Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Minho’s tongue runs over the empty pocket in his mouth, the missing fang that has doomed him—or half-doomed him, if he had the sense of humor to be tongue-in-cheek, which he doesn’t. Its loss is too recent, and too devastating.

He’s never been particularly social, but with one fang missing, it’s unlikely any vampire but his creator would accept him. Their kind is solitary unless you have a coven, but they help each other out as best they can. But with Minho marked so otherly, there’s little chance of begging charity from another vampire. And he’d lost track of his creator centuries ago—closer than halfway to doomed, he estimates.

Mulling over these facts as they are, and having spent the previous half-decade struggling to hunt, to feed, he decides he has exactly one choice: he must make his own coven. And, well, weak and hobbled as he is, he at least has a profile for the kind of vampire he’ll need to create: someone strong, someone loyal, someone who can protect him. He’s old now, and tired, and with only one fang he feels chillingly vulnerable.

It was with this profile in mind that Minho took the streets at night to scope out humans. And it hadn’t taken long—maybe the humans who tend to brave the streets this late are a rough-and-tumble kind, anyway.

He spots him the very first night: young, bulky, and walking quick. Not out of fear, but practiced confidence, his head low with a black baseball cap pulled over his eyes.

Minho follows, having a good feeling after a few hours of very underwhelming humans. He seems well-built; he’d make a strong vampire, Minho feels sure. It will be hard to provide for him in the newborn stage, one-fanged and all, but if he pulls it off, this one will feel an unwavering loyalty to him, and he can continue on in his permanent existence—with a companion again at last.

He follows the human back to his apartment—at a distance, so as not to tip him off. Minho is good at being sneaky. Some of their kind aren’t and don’t need to be—but especially handicapped as he is, it’s a necessity.

He can’t follow him into the apartment building—yet. Surely that’s too far, at least until Minho is sure about him. But he catches the number of the mailbox the human checks and, once the human has breezed to the safety of the fluorescents inside, Minho looks at the doorbells outside. 811, the number on his mailbox, indicates that a Seo Changbin lives there.

Minho has a name. Minho has an address. He just needs a bit more stealthy stalking to make sure that this is the one. It’s a permanent process, after all, and Minho can’t messing it up by choosing the wrong human.

Changbin is a night owl, Minho learns. He takes care to risk the burning sunlight, draping himself in heavy fabric so it isn't so irritating. He can still sense it through the cloth, the heat of it, and it makes him restless, even if it doesn't burn.

But it's needless to subject himself to sunlight, he quickly discovers, because Changbin seldom goes out in the day. Already possessing quite a few vampiric traits, which Minho assumes will only ease the transition.

He comes out when the sun is setting, dressed for work, and Minho pursues stealthily, at a distance. Once the sun is gone he's able to shed clothes so he doesn't stick out so much to the humans.

Changbin works outside a club, checking IDs and dealing with rowdy, drunken humans. Minho has fed recently enough, but the acrid-smelling blood of the drunken horde would be far from tempting even if he was ravenous. Changbin’s job seems to be one for tough humans, for strong and intimidating ones. Even the patrons who tower over Changbin seem wary of him.

He’s bodyguard-adjacent, even as a human. Has Minho really selected the perfect candidate from the beginning? He isn't usually so lucky.

He might go up and try to interact with Changbin, but he's checking ID, and Minho doesn't have any. Some of their kind carry forgeries, since it makes living in human society easier. But Minho is on the outskirts, barely scraping by. He rents a sketchy place from a sketchy landlord who hadn't asked too many questions, just accepts the cash that Minho forks over each month, pilfered from the wallets of his prey.

Maybe that's something Changbin could help with, too, Minho realizes, at least for now. His human ID should be good for a few years, at least—things just keep looking up and up.

He'll hunt before he turns Changbin, he decides. He needs his strength and self control at its peak. With one fang, he thinks it will be an excruciatingly slow process to pump him with enough venom to turn him, and he should probably try to drag him to a safe place, to his shoebox apartment.

He spares Changbin one more glance before he heads elsewhere to hunt; he’s quarreling with a group of drunk men trying to follow women into the bar, and Changbin is rock-solid, unyielding.

Minho doesn't feel such human emotions as nerves and hasn't in several centuries. But, he thinks he might feel apprehensive if he were capable of such a thing.

He's confident he's stronger than Changbin. He can grab him and drag him back to his apartment with no surrounding humans growing any wiser. They're strong and fast by design, apex predators.

Minho is less certain about turning him. He's unsure about the process; he doesn't remember his own turning, really. Chan had turned him when he was burning with fever and delirious, and his human memories are fuzzy and indistinct anyway. Chan had never turned anyone else except for Minho.

He knows it's a longer and more involved process than mere feeding. Rather than draw blood out, you pump venom in—but how much? For a regular vampire, it takes several minutes, he thinks, which shouldn't be much problem. Their venom drugs humans, makes them sleepy and pliant, and they're incapable of fighting back for longer than a few seconds.

But—he has one fang. And he's somewhere up around a millennium old; his venom glands don't produce as much as they once did. He fears it will be a long process, and he'll have no way of knowing if he's given Changbin enough venom to turn him, or if he'll just kill him.

It will work out one way or the other, he assumes.

He decides to grab Changbin on his way to work. The sun will still be out but it's a seedy part of town. Easy enough to drag him into a dark alley to sedate him and then take him to Minho's apartment to properly turn him.

He’s decided he'll drink a little from him; it makes humans go lax and easy, the effects of the venom, and he'll probably be easier to handle. It isn't like he can twist his arm around his neck and snap it to silence him—far too permanent for fragile little humans.

He knows Changbin’s route well enough by now, and he's expecting him when he lumbers by the alley Minho is lurking in, covered head to toe. Changbin has headphones over his ears, fluffy hair sticking up around it, and a black T-shirt that shows off his muscles, his strength.

It’s a fine line, using enough strength to tug a bulky, unsuspecting human down an alley without really hurting him and also not dislocating his shoulder. Minho manages it, a hand creeping over Changbin’s mouth as he drops his jaw and draws breath in to yell.

He still tries, despite Minho’s iron grip keeping his jaw shut. Minho’s eyeing a spot on his neck to sink his fang into when a fist slams into his face.

It doesn't do so much as stun him, but Changbin cries in pain through his teeth, through Minho’s hand, like Minho’s marble face had hurt his fist. It probably had—despite how bulky this one is, he's still human, and thereby fragile.

He ignores the human’s weak protests, the kicks and scratches and punches. It’s easier to crowd him against a wall and sink his fangs in.

As usual, this agitates the human at first. He protests more, probably out of instinct, thrashing against Minho and attempting to shove him off. But Minho drinks—despite the place this human works, his blood is far from acrid. It’s sweet and tinged with a spicy hint of fear, just the way Minho likes, and he's grateful he'd stuffed himself last night.

Changbin sags against the wall, supported only by Minho’s body. Some combination of the blood loss and the venom injected into his system—not enough to turn him, but enough to leave him deliciously loopy.

Minho lowers him to the dirty ground to wait out the sunset and determines that it's safe enough to remove his hand from Changbin’s mouth. He probably doesn't have the energy to yell.

And sure enough, he blinks up at Minho’s exposed face, utterly docile. He looks smaller like this, even more fragile than usual. The singular fang mark on his neck oozes a tempting drop of blood.

“Who are you?” he asks, and the fear has even gone from his voice. He’s working hard through the haze to even string together a coherent sentence, and it's cute, Minho thinks. He doesn't usually find humans cute.

“I’m Minho,” he says, crouching in front of Changbin. “And you're going to be okay. Eventually, that is.”

Night falls, and Minho discovers a new problem: how does he transport an entire human to his apartment without alarming the passing humans? Changbin almost needs to be carried, how dazed he is.

Minho leans forward to lick a droplet of blood from Changbin’s neck as he considers. And—when he moves at top speed, humans can't usually perceive him unless they're looking. He could sling Changbin over his shoulder and just dash for his apartment. If any humans noticed anything amiss, it's nothing they probably couldn't explain away. Humans are better and better at that these days.

It's his only option, he decides. He can't wait here until it's too late for humans to be out and about and risk the effects of his venom wearing off.

So he hoists Changbin over his shoulder, and he breaks through the haze of the venom a little to freak out, to wiggle and thrash on Minho's shoulder. Not used to being lifted, maybe, but he keeps his grip firm and Changbin eventually relaxes.

It's a quick dash to his apartment, weaving through humans and cars and ignoring the groan that Changbin makes as he whooshes past. He gets his door open and Changbin inside before he slows down—he never bothers locking his door, no valuables inside and an easy snack if a burglar is foolish enough to sneak in.

But now, after a moment’s consideration, he flips the deadbolt locked for the first time. With what they're doing, it's best if they weren't disturbed.

Minho deposits him gently on the floor and Changbin looks around.

There isn't really anything in here, which must seem strange to a human. But Minho doesn't need a bed or a couch or a table. The apartment had come with a beat-up refrigerator and a barely functioning microwave. When Minho had received an electric bill from his landlord the first month, he’d promptly unplugged both appliances and unscrewed all the lightbulbs. He doesn't need light; he thrives in the dark, and he isn't rolling in money.

Maybe Changbin’s human eyes can't see well, anyway, but he must sense the bare floor beneath him, the echo of his voice around the empty space.

“You're going to kill me?” he mumbles, defeated. “You’re some kind of monster?”

“If I wanted to kill you, you'd be dead before you even knew it,” Minho points out with a disapproving frown. “And I certainly wouldn't bother dragging you all the way here.”

He stoops to Changbin, who must be near-blind in the dark. But Minho can see the light sparking back in his eyes, the fear. He tilts his chin up to inspect him, slips a thumb in his mouth to rub at his gums, inspect his teeth.

His fangs (canines, Minho thinks humans call them) are pronounced even now, pointed but dull. They’ll grow into something impressive given time, something intimidating.

“You drank my blood,” he recalls, cradling his injured hand to his chest. It looks like the beginnings of a bruise, possibly a fracture, Minho thinks. It doesn't matter; the venom will stitch it all back together. “You’re a vampire?”

“Yes,” Minho answers easily, eyeing the puncture mark on his neck. It’s a good enough place for a bite, he thinks, he can just sink his fang back in there.

“Those aren't real,” he reasons, and Minho snorts.

“Where would the stories you know come from if they weren't?” he reasons—humans are so stubborn, so ignorant.

