Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Minho braved a snowstorm, he pierced an arrow through an angel under the suffocating guidance of his late grandfather.

He had just turned nine years old and was given a hand-carved bow with arrows—a kiddie version until he was considered ready to handle the proper arrows. Minho was excited to practice shooting with his grandfather, bright-eyed and blotched red in the face from the cold. All he had to be strong enough to withstand was the chill that raked his body and the way his nose got irritated from wiping it so much.

They were shooting at tin cans in a landfill when she suddenly appeared.

It was Minho’s first time seeing an angel in such a state—not coming from the sky or crumpled under a pile of corpses, but alive, though just barely. A pale old woman, visibly around the same age as his grandfather. One of her wings clung to her back by a string of bone, like it’d break from her body if the wind blew too hard, and the other dug into her frail back, tied up with barbed wire. Minho always remembered the way the wire drew blood from her back, over and over as she moved.

She was naked and bruised. Minho wondered if the cold affected her the way it always affected him. If it was like pulling a bone from its socket. If it would hurt if Minho constricted himself around her broken bones and tried to piece her back together with his small, nimble fingers.

However, his grandfather had yanked him by the collar and shoved an arrow in his bowstring. Minho fought against him when the old man aimed his bow at the angel’s head.

Let it fly, Minho. His grandfather hushed into his ear with a heat that made Minho freeze. Kill it, he said.

Minho pleaded to be spared from becoming a killer, but his forearms were trapped in his grandfather’s hold, bending Minho’s small body to his will. Immobilizing him like a python. Like a God.

The angel was shot to the ground before Minho had realized he let go of the bowstring.

Minho remembers watching the blood pool around her body and soaking her wings until her eyes glazed over. The way the arrow went cleanly through her neck, the way the exposed tissue began to swell and protrude from the wound. Minho felt so sick that he threw up on his way home.

His grandfather tried to assure him after the worst had been over. His grandfather pressed a heavy boot against the angel’s paper-thin arm, the bone nearly cracking from the steel-toe alone: Don’t feel sorry for it. If you don’t kill them, they will kill you.

You do not want to hurt the lamb, but you must before it can hurt you—that was the saying.

But sixty years back, for an unexplainable reason, angels began to fall from the sky. Minho never needed to ponder how the world would end because it had already occurred before he’d been born.

And not the fictitious kind, either. The things that fell from the sky were not children circled with halos, nor were they cherubs with the bodies of lions and faces of humans. They were angels—real angels—with a shimmer to their skin and wings that stretched out several feet.

When angels began to fall from the sky, it was never interpreted as some miracle from the heavens or anything magical. Because if it were, they wouldn’t have plummeted through buildings and homes with such force. Wouldn’t have struck the earth with a dread for the future that’d never quite leave anyone ever again.

God’s unwanted children, monsters, sacrificial lambs—those were the names that had been coined over the decades. The world, after the first angel fell and attacked somebody, was different after that.

The burning in Minho’s chest only subsided deep into the night after crying himself to sleep in his mother’s arms. He left home his mother’s only child and returned akin to a monster. A boy slowly being pulled apart like a loose thread, diminishing him into a mess of cotton wool, only to stitch him back together a little less recognizable than before.

Now in his adulthood, Minho keeps his loose thread beneath armor made of leather. And when he finds himself on a mission, expected and ordered to kill someone— something, Minho sheds them no tears. He's not a child anymore. He was his grandfather’s flesh and blood, his only predecessor after his father had passed.

The first time Minho braved a snowstorm, he returned home in one piece by the end of the night. Despite everything, he fell asleep warm and wrapped beneath his mother’s arm. He was safe as can be.

The second time Minho braved a snowstorm, he didn’t know if he was going to make it home.

Right now, Minho was all alone; the cold wind grew sharper, and it was getting dark—too dark.

The throbbing between his ribs only grew worse, too. Minho reluctantly pried away a hand that rested over the wound to inspect. Watched as dark blood dripped down his torso alarmingly fast. It stained up and past his elbows, mercilessly gushing. He grew lightheaded with each passing second.

Minho reapplies the pressure with a pained grunt.

Well, wasn’t that just great.

Animals that lived in the wilderness didn’t exactly go extinct, but their presence grew slimmer over the decades. Minho had navigated dozens of expeditions in the woods north of his province. He had even come up here at times for sheer leisure. How the hell was he supposed to know he’d come across wolves?

They certainly didn’t exist two weeks ago when Minho was last here. Winter in these parts was inhospitable for wolves, and around this time of the year they followed their prey down south; they weren’t supposed to be in these parts, period. Arrows were no match for the wolves if you can’t even see the damn things at night.

Minho wishes he could say he left the scuffle unscathed, only that he was victorious. The deep gash between his ribs can attest to that. One wound in particular was so deep that Minho accidentally grazed the bone of his rib when detecting the severity of it.

If this happened two weeks ago, Minho wouldn't be as worried—he’d have an entire team to fall back on to finish the job. If this happened two weeks ago, Seungmin would be at his side, ready to wrap him in gauze and calendula paste, thwarting him in the forehead with a scolding about not being too careless. That he can’t afford to waste all his supplies on Minho’s tendency to dive head-first into a fight without thinking of the repercussions. That he was smarter than this.

Seungmin was Minho’s best friend, though he’d never admit it aloud. Seungmin was also his only friend—the one person in his life who felt just as unsettled about the world as Minho did, who understood Minho better than most people, better than the evangelists, his neighbors, his own family. Sweet and at times stoic Seungmin, who despises war and violence as much as he does, yet joined the Hunters Guild so that Minho wouldn’t have to brave the horrors alone.

Seungmin also, currently, was missing in action.

If Seungmin were with him right now, then Minho wouldn’t think dying out here in the woods was possible. Seungmin was always prepared for any case scenario. Minho wonders if Seungmin was also prepared to disappear, if Seungmin was prepared for Minho to go looking for him. Surely he did. Minho was certainly foolish enough to go off on his own if it meant that there was at least one person in the universe looking for Seungmin.

He wonders if Seungmin prepared for him to die trying, because that’s what it’s beginning to look like.

Minho leans his weight against a tree after a couple more minutes of staggering around. The moonlight is bright enough to where Minho can decipher the woodland edge of the forest, but he knows he doesn’t have long until the night falls into pitch blackness.

He keeps spitting something up. Saliva pools in his mouth, its ferrous edge of blood mixing with it. Maybe an organ was punctured. At this rate, Minho wasn’t sure if he was going to be alive for long enough to confirm that. He feels more dizzy, more nauseous as he trudges onward. He took care of the wolves that had attacked him, but there was no telling what else could be lurking.

A scent of something earthy traveling in a passing breeze catches his nose. Minho turns toward it and recognizes what could be a clearing, one with a pond, or even a lake. Minho can smell something comforting in its wind. Maybe it was just the salinity of the water. He doesn’t recall water smelling so rosy. The iron taste on his tongue was messing with his thinking.

Nevertheless, Minho wills his heavy body onto a path that leads directly to the clearing. He could clean the soil out of his wounds there. Give him an idea of how good his chances are of making it through the night.

The gash over Minho’s ribs was too big for his hand to cover all of it. It made his fingers stick together from dried and fresh blood mixing—like slapping fresh acrylic paint on top of a barely dried canvas. Minho wanted to throw up again. Wanted to close his eyes and take a nap on the detritus beneath his boot. What Minho wanted most, though, was to get to that damn clearing.

And so he does. Minho’s nearly doubled over and sweating off the last of his energy, but he keeps his spine as straight as he could muster and walked right toward the glade. Even if there’s no one to see him, he can feel the ghost of his mother’s hands pulling his shoulders back to fix his posture.

Keep your chin up, she’d always say. Her effeminate voice is similar to Minho’s own, but airier and without the rasp. It’s hard, isn’t it? To keep steering forward.

It's a relief when he’s within reach of the glade ahead of him. The moonlight ricocheting off the water’s surface is blinding enough to reenergize him. Air comes to Minho a bit easier. He falters before an area of thick, wild hedgerows. They’re strong enough for him to lean on as Minho scans the area for any threats, catching his breath.

Broad arrowhead plants grow tall from the rim of the glade and deep into the center of the water. The surface jostles, full of fish, and the air is quiet. Minho feels his grip on his bow loosen enough to make his knuckles sting. The rose that permeates the air only grows stronger—it tranquilizes him.

At first, Minho cannot make sense of what he sees next. All he knows is that he can't trust that he’s entirely alone.

In old religious texts, there was word of being confronted by angels when you were about to die. It’s supposed to bring comfort, ease anxieties as you take your final breath or succumb to sickness and injury. It's why societies collapsed into a panic when angels began to fall from the sky—their appearance interpreted by some researchers as the end of the world. Angels were coming down to not only warn the human population of their inevitable end, but to finish them off themself.

At first, Minho believes he’s living one of those moments. That what he’s witnessing was one of the many illusions people find themselves in as they take their last breath.

Standing knee-deep in the glade far away from Minho was an angel. And for the first time in a long while, fear pinches at Minho’s nape like a bite.

The angel appears menial, dressed in thin bottoms rolled up over his knees and an even thinner shirt. His wings shielded him from the wind. They were dirty but healthy, the healthiest wings Minho thinks he’s ever seen, still attached to an angel’s body. Despite his thin clothes and exposed skin, he didn’t look cold in the slightest, all the while Minho’s teeth were beginning to chatter.

The bones of Minho’s fingers sting from his exertion of gripping the neck of his bow. He pulls his hand away from his still bleeding wound in favor of collecting an arrow from the quiver over his shoulder. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from another pained sound leaving him and giving his presence away. The wolves gave him enough trouble. He doesn’t need an angel finishing him off. To die at the hands of an angel in battered clothes would be a shameful way to die, indeed. His grandfather would roll in his grave to see him fall to such a fate.

You do not want to hurt the lamb, but you must before it can hurt you.

Minho raises his bow. The angel still has his back to Minho, plucking leaves from the arrowhead plants without a care in the world. When the wind grows less angry, he can hear the soft hum of a song. Minho hasn’t listened to a song since Seungmin disappeared. He aims his arrow with the intent of landing a headshot. He’d prefer to deliver a swift death.

Minho will never reach a point where he can be desensitized to killing an angel, even though it’s been six years since he joined the Hunters Guild. No time will ever make up for the lives he’s taken, even if society tells him it’s acceptable. That it’s for the greater good of humanity in the long run. Minho never felt good about it then, and he doesn’t feel good about it now. But it’s just like his grandfather told him before: it’s you or them.

The arrow fails to steady under Minho’s fingers. He blames it on the abrupt dizzy spell that possesses him in the moment, where it steals his attention just enough to waver and lose his footing. Minho makes a quick recovery, but there’s no covering up the commotion he caused by his foot jerking into the hedges. Leaves rustle, sticks beneath his boot snap, and the angel knee-deep in the water jolts upward.

When the angel turns his head to inspect the noise, he doesn’t just look in Minho’s general vicinity, he looks directly at Minho.

Do angels possess supernatural eyesight? Can he see the metal tip of Minho’s arrow, the blood on Minho’s hands, the smudge of dirt above his brow? Can he see the ghost of Minho’s grandfather over his shoulder, telling him to let the arrow go?

Instead of lunging to attack Minho or making a run for it, the angel holds the leaves closer to his chest. Here this angel was, staring through him like he’s made of glass and not a messenger of death, poised and startled like a deer looking at the barrel of his demise—yet he doesn’t move. The angel only... watches him. Was he waiting to see if Minho had the gallantry to let the arrow fly? Was he making a mockery of Minho by not putting up a fight?

What makes it so difficult is that the angel is beautiful.

Even from afar, Minho feels his heart skip. The angel's dark curls frame his round face, and his doe eyes are almost haunting. Minho thinks the angel unnervingly depicts the cherubims he reads of perfectly. The angel is ineffably serene as he looks at Minho like he’s not the hunter he knows himself to be.

His beauty is daunting enough, but the worst of it all is that Minho fucking recognizes him. The epiphany strikes him, and Minho lets his arrow fly without meaning to. His head is light and his vision blurs—he’s losing a lot of blood, after all.

Minho isn’t even conscious enough to see it through, he doesn’t hear if the arrow pierced what he had intended it to, because next thing he knows he’s collapsing into the hedges face first. All he can hear is the splash of the lake water, and the continuous scent of roses suffocating him. He hopes it’s a rose bush he’s fallen into; dying in the arms of roses would be much more noble than in the arms of an angel.

➳

Days before Seungmin’s disappearance, he and Minho’s captain received an anonymous tip about an enemy base north of the province.

Lieutenant Hwang Hyunjin had been tracking the steps of a rebel affiliation more commonly referred to as the Shepherds, who were good at flying under the general public’s radar. Their only true goal was to dismantle the negative ideology against the angels. The affiliation hadn’t been around too long, but long enough to itch the skin of the Elite rankings amongst the guild.

On the second day of their expedition, a small house in a nearby clearing caught Minho’s attention like no other. It looked like the small houses that came with a farm, but Minho doubted he’d find a live coop over there. It’s far away, run-down, ruined and peeling from the outside, with the windows and doors boarded shut—Minho could make out that much.

He had been brushed off by Hyunjin when he suggested they check it out.

“We can’t stop and check every little thing we come across,” Hyunjin had said with a scowl. “That’s how time escapes us.”

Though Minho could rely on Seungmin to regard him when Minho fell to the back of the line, as per usual.

“Go,” Seungmin had said to him quietly once Minho fell at the end of the line again. He points in the direction of his house with a loose knife holster dangling in his hand. “I’ll cover for you.”

The coyness in his voice smarted Minho’s skin. He didn’t think anything of it.

Tall grass blocked his entire short journey towards the house, one of many signs that the place has been long abandoned—or maybe that’s what someone would want outsiders to think. Except Minho wasn’t just anybody—Minho had been trained to keep a perceptive eye on the world since he was a boy. A gifted archer since his adolescence, who adorned the badge to prove it since the age of twenty. Someone whose skill was worth respecting.

Taking the slightest step backward from the front door, Minho reels in a new direction and stays light on his feet. Keeps a ready bow and arrow in his grasp, searches for a more discreet way to peek inside the house since windows weren’t a viable option, then zeroes in on an open back door. There.

“Hunters Guild of the Northern Rampart,” Minho announced just loud enough to command the quietness in his vicinity. When he takes his first step into the home, the wooden flooring creaks beneath his boot. “If anyone lives here, make yourself known now.”

Of course, he expected the dull quiet in return. He kept his arrow raised in front of him, listening out for any signs of life inside. The interior was as poor as the exterior. Reeked of dead animals. The walls were tainted with dirt and other indescribable fluids, the rugs and frames at disarray. It was pungent. It was like a bloody fight was lost on every surface of the house.

Minho controlled his breath, exhaled through his mouth to mask his coordinates as he navigated deeper down the hall. A sudden scuffle of something falling from the living area, and then a startled sound of skin slapping was heard.

He made quick work of checking each entranceway he passed, hurrying to reach the end of the hall. When he cleared it, he aimed his arrow intending to release it onto the first thing that moved. He reached the living space and was—

...met with quite a scene.

Whatever furniture once made up an average living room has all been pushed against the walls. Couches, chairs, end tables and books stack high enough to nearly reach the ceiling full of holes. Empty bottles of soda and chips and rot from unfinished meals of dishware littered the floor.

A few thin mattresses were scattered in the center of the room. A group of angels lay on top of them, limbs and wings tethered with rope and wire and chains.

There couldn't have been more than a dozen angels, all bound in some way to an old radiator behind them. All of them were shirtless, dressed in different undergarments. Most of them were women. Some angel’s arms were free of chains, while others weren’t as lucky. All of them lay crumbled and close to one another, covered in cuts, bruises, and dirt.

One of the two male angels in the room gazes upon Minho curiously, not as scared compared to his peers. His hands are unbound, but Minho can see the shackles digging into his ankles and the wire binding his wings digging into the flesh of his back. The angel’s hair stays out of his eyes from sheer sweat, doe eyes piercing through Minho’s so intensely that Minho almost needed to look away.

Minho’s grandfather once warned him of an angel’s beauty being weaponized to their advantage when he was younger. Minho’s thoughts quickly imply the question of whether that’s what his angel in particular is doing to him now. Minho blinks out of the odd trance with something unfamiliar lodged in his throat.

“Who did this to you?” Minho asked, keeping his voice gentle. The question was for anyone to answer, but he could only keep his eyes on the angel who stared at him skeptically.

One woman on the mattress averted her eyes as soon as Minho spoke. He couldn’t blame them for their behavior—who was he to be trusted? The lowered weapon in his possession doesn’t blind the angels to the symbol of the Hunters Guild over his chest or the distinction of his uniform.

After another few beats, the angel who looked to him bravely spoke. “We don’t know,” he answered.

The only other male angel in the room, snug against the other, matted blond hair tied back and freckles adorning his face, scorned as soon as the angel opened his mouth. “Jisung,” The blond growled as he grabbed his arm. Minho ignored the way the angel’s name rang in his mind like bells. Jisung, the beautiful man before him. Jisung, an angel.

Jisung pulled out of the blond’s grip only slightly. “Don’t,” he warned, before reverting his attention to Minho. “We were dumped here days ago.”

“You don’t know who’s responsible for this?” Capturing and imprisoning angels is part of the Hunters Guild regime; seeing a flock of angels bound like this isn’t that surprising. A flock of angels being bound and stripped naked in an abandoned building, however, not as common.

“How are we meant to know that?” Jisung bit back. “You hunters all look the same to us.”

“Jisung,” The blond hissed again, this time more fearful. He must think Jisung’s defiant tone will cost him his life, and it should be. Minho should shoot Jisung as a warning to the others.

But if anything, Jisung’s response pulled a smile out of Minho. “I suppose that’s true.”

He crouched before Jisung. The blond’s hold around Jisung’s arm only tightened. Minho spared him an inquisitive glance before returning his gaze to Jisung’s, and placing a gentle hand on the shackle around Jisung’s ankle. The angel startled, and for a second Minho thought he was going to kick him, but he didn't. The metal in his palms was heavy and cold.

“Don’t hurt him,” The blond addresses Minho directly with a grumble. But Minho didn’t stop his ministrations, and Jisung made no effort to jerk away from his touch. He felt Jisung’s skin shiver as Minho’s hand traveled upward to wrap around his calf.

So odd, Minho thought. This angel in the palm of his hand, who has only known a life of being hunted by mankind, didn’t seem to fear him at all.

“It’s okay, Felix,” Jisung addressed his friend. “This one won’t hurt us. Right?” Jisung’s tongue curled in the form of a question, but Minho can detect the defiance in his attitude.

Without breaking eye contact, Minho dragged his hand back over Jisung’s shackles. He gave them a light shake, testing their sturdiness.

“I don’t intend to harm you,” Minho said. Then, when he found the strength to pull away, “Not now.”

Shortly after that, Minho found bolt cutters underneath the sink. The angels stopped visibly shivering at the sight of Minho, instead watching him warily by the time he returned with them to the common area.

Jisung’s cold demeanor fizzled out by the time Minho returned. With his arm linked with Felix’s own, they both watched Minho as he wedged the bolt cutters between Jisung’s feathers. Felix flinched at the sharp sound that came with Minho snapping the wire. There are about five or six rings of tie wire on each wing. Minho didn’t have the time to release all of the angels. He didn’t have much time at all.

With that in mind, he only unshackled the chain around Jisung’s ankle. Jisung, though now free, remained stagnant. Jisung’s expression contorted to one of confusion, and Minho dared to say relief. Almost relaxed at the ability to stretch his once constricted wing, but still apprehensive so long as Minho was present. Minho found Jisung nicer to look at when he wasn’t so angry.

“Free the others,” Minho directs stoically, motioning to the bolt cutters he slides into Jisung’s possession. “You should wait a while before leaving this place; my people are still closeby. You’ll be safe if you head east of here.”

“Why are you doing this?” He hears Felix ask the moment he turns his back on them. When Minho turned back around he wasn’t met with fright, only distrust. A desire to safely believe in Minho’s good intentions that were so deeply bottled beneath the floorboards.

Minho couldn’t answer, only turning to leave down the hall. He didn’t get far before hearing Jisung shuffle to his feet and stop a few feet away.

“How can we thank you?” Jisung had asked. His free wing slowly rose to his natural height again, the whiteness of the feather brightening Jisung’s overall appearance. It was hauntingly beautiful, in a way, despite his evident wounds and lack of garments.

It was honestly sickening—the fact that Jisung felt the need to thank Minho for something so futile. So innately pensive and sensical. Minho hated the evangelists and the world’s need to destroy the things they could not understand. Minho hated peas and getting mud stuck to his shoes. But this—living in a timeline where Jisung needed to thank Minho for his decency—was what Minho hated most of all.

Minho lifts his hand to pull a new arrow from the holster around his shoulder. “Don’t let me catch you again.”

With that, he left and didn’t dare look back. And when he returned to his platoon, there was an ambush and Seungmin was gone. Hyunjin said it was the work of the Shepherds.

A dreadful, dreadful silence bloomed in his chest, and it hadn’t left him since.

➳

Minho wakes up in a cold sweat.

The first thing that settles in his chest is panic. His mind floods with memories of what occurred before he lost consciousness—the wolves, his wounds, Seungmin—

His injuries. Minho’s lack of strength for mobility only worsened his thoughts and shortened his breath. The pain around his torso had woken up with him, the wound burning ferociously the more Minho came to. He finds enough strength to pull himself to lean on his elbows, not bothering to give his legs a chance.

Minho finds himself in a cave of sorts. A fire nearby is lit, and Minho can see from afar that the sun has just risen. He’s perplexed when he looks down and finds his bare upper body naked and covered with what looks like big leaves.

Had he made it to a cave, after all? Minho couldn’t remember much after losing so much blood, only that he was cold and in search of water, and then there was—

The angel from the glade.

“Oh good, you’re awake.”

Minho jolts at the sound, turns and is greeted by none other than Jisung. Both his wings were clean and free of wire, and he was dressed in the clothes Minho had seen him last in. He sat casually at a safe distance, grinding something to a paste in a stone mortar, a neutral expression bestowing him.

“You were out for a while, I for sure thought you weren’t going to make it through the night,” Jisung says calmly. “I’m glad you pulled through, though. Means I still got the magic touch.”

Minho blinks. Then blinks again. This is the same angel that was shackled to a deteriorating house weeks ago, the same angel that dared to speak to Minho with a bite in his voice but still let Minho caress his skin with a wary eye. The same angel Minho swore to shoot down if their paths were to cross again. That was the promise Minho made to keep both of them safe and out of each other’s way.

Now, Minho is barely coherent in some cave, having his wounds treated by the same angel he warned he’d kill. Jisung’s kindness be damned, Minho would be sure to keep his promise.

Yet, when he looks around to the best of his ability, his weapon of choice is nowhere to be seen.

“Are you looking for your trusty arrows, huntsman?” Jisung seems to have read his mind, grinding the pestle in his hand into the mortar more reverently. “I’ve kept them safe and out of the way over the boulders here. Your arrows are great for starting fires, by the way.”

Minho only grunts. Weirdly enough, Jisung’s lack of regard toward Minho simmers the panic out of his body. It’s a little embarrassing being the only one freaking out, after all.

“I don’t need arrows to kill you where you stand.” Minho threatens, grasping his torso in pain as he moves his body too suddenly for comfort. His fingers dig into his tender flesh and Minho cringes at the touch.

Much to Minho’s offense, Jisung snorts. Here Minho is, gasping for air and barking earnest threats—and Jisung laughs at him.

“Big talk for someone who can’t even stand,” Jisung taunts. The ministrations of his working hand only grow more obnoxious to Minho’s ears. “You should refrain from moving so much, huntsman. You’re going to reopen your wounds.”

For a moment, Minho stills. He observes himself once again, now that he is more conscious. His hand grazes the smoothness of whatever it was that bandaged him tightly. Tight enough to make him more aware of the struggle of breathing, but loose enough not to completely suffocate him.

Jisung’s doe eyes follow from a distance. Then, he stands to his feet, mortar still in his hands as he approaches Minho. Minho considers his chances of taking Jisung out like this, with just his bare hands. How much could he exert himself without hurting his body too much in the long run.

Suddenly, Jisung is kneeling at his side on the ground. Minho only now registers the thin blankets separating his body from the cold cavern ground.

“This is—” Minho begins to speak, playing with the loose ends of the plant glued to his skin.

“They’re frond leaves,” Jisung answers. From behind him, he pulls out another frond and dips a hand into the mortar to retrieve a cream-colored paste. Minho watches with cautious eyes as Jisung spreads the paste onto the frond evenly. “Calendula flowers. This will help with the pain.”

Minho startles when Jisung’s hands touch his skin. He only has the intent to secure Minho’s bandages, but something in Minho’s chest burns strongly. Jisung’s hands were hot to the touch.

His grandfather’s voice cuts through his thoughts to a new degree of austerity. Kill them before they can kill you.

Minho’s hand shoots out to wrap around Jisung’s wrist. Jisung pauses and looks at Minho, waiting to see what he’ll do next.

In situations where the hunter is at a physical disadvantage, the Hunters Guild has taught them to use their best viable limbs to their ability. Lots of pain can be inflicted when channeling all your strength into the tips of your fingers or delivering a swift kick to a vulnerable part of the body. Minho could pull Jisung into his vicinity and slam their heads together with enough force to at least stun the other. He could even break Jisung’s wrist single-handedly. Take the heavy mortar beside them and swing it straight into Jisung’s skull.

The feeling of Jisung’s palm lying flat against his ribs was much too distracting.

Minho can hear Jisung swallow nervously, and when he looks at Jisung in time to see the angel flutter his lashes, Minho holds his breath. The Hunters Guild didn’t give much guidance on a situation like this. The art of seduction, Minho guesses.

“Did that hurt?” Jisung asks. Minho wants to scoff, but then he remembers the entirety of their paths crossing last night. He shot an arrow with the intention of it going clean through Jisung’s skull. Clearly, that did not happen.

“You—” Minho starts and then stops abruptly. The shakiness of his voice surprises Minho more than anything. His eyes skim Jisung’s clothed body for any signs of injury. “I shot you.”

Jisung’s fingers curl into a fist. Minho watches in awe as Jisung’s wings jitter in place, like a bird ruffling its feathers—Minho’s never seen anything like it. Though typically when he comes across the wings of an angel, they are either bound in wires or detached from a body. And for a moment, Minho is not a bowman, not a hunter, but a boy again, struck by sheer awe of a fascination he can’t make any sense of.

“You’re referring to when you tried to shoot me dead last night?” Jisung’s eyes glint with humor, his lips remaining in a thin line curling downwards. Flushed with an unfamiliar sense of shame, Minho pulls away from Jisung. Maybe the heat of the fire was getting to him, or maybe that was the effect a divinity like Jisung had on humans.

Jisung lifts his shirt, exposing his own frond bandages plastered against his tan skin. The space it takes up is much smaller than Minho’s own, but they exist, nonetheless. Minho doesn’t know why his face flushes when he catches sight of Jisung’s bare chest, but he does.

“You only grazed me, but it’s deep enough that it’ll probably scar,” Jisung says as though Minho’s attempt on his life was no big deal. “Hey, at least we’ll have cool matching scars.”

“I’d prefer matching tombstones,” Minho grumbles.

This time, Jisung smiles. “Wow, what an attitude. I wouldn’t expect anything less from a hunter.”

“I’m going to kill you,” Minho threatens lazily. “As soon as I can stand.”

Jisung only hums in acknowledgement. “I’ll be waiting.” He barely pays Minho’s threats any mind, back facing him as he returns to his knick-knacks on the table.

From afar, Minho can make out stone tools, a jar of jam, calendula flowers pulled from the root and his knife holster. Jisung pulls another plant—arrowhead leaves—from a nearby boulder, arranging them like they’re flowers before making his way back over to Minho. He must have been scavenging for them before Minho came along.

Now, Jisung litters the arrowhead near where Minho lies. The whiff of the greenery alone makes him drowsy. It aids in building a fantasy in Minho’s mind—that he’s napping in a field somewhere in the middle of spring, rather than bleeding out in a cave with no one but a peculiar angel to keep him company.

“You should get some rest,” Jisung says.

“No,” Minho finds the energy to argue. “I need to go.”

“In your condition, you won’t make it very far,” Jisung says. “Lie down. I promise I won’t do anything weird.”

Minho huffs and tries not to let his frustrations take over. Every hour Minho stays here is another hour of Seungmin fending for himself. He didn’t even know if Seungmin was alive or not. Whether he’s alone or if he’s unsafe.

Each thought nauseates Minho more than the last. The intakes of breath come and go so quickly that it begins to physically hurt to breathe. But as soon as his breath hitches, Jisung is back at his side—one hand on the mound of Minho’s bare chest, the other on his back, ushering him to lie back down.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Jisung assures. The playful tease of his voice was gone, only leaving a soothing comfort taste on his tongue. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

Minho dislikes not being able to make sense of something. He’s lived his whole life like that. Seungmin’s disappearance, Jisung’s kindness, Minho’s lack of drive to send Jisung to an instant death—whatever was happening between them right now was included in that.

Jisung eventually is successful in wrestling Minho onto his back. He adjusts the bundled blanket underneath Minho’s head delicately, and it drives Minho nuts. His reason for benignity, why he’s treating Minho with such care despite Minho’s threats.

“I want to kill you,” Minho grunts in pain. “And yet you help me. Why?”

“I’m not sure, huntsman.” Jisung answers. “Why did you let me live?”

It’s like inhaling gravel when Minho swallows dryly. He thinks back to the day they met and Jisung’s wounded body. His brown eyes full of prudence, his serpent tongue and soft skin. The way the other angels seemed to cower behind Jisung like he was their keeper. The way Minho disregarded his safety when freeing Jisung from his shackles. The inexplicit trust Jisung put into Minho after mere moments of meeting, the way he knew Minho wouldn’t hurt them before Minho knew it himself.

Minho looks away. “I don’t know, angel.”

Silence loomed.

“It’s Jisung—my name.”

Minho had already known that ever since the blond angel, Felix, hissed it out of fear. It never left Minho’s mind. Even when he returned home, even until now.

“Do you have a name too, huntsman?” Jisung dares to inquire. He’s smiling at him—Minho can’t find the strength to react. His behavior muddles Minho’s senses, derives a lack of the energy needed to harm Jisung, let alone attack him.

“I do,” Minho replies like a tempered child.

Much to his dismay, Jisung looks more humored than offended at his answer. Jisung stands to his feet and begins to walk off.

“I’ll wake you up when it’s time to eat,” Jisung concludes. And Minho doesn’t have it in him to bite back with something, because he’s already falling back asleep.

By the end of the next day, Minho had enough energy to sit up without any assistance. Although his legs are completely fine and unscathed, he can’t bring himself to stand yet. Call it apprehension.

Minho still can’t gauge how much of a threat Jisung imposed, although nothing has happened in the past forty-eight hours. Who knows, Jisung could be using this time to wear down Minho’s guard and would strike the minute he turns his back to the angel.

Just as Jisung had promised, his bow and arrow had been left untouched since he first regained consciousness, and it appeared Jisung only left the cave when Minho slept.

Minho awoke from a nap to Jisung spreading jam on a stale piece of bread. Both of those items most definitely came from Minho’s bag, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. What did it matter if this angel went through his mother’s jam? Minho was going to shoot him dead once he could stand, anyway. He can let the angel have his fun.

Minho found a deeply peculiar joy in observing Jisung quietly, in the way his eyes sparkled with every bite and how his wings rustled whenever he got a particularly tart taste of the fruit. Minho was the same when he was younger—jumping in his chair at the dinner table whenever his mother pulled apricots and peaches from her garden and served them with crackers and toast.

“What an amazing taste!” Jisung spoke suddenly from the other side of the fire. “It’s much more tart than what I’m used to from a peach. Though I have to admit, I feel like they’re usually quite zesty, but this is just—wow. So tart! It’s like a punch to my tastebuds.”

“That’s because it isn’t peach. It’s apricot.” Minho corrects monotonously.

Jisung had dressed him a while ago in his winter garments again as the wind from outside the cave tended to sneak in more frequently. With his free hand, Minho drags a rock against the floor, over and over and over. A delusional voice in the back of his head has convinced Minho that if he keeps scraping it like this, then he’ll have himself a weapon soon enough. The voice sounded awfully similar to his grandfather’s.

“Apricots, God. They’re so good,” Jisung responds with all the joy in the world. “I can’t say I’ve had an apricot before. Your kind doesn’t tend to like to share.”

Minho continues to obnoxiously scrape the rock against the ground. “Yeah.”

Jisung pries away from his jam and bread to look at Minho. With his mouth stuffed with food, he studies Minho’s hands, and then Minho’s bored face. “Whatcha doing over there?”

“Making a weapon,” Minho answers plainly. He sees no point in lying to Jisung—Jisung wouldn’t believe anything that left his lips, anyway.

As predicted, Jisung resumes his chewing after a few beats of silence. Gives Minho a look that says he doesn’t believe Minho in the slightest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’m going to make it real sharp. And then when you least expect it, I’ll shove it right into your throat.”

“That’ll hurt.”

“Yeah, that’s the point.”

A part of Minho hopes that if he can sour the impression Jisung has of him, then he’d stop being so damn nice and give them a reason to duke it out. He wants to give Jisung a reason to show his true colors. Give up his selfless act. Bare witness to the kind of angel his grandfather had warned him of all his life—the supernatural beasts that rip into flesh with their bare teeth and kill through a blinded rage. If Jisung could grant him that much, then maybe his grandfather’s aggravating voice would quiet down and Minho could find the strength to return to his expedition.

“Is that so?” Jisung asks, loud and sarcastic. Just what kind of angel was he, with an attitude like that? “How are you going to achieve that, oh mighty huntsman? You can’t even stand. Your legs shake like a fawn’s.”

“You’re the fawn.” Minho shoots back like a child. Perhaps his maturity seeped into the snow along with all the blood he lost.

Minho lifts the rock in his hand to inspect: it’s sharp, not as sharp as he’d like it to be, but it was enough to get his point across. Jisung has already moved his attention from Minho back to his bread and jam. Without hesitation, Minho pelts the rock like a dart, straight toward Jisung’s face.

Before he can comprehend it, Jisung completely disappears behind his wing instinctively. The rock bounces off the feather like a shield of metal, ricochets back onto the floor instead of wedging between the feather.

In the Hunters Guild, Minho had been informed that due to a variety of circumstances, angel wings don’t pose a threat. Wings were just an extra bone attached to their body that couldn’t do much—like a rib or pelvic bone. They’re weak and useless without the appropriate nutrients. No angel had been around long enough to utilize the full extent of their wings, being tied up until their final moments or being killed instantaneously by hunters. Minho had never seen it himself, so he believed it to be true.

Until now, at least. And it seems that Jisung’s mind had slipped of it, too, with the way his wings immediately deflated the moment the rock hit the ground. Minho could only stare, as did Jisung. In silence, they watched each other.

“Um,” Jisung’s the first to speak. “That’s never happened before.”

If the Hunters Guild caught wind that an angel’s wings had any usage other than a medallion to hang on a Colonel’s wall like the antlers of deer, then angels would be more at a disadvantage than they already were—Minho didn’t think that was even possible. But sitting there in silence with Jisung, with his wings he wore as armor, Minho is stunned into silence.

The adagio in the air between them draws out. Minho can feel his heartbeat echo in the cavern.

Minho clears his throat. “I think you’re lying.”

Something shifts in Jisung’s eyes—something more forlorn. Goosebumps litter Minho’s body.

“Yeah, okay. I’m lying.” And then Jisung’s eyes are glossy. They aren’t tears, but it’s that same expression Minho’s seen on thousands of angels: that realization that they’ve been cornered. That the hunter that stands before them will show them no mercy in their final moments. It’s like he’s waiting for Minho to subdue him, to pin him against the limestone of the cave. Tear his wings out by hand—Minho did promise he’d deliver Jisung to his deathbed.

And Minho knows he did just try to pelt Jisung with a rather sharp object, but it’s not like that would have actually killed him.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” Minho says before his brain can compute it.

“You lie,” Jisung grumbles. He’s suddenly very upset. Minho notes the expression Jisung’s wearing should be added to the long list of things Minho hates. A wrinkle in his forehead, the slant of his dark brows, the angry twitch of his lower lip.

“I’m serious. I don’t care enough to tattle.”

Jisung’s wings retreat and flutter behind him, and it’s only now that Minho realizes he’s never seen an angel have such control over their wings—it scared him a little. It mesmerized him even more.

“You don’t have to lie to someone like me, huntsman,” Jisung says with a nervous smile. “You have no reason to spare an angel his feelings.”

Minho leans back and tries to rack his brain for how he can reassure Jisung right now. His ribs ache from his restlessness and his eyes flicker over to his holster of arrows nearby. Jisung’s adamant stare doesn’t follow—they stay right on Minho.

