa parted with a few hushed words only meant for Yunho and what sounded like a smattering of kisses, someone else appeared in the brig with the tinkling of keys wrapping around each one of their footsteps.

“Ah, Sannie.”

“Captain says you can join us for supper.”

“And?”

“You are free to leave the brig, but he wishes to discuss something with you after everyone has finished eating.” San approached his cell with a ring of keys in his hand, shoving one of them into the lock and giving the chunk a metal a rough turn.

Yunho staggered to his feet, wings fluttering against his back as he neared the door. “Did he say anything about her joining?”

San chose to ignore your presence when he arrived but seeing as he couldn’t possibly fake it when Yunho draws attention to where you sat still curled around yourself in the neighboring cell.

“Don’t push it, Yunnie.”

It was a warning, one that Yunho wouldn’t fight against.

You counted down the seconds once they ascended those stairs and continued a little after just to make sure no one had decided to linger before uncorking the stopper on your emotions and letting them topple over and flood in uneven trails down your dirty face and land in fat droplets on the tops of your jeans.

Chapter Text

Cold water was the last thing you expected to be awakened by; the rush of the low temperature washing over you like a tidal wave in the summer making you jerk up and sputter. Stray droplets flew in rogue directions, some even collecting across your upper lashes to drip down onto your shirt. Meeting the unblinking eyes of Yeosang, bucket hanging from the casual grip of one hand, through the bars of your cell drew the unremarkable conclusion that he had just doused you in the liquid without a single care of your unconsciousness. But why would he? Perhaps he was seeing if he could drown you without having to go through the struggle of manhandling you under the water's surface. Or this might have been their means of bathing you.

"Seriously? A simple 'hey, wake up' would have done the job."

Yeosang drops the bucket without a single ounce of care to dig out something from his pocket. "It would have, the water also did the job just as efficiently."

You send him a rather wet glare under damp strands of hair; however, it shifted quickly when the familiar clinking of metal rattled within his grip.

"Get up."

“No.”

Despite the taste of some sort of freedom dangling right before you, the stubbornness woven within your person just couldn’t make it easy. Why should you listen to him anyways? A man who forced you here in the brig against your will, stood idly as the shirt was torn from your back (and barely clinging to your front by the remaining sleeve hem) and appeared to simply toss water on you and bark demands without offering a single reason. An ass he was just like his rotten captain.

Yeosang huffs, shouldering the cell door open and crowding into the square shaped space. You scramble backwards on your hands and heels but he’s quicker than you expected, grabbing at the tattered remains of your shirt against your chest and yanking you up in a singular breath. You scowled at him like a defensive dog, teeth bared, and lips curled away from teeth. He wasn’t impressed, by the casual lift of an oddly manicured eyebrow as if posing the inquiry of ‘really? Is that supposed to scare me?’.

“Captain wishes to discuss something with you— one on one.”

“I have nothing to say to that dirt stain of a man.”

The words carried over stray spittle, of which landed along the skin of Yeosang’s cheek. You watched his nostrils flare and the tick in his jaw jump with every silent clench. That was most likely your warning to back down, do as you are told and let what needs to happen play out and hope that there is a silver lining for you. Instead, the man twists you around and slams your front into the bars inside the cell. His hand is digging into the back of your head like he plans to completely sink the entire appendage through your skull and into your brain. Your jaw was aching from the impact, teeth digging into the inner skin of your mouth until the familiar tang of blood lightly coated your tongue. What breath you had was rattled out harshly through the uncomfortable squash of your nose against the rusted bar.

“It won’t take nothing more than a second to snap your neck at the base of your skull with a swift flick of my wrist. If you value your life over your mouth, then you will remain silent and do as you are told.”

You sputter out a reply that is, more or less, a wet gargle. You weren’t even sure if you had meant for a word or two to pass through but needing to affirm that you had decided to heed his threat and would (begrudgingly) follow his command until he has relinquished you to his oh-so beloved captain. Yeosang eased his grip slowly, far too slowly and took a few stray pieces of your hair with him that clung to the palm of his hand. The pesky little things breaking at your roots in sharp pinches.

His foot nudges the side of your right ankle, an action similar to a slap on the hindquarters of a horse. It was to get you moving and you did without resistance this time. Who’s to say next time (if there so much as to be a next time) that you won’t dig your heels into the floor hard enough to skin them just by the weight of your bullheadedness.

“Do you think this is a good idea? You know nothing of her motives, where she hails or who she may run with and yet you wish to have a private chat with her like two gossiping crickets? I truly wish I knew where your head was attached to your body, Kim Hongjoong because I’m afraid it isn’t on your neck.” Seonghwa paced back and forth in front of the unperturbed captain’s desk, running a ragged line in the wood beneath his boots.

Hongjoong pulled the oak pipe from his lips, a billow of smoke curling away at the corners of his mouth. “Where my head sits is none of your concern, Hwa. Rest your own for once and let your captain do his bidding as he pleases.”

“That is exactly why I can’t. Your biddings are nothing short of reckless and bordering the line of insanity-induced violence.” The man stops to run a delicate hand through his dark hair, slender fingers catching tangles and cruelly yanking at them until they break. It soothed him slightly to know something was at least yielding to him. Even if the action was causing more harm than good.

“Please, you are being overly dramatic. I just want to talk, nothing more nothing less.”

“Talk?” Seonghwa pauses with his heel parallel to the floor, “When is it ever just talk with you?” The oldest knew he was treading a fine line that’ll have him in the same state as Yunho, but his grievances weren’t being considered in the slightest.

Hongjoong places the pipe-end back between his lips, goading Seonghwa with a lift of an eyebrow to continue his tirade. The line was cast and the bait set to dangle right from the space between them. Seonghwa wasn’t the second in command, just the eldest with his age holding a smidgen of rank in the crew's arbitrary food-chain. But it’s not like that truly mattered, not to Hongjoong at least. They were all beneath him, snug within the grooves of his leather boots— even his wing-bound, Mingi.

“You afford a prisoner the luxury of idle chitchat, yet you lift both hand and foot to your mates until they bleed and bruise—“

“I barely touched Wooyoung, and Yunho could handle a bit of rough treatment. He’s an adult, Seonghwa, not a puny larvae.” Hongjoong blows a plume of gray smoke harshly across the plains of his desk, casting the disarray of papers and accumulated objects into a suffocating haze. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were accusing me of—“

“I am not pointing my finger at you, but I am trying to make you see how unreasonable you are being.” Seonghwa’s wings flutter in time with the heavy sigh shifting out of his chest.

“I fail to see what has you so uptight. So, what? I punished Yunho and Wooyoung for their actions according to how severely they fucked up and yet I am the bad guy. What kind of captain would I be if I rolled over and let my crew do as they pleased.” He eyes narrow, dark and bottomless. “A spineless one.”

Seonghwa’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding enough to click. “You would rather be seen as a tyrant than understanding? It does not take a weak man to listen. It does not make you any less of a captain to be merciful.”

Those words were hissed from the mouth of a serpent, one that had Hongjoong on his feet with a hand on the hilt of his favored pistol strapped at his hip. Seonghwa wished to believe that the action was a mere empty threat, but this particular one has been made quite a bit over the passing moon-cycles and each time the vacant look in Hongjoong’s eyes remained the same.

Yeosang gestured for you to halt with a raised hand. It trembled slightly in the momentary stillness before reaching forward and folding into a fist against the wood of a singular door. There was a gold placard at head-height, a cursive etching of “Captain’s Quarters” finely written into the metal.

The door flies open, air whooshing into the room, sucking at the front of Yeosang’s shirt and strands of wispy hair. Yeosang could feel the tension oozing out of the captain's private sanctuary, but he’d be none the wiser in keeping his inquiries snuffed out. At least for now, he will take the chance later when Seonghwa and him are in the comfort of their room to ask.

“No need to yank it off its hinges.”

Seonghwa had a sour look on his face as he gazed past his beloved and spotted your grimy form standing just a foot away. “That’ll be the lesser of our problems.”

He receded to the side, letting Yeosang step through and you, hesitating just a second longer than he would have liked. You knew it was stupid to entertain the thought of making another break for it, not when two of your captors stood hardly a hairs length away and Seonghwa could see the impulsivity written across each curve and dip of your face. That made his tongue click, loud.

The sound catches your attention.

“Are you about done wasting our time on chasing dead-ends in that incendiary head of yours?” His tone was harsh, the complete opposite of how he whispered to Yunho back in the brig.

Your upper lip curls just a bit, “Never.”

Seonghwa’s eyes narrow and the hand he still has wrapped around the brass knob of the door clenches and rattles. Oh, what he would give to just wrap his pretty fingers around your neck and snuff out your life and put an end to your sudden appearance— once and for all.

“Seonghwa, quit being a toad and let ‘er in.”

The voice of the captain was unmistakable, even in its lax state and almost tinkling with humor. He sounded like he found a good bit of fun in the way Seonghwa was vibrating against every single nerve and compulsive thought egging him on to lose his temper and wring you out like he would a wet rag.

You watch him slink further off to the side, making the entry to the room more spacious for you to slip in. Yeosang stood at Hongjoong’s left, arms crossed over his chest and ever-so stoic despite the wandering hand at his hip. You watch it dip and snag at the leather harness wrapped around his waist for just a fleeting moment.

“You wanted to talk?”

The relaxed form of the man who you watched beat Yunho, slumped and casually smoking from a pipe was like night and day. Hongjoong hums, painted nails drumming against Yeosang’s side. Seonghwa appears in your peripheral, lowered down into a blur amongst deep reds and rich emeralds.

“Ah, I only conduct discussions when seated. So, if you will— have a seat.”

Hands slammed down on your shoulders with an unusual amount of force, making your legs fold quicker than you have ever had the chance of witnessing before. Your backside landed on a soft cushion of a chair and while you would have taken just a smidgen of your attention to look at it properly, the sudden entrapment of your wrists, ankles and neck by copper shackles bursting from some hidden compartment in the gold framework turned every single thought into radio silence.

Hongjoong kicks his boots up onto the surface of his desk much to the vocal distaste of Seonghwa now coming to stand beside Yeosang, his own hand seeking out a small feel of his lover from the skin on the back of his neck.

“That’s better, hm? Never quite understood how some can even properly think let alone talk while busy on their feet. Seems too much of a distraction.”

You blinked, brows furrowing at how utterly nonchalant he was being despite having you restrained to a chair just for a something as mundane as a little chitchat. Then again, you did witness him harm two members of his crew without batting an eye nor giving them a chance to explain their selves. Which might have been partially your fault.

“Let’s begin then.”

Something about the way he smiles at you, fawn colored hair falling over his forehead with the tilting of his head sparked an uncanny feeling deep in your gut.

Chapter Text

Certainly this entire ordeal was deserving of a good hearty laugh. One that just ripped your belly down the center and echoed loud enough to rattle windows. Maybe in a less than real situation you would have. But being shackled to an ornate chair by the throat and wrists in the center path of a lunatic man’s sight had no effect on your funny bone.

You swallow shakily, feeling the metal around your neck catch against your skin.

“I have already told you everything. What fucking more could you want?”

Hongjoong taps the bowl of his pipe on the edge of his desk, his expression feigning thought.

"Everything? I hardly think you've scratched the surface. Plus," He pauses to aimlessly shift around a few of the papers on his desk, "beforehand wasn't even a proper discussion. Think of it more as a, hm, introduction. Just a little foundation laying so we aren't standing miles away from each other but rather a few feet."

“You’re crazy if you think I would want to stand anywhere near you— mile, foot, inches. I’d rather throw myself over that bridge your two puppets and I landed on.”

Hongjoong’s face nearly splits at the round of fitful laughter befalling from his lips. Seonghwa wasn’t amused in the slightest and Yeosang remained as unforthcoming with his thoughts.

“What a funny thing to say.” He gets up, arm retracting from Yeosang’s hip, “Self-sacrifice, you’d do that for little ole me? We’ve barely even managed to coexist in the same room for the second time today and yet you’ve announced how much you yearn to snuff out your light just because I wish to extend a hand of camaraderie.” You stiffen as he maneuvers around the edge of the wooden desk and struts closer to your restrained form, hands tightening into fists against the armrests.

He stops right at your left arm with a soft hum, lifting a ringed hand to lightly nudge a piece of stiff hair from your face. “I’ve got to say, I’m quite flattered.”

The bile rises quicker than you could have expected, sputtering from your chapped lips in thinly stretched ropes. You might have caught the warning signs if not for the thrashing of your heartbeat in your ears, the pulse on your neck tugging the skin taut.

Seonghwa’s nose scrunches at the way your upheaval clings stubbornly to your chin, his displeasure bleeding equally into Yeosang. His stoicism falls into a less than enthused expression at the vomit.

But Hongjoong remained unfazed, the twinkle of enjoyment dancing beneath long lashes as he watches you shutter and swallow against the burn marring your esophagus.

“Well, aren’t you just full of little surprises. I wonder what else you could do if I poked and prodded at you, hm? Maybe if I,” Your startled when his hand suddenly latches onto what little space is above your jaw and the shackle around your neck.

Surprisingly his grip was loose, teasing, but the weight of his palm dug hard enough down that your larynx begun to ache alongside the fancy woodcarving at the back of your head digging into your skull. “What else do you plan on coughing up, hm? Blood, more vomit?”

The prickle of tears blurred the vision of Hongjoong into a watery menagerie of muted colors, his fawn colored hair mixing into the leathers of his clothing and the linen of his shirt. You could faintly make out the pounding of your fists on the armrests, the thumping of your heels on the floor and the rattling of the shackles holding you hostage to your imminent demise. The rush of your heart in your ears felt like a send off, erratic in its haste and ushering you into an inescapable abyss in time to the symphony of drums.

“Hongjoong— that’s enough. Your aforementioned claims of discussion are falling wayside under your own hand.” Seonghwa, finding the sight of your purpling face and snot and tear trails nauseating chastised from where he took root.

Yeosang shifted a bit, the desire to be anywhere but the captain's quarters remaining a tight-lipped secret for himself only to know. His loyalty was here, despite his only purpose amongst the crew going unused. He wouldn’t make a move unless Hongjoong gave the command.

Hongjoong pursed his lips, a childish pout misplaced on a man brimming with violent tendencies. But his hand fluttered away, not without leaving a few little nicks on the underside of your jaw from the jagged corners of his heavily embellished rings. Your immediate response is to gasp, heave and cough all at once in no specific order. The man was back at his desk, reclining at on the lip of it with his leg crossed over the other at the ankles. He was unperturbed by your fit, despite all the raucous noise you were making.

“Are you going to babysit every little thing I do?” His scoff irks Seonghwa. “Moons forbid, I take a moment to shit in peace, and you’ll be at the door reminding me to squat for better bowel movement.”

“Could you be mature for a single second? Captain oh Captain, where does the line fall between your childish barking and the onset of premature lunacy?” Seonghwa stepped away from Yeosang with a hardened expression, heeled boots thumping heavily against the wooden flooring as he a rounded the desk.

“Oh great, another one of your prudish monologues.”

Hongjoong tilted his head to rest on his own shoulder, peering over at the other beneath long lashes. His eyes were deceiving a playful softness, a catty swipe meant to innocently rile Seonghwa up was in fact a knife hidden in the dark. The man was no stranger to the lurking threat despite the mischievous grin. It was cute and endearing when Wooyoung or Jongho would do it (when the latter wasn’t in a state of unhinged rage), but Hongjoong was neither of those things. Danger swathed him in a weighted blanket of pike’s and razor-wire.

Yeosang cleared his throat, stepping to Seonghwa’s side. Where one stepped, the other would follow just a half-step behind. Yunho joked that Yeosang was merely Seonghwa’s shadow come to life, the younger rebuked the thought with an accusation of childish imagination. But perhaps it wasn’t so far off. “Captain, I request we be dismissed. Our presence is providing nothing more than a distraction for you.”

Seonghwa’s head flew to the side at the supplication, but Yeosang refused to meet his probing stare.

Hongjoong clucks his tongue, “Run along, I forgot how sour your beloved gets when his bedtime routine is encroached upon.”

“I’m not leaving—“

“Hwa… please.” Yeosang’s tone dipped into a quiet urgency. His hand, with its natural tremble, curled around Seonghwa’s elbow.

But the taller refused to budge.

“No. I refuse to leave until I have seen whatever nonsense this entire ordeal is to bring.” Seonghwa, even in his most stubborn moments, never raised his voice at Yeosang. Instead, he cupped a hand on the man’s jaw, rubbed the pad of his thumb lovingly against the soft skin.

Yeosang wouldn’t fight against his love’s decision, rather he nodded in acceptance that he would be going to bed alone and slinked away to the door. You watched him as he approached, flinching once he got close enough to cause a stale draft to run over the exposed skin of your arm before passing in complete silence save for the solid thumping of his boots.

The door shutting brought the slight detour right back onto you. Like a centerpiece in an art gallery or a new animal exhibit placed on display for every pair of eyes in the vicinity to zero in on— you were on the frontline for the two men still present.

“Tell us a little about yourself.” Hongjoong’s casualness felt like the bucket of cold water that Yeosang had thrown on you.

“Like… Like what?”

He shrugs, nonchalantly picking at the skin around his nailbeds. Seonghwa had moved to another chair positioned adjacent to your own at a distance that was close enough if he felt like pouncing on you at any given moment but not near enough that his personal space was invaded. You concluded very quickly that he wouldn’t appreciate that one bit.

“How about a name? Simple enough. Tell me yours, and I will… indulge you in mine.” His gaze flickered up from his hand to you, the dark twinkle within them dancing in a teasing waltz.

Seonghwa scoffs from his seat.

You swallow, the raw feeling kicking up the urge to cough. Your hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed by either man.

“Do you even have one?” Seonghwa's inquiry had an icy jab to it.

“Of course I have a fucking name. Who doesn’t?”

“Watch the way you speak—“

“Or what—“

The sudden sound of Hongjoong’s hand colliding with the wooden surface of his desk cut the thread holding the spirally conversation, collapsing you and Seonghwa into a stunted silence.

“This is my time that you are both wasting by squabbling with each other.”

A bit ironic, you thought. The man who’s been playing with you like a cat with a mouse the moment you stepped foot in his quarters has a bone to pick when others do the same. It’s his game and nobody else’s to partake in.

Seonghwa looks away from you to fix his sight onto Hongjoong with a frown. “No more wasted than whatever you were doing moments ago.”

Hongjoong’s head tilts at the rebuttal, “What I do with my time is irrelevant.”

“So I have noticed.”

There’s a knock at the door that Yeosang had left through, breaking the surmounting tension like fine glass. A head pops in; one you can’t see but its shadow casts along the wall just off to the side.

“Captain.”

The voice isn’t too familiar, but you know it has to be at least one of the other men who was down in the brig during Hongjoong’s visit.

“What?”

“Mingi wants to know if he should continue to wait outside until you are finished with… her or go find somewhere else to sleep.”

Hongjoong sighed, hand coming up to rub at his eyes. “Tell him to practice some patience. I am in the middle of a delicate situation that requires a great amount of effort to—“

“Just tell him to go sleep with Yeosang, San.” Seonghwa wanted to be spared the tirade of the other— for his own sake and for his fellow lover.

The door closed once again just as swiftly as it had opened, and you would have rather the distraction to keep the heat off of you. But that was an unrealistic hope.

“Now, where were we? Ah, right.” With a twist and click, you were staring eye to eye with the barrel of a flintlock all within a singular breath. You couldn’t even piece together when he had moved from his desk, his form the centerpiece of your vision and yet here he was, standing just a short distance away and looking past his pistol at your disheveled face. “I don’t mind doing things with a bullet or two but that would mean going without an answer and I despise the thought of the unknown. Especially within my own walls.”

The cool metal pressed roughly against one of your eyelids, causing weird shapes to burst and bubble within the obscurity of your sight.

“You’d be none the wiser to just tell him. Unless you value your life so little to lose it over something so small.” Seonghwa piped up from his seat, tone lackluster and achingly bored.

You wished the shuttering exhale of your name wasn’t so shaken by the fear of having your life splattered against the intricate wood carving of the chair-back against your head. But it did, and the erratic movement of your one eye pressed closed by the mouth of Hongjoong’s gun vibrated the barrel enough for his hand to feel it.

He repeated it, swished it from cheek to cheek and let it roll off his tongue back to front. Then he smiled, impishly sharp before withdrawing the gun and giving it a light-weighted swing around his pointer finger.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Your brows furrow in confusion. What the hell did he mean by ‘I don’t think so’, that was your fucking name! Who was he to determine if your name was assigned to you like your very own clothing tag or not.

“I’m not… I’m not following—“

“I hate it, your name. It’ll be changed to something less unappealing.”

Seonghwa seemed to rattle out of his boredom, getting to his feet and approaching the shorter man with an incredulous look. “Please tell me you aren’t insinuating what I think you are?” And when Hongjoong’s casual hum met his dire question, it was all the answer the other needed.

Chapter Text

“Seonghwa, since you seem to have a lot to say on things not requiring your input. I’ll let you decide on her new alias.”

Those were the only departing words given and they weren’t even spoken to you. Rather, you weren’t even there. Not entrapped to a chair by shackles within the walls belonging to eight devious men. Not even your dreams could conjure something as outlandish as them. Wings, moths, birds, stags— why had the walls felt so alive?

Whatever Seonghwa replied back with sounded like running water, which clogged your ears in a loud rush. The door opening again was faint, far away and the shackles holding you bound to the ornate chair groaned lowly back into their hidden compartments. You wished your head would right itself, silence the pounding growing erratic in your temples. Gloved hands latched onto the tattered fabric that remained strong at your shoulders, and in the back of your buzzing mind did you register that it must be San.

"I would rather not. No part of me wants to have anything to do with her."

"So be it. San!"

It was a cold war raging behind that wooden door once it closed on your wary heels. You were glad to be spared of its bite.

San guided you without a word, grip firm in the remains of your shirt. He refused to even look at you, one eye obscured by a black eyepatch and the other remaining forward. You hated how completely helpless you felt. That taking the leap to escape what you thought was the biggest threat in your waking life only placed you right into the awaiting maw of something possibly far worse. Only difference was the exchange of one for eight, and the zero chance of finding a way out. How could you even return to the surface? Nothing but the distance from the pit's mouth to the city of glittering lights stretched close enough to the opening.

Abruptly, San stops in front of an unmarked door. You barely catch your bare toes into the flooring, narrowly running into the wings drawn closed on his back. But you were close enough to see the wispy hairs on them, a light fuzz that looked soft to the touch. He doesn't turn, instead speaking to you from over his shoulder. "Wait here."

His tone had every bit of warning in it. You didn't give him a reply, and he didn't spare a second to wait on one, disappearing behind the door and leaving you alone in the corridor. A waft of something aromatic and warm danced on the air shoved out from the swinging wood, the scent alone causing your tongue to tingle. It reminded you of your father— actual father. When he’d spend autumn nights roasting a rarely purchased pig over a bonfire until crisp and golden. You hadn’t tasted or smelled nothing like it since you were seven, a lifelong gone. The memory makes the metal band on your finger burn. A phantom reminder of every day after binding you closer to the hell you’d suffer.

“What are you doing out here?” Seonghwa’s voice rattles you enough to turn away from the door San had gone through, eyes immediately zeroing in on the bloody spot on his lower lip. It hadn’t been there when he first came down during your interrogation or when he sought out Yunho in the cell next to yours. Not even in the captains quarters did he appear anything but well-kept. However, as he stood with a good berth between you both, you could see not only his long black hair was disheveled but the dying traces of a lover's flush gracing his cheeks and neck. But his eyes didn’t give off any secret affections that might have been the root cause to his shift in appearance instead they burned with a nasty acidity aimed solely at you.

Before you can answer, he cuts through with another question. Just as potent sounding as the first.

“Where is San?”

You frown, jerking your head in the direction of the door. “In there.”

As if he had been pressed against the door with his ear pressed to the wood, San reappeared with a plate and a small serving bowl balanced in one hand while the other held the handle of a mug. He looks up once he’s cleared of the doors path, one eye widening just a smidgen upon seeing Seonghwa. His gaze flits to his lip and a knowing look overtakes his surprise.

“Your lip—“

“Hongjoong decided that you will be shadowing her while she is here. You are also responsible for naming the thing. If you catch wind of suspicious behavior, then you are to report to him immediately. Word of advice, “He gives you a glare, one that you equally match. “Keep your new pet on a very short rope.”

~

Seonghwa rounds on Hongjoong the moment the door closes and it is just them filling the space. He knows that the other is far from ignorant, but he can’t help feeling like a bystander to the shenanigans of a rightful fool. Not only did the so-called discussion fall way-side to Hongjoong’s taste for power but now you were here to stay— temporarily if he had anything to do about it.

“You must have gone completely mad if you think for a single second that her being here is a good idea.”

Hongjoong tilts his head, a coy little smile stretching across his lips. “Nothing new.”

It irked the dark-haired man even more when faced with the teasing nonchalance of his lover, for his worries held little significance to his captain.

“No, being out of your mind isn’t anything spontaneous but making absolutely stupid decisions without at least entertaining the only voice of reason you have here makes it painfully obvious that you lack anything above your shoulders, captain.” Seonghwa knew he was dancing close to the ring of fire surrounding them, its invisible flame growing wild at each oil-induced word.

Hongjoong wasn’t smiling so much as he was downright sneering, dark eyes narrowed into the sharpest of blades. He was, and the other knew it, coiled like the very serpent lurking in the darkest corners of his heart. But Seonghwa wouldn’t stand down, cower off with his wings enveloping him in a self soothing manner. He was stubborn because he cared and his caring nature made his stubbornness nonnegotiable even in the face of danger. Hongjoong was— is dangerous.

“You’ve grown yourself a pair of wings far too large, perhaps I should snip them a bit to remind you of your place, love.”

Fire and ice, oil and water, love and hate. Both men tiptoed such fine lines where in their passion lies a great hatred. Both knew that both understood one another down to the very marrow of their bones.

That’s why Seonghwa refused to duck away when Hongjoong fisted the front of his blouse between two ring-clad hands and shoved him hazardously onto the surface of his desk. Papers toppled over and fluttered to the floor, neither caring about the mess when Seonghwa buried his slender fingers into Hongjoong’s fawn-colored mullet, his grip tight and snagging, tugging his lover forward into his scowl-drawn lips and bared teeth. Hongjoong met him with an ugly force, the greeting of calcified bone sharp in their ears. Nothing tender resided between their snapping maws, not even the desire for carnality sparked a low blaze in their blood. No, this was malice in all its hunger to ruin.

Seonghwa yanks away when Hongjoong sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and tears through the skin until blood pools without restraint. His breathing is labored, skin hot enough to be suffocating. Hongjoong looks no better with the hurried rise and fall of his chest and hair mussed wildly. Then he sticks his tongue out and drags it across the remnants of Seonghwa clinging to the front of his upper teeth.

“You make me sick.”

“And yet you will still flutter back when the only light in this world is in my hands.”

The taller is quick to shove the other out from the space he claimed between his legs, moving to an unsteady stumble that didn’t cease even as he reached the door. Seonghwa refused to look back, knowing that if he did the fight he has put up would fall wayside.

“Inform San that he will be taking our newest little charge under his wings. And due stress that his eyes and ears are my own. If I dare catch wind of even the smallest of infractions,” Seonghwa stares at the wood of the door, handle in hand. He could feel the tar-pools of Hongjoong’s gaze heavy on his back. “Then I will skin that puny creature from her scalp to her toes and make a flag out of her peeled flesh and whoever aids in her mutiny will be nothing but bone-dust.”

Seonghwa opens the door and swiftly closes it, his stomach churning in his throat.

“He said something horrible to you, didn’t he? Threatened you? Harmed you?” San knew when his mate was troubled by something and more often than not the aforementioned trouble tended to be Hongjoong and his malicious behavior.

Seonghwa scowled, “Mind your own, San.”

You shifted out of the way before Seonghwa could bulldoze you over, watching from the corner of your eye as he stomped down the corridor until he was out of sight.

“Lover's quarrel?”

Turning to look at San, you were met with a stony expression and a jaw that clicked with every tense clench. He settled a sharp eye on you, “Follow me.”

He swiftly moves around you and without a word, follows the same path as Seonghwa did with you hesitantly in tow.

Chapter Text

The corridor ended in an opening to a large, circular room with planked walls of dark wood that shuddered and shook as if racked by passing chills. You eyed the boards closely, catching the smallest slivers of the same fleshy pink that the tunnel Yunho and Wooyoung had guided you through.

“Sit.”

San stood at the end of a table; the plate and bowl and mug deposited on the surface. His tone left no room for arguments, and yet you still managed to find one.

“Do you seriously think I would sit and eat after everything you’ve all done to me?” You scoff, staying rooted at the entrance to what you gathered in a quick once over to be a dining hall. Three tables sat in the center of the room, arranged in a peculiar manner with a single corner of each touching. The one your food sat on had a singular bench facing outward. Actually, all three of them did. If filled by bodies, two of the tables sitting opposite of each other would allow the ability for its occupants to be in full view of one another. The third table almost had a sense of higher ground. Nothing paralleled its position, instead it was the head that looked on at either of its flanks.

“Sit.”

“No. It could be poisoned, something I wouldn’t put past any of you of doing.”

You watched the way San’s nostrils flared, gloved hands tightening at his sides. And then he raised the closest one to the table, grasping the bronze handle of a spoon submerged in whatever was in the bowl. He refused to look away as he raised it, the juice sloshing a bit over the sides, towards his mouth that parted to quietly slurp it back. You shifted on your feet, an uncomfortable feeling biting at the back of your ankles. San lowered the eating utensil to briefly scoop up a small portion of the rice on the center of the plate and followed the same path as the soup to his mouth. Then, did he look away.

“Eat.”

“Why?” The question came out weaker than you wished but the need to still fight burned like a hot coal in your chest. It wasn’t like you were safe, nothing and nobody here could be trusted.

San sighs, “Because our food supply runs thin. Wasting what little we have means bringing us one step closer to starvation. And now that an extra ration is to be added to the preexisting eight, that’ll make the stock deplete quicker.”

Perhaps a bit of compassion could be spared in that moment, unfortunately it wouldn’t be coming from you.

“Why the hell should I care if any of you starve to death?” Did he seriously think you would actually feel sympathetic to their dwindling resources when they not only abducted you but proceeded to threaten your life left and right? You gazed at him like he was the most pathetic creature you have ever had the displeasure of looking upon.

The harsh words that spilled past your lips caused an ugly furrow to tug at his brows. He settled his sight on you once again and it was nothing but a reflection of contempt. What an awful thing to say to someone who could easily shatter your jaw with just a single punch. Was that what you wanted? For him to completely pulverize your face until nothing was discernible, to create a gaping crater of broken teeth, shattered bones and fleshy mush. He could, his hands were already itching to rearrange that scowl you were giving him.

You startle when his hand suddenly slams down onto the table’s top, rattling the dish ware from the force.

“You either sit and eat or I will escort you back to the captain's quarters. And don’t think I won’t let him know about your refusal to cooperate. One thing you will learn very quickly is how he absolutely loathes insolence.”

“I would rather stand here and rot into the floorboards than to sit at the table belonging to a bunch of psychotic freaks and eat the slop provided out of self-righteous pity.”

It was venom pitted against acid, potent poison laced in every word. San moved like a leaf in the wind, wings fluttered open and enlarged enough to drown out the warm lighting of the dining hall. Even in the shadow that he cast, you could make out the raw odium in his one eye. An untapped hatred. Oh, he was far beyond the point of anger.

The first step he took felt like the whisper of a blade against the skin on your throat. Just a light pressing, but a threat all the same. It promised for more. The next step, hollow yet loud, had you backing away. The corridor at your back was far more inviting in its shrouded darkness than the man slowly stalking towards you. Perhaps it was the lighting or the way his wings puffed out like the feathers of a peeved off chicken but you could have swore he almost seemed to grow in size.

“Stay away from me—“

You shuffle further back when his snails-pace progress is doubled, nearly toes to toes with one another. Something collides with your back, or you manage to run right into it in your blind attempt at putting more distance between the both of you.

“What’re you doing?”

Curiosity never blended well with danger and yet the person at your back, who’s large round eyes you met over your shoulder and instantly recognized as the same ones belonging to a certain visitor back in the brig, was every bit of that.

Mingi’s head turned at the sound of the door opening, watching with squinted eyes as Seonghwa slipped into the room wordlessly. From below him, Yeosang stirs slightly but remains in the throes of slumber.

“Seonghwa?”

“You’re still awake.” Wasn’t a question, wasn’t meant to be one.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Both of them were shying away from the elephant in the room, choosing to creep around the subject out of their own selfishness. Mingi wanted to know what had happened but couldn’t stand to hear how awful (because he knew what his beloved was like— they all did) Hongjoong must have been and Seonghwa was still reeling in his anger. He didn’t want to lash out at the younger, knowing it would be misdirected. Mingi didn’t deserve that, even if his wing-bound was a royal asshole.

Seonghwa retreats to his armoire, exchanging one article of clothing with another until he was dressed in his nightclothes and the previously worn were deposited into the basket at the bottom of the closet. Mingi’s eyes watched his every movement, head laying back down onto Yeosang’s chest. Every meticulous movement seemed to lull a weight over his eyelids.

“Seonghwa?”

“Yes, Min?”

Mingi shifts a bit, curling further into Yeosang’s side while the other man lets out a sleepy huff.

“Will… Will you tell me what happened?”

There’s an audible sigh in the dimly lit room, the oil lamp sitting on the nightstand on the opposite side of where Mingi laid hardly provided enough light to make out the shape of the older man. But it wasn’t needed, he was already at the foot of the bed, tired eyes looking softly at the way Yeosang slept and Mingi attached to his side like freshly tapped sap.

“No. It’s not important, go to sleep.” Seonghwa moved to the lamp, snuffing out the flame with a turn of the wick. The room fell into complete darkness.

Mingi feels the bed shift and the covers that are thrown over the two already tucked in are tugged a bit in the older man’s pursuit of comfort. He doesn’t want to drop the subject, curiosity gripping at him like his own hand on the handle of his less-than valued dagger.

“Seonghwa—“

“What?” His tone is spread thinly within the darkness.

“I just want to know—“

“I’m tired, Mingi. Please, snuff out your curiosities and go to sleep.”

It goes quiet again but there’s a tension feeding over an invisible bridge across Yeosang’s sleeping form. Mingi shifts a bit, raising his head and his hand from the chest he was using to rest on. He had to seek out Seonghwa in the dark. If he doesn’t, he’ll remain restless.

“No more questions, promise. But a kiss, perhaps?”

Seonghwa sighs, his eyes staring at the blanket of black obscuring where he knows the ceiling panels are. Mingi wasn’t such a simple creature, but he always asked for the simplest things when his grandeur was denied. It wasn’t like answering his questions would have been such a difficult task to do but Seonghwa couldn’t continue swishing around the bitter acid in his mouth that the situation put there just to appease his mate. But he could compromise.