Changbin exhales levelly through his nose, maybe trying to come to terms. Minho doesn't think it matters if he does; it's real regardless of whether some humans thinks so.

“You won't kill me,” he says, flinching away from Minho’s cold touch. “What are you doing?”

“Hush,” Minho says gently. “This should hurt a good deal, but not for long.”

And he slides his fang back into the already-formed puncture wound; he can feel it slicing through the little bit of healing Changbin has managed.

He holds Changbin still; he starts to squirm and protest as the venom enters his system, but it's weak, and he goes pliant again quickly, slumped heavily against Minho.

Minho keeps a hand over his heart, sensing the pulse of it, even though he can feel it around his fang. He knows that the human’s heart shouldn't stop during this part—that's for the venom to handle towards the end of the process.

He waits a few minutes, pumping venom as quickly as he can into Changbin’s bloodstream. And then he gives it a few more minutes to be sure—he's working with one fang and less-than-ideal venom production, and Changbin’s heartbeat is slow but not nonexistent.

And then, when the fear outweighs his determination, he withdraws his fang, pokes at Changbin’s squishy cheek.

He’s definitely not dead, warm and soft and breathing in soft puffs against Minho's neck. His heartbeat is lazy but present.

But he should be in agony, Minho thinks, not lazily blissed out against his shoulder. And, just as he’s considering biting him one more time just to be sure, his eyes are rolling open and he clutches at Minho’s shirt with surprising strength.

There’s a raspy rattle emitting from his throat, his eyes wide and unseeing despite the fact that he's looking directly at Minho.

“It—you—what—?” he manages to sputter through the pain.

Good, it’s worked, and Minho chances a fond stroke to Changbin's hair. That's one hurdle overcome—when he awakes bloodthirsty and strong will be another, but Minho has perhaps a couple of days to prepare.

“Hush,” he reiterates, brushing his lips across Changbin’s forehead. He’d forgotten it was a two-way street, the relationship between creator and created. Changbin should feel bonded to him, dependent at first but overwhelmingly loyal, and Minho in return feels a need to care for him, a fondness he hasn't felt for anyone since Chan. “It will hurt for a while, then it will end. I’ll take care of you.”

He should go ahead and prepare for when Changbin wakes thirsty, but he's tired, having deposited his venom stores into Changbin. He doesn't usually feel exhaustion, but this must be the closest their kind can come. And Changbin is conscious and scared, anyway—Minho feels the need to at least attempt comfort, though he doesn’t think he's very comforting.

He draws Changbin properly into his lap and holds him, hopes the ice of his skin somehow soothes the burn in Changbin’s veins.

He feels unexpectedly bad leaving Changbin alone while he's turning, but he has a stockpile to build. Chan hadn't left him while he was turning, but that was a different time. When Minho awoke, there were no corpses to drain, and he'd instead leveled a sleepy village by the riverside. That isn't possible here, so—corpses.

It’s hard to estimate how many. Minho kind of just figures that more = better and dedicates his nights to gathering food for Changbin.

In the day, when the sun is too harsh, he hunkers in the apartment with Changbin and tries to determine how close he is. He isn't lucid anymore, really, though he still seems to be in pain. His heart beats on, and his breathing comes in ragged gasps.

It's the third day when it finally ends. Minho is sitting on the floor before him, head cocked as he's just beginning to wonder if he should have tried to pump more venom into him.

And Changbin's heart stops suddenly, all at once, as does his breathing. Minho perks up instantly, sniffing and stalking towards him. He's smelled less and less human, but now the smell is almost entirely gone. He’s not dead, is he? Or—he is, and he's supposed to be, but he's supposed to wake back up.

And he does, after a tense few seconds, violent as the way he'd gone under, eyes flying open and limbs flailing.

“Welcome,” Minho says, keeping his voice soft and gentle but not submissive. This is his charge, his fledgling, but it's disorienting and scary to wake up, and there's no need to startle him and risk a rampage. “Are you thirsty, Changbin?”

Changbin blinks at him, his jaw dropped softly. He has no fangs to bare yet, still resembling the dull human canines he’d had. But they aren't bared, it seems he's dropped it to accommodate the large quantity of venom he's suddenly producing, and it drips from his lower lip onto the floor below.

Minho directs his gaze to the large stack of corpses in the corner and Changbin follows suit. They're mostly clothed, but Minho has taken care to uncover their necks for Changbin, to show him exactly the best place to bite. It’s instinct, mostly, but some fledglings need a gentle nudge in the right direction.

Sure enough, Changbin rounds to the bounty, crouching on the floor as Minho is. And, although his throat must be burning, his mouth itching to bite, he turns back to Minho, uncertain.

Instinct, but some lingering humanity that takes a while to work out. He isn't fully in his right mind, not fully aware, but feeding will help.

“Here,” Minho murmurs gently, reaching for the corpse just in front of him and tapping its neck. “Bite, and suck. You’ll need to rip a little, but don't spill too much.”

Changbin’s lip pulls back over his fangs, instinct at somebody drawing close to his meal. That's good, Minho reflects—the vampiric instincts are there, deep-seated and unconscious.

“None of that,” he scolds, firm but gentle. “Not at me. I’m hardly going to hold a meal from you.” Changbin's lip falls back down and Minho nods. “Now bite, I know it aches.”

Changbin leans forward to bite, the angle awkward, unused to it. And, in the absence of fangs, he clumsily tears at the thing’s neck instead of properly piercing. It’s messy, and he's obviously ravenous as he drinks the flowing blood, but he’ll learn the best way to waste as little as possible—it's in his best interest.

Minho stays at his side as he feeds, as he works himself into a frenzy over the corpses before him. Changbin needs to get used to Minho’s presence, to recognize him as a support rather than a threat, and the best way to do that is to sit right next to him as he feeds, at his most vulnerable.

Minho doesn't do anything more than offer gentle encouragement or occasionally tap a corpse when he's too dazed to recognize he's sucked the one he's working on dry. Changbin shoots him a few wary looks but doesn't snarl or bare his fangs. It's the best Minho could hope for from a thirsty newborn.

As expected, Changbin works through the entire pile, and then once-overs the corpses he's drained, as if he might have missed some. It's roughly two dozen corpses, Minho would say, and he hadn't expected it to be enough, just sufficient to keep him until they can hunt tonight.

“I—” Changbin tries when he realizes that there's no more, and that the burn in his throat is still there. “It still hurts.”

“I know,” Minho says soothingly, reaching out for him. “We can hunt, but it will need to wait for tonight.”

Changbin runs his tongue over his burgeoning fangs. “Why not now?”

“Sun’s out,” Minho explains, tracing his fingers up Changbin’s jaw. “We don't go out in the sun. Now let me see your fangs.”

There's a beat of hesitation before Changbin drops his jaw; his human memories are certainly fuzzy and distant and he's probably having a hard time stringing together a thought with how fresh he is.

His mouth is slick, his glands pumping out venom almost before he can swallow it. Minho will keep an eye on that, but it will be a while before that decreases, he thinks.

He locates Changbin’s dull little fangs and presses up; he whimpers at the pressure, which probably soothes the aching need to bite that he feels. The venom is pooling out over his bottom lip again, but Minho doesn't pay it any mind.

The fangs are longer than they'd been as a human, he notes with pleasure, and already more prominent than he might have expected for such a young thing. They'll grow to be long, he expects, and they're starting to sharpen to a point.

When Minho withdraws his fingers, Changbin gives a small bite to them, probably missing the pressure. And he immediately shrinks back, as if expecting to be chastised; Minho instead proffers his forearm.

“Chew on me,” he offers, feeling Changbin’s fingers curl around his wrist. “I know it aches, and the sun won't set for several hours.”

Changbin sets to gnawing on his arm, mauling it. It doesn't matter, the abundant venom heals the wounds over almost faster than Changbin can chew them. Minho doesn't mind; it will keep him settled until nightfall, when they'll need to dispose of the corpses and find Changbin fresh blood.

Changbin is ravenous, and a born hunter. Minho takes him a little ways out of the city to be safe, keeping a firm, chastising grip on the nape of his neck to keep him from snapping at passing humans.

He seems to resent this, but it's just the bloodlust talking, Minho thinks. He seems to recognize Minho as his superior, even if it's a little bit subconsciously. When he's fully lucid, Minho will have plenty of daylight hours to rigorously lay out their rules and culture to him.

“There’s a need for discretion among our kind,” Minho hisses into his ear, his fingers digging into the sensitive skin at the base of his skull. “We can't have you slaughtering the city.”

“Burns,” Changbin protests weakly, applying pressure to his own fangs, clawing at his parched throat.

“I know, baby,” Minho murmurs, rubbing at his nape to soothe him, then tightening his grip as a particularly tempting-smelling lady passes by them. “I think you'll be able to drink your fill tonight regardless.”

He's grateful the clothes that Changbin had come with are all black; despite their best efforts, he'd been a little messy with the corpses, but the bloodstains don't show.

It’s a quick, brisk walk to the edge of town. Here’s where the drunks and junkies gather, the people that Minho knows well enough won't have people looking for them should they go missing. They aren't the choicest pickings, but it shouldn't matter much to someone as fresh as Changbin, and his hunting demands will be much higher than Minho’s for the next several decades at least.

But he doesn't release him yet, gripping his neck tighter. “You’ll aim to go unnoticed,” Minho instructs in a low voice. “One at a time. Bite them, but make sure your venom seals the wounds when you've finished them. We’ll have to dispose of their bodies.”

Changbin blinks, his face blank.

Minho’s grip tightens. “Understood?”

Changbin lurches to himself and nods vigorously. “Yes, uh-huh.”

“What did I say?” Minho asks gently—because this is important. Really, ideally, he'd be able to hunt for Changbin until he's in better control, but it just isn't feasible.

“Sneaky,” he mumbles, wiping a smear of venom from his mouth onto his jacket. “One at a time. Um—seal wounds? How do I…?”

“Your venom does it,” Minho instructs. “And you're making so much of it you shouldn't need to make a conscious effort—but I do expect you to check after yourself. Okay?”

“Okay,” Changbin says. “It—Minho, it hurts.”

“I know,” he says sympathetically, and swipes at Changbin’s slick bottom lip. “Go ahead—be careful.”

He releases Changbin, who moves supernaturally fast to the nearest victim, an old man slumped against the dirty brick wall of the alley, seemingly unconscious.

He drains him quickly and with greater relish than Minho would have mustered—but this blood is fresh and warm, which is always better than what’s left in a corpse after a few days.