“Minho,” Minho says. “Lee Minho.”

“Oh.”

Jisung digests the new information given to him. After a few moments, when he next meets Minho’s eye, he is not back to his normal self, but he at least appears less frightened than before.

Hopefully, sharing this small detail about himself is enough to build a bit of trust. Minho isn’t sure why he wants an angel to trust him so much in the first place.

“Okay, Lee Minho,” Jisung draws out each syllable, testing the feel of it in his mouth. Licks his teeth after the words leave his lips like there’s an aftertaste to it. Minho wonders if it tastes like apricots. “Are you any good at fishing? There’s a lake close to here.”

Later that evening, when Jisung helps Minho take his first steps in days out of the cave and down to the lake, he shows Jisung how to catch fish with nothing but a wooden makeshift harpoon. Minho tells himself it’s because he wants to give Jisung another reason to trust him. That night, his grandfather’s voice didn’t terrorize him for the first time in six years.

➳

“I think the storm has passed through now,” Jisung says quietly.

Minho wakes up the next morning to Jisung standing near the entrance of the shallow cave, eyes peering out to inspect the weather. It doesn’t hurt as much to move to and from with his injury now that a few days have passed, but the ache hasn’t withered in the slightest. He watches Jisung as the angel rubs his hands against his bare arms with a shudder. “Gosh, it’s so cold.”

Slowly, Minho stands to his feet and approaches Jisung, one hand over his bandages.

Then they’re standing side by side, looking out of the cavern together. Minho doesn’t miss the way Jisung sneaks a wing behind Minho to barricade him against the wind. If he didn’t know any better, he’d believe Jisung was ready to constrict him into a pulp while he was still so vulnerable.

They’re about the same height, but if Minho had to make a guess, then he’d say he has maybe an inch or so over Jisung. Jisung’s broad wings, however, manage to make Minho feel smaller. It’s a feeling he’s grown accustomed to over the past few nights—it doesn’t startle him as much anymore. He supposes that if Jisung was going to make an attempt on his life, then he would have tried at least once by now.

Minho doesn’t linger on the thought since Jisung immediately shakes his head in rejection of the offer. “There’s a cottage nearby; we should go there before another blizzard rolls through.”

“Since when did we establish I’d be sticking around?”

Jisung tilts his head and gives him an almost bittersweet look. “Your wounds are still fresh. I can only do so much for you in a cave. If you’re good at traveling a small journey, then you should rest in bed.”

“Are you my mother?” Minho can’t help but feel slightly aggravated by Jisung’s insistence. Minho is an angel hunter—he doesn’t need to be nursed back to health by someone of Jisung’s kind, let alone obey his suggestions. “I didn’t need an angel’s help before and I certainly don’t need it now.”

Something in Minho’s words strikes Jisung, but only for a moment. Then suddenly, the angel is glaring back at him. “I’m not sure what being mothered entails, but I’m sure your real mother would prefer you resting under a roof over bleeding out in the snow.”

For the first time since they first met weeks ago, Minho catches sight of that fire in Jisung’s eye again. It’s the kind that immediately burns Minho and sears him into nothing. Effective. Immobilizing. And it’s only then does Minho feel a little guilty over his rash tongue. He does not want to hurt the lamb—he never means to. Lambs are sweet; lambs are rather meek, but Jisung was the flaw in that ideology. It might be Jisung’s only flaw.

This isn’t what Minho had been taught by his grandparents or the evangelists of his town. No, Jisung was an entirely different enigma, and that was beside the fact that he was a supernatural fugitive.

Hesitantly, Minho takes a small step backward. His bare back brushes against the softness of Jisung’s protective wing—it was like being enveloped by a bed of quill pens. Would there be ink stained onto his skin if he were to pull away? Would remnants of Jisung follow him out of the cave?

“I’m sorry,” Minho says quietly. Jisung’s eyes grow soft and curious. “I know you are only trying to help me.” Minho’s eyes dart down to the frond bandage around Jisung’s waist—it’s been dirtied. “...even after I’ve wounded you.”

Jisung places a hand on Minho’s shoulder and he almost flinches at the gentle touch. “Your injuries are still too tender, Minho.” He offers a teasing smile as he says this. “At least for a few days. Just come with me. It’s safer in the cottage than it is in here. Don’t be stubborn.”

Minho considers this. It’s true, his body still aches and he’s sure he’d be met with a grotesque sight if he peeped at his wound now—but every moment Minho isn’t searching for Seungmin is a window of time that could be used to compromise him. As much as Minho hates the idea of remaining idle, Jisung’s right: he can’t be much help to Seungmin if he dies.

“Why do you want to help me so badly, angel?” Minho questions with a furrowed brow. “I haven’t been good to you at all.”

The hand that previously rested on Minho’s shoulder feathers his nape, so brief that Minho thinks he must have imagined the touch, before his hand wanders down the muscle of Minho’s arm, then back to his side.

“I saw something in you when you broke off my chains. My friend did too, even if he expressed otherwise.”

Minho’s thoughts flicker back to that day, to the other angel—Felix, freckled, brown-eyed and downright textbook angelic—glaring up at him as he tried to shield Jisung with his own body. The two angels looked at Minho so distrustfully, so hostile, that Minho could not begin to guess what else they saw in Minho other than imminent danger. That’s all Minho had been conditioned to be: dangerous. Not something worthy of an angel’s gentleness when all he gives them in return is slaughter.

Jisung’s wing around Minho rustles, and Minho's eyes flicker to the pink dusting the angel’s cheeks. “There’s good in you, huntsman. I see it so clearly.”

Maybe it’s because Minho’s lifestyle doesn’t allow for such in-depth conversation with angels, but he feels himself flushing at Jisung’s blunt words. Angels aren’t creatures known for their dishonesty, but he doesn’t know how truthful they are, either.

His grandfather warned him of their siren-esque capability, how some angels disguised themselves as docile to lure in huntsmen in the early era of angels falling from the sky. Jisung’s charm and directness tug at Minho so much that he finally understands it.

But Jisung’s giving him this look, like he can read Minho from the inside out, like he can fissure Minho’s complicated thoughts around and feed directly from his heart. Did it taste like his mother’s jam, as well? Minho’s eyes maneuver to Jisung’s plump bottom lip and wonders if the taste still lingers there.

“You sound so sure of yourself,” Minho says, forcing himself to look away.

The companionship between a huntsman and a lamb was not something possible in this lifetime.

Yet, Jisung’s eyes are fond when he replies, “I’m quite certain of it.”

Jisung’s self-proclaimed renovated cottage is much nicer compared to the old, abandoned house where Minho first found Jisung—it looks lively and well-lived in.

It’s hard to tell if Jisung’s presence here existed before his capture or if this is a recent discovery of his. His supernatural energy keeps the pipes flowing with water and the electricity on, and a natural scent of greenery infiltrates the rooms. Even the furniture feels clean, and when Jisung helps Minho onto the couch, Minho doesn’t feel the need to worry about bugs or dirt in between the cushions. This cottage is well taken care of. Loved. Minho felt out of place, like a bug stuck between the cushions.

Jisung appears before him with a bowl of hot rice. “I left the fish out by accident some time ago, so this is all we have.”

Minho accepts the bowl gratefully. “Is this where you live?”

“No. I’ve just been fixing her up for the past couple of months. At least, until last week,” Jisung responds sheepishly as he takes a seat on the floor beside Minho, emptying an old soy sauce packet on top of his food. “I wanted to make this a place for other angels to have refuge in if they traveled through here.”

Minho nods, not knowing what to say. “That’s kind of you.” He takes a large bite of his rice.

“Is it?” Jisung asks, curious. “I find it more as a means of survival for people like me. It’s basic decency.”

Of course, because Minho’s been trained to be a cold-blooded hunter all his life. Of course, the living targets of his arrow fight to protect one another. What an idiot.

“Right.” Minho takes another bite. This time, not as eager to utter a stupid comment. He tries to change the subject. “You stink.”

Actually, Jisung smells abnormally good from where he sits—he smells of roses. Whether all angels had such a distinct scent or if it was just Jisung, so far was left unknown.

Of course the angel doesn’t know that, who looks baffled by the declaration and goes to smell the shirt Minho pinned around his wings with safety pins. “It’s only been a few days since my last bath.”

“Jisung,” Minho gapes. “You should be bathing every day.”

“Speak for yourself.” Jisung shoots back without wasting a beat. He almost looks nervous once the words leave him, quietly waiting for Minho’s reply, to see if he’s upset the huntsman. He relaxes though as soon as Minho giggles.

“And whose fault is that?” Minho coos, feeling suddenly playful. “Since you’ve taken it upon yourself to nurse me back to health, that means also taking care of my hygiene, no? Ever considered it may be your fault that I stink?”

Interestingly enough, Jisung flushes a deep red. “I didn’t think you wanted me to! I was certain you’d bite me if I tried to take off your pants.”

If this were unfolding a few days prior, Jisung wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Now, Minho would get a laugh at seeing Jisung try to clean him with his bare hands. He’d be too bashful to stomach an unclothed Minho for more than a minute, but wouldn’t be too apprehensive to touch him. Minho would get an absolute kick out of it.

“I think I can clean myself,” Minho assures. He looks out the one window that isn’t boarded up—a view that opens directly out to the neighboring gland. He hasn’t traveled into the cottage deep enough to see if the shower and bath water worked properly, but he wasn’t a novice to having to bathe in a lake before. It’s not like he had constant access to a shower when he was out on missions, anyway.

“Will you help me down to the lake?” Minho asks. “I feel gross.”

Jisung nods animatedly, trying to scarf down what rice he can despite the heat of it. He scoops up Minho’s bowl in the process, although it was only half eaten, and says, “Let’s go before it gets dark.”

True to his word, Minho bathes himself just fine without Jisung’s help. The angel in question remains a polite distance away from him, using a washcloth to scrub at his arms.

Minho is stripped completely naked of his clothes, dry and folded neatly on a nearby boulder clear of the water. He has never cared for being utterly bare out in the wild before—they don’t have the leniency to be modest as hunters, so he isn’t sure why seeing Jisung naked from such a distance is as distracting as it is.

The tan of Jisung’s arms is a shade darker compared to his torso, his arrow wound still bandaged in Minho’s presence, his wings dampened. Minho finds it in him to peel off his bandage made up of frond leaves and calendula paste—only to be met with a deep, large, and barely scabbed-over wound. He thinks back to the exposed tissue and swallows his disgust. The wolves did not have mercy on Minho’s flesh.

Minho darts his gaze to the softness of Jisung’s skin and the pink of his tongue: Jisung does not have mercy on Minho’s emotions, either.

Jisung catches wind of Minho's gaze and closes in on himself immediately. His left wing shoots out to protect his own naked body. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He asks accusingly, much to Minho’s amusement. Jisung’s wings can’t hide the bashfulness in his voice.

Minho scoops a handful of water to apply to his thinly scarred wound. It’s clean of all its blood, thanks to Jisung’s tending, but Minho could tell it wouldn’t take much to open up if Minho moved too abrasively. He doesn’t miss the way Jisung’s wary eye follows his hand.

Minho shrugs in response. “Your wings are pretty.” You’re pretty, is what he almost says.

Jisung only scoffs. “How do you feel?” He asks, nodding at Minho’s wound.

“It’s bearable now,” Minho answers honestly, then dares to smile at the angel. “I have a good nurse.”

➳

Minho warms up canned vegetables on the stovetop for the two of them when they return. Jisung tried to convince Minho earlier to rest more and that he was more than capable of warming up canned food, but Minho only ignored him and bee-lined for the kitchen with a dusty apron tied around his waist. It’s nice like this: Jisung sitting on the counter and swinging his legs as they both make small talk.

Sometime later, they’re more than halfway through their second meal when Jisung asks the daunting question: “So what brought you to the forest in the first place?”

Minho stalls as much as he possibly can with a mouth full of green beans. “I’m looking for something,” is all he says.

Jisung, ever oblivious, only pries for more. Hungry and seeking out more like a blood-sniffing dog. “You’re looking for something, or someone?”

Images of Seungmin, alive and well flash in Minho’s mind. And suddenly, Minho isn’t all that up for conversation anymore. Jisung’s heightened perception of him feels a bit too much.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, angel,” Minho grumbles vaguely.

Jisung doesn’t say anything in response to that. The silence is enough to make Minho look up curiously from his plate at the little dinner table, so small and stubby that it has the two of them nudging kneecaps where they eat.

“I could help you, you know.” Jisung offers. “With whatever it is you’re looking for.”

“You could help me by letting me be on my way.” Minho retorts, much harsher than he had intended the words to come across, but what’s done is done.

“Fine,” Jisung responds bluntly. “I won’t keep you here anymore, since you hate my hospitality so much.”

Minho stills in his place, internally hitting himself over his unnecessary rudeness. He stayed in the kitchen for a long while, long after Jisung had left the dinner table.

➳

The next morning, Minho finds Jisung at the foot of the patio.

His shirt has disappeared, lying flat on the ground in nothing but shorts, bending his body over his outstretched legs. It doesn’t appear Jisung’s noticed him yet from where Minho stands at the front door. He takes advantage of it while he can, leaning on the side jamb for support.

Jisung’s wings stutter as they outstretch the furthest Minho’s has ever seen an angel’s wings go. Almost two meters, if he had to guess. An unnaturally bright white contrasts Jisung’s honeyed skin, only drawing more attention to his natural beauty. Minho is besotted by the morning view.

Their small safe haven within the forest is kissed by little sunlight peeking through the thick tree branches that encase them. It’s more humid than would be expected on a day still in the hazard zone of another winter storm.

This is it, Minho thinks. If he were to strike Jisung down, it would be now, while he’s immersed in bathing in the sun, back foolishly to where Minho could come out and strike him.

Minho would be quiet about it; he’d retrieve his bow from where it rested by the doorway and shoot Jisung in the back of the head. It’d be the easiest kill Minho could pocket—he could let his arrow fly, clear the cottage of its supplies and he could be back on the road. It would all be so easy. Very achievable—Jisung’s leaving himself wide open to destruction. A lamb who has straggled too far from the barn, at the mercy of wolves. Jisung’s faith in whatever good he thought existed in Minho could never be completely honest.

Minho was nine years old when he first pierced an arrow through an innocent angel. He didn’t want to do it back then.

Minho is now 26 when he considers piercing an arrow through yet another innocent angel. Even now, he doesn’t want to, but he feels like he has to.

Do it, Minho, he hears his grandfather call for him from deep within the house. Minho jolts hearing it, so eerily clear. Of course, there’s nothing there—it’s all in his head, living there with all the other things that haunt Minho’s thoughts and dreams. If this occurred when he was a boy, Minho would have argued with his grandfather through tears. Minho now only makes a weak attempt to grab his bow, trying to ignore his panicking, beating heart.

However, the edge of the bow slips through Minho’s grasp and falls over with a crash. From where he still lies, Jisung sits up at the commotion.

“Minho,” Jisung calls out breathlessly. He had no idea what could have become of him. “Good morning.”

Silence distills high in the air and wraps around Minho’s neck. He grabs the door frame and blinks, snapping himself out of whatever weird trance that just overcame him. Not entirely sure what just occurred.

“Good morning,” Minho says back to Jisung for the first time. Too bad he can’t muster the courage to look him in the eye while he says it. Jisung doesn’t deserve Minho’s gaze—he just thought of killing him.

Immediately, Jisung is on his feet, approaching Minho cautiously like the wounded animal Minho is. Jisung senses something’s wrong all too fast for his liking. “Are you alright? Is it your wound?”

“No, sorry.” Minho’s bandages feel too tight and he’s feeling short of breath, but that was the least of his concerns. He blinks out of his haze once and for all and takes a tedious glance over his shoulder back inside the house. He thinks, knows, his grandfather isn’t there—the bastard died the year Minho joined the Hunters Guild six years ago—but his words still live in Minho’s thoughts every day.

Jisung eyes him warily, not convinced. “Are you sure? You never tell me good morning.”

Minho snorts, unexpectedly. “Yeah. I think I just stood up too fast. You can go back to your—um,” Minho flails his hand awkwardly. “Your morning stretches. Don’t mind me.”

“...Do you want to join me?” Jisung proposes. “It could be good for your body.”

Minho puts a protective hand over his chest. “I’m alright, thank you.” He walks out to the first and only step on the patio and takes a seat against the wooden railing.

Jisung nods sheepishly before returning to his spot.

Not awkward at all. Minho squirms where he sits.

The feeling doesn’t last for long—Jisung’s stretching is all too enticing for Minho to self-loathe. Stretching is a rather interesting hobby to take up, he thinks. Minho wouldn’t know; the world has been bleak for as long as Minho’s been alive. Happiness isn’t a common thing to experience in the ramparts, nor is music or dancing or even something as private as stretching out in the wilderness. It’s all too structured—too uptight for Minho’s taste, but structure is what has kept them allegedly safe from angels all these years.

Watching Jisung exist, however, so placid, so sweet—has Minho questioning what the masses were so afraid of all this time.

His grandfather used to tell him in the early end times, angels were ravenous and bloodthirsty, and the ones that were confined wouldn’t cough up any information that would explain the catastrophe. The angel’s decades-long argument has always been that they don’t know. They don’t know why they’ve fallen from the sky. One day they’ve just appeared, confused and cornered like animals.

Minho feels glued to the wooden footstep, wounded and overpowered by the almighty, fierce divinity. He knows that—he knows Jisung knows that. Yet the angel pays him no mind, taking deep breaths with his eyes closed, leaving him wide open for the worst to overcome him—for Minho to overcome him.

Where Minho should be planning ways to subdue the angel, completely vulnerable like the underbelly of a feline, he finds himself instead inspecting Jisung’s wings. He only briefly felt the softness of its feather the day Jisung shielded him from the wind, but even then it’s not what he expected. The smooth exterior was expected, but the iciness was not.

It could have been a hallucination—he’s not all there in the head still. Whenever Minho had seen an angel’s wings pinned up on a board of some Elite captain’s wall, Minho would assume they’d be more—he didn’t know. More flocculate, as comforting as they appear, like resting your head on a pillow at the end of a tiring journey—not frigid and sharp. Like a metal shield blanketed by a wafer-thin feather.

It sent a chill down Minho’s arms when he felt it against his skin, it made him nervous in a way he hadn’t been in years. It was yet another thing the Hunters Guild failed to warn him of—how overdue close-proximity to the divine could make Minho’s skin smart and his heart pinched by its vessels. This had to be a common occurrence. It must be.

“Go on. Say it,” Jisung suddenly says.

Minho blinks dumbly. “What?”

“I know you want to say something—” Jisung declares. “—about my wings. You’re curious, right?”

Minho shifts where he sits, bringing his knees to his chest to rest his arms on top of them. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“I feel you staring a hole through them.”

It’s not completely untrue, but it wasn’t just his wings Minho was looking at; he was also taking in the broadness of Jisung’s shoulders, the skin expanding over his ribs when he brought his arms to the air. The way his shorts rode up his thighs when he leaned forward. The distracting fullness of Jisung’s chest and arms. How seizable his waist looked.

Minho blinks in rapid-fire. No way in hell was he admitting to that.

“I wasn’t staring,” Minho says.

Jisung straightens up and drapes his legs over each other, lays his palms flat over his knees before turning his head in Minho’s direction. His wings rest away from his body, blanketing the ground behind him. Minho can count each feather from where he sits if he wants to.

“You can feel them if you’d like,” Jisung offers, and Minho feels his beating heart rivet.

Minho could argue that he’s felt them plenty in the way Jisung has swiveled his figure from the world without acting like he was. That once he gets his hands on the flesh around that bone, Minho would rip it clean off, just as he was trained to do, just as his grandfather advised him to do. He can’t ignore the desire burning his belly to walk over to Jisung and see if the feather is as cold to the touch as it is to his sight.

“No thanks,” Minho says instead, tightening his arms around himself.

Jisung narrows his gaze and Minho is forced to pretend it doesn’t make him hold his breath.

“It’s alright, huntsman,” he coos. Jisung still has that sweet smile etched on his heart-shaped mouth and everything about him is all-inviting, but his eyes say otherwise. “I don’t bite.”

The statement is nuanced. It makes Minho’s stomach churn and hot all over.

“That’s rich coming from you,” Minho huffs.

Jisung tilts his head forward, eyes slightly widening. Pleading. “Minho, come here.”

Minho stops questioning the way Jisung’s voice makes him all lacking and pliant when he finds himself on his feet and trudging over to him.

In a few steps he’s at Jisung’s side, kneeling and unsure where to put his hands. They’re not touching, but the heat exuding from Jisung sinks beneath Minho’s skin and makes him sweat. What could happen if they were to press against each other? Merge into a kaleidoscope of color until they’ve worn themselves down into muddy browns and greys? What it be such a bad thing? His grandfather would say so—he would have thrown something at Minho’s head if he knew what he was thinking right now.

“Go on,” Jisung says and watches amusedly, bringing his knees to his chest just as Minho did moments ago. Except Minho doesn’t sense any discomfort or nervousness from the angel. He’s completely relaxed, watching Minho as if a harmless little forest animal has just approached him.

But Minho is not a harmless animal. Minho has teeth that have killed and will kill again. His arrows are his claws and they are sharp enough to tear flesh. He’s been molded into not caring for anything aside from destruction, doesn’t know if he can recognize himself if he were to derail from the person his peers expect him to be.

Still, when Jisung reaches for Minho’s hand, he lets it happen.

Jisung’s hands are warm. Really warm. They nearly cover Minho’s own as he leads his hand to rest against the bone directly attached to Jisung’s back, and something in Minho’s chest hurts when Jisung pulls away and takes the warmth with him. Maybe the pain from his ribs is traveling up his chest.

Minho grabs the wing to stabilize his thoughts. He shouldn’t be surprised to feel flesh over the bone, but he is anyway. He knows his face gives it away. Jisung looks like he’s biting back a laugh.

“There’s skin.” Minho blurts out before Jisung can tease him, squeezing the wing beneath his hand. Watches with intrigue how flexible the skin and feathers move—like stroking the spine of a cat.

Jisung laughs anyway. “Yeah, skin.”

Minho ignores the taunt in his voice and lets his hand trail higher up. His fingers graze the bone, trail as high as he can from where he kneels, before letting it fall into the actual elongated feathers.

Angel wings, Minho learns, are soft at the touch, but they’re thin, the edges as dull as an unwelded blade. Cold, too. Frigid. There’s no cushion or anything akin to welcoming. What Jisung adorns is a dual-wielded weapon, and Minho wonders how they’d move in action.

Minho can’t stop touching them now that he’s started, but he knows Jisung doesn’t mind. If anything, he seems to be enjoying it based on the way he sighs contentedly at the touch. Not too loudly, but just loud enough for Minho to overhear like it’s a secret. Minho supposes that’s what’s forming between them right now: a secret.

Minho’s hands trail back to where they first began and he gives the flesh another squeeze. Jisung shudders at the touch.

“Well?” He asks.

“Well, what?” Minho mutters.

“How are they?” Jisung asks, brows wiggling, brown eyes big and expecting. As if Minho holds all the answers in the world. For Jisung, weirdly enough, a part of him wishes he did.

“This isn’t my first time touching angel feathers if that’s what you’re implying,” Minho scoffs, and then relents. “But yours feel... different.”

Jisung’s lips curl downward, waiting for Minho’s next words.

Minho has come across many angels throughout his life as a hunter, both dead and alive. He’s all too aware what an angel’s wings feel like when Minho himself has pulled angels to their feet by the feathers. He’s watched them be sawed off by the bone. Has had to carry them with two arms back to basecamp before. They’ve all been wet and dirtied and heavy with layers of feathers, layers of a once-living angel. Heavy like tarp and smooth to the touch like hand-woven tapestry.

Jisung’s wings feel the opposite.

“They’re cold,” Minho says, letting his fingertips pinch onto the closest feather. “And sharp. Have you ever used these against anyone?”

“Like in a fight?”

“Yeah,” Minho says, livelier than before. His inner child’s curiosity beseeches him. “It’s like two razor-blade fans latched to your back.”

Finally, for what seems to be a first between them since yesterday, Jisung is the one who squirms in his seat. “I can’t say I haven’t used them to protect myself before,” he says shyly, then looks away. “...or others. It draws a lot of attention to my friends and I, so I don’t like using them all that much.”

Minho’s mind flickers back to the way Felix and the other angels seemed to hide behind Jisung like a guard dog. Instead of a wolf collar, however, Jisung wears his wings. He wears them differently compared to most angels.

“So you have,” Minho confirms. It solidifies his suspicions when Jisung sinks where he sits. He almost looks ashamed—Minho can’t comprehend what for.

“I guess,” Jisung answers, full of remorse.

Remorse is the guilt that follows after you’ve done a terrible thing. Minho experiences remorse year-round; he’s the one between the two of them who has any reason to, if anything. He’s been an aid to the decline in angels, both innocent and not. Jisung has no reason to feel remorse. Minho doesn’t want Jisung to see his tactics of self-defense as something to be ashamed of.

An angry seed blooms inside Minho’s chest at the thought. Without giving it any more thought, Minho jumps to his feet as fast as he possibly can in the condition he’s in. “I want to see.”

Jisung looks at him like he’s grown two heads from where he remains sitting on the dirt floor. “You... want to fight me?” He clarifies.

“Yeah. Why not?” Minho shrugs and stretches his arms before extending a hand to Jisung. “I want to see you do your worst.”

Much to Minho’s dismay, Jisung doesn’t accept his hand. He remains glued to the floor, bewildered at Minho’s sudden exuberance of energy. “You’re still really hurt.”

“Think of it as physical therapy,” Minho argues. “You want me to get better, right?”

“I suppose.” Jisung answers.

“Come on. It’ll be fun.” Minho wiggles the fingers that are still waiting for Jisung to accept. Slowly, finally, Jisung accepts his hand and pulls himself up with it.

Jisung still looks doubtful even as he stands. “I don’t know, Minho. Seriously.”

Maybe a reason for Jisung’s anxieties is the way Minho’s been interacting with him this whole time. Maybe if Minho could loosen up a little, show Jisung that he can have a good time and not only for the blood on his hands, then Jisung would feel more comfortable.

“Jisung, come on! Play with me! Get angry! Chuck a feather at my head, or something.”

Jisung laughs—Minho is bewitched at the melody; he doesn’t even care that Jisung is practically mocking him with the sound.

“What?” Minho asks tauntingly.

“For a huntsman, you’re quite strange.”

Minho scoffs. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be provoking you here. Not the other way around.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Then, “I don’t want to hurt you,” Jisung worries.

A part of Minho runs through a list of things that could soothe Jisung’s concerns. Whenever Minho grew too anxious as a child, his mother would pet his hair and sing him to sleep. Did Jisung have someone who took care of him as well? Could Minho bring himself to offer that to Jisung?

He digs his blunt nails into the palms of his hands instead. “You won’t. I won’t let you.”

Still, with the assurance, Jisung doesn’t look too interested in sparring. Minho squints at Jisung like he’d find the reason for his apprehension if he looks hard enough. Jisung is an enigma in more ways than one, and Minho still doesn’t know the angel all too well.

“What, you have nothing worth fighting for, angel?”

At that, Jisung tenses up. His feathers rustle once—exactly what Minho wanted to see. His gaze grows more serious, but there are still those bright, gold specks in his eyes, the ones full of softness and desire to run from the battle. Would he use teeth, like most angels do? Will he claw at him like a feral animal until Minho puts him in his place?

Jisung doesn’t explicitly say that he’ll entertain Minho for just a little bit, but Minho doesn’t need him to in order to know that. He can see it in the way Jisung’s gaze narrows and his bare feet sink into the soil, quietly preparing for Minho to make his approach once he stands.

And he has no problem giving Jisung that pleasure.

Minho is within arm’s reach of Jisung in just a few strides, tightening his fists at the very last moment before he takes his first swing. He swings without the intention to truly hurt Jisung—just giving himself enough momentum to startle the angel into reacting.

It works even though it’s not thrilling. Jisung only steps backward just in time, using both arms to protect his face when Minho throws another hit. If he were in his normal condition, Minho would be more ruthless, but the strain on his waist would be too detrimental, so he instead aims lower. Again, not too hard, but just enough to throw Jisung’s balance off.

In the last moment, Jisung tries to slam himself into Minho’s side to stop him, but he fails. Minho’s daily regimen to stay in shape for the Hunters Guild has done him justice over the years, growing into nothing short of sheer mass. And he’s far from being the tallest in the guild, nor is he the broadest or heaviest, but Minho has mastered the art of taking care of his body. Keeping himself strong and healthy and ready for any threat, it’s like trying to throw a brick wall onto its back.

But still, his wound impedes him, so he stumbles only enough for an outstretched foot to secure him. All too quickly, all too soon, it appears Jisung is out of options. He doesn’t even fight it when his waist tis seized by Minho for stabilization.

“You aren’t trying very hard, are you?” Minho teases as Jisung looks up at him, which isn’t very hard to do considering he’s not that much shorter in comparison.

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Jisung replies, almost snarky.

They’re awfully close to one another, chests brushing against each other as they breathe. Minho pushes himself away from Jisung before the moment can last.

When he next goes for Jisung, he uses the same formula but with more bruteness: his swings come down much faster, yet he can’t properly land any hits. Jisung, surprisingly enough, is too fast for Minho to touch, but he isn’t doing anything different, either. Only side-stepping, barely evading at the last moment. If this were a real fight, Jisung wouldn’t last five minutes on strength alone.

Minho takes a step backward, growing more annoyed. “It’s not very fun when only one of us is trying.”

Jisung bunches his hands into fists. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

“And I said I wouldn’t let you,” Minho barks back.

Jisung gnaws at his bottom lip for just a second. Minho can’t explain why the action catches his attention—he’s almost expecting to catch a glance of sharp teeth. Maybe Jisung was going to come after him once and for all. He’d aim right for Minho’s jugular and take the fun out of all of this and show Minho his true colors. Prove Minho’s grandfather and the rest of the world right—that angels were made up of sharp edges and degraded soil.

From where he stands, Jisung hurls a kick to Minho’s good side, but Minho traps his leg there before it can do any real damage. Jisung yelps at the abrupt entrapment. Minho tightens his arm around Jisung’s calf now rendered useless, gives the flesh on his thigh a firm strike of his elbow, and sends both of them to the ground with a rough push.

Jisung lands flat on his back with a grunt, the leg Minho had a previous hold of still suspended in the air. Minho follows after and lands partially in between Jisung’s legs, both hands flying out and lying on either side of Jisung’s head. He swears he could have heard a groan from Jisung as he crawls on top of the angel, straddling his waist to keep him pinned to the ground.

Christ, his ribs felt like they were going to tear out of his body, but Minho is too caught up in the way Jisung looks underneath him: like dazed, ratite bird, yet still he sticks his nose in the air like he’s prepared to peck his eyes out the moment Minho loosens his grip. Minho leans into Jisung with a smirk.

“I thought it was brave of you back then—when we first met. Putting up such a strong front for the other angels. Like you were their guard dog,” Minho taunts with a sweet voice, a sick part of his head enjoying the way Jisung wriggles beneath him. “You looked real pretty, too. Glaring up at me like I was the one who tied you up.”

“Get off,” Jisung warns. That fire is back in his eyes, the same one Minho first saw in him at the old house. 

Minho nearly preens. He dares to lean in closer to rile him up some more, close enough for his breath to fan Jisung’s face. “Where’s that brave boy now, hm?”

Jisung doesn’t look humored in the slightest. No, he looks rather agitated. And before Minho can see it coming, the angel is throwing Minho off of him like he’s a ragdoll.

Minho lies rumpled in the dirt, stunned—confused at Jisung’s abrupt display of strength as the man in question stands to his feet. The sky is bright as it suddenly blinds him with a good morning.

Okay, so Jisung is much stronger than he initially appears to be. That’s fine. Minho doesn’t care, and doesn't find it absurdly attractive either. If Jisung later inquires about Minho’s flushed state, he’ll have to blame it on adrenaline.

Maybe the books and myths were wrong, maybe angels really did have the bodies of beasts and human faces that looked just like their own. Minho’s looking at the angel before him, who is lionhearted and doe-eyed, wearing the wings of a bird and the face that could possibly replicate a first love’s. Jisung, the anomaly. The phenomenon. The monster in all of his Grandfather’s war stories. Jisung, the angel.

Minho now knows what it feels to adorn true anticipation; it’s in the way his heart leaps into his throat and the muscle beneath his skin shakes like an avalanche about to tilt over the mountain. He waits for the crash, waits for Jisung to crash into him and turn the lights out.

But Jisung has the decency to wait until Minho is back on his feet to initiate their third round of sparring.

This next round goes much faster—much more hard-hitting, but that’s because Jisung’s actually fighting back this time. Minho dulls the blow of Jisung’s kick, dulls the swings that Jisung only now finally hurls in his direction, but he’s caught off guard when one of Jisung’s wings swallows him from behind and has him stumbling into its feathers.

Minho’s balance is rotated forcibly, but not enough to send him to the ground. He doesn’t know how to fend off an angel this way; angels aren’t known for using their wings in a fight, and now he’s getting a personal demonstration of it. His hands do nothing against the wings, his touch can’t do anything to seriously hurt Jisung. He could maybe pluck a feather or two, but that alone would be too tedious—not a strong skill intended for close-combat. He doesn’t even know if it would hurt Jisung.

The best bet at disabling them would be if Minho could grab hold of the bones, but what he can reach is too fast, and what’s too far is too close to Jisung’s body. All while protecting his head from any incoming hits, Minho tries to think, think, think, of what to do next—what he can do in this position—

The end of Jisung’s wing comes slamming down into the back of his ankles, sweeping him off his feet completely, and suddenly Minho is on his back with something sharp digging into him.

With every exhale, something presses deeper into the flesh of Minho’s neck—sharp enough to draw blood. All Minho can see and feel, however, is the angel on top of him, hands grabbing Minho’s chest and straddling his hips with a serious look on his face. They sit in silence, panting hard and chasing their next breath in sync, staring each other down so intensely that it almost has Minho wanting to escape him.

If Jisung were anyone else, Minho would buck his hips into him as hard as he could and plunge a dagger into their chest before they hit the ground.

When it comes to Jisung, though, Minho’s hands find purchase on Jisung’s thighs. He digs his fingers into the exposed skin, as if debating how much he can tear into the flesh with his claws. He continues to look up at Jisung’s serious expression, waiting to see what else he’ll do to Minho. It’s a little exhilarating, the anticipation of it all.

That’s when Minho feels something drip down the side of his neck. What he comes to realize soon after is the thing drawing blood from his neck is the serrated edge of Jisung’s feathers keeping him still.

A moment later, Jisung’s gaze finally leaves him and catches sight of the blood. And then, his entire demeanor changes. His sweet, normal gaze soon returns, and his tense body uncoils against Minho’s, his hands leaving Minho’s chest.

“Shit. I’m so sorry,” The angel retracts his wings and they deflate behind him as he scrambles off of Minho. He kneels at Minho’s side and helps him sit up, using his bare hands to wipe away the blood. One wipes at his skin, the other comes to rest on Minho’s nape.

Minho sits still, utterly useless. Mind too busy trying to compute what the hell just happened.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” Jisung continues to bombard him.

Minho is still quiet, taking in what just happened and feeling himself warm from the hands that were just on his neck. Minho thinks he hears Jisung babble about his wounds reopening, but he doesn’t have the attention span to pay it any mind.

“Holy shit,” Minho says, dazed. “You could have killed me.”

And then, he maniacally laughs.

The idea of almost dying this way was fucking hilarious. It hurts his ribs to laugh, but Minho can’t help it. Curiosity truly almost killed the cat. Jisung pauses, not knowing how to react to Minho’s laughter, because he’s certainly incapable of reciprocating the humor.

Instead, Jisung crumbles, further mortified. “I’m so, so sorry. Minho. Fuck, did you hit your head?”

Minho calms down after a moment and collects himself enough to look Jisung in the eye. “No, it’s okay. I’m okay. I asked for it.”

“I still went too far,” Jisung complains, hands falling into his lap as he shrinks where he sits. “God, I can’t believe you’re laughing!”

“Because it’s funny!” Minho wipes an imaginary tear from his eye, still grinning. “Jisung, it’s fine. Seriously. That’s what I wanted.” Now that his soul is back in his body and his mind is all caught up, he finds the whole thing hilarious all over again. “Wow. Jisung. God, you—you’re kind of a badass.”

Jisung gently pinches off a small, dried clot of blood already forming on Minho’s neck. He has the nerve to roll his eyes while he’s at it, but Minho catches a faint smile on his lips. “Oh my god, stop. I could have seriously hurt you.”

“Seriously, where’d all of that come from? You had me on my ass in ten seconds flat. God—those are some fucking weapons on you. Your wings are sick.”

Jisung looks at him impossibly more terrified than before. “Sick? You feel sick again?”