Mingi waits patiently when he hears the bed move and the covers shift and the micro sensation of the older man’s body heat barely gracing the moth fuzz on his face. Plush lips meet plush lips in the dark, soft and warm and gentle in their caress. Mingi sighs, hand patting around blindly for any trace of Seonghwa’s skin to latch onto. But he comes up empty handed and Seonghwa retreats back into the unknown space on his side of the bed. Mingi can’t withhold the whine from his throat, lips tingling and craving more than was given.

“Good night, Mingi.”

His disappointment is swallowed in favor of returning back to Yeosang’s chest, staring absentmindedly into the dark where he hopes Seonghwa is laying.

“Good night.”

Hongjoong’s in the process of unbuttoning his shirt when there’s a round of steady knocks at the door. The pipe he had been smoking earlier hung lazily between clenched teeth, small puffs of smoke escaping with each noiseless exhale. He fingers a few papers sitting on the surface of his desk before giving a loud enough grunt when the knocking continues.

“Fucking enter or leave.”

The door creaks open and a figure slips in without a word.

“What’d you want? It’s late and I’m too tired to deal with anymore of your nonsense.”

Yunho leaned against the wood of the now closed door, watching his captain pluck a paper from the desk, give it a little aimless chuckle before balling it up and casting it off to the side where the roaring fireplace crackled with life. Clouds of smoke separated into a haze around the man’s head, spreading thin yet wide.

“Mingi’s not here?”

“Does it look like he is? Sent ‘im off to Yeosang’s bed for the night. Had things to do and couldn’t be bothered with a clingy little moth in my way.” Hongjoong doesn’t turn when he speaks, rather keeping his attention on the insignificant documents begging for his approval. He hated one-sided deals, most of which taking up space on the wood were just that. Bargains upon bargains in which he’d be given less than half any share. Might as well polish dirt.

Yunho pushes off the door and approaches with steady footsteps. He counts each one in his head— not too many to be mistaken for eagerness but none too little to give way of hesitation. Either one will be sniffed out by Hongjoong in a mere wings beat.

“Good. That’s… good.” The taller’s tone was his worst enemy. Even more was his audible swallow right after.

Hongjoong turned slowly, dark eyes immediately hooking into Yunho’s beaten skin. “Why’re you here, Yunho?”

“I just…” He falters, both in voice and steps. “I just want to help you get ready for bed. I know it’s been a rough turning of day for you.”

“Has it now? And I wonder whose fault that would be, hm?”

Yunho continues forward until he stands toe-to-toe with the man who had bludgeoned him in the brig just hours ago. The man he loves. The man he vowed to love until his wings ceased to function and the last of his days were under the moon’s watchful eyes. Hongjoong’s head tilted up, not by the distance of height but by the gentle finger beneath his chin. The pipe he had between his teeth was removed by the other hand belonging to Yunho and laid to rest atop the papers.

“Not entirely mine but I will admit my faults and make amends for my mistakes… if you’ll let me.”

Hongjoong betrays nothing of his thoughts, just stares without a word up at Yunho. He didn’t need to, not really. Yunho knew he was expecting him to do what he said he would, no point in barking out more orders. Moments like this are when the captain is the easiest to love. Fleeting as they are, but all the same.

Yunho’s finger drags slowly down and across Hongjoong’s jawline, dipping over the curve of it and further descending along the side of his neck.

But that is as far as he makes it, or rather that is as far as Hongjoong allows him to go. A strong grip latches onto Yunho’s wrist and wretches his touch away from the older man’s flesh. There’s something calculative in his eyes, like he was trying to figure out the best move to make. One that’ll be entirely in his favor.

“A bit bold of you to come in here and assume that you are forgiven just because you bat your pretty little eyes and whisper pitiful machinations at me. And touching,” Hongjoong shifts his hand to merely hold the same finger that trailed an unseen path along his skin, the padded tip peeking out from his curled fist. “Did I strike you so hard that you’ve lost all common sense? Are you stupid, Yunho?”

Yunho could only swallow, the lifeline he had held onto had grown slick within his hands and was sliding out of his hold faster than he could grasp. The ground beneath him would do him a proper service by opening up and swallowing him whole. Hongjoong watched the way his Adam’s apple bobbed, the sudden nervous shake of his eyes bringing a satisfied smile to his lips.

“Oh? Did you really think you could fool me, Yunnie?”

Wooyoung’s favored pet-name sounded completely wrong falling from Hongjoong’s curled little grin. Usually, it was bathed in a soft playfulness, a comfort akin to a favored blanket. But from the captain's lips did it sound uncannily saccharine, a false pretense of what it should be but rather a poorly placed mask. Yunho knew he was doing it on purpose, making it obvious that the endearment wasn’t spoken out of the same love that his wing-bound would have done.

“No, that’s not… that isn’t what I was trying to do. Truly, I just wanted to make amends for my carelessness during the mission and for the… not birdling situation.”

“Making amends would fall into the same grave as vying for forgiveness.” Hongjoong releases Yunho’s finger but quickly scoops up the same hand and guides it with an almost calm insistence to the buttons still holding his shirt together.

Yunho exhaled heavily, “Then let me do both. At once… together.”

One button, two buttons, three and four and the count got lost between wandering hands and pressed lips. Hongjoong had his arms thrown around Yunho’s neck, boots forced onto the toes and chest pressed bare to the taller man’s clothed torso. Yunho knelt slightly, knees cracking a bit under the stiff position to wrap one arm around Hongjoong’s waist while the other crawled under the back of the captain's shirt to grasp at his warm skin. Hongjoong always seemed to have a fire lit beneath his flesh. Never warm, never implicitly inviting. But hot, smoldering, luring anyone in who got close enough to the wild exuberance without being scorched to nothingness.

Yunho lifted the other like he weighed little less than a rucksack filled with spindles of worm-silk. Long legs crossed from the disoriented desk in the captain's office to the private sleeping quarters where the oak door riddled with the past gnawing's of termites eased shut by the heel of Yunho’s boot. Hongjoong had slithered a ringed hand into dark strands, fisting their softness until the younger groaned. A sound so satisfying that the captain just had to hear it again— and thrice more after that.

“Please— if you keep doing that, ‘m afraid my legs won’t be able to hold neither of our weight.”

“That so?”

Hongjoong had a salacious twinkle in his eyes, paired with the flush gracing his skin against the orange glow of the oil lamp nearby and the swollen pout swathed in a delicate red, Yunho could feel his knees giving small warning jitters that he was quite weak already.

But that didn’t matter, not when Hongjoong descended once again onto Yunho’s lips, rendering every single nerve ending in his scalp to the tips of his toes utterly useless. Tongues dipped and curled and tasted around the edges of teeth and across slimy gums, meeting in the epicenter of moisture ridden heat to undulate against one another until saliva rose like the entrapped water lurking far beneath the city of lights. Yunho set Hongjoong down at the foot of his bed, parting with an awfully wet smack that roped off into a tethered string attached to both of their lower lips.

Something in the way the captain looked at Yunho made him feel wanted in the worst of ways. Underneath long lashes was a beast in wait; teeth aching to sink into supple flesh and tear apart every inch of untouched soul.

“Finish your amending, Yunho.”

Had he been a stronger man, had he never left his beloved alone after the minor argument they had, choosing to stay and fix it rather than leaving Wooyoung to sleep on with heavy heart, had he chose to remain in that room instead of here with his mate looking up at him like he was just another object in his possession— realization that reconciling required more than just a prurient approach to mend the unstable situation between him and the captain would have kept his boots by the door of his own quarters. Instead, they were kicked off across the wooden floors of Hongjoong’s bedroom where another pair joined and the littering’s of leather, linen and cotton branched out to connect each article of clothing together.

Hongjoong’s soft moan fades into a breathy laugh, head knocked back while Yunho’s lips birth irregularly shaped bruises across the column of his throat. In his lap was the barest form of Hongjoong, sweat spread lightly over the curves and contours of his body lit aglow by the oil lamp. Yunho could almost swap out the horrible man from the brig with this erotically lust-drunk creature swaying atop of his cock. In a way, this was a completely different person. Someone who reflected his most vulnerable state without hindrance, unashamed of the whines and eye-rolls and desperate pleas for more and more and more.

“Does he know you are here? Fucking me, warming my bed while his remains cold. What a— oh fuck— what a terrible lover you are.” Hongjoong’s at his ear, enticing moans intertwined with salacious commentary. But it was true, Yunho left Wooyoung to sleep alone after another petty squabble to come here and bury his cock in their captain. The same one that held no mercy when bludgeoning his face and torso. It was wrong to not care but the man didn’t, not for his wing-bound, not for himself.

Yunho’s hips bucked upward in a round of steady jolts, cock sheathing to the hilt from a halfway point that left the remaining length inside of Hongjoong. He couldn’t really part from him, a note of possessiveness of having his captain under his large warm hands, in the cradle of his arms and impaled on his member. Not even the reminder of the bruises on his face, the swollen mess of his eye or any of the cuts and splits of his flesh could compare to the throes of passion he was drowning himself in. All for Hongjoong, all for his beloved captain.

You swivel away from Jongho like he had held a lit cigarette against the back of your arm, nearly slamming into the entrance frame of the corridor. He looked at you then at San and then to the plate of food sitting untouched on the table.

His head tilts and a pout tugs his lips forward, “Not eating? Better not let captain find out.”

“He won’t. Not unless you keep your mouth shut.” San was stiff, eyeing the sudden appearance of his mate like he came bearing all sorts of wicked omens.

Jongho’s gaze flits back to San, his wing-bound, and the stirrings of something mischievous flutter within his chest. Oh, how he loved to see his beloved bothered, teetering on the fine edge of glass by his own hand. Nothing soothed his soul more than knowing that he was upset by his presence, his meddling.

“Are you threatening me? Your mate?” His attention drifts to you, pressed tight against the dining hall entrance. “Can you believe that we are bound both by soul and the very blood pumping us alive? You’d think with the way he speaks to me that he hated me. Isn’t that interesting?”

You had nothing to say, and even if you did it wasn’t like the situation would be proper enough to spit it out. Jongho looked at you like how an unruly child looks at a shiny new toy, the promise to yank and pull and handle without any sort of care gleaming within his round eyes.

“Why are you here?” But San wouldn’t let a second of barely held control slip further from his fingers.

The question makes the younger’s eyes roll, having heard enough of it all-hours in passing. Was he not allowed to be anywhere, around anyone? For fucksake he felt like a fly stuck against the sticky tassels from above— the thought halts and the stirring in his chest amplifies.

Once again, you are in his sights. “Didn’t you say you were from above?”

How he knew that was beyond you, a detail within a conversation you didn’t have with him let alone anywhere near him. It causes an uneasy feeling to creep along the back of your neck, like the tips of spindly fingers just barely catching against your skin.

“I didn’t— not to you.”

Jongho looks contemplative, eyes adverting to an undisclosed spot on the ceiling. San takes the short opening to draw near, close enough that he could reach a full arm's length towards you and the fabric of his gloves would brush against your arm. A butterfly effect almost ensues, you, having seen the movement, try’s to sidestep further away which immediately captures Jongho’s attention once again and upon seeing his lover attempting to grow closer, makes the decision to suddenly grab a hold of you all the more easier.

“Running off so soon? And without having your dinner that was not only prepared just for you but also carried all the way here so you had someplace to eat that wasn’t on the floor.” You shudder in his surprisingly constrictive grasp, leaning away when every word he spoke into your ear was accompanied by a blow of warm air. “Maybe you should have it on the ground, yeah? I’ll tip every last bit of it for you to lick up like those beasts running wild up above. You know, the ones that howl at the moon.”

“Jongho.”

San’s warning tone did nothing to the younger man, rather Jongho seemed to ignore him altogether.

You writhe around like a cat caught by the scruff, legs kicking back and nailing any part of his legs that you could land. There’s a gathering of spit in your mouth, and surely if you stood where San was then you’d appear to be frothing as if ridden by rabies.

“Let me go! Let me fucking go you crazy piece of shit!”

“What a mouth you’ve got there. But, if you insist. Have it your way.” Jongho releases his hold right when both of your legs are kicked up into the air, unceremoniously dropping you onto the floor. You hiss at the pain shooting up from your backside, but it doesn’t compare to the sudden hand carding through your hair and fisting the matted and dirty strands at the roots.

Jongho yanks your head back, peering down at you like a child would when stumbling across a funny looking bug. His smile is disarming, rounded cheeks and small little squared teeth with plenty of pink gums. You scowl, trying to ignore the fact that your head was throbbing from the source of his hand.

“I don’t think those beasts can talk. Should I help you with that as well?” He thinks for a moment, “Maybe some other time. Right now, you should have your supper. Come along.”

The man takes a step forward and with the next one proceeds to drag you by the hold he has on your hair, treating it like a leash on a dog. You curse, hands immediately flying up to his own, scratching and digging into his skin in hopes that he would let go. But he didn’t, rather he would pull and tug you along while you fought with what little energy you have left. Your feet were useless, not having enough grip to dig into the floor. San watches on silently, jaw clenched and fists balled at his sides. He knew he should step in, make his beloved cease his torment but a part of him that kept his boots rooted reminded him of your disobedience and apathetic behavior towards him and his mates.

Jongho stopped at the side of the table where your food sat, untouched (only slightly) and probably cold. With his unoccupied hand, he takes the plate with the bowl and topples it over onto the ground. Vegetables, mush and congealed soup with meaty bits splatter across the wood, even so much as splashing onto your jeans. You can’t flinch away with the grip still wedged within your hair.

“Isn’t that better? Now you can properly enjoy your meal as intended. I’ll even assist you further.”

Another strong yank and your head is brought face-to-face with the spilled slop, hands slipping through the soup to try and keep yourself from face planting into it. But that wasn’t good enough for Jongho. No, he wanted to see you pressed into the mess you’ve created by being ungrateful. His hand lets your hair go and relief is immediate, enough to have you sighing. But you realize rather quickly (or maybe not as quickly as you wished) once you begin to raise your head away from the floor that you’ve made a wrong move.

“Uh-uh, down you go.”

Something hard collides with the back of your head and sends it slamming into the food riddled ground. Your face is squashed onto its side and whatever it was that hit you remained pressed to your head, keeping it pinned in place like one does to a specimen.

“Get— off—“

You claw at the wooden panels beneath like it would help but it only caused your fingertips to burn.

“What was that? Shouldn’t you be eating?”

Jongho’s boot presses more firmly down against your head, the sound of your muffled cry bringing a satisfied smile to his lips. San couldn’t watch anymore, head cast down and to the side, your wet pleas for help-like nails on a chalkboard. You felt humiliated, like a dog who’s pissed on the floor after holding it for far too long, knowing that the action will only lead to trouble and the consequence for it is to be shoved face-first into the yellow puddle while harsh obscenities are thrown like darts at a dartboard.

“Please— ‘M sorry— I won’t do it again—“

What exactly won’t you do again? Refuse to eat? All of this just because you were cautionary against your captors. Is that not normal behavior after being forced against your will by strangers to god knows where? It’s not like any of them have been particularly welcoming, if anything you could probably count on both hands the number of threats they’ve spewed at you and on your toes the actual physical harm they’ve done. This was madness, and all because you didn’t trust them or their intentions (which were made blatantly clear by that bastard captain).

“Sannie? What are you— Jongho, what the fuck are you doing?!”

San lifts his head just as Jongho turns his, both meeting Wooyoung’s wide eyes from the dining hall entrance. He was a bit disheveled with sleep still clinging to his nightwear and ruddy cheeks. His hair was mussed into a messy nest with strands sticking out here and there. But his eyes, despite clearly having just woken up, were more awake than the rest of him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so so sosorry.”

After cleaning up the kitchen for the night (and whipping up an extra plate for the not-birdling), Wooyoung dragged himself to his shared quarters where he hoped Yunho would be waiting. There was much to be said but when he opened the door and saw his wing-bound sitting on the edge of their bed, beaten black and blue the only words he could get out between the sudden onset of sobs is ‘I’m sorry’. Yunho welcomed the hold of his lover with his own awaiting arms, both wrapping each other in an embrace that spoke far more than words could. There was love, reassurance, guilt and forgiveness.

And what didn’t pass through their mutual holding was exchanged in fleeting kisses— one pressed here and there, a little chaste, a bit of teeth, soft, soothing, adoring. It happened between the shedding of Wooyoung’s clothing and his redressing, tender and gentle. But Yunho didn’t escape from his own attire, refusing when the younger tried to undo the ties on the front of his trousers.

“You… You aren’t staying, are you?”

Wooyoung hated the bitter feeling clawing at the back of his throat. Even more when Yunho’s eyes adverted while he excused himself to instead fluff the pillows on Wooyoung’s side of the bed. Even after all of sediments shared, his mate was still planning on being anywhere that wasn’t with him.

“Just going for a short walk. Seeing if, you know who, is still down in the brig.” Yunho avoids every attempt that Wooyoung makes to make eye-contact until he grows restless enough to let out a strained laugh.

“Seriously? You never care about anyone who ends up there.”

Yunho runs a hand through his hair, a bit out of nerves and a bit out of frustration. “She wouldn’t be there if it wasn’t for us. There’s a difference between that and the slugs that wish to do us harm that end up in those cells.”

Wooyoung frowns. He knows Yunho is making up a lie to where he is actually running off to, almost like he knows that if he revealed his true intentions the younger would throw a fit.

Seeing his beloved growing upset causes Yunho’s face to soften. He hated keeping things from Wooyoung, giving half-truths and evasive answers but if his wing-bound knew that he was planning on sharing Hongjoong’s bed tonight (even without the captain himself knowing) than Wooyoung would put up a fight that would probably bring the walls down in their shared space.

“Youngie—”

“I hate that you feel like lying to me is the best thing for you to do.” He looks at Yunho with an unreadable expression, one that makes Yunho wince. “I know you better than anyone else does, better than you know yourself, Jeong Yunho.”

Wooyoung buries himself under the covers of their bed, back turned to his mate out of pettiness. Yunho winces again at the use of his full name, very rarely was it ever used especially by his beloved. Perhaps it was a mistake to leave and seek out the danger in the dark but deep down he wanted to taste that heat, that fire promising nothing but to consume and ruin him into nothing.

Hesitantly, Yunho bends over the bed with one knee sunken into the mattress, to place a soft apologetic kiss to the side of Wooyoung’s head. No words are exchanged further and Yunho is gone behind the closing click of their private quarters door. Wooyoung lays in the quiet stillness until it bears down on him too much for him to handle. The tears bubble and flow down his skin and soak into the neckline of his sleep shirt and pillow, some even slipping between his parted lips as he sobs uncontrollably into his hands.

He wept and wept and wept until his tears soothed him into a sluggish slumber, the only comfort he had, the only thing that would remain stuck to his skin even after he aroused an indiscernible amount of time later. Still alone and still crying.

Perhaps he should go for a walk himself. Clear his head of his heartache, banish away the somber thoughts for the night.

Wooyoung’s eyes flit from San to Jongho to you, with your face still squashed against the spilled food and floorboards, boot heavy against your head.

“Wooyoung, what are you doing awake?” San looks over Wooyoung, from the tear trails staining his skin to the puffiness lining his eyes. He quickly drew the conclusion that his mate had been crying, something that bothered him immensely.

“Me being awake isn’t important— what the hell are you both doing to her? Jongho, remove your fucking boot from her head!” Wooyoung rushes over to Jongho, socked feet shoved into wonky looking slippers that have most definitely seen better days. That’s all you could see, were his slippers.

Jongho pouts when Wooyoung shoves him away, his boot removed from your head. You let out a shuddered sigh, shakily pushing yourself up onto your knees. The feeling of cold soup and meat bits against the side of your face threatened to draw a gag out of you. Even the smell had gone pungent.

“Explain— one of you! Whatever the fuck this is, right now.”

“It’s nothing, Wooyoung.”

San’s failure to give an actual explanation only made the other man more upset. But why? It wasn’t like he owed you anything, not like you’ve been the most personable person since he and Yunho brought you here. Not even beforehand, had you displayed even an inch of niceness. But maybe his anger wasn’t from this ordeal, most of it had to have been from his squabble with Yunho. The sour feelings left on a bitter open edge. However, that wasn’t exactly right either. He was still angry with his beloved, but he was very much ticked off by what his other two mates were doing to you. Because despite him wanting to believe he really didn’t owe you anything, Yunho’s words from earlier did dust off the truth. You wouldnt be here if it wasn’t for them. You wouldn’t have been thrown in the brig or faced Hongjoong or forced under Jongho’s boot if it wasn’t for his baseless accusations.

He did owe you. Even if a little bit.

“Nothing? Do I look stupid to you? This clearly isn’t ‘nothing’.” Wooyoung turns with a hiss, eyes narrowed.

San looks away at that, a tinge of shame crossing his features. Maybe things did go too far, and he was too blinded by his own minuscule grudge to see that.

“It really isn’t that big of a deal. She refused to eat, so I gave her a warning. Could have been worse,” Jongho pauses, looking down at you with that passing gleam in his eyes. “Hongjoong could have found out and she’d be dealing with him… again.”

You scowl, lunging towards him with your hand balled into a fist. You’ve had enough— of him, of the rest, of Hongjoong, of this awful place, of the pit. Your momentum is sluggish enough for Jongho to evade with a casually sidestep and Wooyoung to grab ahold of your flying arm without hardly moving from his spot. Fuck, you were exhausted.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t really care. But you will do yourself a favor and clean this shit up before Hongjoong finds out you’ve wasted food just to torment her.” Wooyoung hauls you up by your one arm and then maneuvers it to drape across his shoulders. You can’t find it in yourself to shove him away, like that last bit of reserved adrenaline had completely wiped you out.

“I didn’t waste—“

“Shut up. Mop is in the closet over there with the bucket for water. Dry rags are on the second shelf.” Wooyoung turns away, barely acknowledging San as he passes.

“You’ve been crying.”

“You should probably help him.”

You keep your eyes downward as Wooyoung leads you out of the dining hall and down the corridor bathed in shadows. He takes a left and another left and a right and you wonder if you are in some kind of maze. But that’s probably just your exhaustion settling over your brain, a thick impenetrable blanket that ends up stealing away your consciousness before you realize. Wooyoung feels your weight suddenly grow heavier, enough to have him stumble a bit. He looks over at you to see your head bent forward uncomfortably and when he shakes you, it lulls to the side. You’ve fallen asleep or rather fallen unconscious under a dog pile of stress.

He sighs, shifts you around with the finesse of a baby caterpillar, hooking an arm under your knees and around your upper back. The position had to be uncomfortable if you were awake and for him, it definitely was looking at it, but it provided an easier means to transport you. Wooyoung hadn’t a single clue where you were to be sleeping for the night if things had turned out differently for you but for now, he was going to return back to his room with you cradled in his arms and hope that either you spare him your wrath when you wake up or Yunho— he bites the thought in half. No part of him wants to entertain anything pertaining to his wing-bound at the moment. If Yunho shows his face in the morning with an argument ready on his tongue than Wooyoung will gladly sever the muscle right in half.

Oh, those tears weren’t even worth shedding. Staining his skin and pillow, leaving behind the evidence of a breakdown worth absolutely nothing.

Chapter Text

The first thing you notice upon slipping into consciousness is the soft surface beneath you. The second is the smell of it when you shift your head to the side— like jasmine and rainwater. It tugs a sleepy sigh from your lips. Until the steady creeping of a nagging realization comes in the form of a full body ache starting from your scalp to your very naked toes. You’re up in one fell swoop, having rolled off to the side and over the edge of the bed. Not only does it further startle you out of the sleepy haze you were just under, but it also seems to cause the only other person occupying the room to scare.

“Great moon’s above—“

Wooyoung has a hand clutched over the right side of his chest when your eyes settle upon him, draped over a rather worn leather armchair situated next to the opposite side of the bed.

You zero in on him like a buzzard to a rotten animal, “Where the hell am I? What did— What did you do to me?”

“Should be pretty obvious that you’re in a bedroom,” He gestures to the bed you had just scrambled off of, “And I, did nothing but drag you here, which mind you was pretty difficult. Do you know how much you fucking weigh? I thought those scrawny limbs weren’t just for show, but I guess not. Also, you should be thanking me, you know, offering an abundance of gratitude considering it was my bed you were sleeping in and my pillow you were slobbering all over.”

You look over at the bed, at the pillow, then back at him with a frown. “Because of you.”

“Huh?”

Suddenly you were halfway across the bed with the intent to clobber the man with everything your fatigued muscles could offer. Wooyoung yelps, attempts to right himself in the recliner and scramble out of your reach but you ended up launching yourself from the rumpled blankets and squarely into his lap. The added weight deposited so suddenly causes the chair to rock backwards. You have him by the scalp, dirty fingers threaded between thick clumps of hair, yanking and tugging his head around without mercy. Wooyoung hisses, smacking at your arms while trying to hike his leg up high enough to kick you off. The chair groans, thumping about while you continue your manhandling.

“Let go— let go dammit!”

“You are such an asinine prick! Thank you?! If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here in the first place!”

One miscalculated yank to the left has the recliner, you and Wooyoung toppling off to the side. Your shoulder hits the ground first, alongside Wooyoung’s head causing both of you to simultaneously retract from each other. That’s when the door opens to the bedroom.

Admittedly, Yunho wasn’t sure what he’d be met with once he arrived back to his shared room. He knew Wooyoung was aware of where he went. Where he promised he would return from— if he had been telling the truth from the very beginning. A ‘walk’ had merely been a poorly veiled lie for going to warm their captain's bed.

When he stirred, nestled between rumpled sheets, a pillow over his head, Yunho could do nothing but bite back the cloying taste of guilt. Hongjoong laid beside him, on his naked front, fawn hair thrown over the throw pillows bunched beneath his head. Yunho looked over the sight of his bare back, the faint bruising from his lips, his teeth, his obsessive need to please. What had started with the captain in his lap, bouncing freely on his cock bled into Yunho blanketing himself across Hongjoong’s back, hips hardly parting from the older man’s flesh long enough to realize that hours had passed between their coupling. He was drugged, in some kind of way, tunnel vision holding him captive by the hold of his teeth imbedded into Hongjoong’s skin.

His clothing had slipped along his skin until every bit of evidence was lost to the prying eye. Hongjoong had only shifted once during his haste to redress, sighing softly but remained just as dead to the world. A cat he was, happy and fat and lazy and smitten by getting what he wanted in the end. Not that he had intended for what transpired between the two to happen, but his sick cravings were tampered back down. Sated is the beast.

Yunho slips out of the captain's quarters quietly; door shut with a soft click.

“I want to say that you are better than this, but I would be lying boldly through my teeth.”

When Yunho turns, startled for a singular second, Seonghwa is standing just shy of beside him. His arms are crossed over his chest, still dressed in his sleepwear, hair mussed into wild protrusions. But despite how soft he technically looks; Yunho isn’t blind to the hardened way the other man gazes at him.

“I—“

“Save it for Wooyoung.”

Seonghwa resumes his shuffling, his initial destination being the communal bathroom just a few doors down from Hongjoong’s private dwellings.

Yunho is left to let his shame gnaw at his bones, following him as he makes his way to his shared quarters with Wooyoung. When he reaches the door, he pauses, immediately honing in on the sound of displaced racket beyond the wood. There’s the faintest exchange of voices before a loud thump. It wasn’t right to feel bitter after what he spent the night doing but the thought that Wooyoung decided to have one of the others warm his side of the bed, to warm it with their body, to remain until he came back put a hard to swallow lump in his throat. Yunho’s fists balled. Yet he didn’t do anything with them, instead he unfurled one of them to wrap around the brass knob and gave it a slow turn. The door opens easily, and he pushes himself forward until he’s standing just a foot beyond the frame.

Immediately, he’s floored.

The recliner usually shoved into one of the bedroom’s corners is toppled onto its side by the bed, Wooyoung is laid out on his side with a hand rubbing at his head while you lay so utterly close to him. You’re also rubbing at an area on your body, shoulder to be exact. But Yunho is more focused on the way both yours and Wooyoung’s legs are tangled together, like vines curling against each other.

“What… What the fuck is going on? Wooyoung?”

You look up and over at the source of the voice, seeing Yunho standing rigidly near the door, gaze unwavering. It causes you to shuffle away, legs kicking away Wooyoung’s in the process to create space.

Wooyoung doesn’t even lift his head, merely laying there in the aftermath. “Not much.”

Yunho’s brows furrow, immediately clocking the almost bored tone in his mates voice. “Not much? Didn’t really look like that to me,” His eyes shift to you, now far enough away from Wooyoung, “What is she doing here in our room?”

There’s a huff followed by a sardonic chuckle. “What do you think, Yunnie?” Wooyoung rolls onto his side, head propped against his palm. “I felt oh-so terrible about getting the poor thing into this mess that I decided to fuck her silly in our bed until our blankets smell like nothing but her sopping wet pus— ACK!” You’ve got your hands around his neck before he could finish whatever depraved lies he felt compelled to spew. He’s floundering a bit, gaping like a freshly caught fish on a riverbank, smack and clawing at your forearms.

“Shut up— Shut up— Shut up—“

Wooyoung was beginning to turn a rather angry red when you were suddenly yanked off of him and thrown harshly to the side. Your same shoulder from before hits the floor and the settled ache flares into a stronger eruption of pain. Yunho stands over you like a beast in the darkest corners of a dreary forest. His shoulders are squared and broadened by his anger, chest expanding with each strong breath— in and out— but nothing compared to the utter distain in his eyes. He hardly looked like the man you initially met, not unkind but definitely weary of you. Now he appeared as someone with a deep-seated hatred, aimed at you, only for you.

Wooyoung’s coughing from the side, rolled back onto his back and wheezing towards the ceiling.

“Touch him again and I’ll fucking throttle you into the ground.”

You freeze, the pain in your shoulder almost becoming a distant thought. There’s something almost familiar about this situation— you on the floor, hurt in some shape or form, the shadow of something foul hovering over you. You’ve been in this exact position for years now, down to the way your body ached, and fingers grew cold at the tips. Surely, you’ve swallowed back the fear enough times for your throat to grow raw. Just like now, how many times did you swallow just in the couple of seconds it took for him to grab you and throw you to the side and his pointed threat?

Wooyoung gained his bearings enough to grab at one of Yunho’s ankles, grip firm enough to have the tendons located on the top of his hands to bulge under the thin layer of skin. He’s glaring upwards, panting slightly, not quite recovered.

“Don’t— Don’t act… like you care… bastard.”

Yunho tears his gaze away from you to look at his lover, there’s a veil of hurt in his eyes that he refuses to let you see. It’s bad enough you got to witness the captain tearing into him. But things like vulnerability when it comes to the emotional bonds between him and his mates especially Wooyoung— he’d rather tear his own wings out than let you ever see into that aspect of their lives, of his.

“I do care—“

“Bullshit—“ Wooyoung looks over at you from beyond his lover's leg, something unreadable in his expression. “Say, firefly… what kind of lover does one make when they abandon their heart for a piece of temptation?”

You swallow for the nth time, something bitter bubbling up into your throat.

There’s a knock at the door, and the faintest carry of a voice beyond the wood fills the room.

“Wooyoung, you can’t keep her hoarded in there.”

Yunho retreats back to the door with heavy footfall, practically yanking the poor piece of wood off its hinges and revealing a perplexed San with his fist raised. He was in the process of delivering another knock. San’s head tilts a bit at the sight of Yunho, not exactly expecting him to be there. In fact, Wooyoung wouldn’t have brought you here if the taller man was present so him having dragged you away last night meant that Yunho hadn’t been around. The thought doesn’t raise any eyebrows but what does is the tension expanding from one point of Yunho to the next, Wooyoung still very much on the floor with their assigned recliner tipped over and you just a foot or so away from Wooyoung looking completely frazzled.

Just what had he interrupted?

“‘Morning. I’m here for the… human.” San peers up at Yunho with a singular eye, hand lowering to his side.

The uncomfortable expression surely plaguing your face melts into a glare, lips weighed down at the corners. Wooyoung shifts a bit until he's sitting up. “Talk about impersonal.”

“Shut it, Wooyoung.” Yunho warns, still not over… well, quite a bit of things.

“Oh great, back to that.”

San looks between the two before settling onto you, still openly glaring daggers his way. They felt like little icy pinpricks along his skin.

“Are you finished using her?”

You blink, brows furrowing farther than they already had been. Using you? What is he talking about? You get to your feet in a less than elegant manner. “Use me? What the fuck do you mean by that?”

San just stares at you, “I figured Wooyoung took you back here to…” He trails off before shrugging. “I guess not, my mistake.”

Wooyoung lets out a rather forced laugh, scrambling to his own feet and nearly tackling San. His sudden weight doesn’t faze the bulky man in the slightest, not even when Wooyoung throws an arm around his wide shoulders and digs his fingers into San’s meaty bicep.

“What a funny guy! I swear Sannie here says the most hilarious things— ha-ha , right Yunho?” Wooyoung turns the both of them to face the taller man. Greeted by an unreadable expression on Yunho’s face, Wooyoung feels himself shrink a bit.

Yunho chooses to wordlessly leave without shutting the door. His footsteps fading down the hall.

San adjusts the eyepatch over his eye before shrugging Wooyoung off. “You should know better than to upset Yunho.”

Wooyoung scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Right,” He moves to the recliner, grabbing it by the one arm and tugging it upright. Once it had settled onto its feet, he plops back into it, nearly sending it over once again. “Because Yunho is the only one whose feelings should be spared.”

You aren’t sure how to react, feeling more and more like an outsider looking in on a completely off kilter world of screwed up individuals. The soap operas that used to play on the old clunky box tv didn’t hold a light to the dynamics of these men.

“That’s not true and you know that.”

“Whatever.” Wooyoung shifts his gaze to you.

“Looks like our time is cutting short, firefly. Too bad we couldn’t have spent it doing something a bit more… strenuous.”

Your upper lip curls in disgust at the salacious way he runs his tongue over his upper row of teeth. “Pretty sure me pulling your hair and choking you would classify as strenuous enough.”

San stiffens at the admission of you harming his mate, but Wooyoung is unfazed. “Don’t remind me otherwise I’ll have to give myself a little helping hand.” He snickers at his little innuendo especially when you scoff.

“There’s something genuinely wrong with—“

San interjects by stepping closer to you, a warning in his singular eye. “I’ve been instructed to take you to the bath. It would be in your best interest to come with me without resistance.”

And suddenly it felt like you were facing the events of the previous night. Ordered to comply, threatened into following, warned against stepping out of line.

It’s a cold rush of water over your nerves and you feel yourself taking a step back and another and another until the end of the bed is pressed against the backs of your thighs. Wooyoung watches on with his chin held in his palm, feet lightly kicking about.

“A bath wouldn’t help, firefly. You do smell pretty sour.” His nose wrinkles teasingly.

You narrow your eyes at him. San takes your momentary distraction to latch onto your upper arm and yank you roughly across the room. You try to dig your heels into the floor but it’s useless.