He lets Changbin have free rein, especially once it's clear that he is being careful, stealthy despite his bulk and carefully checking his bite with each victim, making sure the venom has left the skin entirely smooth.

Minho gathers the corpses as they go, dragging them by their shirt collars behind him, and he stops Changbin once he's cleared the area, a dozen-ish bodies drained.

He's smoothing his tongue over his fangs again, venom dripping from his mouth, and Minho reaches out tenderly, gripping around the back of his neck and watching him go pliant.

“Still thirsty, aren't you?” he asks sympathetically, and Changbin nods.

“Here, take half of these so we can dispose of them,” Minho says, indicating a half dozen or so for Changbin to grab. “We’ll see if there are any humans camping in the woods for you.”

But, really, Minho thinks, Changbin is a natural at this—like he'd been born for it.

They're sure to make it home before sunrise, and even handle disposing of some of the corpses Changbin had initially drained, though there are so many that they'll have to do it piecemeal.

And then with the sun in the sky and the pair of them trapped for the day, Minho draws Changbin into his lap to check his fangs, though surely they haven't changed since yesterday.

“You—” Changbin tries, dazed from his feeding and from Minho’s affection. Mating isn't something to be rushed, and usually isn't done until the initial bloodlust subsides, but Changbin is so open and easy, he thinks. “What about yours?” he makes out at last. “You—only one fang.”

“Yes,” Minho murmurs, tracing the singular puncture that makes up the bite on his neck. It's still obviously a vampire bite, just missing the second puncture. “I… lost it.”

“That can happen?” Changbin asks, smoothing his tongue protectively over his own fangs, already attached to them. It makes sense; they're his lifeline.

“No, not usually,” Minho assures him. “This was—mine was—well, it was removed.”

“Removed?” he mumbles, stretching for Minho’s arm without permission, needing to soothe the ache in his jaw.

“Punishment,” Minho says lightly. “I was staying with another coven temporarily, and they thought that I insulted them.”

Changbin blinks, gnawing on Minho’s arm thoughtfully before drawing back with another question. “What did you do?” he asks, in a sheepish way that implies that he knows it's a sensitive subject. But Minho gets it—he wants to avoid the same fate.

“Nothing that deserved a punishment so harsh,” Minho insists. “They thought I insulted their hierarchy—which I didn’t. Even if I had, a first time offense wouldn't warrant such a punishment.” He pauses, sees Changbin’s wide eyes. He hadn't expected to feel so… paternal towards his charge. “Our kind are solitary for a reason,” Minho says, stroking his hair. “You can't trust others of our kind just because they're also like us.”

“We’re solitary?” Changbin asks, cocking his head, and Minho quickly works to correct him.

“Not always,” Minho says hastily. “Not if you have a coven, like us.”

“We’re—coven?”

“Of course,” he says fondly, patting Changbin’s fuzzy hair. “I made you.”

“Made me,” Changbin repeats, pensive. He's doing a lot of that—repeating. Like he's trying to wrap his head around it.

Minho knows that he knows Minho is his creator instinctively. But cerebrally, whether he's connected the dots, is another story. The first few weeks of a newborn’s life are pretty hazy and feeding-focused, and there isn't much else they can focus on.

It will come to him, Minho presumes. “Yes, dear,” he says for now, knowing it won't yet stick. “I made you.” And he fingers the puncture mark on Changbin’s neck that proves it.

Changbin doesn't come out of his daze all at once, but slowly.

Minho thinks he's doing a decent job of coven leader—not as good as Chan, but Chan was always a good bit more nurturing than he is, anyway.

But Changbin has moments of increasing lucidity over the following weeks, as if he's at last processing the change he's undergone. It’s usual, it's expected, and Minho thinks he's prepared for it.

But one day Changbin flinches from his touch, when he’d just been perfectly content to let Minho coo over his budding fangs, his overactive venom glands.

And he frowns. “You made me,” he recalls, his tone flat, and Minho cocks his head.

“Yes,” he reminds him, reaching to stroke his cheek.

Changbin pulls back. “I—I didn't ask for this,” he says, as if he’s sifting through the foggy human memories at last. “You—why—?”

Minho settles his hands instead on Changbin’s waist. “It's hard for me,” he admits. “With my one fang. I needed somebody else.”

He frowns, brow furrowing. “Why me?”

“You’re strong,” Minho says. “Intimidating, at least on the surface.”

Changbin’s frown deepens. “But you—you ambushed me, right? Just grabbed me and—and turned me? Dragged me from my human life?”

“Yeah,” Minho agrees with a nod. “I don't think you would have been receptive to it, not without a lot of work on my end.”

“That’s wrong,” Changbin says with conviction, flinging himself off of Minho, like he can't bear to be near him.

Minho cocks his head, a curious reaction. “That's how it usually works,” he says slowly. Changbin’s fingers are scraping the hardwood floor below him, his eyes filled with hatred and confusion. “I mean—my creator turned me because I was dying and he wanted a coven. You weren't dying, but…?”

But it's far from unheard of. It's really the more indulgent vampires—like Chan—who only turn the sick, dying ones. Most other vampires want someone strong, capable—and that means snatching an able-bodied human and turning it. It's how Chan had been turned, Minho knows.

“You—this is my life!” Changbin protests, horrified. “I had a life, before all this. I—well, I don't remember well, but you just—just—played god and made me a monstrous immortal?”

This is a strange tantrum, Minho thinks. He doesn't think he gets it—what does Changbin care about his old human life he can't even remember? He thinks that their life is probably objectively better. Top of the food chain, strong, fast, basically immortal… It's a blessing, Minho thinks. He might have played god, as Changbin said, but he acted as a benevolent one, he thinks.

“You have a life now,” Minho says gently. “A better one, I’d think.”

“I—how many humans have I killed the past few weeks?” Changbin demands.

There's no estimating. His thirst had been great, and Minho was all too eager to allow him to gorge. “You’ve been very thirsty,” Minho praises. “It's a good thing. You’re feeding well.”

But rather than the soothing effect Minho had expected, rather than the satisfied keen he might let out ordinarily, Changbin looks stunned, horrified. He spins on his heel and plants himself firmly on the floor, hands fisting in his hair.

Minho walks over carefully, squats beside him. “It’s… distressing that you're killing humans?” he ventures, though he's unsure. There's a disconnect here.

“And that you've condemned me to do it,” Changbin insists, not even looking at him.

Condemned is… a strong word. But despite the amount Changbin has been feeding, they've been careful with disposal and all. He doesn't think anyone is any wiser. Settling in such a large city has its perks.

“You’re upset at me for doing this to me,” Minho reiterates, trying to make sure he’s understanding.

“Correct,” Changbin spits out bitterly.

“I don't understand,” he admits, and Changbin flinches. He reaches out a hand to comfort Changbin regardless, and he flinches away from that, too, shrugs Minho’s hand off his shoulder.

And this is… new. Perplexing. Minho doesn't know where to start—his dead heart pangs for Chan for the first time in a while. Chan would know what to do, he'd be able to empathize or at least sympathize. He’s no good at this coven leader stuff, and he's out of his depth. Wherever Chan is, he hopes he's okay.

In the absence of any other ideas, he decides to leave Changbin be. Maybe he needs some quiet reflection to mourn the loss of his humanity. Minho doesn't recall ever doing anything of the sort, but—but everyone's different, right?

Except when night falls, Changbin refuses to go hunting with him, and Minho frowns.

“I know you're thirsty,” Minho says.

“I’m not knowingly going out to kill humans,” Changbin insists flatly, still refusing to look at him.

Minho blinks, confused. “You’re getting really good at killing them quickly,” he praises. “I don't think they ever know what hit them. Dead before they know.”

He’d thought it’d be comforting to Changbin, but it seems to have the opposite effect. And he staunchly refuses to go, and Minho has been feeding more than usual with Changbin around, anyway.

So he sits on the floor in Changbin’s vicinity and continues to let him stew.

It's a few days, Minho thinks, trying to keep track of the rising and falling sun. The self control for a newborn is pretty impressive, and he doesn't speak to Changbin or pressure him. He has a feeling this is a realization he needs to reach for himself.

And then, desperately, Changbin whips around to him. In the absence of his feedings, his venom production has ramped back up and his whole mouth is slick.

“What happens if we don’t feed?” he finally thinks to ask, half-crazed.

“This,” Minho says, gesturing vaguely to him. “You’ll get crazier and crazier until you lose control. Not ideal, when you live in a crowded place among humans.”

“Your downstairs neighbor,” Changbin says, his voice raw and desperate. “He smells so good.”

Minho tilts his head. He doesn't notice his human neighbors much, as he considers them to be off-limits, feeding-wise.

It’s daylight, and feeding isn't feasible right now as a result. He scoots closer to Changbin, extends his arm. Changbin chomps on it immediately, needing some form of relief.

“We’ll go hunting tonight,” Minho promises. “Starving yourself isn't feasible.”

“I drink so much more than you,” Changbin mumbles, distraught.

“I’m much older than you,” Minho asserts. Nevermind that he's never had Changbin’s thirst, but he can sense that isn't the correct thing to say. “Let me check your fangs, okay?”

“Won’t have grown,” Changbin acknowledges. “Haven't fed.”

“I know,” Minho says. “I just like doing it, Changbin.”

And the pressure of Minho’s fingers in his mouth soothes the ache—he allows it, how exhausted and worn-down he is from resisting. It isn't in their nature, Minho thinks, restraint.

Chapter Text

The knock at the door stuns Minho from his trance. It isn’t unusual for him to go still and quiet in the daylight hours; Changbin takes to ignoring him more often than not and he’s immortal—if he wastes a day staring into nothing, it doesn’t really matter.

But the knock—it’s troubling. Perplexing. People don’t come to call on them.

Changbin perks up, too, buried in a book he’d gotten from the library on the couch he’d insisted on buying. And he frowns over at Minho. “You paid our rent, didn’t you?” he asks—people really don’t call on them.

“Of course I did,” Minho insists, because he always does. They don’t hurt for money as much, and Changbin has gotten over his nobility enough in his decade of unlife to root through his victims’ pockets for cash. They make rent every month. They can occasionally purchase indulgent frivolities such as sofas so their apartment isn’t so empty. And Changbin is about ready to start a riot over a need for a TV, which will make the electric bill go up…

But Minho addresses the concerning knock on the door first. Certainly human—Minho can smell him from here. It’s a tempting scent, one that might make Minho turn his head if they were out in public.