“No, like—” Minho giggles maniacally again. Maybe he did hit his head. “I think they’re cool.”

At that, Minho catches a glimpse of Jisung’s cheeks reddening. He can’t help but think it’s a nice look on him.

Jisung redirects his gaze to Minho’s face. “You think so?”

“Totally. You’d have a lot of guys in my platoon running for the hills. You have my respect, angel.” Minho reaches his hand over Jisung’s shoulder to give his feathers another pet. Jisung buries his hands between his legs and watches Minho, like he’s waiting for Minho to suddenly say he’s just joking and tackling him into the dirt.

“I don’t know what I was expecting when you said you’ve fought people with them before, but it wasn’t that,” Minho adds. “Geez. Can all of you do that?”

“As far as I know, it’s just me,” Jisung answers shyly. “Did you see me just like all the others, back there? Like just another one of the sheep you often terrorize?”

“A sheep-dog, more like.”

Sheep are not known predators, as they’re generally corrigible animals. Minho knows that much from Seungmin’s family farm. They may not look like it, but they can and will harm if frightened. Lambs do not hurt people, though—they can’t hurt people. They’re much more gentle. It may not be what Minho had been taught by his grandparents or what the town evangelists would preach, but Minho sees it to be the truth.

Now looking at Jisung, he’s more than a lamb or a frightened sheep. He’s even more than the broadest of rams. The angel encasing him in the middle of the forest is more akin to a sheep-dog with a large, bulky wolf-collar around his neck and all, who isn’t afraid to dive headfirst to protect.

“Jisung,” Minho says softly, searching for something in Jisung’s expression when he next says, “I find you so interesting.”

Jisung huffs with a coy smile. He squeezes his hands still rummaged between his thighs. “Even when I lie? I do bite a little bit.”

“You’ve got sharp teeth,” Minho hums in agreement. “But so do I.”

It’s too soon to say Jisung has ensnared him; Minho’s not ready to face the findings. But he’s content like this, experiencing this closeness to such divinity, to have their little secret of blossoming companionship, and being okay with it.

➳

Fifteen years ago, Seungmin had a concerning obsession with hide and seek. Even though you’re supposed to rotate out the roles, Minho was always the one who hid, and Seungmin was always the seeker; Seungmin liked it that way, and Minho didn’t mind.

The best places to hide in young Minho’s opinion were in the trees—they were way above eye level and no one would want to crane their necks for that long just to scour the trees. Over time, he got creative with it. Minho was the best at hiding out of all the kids in his neighborhood with this technique—he was good at climbing, and no one was brave enough to come after him.

But over time, Seungmin got too good at finding him. After a month of playing, he knew all of Minho’s favorite spots, his back-up spots and which kids’ hiding spots he’d steal for his own sake. Seungmin had him all figured out on a ground level, so Minho had to step his game up both physically and metaphorically. Once he mastered the art of finding a sturdy branch, Minho was in the clear for a little while.

Until one day, Minho decided to take a catnap on a branch mid-game, unbeknownst to him that Seungmin had made the trek up the tree to capture him. He startled Minho so bad they both fell from the tree like a couple of buffoons. Seungmin scratched up his knees and palms, and Minho sprained his wrist.

Safe to say, their mothers forbade them from playing hide and seek for a few months. From that day onward, though, Seungmin did his seeking from the tree line as well.

I’ve got a perfect view of everything, he’d tell Minho. I can see what’s hiding in every bush and every window. I could watch you eat dinner through your window if I wanted to.

And then Minho would sucker punch Seungmin’s scrawny arms and give him a good scolding about not creeping on his only hyung. Seungmin would backpedal—insist that he was just messing around, but Seungmin was weird enough for Minho to believe him.

From inside the cottage, Minho can’t help but let his eyes stalk the tree line. There’s a window parallel to him where he rests on the couch with his serving of rice, letting his attention latch onto every bird and every branch filleted by an angry breeze. An itching suspicion has been bothering Minho since earlier that morning.

Call it paranoia, probably. It just feels like they’re being watched, but Minho can’t bring himself to bother Jisung with his worries. He doesn’t want to tell him if it’s all in his head.

The angel in question sits on the other side of the couch, legs entangled with Minho’s own, with his nose buried in a book with a worn-down cover. When Minho isn’t staring out the window, he’s watching Jisung’s lips read the occasional sentence to himself. Sounding out the bigger words, furrowing his brows when something interesting pops out to him. It’s kind of sweet, what they’re doing. It’s rather domestic.

Minho doesn’t let the thoughts linger. He lets his eyes drift back out the window.

It’s getting darker out, so his eyes may be playing tricks on him, but he can’t shake the feeling that they’re being watched. It wouldn’t hurt just to do a lap outside the cottage, he could take his bow and arrow with him. Just a quick look to ensure Jisung’s safety for the night—and his own, too, of course.

“See any bad guys outside?” Minho’s attention is drawn to the sound of Jisung’s voice. Jisung is looking up from his book, expecting an answer.

When Minho glances out the window one last time, the eeriness he felt isn’t as strong as before.

“Too many to count,” Minho says when he returns his sights on Jisung. “You were right. My body hurts too much to go fight them all off.”

As expected, Minho’s side was feeling extra tender after their morning spar. He had been hobbling around the cottage all day, so Jisung banished him to the couch after lunchtime and gave him clean bandages to hush his complaining.

Jisung nods with a smirk. Minho knows what he’s thinking; he can read the smug ‘I told you so’ from a mile away. Minho stuffs his face with a spoonful of rice to fill the silence in the air. Fortunately, Jisung says nothing and returns his attention to his book.

Minutes pass by without any exchange of words. Jisung’s reading grows louder with each turn of a page. Almost reading completely out loud, but just quiet enough that Minho can’t make out coherent sentences. Minho doesn’t mind—he’s grown to like the sound of Jisung’s voice. It’s deeper than you’d expect. Whereas Minho’s own voice aerates like the sky in the middle of spring, Jisung’s gravels against the earth like clean soil. Honeyed and warm, smooth like a songbird. The thin walls capture Jisung’s soft singing when the door is left open. Most times it is.

With a deep, satisfied sigh, Minho leans his head against the back pillows and closes his eyes. “Jisungie,” he coos. Jisung doesn’t look up from his book. “What are you reading?”

At that, Jisung pulls away to look at the cover. It’s tainted with scratches and too worn down to decipher what used to be written there. A few pages are even missing. “I’m not sure, actually,” he answers.

“Jisungie.”

“Yes?”

“Go get rid of the bad guys for me. I’m too wounded to fend for myself.” Minho lays the back of his hand against his forehead like a fainted princess.

Jisung flips to a new page. “I’m busy.”

“Please, Jisungie~?”

“No, Minho-ie~” Jisung’s voice twists upward to mock him.

Minho rolls his eyes as soon as he reopens them. He lifts his head to get a proper look at the angel to watch for a reaction when he bumps his foot into Jisung’s knee. “You talk to all your elders that way?”

Finally, Jisung looks up from the page. “Who’s to say you’re older than me?”

“Well, how old are you?”

“You ask like I’d know the answer.” Jisung returns to his book. “I fell from the sky with no memories.”

Minho blinks. “Oh, right.” His head falls back against the pillows, then immediately pops back up again. “You really don’t know?”

He wonders if Jisung was lying to him. That’s always been the main gripe humans had with angels, always so sure that the angels were lying to them about why they crashed down to earth. But Jisung is comfortable where he rests, not a single tense muscle in his body from where Minho can see, and his feathers don’t sheepishly rustle. And despite how stark and different the worlds the two of them come from are, where they have every reason to be at each other’s throats, Minho really, really can’t find it in him to think Jisung would ever lie to him.

When Minho nudges Jisung’s knee again, Jisung finally places the book down on his blanketed chest. He looks around the cottage for a moment, searching for the right words to piece together.

“I mean,” Jisung starts. “I certainly came here young. I was only a child. I woke up in the woods somewhere—I couldn’t even tell you where now—naked and more confused than scared.”

“You were alone?” Minho didn’t realize he was speaking until the question had already been asked. Jisung might not even want to be answering Minho, only responding because he thinks he has to.

But Jisung doesn’t seem to mind, to Minho’s relief. He only shrugs. “Not for long. I came across Felix after only a couple of minutes of wandering.”

“Felix is your blond friend from the house, right?”

Minho would be lying if he said Felix’s looks weren’t eye-catching. Text-book definition of angelic, with his small face, long blond hair and freckled cheeks. Eyes that could bring a man to his knees if they bored into their soul long enough. Felix would be depicted in historical passages about beauty years from now. What Minho took away from Felix above all of those things, however, was the way he clung to Jisung like he was his other half. Like their separation would have been a worse punishment than death.

Jisung nods at the question. “If I had a best friend, I guess it would be Felix. And Jeongin—Jeongin is nice, too. I think they’re my only real friends.”

Minho has his turn looking around the room, looking for what he wants to say next. He tries to ignore the darkness looming outside. Once his eyes return to Jisung, he tries adamantly to keep them there. “Is this Jeongin person... also an angel?”

“Yeah. He was actually with us when Felix and I were captured,” Jisung laughs to himself suddenly—a memory overcoming him. “I remember telling him to get help before he was found. Wasn’t fun at the time, believe me, but something about watching him trying to scramble up a hill undetected was really funny. Felix cried a lot because he thought we were never going to see him again.”

Memories of Minho’s own flutter back to the day he found them shackled to a broken radiator. He can remember how scared Felix and the others looked at Minho—like death had just appeared on their doorstep. The fact that Jisung can look back at that and laugh stirred something uncomfortable inside Minho. Bruises and red marks like that didn’t suit Jisung.

“It’s terrible,” Minho says softly. “Seeing you all chained up like that—there was nothing funny about any of it.”

Suddenly, Jisung’s eyes glaze over just slightly, guarded. “Yeah, well, that’s my life. I wouldn’t expect a hunter to get that.”

At the words, Minho retreats his feet slightly. His feet brush just below Jisung’s knees, further down than they were before. “I didn’t mean it like that. That came out wrong.”

Jisung pulls his knees back as well, just enough for both their ankles to hook around one another. A roundabout way of keeping close. “I know.”

“No,” Minho cocks his head. “Really. I didn’t—you know, I didn’t become a hunter because I wanted to.”

Jisung’s chin dips downward, frowning. “Then why are you still here?”

While he thinks, Minho grabs a pillow that fell to the floor and holds it close to his chest. Holding something has always calmed him down. Punctured and alleviated the anxieties that rotted him from the inside. The feeling always heightened when it came to talking about the profession laid out for him by his grandfather, and even his father by extension.

“It’s not a good look for someone my age to leave the Hunters Guild. People would talk. Wonder why I wanted to leave. Question my loyalty to the citadel, to the people. I’d be painted as a traitor and chastised. I’ve seen my comrades question authority and be hung the next day. And my mom...” Minho trails off, swallowing nervously. Memories of his own threatening to flood to the forefront of his mind. “I’m all she has. I can’t... I couldn’t—”

“Minho, hey. It’s okay.”

Jisung lets his book fall to the floor in favor of crawling over to Minho’s end of the couch. He settles himself in between Minho’s legs, crisscrossed, then takes both of Minho’s hands into his own and holds them tight. It’s like a lifeline.

“It’s okay, Minho-ya,” Jisung repeats, and Minho feels himself deplete.

It’s different from when he was young and was held close to his mother’s chest. It’s different from Seungmin’s words of wisdom and his sturdy pat on the shoulder in a silent assurance. Jisung peers into his eyes like he really means what he’s saying. Exudes such great solace that Minho can almost forget what had him so worried in the first place.

And Jisung’s hands are warm. So warm.

“I had no intentions to hurt you and your friends that day,” Minho mumbles.

Another tight squeeze envelops his hands—Minho can feel energy quivering through him like electricity. Center him like a boiling water being pried from the stovetop.

“I told you I could tell you didn’t,” Jisung replies. “There’s good in you. Both as a huntsman and as, well, you.”

Minho looks away shyly. “You say that to all your friends, angel?”

Jisung barks out a laugh. “Is that what we are now, finally? Friends?”

If Jisung hadn’t been an angel, if their paths didn’t cross this way and he was just another boy in the northern rampart, Minho would dare say they could have been more. They’d meet at a bar or down at the markets, maybe. They’d crash into each other fast and hard, Minho would bat his lashes at Jisung in the hopes of being taken home by him.

But in this lifetime, if the closest the two of them can be is an unlikely, taboo friendship, then Minho feels inclined to take it. Their little secret.

“We haven’t killed each other yet, so...” Minho chuckles at his own words to neglect the odd tightness in his chest. Jisung’s own follows, obliviously relieving the tension.

“That’s true.” Jisung agrees and then stands from the couch. “Well, as your friend, I have to confess a concern of mine.”

Minho raises a brow at him, smiling. “Oh yeah?”

“I can’t believe your spine is still intact sleeping on this thing.” Jisung kicks the rock hard welt of the couch. It’s not the most comfortable couch, but Minho wasn’t expecting anything luxurious from an abandoned piece of furniture out in the middle of nowhere. “First order of friendship should be a sleepover. On a cushion that won’t break your back.”

“Haven’t we been having sleepovers already, Jisung-ah?”

The endearing connotation at the end of his name has Jisung flushing. Minho misses the flush of pink he first managed to erode— he’s growing obsessed with spurring it as frequently as he can.

“I meant my bed. You’d sleep much better on the mattress than this thing. We can switch until you make a full recovery.”

“You can’t just call the couch a piece of shit spine-breaker and then suggest you sleep on it.” Minho rolls his eyes as he adjusts his sitting position. “Just sleep in there with me.”

Jisung fidgets where he stands, looking at Minho curiously. Minho is waiting for the rejection to come, and the longer Jisung says nothing, the more he regrets suggesting it.

“You wouldn’t mind?” Is the tedious, careful answer that Minho receives. There’s a celebration in the back of his mind somewhere. Hopes of Jisung feeling the same odd stirring of emotions as Minho blooming in his chest.

“Not at all,” Minho answers. “Really, I haven’t had a sleepover since I was a boy.”

Jisung physically jumps at that, like it was the most shocking news he’s ever received. The reaction was bigger than when Minho first shot him.

“Seriously? But they’re so good!”

Minho snickers. “I guess I just outgrew them.”

“You could never outgrow sleepovers.” Jisung wriggles himself off the couch and drags Minho to his feet with both their hands intertwining with each other. “Felix and I sleep in the same bed all the time. Sometimes Jeongin even joins us, but lately I’ve been sleeping alone.”

Minho's eyes glaze over Jisung’s backside as he follows the other down the hall and into the room Jisung’s been sleeping in. He then clears his throat. “And why is that?”

“Oh, well.” Jisung saunters through the bedroom door and awkwardly chuckles. “You know. Just trying to give them some privacy.”

Minho walks to the edge of the bed sheepishly, watching like a creep as Jisung settles into the outer part of the bed. Minho’s fingers pinch at the tips of some kicked-up blanket at the end of the mattress. “Are you sure this is okay? You’re not worried I’ll suffocate you with a pillow in your sleep, or something?”

Jisung snorts at that. “Are you planning to?”

“No,” Minho finds himself pouting. “But I could. I’m still...” A hunter. Wired to kill the lamb, not slip into their den.

Jisung tilts his head and gives Minho a gentle look. “Minho-ya, you’re safe here. You don’t have to be a hunter here. You can just be... you.”

Suddenly, Minho feels a little more physically inclined to crawl over Jisung and bury his face in the pillow next to him. He steps closer to where Jisung is lying, gravitating toward Jisung’s inviting hand.

If word were to get out of Minho’s time spent here in the cottage, he’d be on his knees pleading for his life before he could even enter the rampart. His mother would probably watch his execution from the sidelines. Seungmin would still be gone. Everything his grandfather had instilled in him would be exorcised from the inside out—shoot clean out the windows like one of his arrows and become just another atom in the sky. The muddied, messied kaleidoscope of color it would make if Minho and Jisung were to collide.

Still, as Jisung’s fingers curl around the back of Minho’s knee, guiding him toward the bed—to him—Minho falls forward.

Minho steps over Jisung’s wings. Swings the very knee Jisung grazed over the angel’s stomach. Tries not to think about how it feels to straddle Jisung although the moment is fleeting.

He rolls off Jisung and onto his side of the bed, lands with a huff. His heart is racing, threatening to break through his ribs and give him another injury in need of patching up. It’s not as scary knowing Jisung would be there to stitch each of Minho’s loose threads back into place, piece by piece.

Jisung watches him get settled under the blankets quietly, letting a hand wander towards the switch of the bedside lamp. Minho shifts onto his stomach, groaning in relief at the feeling of sleeping on a mattress once again. He makes it a point to keep his eyes closed because if he looks at Jisung, then something in him might shatter past the point of recovery.

“Comfortable?” Jisung asks with a chuckle.

“Yeah,” Minho says. Ever the fool, he opens his eyes. “You aren’t scared of me sleeping in here?”

Jisung’s lips parted to answer, but they shut just as fast. He just looks at Minho in thought. Minho squirms under his gaze—buries his face further into the pillow as he waits, yet he can’t bring himself to break away.

“I was never scared of you,” Jisung reaches out and brushes a strand of Minho’s bangs out of his face, only to watch it fall back into place. “You’re not like any hunter I’ve come across before. You’re certainly not one here. You’re more like... a big house cat, maybe.”

Finally, Minho cracks a smile. Seungmin used to refer to him as one, too. Still does. “A big cat? Not a little one?”

“No, big for sure. Like a big, grumpy cat, who only sleeps, eats, and attacks me.”

“We only wrestled once,” Minho giggles.

“You just threatened to kill me in my sleep.”

Neither of them should find the situation funny, but they do. They’re equally odd in that way.

“I still could,” When Minho repeats himself, it’s not serious this time. He’s smiling, letting himself be charmed by their ability to go back and forth.

Jisung jabs a pointer finger at Minho’s exposed forehead. “You won’t.”

Minho graces him with an equally fond look, tightening his hold on his pillow. Jisung turns the lamp off and lets himself join Minho completely under the covers.

It’s quiet. Then, softly, Minho replies, “I won’t.”

They share the bed that night facing each other. They kind of have to—Jisung’s wings take up too much space, so he has to let them dangle off the edge of the bed or else Minho would wake up with feathers in his mouth.

Hours pass, but it’s clear neither of them can fall asleep.

Jisung senses it. “Are you asleep?”

A beat. Minho takes a deep breath, eyes closed. “Are you?”

He thinks he can hear the smile in Jisung’s voice. “I can’t sleep.”

“We went to sleep years ago, Jisungie.”

It’s quiet. Minho thinks Jisung finally fell asleep after all.

But Jisung speaks up then. “Minho.”

Minho hums.

“You’re very docile.”

Since the day he woke up to Jisung tending to his wounds in a cave, Minho would think he’s been anything but docile. His injury prohibited his abilities, but it didn’t apply to his attitude. He’s been nothing but nasty to Jisung—threatening him each day, internalizing ways to injure Jisung enough to get away without leaving a trail, initiating a spar and throwing rocks at his head all while Jisung’s been nothing but kind and tending to Minho.

Minho’s lips thin into a tight line, not sure if the moonlight seeping into the room was evident enough for Jisung to notice the doubtful look on his face. “You’d be the first to think so.”

More silence passes. Baited, Minho opens his eyes, and he almost regrets it immediately.

Jisung is a mere foot away from him on the small bed, facing him with curious, blinking eyes, hands tucked underneath his cheek as his attention bores into him. Minho holds his breath.

“Really?” Jisung’s voice is noticeably raspier than before

Minho bites his lips instinctively. “Is it that surprising?”

Jisung hums in agreement, in spite of Minho’s blatant doubts. “It is,” he says. “Is all your family like you?”

Minho is too tired to let his mood be soured, and Jisung doesn’t know any better. He would have no idea how to explain his complicated family, how it influenced Minho more for the worse than the best. So maybe it’s the drowsiness, but Minho only smacks his mouth in thought and curls his knees high onto the bed. Both of their knees knock into each other. Skin to skin, hearts beating in their throats.

“You know how I said I didn’t become a hunter because I wanted to?” Jisung blinks in response. Minho takes a deeper breath. “My grandfather wanted me to join the Hunters Guild because he was a hunter when the outbreak first occurred. Then my father was made into a hunter. It was kind of expected of me to follow. In retrospect, I guess I could have said no. With my family, though, it didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.”

“What about your mom?”

Flashes of his mother flicker in Minho’s mind. She’s the only person he told other than Hyunjin about his search for Seungmin; Hyunjin so that his disappearance was accounted for to the higher-ups—his mother so that she could fall asleep at night knowing where her son was.

“My mom is... indifferent to angels. As was my dad, until he died.”

Underneath the blankets, Minho feels his hands being taken into Jisung’s own. He can tell Jisung wants to ask about more, but not wanting to cross that boundary.

Minho crosses it for him. “My mom said it was because he wanted to leave the rampart,” he says just barely above a whisper, and it’s all Jisung needed to know. “She thinks my grandfather ratted him out.”

Jisung’s mouth quivers downward. Minho hates the sight of it. He tries to squeeze Jisung’s hands in a weak attempt to comfort him.

“Do you think he’d do such a thing? To his own child?”

It’s Minho’s turn to frown. It’s not something he likes to dwell on, but mostly because he couldn’t open the Pandora’s box that consisted of the complicated men in his family. All he could think about was how badly he wanted not to be like them, even though he failed the minute he joined the Hunters Guild. In the end, staying in the guild kept him and his mother safe from the real monsters—their neighbors.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Minho answers. “It’s been a long time since I’ve given it any thought. It doesn’t matter much now. They’re both gone.”

Blatantly, Jisung shifts forward. It’s just enough for their knees to slide past each other and tangle their legs. It was just as before, earlier in the night on the couch, but far more intimate.

“Your father sounded like he was a good man,” Jisung says.

“I wouldn’t know,” Minho says. “He died when I was five.”

Not a distasteful comment, but the truth, nonetheless. When the words catapult them both back into a deep silence, it’s not uncomfortable. If anything, Minho relaxes, feeling Jisung’s skin on his own, and a weight he didn’t realize was on his chest feels lighter than before. Not gone, but enough for the drowsiness to take hold of Minho’s mind and send him into a slumber.

Minho is on the verge of unconsciousness when he hears Jisung’s voice strikethrough him.

“Can we go fishing tomorrow?”

Their hands are still intertwined; Minho stretches his arms slightly. Gives Jisung’s hands a gentle squeeze.

“Yeah. We can.”

Minho falls asleep bundled in the lamb’s den.

➳

The morning is foggy, the sky an angry red as the sun relents to the clouds.

Minho and Jisung sit several feet apart, eyes laser-focused on the water from the boulders embracing the pond. Jisung, who was insistent on trying the makeshift harpoon Minho carried in his bag, left Minho with a flimsy old fishing rod they found in the hallway closet. A guppy would be strong enough to snap the rod in two, but Jisung was too married to the harpoon to fight him on it. So here they are, waiting for their pending breakfast to make itself known.

It's quiet. The warbler birds singing from the trees echo in the air every now and then. Their songs are pretty—Minho finds Jisung’s prettier.

Despite the sun’s fight, the clouds grow darker. Rain slowly begins to fall, and Minho’s skin chills from the temperature drop. He’s never liked the sensation of being wet.

Without even looking at him, Jisung opens an inviting wing for Minho to seek shelter from the rain. Wordlessly, Minho goes.

Jisung readjusts his crouching position to get a better look at the reflective water’s surface. Minho fixes his bait and casts the hook out a fourth time.

A minute goes by. Two minutes go by.

A third minute passes, and Jisung is striking the water with the spear of the harpoon.

Water splashes high enough to hit Minho’s bare feet, but Minho doesn’t move—he only averts his attention onto Jisung. Watches him dig the harpoon deeper into whatever it is he sees. The muscles of his arms flex as they bury themselves into the water.

Then Jisung leaps into the pond, draping most of his body over what Minho now recognizes as a fish flailing from the attack. His wings leave Minho, so now he’s drenched as the rainpour grows heavier, but Minho couldn't care less. All he can focus on is the way Jisung reemerges from the water, holding a large trout by the base of its tail. It thrashes around in its final moments, but Jisung has a strong grasp on it, and he’s beaming at the successful attempt.

“I got it! Holy shit, I got one!” Jisung laughs in disbelief, his joy prominent from across the globe.

Minho is impossibly endeared to Jisung. “I told you, you could do it!”

Jisung laughs even more and the sound is like nothing Minho’s ever had the honor of hearing before. This moment, so sweet and exultant, would typically call for another grand declaration. In the beauty of the moment, Minho almost finds himself confessing something foolish.

He reels back, though, and at the last moment sputters out: “Do you like honey?”

Jisung, taken aback by the absurdity, pauses where he stands in the pond, surely seconds away from freezing his wings off. “Can’t say I’ve had it before.”

Minho grins.

Minho cooks the freshly caught trout for both of them within the hour, using most of the honey Seungmin’s mother gifted to him. The sweetness of the glaze evens out the smokiness of the trout, and the combination has Jisung moaning from the table.

“God, this is so—so—so—”

“Yummy?” Minho suggests, grilling the last of their vegetables still at the stove.

“Orgasmic.”

The word choice has Minho cackling. “Such foul words for an angel.”

Jisung continues to stuff his cheeks with more forkfuls of fish. “You want to talk about foul, you should hear the things that come out of Felix’s mouth when we play cards.” Minho laughs at the image before Jisung continues, “Honey, honey, honey. Oh, how I love you. Thank you, honey.”

It goes quiet enough for Minho to turn his attention from the stove back over to Jisung, who is surprisingly staring back at him expectantly.

“Me?” Minho startles.

Jisung grins with a mouthful of fish, chewing obnoxiously. “Thank you for the honey, honey.”

Minho feels his whole face burn—he jerks back around before he can be figured out, but he knows his ears and nape will give away the flush, anyway. “Whatever,” he mumbles.

The cottage smells of smoke, roses, and honey. Jisung snickers from the table.

➳

Angels aren’t known to be healers, but they do possess an unexplainable, literal energy. It’s why Jisung was able to get water and electricity running in the middle of nowhere and working gas in the kitchen.

It also explains why Minho’s wounds heal much faster than they would have under normal circumstances. If Minho were to somehow survive the wolf attack long enough to make it to a doctor, he would have been stitched up and put on bed rest for at least a month. With Jisung’s capabilities, however, Minho was walking within days—nearly healed within two weeks.

Minho’s wounds have scarred over completely by now, and though his body aches in odd hours of the day, he is still well enough to leave as soon as he wants to.

But now, does he want to leave?

The short answer is yes; Minho has been worried sick over Seungmin every day he’s been recovering. Some nights, in his dreams, Seungmin is there. Sometimes he’s okay, hanging with Minho like it was any other afternoon. Other nights, however, the worst has become of him, and Minho jolts out of his sleep sweating. Not an hour passes by where Minho isn’t planning on what direction to take when he inevitably continues his journey. But where does that leave Jisung?

Both of them traveling together would be suicide, yet the idea of leaving Jisung behind carves an aching hole in Minho’s chest. He’s grown to enjoy Jisung’s company. He can’t imagine going back into the world without it, yet too many logistics stand in his way. He didn’t even know where Jisung lived long-term. The angel had made it clear that he didn’t live in the cottage, that he was only fixing it up, which means there’s another unknown place Jisung calls home. One possibly where Felix and Jeongin as well also live. Would he ever tell Minho about it? Bring him there? Did he trust Minho to such an extent?

Minho sits with his back pressed against the headboard of the bed, staring into space as an impending doom swells in his stomach. He feels dreadful, remembering that he’ll have to go back into the world soon, go back and find Seungmin with the hopes he’ll be able to bring him to Seungmin’s parents alive. But worst of all, the primary source of the dread is the mere idea of leaving Jisung behind.

Jisung slips into the bedroom and jumps into bed, curling into Minho’s side like he was always meant to reside there. His warmth alleviates the soreness in Minho’s side, but it does nothing for the pit in his stomach.

“We’re friends, right?” Jisung suddenly asks.

The question snaps Minho out of his rut. He looks down at Jisung, who’s peering up at him.

“I’d say so, why?”

Jisung pauses for a second. “Earlier, I was just thinking back to when we first came here,” Minho can detect the wariness in his breath alone. “I had asked you why you were in these forests in the first place.”

Minho blinks. “Ah.” He remembers it all too well. Hostility had made him more of a prisoner than his wounds.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, obviously,” Jisung assures. “But you can trust me, you know?”

Minho can’t help but smile sadly as he observes each dark freckle on Jisung’s face. “Yeah. I know.”

Jisung scoots up so that his side is resting against the headboard beside Minho, still hugging Minho’s arm. The touch is comforting. Minho doesn’t know how he can go back to normalcy without Jisung now that he’s experienced his breath against his skin and the sound of his voice in the morning.

Minho bites his tongue. Bites the inside of his cheek and bites his lips. “What I initially told you was true,” he says. “I was looking for someone. Still am.”

Jisung pauses, eyes flickering away from Minho’s momentarily. “Is this person someone important to you?”

“Yes,” Minho answers weakly. His heart hasn’t stopped hurting when thinking about Seungmin for the past month. The way Jisung’s frowning at him hurts his heart, too.

“Is it your partner?” Jisung asks, and Minho finds the nervousness in his face cute.

“Partner-in-crime, more like,” Minho corrects him. “He’s my best friend in the entire world.”

Jisung’s expression breaks, and his hold on Minho’s arm tightens. In the past, Minho held onto things so suffocatingly amid anxiety to the point of breaking them. For once, it’s nice to be the one who is held in return.

“Oh, Minho. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t tell him I said that, though,” Minho continues. “He’d never let me hear the end of it.”

“Where is he?”

Minho smiles bitterly. “No clue. I planned on starting where he was last seen, which is further north.”

“Maybe I could help,” Jisung offers. He has a hopeful look on his face, jaw slack and eyes sparkling. “I’m not familiar with the northern provinces, but Felix lived there for a long time. He may be able to help you.”

“He’d do that?”

“I’m sure he would. He owes you for saving his ass, anyways.” Jisung chuckles inwardly. “Where in the province, do you know?”

Minho hums in thought, trying to pinpoint the answer down to the exact coordinate. It’s not much to go off of, unfortunately.

“He disappeared the day I met you and Felix,” Minho explains, looking around the room as he speaks, not watching for any sort of reaction from Jisung. “We were on a mission—my lieutenant caught wind that there was a Shepherd basecamp in the area, so we went to check it out. I came to the house when no one was watching, and when I came back...”

It was the end of a chaotic ambush. A few men were injured, and nine were dead. One MIA. He would have never separated from the platoon if he knew that’d be the last time he’d ever see Seungmin. “Something bad had happened. My team was ambushed and Seungmin was missing. We lost almost a dozen of our guys.”

Jisung’s hands abruptly loosened their grip around Minho’s arm. At the loss of warmth, Minho looks back to study Jisung—who looks greatly startled.

And just like that, Minho is nervous. “What?”

“Your friend’s name is Seungmin?”

Something in Jisung’s tone makes Minho’s blood suddenly run very, very cold. Minho pulls out of Jisung’s arms.

“Why are you saying it like that?” Minho tries to contain the hostility in his voice. The pit of dread in his stomach begins to blossom into something poisonous.

Jisung licks his lips, eyes darting about Minho’s face and body frantically. “Minho, is he—”

“What, Jisung?” Minho says harsher than he intends to.

“Is he a nurse?”

Minho pauses in disbelief. He pulls further away from Jisung as much as he can, being sandwiched between the angel and the wall. His stomach hurts, his ribs hurt, and his head begins to throb.

Surely there’s an explanation for this. “Yeah, he is.” His voice shakes when he answers, but if letting a shaky sound out keeps him from losing his cool, then he lets it happen.

“The person you’re searching for is Seungmin? The medic from the Hunters Guild, Seungmin?”

“Yes! I already said that, yes!” Minho doesn’t mean to lash out, but he’s doing a poor job of staying calm. Why the fuck would Jisung of all people be aware of Seungmin’s whereabouts? He could feel his grandfather breathing down his neck again, cackling a putrid, god-awful monologue berating Minho for letting his guard down.

“Minho, listen to me—” Jisung reaches for Minho’s hands, but Minho pulls away like the touch burns. He catches something rueful in Jisung’s eyes before his expression falls back into desperation. “Minho, please calm down. Hold on a second.”

Minho does not listen to him, even though his deepest desire is to trust Jisung. But instead, Minho scrambles off the bed and rushes past Jisung’s attempts to detain him. He pads through the dark hallway, wobbling like a drunkard, heading straight for the front door.

Jisung is hot on his heels. “I could explain, if you just stopped for a second—”

In one minute, Jisung is trailing after Minho in the dark cottage. And in the next, he’s staring down the end of Minho’s arrow, just as he was back at the glade.

Minho is standing by the front door in his pajamas, eyes frazzled, expression crazed and wielding his bow.

Jisung freezes as he takes in the sight. Minho must look like a crazed mess; he’s sure of it. But this is who he is, through and through. Monstrous, quick to resort to violence, his heart and mind shut off.

The angel across from him takes a few short breaths. Minho can see the wheels turning in Jisung’s head, thinking of how to get out of this alive. A part of Minho wants to lower the bow as he watches Jisung stand there, but he’s holding the neck of the bow so tightly that his fingers have locked up. The dark shadows play into Minho’s favor, because if he could see Jisung any more clearly then he would crumble where he stands.

Slowly, Jisung raises his hands defensively high in front of his shoulders

“Honey?” Jisung tries to call out sweetly. “What’s—”

“Don’t honey me.” Minho bites, pulling the arrow back tighter.

Jisung sharpens up where he stands. “Okay, okay. Easy now. I’ll tell you everything you want to know if you put that down.”

“Where is he?”

“Who, Seungmin?”

“Who the fuck else would I be talking about?” It was incredible how moronic Jisung became when looking death in the eye. Jisung, who isn’t the lamb nor the sheep-dog, but the deer watching its doom speed right at them.

“I swear I didn’t know you two knew each other.” Jisung claims. “If I had known sooner, I would have said something.”

“You had to have known,” Minho begins with the shake of his head. “He’s considered missing in action. You had to have known someone would have come looking for him. His parents think he’s fucking dead, you know that?”

In the back of Minho’s mind, he hears his grandfather taunting him. Suddenly, Minho is not 26, but nine years old again, having his hand forced by his grandfather in favor of striking down an angel where she once stood alive. Let it fly, his grandfather said then.

Kill it, his grandfather tells him now.

“He told us!” Jisung says fervently. “He said someone might come after him, but he didn’t say who.”

An underlying implication in the words has Minho calming down. Seungmin had told Jisung something. Something recently.

“He’s alive?” Minho’s arrow stands perfectly still in Minho’s control, but everything inside him is shaken.

“Yes! Yes, he’s alive!” Jisung exclaims. “He lives with us in the eastern mire! He is very much alive and breathing, and kind of annoying sometimes!”

Minho would have laughed if he weren’t wielding a weapon right now. He’s too focused on the context of Jisung’s words.

The mire. The mire. The mire. Minho’s never heard of such a place.

Minho asks, “What is, the mire—”

“It’s a village of angels protected by shepherds. They take in stragglers and keep them safe from the Elite and the guild. Seungmin wanted to join us. Wanted to help those sick in the mire. He—”

“Why didn’t you say any of this sooner?” Minho asks, thoughts fissured and skewed.

Jisung looks at Minho like he’s grown two heads—a new expression for Minho to pocket in the back of his mind forever. Jisung’s hands go flying in the air in disbelief, ready to blow.

“Are you being fucking serious? Are you serious? Minho—if you weren’t being such a brat when I first asked what you were doing here in the first place, then I could have told you all of this!”

It feels like the world has been tilted on its axis. Jisung is breathing hard from the outburst, and Minho is feeling everything everywhere all at once. His heart is rabbiting, his tender side aching, his mind spinning and his knuckles cinching in pain. Minho has to forcibly aim his arrow down to the floor for his fingers to let up. It’s not until the bow and arrow clank onto the ground that Minho realizes he’d been holding his breath.

Slowly, Minho drops to his knees. Jisung hurries to join him on the floor.

“I—I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry,” Minho grovels, mumbling his apology over and over until he feels tears fall down his face. Jisung tucks Minho’s head into his shoulder and keeps him there. “I’m sorry, Sungie. I’m so sorry.” His words muffle into the crevice of Jisung’s neck.

He feels Jisung’s arm wrap around his neck tightly, locking him into a tight hug from where they sit on the ground. “I have you, Minho. I have you.”

Minho doesn’t know how long they stay like that, but time passes too fast when Jisung eventually pries away, covered in sweat and tears from Minho’s freak out. He doesn’t know what to think, what to feel as Jisung leads him back into the bedroom with his hand wrapped around Minho’s waist. It takes a while for Minho to settle completely. Jisung is there for every second of it. He guides them back underneath the covers, scoots as close as he can to Minho, and runs his fingers through Minho’s hair until he’s calmed down.