Wooyoung doesn’t even try and help, simply waving you off with a lazy grin.

Chapter Text

You weren’t expecting much in all honesty but the sight of a large round bronze tub rivaling that of some fancy jacuzzi bath more befitting of a higher class immediately snagging your attention once San flung the door open to the communal bathroom had your eyebrows raising a bit. But that was only the first surprise. The second being the less than enthused person occupying the space— Seonghwa. He’s dressed in a dark satin blouse with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and pinned back to avoid the fabric from interfering with his work. Dark leather pants fit his long legs and tuck neatly into his boots.

If you could call prepping a bath for an unwanted guest at the suggestion of the captain, without tolerance for argument, to be ‘work’. He didn’t even make it far into Hongjoong’s abode before the man, ruffled by sleep yet glowing from the previous night’s escapades had given the order between soft sighs. Seonghwa barely spared a glance downwards to see a lump hidden under the bedsheet. He wasn’t sure who it was, but it definitely wasn’t Yunho. They had already encountered each other nearly half an hour earlier when said man was just beginning to make his walk of shame back to Wooyoung.

“You can’t be serious, Hongjoong??”

There’s a satisfied hum, “But I am. Bathe her, dress her in clean clothes and then bring her back here. Simple enough— ah— that’s it—“

Seonghwa bit back a scoff, turned on his heel and left without another word.

Now here he stands for the second time, arms crossed, and hip jutted out to the side as he watches impatiently for San to shove you inside the bathroom.

You are, in all seriousness, a sight for sore eyes. Hair a grimy mess, skin smeared in filth and clothing stained into discoloration. The sight of you makes Seonghwa’s nose wrinkle. Or perhaps that’s just the smell permeating off of your haggard appearance. San still has your arm held firm within his grip, of which he uses to tug you forward. You stagger a bit, smacking a hand flat against the wooden wall to steady yourself.

Seonghwa assesses you like you're a piece of gum attached stubbornly to the underbelly of his boot, “Took you long enough.”

You fix him with a withered glare, “Oh, my bad for inconveniencing you. Should I just magically sprout a pair of wings next time so that your royal highness isn’t made to sit pretty on his ass for a measly minute?” Each word was hissed more than spoken, your lingering fatigue and mounting anxiety for being held hostage had every bit of your nerves lit like a live wire.

San digs his gloved fingers into your arm, eyes narrowed dangerously. He was doing what you knew he could do best— warn you. In fact, that’s all you’ve heard him do, aside from threaten and glare and intimidate. Not to mention be a bystander to the acts of hostility against your person by his… close company. You curl your toes just thinking of last night, the way the food felt against your face, the boot pressing into your skull. It makes you nauseous, mouthwatering uncomfortably.

The stronghold you wish to maintain while looking at Seonghwa quickly recedes. The man watches you closely despite the distance. He tuts, “Finished with your tantrum already?”

“Fuck you—“

Roughly, your jerked away from the wall and shoved forward towards the tub. Your knees collide against the lip with a sharp ‘deng’ and without stable footing, sees you falling into the gathered water. There’s a crippling fear immediately crowding around your senses. You know you’re freaking out. You can feel it. The whoosh of water around your flailing arms, the heavy weight of it rushing into your mouth and into your lungs as you try to fight against the submerging force. From your point of view, you are drowning. But from the perspective of the two men watching on with perplexed curiosity, you are merely splashing around obnoxiously. Water rushes up the sides of the bronze tub and splashes over Seonghwa’s boots.

“Hey— knock it off!”

But you aren’t listening. You continue to flounder about, sucking in more water, fighting against the encapsulation of it. Seonghwa looks over at San, equally alarmed, before rushing forward and grabbing what little remains of the back of your shirt. He yanks and tugs until you are hanging over the lip of the tub. You cough wetly, water splattering from your mouth as you heave up what had managed to get sucked in. Both men can only watch you.

San squats down, not enough to be at eye-level but just at the right height to peer at your face. He’s trying to find a reason somewhere, for your reaction to the water. There’s nothing there much to his disappointment.

“Are you scared of bathing?”

His question almost has an odd childlike curiosity to it. If it had come from anyone else, preferably someone that you actually liked you would have easily laughed it off and answered lightheartedly but he wasn’t even close, not by a long shot in the dark. You lift your head and fix him with a scathing look.

“I want… nothing more than to stab your other eye out… of your head.”

San’s hackles practically rise, registering the threat on his person (and his only good eye) as an immediate call-to-action. His hand raises up with the intention to fist your hair between his gloved-fingers and thrash you around but Seonghwa steps in with a chiding sound.

“We have rules, San. Follow them for the sake of your own wellbeing.”

The other man clenches his fist and quickly gathers himself to stand. He glares down his nose at you, finding the sight of your soggy appearance distasteful. He gives Seonghwa a displeased look before turning on his heels and stomping out of the bathroom, slamming the door shut on his heels. You're left to huff, chest hurting with each inhale and exhale. The remaining man turns his sights to you, with a downward tilt of his head. He's choosing his words somewhat carefully.

"That was quite the show. If I didn't know any better, I'd assume you were... drowning." He catalogs the way you tense, a less than subtle shiver passing over your sodden form.

"What's it to you??" Your reactive response is hardly fazing him, "Let's not act like you care-"

Seonghwa can hardly contain the laughter that bubbles past his lips, its sardonic and condescending. It makes your skin heat up in embarrassment. The ring wrapped around your forefinger burns with each repeated sound. A mirrored reminder, another out of many.

He's a bit winded by the time he retorts, voice wavering around the edges as if fighting off another round of chuckles from spewing out. "Care? Don't you think you're getting ahead of yourself, mayfly?" He kneels down with a curl to his lips, "In order for me to care, I would have to like you. And we both know that's not going to happen."

You're swinging before you realize it, the surfacing of tears blinds your aim, but you can't seem to care enough. Seonghwa easily deflects your shoddy attempt of a punch with a simple grab of your wrist. His long fingers curl, applying only a light amount of pressure. You try to jerk out of his grasp, but nothing gives- not your depleted strength and certainly not his hand.

The man sighs, "You are acting rather childish right now. Perhaps you aren't done throwing your little tantrum after all."

It wasn't the wisest thing for you to do and so far, you've done a lot of things that wouldn't be considered very smart but the wad of spit flies out of your mouth and lands on his cheek faster than you can think of the possible repercussions. Seonghwa looks at you in silence, unblinking, unmoving. There isn't a trace of emotion within his dark eyes. You hold your breath. If you were to breathe and he felt just the tiniest passing of the air over his skin, you couldn't fathom how he would react.

Both of you sit there staring at each other until it seemed like whatever string tethering Seonghwa into silence breaks and the man does nothing but let a haggard exhale through his nose. He drops your wrist in the next second to wipe your saliva from his cheek, then stands up and retreats to a wooden shelf holding varies jars and bottles. You feel like you just took a chance with death, looked the formidable being right in the eyes and escaped by nothing of wit or appeasements. Seonghwa grabs a few jars from the shelf and returns to a stool kicked over into one of the corners. You watch him, still hung over the lip of the tub.

He nudges the stool until it settles right in front of you, where he lowers himself down with a soft grunt. The jars are placed by his feet- one holds the color of a sunset, another the hue of cement and the last one is an inky blue. You eye them hesitantly before looking up towards the man, already looking down at you with an indecipherable expression. He leans forward and down until he's right in your face, "Stand up, mayfly."

You frown, "No."

"Stand up or I will go and get the captain. Mind you, mayfly, he likes to watch. Now if you value your safety as much as you fight for it, I suggest you stand up." He doesn't budge, stare unwavering.

At the mention of Hongjoong, the ghost of the gun pressed into your eye socket suddenly feels far more real than just the mere shadow of it. You could almost taste the metal, old and bitter. Seonghwa could practically see the wheels in your head turning, the gears wanting to fight against your slipping resolve just by the threat of the captain being present. It was a dirty trick to use the hotblooded man, but he knew in hindsight that you weren't going to be making things easier for him- and by extension, yourself.

You swallow, shakily standing to your feet. In that moment you can't help but feel utterly ridiculous at your earlier reaction. The water now stood just under your knees, not deep in the slightest yet you had panicked as if dropped in the middle of the ocean.

Seonghwa lifts his hand and gives it a quick spin. He wants you to turn away from him.

You hesitate, knowing that with the state of your shirt and him being as close as he is to the tub, he’d be able to really see the state of your back. The puckered scars, the discoloration, the years of abuse imbedded into your skin.

He leans back, “Turn around.”

“I would rather not.” Your voice is tense, tone short and not up for negotiation.

Seonghwa lifts an unimpressed brow, “That was me being courtesy of your privacy but if you would rather remove your clothing facing my direction then by all means— go ahead.” He leans back a bit on the stool, arms crossing over his chest. Nothing gives away what he’s thinking as he sits there watching you, waiting for you to make a move.

You fix him with a frown, “Could you just… turn away? It’s not like I’m going to make a run for it or anything if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He scoffs, “I hardly consider that worthy of worrying about.”

Yet he obliges after a short moment, turning around to give you his back. It’s a short reprieve from his unblinking stare, from being pinned on the spot like a specimen. You shifted a bit, the water around your knees sloshing around softly. There’s a debate within your head— turn to mirror him with your back facing his way so that your front can be spared even the tiniest of possibility of being seen or remain facing his way so that your back is away from scrutiny. Sideways was not an option, he would be able to glimpse both your back and front even if just a little. It isn’t a risk worth taking.

There’s a faint sound of his fingers drumming against his upper arms, his patience seemingly pulled taut by the lack of progress behind him. You were only slightly stalling.

“Mayfly, I don’t have all hours of time to sit and wait for you. The band-aid that you are choosing to avoid will be ripped off one way or another. Best to get it over with now.”

“This is— what you and your friends— are doing is inhumane.” You glare at the back of his head, adding as a second thought, “And stop calling me that. I have a name, use it.”

Seonghwa rises from the stool, keeping his back facing your way. “I see this is going nowhere.”

You watch him move towards the bathroom door, paced casually as if he was in no real rush.

“Where are you going?”

Seonghwa pauses, head tilting over his shoulder just enough to be able to see your outline in a blur of muted colors. “Did you not hear me beforehand? If you aren’t going to cooperate then I will go get Hongjoong and he can take care of your little rebellious streak.”

Once again, you feel inclined to protest at the mention of the captain. “No— No that won’t be necessary.”

He’s careful about letting his little smile of victory be seen, especially after he turns to face you. You’re looking at the far wall instead of him, brows furrowed, and fists balled at your sides. Clearly you don’t like the fact that you are stuck between a rock and a hard place— either you undress and let Seonghwa, one of your captors, bathe you or be thrown into Hongjoong’s path. Both situations suck and you would rather throw yourself off the landing if given another chance.

“Well? What’ll it be, mayfly?”

You swallow, swipe your tongue across your dry lips before lifting both hands up to grab at the front of your shirt. Seonghwa watches blankly, seemingly uninterested at the slow progress of your undressing. The tattered shirt is plucked up and off of your chest, hanging like a worn rag from your grip. You look over at Seonghwa before dropping it just outside the tub, it plops onto the floor with a wet splat!

He eyes it with a poorly veiled look of displeasure. Yet it beckons him back to the stool. You hesitate now that he’s closer, your upper half on full display with only a sodden bra to hide your breasts. The padding in the cups feel heavier with the water trapped in them.

Seonghwa plops himself down onto the stool, gives you an impartial nod before turning around. He’s granting you a semblance of privacy once again, something he could very well have chosen not to after you refused to accept it beforehand.

With a shuddered sigh, you unfasten the button holding the flaps of your jeans together and then pull the zipper down in its wake. The sound of the teeth being separated reverberates louder than expected causing you to cringe outwardly. Seonghwa remains unfazed, not having moved in the slightest since turning around.

Your jeans cling uncomfortably to the flesh of your legs, like a second skin you roll them down until they are submerged beneath the water where you step out of each leg, free of their constrictive hold. Your underwear remains where they sit around your hips.

The jeans join your shirt on the floor with a heavier and denser sounding plop. That’s when Seonghwa finally moves, tilting his head to the side but not at all chancing a peek. You decide within an instant that you wouldn’t remove the rest.

You clear your throat, the walls of it feeling tighter than before. The man takes that as the signal to turn around. He looks at the clothing pile first then draws his attention to you, standing amidst the now cool bath water. His eyes don’t linger, rather they focus solely on the faint glint of the ring on your finger. It’s gold, nearly lackluster under the warm lighting provided by the string of lights draped along the seam connecting the walls and ceiling together.

“Jewelry doesn’t fare well in water. It would be better to remove it if you wish to maintain its—“

“The fucking ring stays on.” Your strained retort cuts through his words, leaving them unfinished on the tip of his tongue.

Seonghwa’s gaze flicks up to yours, “Very well. Sit down and turn around, I’ll wash your hair first.”

You aren’t sure why you felt defensive about the ring— you loathed it and everything it represented. Yet the thought of parting with it has your hackles rising. Quietly, you lower yourself down into the water, keeping your back out of Seonghwa’s sight until the water lapped at your shoulders. It was then that you quickly turned and pressed your back flush against the side of the tub.

Seonghwa leans down to pick up the jar filled with blue liquid, twisting the metal top until it parts from the glass. You listen and wait, feeling jittery with him not in your direct line of sight.

“Try not to move so much.”

In the next second, you feel a light pressure gliding across your scalp. You jump at the sensation, tension gathering along your body while his hands thread through your hair, blunt nails scratching along the expanse of your head. He’s silent as he works through knots and matted clumps sealed together by caked on dirt and filth.

You hate how nice it feels.

Wooyoung opens the door to the kitchen to find Mingi mid-stride with a wooden crate nestled between his arms. He quickly looks over, failing to see the edge of the island and clipping it with his side. Mingi yelps and the crate wobbles a bit in his hold. Wooyoung snorts, reaching his side in a slight skip to steady the crate from toppling over.

“Good morning, clumsy.” Wooyoung raises onto the tips of his toes and places a fat smooch on the taller man’s cheek.

Mingi smiles, setting the crate on the counter of the island before lowering down to reciprocate the kiss— except his aim for Wooyoung’s cheek was intercepted when the latter refused to turn his head. Their lips were varying degrees of chapped, but it didn’t feel any less pleasant. Mingi sighs and the kiss ends. Wooyoung turns his attention to the crate, peering down to access its contents. A few heads of cabbage, discolored from dirt with carrots to match. There’s an undisclosed can right beside the vegetables, whatever label that had been on it completely removed.

“What’s the stock look like?”

Mingi also looks inside the crate, “Two cans of something and an onion… that’s sprouted a bit.”

Wooyoung sucks on his teeth, head shaking. There reserves are essentially nonexistent which means a run to scavenge is direly needed. The lack of food brings the scene from last night in the dining hall to the forefront of his mind. Seeing his hard work splattered across the floor was already a knife in his chest but knowing that every bit of food counted and to have it so carelessly wasted because Jongho felt inclined to terrorize you just dug and twisted the imaginary dagger further into his person.

“Youngie?” Mingi is looking down at the other with an open curiosity.

Wooyoung hums, reaching into the crate to pull out the ingredients for what’ll be a very meager breakfast.

“Is Seonghwa really going to give the prisoner a bath?”

He pauses, eyes flicking up to look at the taller of the two. “Seonghwa?”

“Yes. I overheard him and Hongjoong talking about it this morning.”

Wooyoung purses his lips, “I guess so. Thought San was going to do it. He came to get her from mine and Yunho’s room earlier.”

Mingi’s eyebrows are practically touching his hairline, lips fallen apart as he watches Wooyoung continue to place cabbage and carrot onto the countertop.

“She was in your room?! Why was she in your room— was Yunho there??”

“Jongho and San were tormenting her last night in the dining hall, she passed out after I swooped in and saved the day like the honorable moth that I am but there was no place to put her, so I just brought her to our room. And no, Yunho made his accommodations elsewhere.” His small tangent ends on a bitter note, not at all lost on Mingi.

“Sannie was standing outside of the bathroom when I left for the kitchen. He didn’t seem very happy.”

Wooyoung shrugs, “Probably just jealous that he isn’t getting to chew on captains' new toy.”

Mingi frowns, not at all amused by the implication. “Hongjoong wouldn’t let a prisoner join the crew… let alone have a relationship like that with them.” He moves away, running a flustered hand through his hair. “Right, Youngie? He wouldn’t— couldn’t. He has us… he has me. What could she possibly give him that we don’t already have?”

The shorter man wasn’t sure where the hell Mingi’s sudden crash out was coming from but it seemed that it was holding far more space in his mind than was necessary. Wooyoung is quick to grab ahold of the other’s forearm, yanking him back to his side where he turns them so that Mingi was pressed to the counter with Wooyoung’s arms blocking him in.

“She has nothing— is nothing, to him or to us. What he’s doing now, biding his time or just playing around with his food for entertainment, isn’t because the rest of us— or you for that matter— aren’t good enough for him. That’s nonsense, Mingi. You know captain better than that. As if some unimpressive nobody could ever compete with us.” Wooyoung wiggles his eyebrows, a catty grin pulling at the corners of his lips. Mingi looks down at him wearily, not completely convinced by his words.

“Hongjoong has only one wing-bound. That’s you,” He presses a finger to the center of Mingi’s chest, where his white linen shirt is parted to reveal the canyon between his pecs. There’s a cheeky peeking of the swell of his chest, something that draws Wooyoung’s attention like a fly to rotting fruit. “He has seven mates that are loyal to him, that love and adore him. We give him everything he could possibly want, and then some.”

Mingi sucks his lower lip between his teeth when Wooyoung leans forward to press his lips against that patch of skin, eyes remaining connected with the taller man.

Wooyoung whispers just as his hands slither to attach themselves to Mingi’s hips. “What more could he ask for, hm?”

The question serves as both rhetorical yet unsolicited. There’s an answer that could be given but isn’t exactly needed. Neither one is in a position to give as such, quickly devolving into wandering hands and hushed exchanges. The crate and its contents are swiftly forgotten.

Seonghwa’s hands had worked deftly at your hair and lightly at your skin. In fact, his touch was more akin to a fleeting whisper. He hardly remained in one spot, never applied any sort of pressure and skimmed the cement colored liquid across your flesh that was reachable. Seonghwa avoided anything below the water, rather passing the jar to you to clean the rest of your body as you see fit. While you tended to your legs, raising them up above the water and keeping them propped by the curl of your toes on the opposite side of the tub, the man had returned to your hair with the sunset-colored concoction nestled within his hand.

“What is this stuff? Smells like jasmine and ash.”

“More or less. Blades of grass and jasmine are crushed into paste where honeydew is added for consistency's sake. Ash provides the color and mutes the more unpleasant smells. Plus,” He pauses to pick out a leaf that had kept itself hidden amongst your tresses. “It helps remove gunk from the skin.”

You raise an eyebrow, “And how would you know that?”

“I heard it from somewhere.” He purposefully yanks your hair hard enough for you to yelp. “Oh, my fingers got caught.”

The man offers no apology, and you refrain from any further inquiries. Clearly, he did not want to be questions about where he learned certain things— his knowledge of beneficial ingredients for skin care being one of them. It makes you suspicious, as if you weren’t already. Seonghwa looked down at your head, the blue and sunset goop mixed into a muted purple that only reflected at certain angles at the turn and tilt of a head. He’s sure when it washes out that it’ll make the bath water turn brown. It already appeared milky from the cement colored wash.

“Not to alarm you but you will be needing to rinse this out of your hair.”

“If I move forward and lean my head back will that be good enough for you?”

“You want me to wash it out? I figured you’d want the opportunity to do it so that you don’t find yourself waterlogged again.”

“I would rather not leave myself vulnerable.”

He hums, gathering your hair into his hands before leaning forward to position his mouth parallel to your ear. “A bit late for that, mayfly.”

His breath is uncomfortably hot and damp, making you twitch away.

“You never told me your name.” You say after a fleeting moment.

Seonghwa nudges you forward, of which you slightly scoot, still on edge of showing your back. The water had grown cloudy and provided a veil of privacy that you figured would be enough to keep your skin concealed.

“I had no reason to plus I’m sure you’ve heard it said they some of the others. Shouldn’t be hard to put two and two together.”

You both are silent as he grasps the sides of your head and tilts it back. He’s in your view now, upside down but still perfectly visible. “It’s not a proper meeting if we haven’t introduced ourselves.”

You aren’t sure why you are insistent on him telling you his name. It won’t hold any value to you, just a name to a face of another terrible person aiding in your captivity. You despise him no less than any of the others, no less than the captain.

He’s cupping water into his hands and splashing it over your head from your hairline to the ends.

“Seonghwa.” He says after a brief pause. “Park Seonghwa.”

“I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you, but I would be lying.”

“Likewise.”

Chapter Text

Seonghwa remained as chivalrous as one could be when in the presence of someone they didn’t really like nor care about. Once your hair was rinsed and you had discreetly scrubbed your body clean, the man had procured a bundle of clothes that had been sitting on the ledge of a washbasin near the door. You failed to notice it upon first entry; all attention having solely been focused on the sudden sight of Seonghwa.

“Change into these. I will be outside. Knock when you are finished.”

You let out an indignant snort, “What? So, you’ll stick around when I’m practically naked and help me bathe, but you won’t linger while I redress. That’s quite the moral compass you’ve got there, Seonghwa.”

He looks down at you past his nose, “Mind you, I saw nothing of your body, nor would I want to. You lack any sort of appeal to me. A worm has—“

“Holy shit, do you ever shut up?? I get it, you find me repulsive. Trust me, I think I’ve gotten the message loud and fucking clear.” Clouded by the sudden onslaught of hurt and anger, you stand up in the tub despite your earlier efforts to remain completely out of his sight. But here you were, in perfect line of any and all scrutiny.

Seonghwa frowns at your outburst, even more at the scowl now overtaking your face. It seems he hit a nerve or two. He would be lying if he said it wasn’t mildly interesting to see.

“Try to be quick. We’ve already wasted enough time as is.” He retreats to the door without another word, leaving through it in the next second and letting it close with a soft click.

You mumble several terse words underneath your breath as you step out of the tub. Your underwear clings uncomfortably to you as you tread over to the pile of clothing. You regret keeping them on. Upon rifling through the stack do you come to the conclusion that you would not be provided the protection of panties and a bra. Rather there is a tank top provided along side a rather baggy linen blouse. Assuming you are to wear that beneath the bigger shirt. Instead of pants, there is a layered skirt of mismatched fabric long enough for the lower hem to brush against the tops of your feet. You begrudgingly settle with the conclusion that you’ll have to suffer wearing your wet underwear for the time being. There’s a shiver running up your spine at the fleeting thought of how unsanitary the ordeal is but you tamper it down quickly, just one more thing to worry over. You would ask Seonghwa if they had any to spare but seeing as none of them are women and you would rather face your fear of water again than to borrow any of theirs.

Chancing a glance at the door just in case it isn’t fully closed, and an audience hasn’t gathered for a private show, you reach behind your back to unclip the clasp of your bra and let it peel off your front. It’s quickly thrown over the faucet to dry.

The tank top is a bit scratchy against your skin, the fabric uncharacteristically stiff as if dunked in water and left to dry out under a formidable sun for an undisclosed amount of time. You usher the linen blouse over your head, making sure to yank the ties close and knot them securely so that no part of your chest is seen. The skirt stretches at the waist by an elastic band— pleated and bunched— making it easier for you to tug it up your legs and onto your waist. The shirt is kept untucked, you saw no reason to try and make the outfit look more put together. Looking like an unkempt slob in face of these men provided a small safety net for you. Not that any of them seem rather keen on doing anything to you aside from the offhanded comments of torture and death.

You realize after a few passing glances around that the bathroom lacks any kind of reflective surface— no mirror in sight. The bath water was the only thing that could hold an image in it but with the lighting being as dim as it was, you wouldn’t be able to see much of yourself. And you’d rather stay away from the tub for now.

Slowly but more-so begrudgingly do you head towards the door. Only, something stops you. Your skirt catches onto something sticking out from the floorboards. Peering down once the hem has been maneuvered away none too carefully, a little tear separating the fabric into a small slit against your ankle. You kneel down, ignoring the popping in your joints to see what exactly had snagged your attention. The head of a rusty flooring nail has shifted upwards and away from the plank it’s nestled in. You reach for it, firmly gripping the area that’s stuck out and attempt to pull it up. It refuses to budge however.

“What are you doing?”

You freeze, glancing up to see both San and Seonghwa peering down at you from the entryway of the bathroom. You hadn’t heard the door open, too focused on the nail and the fleeting possibility that if it had been loose enough you would’ve had a weapon at your disposal. You clear your throat, standing up in a slight rush to appear unassuming.

“The bottom of my skirt got snagged and I was trying to free it. Couldn’t get it loose without tearing it a bit.” You shift the fabric so that the tear was visible to both men. It wasn’t a lie. It had been caught, but you weren’t in the throes of freeing it when they suddenly entered the bathroom. To which… “Thought you said to knock when I was finished.” You pointedly look at Seonghwa.

He looks away from the tear in your skirt to you, “I also told you not to take so long. Which you were, might I add.”

“Actually, you said to be quick. Which I was. I just didn’t immediately storm the door, you know, because that means I’d have to be forced to see either one of you.” You glanced between the two. There was something about being freshly bathed and draped in clean (you’ll assume as such for now) clothing that gave you the confidence to mouth off.

Seonghwa lifts an unimpressed brow, “I see almost drowning didn’t snuff out that splendid attitude of yours. Perhaps,” He takes a step forward, to which you mirror by taking one backwards. “I’ll turn a blind eye next time. Considering I was the one to pull you out. Wouldn’t be so hard to suddenly find something else to do.”

You grit your teeth, fisting the fabric of the skirt into your hands. San is watching the exchange with an indiscernible expression.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“Sticks and stones, mayfly.”

San tilts his head at the moniker. He was the one assigned by Hongjoong to figure out a new name for you and yet here was the eldest of their crew already pinning one to you. Furthering that thought, he remembers something Wooyoung had said earlier when San went to retrieve you,

“A bath couldn’t hurt, firefly. You do smell pretty sour.” His nose wrinkles teasingly.

Another epithet administered by one of his mates. Firefly and mayfly. Two different kinds of insects with opposing qualities. Although he isn’t really sure what Wooyoung’s correlates to but he’s aware of why Seonghwa has chosen mayfly. It’s a bit tasteless, or at least he would think that if he cared at all. But he doesn’t. In the meantime, he’ll just catalog both names for future reference.

“First meal should be served soon. We need to go to the dining hall.” San takes a step towards you, but Seonghwa intercepts him with a hand to his chest.

“Hongjoong wants to see her beforehand.”

“But—“

“Captains orders. Go on ahead to the dining hall, this shouldn’t be long… hopefully.” Seonghwa jerks his head in the direction of the door. San still hesitates, looking between you and the other man before departing with steady footfall.

You watch him leave with an uncertain frown. It wasn’t like you wanted him to stay, far from it, but if you had to choose between being dragged like a ragdoll to the dining hall or facing Hongjoong— clearly the latter would win by a landslide. The last thing you wanted was to be in the presence of anyone here— let alone the captain.

“Can’t I take a rain check—“

“If you value your head remaining where it sits then no, you can’t.” Seonghwa fixes his gaze upon you, unblinking and dark. There’s no room for argument, yet he seems to find more words to gather forth with a shadow of a very coy smile. “Unless that’s what you want. Then be my guest, nobody will stop you.”

You bite back against the creeping shiver crawling up your spine. He’s fucking with you, you’re sure of that but it doesn’t stop the hair at the back of your neck from raising in alarm.

“Come on, the longer he waits the more of a pain in the ass he will be.” Seonghwa is past the threshold of the bathroom in just a few long strides. You follow after him with less enthusiasm in your steps.

Hongjoong greets the both of you at the door on the second knock, Seonghwa just barely withdrawing his hand from the wood when the door flies open. He’s got a very cattish grin on his face, stepping aside with a casual ‘come in, come in’.

You try to keep yourself in the shadow of Seonghwa but the man moves in elongated strides towards one of the ornate chairs positioned in front of Hongjoong’s desk. That leaves you exposed to the soul-peeling gaze of the captain. When you spare a glance towards him, he’s already looking at you. From your damp-frizz hair to the loose billow of your loaned shirt down to the patchwork skirt. Your feet are still bare, toes peeking out from the end of the hem.

His lips purse, “Not my choice of clothing. But alas, it’ll do.” He seals the door closed with a soft click.

You look at him questionably, “What do you mean?”

Hongjoong practically struts to his desk. He’s wearing dark suede pants, a white peasant shirt under a leather vest stretched tight over his chest and the same boots he wore the previous day. Jewelry ever-present on his hands, neck and ears. His hair is hand-mussed, slightly tasseled and a bit bed-kissed. You chide yourself for observing him down to small insignificant details.

Seonghwa had taken his place in the left-most chair with a heavy sigh. There’s an encroaching ache in his temples that wasn’t there before. Being in the captain's quarters always put him in a foul mood no matter the reason— pain or pleasure— he’ll leave in some form of hurt or upset. Even now, he could feel his shoulders drawing taut.

“What I mean,” He drawls your name at the last second. The sound of it coming from his lips feels like the thin blade of a razor across your skin. “Is the atrocious outfit you’ve been given to wear is not what I had chosen for you to adorn. Now, I can only wonder where my belongings have run off to if they are not in your possession.” Hongjoong rolls his eyes over to the other man, looking at him lazily through thick lashes.

Seonghwa leans back into the chair with a cross of his arms, “Pining the blame on me, are we?”

“You were the only one I gave those clothes to. I doubt they could have sprouted legs and misplaced themselves somewhere on my ship.”

Your brows furrow slightly. Ship? What ship? If anything, wherever you were being held captive was merely wooden boards built into oddly fleshy walls. There was really nothing boat-like about the place.

“That may be so but mind you that your loaned clothing had been brought to the bathroom and placed on the corner of the sink. However, when I turned my back to draw the bath, anything could have happened to them.” Seonghwa shrugs, leg kicking up and draping over the opposing knee of his other. “Not like I was the only person who’d stepped foot in the bathroom.”

Hongjoong narrows his eyes, painted nails tapping in a daunting rhythm atop his desk. “Pray tell, who else had been in there? Any… watchers?”

The insinuation makes your skin crawl. Seonghwa snorts indignantly, “Nobody is interested in your type of perversions. Especially with her. They all avoid her like a fly trap.”

“Not what the grapevine says. In fact, a busy bee has let me in on a little secret.” His eyes glide over to you still standing near the door. “Tell me, how did you sleep last night? Wooyoung is quite generous when it comes to the helpless. And it seemed like after the minor inconvenience in the dining hall; his bed was just the thing to offer in a time of utter distress.”

There’s a coldness that settles heavy within your feet, like standing on a block of ice. He’s staring you down with such an intense look, dark and heavy and stirring up something wicked.

The other man uncrosses his arms, a perplexed wrinkle between his thick brows. “What are you talking about?” He shifts a bit in his chair, just a slight turn, to settle his attention also on you. “You slept in Wooyoung’s bed?”

The ice melts in an instant and a blazing flame licks between your toes and up your ankles. You glare at Hongjoong, watching the way his lips curl in the same way a felines tail would when struck by a playful urge.

“Not by my choice. He dragged me to his room after I fainted.”

That only raised more questions and Seonghwa was hellbent on getting answers if not for Hongjoong interjecting.

“Ah, a damsel in distress.”

Seonghwa chooses to ignore the comment, “That explains nothing.” He pauses, “Not that I care in the slightest, but it isn’t natural to just faint out of nowhere.”

You scoff, “Of course it isn’t normal but what the hell do you expect? After being abducted, thrown into a cell for hours, interrogated not only once but twice with the first compromising my shirt in the process and the other having a gun forced against my eye while restrained to a chair, dragged around from point A to point B where I am told to sit obediently like a fucking dog and eat a meal prepared by the one person who’s responsible for me even being here— which I know you all loathe—“ You pause to catch your breath, realizing that you’ve rambled yourself dizzy but that wouldn’t stop you from rattling off the rest. “That prick dumped the food onto the floor and forced my head into it with the bottom of his fucking boot— and that asshole who brought me to the bathroom— stood there and watched it happen!”

Your shaking, under the weight of your anger or the sudden onset of emotional distress coming at you full force, you aren’t sure. But what you are sure of is that the tears burning trails down your cheeks are more telling than any emotion you could possibly pinpoint.

With a strained voice, you continue, “So yeah, what part of any of that is natural? Please, enlighten me because I… I can’t fucking tell.”

You laugh a bit to yourself. It’s watery and snotty and a hiccup breaks the pitiful sound. The room had fallen long into silence once your tirade first began and now while you tried to reign in your emotional state (because let’s be honest— you’ve begun to feel the heavy pressure of embarrassment starting to creep up on you) it still remained as such. Well, almost.

Granted it was only a few short minutes between your sudden breakdown and the sardonic round of applause to begin. Hongjoong stares at you with a large toothy smile on his face, hands parting and rejoining in his amusement. He finds your outburst to be a big joke, you’ve realized. Taking the piss out of such a low moment from you. Seonghwa was no better. Although he wasn’t joining in on the clapping, the man had seemingly lost any semblance of emotion himself. His face remained blank, eyes unblinking.

“Bravo! I don’t think even our resident crybaby could have pulled such a pathetic display as the one you just did. It was almost compelling enough to make me want to go hunt down each of my little crewmen and rip out their wings and hang them by the open wounds until they bleed out.” His head lolls to the side, smile never wavering despite his attention shifting to the other man. “Right, Hwa? Could you nearly taste the pity? It was almost as thick as honey and as—“

“Shut up.”

The words were out of your mouth without a second thought.

“Oh? Hit a nerve, did I?” Hongjoong made to move in your direction, but Seonghwa decidedly took to his feet and partially stepped in the way of the captain.

“Wooyoung has offered a suggestion in place of her real name… as have I.” He keeps his voice low, calm, nearly intimate. Even reaches forward to weave his fingers between Hongjoong’s decorated ones, thumb stroking the web of skin connecting the shorter man’s own thumb to his palm.

Hongjoong’s gaze slides over to Seonghwa, preening a bit under the unsolicited affection. Watching the display made your stomach coil uncomfortably. You couldn’t imagine ever loving a man as vile as him. As if reading your thoughts, the ring on your finger suddenly feels tight, nearly suffocating against your finger. It was cruelly reminding you of the life you’d been living before you had dived into the pit. But that was different— you never loved that man— but Seonghwa does, same for the rest.

“I thought you wanted no part in naming her,” Hongjoong tilts his head, “and last I checked, San was assigned to the task. Furthermore, how did Wooyoung find out about the entire thing?”