“It’s the upstairs neighbor,” Changbin realizes softly. “The one who smells nice.”

Minho hasn’t been told about any neighbor who smells nice—Changbin had kept that from him, like he does so many other things. He resents Minho and has never quite gotten over it. He has his soft, tender moments, but they’re fewer and further between. He’ll be coming out of his infancy in perhaps another decade, and Minho fears he’ll wisen up and leave, and he’ll be alone and with one fang again. It’s what he’d been dwelling on when the Very Concerning Knock had come.

But it’s the upstairs neighbor, and who knows what he wants. Better to just open the door, leer at him, and hope he gets the message that Minho and Changbin aren’t exactly friendly.

Minho flings the door open, intending to glare at the guy and let his offputting vibes, his natural human repellant, do the job.

But the door opens and the little human is standing there, roughly Minho’s height but somehow so much smaller. Wide, wet eyes, full cheeks, and an eager expression on his face.

“What?” Minho asks flatly when it’s clear the human won’t recoil.

“Oh!” he says, as if he’d gotten lost staring at Minho. A ridiculous thought, in and of itself, he thinks. “I’m Han Jisung, I live right upstairs?” His tone inflects upwards at the end, as if he isn’t sure.

“Okay,” Minho says. “And did you need something?”

His nerves show through, and his hands wring in front of his torso. But it doesn’t seem to be Minho making him uncomfortable, but the situation. “Um, this is embarrassing,” he admits, and then thrusts a jar forward, which Minho doesn’t accept, only slides his eyes down to. “I just—I really want some fucking toast and I dug this jar of strawberry jam out from the back of my fridge and I’ve been trying for fifteen minutes and I can’t get it open.”

Minho blinks, deciphering the human’s run-on sentence. He had come down here… to unknown neighbors… hoping for assistance in making a snack. For—for strawberry jam.

Minho really doesn’t know anything about humans.

But if that’s all he wants…

He reaches out for the jar, which Jisung helpfully thrusts into his grasp. He situates his hands on the glass, on the lid, and twists.

It opens easily, and he extends the open jar back out to Jisung, who has brightened considerably. “You’re a lifesaver!” he exclaims, beaming. Then, a nervous laugh—at the situation, not at Minho, who is more ancient than Jisung’s human mind could comprehend. “Hey, if I ever have a hard time opening a jar, it’s nice to know I have a strong neighbor downstairs, you know?”

And then Minho says something odd. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t socialize with humans and he’s out of practice. Maybe it’s because Jisung has wide, pretty, sincere eyes and something about him resonates with Minho. Fuck, maybe he’s just a pretty, tempting little human and Minho is only so strong.

But he opens his mouth and insists, “Anytime,” and Jisung’s eyes sparkle as he nods agreement.

“I, uh, didn’t catch your name?” Jisung inquires, raising an eyebrow.

“Because I didn’t offer it,” Minho points out, and there’s a heavy pause between them before he sighs and states, “Minho.” Then he nods his head back to where Changbin is watching from the couch. “That’s Changbin.”

Jisung’s eyes widen at Changbin’s biceps, maybe plotting his next jam jar catastrophe, and he nods a greeting to him. “Well—thank you!” he exclaims again. “I’ll, um, let you two get on with your day, okay?”

There are polite nods, and Jisung backs towards the hallway stairs as Minho shuts the door.

“Weird dude,” Changbin notes, though he suddenly seems too engrossed in his book.

Minho graciously ignores this fact and shrugs. “He’s a human. Aren’t they all a little off?”

Minho still supervises Changbin’s hunting, and he knows he's conflicted about it. But it's a pretty animalistic thing, giving in to instinct, and Minho knows he's at least partially grateful for Minho keeping him in check. On the other hand, he does encourage Changbin to drink more—because he needs it. Because getting away with the bare minimum isn't good enough for him.

It’s a delicate, tense thing they have going, and Minho knows that it's a matter of time before they implode.

But Changbin is still too young to be independent, and he's exhausted enough coming back from their hunting that he allows Minho to settle an arm around his shoulders. They might have stayed out longer, but their time is constrained, as ever, by the sun.

Climbing the stairs and coming up on their door, there’s a tin foil-covered paper plate on the floor, a helpful note propped on top of it.

They exchange a look, because their neighbors mind their own business—that's what's so great about this place. Lax, old-fashioned landlord, uninterested neighbors.

Changbin is the one who stoops for the note, and he reads aloud for Minho’s benefit.

“Minho and Changbin,” he starts, with a wary glance to Minho. “Thanks again for saving my breakfast the other day. It's a small token of my appreciation, but I’m trying to learn how to live alone, and that includes watching a lot of baking shows. Enjoy the cookies. Love, Jisung.”

“Love?” Minho asks, wrinkling his nose and snatching the note from Changbin. It still smells faintly of the human.

“And cookies,” Changbin says flatly, peeling the tin foil off the plate and extending it to Minho to see.

He doesn't quite know what the standards for homemade cookies are, but they look homemade, Minho supposed. Rustic. Uneven, varying sizes, rough texture. Minho isn't the best judge of human food.

“Come on,” Minho says, brushing past Changbin to enter their apartment, the note clutched in his fist. Changbin follows, balancing the plate of cookies on his hand. “What, I wasn't threatening enough?”

“You could have laid it on thicker,” Changbin admits.

“Usually I don't have to try,” Minho fusses. “What’s wrong with him? We’re supposed to be naturally repulsive to humans. They think we’re offputting.”

Changbin shrugs, inspecting the cookies again. “I don't think it's a bad thing. He’s just a little dense, maybe.”

“Next time I see him, I’ll flash him my fangs,” Minho plots, because he cannot be friendly with a human. Changbin is too young, and Minho is too unused to humans.

“Fang,” Changbin corrects impassively. “And do what you want, but I don't think it's the worst thing in the world to have a friendly human neighbor.”

“It’s—our kinds don't mix,” Minho insists sharply, thinking of Jisung’s doe eyes and pigeon toes. He was an especially vulnerable one, he thinks, easy pickings. And not being frightened of them, a particularly easy target.

Changbin shrugs again. “You tell me all these things like they’re fact, but I think some of it is just your opinion, or else tradition from centuries ago. We live in a human building and pay rent to a human landlord.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Minho mutters, and Changbin walks the plate of cookies to their desolate kitchen counter—maybe he thinks it feels wrong to throw them down the garbage chute.

And that's the first bad sign, he thinks—attaching sentimentality to a human’s mindless little gesture.

Jisung returns, as if he's determined to make knocks on their door a regular and welcome thing.

And, almost before Minho can react, Changbin is darting to the door and throwing it open.

Minho can see Jisung jolt at the sudden motion—things like that startle humans, and Changbin hasn't interacted with them enough to remember. Still, Jisung offers him a smile as he straightens up.

“Changbin, right?” he checks.

“Yes,” he verifies. “Jisung.”

He beams at Changbin recalling his name, as if he hadn't offered it less than a week ago and then left it on their doorstep with a plate of cookies.

“Another jam jar that needs loosening?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.

The blood rushes all to his cheeks, staining them pretty pink and also making the scent of him swell and crest. Minho tenses, ready to tug Changbin back if needed, but he seems relaxed.

“N-no, actually,” he insists, though he shamefully thrusts forward another jar of some sort. “Ice cream this time. I need to stop buying this kind because last time I had to saw through the top with a knife and it slipped and I almost cut my finger off and I don't really even know where the nearest emergency room is—”

“Give it here,” Changbin says kindly, cutting off his rambling. It must be a nervous habit or something, Minho thinks.

Minho wonders what would happen if their very tempting upstairs neighbor were to bleed profusely just over their heads. Probably he’d have to wrestle Changbin out of the building and hope Jisung was wise enough to get himself to a human hospital—though something in him strongly doubts this.

In any case, Changbin twists the lid off the ice cream easily and passes it back to Jisung, but not before looking at the label.

“Raspberry,” he notes. “Sounds good.”

“Oh, do you want some?” Jisung offers immediately, extending the open jar back out.

Changbin immediately raises both hands up. “No, no, that's not what I meant,” he insists. “And—thank you for the cookies. They were delicious,” he lies—they’re still sitting on the kitchen counter, untouched. Minho thinks Changbin will let them go moldy before he has it in him to throw them out.

Jisung beams at him. “Well, what are neighbors for?” he asks rhetorically, then peeks around Changbin to where Minho is lurking. “Minho, you want any?”

“I’m good,” he insists curtly—Jisung speaks too familiarly, like he knows them. Like they're anything more than aloof neighbors who have extended a favor to him a couple of times. It’s like Jisung is trying to wriggle his way in—like he wants to get to know them, of his own volition.

Is he stupid?

“Okay, well,” he says, clutching the opened ice cream to his chest. “Thanks again.”

Changbin grins broadly and echoes Minho’s former sentiment. “Anytime, Jisung.”

Minho does not dwell on the human, because humans are mostly beneath his notice. Not once in his millennium of life has he let a human invade his mind, and he isn't going to start.

But the daylight hours are long, and Jisung lives just above them, and it's kind of impossible not to tune in to his footsteps overhead.

Wherever he works, he tends to leave in the early hours before the sun is up and comes back around midday. And then his footsteps usually track all over the apartment, sometimes softly humming to himself. He settles by nightfall, but he sometimes doesn't go to bed until late—Minho can tell when he’s asleep by the slowing of his heart.

He thought humans might require more sleep. But he uses an alarm to wake up in the morning, loud enough that Minho thinks he could hear it through the ceiling even without his enhanced hearing. It sounds for a long time, as if Jisung is unrousable.

And by the time Minho realizes that he's keeping tabs on Jisung, it's already too late—he's attached to a human, which is despicable somehow.

Changbin is no better, for what it's worth. Minho can tell he's also listening for Jisung’s footsteps, waiting for his heart to slow when he falls asleep. Already strangely protective over this human they've interacted with a handful of times.

Jisung is thanking them for the ice cream within a week, trudging up the stairs with plastic bags rustling; both Minho and Changbin recognizing his tired shuffle up the stairs after work.

And there's the now-familiar knock—they're both expecting it, and they both make it to the door at the same time. Minho holds Changbin back, insists they wait a few seconds so as not to startle the human.

After a very intentional count to five, Minho at last throws the door open.

Jisung seems a little startled to see both of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder and crammed in the doorway. And, in turn, Minho is surprised to see him in proper clothes from work—the other two times, he's been in plaid pajama pants and a worn T-shirt.