Somewhere deep in Minho’s psyche, he’s ashamed. He’s so ashamed. He’s done an injustice to his mother by behaving so sporadically, an injustice to his grandfather by not killing Jisung tonight, an injustice to himself for being so weak, and an injustice to Jisung for putting him through all of it. Jisung deserved better than this. Deserved something better than what Minho could ever give him.

Still, Jisung sings to Minho softly and scratches his scalp soothingly. Minho can’t bring himself to say anything for a long time.

Jisung is the first to break the silence. “Do you feel better?”

Minho studies Jisung’s face, searching desperately for any ill feelings. When he can’t find anything but a tender gaze staring back at him, Minho feels like crying all over again.

“I’m sorry,” Minho says quieter than before.

“That’s not what I asked.” Jisung pets Minho’s head, letting his fingers trail downward and graze the helix of Minho’s ear.

Minho forces the shame wedged in his throat back down. “I feel better.”

“Good.” Jisung softly pinches Minho’s earlobe.

“Jisung.”

“Hm.”

“I—” Minho takes another second to consider his words, then lets them run rampant anyway. “I don’t want to leave.”

Even in the midst of their cozy, sleep-inducing fog, Jisung seems to glow. The specks of gold in his eyes Minho has come to be enamored by flicker to life. Jisung’s hand falls low on the side of Minho’s neck.

“We can stay here for as long as you want,” Jisung assures calmly, betraying the sheer hopefulness of his gaze. “Just you and me, honey.”

Doubt has always soured in Minho’s chest like rotted fruit. It curdles in his stomach now, enough to make him tear his gaze down to the small space between their bodies. An unfamiliar heat pools in his stomach.

“But I can’t,” Minho says softly. “I have to find Seungmin. I have to bring him home.”

Something indescribable overcomes Jisung; Minho can best label it as bittersweet. Maybe he, too, knows deep down that whatever is happening here can’t last forever. The lamb and the serpent.

“I can take you to him,” Jisung offers. “You can come with me. Stay with us. Leave the guild.”

“I can’t,” Minho’s voice quivers this time. As much as his thoughts are swallowed by Seungmin’s safety and Jisung as a whole, he can’t shake off the price that would be paid if he were to leave and never return. Or worse, leave—follow his heart and escape, only to be discovered by the guild in the end.

His mind goes to one thing. “My mom,” he says. “My whole life, I can’t...”

Minho is such a fool for letting his emotions consume him like this. He’s never felt more vulnerable. Not even his mother has seen him cry like this in recent years—only Jisung. He should be ashamed of himself.

Jisung’s hand moves to cup Minho’s jaw softly. He brings his other hand to cradle Minho’s face in the palm of his hand—like Minho is something worth being treated delicately.

Minho’s hands come flying to Jisung’s wrist instinctively, just like they did before in the cave when Jisung was tending to his bandages. Jisung touched him like he was something worth taking care of and handled him gently like he could break. At the time, Minho found it ridiculous. Insulting, even. Minho, sturdy and reliable, who never cried and always put his life on the line for others like it was as easy as breathing—a side of himself Minho clung to for the sake of living. Of doing his family proud. He did not let himself be open to becoming coddled.

But Jisung handled him like he was fragile and small, and Minho wanted to hate him for it—wanted to kill him for it. Now, when Minho’s hands tighten around Jisung’s wrists, it’s not to pry him away, but to keep him there. Station his rabbiting heart, stitch him back together by the thread.

“Minho,” Jisung says gently. Brushes his thumb across Minho’s tear-stained cheekbone. “You don’t have to do it alone, yeah? I’m right here.”

“I won’t ask that of you,” Minho says sternly, fighting through the cracks of his indignity. He knows he looks jumbled. He knows that Jisung looks at him full of love, regardless of what face he wears—how he can see right through everything. In the way sunlight pierces glass, and in the way Minho’s arrows pierce flesh.

“You don’t need to,” Jisung disputes. His hold on Minho’s face grows more fervent. More desperate. “I told you already that you have me, yeah? You have me.”

Minho tries to look away. This was much more overwhelming than having Jisung scream at him from the end of Minho’s arrow—when Minho held Jisung’s life in his hands and Jisung didn’t fight him for it.

“Jisung, no.”

“Look at me.” Minho was never one to submit so easily. But there’s a fire in Jisung’s gaze, one that burns much stronger than Minho has seen from him before, and it’s overwhelming. He wants it to overwhelm him. Consume him. Burn through him until there’s nothing left of him but ash and memory.

“You have me,” Jisung promises. Confesses. Crescendos. Pledges—it all sounds the same to Minho.

Maybe it’s the way Minho is inadvertently tugging Jisung closer to him, or the face he makes because he can’t tear his eyes from Jisung, but Jisung sees something in that. Minho knows what he wants deep down, but he’s too scared to fall into it even if it’s for the taking.

Not once did civilization ever believe angels falling from the sky was worth celebrating. Yet—

God, would Minho have prayed to the entity that allowed for this moment to happen centuries ago if he knew the taste of Jisung would’ve been promised.

You have me, Jisung repeats like a mantra—did Minho feel the weight of his words now.

A love between angels and humans was so forbidden that Minho never stopped to think what could occur if something progressed past the point of friendship between their kind. He had asked Seungmin offhandedly once when they were children what he believed would happen. A younger, more naïve Seungmin shrugged and said that the world would explode, probably.

But when Jisung kisses Minho, the world doesn’t explode—it doesn’t even stop spinning. No one dies; no meteors crash against the earth. The cottage doesn’t sink into the ground, no catastrophe appears to rip their bodies from the outside in. War trudges through the aftershock; novels are still penned. The world keeps spinning.

When Jisung kisses Minho, it’s softer than it is fervent. Much between them goes unspoken, too many words for Jisung to articulate, so he presses it into one kiss, as if that is the only chance he will get. As if once he pulls away, Minho would make like Eurydice and disappear.

Minho isn’t going anywhere; he makes sure that message gets across as he brings a hand to snake around Jisung’s nape and brings him back into the stratosphere.

When they kiss, it’s intense. It burns a hole through Minho’s chest, hollows him, rebuilds him, only to empty him all over again. Jisung’s mouth is warm—warmer than his hands, his skin, warmer than anything else on his body. Minho’s in love. He can’t breathe but he doesn’t think twice about it—he’s only capable of opening his mouth when Jisung’s tongue swipes over his bottom lip.

He lets Jisung in. He lets Jisung claim him all over. Minho does his own exploring in Jisung’s mouth, falling into the moment deeper. His head was spinning. His throat sings when he tastes apricot jam on Jisung’s tongue.

Minho shakes as Jisung ravishes him ardently, mind swimming with thoughts of only Jisung and the way his spine arches when Minho drags his nails across the angel’s shoulders. The sensation seems to go straight to Jisung’s wings, which noticeably shiver at Minho’s touch. Minho wants to tease him for it, snicker and ask if he likes the feeling of it. But one of Jisung’s hands grabs Minho's waist and suddenly his mind blanks—lets Jisung drink up the moans that leave him.

Jisung’s other hand leaves slithers into Minho’s hair and pulls his head backward. A startled sound leaves Minho as Jisung pushes him flat onto his back, sliding a leg in between Minho’s thighs and averting his mouth onto Minho’s neck.

Minho takes it—takes all of it. Allows himself to take and be taken care of. He wants everything that Jisung will give him. And Minho knows, deep down, that this is something he’s been wanting the moment he first laid eyes on Jisung in the house.

The animalistic, carnal desire he has for Jisung dizzies him. It seems that Minho’s grandfather was right, in a way; the bloodthirst of the lamb was enough to bring a man to his knees. He sees it now in a different light, because Minho goes completely pliant, holding on for dear life with his hands clinging to the skin beneath Jisung’s wings and knows he’s lost the battle.

Both himself and Jisung are hardening from the friction of their bodies—Minho salivates at the thought of what could be if he were to submit to the heat of it completely.

But he just can’t. Fornicating with Jisung was something Minho wouldn’t come out of alive. To have Jisung, only to be forced to later leave him—Minho would be ruined, mind and body, indefinitely.

Minho craves it. Hungers for it. More than he’s ever wanted anything else, but he’s so exhausted. So drained. His state of mind is scattered, running like wild horses on a burning hill, his face numb. Minho’s so disoriented he feels that his head might fall right off.

The only thing that keeps him grounded is Jisung above him. Of course he is. Jisung is mauling him, yes, but there’s no rush to his movements. As if he and Minho have all the time in the world. He kisses Minho just to kiss him, presses his body on top of Minho’s just for Minho to feel that he’s here. Holds Minho’s face in a way that makes him feel safe.

Jisung picks up on Minho’s change of mood, just as he always has, and pulls away. He keeps their bodies close. Just watching Minho, waiting for him.

Minho’s hands slide off of Jisung’s back, move to wrap his arms around Jisung’s neck, and pull him in for another soft kiss.

“I’m...” Minho says eventually. Stitching the words together in his mind before continuing. “...trying really hard not to say sorry again.”

Much to Minho’s relief, Jisung cracks a smile. The tension from the night is far from gone, but seeing that smile again does wonders for Minho’s heart.

“What for?” Jisung asks.

“For being afraid,” Minho confesses, and it just might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Such careful words, letters that shouldn’t hold the weight they do, leaving Minho’s lips for what feels like the first time.

Minho doesn’t have to say what of. Jisung understands him anyway; he always has.

“I am, too.” Jisung leans back on his side on the bed, keeping their legs still entangled. Minho’s still flat on his back, watching Jisung like he’s gazing at the stars. “But it can be a problem for tomorrow.”

Minho huffs through his nose. “Okay.”

The lights are turned off as the two of them share a few more kisses and soft words in the dark. Minho falls asleep with Jisung pressed against his back, arms curling around Minho’s core like a dog-eared page. Sleep comes the easiest it has in years.

➳

A problem arises when Minho wakes up.

The sun hasn’t risen yet, but based on the glow seeping into the room, it wouldn’t be much longer. He’s up before Jisung, just as he always is, though it’s much earlier than usual.  Jisung is still sound asleep, face squished against Minho’s shoulder, his arms still wound around him tightly. Minho’s hands fall downwards to clasp over Jisung’s hands on his stomach. He takes a deep breath.

Waking up like this feels nice; it’s something Minho could grow accustomed to, yet the memories of the night before begin seep into the forefront of his mind once again. A pressure begins to build in his chest—like stacking pebbles and the sound ricochets when they touch. A building tower, one that was never destined to stand tall forever, shadowing Minho’s hopefulness for something good—a new life.

Anxieties seize Minho slowly. It wraps around his achilles like vines, pulls him to rise from the bed before he can even properly open his eyes. Whisks him away from the sanctity of the bed—of Jisung, and sets a fire beneath his feet that screams at him to run.

What happened last night can’t be a regular occurrence—not his feelings splayed on the floor like loose thread, putting Jisung in danger—none of it. Minho needed to be reminded of the real task at hand, the whole reason he’s in this mess in the first place. He can’t see a good outcome if they were to stick together.

With a heavy heart, Minho pries Jisung’s arms away from him. He’s careful not to stir Jisung as he detangles their bodies. Jisung only shifts around enough to wrap his arms around a neighboring pillow before exhaling haughtily. Minho slides to the foot of the bed and trudges out the door.

It doesn’t take long for Minho to get dressed and collect his things in the common area; it takes longer to tie the laces of his boots than it does to pack. Minho scours the pantry for any spare canned food, collects his arrows, and throws his bow sling over his shoulder. Winces when a cabinet door creaks too loudly, then eyes a small jar on the kitchen table of his mother’s apricot jam. There’s still some left.

He leaves it behind for Jisung and heads for the front door.

Minho pats himself down, running an internal inventory log to see if he’s forgetting anything.

What about Jisung? His brain uselessly supplies. Minho takes a heavy breath, and reminds himself he’s leaving for Jisung and not because of him. He wraps his hand around the doorknob of the entrance and thins his lips when the metal makes a rusty sound when he goes to turn it—

“Minho?”

Time stops with the rest of Minho’s body, like all his muscles have locked up. He can’t turn, can’t bring himself to as he hears Jisung’s sleepy voice, because it’ll hurt more when he forces himself to walk out the door.

“Why are you up so early?” Jisung asks mid-yawn.

Behind him, Jisung is confused and tired, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and stretching his wings singularly. Minho doesn’t know how any of the thoughts running through his mind could be translated into words.

He stays quiet, letting Jisung take in what he’s looking at: Minho, fully dressed and completely packed, a hand on the doorknob with the intention to leave and never look back. Jisung licks his lips as he squints at Minho confusedly.

Minho hurries to say something, anything, just as he sees it all click in Jisung’s mind. “Sung, this is—”

“You were going to leave,” Jisung scoffs as realization strikes him, expression incredulous, before a bitter smile graces him. “I should have known. I should have seen it coming.”

Now caught in Jisung’s web, Minho can’t help but struggle for control over his anatomy. “We both knew this was coming.”

“Yeah. Sure, I did,” Jisung grows more visibly upset in spite of the smile he wears. “I just thought that when you left that I’d be going with you.”

“You know you can’t—why we can’t.”

“Can’t what, Minho?” Jisung raises his voice, taking the smallest step toward Minho from the end of the hallway. “Can’t leave together? Can’t eat together? Can’t sleep together?”

“This, Jisung! This—” Minho takes a long sidestep, flails an arm to refer to the two of them. The syrupy sweet tug between them that’s always there, even when not addressed. “Whatever this is. It can’t—it can’t happen.”

Jisung laughs bitterly. “You're full of surprises.” Minho takes a defensive stance, a curiosity in the back of his mind prickling. The thought of whether Jisung was going to once and for all lunge for Minho's throat for real this time.

Jisung grows stiff where he stands. “You hate the rain, you take honey in everything you drink, so gentle in heart. I didn’t pin you for being a coward, too.”

Minho stretches his fingers where they rest on his sides. He wants to grab a fistful of Jisung’s shirt and kiss him as much as he is apologetic. Wants nothing more than to feel Jisung’s warm skin against his own and get taken back to bed. Pretend this is all just a bad dream they can still wake up from. Sleep in Jisung’s arms and never wake up again.

But he can’t. The world is waiting for Minho. People are relying on him, and he can’t expect Jisung to conform to expectations that would never be susceptible to someone like him. Not in this lifetime.

Jisung is at a loss for words for a while. For a moment, Minho wonders if Jisung was going to let him walk out once and for all. “Minho. Do you know how much I’ve come to like you?”

Minho breath hitches. It’s everything he wants to hear. The words lay heavier on his chest than he expected them to.

“I like you so much and—I don’t care about anyone or anything. I know you’re frightened—”

Minho pulls his bowstring further backward as a means to intimidate Jisung from speaking out. To cork each hole Jisung punctures through the obstruction Minho has built around himself. Yet Jisung keeps pushing through without caring of the destruction that may come with it. Minho has come to wonder if he cares all that much about it either.

“I know you are. And it scares me too, Minho. It does, but I know we can figure something out. Together. Back here in bed, or at the mire, far away from everything else.”

Minho can’t bring himself to come any closer, worried that if he strays too far from the door then he’ll never find the courage to leave. Jisung is right—Minho is a coward. A real stubborn, smart-mouthed coward. And yet here Jisung is: pleading with him open-armed, ready to reel him back into the net, into him, and wants somebody like Minho. For the life of him, Minho can’t bring himself to comprehend it.

“Jisung—” Minho’s skin shudders when he feels Jisung’s fingers graze the hair of his forearms. “Believe me. I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“But it does.”

“Minho, no. It doesn’t.”

When Jisung tries to touch him, Minho has to muster all his strength to faintly recoil from the touch—it would hurt too much. Jisung comes close to him and Minho feels the need to place an arm between their bodies, as if his beating heart would give himself away Jisung were to stray too close.

“It’s not safe, angel,” Minho says.

“You could come live with us.” Jisung is more upset now, too. His sweet face is painted a desperate and devastated hue. It feels like a rib was snatched from Minho’s body. “Come to the mire. The shepherds would take you in. You could be with Seungmin. With all of us—” Jisung’s hand moves to caress Minho’s face. “You’d be free there. We’d take care of you.”

As much as he wants to fight the temptation, Minho subconsciously nuzzles into his palm. “I don’t need to be taken care of.” Minho forces himself to take a step backward. “I’m doing this to protect you.”

“Do you take me for an idiot?” Jisung's jabbing words pelt Minho like ice. For every step he takes forward, Minho steps backward. “Do you think I don’t know you feel the same as I? How you want this just as bad as I do?”

Minho does, he does, but the words won’t come out. If only Minho was quieter closing those damn cabinet doors then he could have avoided all of this. He could have escaped from having to look Jisung in the eye and still walk away.

 “Admit it,” Jisung says. “That you want me. You want me and it scares you.”

“It doesn’t matter what I feel,” Minho in turn raises his gruff voice. “You have to let me go.”

“You’d have to kill me if that’s what you want.” Jisung barks back. Minho’s stomach sinks.

He stumbles over his next response. “I don’t—I don’t want this.”

There’s much more Jisung seems to want to say, but something in Minho’s glare makes him backpedal. Jisung glares back, expression acerbic.

Unexpectedly, the angel retreats. Minho watches cautiously as Jisung takes another step back, and then another, keeping his hands to himself. It’s what Minho had pleaded for, but the wish stings more than he believed it would.

“Prove it,” Jisung spits. “Go. Leave, then.”

Even when fuming, Jisung selflessly gives Minho everything he asks for—even if it’s not what he wants. Minho is nearly panting like a fool where he still stands, letting the weight of Jisung’s ultimatum anchor him.

Minho thinks about the taste of apricot on Jisung’s tongue from the night before. The warmth of their skin touching beneath the covers. How Jisung rebandaged his wounds and cooked him rice every night. The rasp in his voice when he sang old hymns and his fingers in Minho’s hair. The rosy scent of skin. The specks of gold in his brown eyes and his prideful smile when catching the trout. He’ll think about it forever. He’ll yearn for it for even longer. A yearning that surpasses empires, triggers wars, keeps the human spirit alive. Long after Minho’s gone from this earth, his innate desire for Jisung will sweep civilizations from the ground, uproot forests, replant them just to uproot them all over again. His yearning will sprout flowers and keep the fields alive. The love in his heart would cycle until the end of time, and then some after that.

And then, Minho turns around and walks out the door.

He leaves without sparing Jisung a glance. Spares himself from the expression Jisung is making when Minho steps out with a heavy boot.

The door scolds Minho when he slams it shut with an angry creak.

It’s like Minho’s just wrestled off a pack of wild animals; something in his chest begins to burn hot. Tears prick in the corners of his eyes and his hands grow suddenly clammy. The cold outdoors has returned in full force, but Minho is melting from fire and his skin feels like wax.

But he has to keep moving, Minho tells himself. His time in the cottage will stay in the cottage. A regime awaits his return. Yet the heaviness of his chest only lets him make it to the edge of the patio—he can’t even bring himself down the steps yet.

Minho needs to calm down. Minho needs to catch his breath first. Minho needs—

The front door swings open with an urgency that could make the rotting wood fly off its hinges. Minho is slow to turn around because he already knows what’s coming. And Minho, weaker than he has ever wanted to be, lets it happen.

It’s too easy to unravel when it comes to Jisung. Opening his heart to Jisung has been the easiest thing Minho’s ever done. And that’s why when Jisung spins him around roughly and traps him into a bruising kiss, Minho can’t imagine being anywhere else.

The first time Jisung kissed Minho, it was gentle. Like pressing your lips to a flower—soft. Tender. Dew on the petal.

The second time Jisung kisses Minho, Minho thinks back to a younger Seungmin guessing the world would explode. And in a way, it does.

Everything about this kiss is frantic, splitting and full of pent-up longing. Glass breaks in the cavern of Minho’s chest. He could taste the passion in their first kiss, but this was so, so much different. Jisung kisses him now like he can’t breathe without it, like he’d die if he were to pull away. He just might. Minho might, too.

Kissing Jisung brought Minho back down to earth. Centered him, soothed his worries away even if they were short-lived.

Kissing him now, however, took Minho to an entirely different realm.

A distant reality, one where it made Minho feel like everything was going to be okay. That this is exactly where he’s meant to be. Minho can’t refuse it, so he submits to it. Jisung grips either side of Minho’s neck, slipping his tongue into Minho’s mouth like the hand of a thief, in a way that leaves them both gasping. And Minho lets himself be overwhelmed—wraps his arms tightly around Jisung’s waist and presses their bodies together. Doesn’t even flinch when he feels his back slam into the frame of the open door. His bag is shoved off his shoulders under Jisung’s ministrations, the zipper of his coat being fondled blindly.

The sensation of Jisung’s tongue on his own is too distracting to think about anything else. Minho doesn’t even know if the tears that threatened to fall earlier ever did—and if they did, then it was okay. Jisung would be there to wipe them away.

A whimper leaves Minho when he feels Jisung bite at his lower lip. He clings to Jisung, knees buckling from the impending arousal that stirs in his stomach. It swarms, sticky like hot honey.

“Jisung,” he pleads, though for what he’s not sure. The only thing he’s certain of at this very moment is keeping Jisung close and never letting him go again.

Jisung lures them fully back into the cottage, kicking the door shut without ever pulling away from their kisses. Minho’s arms in tandem fly up and hook over Jisung’s shoulders. With each passing second Minho grows more drunk off the humidity that begins to fester between them.

“Please. Please,” Minho pants into a whine. He barely comprehends Jisung tugging off his jacket.

Jisung pulls away just enough to murmur against his lips, “What is it, honey? Tell me what you need. I’ll give it to you, you know I will—whatever you want. It’s yours.”

“I’m sorry,” Minho apologizes. Now that the taste of Jisung’s tongue isn’t clouding his thoughts, he has a moment to catch his breath. “I don’t know, I just—”

“Just what?” Jisung presses an open-mouthed kiss to Minho’s jugular. The graze of his teeth has Minho throwing his head back. He remembers he has claws and digs them into Jisung’s back greedily.

“Just want you,” Minho chokes out. “Please, I’m sorry. Please.”

Jisung pulls away once he finishes bruising Minho’s neck. “Don’t say that. Don’t be sorry. I’ll give it to you.” He succeeds in removing Minho’s jacket. Then, he goes to tug Minho’s shirt upwards—grabs at the flesh of Minho’s bare stomach with his hands like his flesh is made of clay, always ready to be melded into something else. Minho has half a mind to buck his hips into something, anything. “I’ll give you everything.”

Just as he promised, Jisung wraps his hands around the back of Minho’s thighs and hoists him into his arms. Minho fervently rips the pins from Jisung’s shirt while littering his bare shoulder in bites; lets the thin pieces of cloth leave a trail from the front door back into the bedroom.

When Minho’s back finally hits the soft mattress, all of his anxieties are left outside the bedroom door. It’s like he can finally catch his breath and become alert, because he’d be a fool to miss a single thing Jisung gives him.

He doesn’t shy away when Jisung strips him down to nothing and climbs on top of him. Doesn’t let his thoughts carry him away when Jisung grinds into him with his bottom garments still intact—lets his blunt nails scrape over Jisung’s chest and the muscle of his abs that Minho has always wanted to sink his teeth into. He lets it all happen.

There’s still a bandage on Jisung’s side that’s beginning to peel off that Minho wishes to eventually inquire about. Jisung doesn’t let his thoughts drift—he keeps Minho complicit on the bed before him, works his tongue behind Minho’s ear, his neck, his chest, and his stomach as he works Minho open with his fingers.

All Minho has in him is to take, take, take. Feverishly keeps pushing himself against Jisung’s fingers to encourage him onward. But just before Jisung can slide into him, Minho springs upward. Jisung lets him move, eyes brimming with a quiet curiosity.

Minho stands at the end of the bed with a stumble, dragging Jisung by his thighs to sit before him as he eagerly straddles him. “Let me ride you.”

“Okay. Yeah—that’s fine,” Jisung groans from beneath him. Minho is coherent enough to snicker when he catches Jisung’s wings fluttering in anticipation. All the things Jisung doesn’t say goes straight to his wings and to Minho’s chest.

When Jisung does bottom out in Minho, they’re panting and overwhelmed, but all Minho can see is the look on Jisung’s face. So beautiful, fond and flushed to his ears. All it makes Minho want to do is wrap his arms around his neck and lean in for a sweet kiss.

Slowly, lazily they continue to make out, unmoving for a while until their exchange dwindles into something filthier and they’re grinding into each other. Jisung pulls them further back onto the bed, leans back onto his elbows so that Minho can move more freely and lean against Jisung’s strong body.

Minho rides Jisung in the same way he kisses him—steady, gently, amorously. Like they have all the time in the world. Jisung meets him in the middle and bucks his hips to meet Minho's steadily. He drinks up all of his moans when Minho’s mind grows hazier. It could have been minutes; it could have been hours, years or anything in between.

A series of whimpers reel from Minho as his legs weaken after a long while, too sore to feel Jisung in the way he needs to feel him most, and it hurts. He’s covered in a sheen of sweat, noisily babbling away and withering yet his shame was catapulted out the cottage the moment Jisung’s hands were beneath his shirt. And the sounds, God. The sounds he’s making surpass embarrassment, more than anything Minho is used to conjuring in bed.

But Jisung’s hold around Minho’s waist only bruises, eggs him to keep going. He nips at Minho’s collarbone and Minho feels the ground erode. “You’re doing so good, Minho,” Jisung breathes. He swipes his tongue over Minho’s nipple. “Feel so good.” Bites down on the bud—brushes a feather down Minho’s spine, and Minho almost finishes there.

Minho feels him everywhere. He’s whimpering into the empty space of the bedroom, overly focused on the way their chests graze each other with every movement when Jisung comes back to attack his jaw. The way Jisung’s wings eventually envelope them both. Not just from the outside world, but everything that wasn’t the bed—right here. Right at this moment.

Such small, feathering stimuli. It’s like being plunged underwater. It’s like being ripped into the afterlife. It’s entirely Jisung.

He is irrevocably, undoubtedly, overwhelmed by Jisung. One graze of Jisung’s wings has Minho’s head falling forward, burying into the crevice of Jisung’s neck. Whines distill into wet moans, the room growing so hot that their love just might burn the cottage to the ground.

Minho is subdued to weakly circling his hips, grinding down onto Jisung’s cock helplessly. He wants to keep going. He wants to show Minho that he can be good—can hold his own weight in more ways than one. That Minho can be good for him and take care of himself both in and outside of sex. He can’t say it, either.

But he doesn’t even have to, not when Jisung’s is already physically threatening to flip them both over.

“Stay with me, now,” Jisung says and turns the lights back on in Minho’s hazed psyche. “Can I take over?”

Minho shakes his head defiantly. “I can do it.”

“Baby, please?” Jisung asks, and Minho’s resolve immediately crumbles. “Let me take care of you.”

His eyes are blown out and his face is entirely rosy, and it just might be the most beautiful thing Minho’s ever seen. All he has to do is nod sheepishly before he’s being flipped onto his backside.

Jisung fucks Minho the same way he kisses him—bruising, dizzying, ardently. There’s an urgency in his movements, but it’s not sloppy. Every touch is calculated and intentional, like Minho has never been something Jisung had needed to rewire himself to understand.

All he can see is white, white, white. Jisung’s wings shield him from the world as he takes him through the motions. It leaves him no room for his mind to wander off, and he can barely watch the way Jisung sinks in and out of him. He squirms beneath Jisung. Digs his nails so deeply into Jisung’s back that he thinks it’ll leave marks.

Pride swells in Minho’s belly when a particular scratch has Jisung moaning, his wings shuddering around them. It’s like being beneath the blanket, hot to the skin and ensnaring you inside a bubble you’ve readily trapped yourself in. Safe, but also almost suffocating.

Minho’s eyes drop down to Jisung’s torso. His heart drops seeing the wound his arrow left all that time ago. Scabbed from time passing, reopening Minho’s own fragile heart.

There adorning his ribcage is a large fresh scar, ragged and splintered between the bones. It didn’t just graze him; it was deep and looked like it hurt. An injury that could have easily punctured something vital and killed him slowly had Minho succeeded like he intended to.

The very thought is all it takes to completely subdue Minho into a mess of tears.

Jisung leans down to kiss his tears away as soon as they fall. He brackets his forearms on either side of Minho’s head, gradually picking up the pace of his thrusts. Hitting him harder as Minho’s hands latch onto where Jisung’s skin scars. Jisung lets out a loud exhale when Minho makes contact.

“Jisung,” Minho cries. The words get stuck in his throat. Remorse throttles him.

“I got you, honey.” Jisung kisses his face.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know, honey.” Jisung kisses his lips.

And then next thing, Minho is babbling into Jisung’s neck as they both finish, breaking skin and weeping as his body shudders through it all. 

Minho is dizzy with only Jisung’s name leaving his mouth as Jisung mouths all over him sweetly. In hindsight, when they settle he feels happy, relieved he was able to feel without the fear of the future overtaking him. His bones bend; anxiety smothered.

Jisung is of few words as he cleans the two of them up. He whispers sweet words to Minho, telling him how perfect he was, kissing the curve of his ass better when he wipes Minho down.

And by the time Jisung crawls back into the bed naked to join Minho under the covers, the sun has risen. The warblers sing outside the window, pulling Minho out of the static, and he’s watching Jisung watch him. Gives the angel soft kisses that hold the weight of Minho’s heart. Prays that Jisung can taste the apology on his teeth.

He does, and it’s okay. They’re both okay.

➳

“We just made love, right?” Jisung inquired suddenly half an hour later. Minho barks out a thrilled laugh, eyes trained on the way they play with each other’s fingers absent-mindedly. It’s like they’re dancing.

“I don’t know what else you would call it, but yes,” Minho answers, giddy.

Jisung grumbles at his reaction. “Why are you laughing at me?”

Minho giggles a second time. “Because you said it all funny. So formal.” He presses his cheek into Jisung’s chest. The steady beating of the angel’s heart soothes him.

“I was just making sure!” Jisung continues to pester. “I’ve never felt that way before, doing you know— that.”

Minho wiggles his brows at Jisung teasingly when he lifts his head. “Yeah. That .”

Jisung attempts to separate himself from Minho. They’re too entangled to make it very far. “You’re so mean to me. I should have just let you walk out earlier.”

“Have you done this before?” Minho suddenly wonders out loud. He raises himself up enough to be face to face with Jisung comfortably, resting his hands on the curve of Jisung’s bare chest.

Jisung blinks down at him stupidly. Grabs one of Minho’s fingers thoughtlessly. “What, hold hands?”

“No, silly,” Minho is stupidly endeared. “Have sex.”

“Oh. Kind of, yeah.” Jisung keeps blinking. “Nothing like how it was with you. It was more like how Felix described it would be.”

“And what did Felix say?” Minho asks sweetly as he brushes a few strands of hair out from Jisung’s face.

“He said it’s nice,” Jisung says bashfully. “Like you’re the only two people in the world. That’s how he says it is with Jeongin.”

Now it’s Minho’s turn to blink. “I see.”

“Yeah. They’re, um—” Jisung clears his throat. “Sweethearts. I guess you could say.”

Minho chuckles. “That’s cute. Sweethearts.”

“I want that with you, too, Minho.”

Minho smiles at Jisung, feels his lungs fill with the weight of the love he carries for him. He grabs one of Jisung’s hands and brings it to his mouth, leaving a warm kiss against Jisung’s knuckles.

“In the wise words of a pretty angel I once knew—” Minho says, and grins when Jisung does. “You have me.”

Jisung pulls Minho into a kiss. Then another. And then one more before he replies, “You’re damn right I do.”

Uncertainty rifles in Minho’s chest; he knows that much is made obvious in his demeanor. “I still have to leave. I need to see Seungmin.”

“I know.”

“If I can just see him for myself, then I’ll consider your offer,” Minho promises, holding Jisung’s hand tightly. “I’ll come live with you in the mire.”

Jisung’s hands squeeze Minho’s receptively. Minho likes to think it translates how the latter feels in a way he can’t with words. “We have help. This isn’t something you have to face alone.”

“I know,” Minho mimics. “It’s just disappearing from the guild completely won’t be easy.”

“But you’ve made it this long.” Jisung's response is comforting. He takes his free hand to pet Minho’s dark hair.

“Yeah,” Minho eventually agrees with Jisung’s logic after some thought. He looks out the bedroom window and can’t help but think that an easy escape from the rampart is too good to be true. “I have.”

Jisung pulls Minho close to him. “We’ll figure it out together.”

This time, Minho doesn’t fight it. Only leans into it—presses another kiss to Jisung’s lips. He’ll never be able to go without the taste of him again. “Yeah. We will.”

➳

They give themselves time to prepare for the long journey ahead, but not before stealing another day for themselves.

Minho listens to Jisung run his mouth about the fastest route to the mire from the cottage while he cooks for them.

As they sit across from each other at the table, Jisung tries to pull his socks off with his toes. Later, Jisung leaves to collect more supplies after Minho insists on packing for them both. He returns with plants and camellia flowers that had survived the snowstorm.

Jisung puts a few camellias in Minho’s hair while he sits on the floor folding clothes. The flowers bloomed a vibrant pink, leaving a stark contrast in the vastness of Minho’s dark hair. Minho’s heart also blooms when he feels a soft kiss on his.

After dinner, they sit across each other in the bathtub until the suds in the water fizzle out and their fingers prune. Jisung tells him about the swamp terrain in the mire and laughs the whole way through reminiscing. All the good work Seungmin has done since his arrival, how kind the Shepherds are and how well a few of them are at cooking.

“You could find something else to do when we get there, you know,” Jisung suggests enthusiastically. Some water splashes where he sits. “If you ever wanted a change of pace.”

When Minho was younger, the neighbors baked many things and sold them door to door. He hungered for something like that—something quaint. Once, soon after his father passed, he told his mother he wanted to be a chef when he grew up. His grandfather struck him across the face and told him to not be stupid.

He’s nearly asleep when Jisung crawls into his lap to wash his hair clean. There’s a need to hold back tears when Jisung’s mouth latches onto Minho’s neck, a slow and tantalizing hand sinking downwards to steadily jerk the both of them off. Jisung touches him like he was always meant to be near. Like an unavoidable rapture and Minho was never destined to survive the crash.

Night falls all too quickly. They make love again later. Minho has his eyes pinched shut, overwhelmed by how deeply he feels Jisung inside of him, how he can feel their bodies stick together in a way that’s more than just sex. He can feel Jisung in the crevices of his sinew and bulldoze his bones to dust. Minho has his hands pinned over his head against the mattress, fingers interlaced with Jisung’s. A feather tickles his nose when it falls straight onto his face, and he hears Jisung snicker at his reaction.

“So pretty,” Jisung whispers in his ear, the roll of his hips slow and deep. With every touch, Minho feels the floor dip underneath him then punt him back into the sky repeatedly. He takes what he can. Licks into Jisung’s mouth hungrily and mewls against his lips. 

And Jisung kisses him back just as fervently. Desperately. Tells him he will never let Minho go hungry again through the way he holds Minho like he’s the weight of the world and fucks him.

“Are you sure?” Jisung asks quietly afterwards, just as they’re about to fall asleep. “We could leave now if you want.”

Minho, blissed out, shakes his head. “We can leave before the sun comes up. It’ll be safer and give us more daylight.”

“Up to you.” Jisung buries his face in the crevice of Minho’s shoulder and exhales deeply. “That soap smells nice on you.”

Minho’s skin smells of fruit, likely a concoction of mixed berry and soap made long ago. “You smell rosy,” he replies.

In the next moment, Minho is blanketed completely in one of Jisung’s wings. “So I’ve been told,” Jisung quips—Minho is taken back to the night he fell into the rose bush and realizes that he might have been wrong back then. The lamb’s den keeps his skin warm and his fire in his chest alive. He kisses Jisung and the earth shifts to accommodate them as they sleep.

➳

The next time Minho wakes up early, he doesn’t run away. There’s an angel in the bed with him, snoring softly beneath him, and everything feels alright. The early sun peaks through the window like a warm haze, indicating they slept in for longer than they had intended to.

As he wraps an arm around Jisung’s torso and snuggles into his chest deeper, Minho runs through a mental checklist. The cabinets have been cleared. What needs to be taken with them is stored in their coat pockets and bags.

Outside, it is quiet. He wonders how early on in their journey Jisung will get hungry. Probably pretty early —did they have any leftover fish? Jisung might want some for later. There’s likely none ;eft, but they do have a hint of honey leftover from last night. Maybe Minho should go fishing before they leave.

It's a good idea at the moment.

“Where are you going?” Jisung asks sleepily, eyes heavy and dazed as he watches Minho slide off the bed to search the bedroom floor for clothes.