“San told me he couldn’t think of anything, so I offered one in exchange and Wooyoung wasn’t aware. You know how he is, has a penchant for giving anything a name, even the dust bunnies under his and Yunho’s bed.” Seonghwa decided not to acknowledge the first part of the other man’s recollection. Despite it being the blatant truth. He hadn’t been interested in the slightest regarding the topic but dangerous territory was being treaded beforehand and for the sake of his own skin and that of his fellow mates, it was best to calm the storm before it raged forth.

“Hm.” The sound is almost dismissive but Hongjoong fixes Seonghwa with an impatient look when the latter remains quiet, “Well, go on then, I want to know now not later.”

“Wooyoung coined ‘firefly’.”

You narrow your eyes at the back of Seonghwa’s head. How he knew about Wooyoung’s sudden inclination to calling you firefly was beyond you unless San had mentioned something to him after he stepped out of the bathroom to let you redress.

Hongjoong hums, “And you?”

“Mayfly.”

There’s a snort, “A bug with a light on its butt and a bug that can swim. Clearly you two know something I don’t.”

You feel a rush of heat run over your skin. A mayfly, a bug that can swim. He only started calling you that right after the incident in the bathroom.

“You asshole.” Instead of rushing at him, you turn on your heels and storm the couple feet needed towards the door. You're grateful deep down that you kept close to the only exit, it made escaping easier.

Seonghwa barely registers your voice nor the opening of the door and the slamming of it within the same second. He keeps his eyes on Hongjoong, specifically on the small scar peeking out from his hairline by his left temple. It’s such a small, delicate detail. Fragile compared to the splitting grin filled with pointy canines turned in his direction.

“Somebody hasn’t been playing nicely it seems. Do tell me… what’s gotten mayfly in such a sour mood?”

Nobody is out in the hallway. You almost expected San to be standing by the door despite Seonghwa having shooed him off previously. To you, he was like a guard dog attached to once’s ankle by his very own teeth. You tried take a few calming breaths, tell yourself that getting worked up will solve nothing (hasn’t so far) but to think someone would take such a vulnerable moment and make it into an insult only kept your hackles raised. It wasn’t like you thought any less of what you already did in regard to Seonghwa or any of the men involved in your captivity but to be made the butt of some sick joke made bile churn like rough waters in your stomach.

You stomp off to the right, down the hallway to some undisclosed direction. Nothing was identifiable. The walls were wooden, the floor was wooden, the ceiling was wooden, and the wooden doors lacked any indicator as to what they hid or what resided behind them. You knew somewhere down the line the corridor ended, and the narrow space would balloon into the wide-open dining hall. You hated the idea of returning there.

But where else could you go?

Turning a corner brought you almost chest to chest with Yeosang. He looks a bit startled by your sudden appearance; however, it is fleeting as his usual stoic demeanor quickly slips back into place. You aren’t swift enough to miss stubbing your toe against the end of his boot, immediately hissing at the throbbing jolt of pain.

“What are you doing out here alone?” He looks around you and down the way you came, “Where is San?”

“Don’t know, don’t care.” You grumble. But you do know, Seonghwa had sent him off to the dining hall.

Yeosang lifts a brow, “He’s in charge of you, so you should care.”

You scoff, “In charge of me? I’m not a fucking kid! I don’t need someone attached to my back every damn second.”

“Not my problem.” He fists the fabric of your shirt knotted tightly against your upper chest and yanks you along unceremoniously down the corridor.

You’ve begun to assume that this was how they normally handled people— by dragging them about.

Wooyoung slumps his forehead against the sweaty skin of Mingi’s back, right between where his wings grew. If he was truly desperate for a drink, he’d stoop low into the realm of depravity and just lap at the moisture collected within the crevice of the other man’s spine. But sweat didn’t provide the same quenching qualities as regular ole water did. Mingi is huffing loudly against the counter of the island, the crate he had brought in earlier was tilted sideways from his grappling hand and the remnants of the vegetables and the single can have spilled out across the island and onto the floor. At least he managed to save one carrot, the orange elongated body held between his teeth.

He hated to be gagged but Wooyoung insisted that his moaning would only draw attention and a not-so nice tongue lashing from Seonghwa who preferred to keep the kitchen void of bodily fluids. A rule only put into place about two moon cycles ago when San accidentally made the eldest blow his load all over the food prep he had just finished washing and was preparing to cut and store away. From then on, any salacious activities were to be kept far from the kitchen.

But what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. And it wasn’t like Wooyoung or Mingi were very good at listening anyways. Wooyoung places a soft kiss to a stray beauty mark, his hands running delicately up and down the other man’s waist and hips. His cock was softening, spent from fucking Mingi into the counter, each calculated thrust a reassurance to the taller man's verbally expressed worries.

Mingi groans softly when Wooyoung pulls out and away, leaving his entire backside exposed to the dead air. His own cock hangs limp between his legs, the last of his cum clinging stubbornly to his ruddy tip. On the floor between his booted feet is the rest of the milky substance, splattered into goopy droplets and abnormal lines. The carrot in Mingi’s mouth is spat out, his nose scrunching at the earthy taste of it.

“Okay, princess?”

“Mhm. Feelin’ good.”

Wooyoung grins, glancing down to watch Mingi’s rim flutter and a small globule of his seed trickle out. If he wasn’t burdened as the crew's honorary chef (and currently disobeying Seonghwa’s rules) he would have buried himself right back into Mingi but duty calls, and he would very much like to keep his head (and his dick).

“Come on, pull your pants up before Seonghwa comes sniffing around.” Wooyoung gives one of Mingi’s butt-cheeks a teasing smack, causing the man to jolt.

The other man whines but shuffles away from the island to readjust his pants back onto his hips from their temporary position around his knees.

“Did you mean what you said—“

“Min,” Wooyoung fixes his mate with an exasperated look, “Princess, not to sound mean but your insecurity over the prisoner is stupid. She’s not going to replace you or anyone here. Hongjoong isn’t going to suddenly proclaim her as his new wing-bound and throw you out to the stags. He wouldn’t compromise what we’ve all built— what he’s sworn to keep forever entwined by his own blood before the moon herself.” He stares Mingi down as the latter shifts uncomfortably in place, sighing after a brief lapse in silence, “You doubting him is doubting our fated ties. Do you think that lowly—“

The taller of two is quick to wave his hands around, flustered by the rehashing of his self-doubts. “No! I don’t— I don’t think poorly of any of you. It’s just me… my brain, my thoughts being a dumb mess, but I don’t…” His sputtering dies off into an unsure mumble, one that practically weighs his shoulders down into a slouch.

Wooyoung reaches out to tug Mingi into his arms, rubbing a soothing hand against the nape of his neck. “If I could, princess, I would crawl through your ear and into that silly head of yours and beat the shit out of that pesky brain.”

Mingi laughs, body shaking enough in the process that it rattles the other man. But it’s enough to know that things are smoothing out even if just a little. Wooyoung knows those insecurities won’t exactly go away just because he pops a joke or two or offers a distraction through sexual intimacy.

“Do you think you’d be able to hear my thoughts if you were in there?”

“Moons above I hope not. I don’t think I could survive listening to the sound of crickets chirping constantly.”

“Hey!”

Yeosang brings you exactly to the place you were simultaneously trying to avoid and find at the same time.

The dining hall.

Sitting at the tables already are San, Jongho and Yunho. Yeosang unfurls his hand from your shirt and stalks towards the tables without a single word to you. Not that you really needed him to say anything.

At his approach, San looks up first, his one eye zeroing in on the man with an unusual amount of softness. Jongho also looks up but he’s peering past Yeosang and directly at you. He’s got a dastardly gleam in his eyes. From San’s right, Yunho also has his attention on his mate, a small barely there smile on his lips.

You keep yourself rooted in place, by the entrance where escaping if needed was possible (but not achievable). Jongho still has his gaze on you, and the lack of acknowledgement from him seems to garner the attention of the other men present. And suddenly, Yeosang is signaling you over, beckoning you into the lion's den. “You’re blocking the way for Wooyoung and Mingi. Better have a seat unless you want to be trampled into a pulp.”

“No point in warning her when she won’t listen to reason.” San stared at you with an unenthused frown.

“All the better for us then. An idiot isn’t worth the time or effort or wasted breath.” Yunho hadn’t once looked over at you, inclined his head a bit to the side when you were addressed but otherwise kept his attention elsewhere.

Completely different was he from the time spent as cell-neighbors. Or even before that when he was panicked over Wooyoung’s fuck-up.

His back is positioned slightly towards you; wings folded against his beige shirt. You glossed over them and looked to Yeosang, “It’s really hard to tell which of you is the bigger asshole around here.”

Before anyone could really respond, a boisterous voice sounds out right behind you. It’s enough to make you slide to the side. Wooyoung stands there with a tray covered in several steaming dishes with Mingi at his back carrying another tray with equal proportions. He’s got a wide smile, nearly infectious to everyone but you.

“Soups on!”

Chapter Text

Wooyoung and Mingi dispersed the plates in no particular order. You remain where you’ve sidestepped to avoid being trampled over. The men already seated at the tables have all diverted their attention to the individual meals served, a few even softened a bit against the tension that had steadily been building at the appearance of you.

Everyone save for Hongjoong and Seonghwa were present. You didn’t want to dwell on either one of them and a greater part of you hoped that Seonghwa was getting his head torn off for some unknown reason. Maybe he managed to anger the captain after you had stormed off or even divulged to the man why you were quick to anger. Call it a fantasy, a messed up one but it provided you with a sense of morbid comfort. Only one person elicited such thoughts from you, and he wasn’t here. Otherwise, nothing of the sort ever passed through your mind. You weren’t a monster, didn’t take pleasure in the pain of others but morals be damned you wanted nothing more than these men to trip and fall into an active volcano.

You weren’t aware that you had taken on a rather peculiar expression until Wooyoung cleared his throat, standing at your side with an eyebrow raised.

“What?”

“I said, sit next to me, yeah?”

“Why the hell should I?”

He looks exasperated, “It’s either me or Jongho and I don’t think you’ll enjoy that one bit.”

You can’t fight the shudder, eyes briefly flickering over to said man to see him leaning over to the right to whisper something behind his hand to San. The latter returns the favor with a coy smile; whatever he whispers back makes the younger bite his lip and slightly curl inward. His gaze darts towards you as if feeling the weight of your stare on him, quickly schooling not only his face but his posture. That terrible gleam is back in his eyes.

“Right, okay.”

Wooyoung nods, hand lightly touching your elbow to steer you along. “Also, word of advice— don’t stare at him— it’ll only rile him up, make him more aggressive.”

You scoff lightly, “Now you tell me…”

He shrugs with only one of his shoulders, stance a bit lazy. “Better late than never, right?”

“Not really. Last night…” You fade out, trying to swallow down the uncomfortable cotton suddenly in your throat. Wooyoung looks at you expectantly. “It would have been avoided— all of it.”

Something unreadable shadows his face before it quickly dissipates, a slight pout pulling his lips forward. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, firefly. Plus, I wouldn’t have been able to play hero… for once.”

“Oh right, the so-called hero that got me into this mess in the first place. Truly, what a fantastic save you did me by showing up and whisking me away to your bedroom.” You dissolve into glaring at him, the intent not exactly as malicious as you might have wanted it to be. Blame it on the still lingering exhaustion and the unknowing of what the day will bring.

Wooyoung shrugs again, continuing forward with his hand still lightly holding your elbow. You decide to keep your eyes on the back of his head until he has you pushed down by the shoulders onto the spot to his right, opposite end of Yunho. Wooyoung plops down between the both of you, elbows thumping atop of the table and clasps his hands under his chin as if replicating the innocence of a cherub. The table beside you is completely empty.

You eye the plate in front of you; carrots and some sort of greens sit beside blocks of slightly browned… something. There’s also corn littered amongst the vegetable medley.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Your gaze flickers to Wooyoung in confusion, finding him already watching you. “What?”

“Eating. I can see it written all over your face, firefly. Rule number one when it comes to the dining hall— nobody eats until the captain does. His first bite blesses the rest of our hunger.”

You look at him like he’s grown two impossibly big heads, one’s that knock against each other with every single movement. “I’m afraid you need your eyes checked because the last thing I was going to do was eat. And as far as I’m concerned, your captain won’t be dictating when I do.”

His eyebrows raise just a smidgen, an unimpressed look on his face. “Mhm, okay, and when you end up in another situation like— you know— for not only refusing to eat but also being non-compliant with Hongjoong, then what?”

There’s a nagging at the back of your mind that’s siding with him, something you refuse to acknowledge. By agreeing, you would be accepting any and all terms enforced by the temperamental man. To submit. The echo of that singular word feels like a thousand thorns curling into your gut.

You change the subject to something that has taken an unforgettable root within your thoughts, “What did he mean earlier when he asked if you were finished ‘using me’?” You jerk your head in the direction of San, the man in question having fully turned in his seat to face Jongho, jaw moving around words inaudible to your ears.

Wooyoung glances over in the direction you’ve indicated before shifting a bit in his seat, an indiscernible pinch between his brows. He looks like he wants to say something but finds himself holding back, instead he shrugs halfheartedly and fixes his gaze onto a raw spot on the wood of the table’s top.

“Nothin’. He just says random shit to get a rise out of people.”

You don’t believe him for a single second, “No. Maybe you think I’m some stupid backwater bumpkin needing everything spelled out for them, but I can tell the difference between an attempt to get a reaction out of someone by saying something shocking and a genuine fucking question. Perhaps if it was his little sidekick saying it then it would make sense, but it wasn’t.” It was no brainer who the aforementioned ‘sidekick’ was, Jongho is the only one you’ve seen at San’s side consistently.

Wooyoung jabs his tongue into the inside of his cheek, head falling forward a bit. The movement is enough for his hair to shift and nearly curtain his face from your unwavering stare. Then he sighs, leaning back and revealing more of Yunho on the other side of him. He seems to be lost within his own head, staring absentmindedly down at his plate of steadily cooling food.

“It’s— look— you have to understand—“

The words die off when another voice suddenly cuts through the dining hall space like the blades on a lawn mower against overgrown grass. You hardly have to turn to see Hongjoong entering the room with an overdramatic flourish of his arms, Seonghwa following behind him like his personified shadow. He makes eye contact with you from over the captains head, of which you rebuff by turning away. The previously pinned anger returning back causing a growing heat to lick uncomfortably beneath your skin.

“Our moon ever-blesses us with another day towards retribution.” Hongjoong crosses the distance from the entrance to the empty table to your right in just a few strides albeit a little hurried.

You don’t even look over, keeping your eyes now trained on the greens on your plate. Seonghwa is in your peripheral, standing right beside you as a dark splotch.

“We gather to eat the providing’s under her watchful eye. For our survival is dependent on her strength. And if we should fall then all will be thrown into the pit of the beast.” He pauses to glance at every single person in the surrounding tables, even burning brief holes into the side of your head. “Let us eat!”

You come to realize that whatever nonsense he was spewing was some sort of pre-meal prayer. The sounds of silverware hitting the ceramic surface of the plates suddenly drowned out the silence of his entrance. Both men now sat on the once empty bench of the table beside you, occupying a space that you wished to have uninhabited again.

Wooyoung takes notice that you haven’t picked up your eating utensils, instead staring down at your plate with a slightly furrowed brow. He nudges you with an elbow, “Aren’t you going to eat?”

You glance over at him as he shovels a large mouthful of the greens and sliced carrots into his mouth. “Not hungry.”

That’s a lie— you are beyond starving. Having gone nearly twenty-four hours without anything to eat (despite having the opportunity last night but what sane person would eat after everything you’d dealt with), the familiar ache rippled through your stomach.

“Cut the shit and eat. Remember last night? You’ll be in a far worse situation if you refuse to eat with the captain present.” Wooyoung keeps his voice low enough for only you to hear just in case someone (mainly the captain) overhears and decides to make it the topic of conversation for everyone’s scrutiny.

You swallow back the bite of refusal and defiance clawing up your throat and scoop up the fork, chips of silver taken out of the teeth. Wooyoung watches you, waits for you to stab at something on the dish and put it into your mouth. You ignore his staring to do just that— spearing some of the cabbage and carrots and begrudgingly forcing them past your teeth. It’s nothing remarkable in terms of taste, a bit plain with the aftertaste of dirt. You swallow after chewing for longer than needed. The feeling of the food going down your throat is like a rock, heavy.

“Good right?”

“Tastes like dirt.”

Wooyoung scoffs, pouting around his own fork. It’s not that bad— maybe a bit earthy— but it isn’t unpleasant. Maybe if he didn’t get so distracted with Mingi…

He casts his gaze over to the table across from him where Mingi is sitting, eyes wide and lashes batting against the tops of his cheeks as he listens attentively to something Hongjoong says to no one in particular. Of course, he’s back to feeding devotedly from the tap of the captains nonsense. Wooyoung has to stab some corn and cabbage and carrot on his fork to chase away the bitterness clawing from the depths of his ribcage.

“Ah, before it slips my mind,” Hongjoong addresses the room with a calculative drawl, turning in his seat to peer at you from around Seonghwa. You immediately stiffen.

“Mayfly is now— under careful and daresay thorough consideration— an honorary addition to our crew. Treat her as you will but not more or less than you would each other.” He’s looking at you under thick lashes overcasting soft shadows over devious eyes.

You grit your teeth a bit upon hearing that stupid fucking nickname. The muscle in your jaw surely visible beneath your skin as it moves with each clench and drag.

From beside you, Wooyoung whispers towards his plate, “I prefer firefly…”

“You aren’t serious, right?” Yunho is suddenly speaking up, a great level of disbelief on both his face and in his tone.

When you look over at him, his eyes are actually drawn wide with his eyebrows halfway up his forehead.

Hongjoong’s attention jumps to the other man, a lazy smile parting his lips wide. “As serious as a cockroach without a head.”

“But— she— you promised that no outsiders would—“

“WHAT,” His voice raises a few octaves to cut through Yunho’s sputtering, “I promised has no relevancy here. Mayfly is now a part of our collective— whether you or anyone else here likes it… or not.” There’s a sharp edge to his words despite the almost playful blanket wrapping around them.

Yunho bows his head; fork grasped tightly in one of his balled fists beside his plate. The food looks to be untouched, if not barely picked at.

“And what if I refuse to join— to be apart of whatever this is?” You glare past Seonghwa to Hongjoong, watching the way he pushes the cabbage around on his plate, even scooping a piece of it up and scrutinizing it with an entirely lackluster amount of interest.

Hongjoong hums, “Silly mayfly, as if you have a choice in this matter.” He drops the fork without so much as a second look of where it lands, “But I will humor you, if you choose to entertain your defiance rather than accept the graciousness I’ve bestowed upon you than— simply put— I will remove that insolent burden of a head clean off your shoulders and use your body as a… dispensary of sorts until the smell of your rotting flesh becomes too unbearable. That is when you will be taken to the maggots to be disposed of.”

The dining hall had long fallen into a suffocating silence, one that feels practically touchable. You stare at Hongjoong like he’s grown four sets of eyes that all blink out of tandem.

“I also don’t think she should—“ San begins to pipe up a little cautiously which is quickly thwarted by a heavy clamor against wood.

Hongjoong has rose to his feet, hands flat atop the table him and Seonghwa occupy, chest heaving. He’d slammed his weight down with his palms, his plate clattering a bit from the force. “I DON’T FUCKING CARE WHAT YOU THINK!” Hongjoong’s nostrils flare like that of an angered bull ready to ram its horns into a matador.

From between his teeth does he continue with a hiss, “I am the captain of this crew— me!— and what I fucking say goes, what I decide is final. If I tell you to sever your own fingers off of your hand then you will do so, no questions asked. If I order you to draw your gun and put it against the temple of your wing-bound and pull the fucking trigger, then you’ll so without hesitation.” Hongjoong slowly drags his dark eyes from each of his mates, then you, before settling back onto San. The aforementioned man has grown stiff in his seat, a gloved hand twitching minutely towards Jongho.

“I didn’t think after all this time— seven years or so— that I would have to be reminding all of you of this but alas, that’s my mistake for forgetting how utterly incompetent the lot of you are.” Hongjoong swipes an arm across the table he’s standing from, knocking his own plate and Seonghwa’s over the edge and onto the floor.

You tense, actually everyone seems to tense up and the silence grows heavy. Hongjoong straightens, looks over at the food now adorning the floor with an almost petulant pout. “Oh, how unfortunate.”

And then he laughs— unrestrained and sardonic— the sound of it booming in all directions. You grip your fork like it’s a lifeline; sweat having gathered along your hairline and the nape of your neck without your notice. You chance a look to your immediate right, Seonghwa sits ramrod and staring unblinkingly forward in the space between San and Jongho’s heads. It’s like he’s trying to fade away from the room, from his place at the table, from his spot beside Hongjoong.

“Captain.” Yeosang’s voice is steady as he addresses his mate. Mingi had taken hold of his hand from beneath the table, grip pleading.

Hongjoong’s laughter lessens but doesn’t quite fizzle out all the way, “Come on now, don’t be such a stick in the mud. Fuck, my breakfast is ruined and now my mates have lost the ability to fucking humor me—“ Suddenly, his eyes are back on you, and you have a hard time trying to keep yourself from shrinking under the pressure.

“Aren’t I just lucky, mayfly? I have seven lovers to fight, to fuck, to… guide and yet none of them can offer me a single ounce of humility.” He’s got a wild kind of glee in his eyes, head tilting onto his shoulder where it rests while he continues to put you beneath his personal spotlight. “What good is life without something entertaining to drown the dregs?”

Your lips part, an odd little sound coming out that barely manages to formulate into words. “I— I don’t—“

“Of course you don’t. Just another bumbling fool amongst the court.” Hongjoong throws one leg after another over the bench of the table, turning his back on everyone. “Seonghwa, make yourself useful and introduce our newest addition to her post just like we discussed. I’ve got better things to attend to right now. San, Yeosang come with me to the monitor room. Jongho, you as well.” He’s gone from the dining hall in a flutter of dark wings and heavy-soled boots with the other three men in tow.

Seonghwa seems to come back to life or at least breaks out of his self-induced trance, turning only slightly in your direction but his eyes remain elsewhere. His jaw was tense, same as his shoulders. There’s a wrinkle between his dark brows like he’s pained by the request (or maybe it’s because he’s now once again stuck with having to deal with you).

“Let’s go.”

“I’m not done eating—“

“I don’t particularly care. Get up.” Seonghwa has you by the bicep and is already yanking you from the bench with an unnecessary amount of force. You try to tug yourself free, but the struggle is futile. As a last resort, you look to Wooyoung.

Instead of meeting his gaze like you had hoped, instead you were greeted by the back of his head. His hand methodically stabbing at the vegetable medley on his plate but not really trying to get anything to stick to his fork. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t acknowledge you. It’s a punch in the gut.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa brings you to a dark-wood door with a circular window implemented into the wood. The door itself is well-worn and appears to have been removed from some other place— and looking closer— gnawed upon in several areas. The glass of the window is dirty, smudged by grime— creating a foggy film that makes it difficult to make out what’s beyond the door.

You look at him questioningly, an eyebrow hitched upwards. “A… door?”

He doesn’t reply, rather withdrawing a familiar keyring with several rusty keys clinking softly together. It’s the same one that had locked you away in the brig. You watch him quietly as he singles out a dull silver key, thinner than the rest, fingering the remaining in an orderly manner as if he was double checking his choice— as if there was the slightest chance that it was incorrect.

Seonghwa raises the key, looks past it’s metal body to you, eyes unreadable in their sockets. You stare back, perturbed by his lack of response and, well, everything. He shifts his attention and body back to the door, inserting the key into the lock and giving it a rough turn. The metal on metal gives off a grating yawn, a loud and rather scratchy noise that stretches when he jerks the key out and returns it to its place on the keyring. You grit your teeth at the sound. It’s uncomfortable and almost nauseating. Seonghwa has the handle in his grasp and gives it a casual turn, that too whining and groaning but moves under his hold, nonetheless.

The door slowly eases open, and an almost suffocating heat pours out as an indiscernible cloud of vapor-waves. You step back, the heat like boiling water across the tops of your feet and face.

“This is the boiler room… or fire room. A bit on the nose if you ask me.” Seonghwa shrugs, one hand landing on his hip. “You will be stationed here.”

“You… You can’t be serious?!” You look at him like he’s grown about five heads in the span of two seconds.

The man sighs, “About as serious as Hongjoong’s threats. The boiler room is in need of constant operation, think of it as the heart of… everything. It keeps the kitchen functional, the water for bathing warm, every bit of specialized equipment that we have powdered and ready when needed.”

“Then why can’t any of you do it? Not like there’s a shortage of people— er— bodies to keep it going. Why me?”

“You are asking the wrong person the right questions. I have zero answers for you.” He swipes the dark hair from his sweaty temples with a huff.

“This… I’ll die in there. You know that right? I’ll die of a heat stroke or dehydration or something similar.” You look into the room from where you stand, like gazing into the mouth of hell.

There’s a large black boiler, black as ink with a gaping opening of wild reds and oranges that lash out into the air every so often. The room is about the size of two average sized closets put together with one wall taken over by the boiler and the opposite obscured by a floor to ceiling pile of coal. Leaning against the wall directly across from the door is a shovel, propped and waiting for your inevitable fate.

Seonghwa doesn’t even look at you when he replies, staring unblinkingly into the raging fire. “I do know. And it’ll be a slow and unbearable means to an end.”

There’s a sharp dread gripping at your spine, it holds you in place for a second, almost as if keeping you still so that you could face the doom reserved just for you. But you’ve had plenty of years to stay rooted as horrors persisted. As monsters took one thing after another from you— your childhood, your innocence, your adolescence, your happiness, your life— it’s enough to have you stumbling back and away.

It isn’t enough, however. It never is. There’s a delay in your reaction, always a step behind, lagging just the slightest bit. That’s how you always get caught.

Seonghwa has your upper arm snatched up into his firm grip and all but yanks you into his side before shoving you forward into the room. You are immediately swallowed up by the encapsulating heat, the pressure of it causing you to cough harshly.

“Keep the fire going. That’s your one and only task. San will come once in the morning and once in the evening to give you food and water and allow you to use the bathroom.”

You have tears in your eyes, blurring his figure in the doorway. It’s not the kind you expel when upset but the ones forced out when trying to lubricate dry eyes, when they get so afflicted by an unbearable amount of hot air. Not that he would be able to tell the difference, or maybe he did but just didn’t care. That was a more plausible conclusion.

“Wait—“ The sound encasing that single word sounds completely foreign to your own ears. That wasn’t your voice, but it was. Dryly stretched and strained, the heat having already wicked away what little moisture was left in your throat. You can’t even recall the last time you had a drink (a proper one; the bath incident could hardly be considered as such).

But Seonghwa remained just as detached as he’s been since the moment you met him.

“Don’t fuck up.” The door is immediately slammed shut and while you scramble towards it like a wild animal caged, the lock is quickly set back into place.

You bang at the door, screaming and cursing and begging all at once. But it was of no use, your fate was sealed in that little room where hell burned in its own containment.

Yeosang stood under the canopy overhanging an empty alleyway, obscured under the shadows casted by the browned fabric. There’s a sickeningly sweet smell wafting from the far-right end, thick and tooth-rotting. It’s enough to make saliva gather in a thick pool at the back of his throat. He’s ashamed when he has to swallow it down. Being affected, no matter how minuscule, was nothing more than a weakness of his person.

The smell grows stronger, enticing him into a lapse of memories he’s kept shoved into the farthest corners of his mind. A time when the night sky was vast, stretching like a comforting blanket over him and his mates. Where he would lay, uninhibited beneath the moon, burrowing every fiber of his being into Seonghwa— into every single one of his beloved’s until they formed a single amalgamation of unyielding bindings. The air never smelled sweeter than on those nights. When freedom was a right granted for all living things and not a privilege needed to be earned from the trenches of pain and suffering. Yeosang squeezes his fists at his sides, an echo roaring through his head.

One they all had before being banished underground and into the belly of damnation— imprisonment.

There’s a vibration at his wrist that draws his attention out of the fog of bitter reminding and sugary wisps. He eases his arm up a bit and the blue projection of an unidentifiable face pops up.

“Ready?” Jongho’s voice has a static quality to it but all the more recognizable despite the distortion.

“Yeah. Set the board.”

The hologram shifts and suddenly the face morphs into a checkerboard— with millions upon millions of little black and white-blue squares stretching and expanding to fit the contours of the city. Falling atop of them in gridded shapes is the buildings. Crafted only for appearance and nothing more. Moving in jolted movements along cobblestone roads and through alley passages are brightly highlighted rust-colored blobs.

Yeosang has his sights set on one near the right end of the alley he happens to be hiding in. The smell of confectionery is practically soup, warm and weighted over his senses. He pauses his breathing for a slight moment to adjust a leather bound mask over his nose and lower face. It’s not the most breathable by any means but it does the job in snuffing out the smell.

The hologram adjusts, controlled by Jongho back at their base of operations. The images pan and it’s as if the man is looking through the eyes of someone else at the left end of the alley. His body is caught on the projection only as a red smear of heat.

“How strong is the smell?” Jongho’s voice once again cuts through, minus the visual of a floating disembodied head to accompany it.

“About an eight currently. Was more tolerable a couple minutes ago. Mask is on.” Yeosang keeps his replies short and curt. Not because he doesn’t feel like elaborating but with the constrictive airflow of the mask and the possibility of alerting the entity by dragging a casual conversation out— which would be hard when it came to him anyway— talking was kept to a minimum.

“Good. Try to win this time, yeah? I am betting a whole week’s worth of rest on you. Plus, I have to get back at Wooyoung.”

Yeosang rolls his eyes at the rivalry set between the two youngest. Wooyoung had made a bet about half a month prior with the wages being, “No kitchen duty for the next five days and the loser has to take on the winner’s responsibility” and Jongho’s, “Chore exemption for the winner but the loser has to pick up the extra workload”. To say that the lot suffered immensely under the hand of the younger’s culinary skills is an understatement. Poor Mingi and San suffered the worst, bedridden and blowing the poor life out of their bowels for almost two weeks after the third day of Jongho’s punishment. Hongjoong chose to starve. Wooyoung had a secret stash of snacks in his and Yunho’s workshop of which he shared (only after enticing the older into a bit of workplace debauchery) with Seonghwa. Yeosang merely pushed and smooshed and piled his food in a way that made it look like he had eaten a good portion of it while not at all consuming any of the biohazardous meal (he would later sneak off to the food pantry and here they keep their food supply and take his pickings of what was there— without making too big of a dent in the rations). Yunho was the only one who ate his food and survived without a single blight in his health. It’s a mystery, nobody is sure how and no one dares to question the man.

“Because of the last bet between you two?”

“No.”

That pique's Yeosang’s interest for a brief second. His attention switches to the right end of the alley where he sees movement. He knows better than to look at it head-on. His eyes zero in on one of the dim string lights hanging from the gutter of the building parallel to the one he’s up against. It’s by the entrance, just a bit above the source of the movement, of the smell.

After a moment, he replies.

“Then what?”

There’s a distorted clicking sound, a sick sort of buzzing that’s unnatural. Yeosang keeps his focus on that light.

“He ruined my fun. I want to do the same.”

The statement is vague, no elaboration accompanying the almost childish tone. It’s deceptively innocent. Like a lighthearted joke only meant to gently tease. But Jongho, despite his soft cheeks and round eyes, hadn’t a single innocent bone in his body. There’s another motive. Yeosang would pry further but the sound has grown closer and his window to chat is slammed shut. Quickly he shuts the hologram off and encloses the golden dome strapped to his wrist. The blue light shrinks and welcomes back the encompassing black across the man’s covered face.

Another ragged click, and Yeosang swiftly peels himself from the wall and stands directly in the center of the alley. The buzzing increases at the sight of him.

His focus leaves the bulb he had been looking at, bouncing to a different direction, one that was closer to the target without actually looking at it. Yeosang doesn’t find anything to latch onto just beyond the odd incline of its shoulder but it’s enough for him to be able to see without truly looking. It draws closer, as does the smell despite the mask. What was sweet enough to entice saliva to pool in his mouth now had grown artificial and daresay rotten. It was sour.

Yeosang reached towards the pistol in the leather holder across his chest, drawing the weapon in one slightly steady motion. The tremor in his hand always made him appear afraid, nervous or unseasoned. But his grip on the weapon and the steady flex of his arm spoke more of someone with enough experience to handle himself. He wasn’t a mothling anymore, hadn’t been for many moon cycles.

The buzzing elevated from a minor vibration to a teeth-chattering bass. It wasn’t happy to see the moth, it wasn’t pleased to see him not submitting to its scent.

The dome on his wrist splits open again, but nothing projects this time— except a voice.

“One bullet to the head, nothing more. San is waiting on the roof of the other building. Make it quick.” Hongjoong leaves no room for conversation, no room for unspoken error.

The man doesn’t say anything, just curls his finger around the trigger and counts down every year since he last felt safe, happy, unburdened.

It’ll be eight soon, but for now it’s seven.

Yeosang fires the gun, listens to the unnatural bellow the thing lets out before there’s a sick crunch and snap and almost like rubbing rocks together or grinding sediment between teeth. He waits for the signal while staring blankly into the nothingness of the projected night. Another illusion put into place. Day and night don’t exist. There are no cycles— no morning, afternoon, evening. The sun is dead and the moon hides in mourning.

There’s a soft whistle and Yeosang draws his eyes to San, his mate returning his twin blades into the harness on his upper back. He’s looking at Yeosang with his one eye like he’s wishing to say something that’ll probably end in some kind of uncomfortable silence. Yeosang chooses to look away and down at the remains of their target.

What was once a cicada lay in several severed pieces. Its body is eaten away by a large white mass overtaking the abdomen of its body. By the soft look of its face, the gentle curve of cheek and chin and the minuscule upturn of the nose upon the head just a foot away from Yeosang’s feet— a young woman no older than Seonghwa or Hongjoong. The spore encapsulating her abdomen pulses, writhes as if trying to will her to get up and continue her mindless trek. But she remained in pieces on the alley floor.

“What did she smell like?” San inquired quietly after a long moment.

He wasn’t close enough to smell the scent she was giving off, but he knew that all the infected cicadas gave off scents— usually sweet but never the same kind.

Yeosang felt that same bitterness from before beginning to creep up the back on his neck. “Like summer grass after rainfall and wildflowers.” And then he turned away, “But fake, too unnatural, too artificial.”

San stared at his back, watched it expand and shrink. Yeosang ignored the pressure of the other’s eyes to slip his mask off. The normal dank air of the alleyway filled his lungs, something he welcomed far more than the phantasm of deception.

Breaking the air is a crackle and the voice of the captain once again resounds, “Good work. Gather the spore and return back to base.” The voice fizzles out and the dome on Yeosang’s wrist closes.