“Hi!” he greets, and thrusts the rustling plastic bags out. One has a carrier with coffee cups, Minho realizes, and the other is stuffed with pastries. “We had leftovers from work, and I also thought I’d make both of you coffees. I don't know if you're coffee drinkers, but…”

Changbin smiles. “That's very kind. You don't have to thank us for being neighborly.”

“It's for keeping me out of the ER,” he admits in a sheepish mumble. “I mean, if I’d tried to saw that ice cream lid off myself…” He shakes his head to clear his thoughts and refocuses on the two of them. “And, I mean, it’s just free stuff from work. Danishes, croissants. And my boss kind of lets me make whatever drinks I want as long as I don't waste too much product, so it isn't even, like, a big thing,” he promises, eyes shining as he thrusts the two bags forward.

“Unnecessary,” Minho insists, as Changbin reaches out to accept the bags, careful that his icy skin doesn't brush Jisung’s.

“Um, maybe,” he admits. “Just—my mom always made a point to be kind to the neighbors, so if you get in a pinch, you have someone to count on,” he admits. “And this is kind of the first time I’m living on my own and I think I’m kind of bad at it.”

“Why don't you live with your mother, then?” Minho mumbles—he doesn't think it's unheard of for humans Jisung’s age to stay with parents.

But his eyes water and his voice cracks. “Um,” he says, and Minho gets it.

“Okay,” he says, his voice softening as he raises two hands as if to halt his tears. “I get it, I’m sorry.”

“You don't have to butter us up,” Changbin says. “We’re okay with being neighborly for the sake of being neighborly, Jisung.”

“Okay,” he returns, and something in the way he says it alerts Minho to the fact that Jisung has no intention of stopping.

But they leave it there for now; Jisung turns on his heel and flounces up the stairs for his own apartment.

Changbin carefully walks the bag of offerings from Jisung to the kitchen counter, then turns to Minho. “I like him,” he says, as if he fears Minho’s reaction.

“I think he makes it hard not to like him,” Minho says dryly, folding his arms over his chest.

“Just—he's alone, and he's scared,” Changbin reasons. “Can't we help him?”

Minho quirks an eyebrow, because surely Changbin, of all people, isn't suggesting…? “You mean turn him?”

“No!” he denies immediately, vehemently. “Just—I like him, and I want to help him. Protect him. What do we do?”

It's the nurturing, protective instinct Minho had initially turned Changbin for, rising to the surface at last. At this stage in Changbin’s life, it's still mostly Minho looking out for him, but there's something touching about seeing it work the other way around, even if it’s for the pathetic human who lives above them.

Minho shrugs. “What we’ve been doing. It seems if the human needs help, he knows to come to us.” He pauses, adds an ironic smile. “We’re welcoming.”

“You like him, too,” Changbin insists. “Otherwise you would have told him to get lost by now. Just—feels like there's more we could do than wait for him to come to us.”

And there is, Minho supposes—but that might be getting too close to the human, which is a bad idea by any metric.

Changbin is convinced to get closer to the human. He and Minho don't talk much, at least not more than is strictly necessary, but Changbin talks to him about Jisung.

“The café he works at is far,” Changbin notes one day, back from another foray to the library. He probably searched it up on the computer there, Minho thinks. “Across the city.”

He hums noncommittally. It doesn't matter if the café is in outer space, and it definitely doesn't bother him that Jisung is taking the train in the little hours of the morning when all the weirdos are out.

“I mean, he's kind of helpless,” Changbin ventures. “And aren't there dangerous people on the train so early…?”

“So, what?” Minho asks. “If the human wanted help, he'd come to us.”

“I mean,” Changbin says. “It’s still dark when he goes to work, and it's not like I’m doing anything then, anyway.”

“Hunting,” Minho points out.

“Not every night,” Changbin says. “And we’re usually done by the time Jisung would be heading out.”

“You want to escort him to work,” Minho says flatly, though somehow with a tone of incredulity.

“Maybe!” he says. “And not even escort, necessarily, just… see him there. Safely. He looks… easy to fuck with.”

“So you're going to stalk him?” Minho asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Absolutely not,” Changbin denies. “I’ll—look, maybe I just coincidentally also have a commute to that part of the city at the same time. Maybe I have a job over there.”

“That'll unravel fast,” Minho scoffs, though he doubts Changbin cares. The closer they get to Jisung, the harder it'll be to hide that they aren't normal. Jisung might have already picked up on that, if he weren't so insufferably dense about everything. “You’re still young,” Minho insists. “I should go.”

Changbin makes a face. “I can handle myself.”

“Maybe,” Minho acknowledges. “But I would worry. What if you get caught with the sun up?”

“I’ll hang out in the train station,” Changbin insists. “What would you being there do, anyway?”

“Make me feel better,” Minho says. “It's selfish of me, I’m being selfish. And—say someone did threaten Jisung. What would you do, snap the guy’s neck then and there?”

“No!” he insists, though there's a sheepishness there that betrays the fact that he hadn't thought about it.

“I’m going,” Minho decides, with all the authority he can muster as coven leader. “Deal with it.”

And, well, Changbin has no choice but to acquiesce, lowering his head in submission.

They intercept Jisung the next morning, exiting their apartment as they hear him heavily trudge down their staircase. He stops short on seeing them, tilting his head to the side.

“Good morning,” he ventures, and teeters on his heels. “Going out or coming in?”

“Going out,” Changbin says, making for the stairs. “We have business on the other side of the city.”

“Oh,” Jisung says, following him down the stairs with a new pep in his step. “Me too! Well, I mean, it's just work. Where are you two going?”

“Starting a new job,” Minho says stiffly, his eyes shifting over to Changbin.

“Both of you? Same place?” Jisung asks. It does seem a little unbelievable, but Jisung isn't fazed. “That's cool! Hey, maybe we’ll commute some of the way together, yeah?”

The entire way, with them going as far as to deliver Jisung to the doorstep of the café, though he doesn't know it yet.

Changbin doesn't give anything away, just softly smiles and mumbles, “Yeah, maybe.”

The train station isn't a far walk; Minho’s never been. But there's no one out this early in the morning—no one except troublemakers, really. Jisung seems blissfully ignorant to this fact, bebopping past seedy establishments and leering men without a care in the world.

And, really, they should have started doing this sooner, Minho thinks as he scowls at a nearby roughneck, who immediately cringes back. No wonder Jisung isn't frightened of him and Changbin—he seems to have no awareness, no common sense, no feel for danger at all.

The sidewalk is wide enough for two; Changbin walks alongside Jisung up front and engages him in conversation while Minho hangs behind and scowls at anyone who looks in their direction.

Descending into the train station, Minho fingers the metro card in his pocket. Changbin had taken care of that, knowing far more about the workings of the human subway than Minho could ever hope to, and he watches closely at how Jisung and Changbin swipe their cards and pass through the gates.

He manages it seamlessly, slipping in after the other two and following them to the proper platform—which really means that Changbin is letting Jisung lead the way. He seems thrilled when Changbin and Minho follow him onto the train, and when he tells Changbin his stop, Changbin affirms that that's the stop they're getting off at, too.

“Wow, lucky,” Jisung says, buzzing with enthusiasm and reaching to hold a strap as the train lurches forward.

Despite the early hour and the fact that humans should be sleepy, Minho thinks, Jisung positively chatters their ears off the half hour or so it takes to get to his stop. It's endearing—Minho is reminded of the fact that he seems to talk more when he's nervous.

He’s endeared. By a human. With sparkling doe eyes and a pretty flush to his cheeks and what's probably an unhealthy stance, orthopedically speaking.

He doesn't really know what to do about that. Maybe a decade ago he would have considered turning him to keep him forever, but—but Changbin. And, anyway, he’d lose his blushy cheeks and his twinkly eyes and his humanity, which Minho thinks is the part he likes most about Jisung, anyway.

He ponders and ponders but comes no closer to figuring out what to do about Jisung and the stirring he senses in his dead chest when he looks at him.

Changbin has good insight sometimes. Maybe he'll ask him.

But they reach Jisung's stop and emerge into a busier station, one that's less sketchy. Minho wonders why Jisung lives all the way over by them when this is inarguably a nicer area of the city, safer.

But the sun hasn't yet cracked over the skyscrapers of the business district, and so they follow Jisung all the way to his café, which is dark and closed—up to Jisung to open, then.

“This is me,” he announces, fumbling for his key. “Um… you guys have a little further to go?”

“Just a bit,” Changbin confirms with a smile. “But have a nice shift.”

“Oh!” he says as he finally gets the door open. “It’ll take me a second to get everything going, but if you want a coffee or something, I could make something really quick?” There it is again, the upwards inflection at the end, making it seem like a question, like it's something he's unsure of. Minho doesn't understand it, but it's cute nonetheless.

“Sure,” Changbin agrees without waiting for Minho's input, breezing right behind Jisung and into the dark café.

“What do you want?” Jisung asks, cutting on lights and tying an apron around his waist. “Whatever you want.”

Minho’s eyes draw up to the pegboard menu fixed above the counter. The words don't particularly mean anything to him.

“Just an iced americano for me,” Changbin says with a warm smile.

“Caramel macchiato,” Minho reads off at random, wondering if he's pronouncing it right.

Jisung seems amused by his choice. “I didn't peg you for a caramel macchiato guy,” he admits, but sets to work on the intimidating looking espresso machine, handling the complicated thing with ease. Changbin also seems unreasonably amused by Minho’s random choice—he wonders why. What it means.

It’s near sunrise; he and Changbin will have to hurry back unless they want to hunker down in a train station for the day. Minho actually doesn’t really mind—he can dissociate anywhere—but Changbin will probably be fidgety and bored without his books to stimulate his mind. Minho thinks it’s a little ridiculous, the lengths he goes to to amuse himself.

But Jisung finishes their drinks and passes them over with a cheerful smile. “One iced americano, one caramel macchiato,” he announces. “I’d offer pastries, but I actually have to prepare those…”

“All good,” Changbin says, flashing him a smile. “Have a good shift, okay?”

“Hey, you too!” he says, and Minho follows Changbin out of the café, cradling his cup of very-hot something in his icy hand.

“What’s funny about a caramel ma—whatever?” Minho asks with a frown.

“You’re kind of a grouchy guy to order something so sweet,” Changbin says, and although they walk past a trash can, he doesn’t throw away the coffee he can’t drink. Minho expects it will join their growing collection of inedible human food on the kitchen counter.