His hair is very tousled, his face swollen, wings rustling off the bed and eyes squinting. Minho exhales through his nose sharply—Jisung is always devastatingly beautiful. He reminds Minho of the sheep who’d rest on the fields of Seungmin’s family farm in the spring.

“Thought I’d go fishing before we left,” Minho answers with a smile on his face, picking up his pants from the floor and slipping into them. “Go back to sleep.”

Much to Minho’s amusement, Jisung only whines as flips around, already committed to waking up. His arms stretch towards where Minho stands in the room, making grabby hands.

“No, don’t leave me,” Jisung croons. “You’re too wounded, my baby. You can’t go~”

Minho throws a shirt on before making his way to Jisung’s end of the bed. “I think I could win a fight with a fish if it came down to it.” He brushes a hand through Jisung’s dark chestnut hair, watching Jisung watch him.

“But who will keep the bed warm?”

“You will, because you’re going to go back to sleep,” Minho says, enjoying the way Jisung’s face crinkles in disapproval.

“No,” Jisung continues to mourn.

“You don’t want fish with the last of that honey, then?”

At that, Jisung pauses, clearly rethinking his entire argument.

Jisung grabs Minho’s wandering hand and places it over his own heart—Minho feels alive feeling the beating of Jisung’s heart beneath his fingers. “You should try the river near the cave if you want better luck catching something fast,” Jisung offers. “There’s even cranberry shrubs over there.”

“How did you know I love cranberries?” Minho asks with the dopiest smile on his face. He can tell Jisung loves the look of it by the way his eyes widen excitedly. Gold specks bright and lively in his irises, Minho’s favorite.

“Angel powers,” Jisung jokes, before his gaze falls slightly more serious. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

“I’m sure.” Minho leans down to kiss him. “I think I can handle a little bit of berry-picking.”

Another kiss from Jisung. “Famous last words,” he snorts. A third kiss.

“I’ll be back.”

“Be safe,” Jisung mumbles sleepily, and then Minho is gone.

Admittedly, it does feel nice to have his trusted bow weighted against his back again. There’s a harpoon in his pouch, a knife in his boot, and a multitude of cloth to wrap the fish and berries in tow. He feels good—the weather outside is nice today, not too windy, and a beautiful man is awaiting Minho’s return.

Minho descends the patio steps with the slightest hint of a skip and thinks of the mire. Perhaps a life there would be much better than Minho is chalking it up to be—maybe even better than what Jisung paints for him.

He can see it from the cottage and taste the fantasy on his tongue; harvesting food in the mornings, bringing it back to feed an entire village, Jisung there right beside him. The world has made it complicated for people like Minho and Jisung to be happy, but maybe it didn’t have to be.

Though Minho has a long way to achieve that sort of true inner peace, because Minho’s ears twitch at the first sound that unnerves him, and his whole mind is thrown directly back into the gutter. Or, back into the real world.

Minho draws back an arrow in his bow and aims at a tree behind him. Nothing. His eyes carefully scan the source of the sound, waiting for the faintest hint of something, anything to jump out at him.

After a few moments, the rustle of something in the same direction sounds again. Minho’s gaze hooks onto a shrub shaking, gauges on a sweet spot, then releases the bowstring—he strikes something. There’s a squawk, but it’s hard to pinpoint what could have made the sound. All he knows is that he hit it. Minho readies another arrow and treks carefully toward the area.

Minho isn’t sure what he’s expecting to find—a person, perhaps. A threat. A physicality of his nightmares from the past month. What he ends up finding instead is a warbler.

A chick that fell from a nest, too young to be in the bushes. It bleeds out on the ground just before the shrub, pierced by Minho’s arrow. The bird’s little feathered chest heaves up and down as it breathes heavily, hyperventilating, until it stops completely.

When he kneels, there’s not much to inspect. There is more carnage than feathers visible, and it makes Minho feel like he’s killed a thousand angels. He discards his second arrow and stares apologetically at the deceased warbler. Its small body gives out one last twitch of muscle, eyes dulling. An expression he wishes he wasn’t so familiar with.

It’s not the first time Minho has taken an innocent life, but he does hope it’s the last.

Minho takes a last glance around the woods, adjusts the backpack over his shoulders before continuing toward the river. Paranoia is a bitch.

The trip to the lake is relatively short, and Jisung was right—Minho does have much better luck over here. He catches more trout than he had initially expected to, and by the time half an hour passes, there’s enough fish in his web to feed two.

Then there’s the berries, of course. He wouldn’t dare to forget them.

Cranberries used to be too tart for Minho; it was something his mother had to force him into liking growing up. As he grew older, however, he grew to have a knack for sweet things, so it’s only natural for him to pick berries straight from the shrub to try as soon as he comes across them. The tang explodes in his mouth, and Minho is careless as the softer berries bleed and stain his fingers. They’re good—really good. He makes sure to pack a large quantity for him and Jisung to share.

A flock of birds fly over the tree line above Minho. It’s a flock of what looked like crows, squawking and large in sum as they fly west—the opposite direction of the cottage.

Something brews in Minho nervously. Helter-skelters where he stands as something dreadful washes over him. Surely it was nothing. Jisung was safe. What could possibly happen to him in the middle of nowhere?

Regardless of Minho’s attempts to keep the boiling behind his ribs and tame it to a simmer, he finds himself running back to the cottage as fast as his legs will let him go.

When Minho and Seungmin were temporarily banned from playing hide and seek as children, they played tag.

What Seungmin liked about hide and seek was that it didn’t require much physical exercise. Between the two of them, Seungmin was the brains. Not to say Minho wasn’t intelligent; Seungmin just cared less to get his hands dirty. He was more meticulous compared to Minho. Watched problems unfold from a safe distance and liked to strategize before making a move. He refused to throw himself into a burning house before making sure his ass wouldn’t catch fire. Seeking was always Seungmin’s strength. It was safe, at a distance, and took more brains than brawn.

That’s why Minho had a ball when it came to tag. He was stronger than Seungmin and wasn’t afraid to tackle him to the ground if it meant he’d win. Minho was fast, thicker-skinned, and was good at hiding. He found joy playing cat and mouse. Besides, it stroked his ego each time he caught Seungmin, no matter how much of a head start he’d give the boy.

And again, Minho was fast—declared one of the fastest kids in the neighborhood. His legs served him a great deal of justice throughout his life—whether it meant scoring a win in tag, stealing vegetables from his cranky neighbor’s garden, or running away from rabid angels and mercenaries.

To Minho, his wings were his legs, but they could not carry him fast enough in every circumstance. He fell face-first into the mud while trying to run back home after hearing of his father’s death. When he was twenty, he slammed into a wall so hard during his training that he dislocated his shoulder. Even when he ran as fast as he could back to his platoon weeks ago, he wasn’t fast enough to see where Seungmin could have possibly gone. It was too late.

And now, though he ran as fast as he could, he didn’t make it back in time.

When Minho finds himself directly in front of the cottage, the front door is wide open. Scuff marks litter the door frame. The outdoor furniture was in disarray. Impressions from the bottom of someone’s boot imprint onto the door. The window Minho was looking out of just yesterday was broken from the outside in. Even the air around the cottage felt tainted—invaded. Minho didn’t have to see the cottage interior to sense that something was terribly wrong.

With rehearsed composure, Minho draws back his arrow and stays on high alert.

“Hunters Guild of the Northern Citadel,” Minho announces with a shout, keeping his flaring nerves at bay. If there are intruders here, he has to keep diligence and wear his occupation on his sleeve. Not only to keep himself safe, but also Jisung, even though all he wants to do is turn the place upside down and call Jisung’s name until his lungs dry.

The interior of the cottage feels very cold. Very unfamiliar. Not the warm sanctuary that he had come to know and live in for the past week, no. The frames on the wall have been smashed and fallen to the floor. There’s heaps of broken glass everywhere he steps. The entrance floor is muddied with dirt from unwelcome footprints. The living room couch that Jisung had nursed Minho back to health on earlier that week was dirtied and wrinkled and pushed to a different area of the room—like someone had put up a fight on top of it.

Minho’s stomach sinks. “If anyone lives here,” he recites. Eyes darting everywhere around the room. “...make your presence known now.”

It’s hauntingly quiet. Minho’s eyes catch sight of a few angel feathers on the ground. He thinks his heart is going to chip and crack his ribs from how fast it beats behind them.

The hallway that leads to the bedroom, the very hallway Jisung carried Minho with ease through only days ago, suddenly feels so daunting.

Still, Minho listens out. The wood in the kitchen creaks. The electricity is off, and Minho is certain the water pipes have dried as well. The breeze from outside rustles the pages of the book Jisung was reading. It feels like years have passed since those days.

He instantly contradicts himself as heads down the hallway and calls out a small, “Sung-ah?” It’s not surprising to be greeted with silence, but Minho’s heart still pinches.

At the end of the hall, the door leading to the bedroom is left open by a crack. This morning, Minho had left it closed. And unless Jisung was playing a drastic prank by roughing up the cottage, then returning to bed for Minho to come home panicking, then Minho can only assume that there’s someone, something, behind the door.

He quiets his presence as much as he can until he stands right before the door. Minho takes a deep breath. Readies himself to jump off the cliff. He leaps.

Minho kicks the door open. Takes one step inside before halting and aiming his arrow at the head of a hunter he’s acquainted with, sitting on the bed.

The hunter is calm, ankles crossed, and hands resting in his lap, unarmed.

Minho takes a breath and tightens his grip around the neck of his bow. If he didn’t immediately register who this hunter was, he would have let the arrow fly. He almost does, anyway.

They’ve only met a few times before, this particular hunter from the southern rampart. Unlike most hunters, Minho kind of likes this one.

“Changbin,” Minho pointedly greets.

Changbin's gaze is heavy with what looks like guilt. He doesn’t look like he even cares that an arrow is pointed right at him. Regretful. For what, Minho doesn’t know.

“Hyung,” Changbin greets all too familiarly. His small mouth frowns, like he’s trying to control an awkward smile from taking over his guilty expression. “It’s just me here.”

“What are you doing here?” Minho asks scarily calm, still aiming his arrow. His patience withers when Changbin doesn’t conjure an answer fast enough. “I asked you a question.”

Only now does Changbin defensively raise his hands in the air. Minho doesn’t really care whether Changbin is unarmed or how much he likes the guy. If he has anything to do with the lack of Jisung in the cottage presently, he doesn’t see much reason to let the hunter leave here alive.

“I heard you the first time. Geez,” Changbin forces an uncomfortable chuckle before his expression falls just as quickly. “Friendly as always, I see.”

“Where’s the angel, Changbin?” Minho asks plainly. “You’ve made quite a mess out there.”

At that, Changbin’s hands fell back into his lap. Then, he stands, keeping his hands at his sides politely. Minho keeps his arrow aimed at the space between Changbin’s eyes, politely.

“That wasn’t my doing,” Changbin clears his throat. “You can thank your captain for that.”

“Listen. I like you, but not enough to let you keep rambling,” Minho threatens. “So I recommend you tell me where he is before I shoot between your eyes.”

“He’s gone,” Changbin answers after a moment. “He’s been taken on behalf of the northern citadel.”

The way the living room looked like it practically imploded, the blood and feathers and torn up cushions outside the room—it was obvious Jisung went down but not without a fight.

Minho’s anxieties keep his bow and arrow raised even as his hands grow cold and threaten to shake. Yet now, with a new weight heavy in his chest. It pulls his arrow to the floor and away from the hunter. Changbin instantly relaxes, looking for the next words to say. No matter what they may be, however, Minho isn’t sure if he’s capable of listening.

Jisung’s been taken. His angel, his boy, was taken. It looked like it hurt, too. God. God.

It’s a miracle Minho’s voice doesn’t crack when he next speaks. “Where have we taken him?”

And it hurts for Minho to word it like that. Not they, but we. Because at the end of the day, Minho isn’t docile, nor is he as kind and gentle as Jisung insisted he was. Minho was a hunter. Minho was part of a bigger, more degenerate regime. Minho was made to kill angels like Jisung. There was no he versus them, only we.

“Back to your home terf,” Changbin answers with a grunt, taking a step around the bedroom. Only a few nights ago Jisung was pressing Minho into the mattress, leaving marks and whispering sweet nothings into Minho’s ear. Now, only a mess of feathers and dirt lay, where Jisung surely was ambushed.

Minho was a fool for ever believing the two of them could make it.

“The lieutenant ordered me to bring you home as soon as I found you, so I figured I’d wait and see if you would turn up.”

“Hyunjin.” Minho’s brows furrow. “He—” He pauses. “He knows I’m still looking for Seungmin.”

Changbin's eyes flicker away, down at the bed behind him. “I’m just following orders,” he replies. “The angel here was an interesting one; already popular with the Elite. For now, Hyunjin said he’d prefer for you to return.”

Seungmin is still out there somewhere—alive, at least. Minho knows that much. It’s enough assurance for him to put his search for his friend on pause to join Changbin back to the citadel. Jisung, on the other hand...

A part of Minho’s heart feels that it’s been bitten out. Jisung wasn’t here; Jisung was gone. And if Minho wanted to save him, he had to keep his composure and button up. Especially in front of Changbin, whose eyes his every move warily. Minho knows he’s being inspected from the inside out, and he has no reason to give Changbin any hint of his treasonous thoughts.

“What are they going to do to him?” Minho asks as coyly as possible as Changbin makes his way out of the bedroom.

Changbin is quiet when they navigate the cottage until they’re out and descending the patio steps. Away from the cottage. Away from the endearing memories Minho has grown to make here with Jisung. Jisung, who’s been ripped away from him.

“I’m not sure, yet,” Changbin answers eventually. “Something about his wings. Your captain said it’s something worth looking at.”

Minho’s head pounds. Jisung’s uniqueness, about to be set on display for the twisted world to inspect. The things the Elite can and will do to him as soon as they return home—Minho holds back a grumble as he walks behind Changbin.

He can’t freak out yet, just as the latter said, they aren’t sure what will happen to Jisung. Maybe Minho will have a chance to figure something out. He’ll be on his own, but he’d do anything for Jisung. He’d do anything to break him out.

“Are they going to hurt him, you think?” Minho asks, heart a little more on his sleeve than before.

“I don’t know.”

A few beats of silence loom. They leave the open field and return to the woods.

“You’re awfully interested,” Changbin comments. Minho hums—too incapable of saying words without throwing up his heart.

“Who wouldn’t?” Minho chides. “Didn’t my captain say the same thing?”

“Yeah, but—” Changbin spares only a glance at Minho before flickering elsewhere. His grip on his hunting bag tightens. “What’s it to you what they do to him?”

Because I think I love him, Minho thinks. Because I’ve felt a security with Jisung that I’ve never felt with anyone else. Because he makes me feel normal. Makes me feel that nothing is wrong with me. Because he is mine for the taking and no one else’s.

A pause in the air looms.

“Just curious,” Minho answers instead.

Changbin looks at him for a few seconds, long enough for Minho to twitch beneath his skin but not wanting to be the first to break their staring contest. It’s like Changbin’s trying to get a read on him. Like he doesn’t believe Minho. For both their sake, Minho hopes Changbin does.

He doesn’t get to find out because Changbin doesn’t say anything else. They trek onwards in silence for a long time after that, back to the home Minho has grown to find himself unwelcome in.

By the time the cottage is no longer in sight, the sun has reached its peak in the sky. It remains the color of a bright flame, burning like the welded blade that took Jisung from him.

➳

According to Changbin, the hunters were traveling back with Jisung by horse, so it’ll take at least an extra day for he and Minho to get home.

Much can happen in twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours is how long Jisung has to fend for himself all alone. On the bright side, it was an extra day for Minho to nurse a plan to break him out as swiftly as possible.

He and Changbin speak more comfortably to each other compared to most, but it didn’t exactly make them friends. There’s much to Changbin that Minho doesn’t know about. No true indication where on the spectrum he falls as a hunter—whether he’s more like Hyunjin and his father, or if he’s more similar to Minho and Seungmin. How he really feels about Jisung’s capture and why he expected Minho’s arrival at the cottage of all places. All Minho knows is that Changbin is originally from the southern citadel, which was the province with the heaviest downpour of angels decades ago.

They don’t talk unless it’s necessary. Minho doesn’t have much to say, anyway.

Awkward mumbles trickle in the air throughout the day—mostly coming from Changbin. Whether it’s a short complaint about the frigid wind, or a comment about the plants they pass by. Minho doesn’t respond to any of it. And from what he’s heard of Changbin from the other hunters, Changbin is rather kind, quite the chatterbox in most scenarios. Minho knows he’s not making this easy for Changbin, but he also feels no reason to.

Minho can’t find his voice until nightfall.

They set up camp on higher grounds, somewhere where they know they won’t be bothered by the nocturnal animals. Minho starts a small fire, takes a slab of fish from his pouch and cooks it over the fire while Changbin sits across from him.

“You have food,” Changbin notes.

Minho fights the urge to glare at him. “Congratulations. Your eyes work.”

“...Do you have any more?”

“No.” A lie. Minho flips the foil-wrapped fish in the fire.

Changbin shuffles in his seat. “That’s a shame.”

Minho doesn’t respond.

“I’m pretty hungry,” Changbin adds.

“Okay.” Minho flips the fish again.

Silence falls. Internally, Minho thanks the universe for it.

“Hyung,” Changbin says tentatively again.

Minho wishes it were socially acceptable to stuff dirt in a person’s mouth to shut them up. “What?”

“I’m sorry about today,” he says. Changbin isn’t looking at him anymore. Rather, he’s staring directly into the fire. As if there’s something in the ember more intriguing than the fish he was trying to steal off of Minho.

Minho pulls the foil-covered fish from the bed of the fire and pulls at its edges impatiently. He doesn’t care if he gets burned. Right now, he doesn’t care about anything.

“For?”

“You were close with him, weren’t you?” Changbin asks directly. “The angel.”

Now that makes Minho pause. It takes approximately four blinks for him and one deep breath to muster a guarded response—one that doesn’t draw too much suspicion to himself or Jisung.

“And what gives you that suspicion?” Minho asks with his brows raised. His expression is schooled to nothing short of voided emotion—a skill he’s had his whole life to master. “You’re the one who found him.”

“You know that isn’t true,” Changbin retorts. This time, with something darker in his tone. “From what I saw, it was more like he found you.”

Minho says nothing at first. Just keeps his eyes on Changbin, trying to dissect the look in his eye and the way he’s sitting as Minho chews with a mouthful of food. He lets the question hang in the air. He knows his silence is more telling than any answer.

“Am I right?” Changbin presses. Minho wishes he could understand the look in the latter’s eye. “You two have some sort of thing going on?”

“There’s no ‘thing’ going on,” Minho denies. “I came across him on my mission. I was planning on killing him.”

“Is that so?” Changbin couldn’t sound like he didn’t believe Minho any more than he currently did. But if he wanted to play coy, so would Minho.

“You’ve got some nerve accusing shit like that,” Minho grumbles, berating him as if he has any superiority over Changbin. “An angel—don’t be ridiculous. Shame on you.”

But was it really such a shameful thing? Was there anything shameful in Jisung’s kindness? In the way he tasted of apricots and cleaned Minho’s wounds with his bare hands? In the way Minho didn’t start breathing until the first time they kissed? Was it a shame?

“Would it really be such a bad thing?” Changbin questions, much to Minho’s surprise. “Do you hate angels that much?”

Minho isn’t sure what kind of game Changbin’s playing here. Any normal hunter would have a weapon pointed at Minho’s throat if there was even a possibility he was involved with an angel by now.

“I mean,” Minho lowers the next bite of fish he was going to take. “That’s just what the job entails.”

“So that’s how you feel.”

Minho pauses. Skeptical. “Do you not feel that way?”

“Seungmin doesn’t hate angels.”

Another pause. “Well,” Minho is slow to respond. “Neither do I.”

“But you think it’d be shameful,” Changbin accuses. “If there was something between you. You and that angel.”

“If I were to tell you how I really feel about that angel—" Minho exhales heavily. “Then I think I’d have to kill you.”

Changbin nods knowingly. It annoys the hell out of Minho.

Eventually, Minho brings himself to turn his attention towards the other. “And I don’t want to kill anyone.” He looks away. “Not anymore.”

It goes quiet again, long enough for Minho to take another bite of fish.

“Hyung.”

Minho doesn’t bother answering—he knows Changbin is going to speak regardless.

“There’s something you need to know,” Changbin starts warily. “And I need you to promise to try and not kill me until I’m done.”

“I won’t promise that.” At this point, Minho has zero reason to give him any assurance.

“When you left to go looking for Seungmin, Captain Hwang called me into a meeting.”

Captain Hwang was one of the Elites in the region. Hyunjin’s father—the man who oversaw everything in the northern citadel’s Hunters Guild—was someone important. Someone deemed worth being feared.

Despite how fucked in the head and wary Minho is about a lot of things, he wasn’t scared of much.

The captain, however, was one of the few things that made Minho’s heart skip nervously. Just the mention of the captain at times made Minho’s blood run cold. It didn’t before, but it certainly did now.

“Yeah?” Minho’s throat suddenly feels much tighter than it did before.

“Yeah, um—” Changbin garbles. “It was about that mission Seungmin went missing on. Your captain thinks it was a set-up. Like, the anonymous tip you all got was just an excuse to ambush you.”

Minho could believe that. Hyunjin was certainly eager enough to take the bait if it meant taking out a pack of Shepherds to appease his daddy. Plus, if all what Jisung spoke of was true, that Seungmin had now joined the Shepherds, the ambush was a more than perfect time for him to escape without suspicion.

Of course, Seungmin would have waited for such a moment to make his grand escape. Minho just wishes that this plan was one of the many Seungmin would’ve let him in on. Because what if he didn’t chase after? Would he have left Minho alone in the north, left to accept the circumstances for what they were?

“That’d make sense,” he replies. “I don’t know what about that would make you think I’d try and kill you, though.”

Changbin rubs his hands together over his leather gloves, intertwining his fingers together. “The captain has reason to believe Seungmin was the one behind the attack.”

Minho blinks. Sure, Seungmin had a lot of nerve to an insane degree at times, but to organize an ambush? Without consulting Minho? He was almost offended at the implication.

Besides, Seungmin was not a fighter. Even if he was part of a bigger plan, he couldn’t have been alone leading the attack. It just wasn’t possible.

Right?

“And you believe that?” Minho asks.

“It’s what your captain believes. And the only reason Hyunjin was able to green-light you going after Seungmin was in the hopes of you leading us to him, so that he could be arrested and punished for, you know...”

“For treason.” Minho finishes the sentence.

There are holes in Changbin’s story. How would Seungmin be able to get away with such a risky move, even if he was dabbling in a bit of espionage? None of it made sense unless there was an abundance of things Seungmin was keeping from Minho all this time. And much to his dismay, that seems to be the case.

As much as he wants to let his feelings be hurt over it, there’s too much happening for Minho to let himself get upset. Because at least he knew the bastard was safe and unscathed for the time being—his current priority was now making sure Jisung could find the same fortuitous fate.

“So, to make sure you would bring Seungmin back like you insinuated you would—”

“That was the plan,” Minho argues.

“Well, to make sure of it, Hyunjin requested I keep an eye on you. The entire time you’ve been gone, I’ve been right behind you.”

Minho abandons the fish in his hands in favor of picking at his cuticles.

So all of those times where Minho felt that he was being watched, his paranoia each time he looked out the window—from the day Minho fought off wolves all the way to when he shot down the warbler this morning, he was underwatch. Somewhere in the shadows, being stalked.

Each time he and Jisung stepped out, whenever he left the cottage to scavenge for something to eat, Changbin was there. Which also meant—

“And I saw you two,” Changbin next says quietly, like the weight of his words would crush Minho on impact. “Together.”

This is it—this will be how Minho dies. He’s got nothing on him but a dagger in his holster still strapped to his thigh; he’d be able to reach for it in time even if Changbin were to try anything. But what then? He runs? There’s no telling how far he’d get before being eaten alive by the woods, dying of dehydration, or worst of all: being found, only to suffer the same way his father did.

There’s nothing left to do but wait for Changbin to say he has seen everything. The way his peculiar friendship with Jisung blossomed into something that couldn’t be contained in a bottle—that what became of him and Jisung had grown into a beast something neither could hone.

He'd die before his mother. His grandfather would kill him again in the afterlife. The evangelists would drag his family name through the dirt and make an example out of him. Seungmin would still be gone. Jisung would be at the mercy of devils.

Minho waits. He waits for Changbin to move, keeps his eyes trained and dark on the younger. Minho’s sly fingers inch toward the handle of the dagger where Changbin cannot see.

“What now?” Minho asks. “Is this the part where you try to kill me?”

Changbin frowns. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Minho wraps his fingers delicately around the handle of his dagger. “Of course not. Instead, you’re going to take me back as a prisoner. Let someone more man than you take the swing. Is that it?”

“That isn’t why I’m telling you all of this.”

“Then why are you?” Minho questions with an angry rasp in his voice. “What do you gain from this? A prize? For those fucking people to like you?” He leans in as close as he can to Changbin from where he sits. “I know what you want. You want the biggest stamp of approval you can get, huh? You want some angel wings for yourself? Is that it? All yours to keep. That’s what you want, isn’t it? It’s what every hunter wants.”

Changbin glares at him but doesn’t give Minho the satisfaction of answering—supposing the deeply shameful look on his face is enough. Minho moves from his seat now, taking two steps before crouching right beside Changbin, where he sits still in place, getting in the hunter’s face as close as Minho can muster.

“Let me tell you something.” Minho hopes the viperous fury simmering in his gut translates well to his tongue. “I shot a warbler this morning. I was sick to my stomach. I gave it a violent death and I regretted it. Never again do I want to resort to violence like that.” Minho jabs Changbin’s chest with his still sheathed dagger, making the younger look at him. “But my Jisung-ie’s wings... they’re precious things. Just the most perfect thing. So if that’s what you’re after, Changbin, I’ll kill you right here.”

It doesn’t appear Changbin is at all deterred by Minho’s genuine threats, and he knows that Changbin knows that he is being serious.

“Let’s make this a clean fight, yeah?”

“I don’t want another angel’s wings.” Changbin’s tone is heavy, somewhat bitter as he speaks. “That’s the last thing I want.”

“You mean to tell me you’ve been stalking me,” Minho relays eerily calm. “From the minute I left, all the way over here. Watched me from the shadows and waited until I was gone to strike Jisung.” Minho grins, like everything was all and well. “And now you expect me to believe you? What, do you feel sorry for me?”

“I want to help you.”

“Oh, my apologies. You just want to help me,” Minho mocks. Then, he nods towards the dark abyss that slithers between the trees and encircles their camp. “Did you hear that, everyone? Changbin-ie here wants to help me. How selfless of him. How kind, really.” Minho leans in once again. “Wasn’t very kind of you to let me bleed out that night. I was in a real pinch, you know?” Minho pouts.

“It was hard to keep an eye on you undetected. I lost sight of you early on,” Changbin confesses. “By the time I found you, I saw you with him—with Jisung. And he was dragging you to those caves after you passed out.”

Changbin turns his body toward Minho, peering up at him with a brave glint in his eye. Like he remembered he could stand a chance against Minho in a fight if it came down to it. Or maybe he was just tired of Minho running his mouth and was ready to put a cork in it.

“I didn’t feel good about following you like that, hyung,” Changbin insists. “But I had Elites breathing down my neck. And I told myself I was going to tell you, but then—” Changbin pries his gaze away from Minho and back to the fire. “I saw you leave the cottage. It looked like you were going to leave for real, too. And then—I saw him kiss you.”

Minho remembers it like it was only an hour ago. The fact that it was on display for the likes of another hunter made him want to shrivel up and lash out. He could only imagine how disheveled he must’ve looked in that moment to bystanders, how vulnerable.

Changbin bravely assuringly touches Minho’s knee. “I didn’t want them to see you like that. I was going to make something up to the captain when I returned without you. Like you died, or something. I don’t know. Anything that would have kept them from looking for you, but—” His grip on Minho’s knee tightens. Minho feels oddly compelled to let it happen, seeing something twist in Changbin’s face. “They were already coming to check on me. I couldn’t throw them off track without it looking strange. And in the end—”

Everything had already happened. Minho left that morning to pick berries and catch fish and returned to a deserted home. Nothing but a few feathers, a mess of glass, and Changbin on the bed with blood on his hands.

“Hyung, I’m sorry.” Changbin grabs Minho’s forearm desperately. “I’m sorry I let it get to this point, but I have a plan. I can help.”

Minho pulls out of his hold and stands to his feet, trying to process everything that’s been said. No matter the explanation, it all equated to one thing: he was being followed, and Minho would have been the very thing that killed not only his lover but eventually Seungmin, and perhaps even his only family by extension.

Minho takes a few steps away from the fire. Changbin rises as well but makes no move to follow after him.

“I have no reason to believe you,” Minho barks. “How do I not know this isn’t your way of pleading for your life right now?.”

Changbin exhales deeply through his nose, his lips thinned and angry. There’s a conflict in his expression, a twitch in his brow. Minho watches quietly from where he stands. There’s a small part inside of him that wants Changbin to be one of the good ones, as well.

Then, Changbin begins to do the last thing Minho would expect: he begins to undress.

Minho doesn’t realize it at first when Changbin hastily removes his gloves. Questions arise when he shimmies off his jacket. Alarms sound when he removes his sweater.

Minho sputters out a borderline-flustered question of, “What are you doing?”

Changbin slips out of one of the sleeves of his sweater. “Earning your trust.”

Minho grimaces disapprovingly. “No offense, but you’re not my type.”

“You’re not mine, either!”

The interaction leaves them both a little offended.

It doesn’t stop Changbin from stripping, however. Minho almost feels the need to stop him. If Changbin’s goal was to weird Minho out, then he was succeeding.

“Dude, stop—it’s too fucking cold to get naked.”

“I’m not getting naked, weirdo,” Changbin insults. “I’m just taking my shirt off.”

“You’re the weirdo stripping. And your nakedness isn’t going to change my mind,” Minho starts saying just anything that comes to mind. Anything that would stop Changbin from getting naked. “I’m only into angels. I’m perverted. Sick in the head. I need help, really.”

“Pipe down for two seconds, would you?” Changbin removes his shirt, leaving his entire top half bare for Minho to see. “I’m about to make you eat your words, seriously.”

Minho is about to muster another taunt before the words get trapped in his throat when Changbin turns around.

Changbin stays where he is, beckoning Minho to come closer without outright saying it. It’s clear the goal was to make Minho approach him instead; it’s evident the moment he turned around to display his back.

There’s an accumulation of scars and wounds decorating Changbin’s back, some more fresh than others. For the most part, though, they’re old. Adorning such scars was quite common for hunters, especially those like he and Minho, who were often on the front lines of such missions. When combat is your specialty, that’s the sort of thing you learn to expect.

What sticks out to Minho, however, are two long, jaded scars etched vertically on the innermost part of Changbin’s shoulder blades.

The jagged scars are long and rugged, like whatever inflicted the damage did not care to do it cleanly. Against his tanned back, the bulging scars are thick and white. Even beneath the flesh looks unnatural. It’s like a surgery gone wrong.

Minho has a sinking feeling of what could have caused it.

Changbin looks over his shoulder at Minho. His expression is unreadable. “You can take a closer look.”

Hesitantly, Minho walks over to him. He takes a closer look for a few seconds, neither of them saying anything. He can’t even hear Changbin’s heavy breath despite how close they were.

There’s something beneath the flesh of Changbin’s back where the white scars lie, but upon closer inspection, Minho realizes it’s—

“This is..." Without thinking, Minho goes to graze the bone that sticks out like a shaved-down tree stump on Changbin’s back.

“It’s exactly what it looks like.” Changbin doesn’t look bothered by Minho’s curious fingers touching the exposed, old bone. It’s as if he expected him to. “I was captured by mercenaries a few years back. They took my wings.”

Minho can’t believe what he’s seeing. Never has Minho come across such a thing: an angel without its wings—one that lived to tell their story.

In the past when Minho had seen an angel’s wings extracted, it was a mess. Too bloodied, executed too hastily for there to have been a clean look at the end of it. By the end of it, a mere pile of hacked up bone and carcass. It’s not supposed to matter in the end, because the wings were only taken from the dead and dying and by the looks of it, Changbin was neither of those things.

“You’re an angel.” Minho stares in disbelief.

Changbin takes a small step away from Minho. Not realizing the palms of his hands were growing suddenly clammy, Minho wipes his hands against his pants. “How did you escape?”

Escaping is one thing—blending in amongst the wolves was an entirely different monster. There’s not much privacy in the citadel, let alone times when Changbin could have kept to himself without anyone catching on. He was nothing short of a miracle.

“I made a friend,” Changbin responds softly. “He saved me. And he’d help Jisung, too.”

“Who is he?”

“He’s a doctor. Bit of a celebrity.” For the first time since they’ve set up camp, Changbin smiles. He walks away to clean his clothes of dirt and leaves before redressing himself. “Are you familiar with Dr. Bahng?”

Doctor Bahng was a name Minho had heard of before. They’d never personally exchanged words outside greetings in passing. Doctor Bahng was a doctor who traveled between the provinces. Always had a calming presence. Soft-hearted upon first impression and friendly with everyone.

Above all else, he doesn’t strike Minho as someone who’d have many enemies. Minho would have never guessed that the doctor, friend, and ally to all, dabbled in espionage too.

“Uh, yeah. I’ve heard of him,” Minho says after a few beats.

Changbin slides into his coat with a contented exhale.

“When my wings were first taken, it was a bunch of amateurs who removed them. They didn’t have the decency to stitch me up, they just left me mangled. I thought I was going to bleed to death.” Changbin picks up a long piece of grass and chews on the end of it in thought. “Chan was only a medic at the time, but he was able to put me back together. Since then, he's been specializing in surgery. I looked crazy before he fixed me up.”

Minho hums thoughtfully. Who would have thought?

“He’s been helping angels escape to the mire since forever. We can get Jisung back home, too.”

The lines in between Changbin’s word choice don’t go unnoticed. Perhaps Changbin is also originally from the mire, in another time.

“So Dr. Bahng’s a mole,” Minho thinks out loud. “And no one knows?”

“Only the Shepherds, of course. And myself. And now you.” Changbin lists off. “I trust you won’t go running your mouth.”

Minho tries to pretend that the abundance of information and beacon of hope doesn’t exhilarate a part of him. “Only because it’d be a hassle.”

“And because you’re in love,” Changbin teases.

Minho feels his ears burn red. He keeps quiet, not wanting to give Changbin the satisfaction of receiving a jumbled retort. Instead, Minho returns to where he was seated, albeit a bit closer to Changbin than before. He takes a look at his half-eaten fish near the fire, then grabs it to toss in Changbin’s lap.

The latter lights up at the gesture. “You’re serious?”

“It’s not a big deal.” Minho doesn’t spare him a glance.

“But it’s the last of your food.”

“I lied.” Minho pulls another raw fish from a pouch full of melted ice and tosses it into the fire to cook. “I have, like, four more of these.”

“You, lying. Give me a minute to act surprised.” Changbin takes a big, grateful bite of hot fish.

Minho flips his new fish with a small smile.

➳

They get back into the northern rampart by evening the next day. Minho doesn’t get a wink of sleep, too haunted by the idea of returning to a home that no longer feels like his.

While Changbin snored the night away, Minho’s mind was fraying at the seams—horrifying fantasies of Jisung blared in the forefront of his mind all night. It kept him wide awake. The weather was cold, but Minho felt like he was on fire all night, sweat drenching through the layers of his winter padding. His heart twisted and threatened to break through his ribcage with every night terror.

Jisung could have been left to freeze in his imprisonment since his arrival. Or hurt. Minho couldn’t even at least keep himself from going crazy by telling himself Jisung was safe because he was far from it. He couldn’t guarantee Jisung’s safety until they were far, far away from the citadel, far from the north.

Once they’ve hit Minho’s customary stomping grounds, he thinks of his mother—wondering if she was still awake.

The thought crosses his mind when they pass Minho’s neighborhood. Changbin is leading them into the town square to the town’s local inn, where Dr. Bahng allegedly has a long-term residency for his time in the north. There aren’t any hunters roaming around from what Minho could see, but another dreadful thought crosses his mind.

“Say, when you mentioned Hyunjin sent you after me,” Minho asks cautiously, just loud enough for it to barely reach Changbin’s ears. “Did he know you found me?”

“What do you mean?”

Minho stares holes into his back, hardly comprehending that there once used to be wings there—wings just like Jisung’s. He imagines his were softer compared to Jisung’s, rotund on the edges, whereas Jisung’s felt pointed like a dull blade.

“As in, was he aware I had... You know. Occupied that space, alongside Jisung.”

“Oh, no. If anyone asks, we came across the cottage by chance.” Changbin slows down enough to walk shoulder to shoulder with Minho. His smile unravels the anxious coil in Minho’s stomach. It reminds him of Seungmin. “You have no idea how lucky you were to be out of that house when you were. For all we know, you could have been killed on the spot.”