San is already kneeling beside the abdomen, one of his daggers usually strapped to his thigh now in his hand. Yeosang doesn’t watch. Rather he shifts to look back at her head. The tan of her skin had grown mottled and ashy, flesh stretched taut. That could be one of them if they were ever caught, if these stupid and pointless missions Hongjoong was constantly sending them on while he stayed back to watch in the safety of their base. Yeosang sees Wooyoung, he sees Mingi, San, Yunho, Jongho— Seonghwa. His throat tightens and he looks away again before he can succumb to the imaginary sight conjured by a “what if” scenario.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, grounding, comforting in the way it squeezes the round of it. San leans in enough to brush his lips across the reddish pigment on Yeosang’s temple, a breezy caress that is already gone before it was ever truly there.

“Let’s go, love.”

Yeosang merely nods.

Chapter Text

You aren’t sure how much time has passed since Seonghwa locked you away in the boiler room or the frame of passing between your insistent banging, screaming and pleading. But one thing you are sure of is that, without a doubt, you will be dead before San ever shows up (if and when he does). For all you know, Seonghwa could have been lying and it isn’t a hard assumption to make. You drop your sweaty forehead against the door, feeling as much as seeing the sweat drag downward along your skin only to drop off your chin and land onto the floorboards. It might have been just a slight of the eye, but you could have sworn the droplet hit the wood and sizzled into a small wisp of smoke.

“What… What the fuck!” Your fists hurl themselves one after another against the door, following is every expletive you could possibly conjure under such conditions. “Let me out! Let me fucking out of here you bastards! I hope you all die— drop dead under such painful circumstances! I wish— I want something horrid to pluck you all by those stupid fucking wings of yours and crush you to death between their fucking teeth— LET ME OUT— LET ME OUT— LET ME OUT!”

You’re exhausting yourself by the ticking seconds, growing more and more sluggish under the heat. Nobody ever peeks into the small circular window, the door never unlocks. You are helplessly alone.

~

San throws down the sack that he had tied to his belt loop. It makes a solid thump against the top of the table. Hongjoong kicks off from the lip of the control board that Jongho was stationed at. He strolls over casually, arms crossed over his chest and eyes solely zeroed in on the procured object. Yeosang stands beside San, posture stiff. He wanted to be anywhere but in the control room with the severed head and Hongjoong’s morbid behavior.

He almost, in a small unspoken admission, wished to be in that alley where he could drown in the old memories of before. To drown in the sweet scent and falsely convince himself that it wasn’t fake and that if he opened his eyes he would be surrounded by his mates, in the field of wildflowers with the summer's rain carving soft paths across their bare skin.

He wishes for once that such a purgatory would swallow him whole.

“Open it.”

San reaches over without hesitating, gloved fingers working quickly to unravel the twine binding the sack closed. He doesn’t do much more than that, hands swiftly withdrawing to his sides. Hongjoong rolls his eyes. “Dump it out.”

The sack is pinched at the bottom corners and lifted up just a couple inches so that the weight from inside will drag itself out without further touching. San was paranoid to be in direct contact with the white ovoid object, seeing what it has done to unassuming victims in the city of lights. To be taken over, consumed. Nobody was sure what it was exactly, where it came from or why Hongjoong had grown so utterly obsessed with it. Wooyoung whispered skeptically one night during a sleepover he had (without asking) in Seonghwa’s room that he suspected the captain wasn’t actually a moth and instead something else entirely and the egg-like objects were his offspring that he forced the cicadian folk in the city to incubate. Yeosang looked at him with such an unamused expression, lips pursed tightly, eyebrows raised. Seonghwa, of course, was not so quiet in his displeasure of hearing Wooyoung’s wild theories and had reached a long arm from across Yeosang’s head to give a rather (for it being dark) on targeted smack against the top of his head. San was also there, not invited but welcomed after being told to “shoo” by Jongho. Mingi had been put out by Hongjoong in favor of Yunho (again) and the youngest decided to swoop in like a falsified saint and tempt the taller into his room. San wasn’t hurt by it, he knew Mingi was needing the comfort that Jongho could offer but he too could have provided some form of support. He wasn’t heartless! In fact, he’s quite capable of comforting others, no matter how big or small the upset is.

But rather than expressing those sentiments to Jongho, he just nodded and sought out Seonghwa and Yeosang’s room without realizing that they already had an extra occupant. Seonghwa took all but one look at him and let out a long sigh before widening the door. San practically glued himself to the older man's back, arms wrapped snuggly around Seonghwa’s abdomen, cheek plastered against the back of his neck (ignoring the hair tickling his nose). When Wooyoung began to fly off the handle with his outlandish speculations, San couldn’t quiet down his own “what if’s” and the more his mate rambled, the more he found himself growing uneasy.

Something wasn’t right.

Hongjoong takes on an almost giddy expression, eyes rounding around the edges and lips curling up at the corners. He bites the bottom one between his teeth while peering down at the fungal spore. His hands itched to dig into the outermost layer— fibrous and thin— it wouldn’t take much to tear past the surface.

“Will you… tell us what it is?” San looked at Hongjoong with a poorly disguised expression of unease.

“A kind of fungus— spore, really.” He shrugs, nonchalantly plucking an old hanky from his pant pocket. The yellowing fabric is draped over the expanse of his hand, leaving no skin in sight. Hongjoong then withdraws his favored flintlock, giving it a little twirl around the end of his middle finger.

Yeosang and San watch— and by extension, Jongho— as Hongjoong uses the muzzle of it to carefully roll the spore onto the hand with the handkerchief. He’s precise, moving with a sense of practiced control.

“You can leave.” Hongjoong didn’t even spare the two men a second glance, merely turning away with the spore cradled in one hand and a largely conniving smile gracing his lips.

Yeosang, uncharacteristically, spoke up in a rare case of defiance. “You’ve had us going out nearly every day to retrieve those things. And we do, without question. But I think, after seeing what it’s done to the cicadian’s, we deserve some kind of explanation.”

Hongjoong pauses, head swaying to the side. His back is facing both San and Yeosang but Jongho has the perfect front row seat to the ugly sneer marring the captains visage. The youngest keeps his own expression neutral, appearing nonchalant and disinterested to break any chance of reflecting Hongjoong’s turn of emotions. If he looked bothered or even the slightest bit off, they would know that the line between their mate and the cruel moth ready to kill was crossed. Perhaps it was fucked up to not warn them, especially San. His wing-bound hadn’t removed his single eye from him since Hongjoong’s flippant dismissal. He was searching, trying to peel and pry into Jongho wordlessly. Looking for any sort of indication that Yeosang had overstepped. And that both of them may be in immediate danger. But Jongho wasn’t budging. In fact, he was watching. Like one does the stars.

“Deserve?” The word is strained by the drawl of forced laughter. “You deserve nothing.” Hongjoong is careful when he whirls around, making sure the spore remains steady on his handkerchief covered hand even with the sudden movement. The blacks of his eyes have nearly doubled, and the man that looked at them wasn’t the mate they had sworn to love before the watchful eyes of the moon. This was the corruption, the secrecy, the foul thing that had taken residency inside of Hongjoong. Mingi had mentioned to Yunho, in a soft conspiratorial manner after returning back from another search-and-gather, that the dark eclipse overtaking their mate had already been lurking before their banishment.

“What do you mean, Mingi? Did… Did you see something? In him, I mean.”

“Yes— No— It’s… It isn’t that easy to explain. He just… it didn’t happen overnight. The switch— the change— I’ve seen it beforehand.”

“When?”

“The day before the attack. Hongjoong and I—”

“Both of you hurry up and return back to base. Wooyoung has already begun serving dinner and I refuse to starve to death because Sannie decided to eat my portion… again.”

Jongho’s warped voice through the dome on Yunho’s wrist had severed the conversation and it was never brought up again. Mingi had let it die in favor of keeping things less entangled and Yunho just simply forgot about the entire exchange.

San eases both of his hands up, one projecting a quiet surrender while the other fell onto Yeosang’s bicep. The unease he’s been feeling thrums like the beat of his heart within the confines of his own chest. Hongjoong looks primarily at Yeosang, a deadly scowl overtaking the soft planes of his face, splitting open a cavern of distrust and anger across flesh.

“You’ve grown bold, Sangie. Perhaps that spine you have suddenly acquired needs to be removed before it grows a mind of its own and forgets just where it belongs.”

The movement is minuscule, just a slight shift of the leg but it’s enough to make San kick into action. His hand still resting on Yeosang’s bicep curls around the expanse of skin and muscle and with the urgent care similar to that of a mother bear trying to hurriedly usher her cub across the pavement of a backroad, draws the man away from the table and further from the recesses of Hongjoong’s growing volatility.

“He was just worried. We both are captain. It’s— what those spores do, it’s terrible.” San knew playing damage control was a risk. Either his sudden intervening would placate the burning ire of their mate or redirect and worsen it. He waited with a bated stillness for the conclusion.

Hongjoong’s gaze dragged from Yeosang to San, settling on the man with a heavy bearing weight. Jongho settled his head on his hand propped atop one of the arms of the chair he sat in. It was all so… beguiling. The way San, hopelessly devoted, ploying such a simple appeasement of concern in favor of masking Yeosang’s attempt to dig. Yeosang himself stood as still as a rock— unmoved, unbothered— his statuesque face blank and eyes even more shrouded. Hongjoong could have him by the throat, peel skin from his neck and yet the man would remain unfazed.

For someone like Hongjoong who lives off the reactions of others— good or bad, pleasurable or painful— he despises Yeosang’s lack of response. Or rather, he hates the other man’s refusal to play into his volatile desires.

“You should be worried,” Hongjoong’s tone had grown stiff, sharply edged yet whispered softly beneath his breath. He turns away again, shoulders squared and back ramrod. “Demand answers again and I will fucking kill you— worried or not. Now get the fuck out.”

San doesn’t waste a second on ushering both himself and Yeosang from the room, casting one last look towards Jongho. The younger finally relents, finding his entertainment has come to a rather anticlimactic end. He gives San a wink, cheeky and just as mischievous as ever. That doesn’t settle well with San, but he knows his wing-bound can hold his own.

Even against Hongjoong.

Seonghwa looks from Wooyoung to Yunho and back to Wooyoung. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, the light fabric of his blouse pulling tight against his upper abdomen. Wooyoung is leaned back against the edge of the table, slumped at the shoulders and partially melting from his seat on the bench. He’s wearing a mildly annoyed pout. Yunho is a mix of straightened spine and folded limbs— his own arms are crossed over one another on the table top— but his posture is as ungiving as his absolution. After the eldest had left with you in tow and Hongjoong soon departed with Jongho, Yeosang and San for the day’s mission— that left Mingi, Wooyoung and Yunho to deal with what remained of breakfast.

Only, Yunho had long lost his appetite (and by extension— his desire to be anywhere near Wooyoung). He wasn’t over barging into the debacle from earlier, the sight of his mate and the human in an entangled heap on his and Wooyoung’s bedroom floor laying heavy in his stomach. Yunho waited till those who needed to clear out of the dining hall had fully evacuated from the area before scooping up his barely touched plate and slipping off of the bench. Mingi focuses on him with wide eyes, spoon shoved into his mouth. Wooyoung simply scoffs.

That sound alone irks the hell out of Yunho.

“What? Got something you want to say, hm?”

He’s looking at Wooyoung’s side profile— the picture of petty boredom— as his head rolls to the side. “Are you talking to me?”

Mingi can see the way Yunho’s jaw clenches, muscle shifting under skin into a tight drawl. He flicks his attention to Wooyoung, to the protrusion of his Adam's apple, the way it bobs as he swallows absentmindedly. The tension whirling around the two is enough to feel overbearing, lying thick and heavy over Mingi’s flesh. Suddenly the hair on the back of his neck is standing on alert. Like the ache in one’s knees before a downpour. He can feel the warning.

“Cut the shit, Wooyoung. Who else am I talking to— huh? Mingi?” Yunho slams his plate down carelessly onto the table, sending the vegetable medley jumping and scattering across the wood.

Wooyoung blinks, slow and unfazed. Mingi is the complete opposite— flinching at the impact of the dishware and Yunho’s stern voice.

“Dunno, could have been. I mean, he is also here, in the room with us.” He shrugs.

“Stop being such a fucking smartass! For once, in your pathetic life, take something seriously. Take accountability—“ Yunho jabs a long finger near Wooyoung’s face. It shakes between the small space between both men.

Something seems to wash over Wooyoung, that nonchalant look he’s had since the entire exchange began is carried off and replaced by a deep-seated scowl. His brows pinch downward hard enough to create a cavernous wrinkle between them, eyes narrowing into sharp daggers and lips peeled apart to reveal rows of teeth beyond the window of his mouth. Mingi eases himself up onto his feet as quietly as he can. If things take a drastic turn and become physical then he has to be somewhat ready to interject in whatever way he can. There’s no chance going up against Yunho, his fellow twin in height is about as unmovable as a brick wall. But Wooyoung isn’t an easy walk on a straight path. When in the throes of a fistfight, he’s erratic and attacks whoever and whatever stands in his way. Jongho joked in passing that that was the only thing the captain and him had in common. Both having a nearly bloodthirsty wildness to them during physical altercations.

However, Wooyoung could be restrained if caught early enough. As long as he hasn’t thrown a fist yet, which Mingi is hoping won’t happen.

“Accountability??” Wooyoung repeats, his voice shrill as he relays the word back. “For what? Huh? I already admitted my faults for the human, so what else am I having to fall to my knees for?” He ends his flurry of rhetorical questions with a scoff.

Yunho’s jaw ticks, “What I stumbled upon… in our room. How about that one? I can’t remember you fucking apologizing, but I sure do recall you mouthing off a whole lot.”

“You have to be— seriously?! That’s what has your wings in a twist?? Because I said a couple of tasteless things?”

“No! It isn’t about what you said, Wooyoung. It’s about what I saw! Don’t you get that?! You and— and her entangled on the ground, panting and the damn recliner turned over. Do you not— is your head so far up your own backside that you can’t see the issue here?” Yunho is huffing wildly; eyes having rounded into large saucers that glide back and forth between Wooyoung’s face and Mingi’s awkward shuffling. “Put yourself in my shoes and try to look at the entire scene from my perspective.”

Wooyoung eases up and onto his own two feet, “The only thing I’m seeing is a jealous prick reaching for something that isn’t even there.”

Yunho is quick to shove Wooyoung, the latter falling back down onto the bench with the grace of a newly born mothling. His knees knock into the underside of the table causing the plates atop to clatter. Mingi shifts to move just as Yunho descends, hands wrapping around the collar of Wooyoung’s loose fitted shirt. There’s a fire flickering around within the dark depths of his eyes as he looks down his nose at his wing-bound. Wooyoung has an equally wild expression, with teeth bared and hostility marring every inch of his usually placid face.

Mingi is at their sides with a hand clasped around Yunho’s scruff while the other lays flat against his chest where pressure is applied in an attempt to get him to unhand Wooyoung.

“Yunho, let him go. Let Wooyoung go—“

But the taller of the three refuses to budge.

“Why should I?! So, he can run his cocky little mouth some more? I’m so fucking sick of it!” Yunho shoulders Mingi away, creating enough of a space for him to all but drag Wooyoung up from the bench and slam him none too gently onto the top of the table. The impact further displaces the plates. The one Wooyoung had been eating from breaking directly beneath his folded wings.

Wooyoung coughs before wheezing out a sardonic little chuckle. His hands are wrapped tight around Yunho’s wrists, nails digging into the thin skin with an unyielding ferocity. Mingi once again re-approaches by latching himself onto Yunho’s back. One arm wraps down and around the irate man’s neck with the other looping under Yunho’s armpit from behind. The headlock isn’t secure, but Mingi fears that if he doesn’t at least try and hinder his mate then the harm done to Wooyoung will be greater.

“Stop! Yunho, let him go!”

“Did I— Did I hit a sore spot, Yunnie?” Wooyoung taunts, a malicious grin tugging his lips wide apart.

Yunho untangles his hands from the confines of Wooyoung’s collar to instead coil around his unmarred throat, applying pressure almost instantly. There’s a sick satisfaction that instantaneously strikes Yunho at the sight of his lover’s face drawing up at the lack of oxygen, even more as the natural tan of Wooyoung’s skin morphs into a flushed red and then slowly at the corners and seams bleeds into a sickly purple. And yet, the smug gleam in the shorter man’s eyes never once changed. Not even as his wing-bound chokes him with the intent to kill.

Somewhere behind them, Mingi is pleading between frantically falling tears.

“I wish I never met you, Jung Wooyoung.”

Something raw overtakes the pride previously projecting from Wooyoung and Yunho only manages to catch it in the briefest of seconds before he’s suddenly thrown to the side by a strong and unexpected blow to the side of his head.

Seonghwa was just returning from dropping (more like locking you away) at your newly assigned post when he heard a commotion coming from the dining hall. The mix of Mingi’s watery pleas and the rough scuffling of boots drew the older man to the area— where he zeroes in on Yunho choking Wooyoung on the top of one of the tables and Mingi trying to separate them.

The eldest moth practically flies across the room, his wings spread yet his feet don’t ever actually leave the floor. The brown hair on them stands on end and make Seonghwa appear like a ruffled bird. Not like the hurry in his steps helps out with the visual either. In a quick and rather flustered manner, Seonghwa reels his arm back and hurls his elbow into the side of Yunho’s head just shy of his ear. Mingi has to stumble away just to avoid getting caught in the swing. But it’s effective enough at removing Yunho from Wooyoung— the latter sucking in a large breath before rolling onto his side, harshly hacking until stray strings of spittle fly past his lips.

A couple of barked orders to a blubbering Mingi and the two now sat separately at different tables with a good wedge of space between them.

“Mingi, you can leave.”

The man falters for a minuscule second but eventually hightails it (but not before he plants a chaste yet grateful kiss to Seonghwa’s temple) out of the dining hall. He’d rather wrestle with Jongho when the younger is in a foul mood than be stuck in a room with a nagging Seonghwa.

He waits a moment, listening as Mingi’s steps grow further and further away until they completely dissolve. That’s when he rounds on the remaining two— thick brows overhanging heavily over glaring eyes. His wings might have re-folded themselves but the hair on them still remained raised.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” The question is directed at one or the other but both simultaneously. Seonghwa knows Yunho isn’t one to just resort to physical violence on a whim. It takes time— things have to pile and build up— until the moth explodes. And even then, Yunho wouldn’t jump straight into physical harm. He’d yell, throw something, sulk in silence for a while but never assault someone. Yet that’s exactly what had happened. Maybe it wasn’t just a sudden shift, perhaps Yunho had been shouldering more than he let on.

“Answer me. One of you.”

“He started it—“ Wooyoung’s voice is raspy as he musters up the energy to answer.

“Go fuck yourself, Wooyoung—“

“You first—“

“ENOUGH!” Seonghwa doesn’t usually raise his voice, rather his approach is more calm, more levelheaded and more patient. Hongjoong is the one that will yell until he’s blue in the face, until whoever he is verbally tearing apart is reduced to a sniveling begging mess at his feet.

But stumbling upon the scene— mate against mate— it filled his chest with something indescribable. It was far more than just icy dread. It didn’t spread like fear. It sat heavy within a self-produced hollow. He could feel it, the way it encompassed nothing and then everything all at once. It shrunk before it grew and expanded suddenly without warning. Seonghwa could still feel its presence lingering. Waiting. Watching.

Both men flinch simultaneously, almost perfect reflections of one another.

Seonghwa raises a shaky hand to his eyes, all the usual grace the man is known for wiped cleanly away. “Yunho, go to the view post for your shift. Wooyoung, come with me to my room.”

“But Yeosang has view post duty—“

“Yeosang is out with San for search-and-gather under Hongjoong’s personal assignment. You will be taking his place.” Seonghwa’s tone is sharp, tiptoeing along the line of irritation.

Yunho frowns, jaw ticking like before. But he says nothing else as he gets to his feet, doesn’t even spare a glance at Seonghwa and definitely not at Wooyoung. He’s gone in a flutter of tightly wound wings and tension laced shoulders.

Seonghwa focuses solely on the remaining man, “Get up and come with me. We are going to talk.”

“I have nothing to say.”

It takes all but two steps for Seonghwa to be directly in front of the younger, hand firmly wrapped around Wooyoung’s upper arm. The leverage of his hold is all he needs to all but lift and drag the other up from his seat and across the dining hall towards the exit.

“You do and you will.”

Jongho watches quietly from his seat as San all but drags Yeosang out of the room. He waits patiently until the door closes shut on their combined heels before setting his full attention on Hongjoong. The spore still sitting like a wispy ball of hair atop the handkerchief remains cradled with an uncharacteristically amount of care. It makes Jongho lift a singular eyebrow.

“A spore, huh? Never pinned you as a collector of such… things.”

Hongjoong moves closer to Jongho, his gaze completely absorbed by the white oval-shaped object in his possession. “I’m not— at least not entirely.”

“Could have fooled me. How many missions have you sent them on— three, ten, seventeen? I think I lost the desire to count after the twelfth.” The younger took on an air of casual boredom, sighing as he leans back in his chair.

“I don’t need you to count,” Hongjoong drags the rucksack from the table as he passes and when he’s standing before Jongho, the brown bag is held out towards the younger. “Nor do I need you to act like you care. Open this.”

The man does as he’s told, keeping the mouth of the sack spread as wide as the ties will allow. He’s careful to keep his fingers as far away as possible as the spore is dumped into the bag along with the handkerchief. Last thing he wants is to become one of those things.

Hongjoong gives the ties a tug before winding them around the bunched fabric at the top. Jongho doesn’t drop his hands at first, rather settles them onto the older man’s hips. It isn’t distracting enough to pull away the captains attention but it does make one of the corners of his mouth lift.

“Care? You wound me, captain. That would require an emotion I am just not capable of feeling.” Jongho drums his fingers lightly against the fabric of Hongjoong’s leather pants.

When Hongjoong finally settles his attention on the younger, meeting batting lashes and a coy smile, the captain can’t even hold back the rare and daresay genuine chuckle. The rucksack is dropped onto a clear section of the monitor board and Jongho is suddenly yanked up from his chair by the hands on Hongjoong’s hips. The younger doesn’t have a chance to catch his bearings before he’s maneuvered in a semi-circle. The positions are switched— Hongjoong shifts around in the chair with a hum— while Jongho now stands in the exact spot the other man had been.

“Try as you might,” Hongjoong looks up at his mate with a twinkle in his eyes, “you aren’t as unfeeling as you portray yourself to be.”

Jongho pouts, “Are you saying I’m soft?”

Something… perverse crosses through the dark depths of the older man's gaze. His head tilts to the side just a few inches, assessing the form in front of him like it is not a living breathing creature but something to sink his teeth into and tear apart. There’s a hunger clawing under his skin with annoyingly dull nails. It keeps him on edge.

“In more ways than one.” Hongjoong leans forward to fist his fingers into the fabric at Jongho’s waist, all but dragging his mate down into his lap.

The younger yelps, landing in a heap with his knees bracketing the outer sides of Hongjoong’s thighs. This wasn’t part of his plan to gain information. Just like the rest of his mates, he was also left in the dark about Hongjoong’s motives with the spores and wanted nothing more than to have the upper hand with the gathered knowledge of his secret obsession. Jongho plants his hands on the captains shoulders, wide palms and long fingers spreading out like the legs of spiders. Hongjoong is looking up at him with his lower lip wedged between teeth, hands having slithered around his sides to take respite at his lower back.

“I am the strongest out of all of us.” Jongho sniffs, chin tilting up and away like a sulking child.

Hongjoong hums, “So you are. But that isn’t what I am referring to.” With an almost wispy touch, deft fingers crawl their way further down, gliding delicately over the round of Jongho’s backside where they mold into the curvature.

“You know I hate riddles… especially yours.”

“That would only apply if I was actually feeding you one. But lucky for you, I’m not feeling very enigmatic.” Maybe if the attention wasn’t so linear, Jongho would have caught on to the hand that had abandoned its post against his ass and found itself a new home at the back of his head. While the other remained comfortably spread across his bottom, the other sprung closed like a trap directly at the crown of his skull.

Jongho hisses suddenly, his hair entrapped between fingers and within multiple rings. Hongjoong’s salacious gaze doesn’t waver, rather it grows more consuming. Aided by the grip, he none too gently yanks the younger man’s head back until the column of his throat is exposed to the mixture of warm glow of several nearby oil lamps and the opposing blue light from the large monitors looming over them. The skin is tantalizing, unblemished, unmarked, untouched. It makes saliva pool in a thick puddle across his tongue.

“Do you think I’m blind, Jongho? That my eyes are not all-seeing?” Hongjoong leans forward to drag the sharp tip of his nose against the protruding adams apple beyond the skin and muscle of Jongho’s throat.

It bobs much to his growing excitement.

“No, captain.” Jongho has to keep his voice as steady as possible to keep the facade up. If only he didn’t swallow, his response would have been far more convincing— at least he likes to think so.

“Then tell me… what was that look you gave to San before he and Yeosang left? Was it reassurance or an unspoken promise to obtain what they couldn’t? What they believe they deserve to know, hm?” Hongjoong mouths each word against Jongho’s flesh, dragging over inch by inch with snagging teeth. From below, Jongho can feel the consequences of the captain’s unusual foreplay. It shouldn’t affect him, but he finds his own cock stirring within the confinement of his leather pants.

Another swallow, “Simply planting a seed of false hope.”

That draws the captain away like a receding wave. “You undermine San far too easily. Do you not think he won’t know you are lying if you were to find something out and chose to keep it within your possession?” Hongjoong eases up, lips pressed tight against Jongho’s ear. “He will have sniffed you out like the four-legged beasts from above. You won’t have a chance, honey.”

Jongho writhes a bit, grinding forward into Hongjoong’s lower abdomen and then down against the hardened lump of his concealed cock. He can’t move too much, not with the grip in his hair. But what little he can manage, he uses to his advantage. Hongjoong hums, rolling his hips upward to press more firmly into the younger’s movement. The slight grind might be welcomed but the captain isn’t finished picking apart his scheming mate.

The hand in Jongho’s hair withdrawals to find new territory to latch onto— his neck— the very beginnings of it just beneath his jaw. There’s a stutter, a pause. The younger has never been keen on having his neck manhandled. Hands were far too harsh, with minds of their own they could create a path of irreversible damage just by a mere squeeze. Hongjoong observes with sickened delight as a sour look overtakes his younger mates face.

“I think you’ve forgotten just who you are playing with. You may be intending to fool your wing-bound by batting those pretty little eyes of yours while feigning ignorance, but that same tactic has no effect on me.”

Hongjoong’s mouth descends onto Jongho’s with a kind of parasitic hunger. Consuming, destructive, hungry. His tongue is already carving jagged paths along the soft inner walls of the younger’s cheeks, teeth feasting onto whatever skin that is pliant enough to sink into. Jongho, despite the years of being together, has never been able to truly handle Hongjoong and his nearly cannibalistic kind of passion. Desire wasn’t just a simple kind of build up to the captain. It didn’t begin as a small spark that steadily grew into a wild flame. No, it just… is. There’s no origin, no birth. It’s there, always.

Jongho moans between the tangle of tongues writhing around within his maw, the slick build-up coating the muscles feels similar to that of slugs. The imagery nearly makes him gag.

They break apart only because the captain has found their current position far from his liking (like most things). “Go to the table.”

The younger man scoots back until his boots hit the ground and his body is withdrawn from the greedy swallowing of Hongjoong’s. The older man watches him, slightly slumped with his legs parted and feet flat on the floor. His cock has tented the leather of his pants and Jongho finds the fuzz on his folded wings standing at attention. As vile as the man was, there was no denying the nearly taboo appeal of him. Like a poison warned against consuming but the tantalizing scent of it has such a seductive quality; fighting against it would be futile. Perhaps that is the only way he can give reason to being bent over the meeting table, leather pants and underwear holding his ankles hostage while Hongjoong forces a fourth finger into his ass. The captain nips at the soft edges of the younger’s wings, finding amusement in every twitch they make and the following whines of disgruntlement coming from their owner.

“Where does your loyalty lie, Jongho?”

The question catches the younger man off guard. He’s attempting to turn to face the other head on but Hongjoong forces him flat with his own body, fingers continuing a wrathful path through wet walls, nails scratching and dragging and embedding a hidden claim in the deep recesses of Jongho’s body. He’s groaning, mildly leveled, not enough to be rapturous but to please his captain if by the low hum vibrating against his wings.

“Tell me— if all collapsed and fell to be swallowed by the great beast that entraps us… who will you stand with till the very end?” Hongjoong withdraws his fingers to instead fumble his way into getting his own pants undone, his chin (the point of it), digs into the space between the latter’s shoulder blades. Every word makes the rounded end press harder and harder.

“Is it San?” Hongjoong doesn’t have the care or decency to properly provide a more comfortable experience, rather than bringing his mate back to his chambers and bedding him upon a soft mattress and blankets, using salve to slick up his cock and Jongho’s rim— he parts for a quick second to drop globules of saliva down onto his erection, smearing it carelessly with the same fingers he had bullied into his lover.

“Do you think he’d stand beside you? Choose you?” Jongho feels something more than just the head of Hongjoong’s cock at his hole. There’s a twisting of something deep within the back of his mind. It is digging, attempting to at least. Trying to reach the surface of his forefront, trying to reach him. Despite how small the feeling of it is, he can almost sense the desperation it wields.

And then it is gone. Washed away, drowned out by the plunge of Hongjoong. Jongho’s spine folds up into an incline, wings drawing tighter in their fold. If a mirror stood before him, he would witness the gaping hole of his mouth, the confusion, the distress, the abnormality of both pleasure and pain dripping from the corners of his eyes. And then, it would show him more. Show the path of betrayal, face him with the decisions he has already made and what has yet to come, expose just who and what he is. Perhaps that is what births Hongjoong’s plethora of questions, drives his cock deeper and harder through his walls. He knows.

Jongho bites down onto the fabric encapsulating his arm, the taste of his shirt is bland. His other arm reaches back, hand grappling for the skin-on-skin contact of his mate. But he’s met with a harsh smack, his arm knocked to the side. Hongjoong laughs, a terrible and jarring sound that magnifies from the walls. His hand has found its way back into Jongho’s hair, rooted by rings and immorality.

“What if I told you a little secret? That’s what you want, don’t you? You desire to know what everyone else doesn’t— I could tell you— let you have that small feeling of power.” Hongjoong hauls Jongho up by the hair so that they both are properly righted on their feet, chest to back. The captains hand falls away, finding another new place to remain which is joined by its twin on the younger’s biceps. They hold strong despite the difference in stature and form, wrapping around the covered muscle like a coiling snake.

Jongho feels his composure cracking. The wet paths down his cheeks haven’t let up not once. His moans do not sing of love, of ecstasy, of devotion. There is no adoration. There is no lust. He realizes, after his body shudders and his cock propels strings of cum along the edge of the table and the floor that those sounds belonged to whatever was trying to make itself known beforehand. That feeling which was clawing to reach him. The one Hongjoong quickly snuffed out like he knew of its existence, of its purpose, of the message it had for Jongho.

Hongjoong remains unrelenting, plowing himself forward and back without a hitch. He’s panting, wet and loud against Jongho’s scruff. His cock brutally imprints a path, burns an unforgettable scar in its wake. The younger’s stomach churns, nausea bubbling up into his chest right below the captain's hands. He’s going to be sick—

There’s a long drawn-out grunt and breathy sigh before Hongjoong finds himself finishing. The warmth of his cum inside of Jongho doesn’t ease the unwell feeling. It only serves to remind him of what he was willing to do in order to advance in his own game.

“Put your dick away and pull your pants up… I have something to show you.” The captain pulls out and away without a second to spare. Whatever soft moment is traditionally reserved for post-coital affairs is squashed into nothingness beneath the sole of Hongjoong’s boot. Jongho grunts, easing himself down into an uncomfortable squat to grapple at the waistband of his leather pants and underwear pooled around his ankles. He’s grimacing at the ground, at his own strings of cum, at the sensation of his mate’s seed dribbling slowly down his crack. He has to bite his lower lip to fight the nausea from attempting to— once again— bubble over.

Once his pants and underwear are settled back into place; buttons fastened and zippers zipped and the encroaching shame sealed away from any and all eyes. Jongho turns to properly face Hongjoong. The captain is already rearranged and standing by a floor to ceiling map of the entire underground. It was made specifically for them— more-so for Hongjoong— by an old grasshopper that used to live in the city of lights. They haven’t seen her in several years. Might not be anything left of her to see anymore. Jongho approaches with a slight shuffle, one that makes Hongjoong’s lips curl at the edges.

Of course he’s eating this up, sick bastard, the younger thinks with an internal scowl.

“What are you planning on showing me?” His tone is casual, unbothered despite his inner turmoil.

“First, you have to give me an answer.” Hongjoong leans idly against the wall beside the map, arms lazily crossed over his chest.

“It was great, seven out of ten only because you didn’t pamper me and spoil me with fresh fruit and a belly rub.” Jongho looks just as exasperated as he sounds, sarcasm dripping from every word like honey from a hive.

Hongjoong doesn’t even react— rather— he draws his favored flintlock from its holder and gives it an almost taunting rub. The freshly polished metal of the barrel gives off a subtle gleam in the low oil lamp lighting. Jongho understands the threat immediately.

“I asked where your loyalty lies. I want to know, before I show you anything.”

“And what if you don’t like my answer?”

Hongjoong doesn’t say anything back at first, just keeps his lazy intrigue aimed downward at his gun. But then he raises it, points it to the side, aims the mouth right against the space of skin that separates the younger’s eyebrows.

“Then you’ll die. Simple as that.”

Jongho’s gaze his steady, locked onto Hongjoong, avoidant of the barrel just centimeters above his eyes.

“The moon.”

The captains head tilts.

“The moon? That is your answer? Where your loyalty lies is with the moon?”

The younger feels the sweat on his palms gathering. He wishes to flatten his hands against his pants or even his shirt and let the moisture soak away from his skin. But he remains immobile. Awaiting Hongjoong’s judgement of his answer.

“Yes.”

It isn’t much of a laugh that the other man lets out, it’s too short, too partially executed. Hongjoong lowers his gun a bit carelessly, jerking it downward with a flimsy grip. His chin is wrinkled in a too forced pout, but his eyes seem to gleam. It’s like watching a child throw a tantrum knowing that it’ll get their way in the end. The upset is merely an illusion.

“Can’t quite argue with such an answer… even if it is only given out of security.” He’s looking Jongho dead in the eye as he returns his weapon back to its holster. “Anyway, let’s go.”

Hongjoong dips his head behind the map, the tapestry molding to his skull. Jongho would laugh at the sight if he wasn’t trying to keep his heart still after narrowly escaping his possible demise. While some of the captain's threats can be easily called as bluffs, most weren’t and with his current and… past actions, the younger wasn’t so keen on figuring out if this was one or the other. There’s an odd click followed by the sound of groaning wood and grinding stone. Hongjoong’s head pops out, hair slightly disheveled in the back, as he refocuses his attention onto Jongho.

“Watch your step. I haven’t any lights in here. Things like this don’t… grow very well when not left in the dark.” His conspiratorial tone is laced with an almost childlike glee. Then he’s gesturing over his shoulder. “Grab a lamp. And the rucksack.”