It’s later the same day when Minho’s blank, wandering mind at last fixates again on his conundrum from this morning—and he has a feeling Changbin is thinking of Jisung, too.

“I find Jisung endearing,” Minho pipes up out the blue, and Changbin looks up distractedly from his book. “A human.”

“You say it like it’s a problem,” Changbin mutters, probably willing him to shut up.

Minho frowns. “It is,” he insists. “Like—if I liked someone this much, I’d probably turn them, right? But what I like about Jisung is all the human stuff. The blood in his cheeks and his stupidity and everything.”

“You’re not turning him,” Changbin insists firmly, even though Minho had just said that he didn’t want to. “You can like Jisung as a human, that’s perfectly fine.”

“You like Jisung, too,” Minho notes, because he isn’t even particularly subtle about it. “What do we do?”

“What we’ve been doing,” Changbin mutters. “Helping when he asks, and maybe sometimes when he doesn’t.”

Minho hates this answer, for some reason. “I don’t like that,” he insists, and Changbin sighs, slams his book shut.

“So, what?” he asks. “You want to make him part of the coven?”

Minho freezes, trying to process this. Jisung. Part of the coven. But not turned. Human. Fragile.

It’s arguably the best place for him—between Minho and Changbin they could manage to keep him safe. Adjusting to a human schedule and having to accommodate human necessities might prove difficult, but Minho would be willing to try for Jisung.

“I didn’t mean to make you short-circuit,” Changbin mutters. “I was mostly kidding.”

“But we could,” Minho says, pivoting slowly to where Changbin is lounging on the couch.

“We’re not—”

“We wouldn’t have to turn him,” he says immediately, knowing Changbin’s main protest. “He could be human and be in the coven.”

Changbin blinks at him as he processes this, as a serious consideration and not a passing joke. “How would we even ask him?” he wonders, hesitant. “We would have to—to come clean. To tell him everything. What if he doesn’t want to be in the coven?”

Minho frowns. “Why wouldn’t he?” He’d get protection, love, and for honestly very little in return. There isn’t much a human could contribute, and it speaks to how much they like him, that they’re willing to consider it.

“We’re monsters,” Changbin asserts. “He’ll be scared and-or horrified. We kill his kind.”

“If he weren't stupid,” Minho argues, “he’d already have enough sense to fear us without us explicitly telling him what we are. I think it won't make a difference.”

Changbin goes quiet, pensive. Not angry, the way he often feels to Minho, just thoughtful. And then he decides: “I don't want to risk it. I can't—I don't want to lose him.”

Minho thinks that they have a perfectly safe and logical backup plan in just turning him anyway—but he can see the flaws in that. He won't retain his squishy humanity, and it won't be the same as it is now. Minho, for once, thinks he can see where Changbin is coming from.

But it doesn't satisfy him. “I’m unhappy with things the way they are,” he protests, crossing his arms over his chest.

“And I’m unhappy with most things these days,” he shoots back, accusatory. “So let me have this one thing, let me have Jisung.”

Minho goes silent, considering. It'd be easy to throw his weight around as coven leader—but does he want to risk Changbin resenting him more? He can't risk it, he decides, Jisung isn't worth the implosion of his life.

“Fine,” he acquiesces. “We’ll continue things as they are.”

He hopes he comes across as charitable and benevolent, rather than the ugly bitterness he feels pooling on his tongue.

Jisung works five mornings a week, roughly 4:00 to 12:00. They can't pick him up but the city isn't so perilous in the daylight, and Jisung seems genuinely thrilled that they escort him in the morning.

Jisung has so much to say, and Minho can't help but think that he doesn't have much to say to Jisung. His existence is just that—existing—and he doesn't have hobbies or things that bring him joy like Jisung seems to. It’s just—it's Jisung that brings him joy, he thinks.

Jisung babbles about movies that he likes and the music he listens to and his favorite foods to eat. He finds out that Minho has never seen Titanic, that he has no idea who Tiger JK is, and that he's never even had a slice of cheesecake. Changbin somehow knows about all of those things, which slightly annoys Minho—but Jisung promises they'll have a movie night together. Minho doesn't care about movies or cheesecake, but he does care about Jisung.

And maybe, Minho thinks, Jisung comes closer to figuring out that they aren't like him. He doesn't think it would be the worst thing, but per Changbin’s wishes, he at least attempts to be sneaky about his inhumanity.

But it's inevitable, the amount of time they spend with Jisung. He brushes Changbin’s hand and recoils at the unexpected iciness. He invites them out in the afternoons and they politely decline with no good explanation. Jisung has never properly been in their apartment but surely he's glimpsed the state of it from their doorway, their singular piece of furniture and lack of lightbulbs.

And one morning, still groggy and leaning heavily with the overhead strap supporting him, he cocks his head at Minho. “How’d you lose your tooth?” he asks, as Changbin is conspicuously hovering behind him, ready to catch him if he falls.

He keeps his fang retracted around Jisung, a conscious effort and a bit of an annoyance, but there's no hiding the obvious gap in his mouth, the missing fang.

“In an accident,” Minho replies concisely, simply.

“Sorry,” Jisung mumbles. “You're probably sensitive about it. I didn't mean—Or, like, I was just curious—Obviously it's none of my business—”

“I’m not offended, Jisung,” Minho says gently, patting the very top of his head, touching hair only. Jisung is wedged between himself and Changbin for safety, but they're still careful to avoid touching him as much as possible.

“I just don't feel like I know much about you,” Jisung says, almost pouting at Minho. “Like—Changbin likes hip hop and he reads a lot and his favorite food is meat. I don't know any of that stuff about you.”

“Changbin and I are quite different,” Minho intones carefully. He hasn't kept up with what humans are doing in several centuries. He doesn't even know what hip hop is or what books Changbin reads. He can't remember what a singular human food tastes like, though he knows the fare was a good deal simpler when he was alive.

Jisung’s pout doesn't let up. “Okay—what's your favorite food?” he tries.

Minho doesn't have one—if pressed, he maybe has a slight affinity for blood type B. He deflects rather than answer. “I lost my tooth in a fight, of sorts,” he answers instead.

“What kind of fight?” Jisung says, his eyes widening. “Did you rough up the other guy?”

“No, it was pretty one-sided,” Minho admits. “He thought that I insulted his family, so he took my tooth.”

“Took?” Jisung asks. “You mean, like, knocked out? He punched you?”

“No,” Minho says. “It was his intention to take the tooth. Extracted, maybe, is the word.”

Jisung blinks rapidly at him, trying to make sense of this. “Like, with pliers?”

“His hand.”

“That's kind of badass,” Jisung decides. “Do you still have the tooth?”

“The other guy kept it,” Minho admits. “No idea what he did with it. Maybe he threw it away.”

“So now it's your life’s sworn mission to get it back,” Jisung says sagely, nodding. “It’s like a movie.”

Minho can't hide his amused smirk. “I’m glad you find it entertaining,” he says, and he means it.

But Jisung seems suddenly embarrassed. “I—sorry. I didn't mean to, like, make fun or anything.”

“I didn't think you were,” Minho promises. “It’s fine. It was a few years ago.” Devastatingly recent to an ancient creature like Minho, but probably not so much to Jisung, whose lifespan is comparatively short.

“You could get an implant,” Jisung suggests. “Or, like, a silver tooth—that would be fucking cool. Or, Changbin, do you think Minho would look better with silver or gold—?”

And he's gone, rambling again with little room for interjection. It feels… unexpectedly good, Minho thinks, having shared a small piece of his reality with Jisung. He doesn't have a favorite movie or a favorite food, but he has plenty of stories he could tell Jisung—if only he could explain them properly.

They're invited to Jisung’s apartment for the promised movie night; Changbin is both excited and nervous.

“I mean, he's going to offer us stuff to eat and drink, right?” he frets. “Isn't he going to figure it out?”

“Can't you just say you're not hungry?” Minho suggests, because he doesn't see what the big deal is.

“You don't eat popcorn because you’re hungry,” Changbin insists with a roll of his eyes, like this is something Minho should know. Do humans… not just eat when they're hungry? Minho didn't invent that fact, right?

“I’m going to tell him I’m not hungry if he asks,” Minho decides.

“You can just tell him the popcorn gets stuck in your fang socket,” Changbin says in exasperation. Minho doesn't really know what that means, and he also really doesn't give a fuck about watching a movie. But Jisung will be there, and he is excited, and Minho is always prepared to humor Jisung.

So, with Changbin fretting over nothing, Minho gets them upstairs to Jisung’s apartment and knocks on the door. It takes a few seconds, but then Jisung is throwing the door open with his bright, beaming smile.

His apartment is a good deal cozier than theirs. He has a couch and a rug and TV. There's a kitchen table stacked with papers and a kitchen with actual appliances. There’s light—a lot of it. Jisung has fairy lights strung over the walls that provide a warm glow and a floor lamp or two for good measure.

“Hi, welcome!” he greets, and Minho gets the impression, not for the first time, that he'd like to hug them or something of the sort. He and Changbin are so reticent and touch-resistant that they don't invite that kind of thing.

Rejection? Is it rejection? But Jisung doesn't look dejected by their lack of physical touch, or if he is, he masks it well. Minho thinks Jisung is the sort of person to wear his heart on his sleeve, anyway.

“It’s cozy in here,” Changbin compliments, and Jisung puffs with pride. Is that a thing humans are proud of? Minho could perhaps appreciate the work that went into it, but he doesn't prefer it to their own meager setup. Both are fine, he thinks, at least for him.

But Jisung grabs a bowl of popcorn—how had Changbin known? A human ritual?—and settles on the couch and he looks comfortable. Cozy, in a uniquely human way. Minho finds it cuter than he thinks he should, and Jisung pats either side of the couch, inviting them.

Minho settles on one side, sitting rigidly, and Changbin on the other. His bare skin might brush Jisung’s, for he suddenly sits bolt upright and remembers, “You run cold, right? I have some extra blankets, one second!”

He darts down the hallway presumably towards his bedroom, and Changbin pivots towards Minho. “Can you sit more naturally?” he asks with a wrinkle of his nose. “You’re on a couch, not at a job interview.”

Minho doesn't know what he means, but he properly collapses against the cushions, and Changbin seems satisfied enough with this.

Jisung returns, bearing several fluffy blankets. He extends one to Changbin and then offers the same to Minho. It will be another barrier between their skin touching, so Minho accepts it.