Changbin tries to word it as some light-hearted joke, but Minho can’t stomach it—the idea of falling asleep next to Jisung and dying before they wake. Maybe it would have been easier to die in their sleep together. But Minho remembers that Jisung is of a completely different species; his kind can withstand such an assault. Angels can’t be shot down so easily. Jisung could have lived through it all—Minho would have died before he realized what was happening.

Subconsciously, he clutches onto his stomach, riddled with anxiety and keeps trudging onward.

At the end of a very long corridor at the inn, Changbin knocks on the door.

It’s obnoxious, surely loud enough to wake up the neighboring patrons. Minho physically cringes as the sound echoes.

“Knock louder. I don’t think the people on the second floor heard you,” Minho snidely comments. Anything to keep him from thinking about the bundle of nerves eating him alive.

Before Changbin can give a half-assed retort, the door creaks open. On the other side, lo and behold, is Dr. Bahng, dressed in comfortable clothing. It didn’t look like they were disturbing his beauty sleep, at least.

“Changbin,” Dr. Bahng hums, his eyes squinting first at Changbin and then Minho. “I wasn’t expecting any visitors at this hour.”

“We’re sorry to bother you so late, Dr. Bahng.” Minho is the first to greet, bowing forward slightly in a perfect mix of apprehension and politeness.

Still, Dr. Bahng keeps that kind smile and takes a step backward. “It’s not a bother at all. And please, just Chan is fine. I didn’t realize you and Changbin were acquainted.”

“Right,” Changbin blurts out before Minho can correct him. “Can we...” He weakly gestures inside the room.

That perks Chan upright. “Right! Of course. Please, come in.”

It’s a small and unkempt room, even for someone as respected and notable as Chan. There’s research pinned on the yellow-painted walls. Books litter his small bed and every inch of the desk is covered with paper. There’s a faint scent of cigar smoke seeping in through the vents that makes Minho’s nose scrunch.

“Make yourselves at home.”

Minho steers clear of the nook while Changbin makes himself comfortable on a nearby chair. “We apologize for the intrusion,” he apologizes a second time.

“It’s no problem. Tea?” Chan smiles before walking over to a pot of boiling water.

Tea was considered more of a delicacy than not in recent times. From the powerful, bitter scent that floods Minho's senses, he can only guess it’s black, not exactly something someone should be drinking at night.

Before Minho can decline him, a small cup of hot tea is being pushed into his hands. “Thank you,” he meekly utters.

“You don’t ever have to worry about waking me up,” Chan says as he pours his own cup. “I never sleep. Changbin’s never sorry for bothering me.”

Changbin squawks from where he sits. Minho leans against the wall from afar, closer to the door, too apprehensive to get too close. He also doesn’t know what to say, so all he can do is spare Changbin a knowing glance, hoping the other would get on with it already.

“So,” Chan returns to his little nook and puts a pair of reading glasses on. “What happened?”

Thankfully, Changbin is quick to answer and keeps it short and to the point. “Jisung’s been captured. They’ve taken him to the citadel.”

At the mention of Jisung’s name, Minho’s heart palpitates.

“Jisung’s here?” Chan asks in disbelief, before looking down at the floor. “Shit.”

Minho twitches in curiosity. “Do you know each other?”

Chan pinches the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, increasingly more distressed than before. Changbin has a sullen look on his face. “Um, yeah. We...”

“We can trust him,” Changbin chimes in supportively. “He wants Jisung out just as much as we do.”

It’s all the assurance Chan needs. “Okay, uh—yeah.” He blinks. “Jeez. Yeah, we go way back. He’s from my hometown.”

The mire, Minho thinks. The homely and well-kept secret that was the mire Jisung spoke so highly of the other day. He itches to visit when this is all over.

“But Jisung’s here? Seriously?” Chan asks again, failing to believe what he's hearing.

Changbin nods. “He was found about fifty miles north of here. And he fought—he fought hard, but—there were just too many of us. He was outnumbered, and I couldn’t—there was nothing I could do to help.” He rubs his face in his hands roughly.

Chan shakes his head. “Stop that. There was nothing you could have done.” Then, he looks at Minho with a serious gaze that makes Minho seize up. “And you’re involved, how?”

“It was my fault,” Minho answered immediately. He ignores the confused look contorting Changbin’s small face. “I shouldn’t have left him alone, and now—”

All the memories the two held in the cottage now feel corrupt. Like a web waiting for the spiders to close in, unbeknownst to the destruction Minho had inadvertently bestowed upon Jisung. Days and days mused of tranquility—completely pulled out from underneath them.

No. Minho refuses to cry now. What kind of cruel thing he’d look like: an angel hunter, shedding tears when he’s the sole cause of leading an angel to his demise. Yet, he can’t bring himself to meet Chan’s gaze, fearful he’ll see something akin to his grandfather in his eyes.

“That’s not true,” Changbin’s voice pierces the silence. “Minho-hyung wasn’t hurting anyone. And he’d never hurt Jisung.”

“But I did,” Minho seethes with a tightened jaw. “I let my guard down and look where we are now.”

“What you two have is special. Something most people can’t say they have,” Changbin argues. “That’s not something to be ashamed of. And this—” he waves an angry hand in the air. “—isn’t a byproduct of that. This is just how the world works. And I’m sure Jisung wouldn’t want you blaming yourself.”

Minho can’t bring himself to look at anyone in the room, too filled with remorse. He can hear his heartbeat throbbing in his ears and wishes he could remember the sound of Jisung’s.

But he can’t remember. No matter how ugly and tight Minho twists his face, it doesn’t stop his eyes from watering. He can’t recall what Jisung’s warmth felt like no matter how long he keeps his eyes shut.

All he can hope for is that neither Chan nor Changbin can see the shine in his eye from afar—be able to rip him open right now and see just how unsightly Minho is.

It’s as if Chan can peer into him. Like he can look directly at something Minho doesn’t even let come to the surface. It’s shameful. He can’t even bring himself to look up until he feels Chan right beside him, giving him a comforting squeeze on the shoulder.

“There’s nothing you could have done, either,” Chan says, and he’s right. No one wins in the ramparts. Except for the Elite, of course. “We’re lucky you’re still here.”

When Minho looks up, he isn’t met with a look of disgust or judgment. Chan looks at him gently, like he could look into Minho’s heart like this and see how it beats and bleeds for Jisung. Like it was such an easy thing to distinguish with just one look.

Then, Chan takes a step into the middle of the room. “Since the captain already knows I’m here, I’m sure he’ll be expecting me. We could see where they’re keeping Jisung and go from there.”

“I guess they’re keeping him in the Bastille,” Changbin says. “Do you think they’ve done anything with him yet?”

Chan shakes his head. “No. Jisung’s an anomaly. They’re going to want to poke and prod at him before doing anything too risky. Unfortunately, the Elite are smart—very smart.”

The same doesn’t go for the remainder of the Hunters Guild. There are loopholes to be found; Minho just has to be willing to stick his nose out to find them.

“What do they gain by keeping Jisung alive?” Minho asks.

It should be a good thing as long as no one touches Jisung, but realistically, it doesn’t make sense.

“I’m sure you’re well aware that Jisung is... special. His wings are a bit different from others.” Chan mumbles.

How could Minho ever forget. “He nearly killed me with them.”

“Right.” Chan nods sheepishly. Apparently, Jisung’s lashings were apparently very believable. “So you know that means Jisung deviates from what’s normal for most angels we’ve seen. We know they don’t have much control over their wings, or if they are even capable of it.”

Chan hastily digs around for one of his notebooks on the bed. “He and Changbin were actually helping me study this, a couple of years back.”

He picks up a red notebook before flipping to a bookmarked section. Littered across the cream pages is unintelligible cursive, separating only to make space for obscure drawings of what looks like wings.

“From what I’ve observed, angels do have mobility over their wings, but something from their descent from the sky to earth has dulled off these senses. I still can’t tell if it’s a matter of the nervous system or something else, but—”

He flips to one particular page of a sketch of a wing compared to a human arm. It’s a mess of words, Minho reads. He can’t understand any of it.

“When a person gets feeling back in their arms, it usually starts in the smaller places. Places where it’d be easiest to gain autonomy of. Like our fingers—” Chan wiggles his fingers. “—or our hands. Our wrists. Angel wings are just like another pair of arms. It starts at the end. Works its way up to their humerus. The humerus, our upper arm, is the slowest to return to its natural state. What’s unique with Jisung, is—”

Chan flips to the next page, holding it out for Minho and Changbin to observe like he’s reading them a bedtime story. There are small photographs attached to the pages. Some of them are of Changbin, and even a few that Minho recognizes to be Felix. Minho’s chest tightens seeing the ones of a younger Jisung, topless, hair long and showing off the length of his wings with a smug face.

He was just a boy. Minho’s heart hurts—he misses Jisung so much that it just might kill him.

“Instead of his wings getting stronger in the fingers and metacarpals, the humerus did. Most angels don’t get the chance to exercise those muscles since they’re immediately incarcerated, so it’s safe to assume Jisung gained his mobility back more than most angels, if any at all.”

“We kept it a trade secret.” Changbin nudges Minho. “It would have been bad news if hunters came across it.”

“And Jisung knew the consequences if this were to spread,” Chan adds. “We worried that if word got out, then—”

“They’d never let him go.” Minho finishes the sentence for them. The room goes quiet. “We have to get him out tonight.”

Chan clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Jisung only recently got in. The citadel will be crawling with security right now. We need to get a better idea of what we’re working with in the morning.”

“What if we don’t have until morning?” Minho chastises. “What if something happens to Jisung in that time—while we what? Standby?”

Changbin stands from his seat and walks toward the center of the room. “No one’s getting anyone out unless the three of us can all spare a little patience, alright?”

Minho pointedly avoids his side eye.

“We’re gonna get Jisung out—that we already know.”

Minho knows he’s staring holes through the wooden flooring. His Jisung, who saved his life what felt like years ago. Now, his Jisung is far away, and Minho worries if he can save him in turn, too.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts by Changbin, who roughly clasps his hand over his shoulder. There’s a determined shine in his eye, fully earnest when he tells Minho, “We’re going to get him out Minho.”

Minho blinks, not realizing his eyes were threatening to prickle with tears. He sniffles. “Okay,” he responds with, because that’s all he can participate with at this point. “Okay.”

➳

As expected, Minho’s mother is still awake when Minho comes home. Ever since it dwindled to just the two of them, it’s the closest to an oasis Minho has come to know. Just he and his mother. That’s how it’s been for a long time, and he never thought he’d want to leave.

When she hurries to the front to greet him, she’s over the moon. Years of weariness and war have aged her, it slows her every step, but it doesn’t stop her from trying to cradle Minho’s much bigger body in her embrace like he’s still a small child.

Sometimes, Minho wishes he could go back to those times—small. Protected from how cruel their world had become under his mother’s arm.

“You look exhausted,” she says when they pull away. She wipes away a smudge of dirt beneath Minho’s eye with her thumb as she studies his face. How forlorn Minho must look. “Oh, it must have been scary out there all by yourself. My poor baby.”

The last time Minho cried in front of his mother was when his father had passed away. He remembers his grandfather being infuriated by their sorrows—told them both that shedding tears over a traitor were tears wasted.

He’s taken back to when he bled out in a rose bush and the way Jisung looked at him after they shared their first kiss, and Minho breaks down.

His mother stays with him to wipe away the tears that fall all too fast down his face and doesn't ask any other questions. Eventually, she quietly leads him into his bedroom, lies on top of the covers with him, holds him close while he sniffles for what feels like years. He feels so small, feels so uncertain about the world now.

After what must have been an hour or so, Minho leans his head against his mother’s chest. Calms himself down listening to the beating of her heart and wraps his arms around her like she’ll disappear the next morning, too. They don’t do this often, especially after Minho joined the guild, but neither of them acknowledge it. They enjoy this small moment, something for the two of them only, without words.

“You must have seen many things out there,” his mother says Minho has gone quiet. Her fingernails gently scratch between his shoulder blades. It’s where Minho would have grown wings in another life.

There’s an old, framed photo of the two of them with their father when he was still alive. Minho stares, stares, stares at it.

“It was,” Minho mumbles. Presses his ear closer to the center of his mother’s chest to listen to her heart. It’s a soft pulse, but it’s there. “I met someone.”

Even with his mother at his side the entire night, Minho doesn’t sleep at all.

His mother walks him out when sunrise barely cracks the sky open. She tucks her frail body into her bathrobe and holds Minho’s face gently, solace to bring him luck. A comfort Minho will never grow to resent even when he sometimes loses himself. He will always need his mother no matter how far he is.

“Be careful, baby,” she says quietly. “I’ll see you tonight.”

➳

The northern citadel is a bit outdated. It’d be old enough to creak against the wind hadn’t it been made of stone. It’s daunting—the sinister air that permeated both outside and inside the building. Minho spent what felt like a lifetime inside these walls, never quite comfortable, but as well not knowing where else he should be. He saw it for what it was: a prison, a tyranny compacted into stone walls and cold people.

A part of him wishes he could understand what refuge his grandfather found in a regime like this. A bigger part thinks it’s for the best that he can’t.

Minho finds himself stalking down a long corridor early that morning. Natural light seeps in through the open windows every few feet, like none of the employees have bothered to turn on the lights yet. It calmed him, almost took him back to the cottage.

The rough outline of the plan was to scope out where Jisung’s located. Granted, Chan was supposed to be joining Minho, but Minho couldn’t sit still. He couldn’t wait until a normal hour in the AM knowing there was a chance Jisung was hurt, scared, and confined.

The Bastille is where they imprison angels, tucked away inside the citadel walls. It’s below ground level of the main floor, like a hole dug into the earth, a single building standing in the middle of a barricaded field. It’s the only place he could imagine Jisung would be kept.

It’s a plain building—no windows, so texture to the stone, nothing. There’s no telling what the Bastille is like inside by only looking at the exterior.

He senses a presence before the door could even swing open.

Someone prestigious enters—someone beyond Minho’s league. Someone who could have Minho killed with the wave of a hand. A dark cloak encompasses them, dark enough to blend into the corridor walls but light enough where Minho can see dried blood stains where the light catches it. But there’s more, much fresher blood flickered across their face and hands.

No matter how vast the fenced field lies before him, there’s no escaping here. “Captain Hwang.”

Minho begins to bow but is stopped by the captain. He approaches Minho eerily calm, suave in his step, like his current appearance is nothing out of the ordinary for him—Minho supposes it’s true.

There’s blood everywhere and none of it seems to be his.

Although never close with the captain, Minho’s grandfather and father seemed to have some sort of relationship with him that surpassed professionalism—as if they were good old friends in a different life, sharing dinners and gossip like people used to before dystopia became of them. He should consider himself lucky alone for being able to stand in the captain’s presence without falling to his knees.

“Lee Minho, what a nice surprise.” The captain smiles as he comes closer. “God, you are a spitting image of your mother. You look more like her each time I see you.”

Minho grimaces at the mention of her. For her to even be referred to by the captain feels distasteful.

“Thank you,” is what Minho replies in turn, because what else is he meant to say to that? “Are you hurt, Captain?”

The captain follows Minho’s wandering eyes over his macabre attire and begins to shrug off his cloak. He’s in full armor, medallions and pins adorning his chest and sleeves—a symbol of his willingness to kill his way to the top.

“Oh,” Captain Hwang huffs as if he hadn’t realized he was still covered in blood.

Blood flickered across the captain’s face, close enough to his mouth to taste it if he were to dart out his tongue. So drenched in his bloodthirst that he’d become blinded to the sight of it.

“Fret not, none of it's mine,” the captain happily assures. “We just returned from visiting the southern rampart, only to run into a fleet of shepherds. They took out nearly all my men, can you believe that? I almost didn’t make it myself.”

Years of indoctrination weigh heavily on Minho. Everything he was expected to become by now is looking directly at him, wearing blood that isn’t his own, and still smiling like it was just another beautiful day. His core feels much more fragile than it did moments ago—yet part of him still tests the boundary of his slight disobedience.

The captain is akin to a bloodhound—or no, more so a horse of war. He could maybe sense that Minho had grown defective in the short time he was away. If that was the case, then Minho might as well kneel and accept his fate now.

Minho can’t return to the hunter he once was. He might have never been that sort of hunter to begin with.

“Back so soon?” The captain inquires onward, attention back onto Minho. Flat, casual. Minho detects an insinuating flare between the lines.

“I’ve always been around, Captain,” Minho replies curtly, eyes trained on the Bastille.

“My son told me you were gone for a while.” The captain circles Minho, watching him from the grass outside now, blocking the Bastille from Minho’s view. “In search of one of our men.”

“Yes sir. Kim Seungmin is MIA.”

“The mutt medic. Yes...”

Minho’s gaze over the captain’s shoulder hardens. There’s more to it than just an insulting nickname, Minho is now aware of.

“So no leads, bowman?”

Frankly, there’s no reason the captain would be genuinely interested in Seungmin. Men go missing every day in this line of work, and rarely are missing hunters searched for. If they don’t come home, no one looks for them; they’re considered dead the moment their location is unaccounted for.

It seems what Changbin told him the other night was true, then.

“No,” Minho lies. This, he can do the very least. “I’ll head back out soon enough.”

“No need,” The captain replies, and the rumble in his voice sends shivers down Minho. “We’ve found something better. Would you like to see for yourself?”

The captain laughs after no response comes from Minho. The dark sound chimes and echoes inside Minho’s skull. There’s much contrast between the captain’s composure versus the sinister things likely swarming his brain surrounding Jisung.

Minho tightens his fists behind his back, stretches his fingers, wills himself to be still before the captain and not be fooled by his friendliness.

Not all hunters are painted with the same brush. Minho knows that firsthand now, but the sentiment does not go for the similar-minded brigade of faceless inquisitors. Unfortunately for Minho, Captain Hwang has taken a peculiar liking to him from time to time because of his slighted nepotism. He knows that it will not spare him his life—his father was made a prime example of that.

But in turn, Minho won’t let himself be made an example of either.

Inside the Bastille is dark, without any care for the incarcerated angels sitting in their cells. Minho doesn’t like being down here unless he has to—seeing what reaped from his sewing leaves a coiled pinch in his stomach that takes days to subside. This time is no different than the last; the cells are small, it smells putrid inside the room, and the angels behind the bars are either dead or dying.

The more rabid angels reside on a separate floor. Usually the most recently fallen have no comprehension of their surroundings, so they still try to claw and bite from their confinement. It’s for the safety of everyone, yet Minho still can’t help but secretly hope Jisung is far away from everything.

Captain Hwang’s route leads them down a long hallway, through a door and a withering corridor. Minho keeps stretching his fingers and rotating his wrists anxiously behind his back as they walk.

Just as they are around the corner, Hyunjin appears. The lieutenant exits the only room in the corridor. His sharp eyes light up at their arrival, and Minho catches what seems to be nervousness coursing through the young lieutenant.

“Dad, what are you doing down here?” Hyunjin squawks, shoulders hunching like a punishment was barreling toward him and the impact would kill him instantly.

“Minho here wishes to see what I’ve caught, isn’t that right?”

Death is something Minho thinks of often—it has become only natural in his line of work. A new day brings different threats, and he could be slain by hand or something as small as an infection. Winter is death wrapped in a white cloak, and Minho always thinks that to die is to become cold. But maybe the heat is just as bad, the way it licks up his spine, sweating his senses out, hitting the floor, and skin erupting into flames.

Minho robotically nods.

“I’ve just finished seeing to the angel,” Hyunjin says promptly. He adjusts his posture to be more upright, recomposing himself.

“A second go-around wouldn’t hurt, either. Now would it?”

Apparently, not even his son can withstand his intimidation, because Hyunjin is quick to relent. “Of course not.” He reopens the door. Captain Hwang beams that unsettling smile once more as he walks past, leaving Minho no choice but to follow with his gaze to the floor.

When they enter the room, Minho thinks he’s dreaming.

Inside a much bigger cell lies Jisung.

Jisung’s wings protect him from any unwanted, prodding eyes, but Minho recognizes him without needing to see his face. He catches the rosy scent that permeates the space, though more faint than ever before. Minho’s heart lurches into his throat and he almost spills his guts the moment he fully steps inside.

From Jisung’s closed-off position, he wouldn’t notice Minho like this.

Hyunjin and the captain don’t pay him any mind. Maybe they don’t notice at all. Minho doesn’t have to be looking at him to know the captain is ecstatic. He can feel Captain Hwang’s fingers wrap around one of the cell bars without having to look. Hyunjin hovers back, lingering in the doorway.

“We found this one north of here in an abandoned cottage.” The captain leans his full weight against the cells. Minho holds his breath, keeping his gaze trained on Jisung’s hidden frame from afar. “Managed to knock three of my men on their ass before I subdued it.”

It, he says. Minho wants to grab that hair on his head and knock it straight into the metal—hard enough for it to make the captain stay down and allocate enough time to swindle Jisung out of here in one piece.

“Just look at the size of those things,” Captain Hwang refers to Jisung’s wings. “Did some damage, alright.”

Minho swallows dryly. “His wings?”

“Yes,” the captain hums. “It exerted complete control over its wings the day it was reprimanded. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Pause. “Do you know what this means for us?”

Minho can’t bring himself to entertain what he most fears.

“We’re looking at a real war machine here.” Captain Hwang says, gruff in hushed excitement. “Once we know the extent of what we’re dealing with, this could change everything. The country as we know it.”

“What do you plan on doing to him?” Minho asks cautiously. More worry slips out in his drawl than he would have preferred, but what’s done is done.

The captain catches the sound of it as soon as it leaves Minho. Minho holds his breath for the nth time, meeting curious eyes immediately to evade any suspicion. God, he hopes whatever look he’s wearing on his face isn’t giving his heart away.

Hyunjin peers at Minho curiously, but he doesn’t seem to find whatever he’s looking for.

“We plan to conduct a few tests. I’ve asked Dr. Bahng to oversee it since he happens to be in the area. Thank God for that.”

Captain Hwang grabs the bars with both hands and begins to shake the railing tauntingly.

“Rise and shine, angel!” The captain shouts. Metal jostles loudly with an uncomfortable sound. Even Hyunjin startles, like bottles have been shattered at his feet. “You’ve got company.”

Jisung doesn’t outwardly react, but his feathers do rustle in agitation, and Minho’s breath hitches seeing the slightest glance of Jisung’s gorgeous, bruised face briefly peer over his wing. He could hear his heart breaking and slumping against his sternum.

Then finally, their eyes lock, and Minho feels the air return to his lungs.

Minho can’t read Jisung’s gaze from where he stands, only feel that his heart stops for a second. He finds himself taking a step toward the cell before realizing it. Jisung’s wings fall now, exposing himself bare. There are lashings and fresh wounds that have only recently begun to scab. If this is Jisung now, Minho wonders what the hunters he took down looked like in turn.

“Don’t do that,” Minho warns, and only then is he able to pry his eyes away from Jisung before anyone can catch on. It’s all in vain, though, when Minho’s gaze flickers over to Hyunjin’s and sees him already staring back.

Evidently, the captain does not take kindly to Minho’s insertion.

It’s masked with a teasing quip. “Oh? A few weeks in the wilderness is all it took to turn my best bowman soft?” He shakes on the rails even more, and gets a kick out of what Minho presumes is Jisung glaring up at him. “It’s time to get up, little lamb!”

Minho sniffles irritably and is slow to form his sentences. “I’m only advising before the angel lashes out in his confinement.”

“Dad, you’re going to get a fistful of feathers to the face,” Hyunjin adds on, kindly not leaving Minho to fend for himself.

Minho catches the slightest hint of a smile from Jisung—like the two of them just gave him a brilliant idea.

“It’s nothing I’m not used to already,” the captain dismisses Minho. “Besides, Dr. Bahng will be able to calm it down, soon enough—speaking of which, he should be here by now.”

Captain Hwang peers at the time on his wrist, then leans his head backwards. Minho thinks he looks like a child on the monkey bars.

“Hyunjin, could you please see if he’s in yet?”

“No need,” A familiar voice chimes near where Hyunjin stands. At the now-opened entrance is Chan, wearing that same warm look on his face. He is accompanied by Changbin and two other hunters Minho recognizes as regular faces within the citadel.

“Changbin was kind enough to bring me here. Hope that’s alright, Captain Hwang.”

The possibility of Chan living in the mire flickers curiously in Minho’s mind. The way the attention is inadvertently commanded toward him only feels natural, a softness emanates about him, like balance has settled into the room the moment he stepped foot inside. Even the captain pauses his antics in favor of straightening up.

Just as Minho predicted, a flurry of feathered white strikes Captain Hwang square in the jaw through the bars the second he looks away.

Everyone stills, unsure of whether to come to the captain’s aid or to beat Jisung within an inch of his life first. Minho would thrash his own wings for Jisung—run to him headfirst and take the lashings if it meant Jisung was left unscathed.

Here, Minho can only watch and wait for the next crash to rupture.

The guards near the front are eager to come to the captain’s aid, but he only raises a hand, pausing everyone’s ministries in the room.

Changbin swiftly looks away from the scene—Minho knows a stifled laugh when he sees one.

“That’s alright, Doctor.” Captain Hwang cradles his jaw attentively, rolling his jaw as he checks the damage. The corner of his lip has busted and a hint of blood trickles out. Skim blooms red where Jisung had hit him. It’s sure to leave a heavy bruise in its wake by tomorrow. “You’ve come at a great time, actually.”

Minho wishes that laughing right now wouldn’t cost him his life.

“We found ‘em a few days ago.” The captain steps away from the cell with a dizzied stumble in his step. He knew Jisung was holding back the morning they sparred, even when Jisung did lose himself by the end of it. The rebellious display of strength leaves Minho unable to stand still.

And more than anything right now, he needed to touch Jisung—to feel the fresh wounds on his body and hear that he’s okay.

“Let’s get you checked out,” Chan says, as if reading Minho’s thoughts.

“That’s alright, doctor. Not the worst hit I’ve taken.”

The captain tries to brush him off, probably only trying to nurse his pride, and warily eyeing Jisung, before stalking towards the cell. He grabs the keys from a nearby hook and unlocks Jisung’s cell.

Minho can feel his heartbeat in his ears.

“Captain—” even Hyunjin blubbers, equally clueless as the others. Jisung, on the other hand, doesn’t speak, doesn’t even dare to shield himself from whatever is approaching him.

And to Minho’s horror, he can do nothing but watch as Captain Hwang brings his fist down. He backhands Jisung with such force that Jisung collapses against the concrete.

Minho takes a step forward without realizing it. A soft tug on his sleeve brings him out of his trance, prohibiting his movement. It’s Changbin that keeps him from falling forward—likely into his death for trying to intervene for an angel’s life.

Aside from an initial surprised grunt, Jisung doesn’t make a sound. He is gentle and quiet, but it feels painfully unfamiliar watching him bite his tongue. There’s nothing Jisung could say to stop the oncoming inflictions as Captain Hwang strikes him over and over, impossibly much harder each time.

Jisung takes it well enough, given his genetics. But he’s pliant and his wings sag uselessly behind him as the captain swings a hard hit to his stomach. Jisung curls at that, crawling onto his knees to sputter as the breath is continuously knocked out of him. Minho feels the pain as though it’s his own. He understands why Jisung won’t fight back, but it doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.

“Captain!” Minho pleads. He freezes the second the words escape him, so his composure cracks just slightly. After all, his outburst alone could cost him everything.

Just as predicted, Captain Hwang whirls around with a horrific sereneness to him. He drops Jisung to the floor like he’s nothing.

Angels are considered beneath even the dirt beneath their boots. As a hunter, Minho is expected to shine and clean the boots of their captain. Yet here he is—spitting on them instead.

Captain Hwang floats to him like a ghost about to strip Minho of his soul, rage flickering in his gaze like an uncontrollable fire. Minho misspoke, and now he will have to pay the cost of it. At least his mother wouldn’t have to watch him die a shameful death here.

But his thoughts beseech him. His next few breaths feel like shards of glass shredding his throat upward. “Excuse me for speaking out, but our angel shouldn’t be too hurt before undergoing experiments.” Minho could flesh this out enough. It’s not a lie. “We should see him in his best possible shape.”

There’s blood staining the captain’s teeth when he laughs obscurely. “Such intelligence you display, Minho. Too bad it’s at the cost of your common sense.”

“He’s right.” Chan steps in at the perfect moment, almost shielding Minho from the captain’s wrath. “In the meantime, I can tend to your wounds.”

Captain Hwang’s eyes flicker to Chan’s, then looks back at Minho. Minho keeps his head held high and hands at his side. The urge to tug and pick at his bow’s holster strangles him.

“I advise you to watch where you step next time,” the captain grumbles to Minho. “Your father certainly didn’t.”

Rocks fill Minho’s lungs, and he feels more weighted into the ground beneath him than ever. What a cruel, sinister person.

Jisung shakily grabs onto the railing, like he wants to keep Minho at bay. Minho glances over fleetingly, catches Jisung’s pleading gaze and the saliva glistening on his chin from the impact of the earlier punch.

It's okay, is what Minho reads from Jisung’s sorrowed gaze. I’m here.

Instinctively, Minho’s hands twitch, as if writing poems in the air. He reels back and apologetically bows without another word. If it were another nameless hunter, the captain would have impaled him on an angry blade. Not many live to get a second chance.

“Jaw misalignments aren’t fun if gone untreated,” Chan carefully wields the attention onto himself. “We can talk while I fix you up. I believe we have much to catch up on.”

Time stops in the room for a moment. The captain scans the room, like he’s about to go back and pelt Jisung again. Ultimately, and to Minho’s relief, he takes a step backward and tosses the keys square to Minho’s chest.

“Lock up in here,” Captain Hwang orders, and then he is off, following the others. Chan doesn’t spare Minho nor Jisung a glance, and Minho is somewhat grateful for it.

His heart beats faster with every second he can feel Jisung raking his body—he wonders what the angel is thinking. If he thinks Minho has anything to do with his capture. If he’s waiting until they’re both alone to strike him as well.

But once they are left alone, save for Changbin lingering as he exits last with a loud shut of the door, Minho feels himself leave his body.

He and Jisung are not alone in the way they were days ago, when birds and squirrels were running amok to eat away the comfortable silence between them. Nothing is cooking on the stove and permeating the cottage, no books on the floor for Jisung to take his pickings. No breeze to relish in at the end of a long day.

They’re back in the real world now. Consequences eroded, and the direct result of Minho’s carelessness was looking at him from behind the cell bars.

It’s not uncomfortable, because this is Jisung, but Minho’s guilt pulls him to the floor. He can barely look at Jisung before forcefully pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes.

There’s a handful of older lacerations inflicted across Jisung’s face, some worse than others. There’s a deep cut on the bridge of his nose and a nastier one across his cheekbone and brow. It looks like it recently reopened from the captain’s wailing fist. Minho wants to kiss each cut better if it didn’t hurt him to even look at Jisung.

Worst of all, Jisung is looking at him with such gentleness, like Minho was the one bruised and incarcerated. Minho is horrible, so undeserving of whatever kindness Jisung shows him, even now.

“Minho.” Warm honey, that’s all that consumes Minho’s senses.

He finds the courage to meet Jisung’s sickeningly soft gaze. Minho rests his head in an open hand, lips against his palm to keep him from biting his lips off. He doesn’t know what he wants to say first: I love you. I’m sorry. I’m going to kill those who have touched you and make sure they’ll never be able to lift a hand again.

“Baby,” Jisung calls again. He crawls over to the bars, pressing his body against them, yearning to get as close as possible. “Baby, come here.”

Next thing he knows, Minho’s hands are trailing up Jisung’s bare arms—from his cold hands and up the hair of his forearm, over the angel’s shoulders. Despite whatever hell Jisung’s been put through the past few days, he still has those gold specks in his eyes when he looks at Minho, looking at him like there’s nobody else.

Minho doesn’t cry, but he holds onto Jisung without any intention of ever letting go again. He doesn’t cry, but he leans forward to kiss each cut and bruise on Jisung’s face through the metal bars in hopes of taking even an ounce of the pain away.

He doesn’t cry—doesn’t need to, because Jisung is doing that for both of them.

“You’re here,” Jisung says softly. Holds one of Minho’s hands in his own and cradles his face with the other. “You’re alive.”

Minho feels his own face dampen from Jisung’s tearful endeavors, a mix of sweat and tears and everything that makes them human. Jisung is alive. His Jisung is back in his arms.

“I thought they killed you.” Minho can feel the fear in Jisung’s words as they fan against his face. “You were gone, and they—they took me—"

Minho covers Jisung’s hold on his face with his own. “Sung-ah, I’m so sorry.” Jisung goes to shush him, but Minho shakes his head before the other can speak. “If I had known this was going to happen, we would have left that night.”

“Hey.” Jisung tightens his hand on Minho’s face just to make sure he’s looking him in the eye. “I’m still here, aren’t I? You know I can’t be taken down that easily.”

“But your face.” Minho pulls his hand out of Jisung’s to graze a bruise on Jisung’s cheek. “Look what they did to you.” Blood stains the tip of Minho’s thumb as it grazes the angel’s nose bridge. He thinks of Captain Hwang and grows angry all over again. “I’m going to kill him.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jisung says. “He was asking for it.”

Minho’s mouth twitches upward, almost smiling. His pounding heart keeps him stoic. “I’m gonna get you out of here. We’re gonna be okay.”

Jisung’s gaze lulls into something more serious. “I’m going to be okay no matter what happens to me.”

“That’s not good enough. I’d never forgive myself if something became of you. Especially in a shithole like this. I can’t risk you rotting away in the citadel.”

Someone like Jisung was made of golden wool and roses. He laughs too loudly at unfunny things and sleeps through the mornings, and protects his loved ones ferociously. Someone like Jisung is meant to be sleeping in open fields and picking fruit from hanging trees. Underneath his nails is soot when it should be stains from crushed blackberries—and it shatters something deep in Minho’s gut, knowing he could have prevented this.

“We should be headed to the mire by now. Eating cranberries,” Minho sniffles. “And—and you read me the stories from your books. Safe and far away from here.”

“We’re going to be okay,” Jisung says sternly, yet also so sweet. “As long as you’re okay, so will I.” 

Minho looks at Jisung the way he does when the two of them are in bed, so tenderly and full of love. Jisung tilts his head and beams under Minho’s gaze. Brushes his thumb across Minho’s bottom lip like he’d break if pressed any harder.

“You’re everything to me, Minho.” Jisung pulls Minho in closer, folds each breath into a letter meant to only ever be passed to Minho’s mouth. “Everything.”

What Minho can’t put into words, he presses into a kiss.

It’s a little uncomfortable to press their faces into the metal bars, but Minho would put himself through much worse if Jisung were waiting for him on the other side. Jisung, his Jisung. His Jisung, who loves him.

Repetitive, long, chaste kisses are shared over and over. Minho grants himself this last piece of Jisung before he has to go. Though, just like every time they’ve kissed, Minho can’t find the strength to leave, waiting for Jisung to do it for them.

Jisung has to be the one to pull away—will always have to be after today. And if Jisung ever wants to be rid of Minho completely, he’ll have to be the one to impale the spear deep into Minho’s chest. Rip it out and leave him to spoil the earth.

They pull apart enough for their lips to brush against each other’s. Minho whispers something akin to an I love you into Jisung’s mouth.

Jisung pulls back and pinches the apple of Minho’s cheek, knowing his heart. He always does.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” Minho assures. “Can you wait a while longer?”

Jisung brings Minho’s knuckles to his lips. “I’d wait a lifetime for you.”

Minho makes a weird sound because he can’t understand how Jisung still has the energy to be cheesy. “I won’t make you wait that long.”

“Be careful,” Jisung says.

“I will,” Minho affirms. “I’ll be back.”

Jisung grins before leaning in to bid him farewell with a kiss. Always, always believing in Minho. “I’ll be waiting.”

Changbin is leaning against the wall outside the door waiting for him when Minho exits. Minho should have expected it, but he still does a double-take when he sees him. From the forests and into the citadel, Changbin continues to linger.

“Good?” He asks. Minho pats his clothes flat to keep himself busy.

“They’re not still telling you to stalk me, are they?”

“I was looking out while you two were ravishing each other through the bars.”

“We need a plan,” Minho drops his voice an octave, ignoring Changbin’s teasing. His nerves are filleted and visible in the way he plays with his fingers and can’t bring himself to look at the other as he walks onward. Being apart from Jisung has done that to him.

“Chan-hyung will meet us at the inn once he’s finished. I’m sure he already has a plan.”

The two of them leave the Bastille and soak in the humid morning air. They’re alone out here. The guards are nowhere to be seen. Today’s sky is a dulled yellow, barely peeking through the fog and hitting their skin. Minho’s head is no less foggy.

“This is gonna suck,” Minho states.