Jongho is beyond confused but does as he is told if not slightly delayed. He grabs the oil lamp first by the round handle and then the forgotten sack by the ties. He’s careful to keep it from brushing against the side of his leg as he returns back to Hongjoong and the map.

“Good moth… if you keep up this behavior, I might just reward you with a little treat later on.”

The younger feels that queasy feeling from earlier begin to bubble again but Hongjoong quickly wipes it away with an impish chuckle. He does seem to know exactly how he’s been making Jongho feel this entire time. Knows that his mate practically finds him sickening to the gut.

“Come on now, hand it over. Don’t need you fucking destroying my shit before I even got the chance to make use of it.” The captain holds a hand out, ringed fingers wiggling expectantly.

Jongho doesn’t waste a single second handing over the rucksack. Hongjoong, way less careful than the former, shoves the sack under his arm. He lifts the map again with his other hand, “This way.”

Jongho also moves the map away from the wall and immediately sees that the wooden planks beneath it have disappeared and now a gaping hole big enough for them to pass through stares back at them. Beyond it is completely black. Unseeable, dark. Hongjoong moves first, stepping past the threshold and into the swallowing darkness.

“Has this always been here?” Jongho moves to follow, shifting the oil lamp so that it is out in front of him and better illuminates his surroundings.

“More or less. The stone is original; the wood is what I had San and Yeosang install for me.” Hongjoong comes into view only partially— half is face taking on the glow from the lamp while the other half remains obscured.

Jongho, once past the entrance, is immediately assaulted with the smell of rancid salt and stale decay. His nose wrinkles, “Did— Did they know about this? And what the hell is that smell?”

Hongjoong shifts, turning away so that his face was entirely out of view. “No. I merely told them that I hated the stone and wanted it out of sight. They weren’t aware that it opened up to a secret room.” He avoids the following question in favor of moving deeper into what Jongho now knows is a room of sorts.

Jongho notices something shining directly to his left, closer to the oil lamp. He moves to what it is, the stone wall. Except, it isn’t really stone at all. He peers at it closer, lifting the lamp in his hand up to cast a brighter light. The wall is a more or less a gathering of rough clumps, hard edges and ridges with two panels in the center just hardly an inch down from the top. They’re light in color— not like that of regular stone walls— more off-white with odd spots of gray and yellow. Some even have drags of green in them. Jongho moves to touch one, but a hand suddenly wraps around his wrist from the dark. He startles back, whipping the oil lamp to the side to reveal Hongjoong looking at him with an uncannily closed-lipped smile.

“Wouldn’t touch those if I were you.”

“Why not?” Jongho eyes the ‘stones’ warily.

“They’re awfully sharp, could severe a finger or two off if touched the wrong way. Not worth the damage in my opinion.” He shrugs, withdrawing his hand in the next second.

“Captain, these aren’t sto—“

“Are you finished observing the wall? I brought you here because you want answers and yet you are doing nothing but wasting my time.”

The younger bites and swallows the rest of his sentence. It was unimportant, nothing compared to what Hongjoong has been keeping under lock and key. What he refuses to spare San and Yeosang of knowing.

“Yeah— sorry. Proceed.” He gestures outward rather lamely.

“Turn the lamp up brighter. You’ll need as much light as you can get to see it.”

Jongho turns the dial up until the flame inside is wider and longer, illuminating the room into soft visibility. While he can’t make out any details for the vast majority of the space, he can however see the forms of different furniture and even the borders of a rug. Lining the walls are shelves and dressers topped with books and varying trinkets and miniature statues. There’s a singular couch with wooden detailing and two accent tables positioned beside both arms. Directly in front of the couch is a low level table where the rucksack sits and beyond that on the opposite side is the amalgamation of something indisputably horrifying.

There’s something cold expanding from nerve to vein to vessel within the younger moth’s body. Jongho can’t seem to process anything, not what hangs from the ceiling by chains, not who’s face is stretched into a silent moan of agony, not the way Hongjoong is practically bathing in the look of indescribable fear coming from his mate. Then it moves— like a ripple of water— from the white lump wedged between what remains of two legs, up the partially consumed lower abdomen, continuing a path beneath milky skin pulled taut from rigor mortis until the shudder ends with a grating croon. It— he is still alive—

“Let’s see… where to start.” Hongjoong moves idly around, hands at his hips, boots thumping against the floor. “I suppose with the spores, hm? Fungal spores, is what they are. But that’s just the easy, more simplistic term for them. What they actually are called, Massospora Cicadina— learned that mouthful from a neat little journal Yunho had fetched a while back from one of the formerly occupied residency’s. Seemed the owner of the journals wife had fell ill one day and progressively grew worse in an alarming rate. Luckily for me, she had documented every single thing down until succumbing to her own fate by the same hand.” He moves closer to the couch, runs a finger along the wooden detailing at the back.

“You’ve seen what it does— we all have. How it just… consumes whoever is unfortunate enough to cross its path.” Hongjoong turns, settling his eyes onto Jongho, smile so wide it’s nearly tearing at the corners of his mouth.

Jongho blinks, mouth opening and closing. His mind has turned into cotton, every single thought, every question, every ‘why’ completely silenced. He can only stand there and stare and listen and hope he doesn’t lose control of his stomach.

“But there’s more to it from what is seen. That spore— it takes root in the genitalia, basically replaces it before spreading its away along the abdomen, eating at it while the host is still very much alive. From there, the spore releases a sort of chemical that alters the mind, molds it until the host is no longer themself anymore. By then, whoever is infected isn’t even truly alive. That’s where the real fun begins. You see, Jongho,” Hongjoong plops himself down onto the arm of the couch, kicks his legs out and crosses one ankle over the other. His arms come fold over one another across his chest. “That chemical I mentioned, it’s almost like an aphrodisiac for the partially deceased.”

“You— You don’t mean—?”

“The infected become rather insatiable while rotting away within the shell of their own bodies, controlled by the spore that consumes them from the inside-out.”

Jongho suddenly lurches forward, bile rising up and out of his mouth to splatter onto the floor. The cotton in his head seems to empty out alongside his stomach and everything becomes so achingly surreal all at once. The captain hums, moves again to now stand closer to his sick little project.

“I suppose the true torture, however, comes from the lack of being able to partake in such urges. With the spore having essentially replaced their reproductive organs, they have no means of actually doing anything. It’s an endless purgatory. ‘Course it only lasts until the host inevitably succumbs to their actual death. But until then… it is a life of mindless suffering.” Hongjoong hisses the very last word in the direction of the chained-up figure, eyes ablaze with unbridled rage.

That was no stranger. Not to Hongjoong and not to Jongho. In fact, none of the eight men could look at the entrapped and deny his identity. He was part of why they were banished to the underground, why they have been imprisoned. Jongho lifts his head, hands on his knees shaking. In the glow of the oil lamp does he see the tattered remains of wings— orange and black with white spotting— pierced by hooks and spread to their full remaining capacity. Dark hair hangs in thinned clumps, some having long fallen out. What used to be the youthful face of a man was now sunken in and mottled. No longer does he look like the mischievous butterfly that Jongho remembered vividly in the days of summer.

“Quite the reunion, isn’t it? I suppose it would be far more interesting if everyone could be here. And I mean… everyone.” Hongjoong casts a sly look in the direction of the younger. “But then again, if they were here it wouldn’t be under any good circumstances.”

Jongho watches as Hongjoong turns and grabs the rucksack, pulls the ties open and expands the mouth of the bag until the material slumps downward and the spore is revealed. The bag serves as a barrier between the captain's hand and the fungus, of which he uses to proudly hold the object up like it is the spoils of war. And perhaps to him, it is.

“Isn’t that right, Beomgyu?”

The younger moth watches in horror as his mate plunges the spore right alongside the other one, careful even in his madness. Hongjoong laughs, taking sick pleasure in the way the remains of Beomgyu’s body jerks abnormally. The chained man’s mouth widens more than it already had been, eyes practically bulging white out of their sockets. Jongho stumbles back, nearly dropping the oil lamp. He’s surprised he’s even managed to keep a grip on it for this long— especially with how sweaty his hand is.

“Do you see it now, Jongho? Can you see my design— this is our answer, this is our means of escaping this hell once and for all!”

Jongho can’t catch his breath, not when he’s practically running for his life. He reaches the map and quickly throws it to the side enough to maneuver himself from behind it. Hongjoong is still in the room, his crazed laughter just barely audible once the map falls back into place. The oil lamp is quickly deposited onto the table in the center of the room, not a care for turning the thing down or completely off. He had to get far away. He had to find someone. He had to tell someone. Jongho might have his faults, but he wasn’t that despicable.

The ghost of the flintlock pressed between his eyebrows nearly causes his stomach the lurch once again. He protests weakly against the feeling. In a weird, fleeting manner as he exits the control room and hurries through the corridor— he thinks of what he did to you.

Chapter Text

Two days. That’s how long you’ve been missing. None of them would have known that if they didn’t chance a visit to your house. After watching your husband yank you away from the volunteer ceremony, an annoying ball rolled around within Yeonjun’s gut and easily soured his mood. He liked watching the pickings, secretly enjoyed the eruption of emotions— horror, fear, acceptance, pride. Taehyun was indifferent to it. The displays of individual human idiosyncrasies having zero effect on the man.

That’s also why he couldn’t understand Yeonjun’s worrying.

“Something’s happened. I can feel it. We should go over there and—“

They were in the library, behind the main desk where Soobin took post. He has his back towards the other two, glasses just barely hanging onto the tip of his nose while his attention remains glued to a book. Taehyun is sitting on a stool; arms crossed over his chest. Yeonjun preferred to keep on his feet, pacing in a near perfect circle unbeknownst to him but Taehyun was tracking his path with mild interest.

“We?” Soobin uttered the word, smacked his lips as an afterthought.

“Why should we? It’s not like this hasn’t happened before. She goes out, gets caught, he brings her back, beats her a bit and we don’t see her until she’s almost healed. It’s only been— what— two days? She’ll be out and about by the fifth.” He shrugs, large eyes unblinking. His casualness almost makes Yeonjun frown— almost.

“It’s different this time. I know it is.” Yeonjun throws his hands up like the movement will truly emphasize his worries.

“How?” Taehyun tilts his head. “Did you see it in a dream or something?” The blankness of his face peels into a teasing smile, all straight teeth on display. Soobin even musters an amused huff.

But Yeonjun isn’t humored in the slightest. He pouts, brows dropping an inch in his disgruntlement. “No, I didn’t see it in a damn dream— I just… I can feel it. Like how the humans can feel the oncoming surge of rain in their joints. I’m fucking nauseous— it’s making me sick!” He whirls around, giving his back to the two. Soobin startles at his outburst, turning away and effectively abandoning his reading to fix the former with his undivided attention. The black framed glasses previously hanging on the mere tip of his nose is shoved up onto the bridge, drawn away from imminent destruction at the hand of a nasty fall to the floor.

“Could be a seasonal influenza,” He swivels a bit in his chair to look over at Taehyun, “I haven’t found any books on it so my hypothesis is lacking any fundamental information but there’s a slight possibility that human ailments can be spread to our species—“

“I’m not sick!”

“But you just said you were—“

“Not literally!” Yeonjun throws his hands up again, turning on his heels to look at the two. His mates, in every sense, friends— lovers, both and all of the above. Taehyun had a knack for being unperturbed, unbothered, unfeeling— a whole lot of ‘un’s but he had his softer moments when the caverns in his personality weren’t so gaping. Soobin, a certified intellectual rambler with a very dry attitude laced in— what the humans call— ‘smartassery’. Yeonjun considered himself a bit more fluid, lax, carefree with a finer tuning to the emotional states of others. That more or less could explain why he felt so… jittery.

“Shhh—” Soobin pushes a long pointer finger to his lips, wide eyes glances from side to side at the loud volume accompanying Yeonjun’s outburst. “Have you forgotten where you are at? This is a library— indoor voices must be kept at a minimum of two notches low.”

Taehyun’s eyes roll over to his mate, “Nobody else is here, Soob. Did you forget that you flipped the sign over before we started our ‘super top secret confidential hush-hush call to order’?” It was a mouthful to relay the jargon that Yeonjun had blasted into the younger’s ear just an hour or so ago. They had been in the middle of— what was supposed to be— a mid-afternoon romp, lips roaming and shirts left askew between heaving abdomens and jean buttons and zippers undone. Yeonjun mouthed along Taehyun’s jaw, tongue warm and wet, soaking up the taste of the latter's salt soaked skin. The summer heat had grown unbearable in its dog days. Nobody was spared from the body’s natural response to cool off in the form of gathered salinity. To the small grouping of butterflies— that served as a nice little treat. Taehyun sighed, grinding his cock held within the confines of his underwear up and through the parting of his zipper against Yeonjun’s in a lazy roll. It’s supposed to be a lunch-break quickie, as Taehyun had to return to the convenience store in thirty minutes but the other seemed hellbent on savoring the moment.

Until he wasn’t. Taehyun’s eyes had been softly closed, enjoying the sense of touch more than sight, completely oblivious to the odd expression overtaking Yeonjun’s face. His lazy grinding had come to a stilted halt and that finally drew the younger’s attention. Taehyun peeled his eyelids back slowly and focused a little hazily on his mate. Yeonjun was staring down at him with a wrinkle of deep contemplation between his brows.

“What?”

“Get a hold of Soobin and tell him to close the library for the afternoon— but not until after we've arrived.”

Taehyun blinks owlishly, “What for—?”

“Super top secret confidential hush-hush call to order! No more questions.” Yeonjun peeled himself up and away from his mate, ignoring the chub of his cock bulging out between the flaps of his undone jeans. Taehyun doesn’t even offer any further questions, just rolls his head back and stares up at the popcorn ceiling. Hot and bothered and now bothered and hot.

Soobin frowns, “Rules are rules.”

Yeonjun stops in his pacing, hands falling to his hips. “I think he killed her. Yeah, I really think so. Or worse—“

“What the hell could possibly be worse than that?”

“Some forms of torture definitely make death seem like a blessing. For instance, have you heard of the Iron Maiden? I read a book recently—“

“Nobody cares about what you’ve been shoving your nose into and absorbing with your eyes— dammit, can you both be serious for one second!” Yeonjun’s voice raises again and it’s nearly foreign to his own ears. He doesn’t really grow in volume as much anymore, not since Beomgyu’s disappearance almost seven years ago. Or was it eight? Time has come and gone like a breeze between cracked panes of a window.

The other two fall silent. Soobin shifts a bit in his chair while Taehyun finds a beauty mark on his forearm interesting enough to draw his attention to it. Yeonjun sighs, “She’s our friend… of sorts. We know that what he does to her isn’t right and I know the oath we our bound to forbids us from interfering with the lives of humans beyond casual passings but… something is wrong.” His tone grows soft, a bit urgent but nothing forceful.

Taehyun refocuses his attention back onto Yeonjun, beauty mark fading into the background of his mind. “I believe you, but what are you expecting us to do?” He untangles his arms and gestures an outstretched limb to the three of them.

Soobin nods, plucking his glasses from his nose and placing them onto the surface of the front desk. They weren’t prescription, didn’t even have lenses in them. He just liked the compliments he got when he wore ‘em.

“If we show up there, he’ll blow us full of holes. Especially if we come asking about her.”

“Then we don’t ask. Not outright at least.”

“Jun— he still knows us. We’re the only ones who hang around her in this town.” Taehyun kicks a leg out, thumping the heel of his sneaker on the floor.

“Then we’ll keep it vague, what we ask. Don’t even refer to her by her name, act as if we don’t know her all that well. Keep our questions more or less aimed at him but close enough to the line of inquiry about her.” Yeonjun looks between the two, eyebrows raised, openly waiting for approval.

Soobin purses his lips to the side, hesitation written across his face. It could work and then it could definitely not work. It’s a 50/50 chance. Either the man will see through their little plan before they can even step foot on his porch or he will be as simple-minded as a fly.

“Just by chance— and truly, it’s a stretch… but what if he figures us out?”

Yeonjun knows there’s a possibility, a good one at that. Your husband wasn’t a complete idiot. He knew the moment he could legally put a ring on your finger and seal you away just by simply scratching a squiggle on paper with a pen— you were never to be in association with anyone in town. Didn’t matter if it was a young child barely of walking age or the elderly struggling to haul their groceries on home. You were to be alone. Always alone. No friends and no family aside from him. That’s how it was supposed to be, meant to be. But Yeonjun had made a promise to someone nearly eight years ago, and he planned on keeping his word.

“Then we kill him.”

There’s a sputter and Soobin is practically on the edge of his seat with his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. “Kill him?! Yeonjun you can’t be— for fucksake think about what you are saying! We could get into some serious trouble with— you know who— if they found out about us killing a human.”

“Then we make sure to clean up our mess. Simple as that.” Taehyun shrugs, uncrossing his arms to stretch them over his head. The shirt he wears rides up and the line of skin passing on either side of his bellybutton has Yeonjun’s attention immediately drawn. Soobin’s too if he wasn’t ruffled by the utter nonchalance regarding a possible murder.

“No not ‘simple as that’. We’ve been lucky enough to have been spared the ultimate punishment for—“ He swallows, suddenly growing uncomfortable. “—for what happened all those years ago. Why risk losing our redemption over human trivialities? It’s none of our business.” Soobin turns away, nearly collapses his head onto the surface of the front desk. There’re things left unspoken, people left unmentioned. But both Yeonjun and Taehyun knew of who he was skirting around.

Taehyun slides off his stool and approaches until his hand cleanly flattens against the base of his mate's spine. He leans over, resting his temple against the back of Soobin’s neck.

“Don’t think we haven’t forgotten. Not about what we did, what had happened or about him.” There’s a lapse in conversation. Yeonjun remains where he stands but his eyes have glazed over slightly. “Kai… if he was here, he wouldn’t want us to be bystanders. And you are right, we aren’t supposed to get wrapped up in the affairs of humans but if he felt that something was unjust no matter who it was— human or other— he would step in all the same.” Soobin’s back is vibrating beneath Taehyun’s cheek, passing sobs wracking his hunched over form. Yeonjun feels a bit of regret settle in his stomach. Maybe suggesting murder wasn’t the right thing to do, not when their own wounds haven’t fully healed over.

“Beomgyu too. You know he’d be rushing in headfirst like the loud-mouth idiot that he is.” Yeonjun adds after a few tense seconds, a huffy little laugh escaping him as he imagines their mate shouting like a madman while racing off, wings fluttering behind him.

Taehyun glances up at Yeonjun and smiles, eyes crinkling around the softest gathering of tears. Soobin’s pitiful sputters lighten into watery chuckles; hands having gathered the neckline of his shirt to swipe at his eyes and cheeks.

And then his throat clears, mucus breaking apart audibly. “Okay… but killing him, that’s our last resort. Promise me that.” Soobin turns and Taehyun backs off.

Yeonjun holds out his pinky and Soobin hesitantly wraps his own around it. Taehyun follows suit. The three of them don’t speak another word, letting the binding of their promise wash over them.

That is, until someone makes a commotion at the locked library doors. The trio of men turn to look at the entrance with less than impressed expressions. The moment is broken but the promise remains.

Yeonjun knew the sight of your house like it was branded onto his skin. Peeled paint, stained exterior, weathered siding. The yard was essentially dirt and nothing else. Grass either refused to grow, or it was purposefully killed off to begin with. The porch had a single rocking chair down at one end and a broken swing hanging listlessly by a rusted chain at the other. He assumed at one point it might have been a pretty nice place. Not that he or the other two particularly cared for human-made homes.

“I don’t see him.” Soobin whispered, glancing about like the man they’ve come to question would magically appear from thin air.

Taehyun huffed, “He’s probably inside. You know that humans can’t handle the heat that well.”

“Come on.” Yeonjun is ascending the old wooden steps by two, they creak and groan under his weight and continue to do so when the other two follow in his wake.

The front door is hidden behind a screen, one that’s covered in the remnants of bugs and spiderwebs. Yeonjun grimaces at the sight. Taehyun’s leans from around his shoulder, eyes zeroing in on the elongated faded doorbell just off to the side.

“There. Give it ring, hopefully it’ll still be working.”

“I would be surprised if anything in this place still worked.” Soobin mumbles, inching a bit closer to where the swing was.

Yeonjun jabbed a finger into the doorbell and waited. Nothing. No sound, no annoying chime, not even one that croaked as if it was on its last leg. He frowns, “Guess not.”

The alternative is to knock. Balling his fist, he brings it down in a steady round against the screen door before yanking it open and giving another quick rap onto the worn surface of the actual front door. They wait, nothing but the passing of a light breeze between the three before Yeonjun attempts again— only harder.

“Maybe he really isn’t here—“ Taehyun starts to say until the door is nearly pulled off its hinges. Yeonjun startles backwards— partially from the sudden movement but also at the sight of the mouth of a shotgun pointed right between his eyes.

“What the hell do you want?” The voice of your husband is gravely, deep.

Soobin withdraws a bit to the steps just in case things go south and a quick getaway is needed. Taehyun remains in his spot, but his hand raises to flatten against Yeonjun’s lower back. It’s grounding, offers a bit of comfort and strength.

Yeonjun goes to open his mouth and realizes… they hadn’t thought about what to say if and when the man had opened the door. And that must have suddenly dawned with the other two. That left them with only two options— asking about you or the last resort they promised to not use unless necessary. Yeonjun can almost feel Soobin urging him to just turn around and vacate the premises while they still had the ability to, but the man refused to budge. Something else is keeping him from moving.

“Are you fucking deaf—“

“The— The library had sent us!” Soobin is quick to blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

The man’s brows almost eclipse over his eyes, “Library? I got no business with that place.”

“Yes— I mean no, not you. We were told that a book was previously checked out about a month or so ago and is now overdue. We’re just here to get it.”

“How the hell do you know it’s here?”

Yeonjun clears his throat, “The name given when taking a book is recorded in a logbook. Date checked out, name, and return date. We asked the head librarian if they knew who the name belonged to and where we could possibly find them— to make things easier, you know— and they directed us here. Trust me, we wouldn’t show up unless we needed to… sir.”

“Well, it wasn’t my fucking name.” The shotgun clicks and the aim of it right in line with Yeonjun’s forehead.

“They said it had to have been your wife!” Soobin felt like collapsing. If that gun was moved, fiddled with, aimed anywhere else no matter at what or who he will be at the bottom of the steps in a puddle of carefully concealed wings and overloaded nerves.

Suddenly the man’s expression changed. Going from hardened distrust to nervous uncertainty. His eyes drag over somewhere beyond the three, far off the porch and into the fields of wheat and wildflowers. Like he’s searching for something. Yeonjun cautiously shifts from one foot to the other, careful not to make any sudden movements that’ll set the man off and put the three of them in harm's way.

“You said my wife, right? That’s the name given on that log?” His questions aren’t aimed at no one in particular, just breathed out.

“Yes— her name, no one else’s.”

The shotgun is lowered.

“Is it going to cost anything with it being overdue and all?”

“On the house, free of charge.” Taehyun is quick to answer, smile tight and eyes wildly blinking.

The man turns, mumbles a string of curses about a ‘damn fucking book’ and ‘stupid bitch’. Yeonjun is quick to approach the door, smacking hand onto the wood before it can close. Your husband pauses, looks over to meet the abnormally wide smile of the man in the doorway.

“Hope you don’t mind but it’s awfully hot out here and we had to walk a good distance in this unbearable heat. Could we come inside and cool off for a moment while you look for that book?”

Your husband’s eyes narrow cautiously but after a second (felt more like a minute or two), he gives an affirmative grunt. Yeonjun looks back at his two mates with a satisfied gleam in his eyes. Soobin worries his lower lip at the thought of entering the home while Taehyun nearly sags in relief. It was so fucking hot.

The inside is only slightly better. The windows are cracked open, a couple fans rattling along on the highest setting. It beat being out in the direct line of the sun. Taehyun immediately settles himself down onto a couch cushion, melting back into the worn fabric with a contented sigh. Soobin stood near the door, antsy to hurry this nonsense along and return back to the safety of the library. Your husband moves farther into the house, footsteps heavy under his work boots. Yeonjun looks around, hands shoved into the back pockets of his jeans. There aren’t any pictures hanging around. In fact, the periwinkle walls are practically bare save a cuckoo clock, a couple of gun mounts and one of those singing fish on a fake plaque. He’s almost tempted to press the glaring red button just below the tail…

“Got no batteries in it. So don’t even think about pressing the button.”

Yeonjun drops his hand away with a lopsided smile. Your husband merely glares.

“Don’t think any of you told me the title of that book you’ve come for. ‘Less you expect me to pull the shit out of my ass.”

“Moby Dick— it’s… Moby Dick.” Soobin blurts out the first piece of literature that comes to mind— which just so happens to be what he was in the middle of reading back at the library before they came here. Good thing the man wasn’t aware of that.

His eyebrow lifts, “The whale?” He scoffs, shaking his head. Jet black hair falls over his forehead in stringy strands. Like the fine lines of ink from a fountain pen.

“Yes, that’s the one. Do you know where it is?”

“Can’t say I do. Didn’t even know that useless bitch had even checked a fucking book out, let alone visited a damn library.” He looks at the three, sucks at his teeth before tapping at the side of his boot with the end of the shotgun still in his hand. “But that's not what the problem really is, is it? You three aren’t here for no book.”

Yeonjun feels his blood run cold all of a sudden.

The man huffs, a crooked smile parting his lips to reveal a row of yellowed teeth. “Do you think I’m stupid? That I don’t know who you are? I’ve seen you three around, maybe not you so much,” He jerks his chin in Soobin’s direction, “But you two— oh yeah, I know you both very well. You hang around my wife like two desperate dogs looking for a good slab of meat to sink your teeth into.” He’s laughing, although hardly out of mirth and more out of mounting anger. Soobin almost wants to point a finger at Yeonjun and yell out ‘I told you so!’ but he refrains from doing so in favor of his life.

His head lolls a bit from one shoulder to the next, tongue jabbing into the inside of his own cheek. “Was it good?”

“Was what good?” Yeonjun grits his question right through his teeth.

“Her pussy. How long did it take for her legs to open for you— all of you? Didn’t take much time, did it? What’d you do— promise her something, whisper some sweet shit into her ear, touch her leg a little? She’ll give it up for anyone that gives her just the smallest bit of attention— fucking whore!” He slams a fist down against the wooden dining table he stood directly in front of; the impact is loud and has Taehyun on his feet. The desire to recline back onto the sofa for a bit longer has all but dissipated.

“Sir, you’ve got it all wrong—“ Yeonjun tries to reason but suddenly the gun is back to pointing at him and the room has grown several degrees hotter.

“Do I? No— I don’t think I do. See, that cunt, she can’t handle being put in her place. Her momma… was the exact same way. Couldn’t stand having a man take charge, call the shots. A wife is supposed to serve her husband’s every goddamn whim if he so fucking demands it! But those two— as if it wasn’t bad enough being married to the first one but then I had to get a taste of the young one too. That’s on me though. Should’ve known disobedient bitches like that can’t be tamed no matter how hard the fucking or the beating is.” He’s looking down the barrel towards Yeonjun, upper lip gathering beads of sweat like raindrops on a car window.

Yeonjun doesn’t shrink at the gun, not like before.

The extent of the abuse, what was happening in the walls of your home wasn’t fully known. Yes, they were aware of the beatings you received, saw the bruises in their yellowed splotchy form one too many times. But the sexual assault— they had no idea. You never spoke of it, any of it. They drew their conclusions from the marks littering whatever skin was visible at the time and your extended absence when your husband would appear from thin air and drag you away. It’s no excuse. Not for the blind eye they willingly turned when you needed someone to help you. Not when they easily could have told someone in town, kept their names anonymous to avoid any possible trouble. But they were (still are) on thin ice after what had happened in the wheat and wildflower fields when the moon had disappeared.

Yeonjun felt like he failed to keep his promise. The one he made in the beginning of autumn with a woman that had lost her desire to live.

Your mother.

Soobin and Taehyun don’t know about the promise or the fact that Yeonjun has met your mother. Only once, for a brief moment. You don’t even know. Probably never will.

“Bet that’s why she did it.”

“Did what?” Taehyun carefully inched his way over to Soobin, placing himself as a blockade in front of his mate.

“Fucking jumped into that portal to hell. Saw it with my own two eyes.”

The feeling that washes over the three can only be described as insurmountable dread. They know what is down there— they know who is down there. And now you are there, and more than likely in their hands.

“How many days? How many days has it been since she went into the pit?!” Yeonjun didn’t care that the shotgun was still aimed at him. The terrible churning in his stomach, the nausea that’s been curling around in his gut for the last couple of days, the constant echo of worry— it all made sense.

“Two days. Not too long after Old Man Lee.” Your husband adjusts his shoulders, pops his neck with a satisfied grunt. “Why? Want to join the whore at the bottom? I can gladly send you there, one bullet for each of you.” His finger curls around the trigger, one eye falling shut.

If he had been paying attention to the bigger picture, he’d have noticed that Taehyun was purposely blocking Soobin from being fully seen, of which he took advantage of by dropping down into a crawl and slipping behind the back of the couch. From there, he creeps along until he’s at the other end where a side table sits. There’s a lamp and a wooden statue of a mallard right next to it. He quickly swipes the duck and waits until the man is ready to fire. Soobin rushes from his hiding spot and slams the statue down as hard as he can against the man’s head. It stuns him momentarily, but it’s enough of an opening for Yeonjun to rush forward and shove the gun upwards to face the ceiling. Taehyun quickly joins the three, taking to your husband’s back where he wraps a firmly built arm around his neck.

He’s fighting as much as he can. With one person wrestling for his gun, another repeatedly smashing something into his head and the last restricting his airway— the man can’t seem to figure out who to focus on. Or maybe that’s because his head is beginning to cave in, brain matter in gooey clumps accompanied by inky strands of hair fly around with each strike of the mallard. Could also be the crushing of his windpipe, the lack of oxygen making his lungs shrivel. The shotgun he’d had practically glued to his hand was no longer within his grasp, couldn’t even remember the exact moment when it was taken away. But what he did recall was the feeling of the mouth pressing into his forehead. That wasn’t something anyone could forget.

“You would fit in a lot better than we would down there.” Yeonjun steadies his finger on the trigger, corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “If by chance you survive this, which I don’t think you will but if you do— tell those sick bastards down there that we will be coming for her. One way or another.”

Taehyun moves away in time to avoid being added to the bullet’s body count. Soobin also stumbles far back enough, the mallard in his hands dropped to the floor. Your husband stands there for a moment, hole in his forehead, blood and brain and skull coating any surrounding surfaces. And then he slumps back, hitting the dining room table, the sudden weight tipping it over onto its side. The bullet had blasted the back of his head open and lodged itself into the wooden flooring. Not that it mattered.

Taehyun flicks a piece of fleshy goop from his arm, “Think he saw that coming with his own two eyes?”

“Seriously? You’re joking at a time like this?” Soobin completely ignores the blood coating his hands as he wipes at his eyes with an exasperated sigh.

Yeonjun props the gun against the wall before turning towards his two mates. It felt good in a way, to not only have been right about his growing restlessness but to also have snuffed out the reason for your years of torment. For your mother as well. But as much as he wanted to ride on that feeling, the churning in his gut was still present. They might have killed your monster, but you still remain somewhere down in the pit where other terrible things reside.

You hate to admit that the sight of San nearly made you kiss the toes of his boots. After beating at the door for the nth time in the span of an undisclosed amount of time, wailing and cursing and spitting a menagerie of insults that could turn a person inside out, you found that nobody was outside and that no one was going to release you from the fiery prison of the boiler room. And while you would have loved (not) to continue your wrathful assault on the door some more, the steady dimming of the room as the fire slowly lessened in intensity smacked the less-than nice words of Seonghwa across your sweat-soaked cheeks.

”Keep the fire going. That’s your one and only task. San will come once in the morning and once in the evening to give you food and water and allow you to use the bathroom.”

You have tears in your eyes, blurring his figure in the doorway. It’s not the kind you expel when upset but the ones forced out when trying to lubricate dry eyes, when they get so afflicted by an unbearable amount of hot air. Not that he would be able to tell the difference, or maybe he did but just didn’t care. That was a more plausible conclusion.

“Wait—“ The sound encasing that single word sounds completely foreign to your own ears. That wasn’t your voice, but it was. Dryly stretched and strained, the heat having already wicked away what little moisture was left in your throat. You can’t even recall the last time you had a drink (a proper one; the bath incident could hardly be considered as such).

But Seonghwa remained just as detached as he’s been since the moment you met him.

“Don’t fuck up.” The door is immediately slammed shut and while you scramble towards it like a wild animal caged, the lock is quickly set back into place.

You bang at the door, screaming and cursing and begging all at once. But it was of no use, your fate was sealed in that little room where hell burned in its own containment.

You knew his threat had weight to it. A looming kind of heaviness that bore down on your shoulders. You could play the guessing game as much as you wanted regarding who would be administering the ‘not actually said but definitely there’ punishment. It didn’t even need to be spoken, if you let that fire burn out then you’ll be answering to someone that’ll, most likely, make sure you cease to exist. You scowl, licking at the sweat gathering on the seam of your upper lip.

“Ridiculous— all of this!” You’re up on your feet and stomping over to the shovel, the inanimate object having been watching your freak out with a stiff kind of silence. Not that you were expecting it to start jumping around and talking. But if it did, by some whimsical chance, you’d beg to be put out of your misery.

Any way out, even death, was better than being stuck amongst monsters.

You take the long handle into your hand, pass it a few times between your palms before turning to the mountain of coal. Those lower in the pile reflected the flames from the boiler in shiny flashes of orange and red. You purse your lips, swipe your clothed forearm across your damp forehead. You can’t say you’ve ever had to shovel coal before. Dirt? Sure. Fertilizer? Yeah. The burnt remains of your old life? A couple times. But never coal and never into a boiler.

You’ve grown sticky rather quickly— not damp but tacky to the touch. The clothes given to you have basically become another layer of skin. Clinging, molding to your form as you spear the shovel down into the coal and scoop up a small mountain of the compacted rocks. Then you lift, turn, and with shaky arms from diminished strength carry over the coal to the boiler. Tipping the shovel head sends the pile into the mouth where the flames suddenly roar to life. You yank the hem of the shirt you’ve been loaned up to soak the moisture from your forehead.

The room has grown hotter after the added coal. And it’s then that you realize how damned you are either way around. Don’t add coal, let the fire die, probably get tortured and then murdered. Add coal, room increases in temperature, suffer from heat stroke or dehydration and possibly die somewhere along the line. You slip down onto your backside using the only barren wall in the room, shovel propped up beside you in the same place it was before. The fire was fed for at least a little bit, which gave you a small window of time to just… sit and ruminate.