And Jisung has his own blanket—he’s swaddled, with a bowl of popcorn resting in his lap. “Okay,” he announces, and lurches forward to his laptop, hooked to his TV with a cord.

“Are you pirating it?” Changbin asks with marked amusement.

“Don’t turn me in,” Jisung mumbles defensively—another thread of conversation that Minho can't hope to follow. He carefully arranges the blanket around himself to cover any bare skin and turns his focus, superficially, to the TV.

Because his main focus is still on Jisung, the pulsing warmth at his side that he can sense even through the layers of blankets. He’s munching popcorn absentmindedly and occasionally trying to offer it to Minho and Changbin, though he doesn't seem to expect that they'll actually eat any.

Minho watches the movie with his eyes while internalizing none of it; Jisung might be upset, since he wanted Minho to watch this one, but he can't focus with Jisung at his side.

It’s strange, being so attuned to him but not necessarily tempted. Or—Jisung is tempting, but not in the usual way. Minho can't figure it out. He doesn't often come across a human with a scent remarkable enough that he'll seek that human out in particular, and he doesn't think Jisung’s scent is that at all.

He wants… he wants Jisung in some capacity, but certainly not to feed. Not to drain him dry and leave him still and lifeless. Not even to turn him and have him join the coven.

What it means to want Jisung in all of his humanity—Minho doesn't know. He’s never wanted a human besides a pronounced desire to feed or—in Changbin’s case—a need for protection.

It’s perplexing. He wonders if Changbin can make heads or tails of it.

Minho is just wondering how long movies last—can humans even focus this long?—when there's a soft bonk against his shoulder. He glances over, though he can already feel the warmth gently radiating across his skin.

Jisung has fallen asleep, he thinks, and plunked directly onto Minho’s shoulder. He confirms by tuning into his heartbeat, which is relaxed and slow like it gets when he sleeps.

Does he wake him…? But it's dark out, aren't humans meant to be asleep? But they sleep in beds—does he carry him to bed? Or just sit still and try to be a good pillow for Jisung?

His fretting is needless, it turns out. Jisung stirs not long after his head hits Minho’s shoulder. Maybe he's too hard, uncomfortable. Or maybe Jisung can sense how cold his skin is.

“Sorry, it's—I have an early morning,” Jisung mumbles, his lips pouted out.

“It’s okay,” Minho says, keeping his voice gentle. Aren't humans especially vulnerable like this, sleepy? “It’s—are you comfortable?”

Jisung wriggles against him, stretches his arms to wrap around one of Minho's, through the layers of blanket. “Yeah,” he mumbles, and then seems perfectly content to knock out against Minho’s shoulder.

He looks to Changbin, seeking help. Seeking expertise. Changbin looks at him with unexpected tenderness—not for him, but for Jisung—and motions for him to stay still.

Jisung’s breathing evens back out, his heartbeat slows. He rustles occasionally against Minho and he fears he’ll wake up, that he's doing something wrong, but he seems to stay pretty firmly under.

“Do I just… sit here all night?” Minho asks. Like, he will, that isn't a problem, but is it really good for Jisung?

“We can try to move him to bed,” Changbin decides, cocking his head. “I mean, this isn't a nap. It's late.”

Minho frowns. “Then why didn't he go to bed when he was awake?”

“Too comfy, probably,” Changbin deduces.

Minho doesn't get this, either, but—Jisung is an anomaly. He feels comfortable enough in the presence of his natural predators to sleep on him—it's baffling.

“We should move him,” Minho decides, because Jisung would probably be more comfortable in a bed.

“I can grab him,” Changbin says, already rising from the couch. “Just hold still.”

“Be gentle,” Minho reminds him, though Changbin has never been anything but when it comes to Jisung.

And Changbin is overwhelmingly gentle as he works his arms under Jisung’s knees, his back, and lifts him, blanket and all, to cradle against his chest.

Minho stands and follows, fretting, uncommonly worried about this fragile, sleeping human. His head is lolled against Changbin’s chest, his lips pursed out, and he looks smaller than usual. Smaller than he is, certainly.

He stirs as Changbin enters his bedroom—even though Minho had told him to be careful. And now he's woken the human, disturbed his rest, and—

“Is it late?” he mumbles, voice small and barely audible.

Minho has no fucking idea, doesn't keep track of things like time, but he pivots around until he spots a clock on Jisung’s nightstand that blinks 1:13 AM. He reads it aloud for Jisung, who hums.

“Need to be up in, like, two hours,” he whines. “Work’s gonna suck.”

“We can make sure you're awake,” Changbin says, depositing him gently in bed. Minho opens his mouth, about to offer to let Jisung sleep on him on the train again, but he can't decide if that's reasonable or not.

“You’re still cold,” Jisung grumbles, both of his hands latched around one of Changbin’s, like he doesn't want him to go. “Why didn't the blanket warm you up?”

“I told you I run cold, Jisung,” Changbin says softly.

“Spend the night,” he pouts, bundled under the blankets. “I can keep you warm.” With his free hand, he reaches for Minho. “Minho, you, too.”

“We shouldn't,” Changbin murmurs, which Minho notes is very pointedly not a no.

But Jisung is already wriggling to the center of the bed, cocooned in blankets. He pats either side of him again and waits expectantly.

Minho tries, because they shouldn’t. “Jisung—”

“Are you two, like, together, or just roommates?” he mumbles, as if this is the problem. “I can't figure it out.”

They respond at the same time, two differing answers. Minho’s “It’s complicated” mingling with Changbin’s “Not quite roommates.”

“Perfect,” Jisung says. “Sounds complicated. This is complicated. So stay.”

Changbin looks at Minho. Minho looks at Changbin. And somehow they decide in tandem—fuck it.

Changbin takes one side and Minho the other. Minho hasn't laid in a bed maybe ever, and he takes care not to touch Jisung, who is cozy and warm and sleepy.

But Jisung doesn't seem to care about that, crawling immediately atop Changbin and shivering. “You should s-see a doctor,” he insists while Changbin worriedly tucks blankets around him.

“It’s normal, I promise,” he begs, and Jisung seems content to accept that.

“Minho,” he whines, reaching for him and not stopping his complaints until Minho is pressed up against his back, feeling his warmth radiate into his cold chest.

Jisung shivers violently, but doesn't let either of them move no matter how much they try to ease away or insist that Jisung should try to warm up. And eventually, after he makes them quiet down, he manages to drift off with one hand in Minho’s and the other tangled in Changbin’s hair, sprawled across his chest.

Minho keeps an eye on the clock, because he'd promised Jisung to get him up on time, even if he secretly thinks he should be allowed to sleep longer. He’s just peaceful, pressed against Changbin’s collarbone. Where they’re pressed together has warmed up; Minho’s hand is now warm in Jisung’s limp one, and he's sure Changbin’s chest is now reflecting his heat.

But the clock turns to 3:15, and Minho reluctantly untangles his hand from Jisung’s, stroking his adequately warmed fingers through his hair.

“Jisung,” he mumbles, and Changbin also gently shakes his shoulder. “Jisung, don't you need to be up?”

“I'll call out,” he insists immediately, then gives an unconvincing cough. “I’m sick.”

“No, shouldn't you go?” Changbin tries gently, but Jisung stubbornly burrows back into the crook of his shoulder.

“Gimme my phone,” he insists, and Changbin fumbles for it on the nightstand. “Gonna tell my boss I’ve got some gnarly food poisoning, or something.”

“Are you sure—?” Minho attempts, but Jisung cuts him off.

“If I have to leave this bed to go to work I’ll kill myself,” he declares firmly, and that seems… pretty definite. Minho backs off.

Jisung taps out a message to his boss, squinting at the bright light. Then, satisfied, he chucks his phone away and turns around, facing Minho this time.

“So, should I wake you up at a certain time…?” he wonders, and Jisung frowns.

“Do you two have work…?”

“Not today,” Changbin says quickly, which is probably suspicious, but Jisung doesn't seem to care, flinging an arm around Minho’s waist and snuggling close. His chest is a little warm from Jisung’s back, warm enough that he doesn't recoil.

“Then let's just sleep,” Jisung mumbles. “Wake up when we wake up.”

That works well for the human, who passes back out near immediately. However, within a couple of hours, Changbin is tapping at Minho, who’s contentedly zoning out with Jisung breathing evenly into his neck.

“The sun,” he reminds Minho.

He blinks. The sun doesn't matter, they're inside.

But Jisung has a sizable window, and it's covered with a gauzy little curtain instead of anything that could actually block the sun. They'll have to leave, or—

Or take Jisung somewhere the sun won't reach them. “Move to the couch?” Minho suggests. They can probably get Jisung there without disturbing him too badly, and the living room is more spacious. It won't be comfortable, but as long as they avoid direct sunlight it won't be too damaging.

With Jisung slumped against Minho, Changbin again takes charge of moving him, cradling him gently and insistently detangling him from Minho.

The living room still has a window, but the sunlight is less direct. It's not comfortable, Minho’s skin beginning to tingle, but it's bearable, if it's for Jisung.

He stirs again as Changbin lowers him to the couch, dazed and confused. “What—why—?” he tries.

Changbin looks to Minho, unable to invent a reasonable excuse. “Uh,” he tries. “The sun was coming up. We thought it’d disturb you.”

Jisung scoffs, amused, and flips over onto his side. “I can sleep through that,” he insists, but doesn't ask that they return him, and doesn't seem to think about the fact that they aren't sleeping.

He goes back under quickly, and Changbin loses composure, scratching at the skin on his neck, the tingling, prickly sensation.

“Minho,” he whines, uncharacteristic. But he's still a newborn technically, and he's unused to peripheral sunlight. Minho can tolerate it better, having experienced it, but for Changbin it must be new, even frightening.

“You’re fine,” Minho promises. “It won't hurt you unless you’re in direct sunlight.” But the room awash in natural light is deeply uncomfortable, and Minho finds one of the thick blankets from last night.

Jisung has the same stupid, gauzy curtains out here that don't actually do anything, but Minho goes over to amend the situation. His arm plunges into a sunbeam and he grits his teeth. He can feel his skin sizzling, then actively burning, but he gets the stupid curtains shut. Then he drapes himself with the thick blanket and stretches up to force it over the curtain rod, to block the worst of the sunlight.

It’s not a perfect job, but it's a good deal more comfortable for Changbin. Minho’s arm is still sizzling and raw, but it will go back to normal—he hadn't been exposed but a few seconds or so.

“Are you okay?” Changbin asks, his eyes wide as he swats at Minho’s arm, the raw skin there.