Changbin doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to.

➳

Minho returns home early that afternoon and his entire body hurts. His mother makes him tea with apricot jam spread over toast, and she’s excited to tell him that her flowers have miraculously bloomed despite the winter air.

A weight alleviates in Minho’s chest the moment the tart apricot hits his tongue. He doesn’t cry, but his mother sits with him in silence through his meal.

Minho wakes up on the couch a few hours later feeling worse than before. His mother is going through a picture album on the floor. She leans back and shows Minho a few photographs when Minho leans over to inquire silently.

“This was taken just after we learned I was pregnant,” his mother points at an old photo of his late father holding onto his mother tightly. They look to be around Minho’s present age. Matching in white bridal outfits, cream from the cake spotting their face. “He always wanted children.”

It’s quiet. Then—

“Do you think he’d hate me?” Minho asks carefully, like his mother’s reaction could burn if her words could physically touch him. “With how I turned out.”

His mother turns around to face Minho. “Your father always wanted you to follow your heart. He could never hate you.”

“I only did what granddad wanted,” he can’t help but grovel. “I didn’t follow my heart at all.”

“You’re doing it now. Aren’t you?”

“It still feels like I’m doing something wrong.”

Minho thinks, knows, that what he feels for Jisung is not wrong. Though, as long as he is here and without his other half, his head spins. Living in a house where his grandfather’s picture surrounds him, reminding him of the person he was supposed to be, and not what he became: soft and yearning for someone like Jisung—it’s difficult to make peace with.

“Minho. You are nothing like your grandfather. And I’m sorry I failed to protect you from him sometimes. But you’ve grown into a good man—you’re a good person, baby. It’s okay to live the life you want.”

Minho sniffles because his nose itches, not because he’s going to cry.

“And I’m excited to meet this angel who thinks the same as I do.”

At that, Minho huffs a little with a smile. “I’m sorry that your first time meeting him won’t be very conventional.”

She shrugs. “The world isn’t very conventional.”

Minho spends the evening building more arrows with materials stashed in his closet.

Tonight, he’ll leave the rampart indefinitely. He might be a dead man if he returns. It’s still a possibility.

He pretends not to notice the copious amounts of apricot jam and bread his mother sneaks into the spare pockets of his bag, just enough to feed two mouths.

Chan had promised to bring Jisung back unscathed—Minho has no choice but to believe him.

The plan had been for Minho to sit still at home, and to keep a bag ready for them to take for their travel to the mire. In the meantime, Chan would whisk Jisung away under the guise that he’d be conducting research at the guild’s laboratories. It was supposed to be that easy, because according to Changbin, Chan was lucky and cunning that way.

That was hours ago.

Presently, it’s half past eleven when Changbin has to practically wrestle with Minho to keep him from bolting out the door and straight for the citadel. His mother’s tea with mint from the garden can only keep two young men at bay for so long.

“Something’s wrong,” Minho growls as he forces himself not to pace the living room—his grandfather hated it when he paced.

Changbin is seated in front of him with a dark look on his face. He knows if he says the wrong thing, then he’ll have to put himself between Minho and the front door for another several minutes. It’s getting tiring. It wouldn’t have to be if he’d just let Minho go.

“Breaking an angel out from the citadel isn’t a walk in the park.”

“Yeah, well, don’t you think they could be in trouble? We can’t help them if we’re just sitting here on our asses.”

“This isn’t Chan-hyung’s first time,” Changbin stands from the couch. “None of this ever works without patience.”

Minho hates the look Changbin’s wearing. Like he’s trying to say they have nothing to worry over.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Minho confesses. “They’re taking too long. I need to see him.”

“Hyung,” Changbin pleads. “We don’t know what we might walk into if we go now.”

“That’s why I’m going alone.” Minho fixes the laces of his boots before reaching for his arrow holster. “Stay here and make sure no one comes to the house.”

“You know damn well as soon as you get Jisung back, you’re not turning back.”

He’s right. Especially if things get a bit messy, it’d do more bad than good returning home afterwards, no matter the little time Minho initially planned on spending there. He purses his lips as he adjusts the holster into place before slowly approaching Changbin.

“I appreciate everything you and Dr. Bahng are doing, but you can’t expect me to just sit around while Jisung could need me,” Minho’s voice is hushed, like if he speaks any louder than it’ll give the latter ammunition to argue. He hopes Changbin can feel the genuinity of his words. “I need to go.”

Changbin eyes him, and Minho can see the gears turning in the other’s head, searching for a retort good enough to keep Minho at bay. They both know there’s nothing that could keep Minho here any longer. Not when Jisung is so close to them, tucked away into such a dangerous web.

That’s why, after a few seconds of silence, Changbin nods. He spares a glance at Minho’s mother in the kitchen. “My steed is outback,” he says. “You’ll get to the mire faster with her.”

“What about you?”

“Well, I can’t leave the doctor to fend for himself,” Changbin says with a teasing curl to his lip. “He’s my only ride out of here.”

Minho takes a quiet step backward. Okay, he’s ready for this. 

But his mother. Minho stumbles slightly when he turns around to look at his mother—who already knows. She’s standing by the time Minho pulls her into a tight embrace. She pets the back of his just as she would when he was a boy, and Minho feels his knees urge to buckle. Perfume smelling of flowers—consumes him where he stands, reminds him what exactly he’s fighting for. A remnant of the past. A rip in the fabric that allows Minho to breathe. To think of the future.

There’s no knowing for certain if this is the last time Minho will ever see his mother, that’s what it’s shaping up to be. Minho’s only family left, holding him so dearly, but ready to let him go. More than anything else, Minho was fortunate to have her love through everything.

“Be careful,” is all she says before they pull apart.

“I’ll write to you,” Minho says in turn.

It won't be possible, not for now at least, but his mother lets him cling to the promise. She leaves him with a kiss on his cheek before Minho eventually steps away. That is their goodbye.

Changbin accompanies Minho to his steed behind the house as he loads their belongings into the saddlebags. They don’t say anything at all until Minho is about to mount the horse. Changbin still watches him wearily, like he doesn’t know if letting him loose is the right thing to do. Minho won’t give him a reason to regret it.

He pats Changbin’s shoulder. “Thank you. For everything.”

Changbin smiles softly. “JPromise you two will make it to the mire in one piece. Jisung’s a precious person to a lot of people.”

Minho will deliver Jisung on a silver platter to the mire even if it costs him his life. Changbin doesn’t even need to ask.

Instead, Minho motions to the open front door, where his mother is still inside. Tucked away and shielded from the horrors of the citadel. It’s for the best this way. His mother wasn’t the one to be raised a fighter—Minho was.

“Look after her for me.”

“I will.”

➳

Cold wind cuts into Minho’s skin like shards on his way to the guild. The breeze stings with the grim reminder of what he’s just walked away from. His old life, the world he was raised to mold into and become.

He takes the long route, partially so that he won’t bring attention to himself by blazing through town, and partially to get his thoughts together. A sliver crack in the night bids Minho the time to let his thoughts fissure and clear his head. Of course, the only thing that fills in the blanks is Jisung.

The angel might not be in the best shape presently, but Jisung was resilient and sturdy; it’s almost unnecessary to worry if Jisung can take care of himself because of course he can. He’s been doing it long before Minho and would continue to do so after Minho.

But that’s the only thing Minho has done with Jisung—all he’s done is take, take, take. It’s what Jisung wanted, granted, but how could Minho live with himself only being taken care of, and not be able to tend to Jisung in return?

Being taken care of was a vulnerability Jisung had reaped from the sinew unexpectedly. And though Jisung may have been correct about a few things—although Minho might be more tender-hearted than he believed he was—few things still stood clearly. Minho has always been one to protect, and he will do that service for Jisung, even if he has to die for it.

Time passes in an odd manner when lost in your thoughts. Minho barely recollects his journey to the guild until he’s dismounting his steed and guiding her to a more secluded area. He opts for an inviting tree line near a back gate to stand by for his and Jisung’s return. No one should question her being stationed here if anyone were to come by.

Minho adjusts the bow holster, keeps his head down, and enters through one of the side doors. No one will spare him any attention, Minho knows this well enough. Few people would have the audacity to stop Minho unwarranted.

Variable citadel guards pay Minho no mind as he passes through each corridor, just as he predicted. There aren’t many out in the first place. They might not have even been aware that Minho was waltzing through readily armed, but that was the kind of environment they were all raised in. Armed, ready to resort to a fight over something. Confrontations over nothing.

Paranoia was a storm over them that had flooded the earth.

The Bastille is quiet when Minho arrives. He feels like an intruder, an outsider in his domain. He can’t bring himself to ignore what he’s helped build here. It’s a reminder of what he once was.

The door is halfway rotted and it’s as old as time. Minho couldn't enter discreetly as long as someone was nearby to witness it, the creak of the iron door echoing off the walls.

When he enters, Minho instinctively holds his breath at the sight of Hyunjin already inside.

Hyunjin is there, seated on a bench across from the cell. There are thick bandages plastered to his chiseled bone that were not there this morning. Though the injury does nothing to deface the lieutenant, the feigned spark in his eye has been dulled to a grey.

The prison cell is void of Jisung. Hopefully taken by Chan, to someplace further than the citadel. Ideally, he would have spun on his heel and continued his search elsewhere.

But now Minho had Hyunjin to answer to.

“Minho-hyung.” Hyunjin scans him from the bottom up. His eyes linger on the way Minho feels around for his bow cautiously.

“You shouldn’t be down here so late,” Minho says. He takes a shallow breath through his nose.

“I should be telling you that.” Hyunjin smiles weakly. Minho lingers by the doorway, going through scenarios in his head of what might ensue if he steps into the room too deeply. “What are you doing?”

Minho eyes the bandages adorning Hyunjin’s face. “I’m looking for Dr. Bahng.”

“Is that all?”

Minho’s fingers tighten around the neck of his bow. “What happened to your face?”

“That’s none of your concern.” Hyunjin’s tone is more jaded. Something chipped, like a nerve was tugged by Minho’s inquiries. Must be the aftermath of a conversation with his father, Minho presumes. “What do you need from Dr. Bahng?”

“I need to speak to him.”

“About what? Jisung?”

Hearing his name out loud is like hearing a secret never meant to be shared. Minho never told anyone Jisung’s name, unless it came from Jisung himself, or unless Chan had mentioned it for any reason. Even then, it was hard to believe that information would be so easily sacrificed.

“...Jisung?” Minho feigns ignorance, like he’s never heard of the name. Like the very word doesn’t erupt the heart into flames within its cage, like Minho wasn’t crying it into the crevice of Jisung’s neck days ago.

The wood creaks in Hyunjin’s absence and splinters the atmosphere when he stands to his feet.

Minho never gave much thought to their difference in size as it was never an issue when it came to brute strength. In a way, Hyunjin was all limbs and couldn’t utilize them as well as Minho could. Yet there’s something in the way his shadow on the ground overbears Minho where he stands, and Minho is then reminded though Hyunjin is his equal in some ways, he’s as well his superior in others.

The two of them were almost friends, but not quite. Minho wasn’t sure how much he could get away with when it came to Hyunjin. There was never a time good enough to put that to the test.

“That’s the name of our angel.” Hyunjin drags his feet across the concrete. It makes a shrill sound as the heel of his boot drags. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Minho knows what fear sounds like; it’s the way he feels his heart beating in his ears and the sticky gulp that falls down his throat like taffy. He can’t discern what goes through Hyunjin’s mind with a mere glance. It’s much too dark, his thoughts too cloudy to dissect.

“What makes you think we’d be acquaintanced?”

“There were traces of you found in the cottage where Jisung was reprimanded. A few of your arrows were discovered broken in the common area.” A pause. “One of your mother’s jam jars in the sink. I mean, it wasn’t all that obvious to the rest of the squad, but I noticed. I know you a bit better than you think.”

Hyunjin inspects Minho as he closes in, gauges for a reaction. “Your family has always been so distinct; your grandfather’s tyranny. Your father’s tarnished name. Your mother’s garden and glassware. And then there’s you, Minho-hyung. So respected, full of surprises. Full of secrets.”

Tediously, Minho readjusts his hold on the bowstring. Emotionally prepares himself for what he might have to do to the lieutenant. He has no shame as he reaches for an arrow to load into his bowstring as Hyunjin draws closer. Hyunjin doesn’t react.

“And yet I’m still here,” Minho declares.

Alive. Head still intact. For who knows how much longer if Minho doesn’t leave soon.

“Just—help me understand.” Hyunjin’s voice is hushed, like he’s searching for an excuse for Minho and Jisung’s relationship. One that would let Minho walk away alive. “I didn’t know what to think, seeing remnants of you. You left an angel hunter and came back something completely different.”

“I was always different,” Minho corrects softly.

Hyunjin’s lips shape around words that can’t be made to leave. A scoff leaves him instead, shaking his head.

“What happened to you when you were out there?” He asks.

What makes it worse is that he doesn’t sound upset with Minho—doesn’t sound devastated by the elder’s blatant betrayal to the Hunters Guild. Hyunjin looks at Minho like he is the anomaly that should be behind bars, not standing on the other side, right where he should be. Where he once belonged. Now, Minho isn’t so sure anymore.

“I almost died in the woods,” Minho chooses to confess. “My injuries were grave—” he subconsciously maneuvers his occupied hands protectively over where the scars on his ribs have faded to a light color. “I would have bled out if not for Jisung. He knew what I was. And yet still, he—he saved my life. Bandaged me and tended to me until I was back on my feet. But by the time I could have left...”

Minho still can’t make sense of what Jisung saw in him that day. He doesn’t think he ever will.

“Are you indebted to him?”

Hyunjin couldn’t have been more incorrect. “There is no debt to be paid,” Minho answers.

“We can help you, Minho. If Jisung has done something ill to you, then we can take care of it.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then help me understand. Hyung, please.” Hyunjin bravely grasps Minho’s forearm. Minho does not startle at the innocent touch, though he keeps guarded. Tense and muddled inside like crumpled paper.

“I don’t want something terrible to happen to you, but this is… this doesn’t look or sound good. If any of the other hunters recognized your belongings in the cottage and reported it to my father then you’re fucking dead!”

“You can’t understand, Hyunjin,” Minho says. “I love him. I don’t expect that to be something in your periphery.”

Hurt flashes in Hyunjin’s eyes. The way he lets go, abruptly cutting back physical contact, pains Minho. Hyunjin takes a moment to digest the sin that had just been professed.

“Your angel tried to fight me off when he was collected earlier,” Hyunjin says after a few beats of nothing. “I told him that we knew you two were interlinked. He told me not to touch a hair on your head. Isn’t that romantic? Said he would do anything to make sure nothing happened to you.”

Minho reels backward so that he can threateningly raise his drawn bow just slightly. “Where have you taken him?”

But Hyunjin rails onward. “As horrible as it is, finding common ground with such a creature like Jisung, I felt like I could relate to him. You know, I think—deep down, he and I want the same thing. The fewer people hurt, the better. I’m willing to overlook this—take it to the grave if you walk away now. If we can pretend this never happened, and that this never happened. Please, hyung. I don’t want to hurt you, I—I have to report this. I don’t—I don’t know what to do here.”

From the corner, water drips from the ceiling. Each drop that crashes to the floor echoes in the cell room.

“You’re not going to report me,” Minho exhales after a moment of consideration.

“You can’t know for certain.”

“You’re not like your father. You’re better than that. You don’t want this.”

“ Of course I don’t want this!” Hyunjin’s tongue shapes into one of a viper striking, controlling all that is in him to keep his voice hushed. Angry but secretive, as if they’re being listened in on. “But what I want doesn’t matter. This isn’t how the world works for us. We’re better off dead than daring to think otherwise.”

“You don’t have to be scared,” Minho argues just as precariously. Even relaxes his stance, at ease with his weapon hanging in his hand. “Seungmin certainty wasn’t. And neither am I.” When Minho thinks of Hyunjin as something akin to soft, it isn't offensive. “I know you want to do the right thing. I understand the risk it brings. I do.”

“But you don’t,” Hyunjin seethes. “I can’t run from all of this like you could. I was born into this. There’s nothing for me outside the guild—I’m nothing more than this.”

“You’re wrong,” Minho takes a moment to let the sentiment permeate, then he realizes something. “Were you frightened to see me back here?”

Hyunjin’s gaze falters.

“Were you hoping that I’d never come back? That Seungmin and I would be spared from this place, because you knew the captain’s intentions? You knew Seungmin was suspected of treason and coming back here would be a death wish. You knew this, yet still let me go after him. To see to his safety—if he truly got away. Am I right, Hyunjin-ssi?”

Hyunjin was destined to lead a brigade; it was written in his life plan the day he was born. To follow in his father’s footsteps and lean into the family business. Be served the title of captain when the day came with clean hands.

The Hyunjin Minho sees in this room, however, is not the same person. Before him is Hyunjin’s true self—young and afraid. In a way, nothing more than a lost child. He watches Minho in disbelief, as if his heart wasn’t as aligned as Minho’s. As if they are different—perhaps they weren’t all that different.

The Hunters Guild took away Minho’s father, and he will be damned if he lets Jisung be overcome by the same fate too.

“Hyunjin,” Minho pleads. Sandpaper scraping against his tongue as it shapes each syllable. Nails scrape against his throat. “Tell me where Jisung is.”

Hyunjin is flushed from the inside out, the raw exposure of his heart on the line overtly visible. It’s something Minho never thought he’d live to see, but there’s an odd hint of relief to his urgency. The affirmation that Hyunjin is human.

“My father is onto you,” Hyunjin says. “I can only buy you so much time. Hunters will swarm you before you get the chance to escape.”

“Please,” Minho’s chest constricts because he knows Hyunjin’s telling the truth. He’s not above begging. Not for this. “Help me this once.”

It’s quiet out in the field.

The guards are nowhere to be seen, both within and outside the corridors. The rampart has torn enough trees down within its walls for the wildlife’s sounds to be nothing but a distant dream—a myth, almost. It’s very isolating, very cold.

Has it always been this way? The citadel is asleep now. The crackling of Minho’s boots against stone and soil sounds, as if the grounds were preparing to reprimand Minho for his sins. The clouds brew before lightning strikes.

Minho had always known the citadel’s laboratories were out back; two tower houses behind the Bastille on the highest floor. He’d been instructed to bring imprisoned angels there from time to time, but never needed to enter the space. That was where his duties ended, dropping off angels like parcels, turning a blind eye and ear to whatever became of them next.

In the furthest room inside the lab is where Hyunjin directed him. From the hallway it’s rather clean, eerily pristine. The Hunters Guild has always been shameless with their mutilation and experimentation on the supernatural, but they also enjoyed a clean look. Even the hunter uniforms are decorated with the intent of instilling prestige into each hunter. One that commanded attention, that demanded submission and obedience from citizens.

Minho’s uniform was outdated, run-down, and thinning. Material dwindling simultaneously with his loyalty to the Hunters Guild and its Elite—a perfidious outsider.

He reaches the end of the hall before a tall wooden door. Minho doesn’t hear any rummaging on the other side of the door when he presses his ear against it, but allegedly, this is where Jisung was taken to.

Slowly, Minho retrieves an arrow from his holster and loads it into his bowstring. His ears perk up hearing the muffled exchange of words on the other side of the wood. There’s no making out how many people are behind the door.

He spares a glance at the tips of his metal arrows. Thinking back to the morning he was able to stand on his own after he was attacked—how he pinched the arrowheads until the pads of his fingers bled.

Then, Minho kicks the laboratory door wide open. The rotted door flies backward with little resistance.

And Minho isn’t sure what he expected to find on the other side. Maybe Jisung chained to the wall, or unconscious and barely breathing. Mutilated until he was something beyond recognizable, a fragment of the living being Minho had come to love.

But Jisung is alive. His hair is damp and his eyes sunken in more than Minho had ever seen them, but his shoulders moved with every breath. His fingers locked tightly around the edges of the operating table. The floor and bed were covered in dried blood, but Jisung looked okay.

Minho almost instantly relaxes because there he is—his sweetheart, breathing and sitting upright and, well, Chan is there as well.

Chan has a hand on Jisung’s bareback, trailing upward over his broad shoulders to steady the other upright, mumbling something to the angel out of earshot. Minho never realized how broad Jisung truly was because his wings had always covered his shoulders, but now it’s evident. Shoulders vast, bandaged and—

Minho stills upon being hit with a horrific epiphany.

Jisung’s wings are gone.

Jisung is covered in bandages because his wings had been amputated, leaving only a ghost of where they used to be. Jisung’s gaze is heavy-lidded and slow, like he was pumped full of drugs. He’s slow to notice Minho, and perhaps slow to notice that a part of him has just been ripped away from him.

Chan, however, looks up the moment Minho kicks the door in. His eyes lock with Minho’s enraged gaze.

There’s blood on Chan’s hands. It’s all over his gloves, almost splattered up to his elbows. And there is Jisung; sluggish. He barely reacts to Minho’s arrival.

Instead, Chan’s brows raise and his mouth opens, like he wants to say something but can’t—he’s fragile right now.

“Minho.”

“Get away from him,” Minho coldly commands, an arrow raised high and aimed between Chan’s eyes.

Chan raises his hands cautiously. He doesn’t appear afraid of Minho, but he certainly looks tired. It must come from hours of mutilating Jisung; Minho doesn’t care to spare him any sympathy.

“Minho, I can explain—” Chan begins. Blindly, he backs into a tray full of medical devices. Jisung faintly flinches at the abundance of clutter ricocheting off the walls as everything crashes onto the tile floor.

“I said get away!” Minho barrels deeper into the room. He glides toward the operating table where Jisung is rubbing at his face still, evidently drowsy.

“Minho, don’t,” Jisung says as he tries to pull himself off the table. Minho comes to his aid, inserting himself between Chan and Jisung, and wraps an arm around Jisung’s waist to help him to his feet.

“Come here, Sung-ah,” he says gently, mind going rampant with all the things he wants to do to everyone in the building.

Jisung wobbles, like a baby bird who hasn’t yet learned how to stand on his own two feet. His balance must be incredibly off. The weight of his wings, the wings he’s had his whole life, are now apart from him forever.

“How could you?” Minho hissed venomously at Chan. Chan slowly lowers his arms, grabbing the countertop to center himself as Minho heartbreakingly adds, “I trusted you.”

“The anesthesia is slow to wear off,” Chan says calmly with a darkened look on his face. “He’ll be okay, but he’s going to be very tired and sore over the next few days. I did what I could to make it as painless as possible.”

As soon as Jisung has one arm around Minho’s neck and the other around his torso, he leans into Minho’s back for support. In front of him, Minho keeps a drawn bowstring aimed at Chan. It’s enough to shut Chan up, who nods downwards shamefully.

“Mutilating him was not part of the plan,” Minho spits angrily.

He’s so angry that he feels his eyes water. Jisung catches a tear before it could truly cascade down his face—he leans in, gently ushering Minho to look at him. “It’s not his fault. Please, Minho. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Minho says so quietly that he almost thinks he hadn’t said it at all. “You can barely stand.”

Under the influence of the medication still, Jisung’s eyelids flutter faintly, and his weight grows heavily onto Minho. Not unconscious, but feeble, nonetheless. Chan begins to step forward, with his eyes trained on Jisung—approaching like he’ll actually be of help this time.

Minho can’t stand the sight of Jisung like this. So withered and wounded, thin and already bleeding through his bandages. The hollowed shell of the angel he knew before. And Minho just kept fucking everything up. He left Jisung in the cottage, he left him in the cell, and then he trusted Chan to see to his safety. It’s like he could do no right, no matter how hard he fights tooth and nail for it.

But he can do this: he can aim his arrow at Chan and kill him here—avenge Jisung’s wings and take him away from this place. Run far, far from here.

Minho lets the arrow fly. Jisung startles around him as they both watch the arrow graze Chan’s ear and hit the wall behind him with a cloud clang.

The doctor only winces when his flesh is torn. Tentatively, he ungloves a hand to cradle where his ear bleeds from the cut. It’ll scar at most.

“The next one’s going between your eyes,” Minho promises.

“Okay, okay,” Chan relents, finally realizing that Minho is being genuine. “Minho-ya, just know this was for the best.”

“Bullshit,” Minho argues. “I thought you were his friend.”

Jisung shakes Minho to look at him, a little more coherent than before. “Minho, don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him.”

“It’s okay,” Chan assures from a safe distance. His gaze darts between the two of them. “Just get out of here before you’re found.”

“Can you stand?” Minho ignores Chan to give Jisung a once-over.

Jisung nods, albeit shakily. “Everything’s a bit blurry, but yeah. I can walk. Just don’t go too far.”

Jisung musters the energy to chuckle and oh—there he is. That heart-shaped smile, Minho’s sweet, sweet boy. His glass body burns and threatens to shrivel just looking at Jisung.

“I won’t,” Minho affirms. “Never again.”

He only removes his hand around Jisung to retrieve another arrow and draw back its string, aiming down at his feet, and forcibly ignores the itch to put it through Chan’s throat.

Speaking of which. Minho glares in Chan’s direction as the other man walks to a corner of the room.

“Don’t follow us,” Minho says with a grunt.

Chan doesn’t muse him with a reaction. “You’ll need to leave through the back door on this floor. Follow the stairwell, go through the next two corridors, and it’ll lead you outside. That is, if you don’t get caught.”

He’s mutilated Jisung and sacrificed Minho’s trust, yet he still sees to their safety. Jisung’s inscrutable rosiness is the one thing keeping his feet on the floor and head screwed on tight.

“I should kill you,” Minho only huffs. “I can’t fucking believe you.”

“I’ll let the others know to expect you.”

Minho’s jaw tightens, as do his fingers around the neck of his bow. Jisung pries away slightly, tightening his grasp now over Minho’s bicep.

“We need to go,” he says.

Keeping a wary arrow pointed at Chan out the door may be overkill, so Minho instead wraps an arm around Jisung’s waist and focuses on whisking him out the door.

Despite Minho’s putrid feelings toward Chan, he does just as he instructed. They leave the laboratories undetected and make it to the first corridor.

Jisung has a good hold around Minho’s shoulders, but he’s losing his footing by the time they approach an empty room in the middle of the hallway. They’ve landed in a small study, open to the public. Anyone could walk in at any time from any direction. The tall shelves stocked with books and maps, however, make the room compact and nearly soundproof. If Jisung were to catch his breath anywhere, best it be here.

So when Jisung buckles against Minho’s side, Minho hurriedly drags him across the room as Jisung’s weight begins to weigh both of them down. They go down together, slowly, and Minho seizes the opportunity to wrap himself in Jisung’s arms. Partially to make sure he’s supported as he lies against the shelf, the more selfish side of him grasps every chance to bury his face into Jisung’s neck to ground himself.

He doesn’t even notice his breath has quickened into an anxious pant until Minho feels Jisung pet the back of his hair. It’s surreal to have Jisung in proximity again, after being so sure days ago that he’d seen the last of him.

“I’m okay, honey. I’m okay,” Jisung is just as urgent to hug Minho’s broad body tightly. Nails digging slightly into his leather armor. “Just a bit dizzy, that’s all. Reminds me of the time Felix and I found fermented wine in a garden.”

Minho barely snorts a laugh before pulling away. He holds Jisung gently with a hand on either side of his neck and leans back to admire the angel covered in bandages. Stripped of his identity, he wants to cry all over again.

“Angel,” Minho’s voice shakes in disbelief, like the tears won’t fall if he frowns deep enough. He grazes Jisung’s cheekbone with the brush of his finger. “What have they done to you?”

Jisung only looks up at him sweetly, as if a part of him wasn’t ripped from his hands hours ago. “I’m okay, now. I promise, but we should really keep moving.”

“You’re the one who tumbled to the floor.”

Jisung brushes Minho’s stray bangs from his face and keeps him away with his fingers. He’s cold to the touch. “I just needed to catch my breath. I won’t slow you down.”

He can’t help himself—Minho presses a fleeting kiss just below Jisung’s eye. They’re still far from being free yet, but Minho lets himself feel relieved for a stolen moment.

The door to this particular room was always one to jam. It’s why the unlocked door doesn’t even budge when the door handle suddenly shakes due to a force on the other side. Then comes not-so-friendly knocking, growing much louder, fervently. Banging. Minho can make out some shouts on the other side.

When Jisung shoots him a shaken expression, Minho pulls Jisung to his feet with an urgency that sets fire beneath his feet.

“I can help you fend them off,” Jisung declares with a stumble in his stance. Like hell Minho was letting that happen.

“Stay behind me.” Minho aims his arrow for the door.

They aren’t going to have a clean break—he wasn’t accounting for Jisung’s immobility, but they don’t have a far way to go. This could work. It’s going to have to because that’s the only option Minho has.

Minho sends his arrow through the first guard the moment the door is kicked open.

With a shot straight to the head, the intruder goes down instantly. Two more guards emerge from behind, readily drawing their blades. The closer one barrels toward Minho, close enough to take a swing. Jisung yanks both of them backward—they fall straight to the floor, but it saves Minho a beheading.

Minho’s reaction time is cunning. He sends an angled kick to the guard’s shin and knocks him unconscious with the butt of his bow when the man tumbles forward.

Both Minho and Jisung break apart to avoid the third guard’s blade coming from above. It cuts through the wooden flooring, sending splinters flying, and hooks onto something beneath the floorboard.

Jisung lurches to grab an arm of the guard. He’s easily shaken off given his condition, but it buys Minho enough time to send a second arrow straight into the hunter’s chest from where he still lies. He doesn’t wait for the guard to hit the floor before he’s hurling both himself and Jisung out the door.

“How did they know they were here?” Jisung babbles from behind Minho.

“Seems they sensed I was up to no good.”

He wonders where Hyunjin is in the building, and if he’s with the brigade out searching for them. If Captain Hwang was with him or not.

There is more activity in the first corridor compared to the rest of the citadel. Minho does his best to catapult them across the building.

Another guard steps out into the hallway to intercept them, but Minho’s long-range combat style takes the advantage. The guard takes an arrow deep into his shoulder, and is knocked out cold when Minho swats him across the face with his bow.

Instantly, Jisung blurts from behind Minho, “Get down!”

Minho just barely evades a Bowie hurled in his direction by a newcomer. He shoots another arrow, watches it pierce the guard in the throat, and stills to make sure the man goes down gurgling.

Jisung is panting behind him, bewildered, but standing and unscathed. He walks ahead of Minho to pick up the Bowie knife on the ground. In the moment they are spared from attacks, Minho reloads another arrow and follows after Jisung.

What lies behind him is the stairwell just as Chan had said they’d find. Once they get through, they’ll book it across the indoor field, and they’re clear as soon as they exit the gates. They’re close.

“There are too many,” Jisung says, exasperated at the door. “We’ll be surrounded before we get out of here.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Minho promises. “Give me that.”

He drags Jisung through the door and takes the Bowie out of Jisung’s hands. With it, he jams the blade between a gap in the door and frame, jamming it from the inside. “We’ll be gone before the alarms sound.”

After scaling down the spiral stairwell, they make it through the second corridor more undetected than the first—but Minho knows it’s the sound-proofed walls that keep the chaos contained. They’ll make it, Minho knows they will. They have to.

He thinks of how Jisung radiates stretching under the sun. The taste of apricot in his mouth and the scent of rose painted to his skin—thinks how he’d risk everything for it to return.

Minho thinks of this when they make it two steps outside the hall before another guard gets too close. Inadvertently, he prays to something unknown to make it out of this alive as he strikes a blade into the faceless guard’s chest.

The guard struggles against Minho’s advances, but Minho twists the knife and slams him against the door frame once, twice, before the man falls unconscious.

It's rinse and repeat until they’re far enough from the citadel’s main building to render the guards on their tails useless. Minho is quick to neutralize guards as they come, and all Jisung has to do is remain conscious and stay close. He’s glad for that, because Minho’s running low on ammo and he’s not going to be able to replenish before their evident escape.

Humans are much easier to take down compared to angels—they’re naturally weaker. Minho’s known this his whole life. The blood on his hands darkens with the sentiment.

Another guard appears from the stone breezeway. This one’s much bigger than Minho, so he puts up a good fight, but Jisung is there too, readily leaping onto the hunter’s back to hook his arms around the guard’s throat when he’s about to overpower Minho. Jisung holds on even when the hunter stumbles back and crushes Jisung against the wall. With one of his two last arrows, Minho doesn’t hesitate to pierce one through the guard’s chest.

The guard glares up at them from where he is leaning against the wall at their feet. Their mouth is full of blood when he grins. Jisung stumbles away as the guard sinks to the ground.

“The Captain’s looking for ya, Minho-ssi,” the nameless guard croaks with a weak lung. Minho can smell the smoke on him from across the embankment. “He’s not gonna like all the noise you’re making.”

Instead of responding, Minho bow-whips him from where he stands. The hunter’s neck cracks at the speed he’s hit and falls unconscious, eyes rolling to the back of his head, blood trickling out with his saliva. He watches the guard die where he lies.

A beat. Another beat. And then, Jisung is folding into himself.

“Hey.” Minho grabs Jisung before he hits the ground.

Jisung only groans as he lays both his hands flat against Minho for support. The bandages on his back bleed through heavily. It must have been when the guard slammed him into the wall, back scraping against the merciless stone.

“Are you still with me? Baby? Wake up.” Minho holds Jisung’s face and pats his cheek lightly to keep him conscious.

“Yeah,” Jisung says breathily. “I’m just—so tired...”

“We’re almost there, okay?” Minho pulls Jisung’s arm over his shoulder and hoists both of them to their feet. “Stay with me. I have medicine in my bag.”

“Hm, my favorite,” Jisung laughs into the shell of Minho’s ear. How he wishes to steal a kiss right now.

Minho abandons wielding his bow in favor of ushering Jisung out of the gates that lead to the rest of the town and forests. They’re greeted by the cold wind as soon as they surpass the tall doors, the breeze sends their hair flying back, and a chill licks at their exposed skin mercilessly.

They stay tucked against the wall, deep into the shadows as they possibly can as they make their way around back to where Minho left the steed. Jisung grows heavier by the minute, his grip around Minho’s waist weakening with every step. Minho bumps their hips together to keep his focus, but it’s proving to be useless.

But soon they make it—the black steed is still grazing near the tree line with two bags attached to either side of its saddle, packed to the brim. By then, Jisung is strong enough to detach himself from Minho and drag himself over to pet the steed’s mane.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Jisung coos with tired eyes, rubbing a hand across the steed’s snout. “I missed you.”

Minho tugs Jisung closer to him by the hips and leads him to the saddle. “Get on.”

“Okay, hold on. Fuck, I’m so dizzy.” Jisung sways where he stands. Blood soaks through his bandages rapidly, dripping down his back. He’s blinking intensely like it’s taking all his energy to stay conscious.

A sudden arrow whistles in their direction.

It misses, striking the tree just behind them. The steed startles, jerking and trotting backwards. Jisung is quick to subdue her, holding onto her reins for balance as he and Minho look in the direction the attack came from.

From the shadows appears Captain Hwang, wearing a gaze so eerily calm that it feels poisonous, alone and infuriated.

Minho puts himself before Jisung and their steed, and slowly draws his last arrow.

Captain Hwang stands brandishing from a distance, carrying a speargun made of wood and metal. It’s a newer weapon the Hunters Guild has been working on, a weapon of the future. Seeing himself at the end of the Captain’s bloodthirsty stare stirs something deeply in Minho.

But seeing how close they are to making it out alive, Minho doesn’t hesitate, not anymore. At that moment, Minho thinks about what life would be like without Jisung. Imagines a world of trees without birds, and how it feels unsettling and wrong.

He releases his last arrow.

Minho always had chameleon skin—was always one to blend in with the world, even at the cost of his own color. But now, watching the arrow pierce Captain Hwang’s chest from his own doing is freeing, somehow. Like he was actively fighting against what the Hunters Guild wanted from him—what his grandfather wanted from him. He struck it to the dirt with his own hand, bent fate to his will and sent it crashing through the surface.

This is how it must feel when meteors hit earth. When two planets crash yet you miraculously survive it.

Captain Hwang stands on the other end of Minho’s fate—with an arrow pierced through his armor and skin, wedged deep parallel to the side of his heart. It won’t be enough to kill him, otherwise, he wouldn’t have been captain, but it’s enough to hinder him long enough. To buy their escape.

Except Jisung has lost a lot of blood since coming from the laboratories. He’s barely conscious and bleeding too much. Minho thinks their limited options through.

Hurriedly, Minho leads the steed deeper into the tree line, far enough that they can’t be seen. They tread backwards carefully as they keep their eyes on Captain Hwang.

The captain hacks his lungs up heftily, enough to make Minho wait for what he will say next. “You missed,” is all he says. It would be easy here to kill him. Put an end to everything.

But then Hyunjin appears from the gate fully armed, wielding a sword that looks unfamiliar, halting beside his father. Even as he crouches to inspect the wound, his father ignores his concerns.