You wonder if anyone knows you’ve been gone. Your husband does— obviously. Having chased after you that night. He saw you jump into the pit. But did he make mention of that to anyone in town or the mayor? You let a scoff slip. ‘Course not. You knew that sorry excuse for a man wouldn’t dare open his mouth about something like that, if anything, he’s probably shaming you between sloppy gulps of beer.

As if reminded by some quiet force, the ring on your finger becomes painstakingly heavy. You look down at it, just a simple gold band. Not new, previously worn by your mother. Could be considered an heirloom at this point. That nearly makes you laugh. Would be the shortest-lived heirloom in existence. You didn’t want to think about the implications behind those thoughts. What you might never have. Never experience. You aren’t even sure if you’d want—

There’s a jumbling of metal at the door and all of your thoughts are swiftly swatted away. You watch, tense, as the door swings open and a head of blonde hair appears. His eyepatch is brown today. A bit worn and oddly shaped. San looks a bit around the room before lowering his gaze to you, sitting on the floor right beside the shovel. The fire, he observed in his quick sweep, wasn’t as roaring as usually expected but it was clearly fed at some point. Meaning you weren’t a complete idiot with a talent for not following directions.

“Get up.”

You are quick to get to your feet, almost stumbling over the hem of your skirt in the process. Honestly, this wouldn’t be your usual reaction but considering how hot it is in the boiler room and the uncomfortable ache of your full bladder after being stuck in there without access to a bathroom (and you were not about to piss on the floor), you’ve decided in that moment to swallow your stubbornness and do as told. Even if it hurt your pride to listen to any of them.

San steps aside and gestures with his chin for you to step out into the hallway. When you do, passing him as briskly as possible, the man could practically smell the heat clinging to your person. It was heavy, gritty, and soured at the edges by your sweat. It makes his nose twitch.

“Do you need to relieve yourself?” His question is almost robotic in nature.

“Yeah, didn’t want to— you know— soil your floors or anything.” You reply a bit lamely, slightly awkward at having to admit what could have happened if he hadn’t shown up when he did. If it came down to it, you would have no other choice.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen,” He taps a boot against the floorboards, “to the floor.”

Your response is a slow nod and a tight-lipped smile, if you could even call it that. It was more like a straight line that bulged your cheeks out at the sides.

“Right…”

He clears his throat, turns to the door and inserts the key he had used to unlock it. A balm settles over your shoulders, your nerves. The tension eases but doesn’t fully let up. You are free of the boiler room for a little while.

“This way.” San pockets the key and reaches forward to curl a hand around your upper arm— except he’s met by a swift swat about halfway into the space between you and him. He blinks, lips pursing.

You cross your arms over your chest, jutting a stubborn hip out to the side. “I can walk perfectly fine without your assistance. If you can even call being dragged around that.”

“I’m not assisting you. You’re a flight risk and prone to violent outbursts—“

If your jaw could pop off and hit the floor it most certainly would have in that very second— flight risk? Okay, you will give him that. But it’s not like any sane person would blame you for trying to make a break for it at any given opportunity. However— violent outbursts?! You guffaw, stare the man down like he’s suddenly morphed into an overly large rabbit with a basket full of decorative eggs. He’s fucking delusional, you think.

“Are— You— You can’t be serious?! Violent outbursts— Me? Seriously?” You blink rather owlishly. “Then what the hell do you call the way your captain reacts?! If anything, that is a walking-talking violent outburst with a continuously lit fuse.” You swing a hand out, wildly jerking it around as if the gesture would emphasize how absolutely absurd his retort was. “And you— you’re one to talk! In fact, all of you seem to be suffering from some kind of mental disorder—“

There’s a blade at your throat; the very fine point tip aimed right against the main artery running along the side. You wonder briefly when he had pulled that out and how long he’s probably been standing there with it at your neck. You swallow, glancing down at his hand covering the hilt and then up his arm to his face. San’s only emotion is the twitch in his jaw.

“Violent outburst.”

You sputter, “That— That wasn’t a violent outburst! I’m just voicing my frustrations—“

The dagger’s blade digs in just a bit more and you find yourself nearly relieving your bladder on the spot.

“You talk too much. Always needing to have the last word— it pisses me off.” San’s one eye drops to where his dagger is digging into your skin, observing the resistance that your flesh is giving. He knows if he pushes just a little more that the band of taut skin will snap and the blade will sink into the side of your neck. He’s almost tempted— but something unsettling creeps up his spine and down the arm he has drawn outward. Almost similar to that of phantom pains, but rather than an unbearable ache wracking his body, it’s pricklier and heavier. It has a frequency to it. A buzz, right underneath his skin. Sinking deep into his bones.

You stare at him, then down at the dagger and back. You’re not sure what he’s thinking, but his suddenly vacant stare is bothering you the more you stand there. And your bladder isn’t making the situation any better.

“Hey— are… are you—“

San withdraws at the sound of your voice. There’s the shadow of something that passes over his face before he returns the dagger to some undisclosed place on his hip. He looks at you, hard. Like he’s trying to peel each layer of your person away— clothes, skin, muscles, veins and arteries, skeleton, organs. It makes you shift on your bare feet. How could you feel naked while still remaining completely covered? It was strange and brought on a queasy sensation.

“What did you do?” His tone is skeptical.

You chance a look around, befuddled by his question and change in demeanor. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Did you feel it too?”

With every question, there’s a lack of elaboration which leaves you further in the dark. You aren’t sure what he’s talking about and honestly— you really don’t want to know.

“If you mean the knife against my throat than yeah, I felt that. Could have done without it to be honest…” You reach a hand up to rub at the spot while mumbling.

San steps forward, closer, crowding you back against the wall directly across from the boiler room door. He doesn’t touch you, despite how close he is.

“Stop talking.” His tone is stiff but peculiarly soft. Gently demanding. Rough without damage. A bite with no teeth.

You swallow, ball your hands up against the sides of your skirt. It wasn’t much but if he tried anything, you’ll at least be prepared. Nothing a couple erratically thrown punches can’t do especially if the other person wasn’t expecting it.

San drags his gaze from one corner of your face to the other. And then he steps back, putting several feet of space between the both of you. His shoulders are squared and there’s an almost troubled look on his face. You aren’t offered any explanation— not for the cryptic questions or his weird interest in your personal space. But you can sense just by looking at the way he stands that he isn’t satisfied with what he didn’t find in his search.

“I know you said to stop talking but… I really need to use the bathroom.”

The man eyes you quietly for a second before indicating for you to follow his direction with a nod of his head down the hallway. He doesn’t move to grab you. In fact, he seems keener on keeping a good distance from you. Of course, that doesn't mean his only eye isn’t solely zeroed in on every single move you make as you take several hesitant steps in front of him.

Jongho appears suddenly just as the both of you reach the bathroom. He’s rounding a corner quick, nearly clipping it with his shoulder. There’s something off in the way he moves— frantic— like he’s trying to put as much distance between himself and the unknown. He doesn’t spot either of you at first, how could he when it seemed his attention was constantly drawn somewhere over his shoulder.

You notice his wings are drawn rather than folded. They stretch out to the sides, fluttering uncontrollably as he continues to speed down the hall. San is the first to speak, voice laced with confusion.

“Jongho?”

The younger man nearly fumbles over his feet. Jongho looks straightforward, catching sight of both his mate and you, the newly acquired prisoner standing before the entrance to the bathroom with mirroring expressions of puzzlement. He blinks, throws a hand to the wall and quickly spares another look over his shoulder. He doesn’t see anything but he can feel it. Like a heavy force untethered to a physical body— it’s just there, encompassing. Once Jongho begins to move again, it’s more of a hurried shuffle rather than a frenzied rush.

“I don’t want a rehash of last night. I’ll be in there.” You jab a finger at the door before pulling it open and yanking it closed.

San doesn’t say anything to you, but he does move to stand in front of the door once it’s fully shut. Jongho reaches his side in a matter of seconds, breathing uneven and eyes wider than usual.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“San— San something— fuck— something is wrong. We— I—“ Jongho can hardly speak straight. San quickly scoops up the younger’s hands in his own, feeling the way they uncharacteristically shake. He’s afraid— Jongho is never afraid.

“What are you talking about? Did something happen?”

“He’s got this secret room and— and Beomgyu— the spores—“

“Wait— did you just say Beomgyu? Jongho, please calm down I don’t understand what you’re trying to say—“

Both moths freeze at the sound of an eerie whistle. The tune is simple, flat, yet loud. It doesn’t rise nor fall, there’s no switch up, no changing of rhythm. Just one note. Jongho feels that same churning of nausea bubbling inside of his gut. San looks from one end of the hall to the other, expecting to see the source of the sound somewhere within range of sight but there’s no one around but them. His heartbeat, having been relatively calm has suddenly grown volume in his ears.

Something is coming.

San quickly grabs a hold of his wing-bound’s bicep in one hand and the handle of the door in the other. The door had no lock on it, wasn’t seen as important considering it was only the eight of them (nine now counting you) and privacy really wasn’t a big deal. They were all lovers, seen everything there was to be seen. So, with no real effort, yanking the piece of wood open and rushing inside wasn’t met with any sort of resistance.

Except you were in there, sitting on the very outhouse styled toilet near the bronze bathtub. You freeze, straighten from your slump and fist the fabric of your skirt piled in your lap. “What the hell—“

San moves to grab the stool that Seonghwa had used when he was washing your hair and another, bigger chair near the sink. You watch as he drags them over to the door, shoves the back of the bigger one under the handle and the smaller one in the space between. Jongho jumps in to help, tugging over a smaller shelf lined with varying bottles and jars that rattle with every yank and bump against the floor.

“What are you two—“ You try again to get their attention, but it falls to the wayside when San quickly moves to where you are still sitting on the toilet. His gloved hand is sealed over your mouth in the same breath as his reply, “Keep quiet.”

Jongho has taken to your other side, his wings still very much out and nearly smacking you in the head as he moves.

That’s when you feel it. It begins at the bottom of your feet, like the cool water of a lake in early hours of the morning just barely skimming against the skin. And then it crawls, up and up, and you have half a mind to yank your skirt down to try and fend off whatever is skirting up your legs. San can sense a change in your body language, peers down at you while you fidget uncomfortably. It’s bad enough you are already in a vulnerable position but with the added ghost-like touching creeping along your skin it’s amplified tenfold. You want to scream. Want to thrash about. He isn’t here, your husband, but your mind has his name on repeat like a storm siren.

Jongho looks over at San then follows his attention to you— trembling like a leaf. If this was any other situation, he’d have half a mind to laugh at you, maybe mock your fear. But he can’t. Because he’s also riddled with this insurmountable amount of terror.

You look over wildly when something grabs a hold of your skirt and pushes it down to cover your legs. Jongho has kneeled down, refusing to look you in the eyes in favor of keeping his gaze on the door to the bathroom. His hands clasp your own once they are free of your skirt and refuse to let go. San eases a bit closer, nearly pressing up against your side.

Then you hear it— what you didn’t beforehand. The whistle. Loud and linear. Cutting through the air with a single listless note.

Chapter Text

Seonghwa, despite it being his own room, still raps his knuckles against door as if he was entering someone else’s private space. There’s a noise of affirmation and he enters in the next passing second. Wooyoung is sprawled face-down on the bed that Yeosang and the former share, nearly suffocating himself into Seonghwa’s pillow. If this was any other time, he’d probably make a fuss over the scene, but he chooses to bite down his disgruntlement and sit lightly at the foot of the bed just shy of his mate's feet. At least he removed his boots, he thought.

“Wooyoung, I hope you don’t expect me to talk to the back of your head.”

There’s a muffled grumble in response. One of Wooyoung’s feet twitches and it draws Seonghwa’s attention immediately. He curls his pointer finger and uses the second knuckle to dig sharply into the heel of the younger’s foot. Wooyoung is quick to yelp, head flying up and away from the pillow. Seonghwa watches as he rolls over onto his back and scoots himself into an upright position, pout ever-present and foot cradled between his hands. Wooyoung notices a small hole in his sock while he accesses the damage.

“As much as I find you cute when you act like a petulant mothling— right now is not the time for it. I want to know what exactly is going on between you and Yunho.” Seonghwa turns himself slightly to face his mate. It’s an action of listening, one that provides the understanding that he is here as support for his lover.

Wooyoung sighs, leaning back against the oak headboard. “It’s nothing, really. He just… overreacts to just about everything that I do and say. I mean, for moonsake, I can’t even tell him a stupid joke without him finding some fault in it.”

“To be fair, your jokes tend to be more crude than funny. And,” Wooyoung goes to defend himself, but the older moth gives him a stern look to not interrupt, “at the expense of others.”

“No harm in a little teasing.” He mumbles.

Seonghwa shifts a bit closer, wings dragging along the blankets. “Unless the teasing in question happens to have a bit more teeth to it than necessary.” They sit in silence for a few seconds before the older speaks up again. “But this isn’t about a simple joke taken too far. Yunho wouldn’t have resorted to physically attacking you if it was over something as trivial as an insensitive jest.” He nudges the bottom of the same foot he had dug his knuckle into, taking the extra measure to move it and its twin into his lap.

Wooyoung slumps further back against the headboard, arms crossing over his chest while he worries the skin of his lower lip between his teeth.

“I don’t really know when it— when things started to… strain between us. It just kind of happened, gradually. I would say something, and he would either get annoyed or full-blown upset with me.” He looks off to the side as if the other pillow, Yeosang’s, had suddenly become far more interesting than it really was.

“Well, give me the beginning-most catalyst for everything leading up to the incident earlier.”

The younger man hesitates for a moment, waits until he manages to tear a piece of dry skin off his lip and swallow it back into the recesses of his mouth to finally speak. “The human…”

Seonghwa’s back straightens a bit (not that it wasn’t already pole-straight to begin with). “You mean mayfly?”

“I prefer firefly and am honestly disappointed that my choice wasn’t chosen.” Wooyoung huffs, a playful pout slightly irritating the raw skin on his lower lip. He’s deflecting, trying to slither his way into a completely different conversation to avoid the actual discussion at hand. It makes Seonghwa frown.

“Nice try,” Wooyoung deflates, “What does mayfly have anything to do with you and Yunho? Did she say something— do something?”

“No. It isn’t really about her— well— sort of. I mean, she plays a small part but it’s not because of her. She’s just… there and it doesn’t help the situations.” He sighs, “When we went to the city of lights— Yunho and I, that’s when it kind of started boiling over. I found her, made the mistake of assuming she was a birdling, got us into trouble with Hongjoong.”

Oh, Seonghwa is quite aware of what had happened. He saw it with his own two eyes and then later heard the full reasoning for Hongjoong’s temper in the brig. Wooyoung and Yunho weren’t just out and about in the city of lights for an afternoon stroll; they were chosen for a search-and-find mission. And while they did find something, it wasn’t exactly what they were supposed to be taking back with them.

“You are skipping over details, Wooyoung.” Seonghwa lifts a brow, and Wooyoung sags.

“I didn’t mean it or anything— honestly! It was just a joke… sort of. She called Yunho my ‘boyfriend’ and I just acted in denial over it. I didn’t think he took it to heart and at first it didn’t seem like he had but then we got to the landing and Hongjoong came over the wrist projector and started chewing us out— more him than me— saying that he practically expects me to screw things up but he’s more disappointed in Yunho— which, okay, that stings. Like I’m not that big of a fuck-up.” His head rolls back and thumps against the headboard. “That just… made his mood sour to the point that it was noticeable. Then the brig shit happened, and it was okay— at least I thought it was. We talked, made up after he was released from the cell.”

Something bitter settles over Wooyoung’s face, his expression twisting into a tight knot. “I figured we’d sleep on it. But he fucking ran off to go clean Hongjoong’s boots for the night. Lied about it too, said he was just ‘going for a walk, he’ll be back’.” He scoffs, the muscles in his jaw working beneath his skin enough to create a steady ripple. Seonghwa chooses to ignore it.

The older moth decides to keep his very brief encounter with Yunho out in the hall right in front of Hongjoong’s room to himself. It wasn’t important. And he figured that if he mentioned it that it’ll only further upset the younger man.

“Is that why you let mayfly sleep in your room?”

Wooyoung rights his head but not before shaking it, “No. I had fallen asleep, woke up a little while later and decided that I could use a walk. It wasn’t like I was going anywhere specific. But I heard some noises in the dining hall and went to check it out. Found San, Jongho and her in there. Hwa, Jongho was practically sending her through the floor with his boot. She was face down in the dinner I had made and Jongho was standing over her and San was standing on the side watching. It was fucked up!” He throws his hands up and then lets them fall down atop of his thighs with a dull ‘smack’.

“I know we aren’t saints, not by a long shot. But it bothered me. And yeah, maybe it’s because I felt guilty since I’m the reason why she’s even here to begin with. If I would’ve just left her there in the city of lights…” He falters in his sentence like he doesn’t quite like the sound of it falling from his own mouth.

Seonghwa reaches a hand out and lightly lays it along the curve of Wooyoung’s knee. It’s grounding enough for the younger to seek the warmth out with his own hand, placing it on top of the former’s and forcing their fingers to intertwine.

“I don’t condone what our mates did and didn’t do. But mayfly does have a tendency to be… stubborn at worst. It gets her into more trouble than needed— for her own sake.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“No. it doesn’t.”

Wooyoung decides to drop his attention to their fingers, the way they wrap and curl around each other. Almost the appendages are afraid to part from one another. It makes the corners of his lips twitch.

“She passed out before we even got to the bedroom. You know, some of her kind would find that as an instant mood killer if we were up there.” He untangles a single finger to point upwards, lips pursing sideways. Seonghwa can’t help but playfully roll his eyes, huffing behind his own shadow of a smile.

“And how would you know that?”

“Mingi told me.”

“Mingi told you? And how would he know that?”

“I’m sure the delusions told him. You know, the one’s he has when he wants to seem more knowledgeable than the rest of us.” Wooyoung gives a little laugh that has Seonghwa joining in. The mood has lightened a bit, or at least enough that it doesn’t feel as suffocating as before.

“He does have quite the mind for entertaining all things grandeur.”

They settle into a comfortable silence for a moment. It’s nice. Calm even. Until Wooyoung continues on and the mood changes once more.

“I didn’t sleep with her or anything, just so you know. When I got her to the bedroom, I dumped her onto the bed and left her there.”

“Where’d you sleep if not in the bed with her?”

“Recliner. Wasn’t so bad, although it did make my hips feel stiff. Eventually I woke up, and she woke up and I might have said some distasteful things which caused her to tackle me… and the chair. We were kind of just, on the ground at that point.” He pauses, thumbing at the wrinkles on Seonghwa’s knuckles.

“What were you doing on the ground?”

Wooyoung shrugs, “Wouldn’t really call it fighting but man, she’s got a grip. I swear she could have scalped me if she was in a better position.” Seonghwa recognizes his mate’s habit of making things into a joke even when the situation at hand wasn’t funny to begin with. It’s his own way of avoidance.

“And where is Yunho during all of this?”

“Where do you think?”

In Hongjoong’s room, between burgundy sheets reeking of the ‘walk’ he said he was going on. Seonghwa once again keeps what he knows to himself.

“But he eventually comes around, right? That’s why his mood was off this morning during first meal.”

“Oh yeah, shows up like the fucking light of day right in the middle of firefly and me on the floor.” Wooyoung absentmindedly fiddles with Seonghwa’s fingers, lifting one up, dropping it and repeat. “Has this look on his face, like the world just collapsed right on top of his wings. Not like anything pitiful— livid. Can’t say it didn’t feel good to see him like that— angry, hurt— just like I was. And then he starts throwing threats around— at me, at her. Even goes as far as to put his hands on firefly when she started choking me—“

Seonghwa’s eyes narrow, “She choked you?”

“In her defense, I did make a rather… distasteful comment. It wasn’t really aimed at her, but you know, she’s there. I just wanted to dig the knife deeper.”

There’s a huff followed by a sardonic chuckle. “What do you think, Yunnie?” Wooyoung rolls onto his side, head propped against his palm. “I felt oh-so terrible about getting the poor thing into this mess that I decided to fuck her silly in our bed until our blankets smell like nothing but her sopping wet pus— ACK!” You’ve got your hands around his neck before he could finish whatever depraved lies he felt compelled to spew. He’s floundering a bit, gaping like a freshly caught fish on a riverbank, smack and clawing at your forearms.

“Shut up— Shut up— Shut up—“

Wooyoung was beginning to turn a rather angry red when you were suddenly yanked off of him and thrown harshly to the side. Your same shoulder from before hits the floor and the settled ache flares into a stronger eruption of pain. Yunho stands over you like a beast in the darkest corners of a dreary forest. His shoulders are squared and broadened by his anger, chest expanding with each strong breath— in and out— but nothing compared to the utter distain in his eyes. He hardly looked like the man you initially met, not unkind but definitely weary of you. Now he appeared as someone with a deep-seated hatred, aimed at you, only for you.

Wooyoung’s coughing from the side, rolled back onto his back and wheezing towards the ceiling.

“Touch him again and I’ll fucking throttle you into the ground.”

He recounts the altercation with a roll of his eyes, “It kind of simmered down a bit after that, not too much though. Told him he shouldn’t act like he cares and then Sannie appeared, asked something that pissed him off some more.”

“And what did he ask?”

Wooyoung, for the first time since the entire discussion began, looked Seonghwa in the eyes.

“He wanted to know if I was finished using her.” There’s a twinkle in his eye, like he’s trying to keep his amusement tampered down lest the older man pinches his leg or digs his knuckle into the bottom of his foot again. Seonghwa still frowns, however.

“Yeah, asked that right in front of Yunho. I thought his head would explode on the spot but he just… stormed out of the room. Sannie whisked away firefly to her bath and that was it for the meantime, well, almost it. I went to the kitchen to start cooking and Mingi was already there getting things gathered up.” Wooyoung refrains from spilling that he and Mingi had fucked against the counter— despite Seonghwa’s rule against sexual intimacy near any food prep or otherwise.

But he does bring up the conversation him and Mingi had.

“Mingi thinks Hongjoong is going to replace him with her. Had a whole fit about it while in the middle of cooking.”

Seonghwa looks appalled, “That’s nonsense— Hongjoong would never replace Mingi, not for anyone.”

“That’s what I said! But he just… he wouldn’t really listen. I mean, I guess he did eventually, but I could see it in his eyes that he wasn’t fully convinced.”

“He should know better than—“ Seonghwa pauses, blinks and then fixes a not-so impressed look at his mate, who is none the wiser. It was a good try, even better than the first couple times and that was only because he used Mingi as his scapegoat. Even if the conversation did transpire (of which it did), that was not the sole focus of why Seonghwa had made Wooyoung come to his room to talk privately.

“Bastard—“ The older moth lunges forward to weakly punch his younger lover in the shoulder, earning him a very fake moan of pain. Wooyoung rubs his shoulder sheepishly.

“Okay! My bad— won’t happen again.” He waits until Seonghwa is settled, and his hands are nowhere near punching distance to his arm before continuing the last leg of everything between him and Yunho.

“First meal was served; we all were there. I don’t think I really have to rehash any of that but after you left with firefly and Hongjoong with Yeosang, San and Jongho, it was just me, Yunho and Mingi. Nothing was said at first. But then he got up and tried to leave and maybe I might have scoffed.” Wooyoung glances over at Seonghwa to see a very unimpressed look staring right back at him. It makes him groan like a fussy child. He knows— fuck, does he know. He’s the instigator, the one who poked the wasp's nest with a stick and tried to play it off like he was certainly not provoking the consequences into happening.

“Wooyoung.” His name comes out gentle yet stern. Seonghwa purses his lips and shakes his head. He felt like a mother with a troublesome mothling.

“Please, spare me the lecture. I know I shouldn’t have riled him up but— but I’m hurt too!” Wooyoung pushes himself off the bed and paces a few feet away. His wings have bristled, puffed up across his back. “He makes me feel like a fucking screw up. I can’t do anything without him looking down on me, judging me. He used to never be like that, Hwa.” Wooyoung releases a shaky sigh, hand raising to run a quick path through his long hair. “I can’t even remember the last time he looked at me like he loved me, told me that he loved me.” And then he turns, lip worrying between teeth. Seonghwa’s stomach churns seeing the glassy glaze over his lover’s eyes.

“He told me he wished he never met me. My own fucking wing-bound, eternal bond, blessed by our mother moon regretted ever meeting me— ever being tied to me through blood and spirit.” The tears have pooled over from their almost still-like lake to a rumbling waterfall. Their paths carved out the hurt and pain and emotional burden kept buried under teasing jabs and cheeky smiles. The moth shook where he stood, folding somewhat into himself as the vulnerability brought on by the opening of unaddressed wounds visualized. “Who the fuck says that to someone they love?”

Seonghwa was up on his feet and swooping to envelop his younger mate within his arms. His cheek rested against soft yet slightly greasy hair, body lightly rocking the two of them from side to side. It seemed things were more complicated than he thought. And while there was— is a lot to digest, one thing is for certain.

There is plenty to fault but no one to blame.

You truly feel like you could empty your bladder again. With how tight your muscles are drawn up, legs shaking from the tension and breathing harsh behind San’s gloved hand. There’s sweat beading along the expanse of your skin as you sit there, bare under the skirt Jongho situated back down over your legs. It’s an uncomfortable feeling having your entire backside out with only the toilet opening to keep everything from being seen.

But that’s the least of your problems.

The whistle has grown closer, nearly reaching the door to the bathroom. You fumble to grip the hand that Jongho has placed onto your’s. If this was any other time, you’d have told him not to touch you, but you didn’t feel compelled to lash out while danger clearly lurked beyond the walls of where the three of you were hiding. For now, you reason, the animosity between the two of you can be placed on a brief hold.

San lowers himself quietly, pressing his mouth against your ear. “I’m going to remove my hand, don’t make a sound.” He waits until you nod before withdrawing his hand from over your mouth.

The three of you wait in silence, bated breaths bitten back, bodies drawn tight in anticipation. The whistle, with its singular note, had reached the door. It played and played— dragging more and more along. But the door was never tampered with, nothing jiggled the knob or beat restlessly at the wood. Whatever or whoever just stood there— whistling. But you saw it. The small inch of space at the bottom of the door separating it from the floor where light from the hallway could be seen had dimmed into two sections of darkness. You squeeze Jongho’s hand twice, catching his immediate attention before jerking your chin towards the bottom of the entrance.

Throwing caution to the wind, you whisper, “Someone's standing at the door.”

San’s eyes drop at the same time as Jongho’s, zeroing in on the stagnant shadow. And then it stretches, grows, elongates across the floor like whatever was standing behind the door was growing bigger in size. You watch as it completely eclipses the remaining light from the hall, morphs into unidentifiable shapes that undulate erratically. You’re reminded of the rat snakes that would get into the long-dead flowerbeds sandwiching the house. The way they slithered, body’s coiling, tails curling. After your father died, you remember spending hours just watching them weaving in and out between the brush and your mother’s begonias while she kept her new husband preoccupied. You swallow down the sour taste building up at the back of your throat.

The shadow consumes the entirety of the floor and then crawls itself up the opposite wall from the door. There’s no deciphering its shape, the mass of it constantly changing to form into something else— look like something else.

The way it moves— like a sniffing dog— you realize it’s searching for whoever is in the bathroom. But how that’s even possible is lost on you. It’s a shadow, it has no form, no substance to it. Certainly nothing that could give it any sort of living quality— like sight, smell, taste, touch.

And then it stops— the whistling, the movement. And so does your breathing. Jongho has your fingers crushed within his grip while San remains motionless to your left. It seems all three of you can do nothing but watch and wait. Voices, beyond the rapid thumping of your heart can be heard from outside. Unintelligible murmurs drift back and forth from out in the hallway and after a grueling moment, what is left of the shadow beneath the door slips away.

Nobody moves, not immediately at least. And it isn’t for several long dragging minutes that San drifts away slowly from your side and towards the door. Despite the boots he wears, his footfall is quiet, restrained. Jongho pulls his hand out of yours and moves away to follow several steps after his mate. You are left on the toilet. It takes you a good second or two to kick into action— off to the side there’s a pile of old rags neatly folded into dainty little squares. Of course they wouldn’t have toilet paper, you think begrudgingly, nabbing one of the fabric squares and quickly unfolding it. You spare a quick look at the men to make sure their backs are still facing towards you before tipping forward and reaching back and down.

San looks to Jongho, lifting a finger to his lips and then using the same one to point at the furniture they had haphazardly piled against the door. Jongho nods, kneeling down to grab the shelf first. San aids in the lift and carry of the furniture, careful to take steady steps to avoid the jars from either falling off and breaking or shaking enough that the clinking of glass draws attention.

You toss the fabric square into a basket marked ‘disposal’ tucked out of sight behind the toilet. To say you feel grubby is an understatement. Despite having taken a bath earlier in the day, you felt just as dirty as you did when you first crash landed in the city with the stringed lights. Your underwear is swiftly tugged up and situated back around your hips from under your skirt. There’s a burn of embarrassment spreading from the base of your throat all the way to your scalp. It’s itchy and suffocating.

San and Jongho merely shove the chair and stool away from the door, freeing the only exit out of the bathroom. You near them, “Do you think it’s still out there— whatever it is?”

The question isn’t really aimed at anyone specific, but San does end up replying, “I don’t know.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Jongho rolls his eyes, “We can’t see through walls, mayfly. Try to be at least a bit understanding, yeah?” He speaks to you like one would a child— condescending and down his button nose.

“Don’t call me that, asshole—“ You fix him with a glare that he all but rebuffs with a dismissive hand. It’s odd to think that just mere moments ago he was holding your hand in the throes of fear. Now he was very much back to being the prick he was beforehand.

“Or what? You’ll have Wooyoung come and save you again?”

Before you can open your mouth to fire off something that’ll surely having him put your head through the wall, San makes a quick hushing sound as he cracks open the bathroom door. You and Jongho fall silent without any fuss. You watch as the man peeks his head out slowly, turning to peer down one end of the hall to the next. What you can’t see, however, is the tail end of a door closing not too far from where the three of you are. But he does. And something curls in his stomach at the familiarity of it.

“Well?” You take to whispering just in case there is something out there still.

San shakes his head and pulls the door open to its widest point. “Nothing. Coast is clear.”

Jongho practically shoves you out of the way when you go to follow after San, casting a barely concealed sneer in your direction. You glare right back at him, hoping he could feel the holes burning into the back of his head. The hallway is clear, oddly enough. There’s no sign of anything even being out there, not a scuff against the floorboards or a stain soaked into the wall. Everything is as it was before you had entered the bathroom.

“Okay— I just, I’ve got to get this off my chest. What the fuck is going on here?! What was that—?” You look to Jongho.

“As if I know! Look, little miss doubter, I’m just as much in the fucking dark as you. I have no clue what that was or where it came from—“

“Bullshit! You were running from it before you stumbled upon us.” You jab an accusatory finger in his direction.

Jongho scowls, “And that automatically means I took a little look while I was trying to get away?! Do you realize how stupid you sound?” He runs a hand through his hair, gripping the dark clumps for a moment before dropping his hand back to his side. “I didn’t even know it was there until I got closer to the hallway you both happened to be in. It was like— it just appeared from nowhere.”

“What were you running from then, Jongho?” San fixes his mate with a probing look. “If not that— thing— then what?”

Something conflicted passes across the younger moth's face and it’s clear in that moment that he’s withholding information. You squint at him, “You do know—“ But before you can far in your accusation, Jongho quickly butts in.

“I don’t— what that was, I don’t know. I swear I don’t. But…” He scrubs his hands against his eyes, a shuddered sigh escaping past his lips. “There’s something— Hongjoong is hiding something and it’s terrible and— fuck— I was running because I was scared and he— Sannie, he isn’t right. That’s not our captain.”

San stares at Jongho like he’s spewed the most damning words imaginable. And you realize a bit too late that the older moth has the same dagger he’d pulled on you earlier in his hand.

“How can… How can you say that? Hongjoong is our mate.”

“He’s got fucking Beomgyu chained to the ceiling and those spores? He’s been feeding them into—“

“You’re speaking way out of line, Jongho. Do you not hear yourself?! Beomgyu is dead, has been for years!”

The cold starts from the bottom of your feet and creeps up and up along your skin. It’s different from what you felt in the bathroom. This wasn’t manipulated in any way by some outside force. It was from the numbing fog overtaking your senses, the kind that fills up every corner and crevice in one’s body with an almost empty desensitization. You stand there motionless. Desperately you wanted to believe you heard wrong, that perhaps the Beomgyu in question was a completely different person from the one you know— knew.

But deep down, no matter how hard you tried, there was no amount of convincing that could change the revelation. Your world tilts and comes crashing down all at once.

They know who Beomgyu is.

And he’s dead.

After Seonghwa had dismissed him, Mingi decided to retreat to his and Hongjoong’s room— the captain’s quarters. It was empty, as expected. The captain would be preoccupied at that moment with whatever mission he was planning on sending San and Yeosang out on.

Technically, it was also his bedroom as well. But Mingi stays in his other mates' rooms more often than not as of late. Not by his own choice, of course. He’d rather sleep in his bed, in his room, with his wing-bound. But Hongjoong is always ready to send him elsewhere, sitting casually against the lip of his mahogany desk, pipe in hand with a lazy smile twisting at the corners of his lips. He’ll have whoever he’s chosen to stay with him (usually Yunho) stand as a barricade in the entrance and deliver the message of his dismissal. If he ever felt like a wounded beetle, legs broken or wings plucked, it was those moments.

But he was alone. And while he would have liked to have his lover in his company— it felt nice just to be able to exist within his own space without fear of being banished away.

Mingi casually shuffled around, going from the fireplace that only held the remains of burnt twigs and random wood scraps— no fire in sight. Then over to the shelves housing dusty books and trinkets both found and made. He eyed one that he remembered finding about three years ago while on a search-and-gather mission with Seonghwa. They both had separated for better ground coverage, the older moth heading through the plethora of alleyways while Mingi chose to keep to the long line of abandoned storefronts. It was then, that he saw it. Displayed in the window behind the gathering of brown dust was a small boat of sorts. Its sails were black and the wood of the body dark and rich. He debated on whether or not it was a need or a want and settled that it was in fact both. A need to have and then give to his mate in hopes of being seen. A want to be acknowledged by Hongjoong, to be loved even if it is just fleeting.

There’s a swelling of bitterness expanding within his chest, he looks away from the object and the memory dissipates. Hongjoong had taken the ship from his hand, looked at him through the cloud of smoke billowing past his lips and told him around the thin end of his pipe…

“Are you so desperate to be loved that you will exchange whatever you scavenge for it like currency? I wasn’t aware of just how pathetic my wing-bound was.”

And yet, there is the ship. With a it’s tar black sails and rich colored wood, gathering a layer of dust front and center on the shelf. Mingi continues his dawdling— reading book titles he doesn’t recognize, fiddling with rolled up maps and even going as far as straightening a few random pictures on the walls. They have nothing in them, whatever used to take up the space within the frames either damaged beyond repair or removed by Hongjoong himself.