“You’re going to regret this!” The captain shouts at Minho as he stalks away. “You’re fucking dead! You hear me? We’ll kill you!”

Minho turns to pull at the steed’s reins fretfully, throwing his bow around his shoulder and guiding Jisung to hoist him onto the saddle once they’re far out of sight.

With a grunt, Jisung manages to mount the steed. He takes a few breaths once he’s on, Minho stares holes into Jisung’s head.

“I’m okay. I just look terrible,” Jisung jokes, sensing Minho’s worried gaze.

“Are you sure?” Minho’s eyes scan Jisung’s body from behind as he manhandles him onto the saddle until he’s satisfied. Jisung’s shivering, covered in goosebumps and bruises. “You’re freezing.”

Shouts can still be made out from a distance. Minho can make out the captain clearly; he sounds like he’s going insane at the loss of him and Jisung. All he can make out is the spats of Hyunjin’s name.

Then a rustling, the shape of a shadow approaching them. Minho unsheathes a knife from the holster around his thigh.

It’s Hyunjin again, treading lightly with his blade in hand. A Pallasch, straight-bladed and bloodthirsty. It suits him: nimble and pretty, but Hyunjin appears repulsed standing before him holding it. Like the hand that wields it is not his own.

Neither of them speak. Minho can hear a flurry of more hunters coming to the captain’s aid—they’ll be here any second. All Hyunjin had to do was say the word, and the masses would swarm them.

Hyunjin swallows his next breath, readjusts his hold on the Pallasch. Minho slowly steps backward, closer to Jisung when he feels the angel lean over to graze a palm down Minho’s chest from behind.

“Minho,” he says in almost a whisper. He doesn’t look as nervous as Minho feels. His eyes stay mostly on Hyunjin as he wraps his fingers into the fabric of Minho’s shirt. “Minho, come here.”

Minho can’t tear his eyes away from Hyunjin as consternation is slow to alleviate its chokehold. He can only bring himself to look away to mount the steed in front of Jisung.

Jisung immediately wraps his arms around Minho’s waist tightly, locking himself in place. Just his touch calms Minho’s rabbiting heart.

He realizes then that Hyunjin is seeing them off.

Yet Minho can’t understand why. Time had passed from their run-in at the Bastille to now. He knows that Hyunjin might as well be a dead man to return to the captain without his or Jisung’s head. There’s no benefit for Hyunjin to let the two of them go like this.

Lieutenant, Minho hears guards and hunters wail from afar. Hyunjin only watches Minho and Jisung. The way Jisung tucks himself into Minho’s back.

“Head west!” Hyunjin calls out once he turns his back on them. The oncoming rumble of hunters suddenly takes a different course, away from where the three of them stand.

Their small bubble is quiet as Minho’s horrific future has now been altered thanks to the latter. From behind him, Jisung also holds his breath, fearing that very same fate along with Minho. It was egregious how quickly your life could fall apart at the blink of an eye. The Hunters Guild had always ensured that.

And there are many things in the world that Minho had grown to resent growing up. Things he couldn’t understand when he was young, and things he can’t understand now. It used to keep him up through the night—made him chew at his nails and throw fits because he doesn’t like not being able to make sense of something.

Ignorance is bliss, Minho’s mother once told him.

The way Hyunjin is looking at them from the tree line, emotionally battered, leaves Minho with too many questions to fathom. He tries to tell himself on the spot—ignorance is bliss.

“Don’t come back,” Hyunjin warns softly.

Minho is gutted, but nods. This, he can understand.

“Thank you,” Jisung says kindly.

Through the dark bangs that fall in front of Hyunjin’s eyes, Minho can see the fire in them. It’s akin to the fire in Jisung the day they met, the fire in Changbin as he made the promise to him, the same one that rumbles hot inside Minho’s chest.

Hyunjin reciprocates a nod of all that went unspoken. His good deeds won’t ever be forgotten.

Minho presses his calves against the ribs of the steed, and they take off. The tree leaves scratch at his skin as they fly through, branches swatting them every few seconds as they hurry to take the quickest route away from the rampart, eyes watering from the cold wind, but they fly. Far, far, away from this place. Minho can only hope it doesn’t come back to haunt him.

Jisung’s looking down the path they leave behind, watching Hyunjin until the outline of him grows smaller, until there’s nothing at all.

When Minho also turns to look at where Hyunjin was left standing, the hunter had already retreated, walking away from his own act of treason—their secret.

They ride in silence for several minutes. Minho contemplates how deep into the night they could last before they’d have to stop, but no conclusion feels safe. He’s too on edge. Just because they’ve escaped the rampart doesn’t mean they’re in the clear. Not now, not ever.

It is fascinating that Jisung has lived his whole life like this—running, hiding away from hunters, pivoting from death like it was as easy as skipping rocks. Jisung picks apart his fate like taking apart the food on your dinner plate. It’s just something Minho will have to adjust to. This is his life now. He’s betrayed his old life in favor of something better—he’s a fugitive.

But he’s with Jisung now. That’s all that ever mattered.

From the top of a small hill in the northern forests, the steed slows to a halt. From here, they can see the tall walls of the northern rampart—what used to be all Minho has ever known, standing high from far away.

Now, he has Jisung wrapped behind him, resting his head between Minho’s shoulder blades, softly pawing at Minho’s stomach. It feels more familiar than the rampart ever did.

It’s only when they can see the walls from a safe distance does it feel like Minho can finally breathe.

“Are you okay?” Jisung asks into the skin of Minho’s nape after a long while.

Minho sifts through a thousand different answers in his mind before settling on the truth that sits firmly in the cage of his ribs. “Yeah.” He cranes his neck to look Jisung in the eye. “I am.”

➳

Neither of them can truly unwind until after several hours of riding. Minho knows Hyunjin led the hunters in the direction opposite of where they’re headed, but he can’t shake the fear of being ambushed while sleeping. So he keeps riding through the night and doesn’t care if he struggles to stay awake while doing so.

All this time, Jisung keeps himself wrapped around each of Minho’s anxieties like a blanket. He’s quiet as they ride on, occasionally squeezing his hold around Minho’s middle. He even dozes off for a while, and for that, Minho is relieved. Jisung resting, safer than he was the day before.

When they do eventually stop, the sky is still dark. Minho leads them to higher ground, not too high for the steed to not be able to graze on nearby grass, but high enough to provide a sense of security to them both.

After resting for a while, Jisung looks much better. Save for the dried blood staining his skin, he was agile and livelier, almost back to his normal self—the anesthesia clearly worn off for the most part by now. He helps Minho start a fire without a complaint, dramatically pulls Minho into a deep kiss when Minho gets a chance to wrap a coat around Jisung’s shoulders, laughs when he sees an odd shape in the stars as Minho tends to the steed.

It was nice. Jisung is alive and smiling, even if it hasn't reached his eyes quite yet.

Minho still can’t wrap his head around the loss of Jisung’s wings.

It’s finally addressed after eating canned vegetables and meat by the fire. Jisung has his eyes closed, knees tucked into his chest as he basks in the warmth. Minho is right beside him, only an inch or so of distance between them, admiring Jisung quietly.

He doesn’t realize he’s reaching out to feel Jisung’s bandages until Jisung’s eyes flutter open at the touch.

Minho reels back like he’s dipped his hand into the mouth of a fire. “Sorry. Does it hurt?”

“Not too badly,” Jisung’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You can touch. It’s okay.”

Deliberately, Minho presses a palm flat against Jisung’s spine, fingertips grazing directly over where the bone of Jisung’s wings once were. The bandages are thick, but if he puts enough pressure, Minho can feel the stubs of bone beneath the flesh. When his wounds heal, his back will look something similar to Changbin’s, except cleaner, it seems. Smoother. More natural.

“What did they do to you?” Minho whispers in disbelief. He rubs a hand up and down Jisung’s back, shudders with every unnaturally tender spot his hand grazes in passing. “My sweet boy.”

Jisung looks up at Minho with that pensive smile again. “I lived, didn’t I?”

“But your wings...” Minho’s eyes flicker to Jisung’s own. “How do you feel?”

“I feel weird,” Jisung replies after a beat of silence. “Like I’m not in my body anymore.”

Minho presses their bodies together, facing his body towards Jisung. He tugs Jisung to his attention and holds Jisung’s hands in his own.

“You’re still the same angel that I first met. The same angel that I’ve come to love. With or without your wings.” Minho reaches to cradle Jisung’s cheek as he feels himself wanting to choke up. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

Jisung squeezes the hand that holds his face. “But you did. You got me out of there. We’re safe now.”

“It’s too soon to say. And at the cost of...” Your wings. He licks his lips. “If I had never left—”

“Minho,” Jisung gently interrupts. “I told Chan to take my wings.”

The confession makes everything inside of Minho cement. It feels like he’s been shot.

“No,” Minho coos, slow to comprehend. “No.”

“Your... captain. I suppose said something about keeping me around. Chan-hyung said that he wanted me to be experimented on—on my wings—to turn me into some machine. So I asked him to remove my wings. I promise it wasn’t his fault, I cornered him into doing it.”

Minho hooks his arms loosely around Jisung’s shoulders. If it wasn’t for Jisung holding him upright, he’d be burying his face into Jisung’s shoulders.

“Jisung, we would have found you, regardless. You didn’t have to do this. We could have stayed on foot for as long as we needed to. Found a way to leave the country, if it came down to it. I would have done anything.”

“I wanted to,” Jisung says, shaking Minho lightly. “I didn’t want to run. I just wanted to go home with you. It’s safer like this.”

It breaks Minho’s heart that Jisung felt this was the only way. He feels he needs to pray to something—to beg for remission on his knees to something in the sky. Spill blood for as long as it would take for his punishment to deem him worth forgiving.

“Forgive me,” Minho whispers pleadingly to the only deity he would ever dare to worship. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t have done more.”

As if Jisung’s love for him alone would be enough to spare Minho from burning in the afterlife, Jisung graciously kisses the pout on Minho’s lips.

“Nothing they could take from me was ever worth keeping,” Jisung says. “I’d let them take whatever they wanted from me. But not you.” He strokes Minho’s cheekbone with his thumb and holds him like he’s something precious. With the way Jisung gazes at him, perhaps Minho is. “Never you.”

Minho finally feels able to smile, because the proclamation makes his insides swirl with adoration. Jisung chuckles at his reaction.

They fall back into a comfortable silence, looking at each other like this. Feeling one another’s warmth and never taking it for granted again. The fire crackles, and the horse snorting every now and then eating the silence between them.

Jisung smiles at Minho, then his face drops into something more serious, fonder. It burns through Minho like all-fire. He’s learned to love it.

“I missed you, honey,” Jisung admits faintly.

“I did too,” Minho flushes after going so long without hearing the adoration. “I missed hearing you call me that.”

“Yeah? You missed me calling you sweet names?” Jisung buries his face into Minho’s neck, leaving a trail of wet, teasing kisses all over his skin.

“Don’t make fun of me.” Minho cringes at the wet sensation but laughs through it anyway. He finds himself squirming as Jisung further buries his face into Minho’s neck. “Stop, that tickles.”

Jisung surrenders and puts a pause in his ministrations, but keeps his face buried in Minho’s neck. The forest sleeps quietly around them, and it gives the two of them a moment of peace. It’s calming, it opens Minho up enough to hum softly as Jisung rustles against his body some more; he wraps his arms around Jisung impossibly tighter. It only makes the latter fidget even more—Minho is about to tease him before he hears a sniffle.

He stills before Jisung's body begins to shake against him. Minho’s neck grows wet again, but from something else—something that breaks Minho’s heart all over again.

With a deep breath, Minho tightens his arms around Jisung, holds him close as the angel begins to weep, and leans down to press kisses against his head. “Oh, Sung-ah.”

This is a first for Minho—seeing Jisung cry like this. It was bound to happen. But Jisung is open to being held through the motions, being rocked while memories of the past few hours wash over him. He even wraps his arms around Minho’s middle and buries himself into Minho’s arms deeper than what should be possible.

Minho can’t begin to understand what Jisung had to undergo while trapped in the citadel. He’s heard horror stories of what his past comrades would do to the angels imprisoned, no matter how long or short their time spent there was.

It’ll take years for Jisung to truly walk away from this. Minho wouldn’t expect him to ever be able to.

So he holds Jisung through it since he can now without fearing someone is watching—lets Jisung cry into his shoulder and shake like the tide had almost swallowed him. In a way, it nearly did.

It’s like trying to stand on two feet while the boat you’re standing in crashes into the dock over and over again, but Minho hopes to be the steady rope that grounds Jisung. One that’ll keep him from going overboard with a comforting hand, a kiss, a whisper into his ear. 

At a point, Minho presses Jisung’s back to his chest and leaves kisses between his shoulder blades, a delicacy Minho did not grant himself before when Jisung had his cluster of wings to shield him. Now left more open than he has ever been in his whole life, Jisung readily allows Minho to fill that void.

“It’s strange,” Jisung comments before they sleep. “Being the one held for a change. It’s nice.”

Minho nestles his nose into Jisung’s hair and breathes him in. Roses overwhelm him. “You can have it for as long as you want it.”

“How about forever?”

Minho snorts. “If you’d like, but then we’d never make it to the mire.” He squeezes Jisung a little tighter when Jisung snickers at that. “You’re kind of cheesy, you know that?”

Jisung only hums. “Whatever. You love it.”

And Minho does.

➳

It takes them about a week to reach the mire.

Some mornings, Jisung rose first. He’d wake up happily, would excitedly kiss Minho awake, and do his stretches from afar as Minho watched him sleepily. He was more than eager when it came to jumping Minho’s bones every chance he got, as well. Minho wasn’t sure what the bounds of privacy were at the mire, so he’d take each moment now in any way he could.

Other days, Jisung didn’t want to get up at all. Minho would find him curled up and crying soundlessly throughout the day. He wouldn’t utter a word to the point that Minho had to check if he was still breathing.

But each night, without fail, Jisung would wake up in the middle of the night, gasping for breath, wild-eyed and terror-stricken.

The nightmares had gotten increasingly bad since escaping the citadel; they practically ate him alive. Sometimes, Jisung would break down in tears once he came to, holding himself and searching for the ghost of his wings with panicked hands. Minho made it his priority to replace the warmth of Jisung’s wings with his own body, kiss his wounds and whisper soft words into his ear to coax him back to sleep. It became routine for them.

Minho would continue to fight for the day Jisung wouldn’t be awakened by his night terrors, but it’s nice to know that he won’t have to die for it. Not now, at least.

➳

The mire is not at all what Minho pictured it to be. When he thinks of a mire, he thinks of boggy swamps, vast terrains of essentially not much else. Lackluster. Dead, wet grass and dirty water.

The landscape does exist. Bogs surround larger bodies of water, right before an open clearing where a small village lies up ahead. Village may not be the right word, because there are houses made of stone and stand tall, and the mire has far from a weak appearance. It’s the best way Minho could describe it.

“There it is,” Jisung tells Minho ahead of him with a bright smile. “Home sweet home.”

Lots of open land lies far and wide between everything. Handcrafted picket fences to keep livestock contained, kept far away from the center of their borough. The center of it all, though, are small, stand-alone markets. From a distance, Minho can pick out carts of flowers, garden fruits and vegetables among other trinkets.

What Minho is taken by the most, though, is the great influx of angels running amok.

Angel children are playing with a ball near the entrance, wings clean and healthy. One squeals as the ball gets taken from him. Minho smiles at the sight, taken back to his childhood.

Minho is a few steps behind Jisung, leading the steed gently by hand. His other free hand is soon confiscated by Jisung’s bigger one, warm as he tugs Minho along excitedly to walk faster.

Nervousness bubbles in Minho’s gut, seeing men among the outskirts of the mire. They look ordinary working men, wearing casual clothes with holsters to carry their axes and blades as they guard the area’s vicinity. They don’t adorn a distinct symbol on their clothes like angel hunters do, but they don’t need that for Minho to recognize who they are. Shepherds.

They’re armed as they watch the two of them approach, being too far to distinguish who they are. Especially with Jisung’s wings no longer there to identify him from so far away, they must look like strangers.

Minho halts, tugging Jisung to a stop. Jisung pauses to inspect Minho’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you sure this is okay?” Minho can’t help but ask. “I’m everything these people hate.”

It’s one thing if Minho was just a lucky citizen of the rampart that escaped unharmed, but Minho was the enemy here. Minho hunted down angels and stole their last breath from many of them. Didn’t matter if his heart wasn’t aligned with the line of work he was in; it didn’t erase what he’s done.

With abrupt strength, Jisung tugs Minho toward him and holds Minho’s face with a hand. “The guild doesn’t define who you are, Minho. You do. They’ll accept you as you are.”

“How can you be so sure?” Minho's gaze flickers over Jisung’s shoulder in an attempt to glance at the shepherds. “You can’t speak for all of them.”

“I don’t have to.” Jisung keeps himself in Minho’s direct line of sight so that Minho can’t look at the shepherds. “You think you’re the only hunter that’s run away from the ramparts?”

Minho doesn’t know what to say to that.

“There aren’t many of them, of course. But you’re not alone. You can breathe here a little. Okay?”

Minho takes a breath, then nods awkwardly. Jisung’s right. “Okay.”

Jisung leaves him with a long, chaste kiss before tugging him along. Heart lighter, mind clearer.

The shepherds watch them with sharp eyes as they approach the mire. It isn’t until Jisung sends them an enthusiastic wave that the shepherds visibly relax, confused at the lack of threat exuding from Jisung.

Though it’s one of the angel children who recognizes Jisung first—even without his wings there to define him.

“It’s Jisung-hyung!” One of the boys practically screams, catching the attention of the other children.

One by one, the angels look up and beam upon seeing Jisung. Jisung, a hyung to all these children Minho would have never known existed in the first place hadn’t they crossed paths. Jisung, who was a staple in his community, was someone who was loved and respected by this group of strangers. Soon to be his neighbors, too, Minho notes.

The commotion slowly trails throughout the mire, and by the time they make it to the center of the borough, there’s a handful of people out there to greet Jisung for his return. Minho is more than happy to let Jisung get coaxed by the love he has suddenly come over by everyone, though it’s almost overwhelming. Minho can’t recollect the last time he’s been surrounded by such love.

“Hyung, where did your wings go?”

“Jisung-ah, did you get caught fruit-picking in the north again?”

“Sungie-hyung, Jeongin-hyung made this for me the other day! Look! Look!”

“Jisung, what happened to you?”

Jisung is surrounded by love and open arms. Minho thinks this is what his life was always supposed to look like.

After several minutes of fighting through the small crowd, Jisung pulls Minho through it all. They drop Changbin’s steed off at the stables before Jisung pulls him into an entirely new direction.

“Where are you taking me now?” Minho asks through the chaos.

When Jisung turns his head to gleam at him Minho’s heart skips. The sun ahead of him casts a warm glow around Jisung’s figure, but it does little to hinder how bright the angel is before him. Even with the shadow, even in the dark, Minho could make him out in any way.

He’s beautiful like that, and the reemerging thought is enough to make Minho’s throat close up. There’s no need to breathe if not into Jisung’s mouth for the rest of his life.

Jisung grins. “Home.”

Felix is already more than halfway out the door by the time Minho and Jisung arrive outside the second-tallest house in the mire.

The house is a cute thing, with rich green grass surrounding the building. No livestock from where Minho can see, only an overflowing garden and a chimney there to stake its territory. Felix looks like he belongs in a home like this, wearing lightweight clothes and hair flowing freely just below his shoulders. His wings are shorter compared to Jisung’s, but they’re fluffy and bright—just as they should be.

“Yen-ah!” Felix calls to someone over his shoulder before darting out. “He’s back!”

Following after him is another angel, a bit taller, much broader compared to Felix. In a way, he’s Felix’s polar opposite, with straight hair, sleek black and his bone structure sharp and masculine, whereas Felix is softer around the edges—they complement each other. Minho dares to presume this is Jeongin.

“Children, I’m home~!” Jisung cheers.

“Jisung!” Felix shouts as he practically sprints down the walkway from the door. Jisung does not run to meet him, but he outstretches his arms and readily accepts Felix’s tackle with stride. Minho stays behind and watches the two’s reunion with something inside him akin to pride rousing upward.

“Holy shit, you’re here,” Felix sputters, much to Minho’s glee. “You absolute nut job. I can’t believe you’re not dead.”

“It’s not easy to kill me!” Jisung laughs as the two pull apart. In contrast to Felix’s blunt words, he looks devastated, like he can’t believe the other was really here. Jisung wipes a tear running down Felix’s freckled face. “I thought you understood that more than anyone, you big cry baby.”

“You’re not immortal! God, look at you—” He manhandles Jisung to look at his wingless back before he starts tearing up again. “You look just like your boyfriend, now.”

Minho snorts that this is how Felix decides to finally acknowledge his presence, but he’ll take it.

He thought based on appearances that Jeongin would be more collected compared to Felix, but when Minho spares him a glance, Jeongin is already snot-ridden and crying as well.

“Hyung,” is all Jeongin musters before wrapping Jisung in an equally tight hug.

Minho reaps joy from the sidelines watching them. The three of them look like a family, holding each other like this. He can understand why Jisung is so endeared to them.

As Jisung and Jeongin continue to speak in hushed tones, Felix steps backward to stare blatantly at Minho. The longer he stares, the more Minho is inclined to squirm. It’s only then does Felix smirk, eyes still red from his previous tears.

“Chan sent a messenger-bird saying you’d be tagging along,” Felix says.

Minho takes the invitation to step around Jisung and Jeongin to join Felix further up the walkway.

“I hope that’s alright with you,” Minho replies curtly with the friendliest smile he can comfortably muster. He has no reason to be wary around Felix; Jisung spent their entire journey to the mire telling him so. A tease at most, Felix is. Above everything else, though, he’s the gentlest angel Jisung knows.

Felix blinks confusedly at that. “Of course it is. We were expecting you. Seungmin hasn’t shut up about you since he got here.”

Seungmin.

His heart nearly drops at his very name. “Where is he?” Minho asks unwaveringly.

Felix looks toward the house and—ah.

Sporting a fresh cut of short brown hair and a mischievous grin, Minho could recognize Seungmin anywhere.

Seungmin props himself over the frame of an open window, watching from a distance, high ground where he can see everyone down the front yard. Minho feels like he’s traveled to the past and he and Seungmin are back in the northern rampart, with Minho’s sprained wrist and Seungmin’s scuffed knees. Seungmin had watched him from the tree line then, and he watches from the window now.

Minho stalks up the path and straight toward the house, and he swears he can hear Seungmin mumbling some jabbing comment, but he does so with a smile. He retreats from the window, only to appear by the front door seconds later.

“Took you long enough,” Seungmin says once Minho is within earshot.

Minho can’t help but shake his head as he meets Seungmin at the door. “You’re a real piece of work, Kim Seungmin. Would it have killed you to have left a message?”

Seungmin chuckles. He waits to answer until he and Minho are eye-level at the door. “I was busy. I knew you’d find your way here.”

He looks much healthier, happier than he was at the rampart. There’s more meat on his bones since Minho had seen him last, cheeks a lot fuller, skin glowing underneath the sun.

He looks good like this. Minho missed him as much as he’d miss his own mother.

Minho squints at Seungmin and feigns annoyance. Cocks his head to the side away from Seungmin to emphasize the roll of his eyes. And then Seungmin’s roguish demeanor crumbles, yanking Minho into a suffocating hug.

Compared to Seungmin, Minho was doused in more layers from the cold, so when he hugs Seungmin back just as tightly, it feels like he’s consuming Seungmin through his chest. Hopefully, it won’t have to come to a point where Minho achieves that. He’s here and breathing. Not a single speck tainting Seungmin that’d indicate that he fought tooth and nail to be here.

And Minho was so, so worried about him leading up to this moment. But when Seungmin lets his guard down just enough to sink into the comfort of Minho, sniffling shamelessly over his shoulder, yet also more than ready to deny his tears when they pull apart, Minho knows he has nothing to worry about.

Minho is home.

“Are you crying? Didn’t think you had it in you,” Minho coos when they do pull apart. He’s delighted seeing Seungmin teary and snotty, looking just like the kid Minho grew up with his whole life. He would be cackling if his own throat didn’t feel so scratchy in turn.

“I’m just—” Seungmin clears his throat. “—I’m sorry for leaving the way I did. And for worrying you.”

“You’re happy here now, aren’t you?”

“I would have done things differently if I could. If I had known.” He looks at Jisung from a distance. Minho can see the way Seungmin’s eyes rake Jisung’s wingless back, and he understands.

Minho tsks. “Come here,” he says as he pulls Seungmin for a second hug. Seungmin clings to him for as long as Minho can resist teasing him.

There’s much Minho wants to tell Seungmin and ask about. Like why he left the way he did, and why couldn’t he have told Minho. His ribs hurt from memories reminding him of the hurt feelings he’s carried with him in the past month.

All of that can wait for later.

Minho pats the back of Seungmin’s head and feels his attention being pulled back over to Jisung, like a moth to a flame. Jisung’s got an arm wrapped around both Felix and Jeongin, holding them both with his body sandwiched between them. The two angels face away from Minho, giving him and Jisung a moment to steal for themselves.

Jisung is rosy in the face, shining in a way Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. He realizes this is the Jisung that existed before him, preserved in the mire. A protector of his people, years of love sticking to him like honey and keeping him tangible and good.

When their eyes meet, and Jisung smiles even more brightly than before, Minho thinks it’s an honor to be able to love him like this. It keeps him from sinking into the soil beneath their feet and his heart from rabbiting itself to death. Jisung looks at him like he loves him, and Minho believes it.

Something allieves within Minho’s chest when Seungmin pulls away to wipe at his face. Jisung looks at them like they can finally be at peace. They’re covered in it, the weight of it so strong that Minho can barely move beneath it—the weight of heartsease.

➳

Jisung, Minho has come to learn, is naturally gifted on the guitar.

Most evenings, he and the others go to a large, run-down warehouse to sing with other patrons over beer and liquor. The angels and shepherds mingle and dance over music, and Minho can understand how Seungmin was able to mesh well with the borough so quickly. Sometimes, Seungmin’s love for music overrode his passion for medicine.

Jisung and Seungmin bonding over music was to be expected. Apparently, it was the entire reason Jisung was out in the forest when Minho first saw him while he was bleeding out in the first place.

So that’s how they’re unwinding tonight, over drinks and music. A delicacy that was nearly non-existent in the respective province's ramparts.

What better way to break you in than getting drunk with a bunch of strangers? Was the argument Felix made before dragging Minho by the arm out of the house with Jisung. Jeongin and Seungmin walked ahead as they paid no mind to the duo’s antics.

Now, a couple of drinks later, Minho is glued to his seat in the back of the warehouse.

“They’re called gourds,” Jisung tells him with a beer in hand as a horde of shepherds perform on the wooden stage lift. On the microphone is Jeongin, dancing along to the folk band behind him. “Felix wanted to play with us, but he’s not confident on my guitar yet. I wanted to see if I could make shakers or something with them. Fill ‘em up with rice. You see the vision?”

Although Minho was a little tipsy at this point in the night, Jisung buzzing before him was the clearest thing he’d seen all day. And he looks beautiful like this, flushed from the alcohol he’d been nursing, a sheer sheen of sweat glistening against his skin from being under the hot lights from earlier, smelling of whatever was being grilled outback.

With his wings now gone, he’d been able to wear some of Minho’s clothing without having to cut it up. He’s now sporting a loose jean button-up that had grown a tad small for Minho once he started bulking up. Jisung isn’t exactly mere skin and bone, but the top fits him just snug enough that Minho could see directly down his shirt whenever Jisung leans forward. Minho wants to lick the mound of his chest like this, bite at him, and drag him all the way back home with his legs wrapped around Jisung’s middle.

But he can’t bear to pull Jisung away from that damn guitar of his. Instead, Minho focuses on the ridiculousness of Jisung’s story, cackling once his foggy mind fully comprehends what he’s just been told.

“So let me get this straight,” Minho clears his throat before giggles spill from him all over again. “You traveled that far, ended up near the cottage because you were looking for fruit that may or may not have been in there?”

“Seungmin said he had seen some over there!” Jisung defends himself boisterously.

“Baby, one thing you need to know about Seungmin is that he’s a cheat and a liar.”

“I know that now!” Jisung whines before sinking into the seat. Minho can’t help but watch him sulk with fond eyes. He’s very cute like this: drunk, pouty, and red in the face.

“It’s alright,” Minho does his best to console his sweetheart. “Seungmin-ie is very good at lying. It happens to the best of us.”

From the end of the table sitting alongside Felix is Seungmin, whose eye roll could be seen from across oceans. “I said no such thing. Your boyfriend’s lying.”

“Why would I lie?” Jisung turns to face Seungmin rapidly. “You said I could find gourds near the lake up north.”

“No, dumbass, I said you can find the gourd plant by the lake. Not the fruit.” Seungmin points a finger at Jisung, bottle still dangling in his hand. “This is why I don’t tell you what supplies I need when you’re drunk.”

Jisung sags into his seat, defeated without a good retort. Minho thinks this is the funniest thing he’s witnessed in years.

Minho takes the chance to lean into Jisung’s space with a sly grin. “Is this why I found you standing in the middle of the lake all that time ago?”

Jisung leans in until Minho can feel his breath fanning his face. Minho’s heart skips like it’s the first time. “I’m being set up here—you gotta believe me, honey.”

Seungmin retreats from the conversation in favor of cheering with the rest of the audience and Felix as the current song finishes up. Felix is Jeongin’s number one supporter, obviously, in the way he jumps to his feet and claps louder than anyone else in the room, hooting like a madman.

“If you like playing in the water when no one’s watching, that’s okay,” Minho giggles. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

Minho snickers and doesn’t resist when he feels Jisung’s strong hand wrap around his waist to drag him snug onto his lap. He slips a finger into one of Minho’s belt loops as he takes a swig from his beer. Jisung’s hair is soft under Minho’s touch, freshly washed and smelling of the fruity soap from the cottage.

Jisung scoffs, but he’s all smiles. He squeezes Minho’s waist in defiance. “It’s what I like doing most here at the mire. I like doing supply runs for whoever needs them. I’m usually out all the time, but I think I’ll have to find something gentler in the meantime while I heal.” Jisung tilts his head at the sight as he peers up at Minho. “You know, doctor’s orders and all.”

Minho thinks back to his last interaction with Chan and feels guilt surge through him. If he has the chance to speak with him again, when he feels ready to do so, it’s something he’ll consider in the future. Even if the extraction of his wings was something Jisung wanted, Minho can’t bring himself to fully forgive Chan just yet.

“I could help,” Minho offers. Coming to the mire as an outsider still leaves a knot of discomfort inside him, he’d be ready to do whatever was needed of him as soon as tomorrow if it meant he’d be accepted sooner.

As if he could read Minho’s mind, Jisung refutes him. “No one expects you to jump to work immediately. We’ve come a long way.” He takes a strand of Minho’s hair and tucks it behind his ear. “I can take you with me, though, if you’d like.”

“Yeah, I would.”

Spices pinch Minho’s nose. Throughout the night, his gaze keeps flickering over to where the bar is across the room. The room wafts every few minutes with cardamom and juniper. He feels his mouth salivate seeing an entire tray of bread being walked out. Minho can’t recall the last time he’s smelt food so fragrant.

Jisung watches him quietly for a second before adding, “Unless your interests lie elsewhere?”

Minho shakes the thought away. When he was younger, maybe, he could have indulged in his gentler wants. There was joy to be found in the bread his neighbors would bring to his family’s doorstep each weekend—if things were different, maybe, Minho would have pursued such a dream.

“No, I want to help,” Minho insists. “I’m only good for hunting now, anyway.”

Minho’s skills were sharpened elsewhere. He can look for supplies, he could hunt for the mire. He’s good at that.

“You don’t have to be who you were in the Guild here anymore,” Jisung assures as he rubs his thumb over Minho’s hip. “Besides, I know the bakery needs new faces, anyway. It’s just Felix and a bunch of old ladies. He can put in a good word for you.”

Minho blinks in the face of such kindness. “You’d really do that?”

Jisung bursts into a laugh of disbelief and shakes Minho in his embrace. “Would I do that for you? I’ve thrashed my wings for you. I pelted an Elite in the face for you.” Minho snorts at the memory, but Jisung shakes him again. “Everything is for you. All of me.”

Minho makes a delighted noise as he’s overcome with emotion. He cups Jisung’s face and leans in until their lips brush.

“You sap,” Minho mumbles into Jisung’s mouth before giving him a sweet kiss. They pull apart only barely, staring into each other like this. “I love you, Sung-ah.”

“I love you more, honey,” Jisung quips back before diving in for another kiss. “I love you. I love you.” Jisung moves to kiss the bone of Minho’s cheek. Then his jaw, his chin, his Adam's apple and down his neck. Peppering him with love. “I love you.”

Minho lets him, though a bit shy of any possible passersby watching them. To his relief, the two of them merely blend into the background. The open floor has all the attention—littered with so many people dancing and laughing together that the world pays Jisung's onslaught of adoration no mind. Minho never thought he’d live to see the day.

The moment doesn’t last. Now that Seungmin is back in the picture, Minho will never know peace again.

“Whenever you’re both done eating each other—” Seungmin’s voice breaks through the moment. He stares directly at Jisung when he says, “Your presence is being requested onstage.”

At the mention of the stage, Jisung jolts backward and is quick to guide Minho off his lap. “Sorry, the people have spoken.”

Minho sends him off with a wave of his hand. “Give ‘em a show.”

He watches as Jisung runs onto the stage and retrieves his guitar from Jeongin before taking center stage. The audience watches on expectantly as Seungmin steps onto the stage beside Jisung with his guitar. He blatantly hands Jisung a flask of God knows what.

Jisung unscrews the cap as someone from the crowd hoots in support.

“It’s nice to see everyone again,” Jisung says into the microphone. He gets a few cheers in agreement. “I know you’re all curious, so I’ll go ahead and just say it outright: my wings are gone.”

A round of disapproving sounds rises from the audience. Jisung, however, is smiling through it. A brave front. “I know, I know. Those clodhopper hunters could’ve just told me I needed to lose some weight, rather than shaving off the extra pounds for me.”

Jisung says it with a laugh, so he gets a few unsettled laughs from the audience, as if they aren’t sure if they’re allowed to laugh at the joke or not.

“Well, I’m back now and I’m not going anywhere. I think that calls for a song.”

The crowd erupts in excited cheers. After another sip, Jisung discards the flask and grabs the neck of his guitar readily. He and Seungmin look at each other, nod as Seungmin counts them off with the tap of his foot, and the band breaks into song.

A cello player whose strings are breaking yet still go strong against the current of its bow. An angel child is on a violin, shirtless and covered in dirt—but not the kind Minho is used to seeing. It’s dirt from the grass after a long day of playing beneath the sun, not having to worry about someone shooting him down. There’s a cajon drum with a rope tied to each end of it, being played by a young angel boy. Then there’s Jisung and Seungmin center stage, bouncing off each other with only the essence of feeling exchanged between their respective instruments.

Not that Minho thought they wouldn’t sound good, but he’s entranced by the chemistry on stage. They sound good together, a clash of folk shaking the frail stage, and it sounds even better with patrons dancing in front of them. It’s cohesive, like Jisung and Seungmin had been playing together their whole lives.

Minho watches alone from the table as Jisung sings raspily into the mic, conducting the warehouse like it’s his choir. Jisung was a force to be reckoned with in more ways than one.

He catches Jisung watching him throughout the song, singing directly to him like they’re the only two in the room. Felix and Jeongin stay close near the table, dancing as well as a couple of drunkards could without swatting a bystander with their wings.

Minho hastily finishes his drink before stalking away from the table to get closer to the stage. He wants to watch Jisung shine under the lights up close, because he knows he’s allowed this.

Jisung watches him intently, singing with nothing but the sound of his guitar strumming. It’s like time stops as Jisung sings. His voice, honeyed and warm, takes Minho back to the cottage. How it was the most at peace Minho had felt in his entire life up until this point. And he’s elated as the final chorus starts up again excitedly, Jisung looks away to entertain the crowd, and Minho is encompassed with the epiphany that this is now their life.

Minho knows it’ll be a long time before they can put the past behind them. He knows Jisung’s nightmares won’t subside overnight, that there will be mornings Minho will wake up suffocated by fears the Guild will one day find him—that it’ll feel so real he’ll lose control of himself. But tonight, Minho doesn’t want to worry about that; all he wants to worry about is Jisung falling off the stage from getting too excited behind the mic.

Here, Jisung blooms. The two of them will help each other land on their feet each day stronger than before. They’re in a much safer place now, though they know they aren’t invincible here. Everyone here is ready to face the next storms with a vigor that can’t be taken from them. And above all else, Minho and Jisung have stitched themselves to one another, hearts bleeding into the other’s.

And slowly, they’ll get there.