Mingi turns and nears the desk that Hongjoong is often found sitting behind. Atop of the surface is a menagerie of papers covered in scribbles— mostly writing stretching from one edge to another with some diagrams and a messy sketch here and there. A ship, much like the one on the shelf, a cube smeared in red— he shuffles some of the parchment aside to see what else his lover has been doodling. It’s a funny thought to entertain. Hongjoong, beautifully cruel with a flair for the dramatic’s, hunched over with his favored quill and nature-made dyes, aimlessly scribbling under the glow of an oil lamp. He imagines his tongue slightly peeking out from between his teeth, a childish glimmer in his eyes. He’d look soft, younger than his years, far more delicate and sweeter. Approachable, even. A smile stretches across Mingi’s own lips. But it quickly falls no sooner than it appears, his finger that he was using to lightly move the papers around stops at the sight of an all-too familiar artifact.

An hourglass.

The drawing nearly takes up the entire page, slightly tilting to the side as if midway through being flipped. The sand inside, small granules bunched together by repeated stippling, falls off a linear path to instead race down the form of the rounded glass and down into the skinny center. There’s already a mound of the sediment at the bottom. Mingi traces over the line work with his finger, eyes following each trail closely. It’s when he reaches the bottom right-hand corner that he notices a small bit of wording. The ink is rather dark, smeared, and the lettering appears a bit thicker than normal. It was written with a heavier hand than necessary.

’She has it. Why does she have it?’

Mingi’s brows furrow, lips parting a smidgen to let his tongue out to wet the dry skin.

“She…?” He mutters to himself, glancing through the other papers again just in case he missed something but there was nothing else to further elaborate on the matter.

The moth glances about for a second, as if waiting for Hongjoong to suddenly appear and give him hell for snooping but his mate doesn’t manifest out of thin air and he’s thankful for once. It’s a risky thing to do but something tells him that he needs to do it. Mingi takes the drawing of the hourglass and folds it until it is a nice little compact square then bends down to quickly unlace his boots. He’s learned after many years of being surrounded by seven other nosey moths, that simply pocketing something in secret wouldn’t last long as such. It’ll be sniffed out within seconds and easily in the hands of someone else.

Wooyoung actually tipped him off on hiding things in his boot but more specifically, under his foot.

”Nobody can tell if you have something stowed away in there. Unless it’s huge and makes you walk weird.”

Mingi pulls his foot out from his boot and drops the paper square down into the bottom. He returns his foot back inside with a couple of stomps, the paper easily felt underneath his sole as he quickly re-ties the laces until they are secured tightly.

When he rights himself, he feels a strange sensation within his ears. It starts off as a faint almost indecipherable buzzing. Mingi tilts his head, gives it a shake from side to side. But the overall feeling increases, going from the lightest of vibrations to full blown static. He cringes, sticks his fingers in his ears and gives them a wiggle. But that does nothing to stop the sound. It’s like his head is filled with thousands of active bees. Mingi stumbles away from behind the desk and closer to the door he had entered through.

At his approach, the buzzing increases. There’s a bubbling of panic within his chest, spreading down into his fingertips and up his neck. He doesn’t want to entertain the outrageous thought that Hongjoong had tampered with the papers just in case someone came sniffing around. Or that he had released something into the air when Mingi was bent over and—

The frequency suddenly jumps and the outlandish thoughts he was spiraling with practically melted out of his ears. Mingi all but slams into the door, hands covering his ears. He lets out a distressed whine before removing one hand to fumble with the door handle. The door eventually comes open with a singular jerk and the man goes stumbling out into the hall.

All at once the buzzing stops. There’s no fade out in the sound, no gradual shift into silence. It just stops. Mingi stands there blinking frantically, hands pressed hard over his ears.

Something off to the right moves and he’s quick to turn in its direction.

Sauntering towards him is no other than his wing-bound, Hongjoong. He looks at Mingi with this curious twinkle in his eyes, lips curled at the corners. Mingi looks past his approaching form and sees that the hall is completely empty aside from them.

“Hongjoong?”

“Mingi, what are you doing out here?” The older moth stops at his side, peering up at him through thick lashes. There’s something… slightly off-putting about him. Mingi can’t quite pinpoint it but the way he carries himself, his posture a bit too uniformed even for the captain who normally held himself with a lack of propriety. He stood too straight, too forced into a rigid stance.

“I was just—“ Mingi drops his hands from his ears slowly, just in case the sound comes back with a vengeance (not that covering his ears really helped in the end). “Did you hear that?”

“Hm? Hear what?”

“The… The buzzing— it was so loud and when I got closer to the hall it sounded like it was out here but…” He once again glances around as if to confirm for a second time that there is nothing else around.

Hongjoong simply hums, “I didn’t hear anything.”

Mingi audibly gulps, nodding weakly. He wants desperately to just forget about it but for some reason it attaches itself to the forefront of his mind. Even when Hongjoong loops his arm through one of his and tugs him back towards the confines of the captain’s quarters, something that would usually make him forget about everything and anything and fill him with such a fuzzy feeling has the complete opposite effect.

His skin feels uncomfortable from beneath his clothing. But more specifically, where Hongjoong’s arm twists around his own. Perhaps it’s his mind playing tricks on him or the remaining adrenaline still sticking to him, but he swears the sensation on his skin is actually his own flesh trying to move as far away from the other moth as possible.

“Join me.”

It wasn’t a question but a demand with zero room for rejection.

“Okay.”

Mingi for once wishes he was sent away.

The workshop had a bit of a burnt metal smell to it that made Seonghwa immediately wrinkle his nose. There are wires hanging hazardously from the ceiling, some of them sparking at their frayed ends. Gears, metal piping, metal scraps, rusted parts, main frames and just about every possible piece of junk one could find had their own separate piles from one end of the shop to the next. In the center of it are two long silver tables piled with random blueprints and half-finished projects. That’s where Yunho is sitting, fiddling with some amalgamation of metal. He doesn’t look over at Seonghwa nor does he offer a noise of acknowledgement.

But he knows he’s there. The energy in rooms shift when the older moth enters— in a good way.

“You were supposed to be at Yeosang’s post.”

“Had things to do here.” Which he certainly didn’t.

Seonghwa pulls the stool out from under the table right beside Yunho, slipping onto it carefully and without a word. He merely watches Yunho; hands folded in his lap. Observes the way he tinkers, picks up a wrench, gives a bolt a twist, puts the wrench down, picks up a screwdriver, tightens a screw, puts the screwdriver down—

“Sorry, it’s a mess in here.” Yunho mumbles after feeling the steady warmth of Seonghwa’s gaze on him.

“I expect nothing less.”

What was hardly a conversation to begin with quickly fizzles out into awkward silence. Yunho continues his fiddling (which is just him loosening and tightening the same bolts and screws over and over— Seonghwa has caught onto his attempt at trying to look like he’s doing something productive), appearing concentrated but his fingers tell more than he is willing. They fumble when grabbing any of the tools he has laid out, hesitating as if he has to think twice on if he already ‘fixed’ that bolt or not. But more specifically, if Seonghwa had already watched him loosen and retighten for the fourth time in a row. Just like how Wooyoung uses jokes as a diversion, Yunho does this— fakes his busywork.

Neither one of them are particularly good at it.

When Yunho puts down the wrench again, Seonghwa takes it as his opportunity to weasel the conversation into motion.

“Will you not give bolt number five another tightening? I only see it as fair that it gets the same amount of attention as bolt number one and bolt number seven who has both been loosened eight times and tightened nine. Right now, number five currently sits at an eight to seven ratio.” Seonghwa unfolds his hands to point a finger at the aforementioned bolt, his tone casual as if discussing something trivial.

Yunho sighs, “Okay, I get it. You want me to talk and—“

“No, I don’t think you do. What I want is for your full indiscretion on the matter that took place in the dining hall. Furthermore,” Seonghwa leans back, arms crossing over his chest. “I want honesty, Yunho.”

“Wooyoung ran his mouth like he always does, and it pissed me off. There. Is that honest enough for you, Hwa?” His nostrils were flaring at the same time as the ticking in his jaw. “He did— does— what he does best. Dig where it hurts until the person can’t take it anymore and lashes out.”

“Is that really what happened? He said a couple of choice words and so that, in your mind, is enough of a reason to get physical with him? Yunho, I refuse to believe that.” Seonghwa rises to his feet, but he doesn’t move to leave, he remains standing, leaning his hip against the edge of the shop table. “I went to Wooyoung and I heard his side. I am giving you the chance to give me yours as well.”

Yunho scoffs, “What’s the point? His web is spun and I’m sure every bit of the blame is on me.”

“The point is that our mate— your wing-bound— feels like he is no longer loved by you. That you have all but carved out his place in your heart and now it is left to fester while he is thrown into a pile of worthless junk. That’s the fucking point!” Seonghwa slams his tightly closed hand down onto the table in a rare moment of anger. Never one to suddenly jump off the deep end of an emotional cliff, the older moth had better control over his emotions even during the heat of things. But as of late, he’ll even admit as such, that his hold on his own feelings have begun to slip.

He wasn’t Hongjoong by any means, but his temper was beginning to increase tenfold.

Yunho looked up at Seonghwa with wide eyes, lips parted slightly in mild surprise.

“Talk. Now.”

A cleared throat and a hesitant shift on his own stool and the floodgates slowly opened. “You know Wooyoung and I have always had our differences just as much as we have our commonalities. I love him— I do. But… I just wish for once that he could take us seriously.”

“Do you feel like he sees your bond as a joke?”

“Not really. It's more like… he sees me as joke.” Yunho visibly sags on the spot, shoulders curling forward and head dropping until his chin is touching his chest. Seonghwa immediately sits back down onto his stool. He doesn’t want to assume anything, but he feels that he has managed to get through his mate’s stubbornness.

“And why do you think that?”

“He can never just say outright that we’re bonded. I mean, he freaking denied that we were together to the human!” Yunho shoots a hand out and throws it to the side in a semi-wide sweep, narrowly avoiding hitting Seonghwa in the head. “That made me feel like he doesn’t see me— see us— as serious. If he can just write off our mated ties like that in front of a complete stranger and not see anything wrong, then how does he view our relationship within our group?”

He’s breathing a bit erratically, words rushing out as verbal vomit. Yunho tilts his head back, staring up at the wires dangling from the ceiling like they had all the answers he needed. Seonghwa looks at him just as he did Wooyoung— quietly tender.

“Wooyoung said that you told him you wished you never met him. Is that true?”

“I did… say that.” He rights his head and turns to look at the older moth. “But I never meant it. I was just speaking out of hurt and… I love him. Fuck, do I love him. And I know what I did in the dining hall was wrong.” Yunho shudders, his wings shaking like dead autumn leaves. “Staying with Hongjoong last night, that was a mistake I wish I could take back. But some part of me at that moment was desperate to feel like I was actually wanted. That someone would love me without fault, without feeling ashamed of having me as a mate.”

Seonghwa places a hand on his head, softly patting at the fluffy hair on his crown.

“I won’t shame you for feeling the way that you do. But going to Hongjoong, as much as he is our mate, was probably the worst choice you could have chosen.” He didn’t elaborate, in fact none was needed.

“Yeah…” Yunho nods, and then clears his throat, “So what’s the verdict then? Guilty on all accounts?” His humor was met with an unimpressed eye roll and a swift smack to the top of his head.

“The only guilty party here is how terribly insecure the both of you are. Emotional constipation has a face and I’m afraid it is yours and his combined.” Seonghwa slips to his feet again and shuffles his stool under the table. Yunho watches him with that same wide-eyed expression.

“Wait— didn’t you want to hear the rest of my side?”

The older man has already parted for the workshop doors, boots lightly thumping with each step. “I’ve heard everything I needed to hear. See you at last meal.” He disappears through the doors with a light wave of his hand. Truth be told, he didn’t need to hear everything again. He just wanted Yunho to fold under his guilt and bare his reasoning for his actions. Both of their words were in earnest, there was no denying that. Equally hurt, misunderstood and insecure.

Seonghwa didn’t think beforehand that there was anyone to blame— not outright, at least. But now, he can settle on the fact at hand—

Both of his mates are irrevocably stupid.

Chapter Text

“That… That can’t be true—“

“Oh, but it is.”

Mingi feels like he is balancing precariously on a cliffs edge, teetering to and fro’ with the passing caress of a summer’s breeze. He’s sitting in one of the ornate chairs positioned across from Hongjoong’s desk, hands gathering sweat with how hard he’s clutching at the armrests. Hongjoong, in all his glory, is kicked back in his own seat, feet crossed and comfortably suspended with the help of the desk edge. His pipe is in his hand, freshly dumped of the old substance and stuffed with the new, bowl of it lit by a broken match found in one of the top desk drawers.

“Jongho wouldn’t… he would never make up things about anyone, especially his own mates. That can’t be true— you must have heard wrong or— or—“

Hongjoong laughs, hard exhales that sound abnormal. “No, I didn’t hear wrong. In fact,” He swivels a bit in his chair until his feet are firmly planted on the floor and his elbows are dropped atop of the scattering of papers across his desk. “I’m never wrong. If I said that good for nothing worm has been smearing dirt on my name and poisoning this crew with lies regarding my character than it is the fucking truth!” In one fell swoop his lower arm collides against the desk and drags outward sending papers and books and the quill he uses scattering to the side and down onto the wooden floorboards. Mingi stiffens, his foot pressing harder against the folded square in his boot.

“Ah… ha-ha, I see.” The older moth slumps back into his chair, hand not holding the pipe running haggard trails through his fawn-colored hair. “He’s gotten to you, hasn’t he? Whispered terrible things about me, filled you with his potent venom, overtaken your mind with his pretty little words. What did he say, hm? What did he promise?”

Mingi is caught in a net that he isn’t so sure on how to get out of. He continues to deny, to blabber confusedly about no such ‘promises’ no such ‘venom’ brought forth by Jongho. He hasn’t even spoken to the moth, only crossing paths at first meal and then separating for the day. He feels like he’s being fed into believing things that aren’t real, that haven’t happened. Each rattle off flowing from between Hongjoong’s lips, riding the smoke billowing around every formed word and crashing straight into his skin. He can feel them melt, soak beyond the outer layers of his body and down into muscle and blood and bone until—

“STOP IT! STOP SAYING THOSE BASELESS THINGS ABOUT HIM!” Mingi is up on his feet in a flurry of heavy footfall and numbed legs. He can’t feel himself. Can’t decipher if he’s the one truly yelling or if it is someone else having overtaken his body just for the briefest of moments. Was this what it was like to be brave?

He watches as Hongjoong cocks his head to the side, an impish smile curling dangerously at the corners of his lips. Underneath the paper-thin skin of his lover's forehead appears a vein, restlessly writhing as if searching for an escape. Mingi focuses on it and then blinks— it’s gone within that split second.

“Oh good. I was beginning to think you were going to tremble yourself into a moth slurry. Or piss yourself. Either one would have been entertaining to see.” Hongjoong’s entire being is completely wiped of his earlier pessimism and instead replaced by an almost lazy bearing.

“W— What?”

The older moth kicks himself up onto his feet and out of his chair, strutting around the side of his desk until he’s directly in front of it and toe to toe with Mingi. He takes a long drag of his pipe without ever breaking eye-contact with his lover. And on the exhale of a large cloud of smoke, does he speak.

“You are weak, Mingi. A fragile little thing that can only cower when faced with upsetting circumstances. You try as hard as you can to stand proud, to appear strong and unaffected when,” Hongjoong leans forward, the ringed fingers on his empty hand lightly dragging up Mingi’s chest, dipping slightly into the window of skin his shirt leaves uncovered. The touch has a razor-sharp edge to it. Almost like a knife is sliding tauntingly along his flesh instead of blunt nails. And cold. Hongjoong’s touch is abnormally frigid. “You want nothing more than to shrink and hide away like a fucking coward.” Mingi doesn’t see the dagger at first, but he feels it. The sharp burn followed by an all encompassing pain. His mouth drops open, gaping wide while blinking rapidly down at his mate.

The one who just fucking stabbed him.

Hongjoong looks up at him with that same face splitting grin, large eyes batting wildly. His hand is still wrapped gingerly around the hilt of his beloved dagger, thumb slightly caressing the carved wooden handle in a rather lovingly way.

“The weakest link never survives very long no matter what species it belongs to. The elected leader will kill them to ensure the strongest prosper, that bloodlines are unmarred by the shortcomings of the pathetic and useless.” Hongjoong withdraws, taking his dagger with him in a slow drag. Mingi hisses, tears immediately welling up and spilling over his waterline. The older moth revels in the sight, “Consider yourself lucky that I didn’t.”

Mingi stumbles back causing the chair he had previously been sitting on to take a tumble backwards and clatter to the ground loudly. He looks down, sees the thin lines of blood racing down his chest and disappearing further down his shirt. Then he peers over at Hongjoong— his wing-bound— watching as the other man takes the blade of his favored dagger and slowly wipes the sheen of blood off with his tongue. His eyes never leave Mingi’s as he licks the metal clean before returning it back to its spot— up in the confines of his sleeve. That’s why the younger wasn’t able to see it drawn.

Hurt flashes across his face— openly— projected without fault and Hongjoong eats it up with a delighted laugh. Mingi doesn’t stay, doesn’t beg for answers. He rushes to the door, tears clouding his vision while he presses on the wound under his right collarbone. He can’t really feel the blood, but he knows it’s there, staining his skin crimson. Mingi wishes he didn’t take that split second to look back after he fumbles with the door handle— but he does.

Hongjoong has a crease between his brows, and his eyes have glossed over. There’s something troubling about his expression like he’s trying to focus on something that isn’t there in the room. And then the fog clears, and he looks at Mingi.

“Mingi…?”

His voice is slightly raspy, soaked in gentle confusion. Mingi freezes, blinking profusely at the sudden change. He watches Hongjoong stagger a bit backwards, backside colliding with the lip of his desk. He’s got a hand raised to his forehead now dotted with perspiration. He looks sick, pale and weak. Mingi has half a mind to rush towards him and fret but the wound throbbing on his upper chest keeps him rooted by the door.

“What… What’s happening— argh!” Hongjoong’s head flies backwards and the veins on his neck coil up and around his throat in bulging lumps. Mingi trembles, unsure of what was happening to his mate. There’s no help he could provide. Unless a bullet was considered as one. But the thought of killing his lover nearly made him sick. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Perhaps he was a coward after all.

Hongjoong stills. And then he laughs, slowly righting himself until he was standing perfectly straight with his eyes once again refocused onto Mingi. They were dark, lack-luster and apathetic.

“And don’t forget what I said about Jongho. You will see, he will turn everyone against me. And when he does… where will your loyalties lie?”

The younger moth is quick to realize that he wasn’t looking into the eyes of his mate, his lover, his wing-bound. This wasn’t their captain who occupied the opposite end of space between them. Those weren’t Hongjoong’s eyes that stared back at him. It was something— someone else.

Mingi yanked the door open and careened out into the hallway, his legs leading him far from the captain’s quarters.

Yeosang looked to San, “I had everything under control.”

“No, you didn’t. There isn’t such a thing when it comes to facing him.” San stops, turns to face his mate when Yeosang also pauses. “Provoking him gets you nowhere but in a bloody heap in the brig.”

The former doesn't say anything, but his eyes lowering speaks enough. Yeosang knows it is unwise to rile Hongjoong up, where at one point in time it would only lead to playful annoyance and a quick romp now meant inflicting pain and a cold wicked smile. The moth longs for that version of their captain.

San reaches over to squeeze his mate's hand, the leather of his gloves warm from the heat of his covered skin. “I know you mean well, Sangie. But please, do me a favor and stay out of his way.” He closes the gap between them to sandwich Yeosang between his arms, placing a soft kiss against the rose-stained patch of skin on his temple.

Yeosang doesn’t say anything even as the other moth separates from him with a final, “I have to go let the prisoner out of the boiler room for a little while. See you at last meal, yeah?” He can only manage a stiff nod at that, listening more than watching as San leaves down the hall and out of his peripheral.

He wants more than anything to snuff out the uneasy crawling from beneath his skin but something in him refuses to settle at the warning of his lover. Hongjoong has always had an edge to him. But it was never sharp, cutting, hurtful. The threats were once mild and hollow, lacking any real intent or depth to them. Now they held the weight of promise in them, to be enacted at any moment. Yeosang’s fists clench at his sides, nearly taking the fabric of his pants as an unsuspecting hostage with the movement. He turns to look at the stairs where San and he came from. There’s only one door up there and a long winding hallway. He wouldn’t have an excuse if he was caught hovering up there. Jongho was still in the monitor room with Hongjoong. It was risky with only a fifty-fifty chance that the younger moth would be exiting first.

Yeosang sighs heavily through his nose.

He’ll just have to wait; in a spot he knows as intimately as he does the bodies of his own mates.

Hidden behind three loose boards is an enclosed space with the capacity to hold two people. It’s strategically located just a little past the bend of the hallway, adjacent of the bathroom. He hadn’t intended for it to be in that spot but when Hongjoong had left him responsible for putting up the ‘walls’ within the perimeter— he had secretly created himself a place where he could disappear to when he felt overwhelmed and needed a moment of peace. That’s where he was now. The boards appeared as the rest— same shape and size and even had the appropriate nail heads dotting the top, middle and bottom. Only they were fake. Yeosang had used the goop seeping from the tunnels as a sort of adhesive to stick flattened pebbles he’d swiped from Seonghwa’s collection into false holes he carved into the wood.

And to ensure that the boards would hold if accidentally bumped into— wrapped around the middle lining of pebbles is a thinly wrapped piece of fishing line he had pocketed on one of his missions. It was practically invisible and worked well when he had it looped around the last (actual) nail head of the neighboring board. When he unwrapped the line, the boards folded like an accordion and the hidden alcove is revealed.

None of his mates knew about it. Not even Seonghwa. The decision to keep it a secret wasn’t necessarily out of selfishness. He just needed to be alone sometimes, with his thoughts and without the constant stimuli that comes with having seven mates (and now a random human) around.

Yeosang leans his head back against the interior wall, eyes falling shut after a few seconds of aimlessly staring at the opposing wooden boards. He could use a bit of rest while waiting.

…

It isn’t the single scratching pitch of a whistled note that stirs him nor the flickering of a shadow dipping slightly into the spaces between the wood of his hideout. It’s the swooping in his gut. He feels like he is falling, suddenly wingless and suspended miles and miles in the air. Yeosang jerks on the spot, jumping within his own skin and nearly knocking his head back against the wall. He must have slumped forward and used his arms folded atop of his knees as a cushion, his forehead felt warm where his skin pressed together. His neck was stiff, as was his back and his wings drawn closed and smothered between his body and the wall.

Yeosang goes to move when something seizes him. Not physically but internally. It’s almost phantasmic. Like a touch that isn’t there or pain that pulses in the area where a limb once was. It’s cold and hot all at once. Conquering, spreading from one end of his body to the next. A sweat has broken out along his hairline and across his upper lip. The moth suddenly feels unsafe. The shadows continue to move which draws his attention. Yeosang just barely shifts, enough that he could get a better look from between the boards.

The bathroom door is only slightly visible off to the end but it’s enough that he could make out its shape against the opposite wall. He can also see what is standing in front of it.

A large black mass, undulating in every direction with long inky tendrils spreading like veins under one’s skin. They writhe, search, curl against one another and disappear into the center that pulses abnormally. Where one disappears, five more appear. Yeosang stares on in horror, his body vibrating just a bit from the awkward position he holds. The mass just stands there, outside the bathroom door, whistling that awful tune. It could hardly even be called that, more like a singular screech that vibrates the eardrums uncontrollably. The moth licks the sweat from above his upper lip when it becomes too much of a distraction. He watches in bated silence, glancing from one tar colored appendage to the next. His gaze descends, following the pulsing to the center. The way it convulses around itself makes Yeosang’s stomach churn. If he stared any longer, he’ll be painting the inside of his hideout with the morning meal Wooyoung and Mingi made.

Further down they drop, until they reach close to the ground where, oddly enough, a pair of boots sit amongst the squirming mass. They face the bathroom door, dark in color to match the ichor of the tendrils. He can’t see them too clearly from the angle he faces but he knows the shape. All of their boots are the same— his, his mates— same color, same style.

He thought the spores were the worst thing residing alongside them in their prison. But whatever this thing was, proved the notion wrong.

The whistling stops abruptly and somewhere further down, Yeosang can hear a rather loud thump. A trickle of sweat drops into his eye suddenly and the moth hisses quietly beneath his breath. He forces his eyes shut and maneuvers a hand into the front of his shirt to gather the fabric and raise it up to his eyes. He wipes and wipes and even goes the extra step to soak up the fat drops gathered across his forehead. When he blinks against the sting long enough that it fades, he’s back to looking out into the hall from between the boards. The mass is gone, the boots are gone and the terrible sensation amassing under his skin and in his stomach has fizzled out. He looks and looks but there is nothing in the hall. He can hear the faint warble of voices in the direction of where that thump came from.

It’s risky, he knows, but his need for answers no matter how small they are outweighs the possibility of getting caught— by that thing or by one of his mates. Yeosang administers enough force for the first board to fold and then the next one to somewhat collapse. It isn’t enough to put him in full view if someone (or something) was nearby, but it gave him the room to stick his head out and properly look.

First thing he sees is fawn colored hair clashing against a dark colored shirt. Hongjoong is standing there, poised as always, with his hands folded behind his back. Yeosang peers past his shorter frame and sees Mingi, frightened expression marring his shapely face. Hongjoong says something and Mingi doesn’t seem convinced if by the way he gazes hesitantly down at the captain. Yeosang wishes he was closer just to be able to hear what they were saying but doesn’t matter in the end when both of his mates move to enter a room. Yeosang makes to exit his hideout when their backs are turned but suddenly the door to the bathroom is creaking open and a familiar mop of blonde hair comes slowly into view. The moth narrowly misses being caught, quick to ease the wooden boards back into place with minimal sound just in time.

San’s head is the only part of him that’s visible. He’s looking from one end of the hall to the other, pausing to watch something obscured from Yeosang’s view. He can only assume that it’s Hongjoong and Mingi.

The door widens after a moment and San steps out into the hall— followed by Jongho and to Yeosang’s surprise— you. His brows drop together and something uncomfortable creeps through his chest. The sight of you standing near his mates, conversing with them (or rather arguing with Jongho) has his teeth clenching. You’re a prisoner, a hostage. Nothing more, nothing less. And yet you’re standing there, completely free, unrestrained and as casual as one could be in your situation.

As if you were actually one of them.

Yeosang doesn’t even want to dwell on the fact that you had been holed up with his mates in the bathroom. If he did, he’d probably blow his cover and the existence of his hideout just to jump at the chance to strangle you. Not like either San or Jongho would stop him.

The moth refocuses at an awkward interval— Jongho is rattling off about something. And San has his favored knife in his hand, held specifically out of sight.

“There’s something— Hongjoong is hiding something and it’s terrible and— fuck— I was running because I was scared and he— Sannie, he isn’t right. That’s not our captain.”

San stares at Jongho like he’s spewed the most damning words imaginable.

“How can… How can you say that? Hongjoong is our mate.”

“He’s got fucking Beomgyu chained to the ceiling and those spores? He’s been feeding them into—“

“You’re speaking way out of line, Jongho. Do you not hear yourself?! Beomgyu is dead, has been for years!”

Yeosang blinks, a shuddering breath escaping past his dry lips. Hongjoong has… Beomgyu? That couldn’t be possible— not when Yeosang was the one ordered to kill the butterfly almost seven years ago, disposing his body on a pyre a day before their inevitable imprisonment. He watched him burn. Looked on as his skin peeled away and curled, wings turning into ash and flying up into the evening sky under the weight of the wild flames. His body would shift the more it broke down until there was nothing left but scorched remains surrounded by swaying wheat.

The moth watches as you go crashing to the ground out of nowhere. His mates look at one another and then down at you, an unconscious heap of fabric. San discreetly returns his dagger back into one of the holders at his hip.

San mumbles something that Yeosang can’t pick up and Jongho is quick to interject— “No, she is going nowhere near our room. Put her back in the boiler room.”

“I didn’t say our room. I just suggested taking her to someone’s room until she’s awake.” But then, “Actually, we are taking her to our room. Grab her arms.”

Jongho tries to protest but his mate gives him a pointed look and mumbles something again that only the younger can hear. Jongho sighs heavily, frown ever-present as he moves to scoop up your upper body by your biceps. Yeosang watches as they shuffle away until they are fully out of sight. He waits. Contemplating many things at once until he finally settles on his next course of action.

He needed to find Seonghwa.

Wooyoung ends up moseying down to the workshop after Seonghwa returns and effectively sends him off with a rather tongue-induced kiss. If he wasn’t needing to resolve his issues with his wing-bound, he would have gladly chased the older man’s wings right into bed, but Seonghwa gave him a pointed look despite the flush beginning to bleed across his cheeks and the younger knew he couldn’t press for more.

Yunho is sitting in the same spot when Wooyoung enters, and to the older moth it feels like a small lapse in deja vu. Except this time, he looks up and makes the necessary eye contact needed to establish the bridge between the two. Wooyoung draws closer rather than away to idly prolong the uncomfortable. It’s a big step for him. One that he feels both proud yet terrified of.

“What’re you doing?” The question is just a single plank placed down on a long and unsteady bridge but it’s a step. Yunho acknowledges that and feels his own nerves settle just the slightest bit.

It’s his turn to continue the progress, “I found this old music projector a while back and decided I’d try and tackle fixing it.” He looks at the hunk of metal sitting in front of him and then back to his mate. “Still needs a bit of work but it’d be nice to have something to listen to, you know? Something other than the shifting of dirt and Hongjoong's yelling.” Yunho ends his reply with a lame shrug, feeling unsure of the conversation. He returns his attention back to the radio.

Wooyoung hums, tucks the toe of his boot into one of the lower bars of the stool Seonghwa had sat on during his visit and all but dragged it out from under the shop table, plopping down onto the seat with a loud rustle of fabric. He looked at the radio with an assessing eye. “Do you think it’ll play anything good?”

“Not sure. Honestly, it might not even play at all. With it being down here underground and all, the signal might be impacted.”

“Won’t know if we don’t try, yeah?”

When Yunho looks over, he’s met with a knowing toothy grin. None of it was about the radio— never was. Wooyoung had used the object as an easy way to slip into their much-needed discussion. Yunho was honestly impressed. Perhaps Seonghwa had rattled something into place somewhere inside of their mate.

Which means he needed to step up and do his part as well.

With a steadying sigh, the moth turns away from his project and fully faces his lover with an open and sincere heart. He reaches forward and scoops up Wooyoung’s hands into his much bigger ones, giving the thin and veiny skin on the tops a soft stroke with his thumbs.

“I’m sorry. For everything— the way I reacted during our last mission and with the human and in the dining hall… I… I should have never attacked you. I let my emotional insecurities cloud my judgement and in turn took it out on you. I said things that I deeply regret and— Wooyoung, my greatest love— I have never in a million moon cycles, regretted ever meeting you.” There’s tears building up in Yunho’s eyes to match the exact same ones already falling from the corners of Wooyoung’s. They look at each with the same pain bearing openly for one another to see and absorb and understand. “I wish I could take it back— everything. What I did, what I said. It’s not true, none of it.”

Wooyoung pulls one hand free of Yunho’s grip to reach over and swipe gently at his mate's eyes just as the tears succumb to the gravity of both the moment but of natural phenomena. He laughs, a watery little tinkle that makes his lips wobble awkwardly. He’s got a peeking of snot just barely showing but Yunho hasn’t the heart to point it out and ruin the fragile moment. But it’s a bit distracting, so he covertly uses his sleeve to wipe and dab from one eye to the next and then dropping down to under Wooyoung’s nose. The dollop is gone when he draws his arm away. They both are still clutching one hand each.

“I know. I… I realized something while talking to Seonghwa.” Wooyoung clears his throat, “I am equally to blame for everything. I refused to talk things out and used anything I could to try and avoid facing my own problems. The things I would say, treated like nothing but a joke, were just excuses for my shitty way of coping.” The moth rolls his eyes, scoffing inwardly at himself. “I thought you stopped loving me, saw me as insignificant, not worthy anymore. So, I irrationally went and did everything I could to provoke you… because I was hurt.”

Yunho swallows, his throat feeling almost entirely enclosed. “I know I fucked up earlier—“

“No, it’s more than just what happened in the dining hall. Last night, you left me alone after we barely reconciled. You lied to my face and left me to go to Hongjoong. After what he did to you in the brig, you still went running to him. I felt so fucking worthless. And then you come back around and—“ Wooyoung takes a deep shuddering breath to calm himself down. He knows if he jumps head first into the hot pool of his anger then resolving their issues will not happen. “I said what I knew would make you angry, hurt you. Just so you could feel what it was like. And— And that was wrong of me. I’m sorry, Yunnie.”

Yunho nods, hair softly flopping with the movement. “I admit— it wasn’t the smartest decision I’ve made. And I.. I’m honestly not sure why I did it. It was like something was compelling me to go to him.” He looks Wooyoung dead in the eyes, “I swear on my own life that if I had the chance to stop myself— I would have— without hesitation.”

Wooyoung worries at his lower lip, gesturing with his hand after a moment. “Okay— tell me how I made you feel.”

“What…?”

“You know, I said you made me feel worthless and that’s why I acted the way I did and now it’s your turn to tell me how I made you feel.”

Yunho blinks and then… he laughs. His shoulders shake and his eyes shrink, and his teeth are suddenly staring out into the workshop. Wooyoung watches on, taken aback at first but then he’s joining in and it’s a mix of loud and obnoxious noise bouncing off metal and wires and gears.

It takes a good minute for them to both settle but the mood lightens enough for the conversation to continue a bit easier.

“I just— it’s stupid.”

Wooyoung scoffs, “No it’s not, tell me. Come on.”

“I felt… like you saw me as a joke. A mate that couldn’t ever be taken seriously.” Yunho shakes his head, sighing exasperatingly. “It’s stupid— I see that now.”

“No it’s not. It isn’t stupid, your feelings aren’t stupid. I… I shouldn’t have treated everything as a joke or acted as if the serious things weren’t worth properly addressing in an appropriate manner.”

“We're a mess, aren’t we?”

Wooyoung huffs, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “Oh, for sure. Not even what’s going on between Mingi and Hongjoong could compare to our dysfunctionality.”

They exchange a short round of conspiratorial chuckles. The workshop falls into a comfortable silence.

After a short lapse, “I’m sorry, for making you feel like a joke. If anything, I’m the joke.”

Yunho squeezes his lover's hand, “More like we both are two terrible jokes.”

Wooyoung smiles, all teeth, before scooting his stool closer to Yunho until he’s practically glued to his side. He lays his head against the former’s shoulder and looks at the radio.

“I think it’ll work.”

Yunho drops his cheek atop of the dark mass of hair on Wooyoung’s head, peering over at the unfinished repair job. He smiles softly.

“Yeah, I think so too.”