“It will heal,” he says firmly, impassively. He’d done it for Changbin, who isn't used to sitting in discomfort. Maybe he was as a human, but after a decade of this new life, pain is maybe a foreign sensation for him—their kind doesn't feel pain except for very specific scenarios. Sunlight, silver—fang extraction.

They sit and allow Jisung to sleep. It's no different than how they usually pass the daylight hours, but Minho feels this is more productive than usual. They're watching over Jisung, even if he isn't necessarily in danger in his own apartment.

It takes him several hours to rouse fully, to wake naturally. Minho assumes that's what’s best for humans but—but do they really sleep with the sun high in the sky?

But Jisung stirs and stretches, blinks his bleary eyes open. “You’re still here,” he mumbles, reaching out for Minho, sitting on the floor before the couch. “You—you didn't have to stay. Probably was boring. ‘m a bad host.”

“You're fine,” Changbin says, running a hand through Jisung’s mussed hair. “Minho and I wanted to stay.”

Jisung smiles at this, then forces himself to sit up. “Want breakfast?” he offers, even though Minho is pretty sure this is human lunchtime.

Minho and Changbin exchange a look, before Minho uneasily insists, “Not hungry.”

Jisung blinks, his hands suddenly wringing in his lap. “You two are—are weird,” he decides. “Different.”

“Are we?” Changbin murmurs, also fidgety all of a sudden.

Jisung looks over to the window, the blanket sloppily shoved over the curtain rod, and affirms, “Yeah, you are.” But then he looks to Minho, to Changbin, and smiles. “But I like weird, so that's okay.”

And then he gets up like it's nothing and heads to the kitchen. “So, like,” he tries. “Even if I offer you two something, you won't eat, right?”

“We won’t,” Minho confirms quietly, and Jisung shrugs.

“More for me. Just don't think I’m rude, or a bad host, or anything.”

“Never,” Changbin insists, and he glances over at Minho.

Minho doesn't know if Jisung has enough information to have pieced it together. They don't eat, they don't mix with sunlight, they're cold. Is that enough for a modern human to cry vampire?

He doesn't seem put off by it, anyway. He’s already scrounging in the fridge for something to eat, grabbing things at random, things that Minho can't even name, and stacking it on a plate.

“So,” Jisung says thoughtfully, standing at the kitchen counter. “If I were to ask you two to go out this afternoon, the answer would be…?”

“Regretfully decline,” Minho says, and Changbin stiffens at his side.

“Not because of you,” Changbin insists, his voice gentle and pleading.

Jisung’s eyes drift back over to the makeshift curtain Minho had crafted, blocking out the sun. “So…” he hems. “It’s because… the sun?”

“We don't mix well with sun,” Minho admits, rubbing his fingers over his raw arm.

“Hm,” Jisung considers, his eyebrows furrowing. “And you two aren't, like, pulling my leg?”

“No,” Changbin admits quietly.

Jisung scrutinizes the two of them for a moment, then seems to decide that it's okay and gives a shrug. “We can hang out in here, then. There are more movies you should watch, Minho.”

Minho hadn't watched the movie Jisung had insisted on last night. Something about a boat, he'd gathered.

But Jisung seems to have hit another revelation, cocking his head at Minho. “Everyone's seen Titanic,” he reflects, then pivots to Changbin. “Even him.”

“Must have escaped my notice,” Minho says flatly.

“You would've been a baby when it came out,” Jisung argues.

“Exactly,” Minho agrees. “I guess I must have been.”

Jisung crosses his arms over his chest. “You weren’t though, were you?”

“I haven't been a baby for a long time,” he says vaguely—because he'd promised Changbin not to give it away, even though Jisung seems to be drawing nearer and nearer the inevitable conclusion.

“Jisung,” Changbin says gently, that same pleading edge to his voice. “You know that—that Minho and I aren't like you.”

Jisung nods.

“But we’d never hurt you, I promise.”

Jisung nods again.

And then the faintly worried expression fades from his face and he brightens again. “Minho, I bet you've never seen Twilight either, right? It’s a classic!” And he’s launching over the couch to queue it up on his laptop.

Changbin seems pained by this, enough so that he reaches out to grab Jisung’s arm, despite their disparate body temperatures.

“Jisung,” he says, that same, weak quality to his voice. Like he doesn't want to tell Jisung, but knows he needs to. “We’re not romance movie vampires,” and Minho sucks in an unnecessary breath. “We’re—We’re monsters.” And he pivots to Minho like he needs him to corroborate. “Minho, how many humans did I kill when you turned me?”

“Hard to say,” Minho admits. “Lost count. When I was turned, my creator let me level an entire village.”

Jisung blinks at Changbin, then Minho. “So you are…” he muses, then peeks at Changbin’s lips. “So—fangs?”

Changbin’s reluctant to drop his jaw, but Jisung keeps staring at him with his big eyes, and he relents in the end. He lets them fully descend now, as they'd normally be. They've grown beautifully, Minho thinks, thick and long the way they should be. His mouth isn't quite so perpetually wet, but they still drip with venom.

Jisung blinks more at this, which Minho supposes is neutral. Then he turns to Minho. “And—you—?”

“You already know I’m missing a fang,” Minho says, though he extends his remaining one.

“And you kill people?” Jisung checks, though it sounds nonjudgmental. “Like—drink from them?”

“Yes,” Changbin whispers, still clutching at Jisung’s arm.

He cocks his head. “Can't you just drink a little bit? Or drink animals?”

“Animal blood doesn't sustain us,” Minho says with a wrinkle of his nose. “It has to be human. And we’re a bit too animalistic when we feed to have the presence of mind not to drain a human. We operate in secrecy, anyway. We can't let a half-drained human teeter off with fang marks in their neck.”

Jisung nods, like this makes sense. “And you don't want to eat me?”

“If we did, you'd already be dead,” Minho asserts, and Changbin scowls at him.

“It’s—we don't want to feed from you,” he promises. “We like you too much.”

Jisung’s cheeks go pretty pink again, and the scent of his blood grows a little stronger. Minho spies a drop of venom fall from Changbin’s fang to his bottom lip.

And—fuck it, Changbin’s already let it slip. “We’d like you to be part of our coven,” Minho blurts, and Jisung looks over to him, mild shock on his face.

“Like—be like you?”

“No,” Changbin insists immediately, firmly.

“We wouldn't turn you,” Minho says. “Just—you could be in our coven as a human.”

“And—what does that mean, exactly?” Jisung says uncertainly.

“We just want to take care of you,” Changbin insists. “To—to be together, as a unit. Like a family.”

“Like boyfriends?” Jisung immediately verifies, deadpan.

Boyfriends. It's a—a human concept, Minho thinks. But maybe it's accurate? Being in the coven would entail a lot of affection being lavished on Jisung, to be sure. But Minho thinks there are things boyfriends do that aren't a requirement for coven.

He looks to Changbin to confirm—only to find Changbin already looking at him. “I just—” Minho says softly. “I don’t know about boyfriends versus coven.”

“You two aren't boyfriends,” Jisung says, and it's almost a statement. But he’s furrowing his brow at them, as if he's not sure.

“We’re coven,” Minho corrects.

“Reluctantly,” Changbin adds, and Minho frowns.

“What do you mean?” Jisung asks.

“Minho didn't consult with me before he turned me,” Changbin asserts, which is true. “Just snatched me and did it.”

Jisung frowns—Minho feels cornered for some reason, trapped between two people who think he's in the wrong. “That's not nice,” Jisung agrees.

“That's how it's always done,” Minho points out, then amends, “Almost always. A vampire wants to start a coven, or sees a human he wants to turn, and just goes for it. You won't find one of our kind who’s bitter for having been turned except Changbin.”

Jisung hums, considering. “You're a lot older than Changbin, huh, Minho?” He nods in confirmation. “So he doesn't know how humans would feel about that,” Jisung deduces. “He's not wrong, from his perspective.”

“I guess,” Changbin agrees—he'd probably agree with anything Jisung said right now. Still, it gives Minho a small amount of hope—and he can see now that Jisung is the glue to keep Changbin here, to prevent him from leaving when he's independent enough.

“We can be together in whatever capacity you'd like, Jisung,” Minho offers, because he isn't in a position to be choosy. “Any capacity that also ensures your safety, that is. But I would consider you coven.”

“Does coven kiss?” Jisung blurts, and he sees Changbin’s hand tighten on Jisung’s. He’s being gentle, though, and Jisung doesn’t flinch or draw away.

They do, sparingly. Usually during the quiet, affectionate moments. Minho remembers being settled in Chan’s lap, letting him check his fangs, and Chan kissing him all over afterwards. It hurts, unexpectedly, and it always surprises him how much he still misses Chan after all these centuries. His efforts to locate him have been futile, and had culminated in the removal of his fang.

He and Changbin don't do that, or at least haven't since his true infancy. Minho doesn't check his fangs anymore, and any affection they show each other is barebones, instinctual.

“We can,” Minho affirms, though he looks sideways at Changbin. “Though—Changbin, can you…?”

“I can control myself,” he insists firmly.

Jisung absorbs this, looking quietly between them. “Oh,” he registers. “It—you'd want to bite me?”

“I wouldn't,” Changbin promises.

“He’s still young,” Minho says. “But remarkably in control. You’d be safe, Jisung—if you feel comfortable.”

“And with you?” Jisung checks, looking at Minho.

Unexpectedly, his venom glands activate and his mouth grows wet at the thought of kissing Jisung, of drawing him into his lap and poking inside his dainty, harmless human mouth.

He’d want to, of course, but he's in more control than that.

“Of course,” he murmurs, hoping his eyes mirror his sincerity.

And Changbin acts with remarkable deference, despite the grip he has on Jisung. “You first, Minho,” he mumbles.

Minho isn't going to argue—he's coven leader, anyway. When he pats his lap, Jisung crawls easily over and straddles him, shivering a little at the icy contact.

Changbin’s ready with a blanket, though, and drapes it gently over Jisung’s shoulders, tucks it around him.

“Can you open for me, pretty?” Minho asks quietly, thumbing at his lower lip.

Confusion flashes across his face for a second before he obeys, dropping his jaw. This isn't a thing humans do, Minho thinks, and he feels the need to explain himself.

“I’m just checking your fangs—your teeth,” he corrects. “It’s what we do. It’s affection.”

“Why?” he asks as Minho’s thumb edges onto his soft, warm tongue.

“It’s something your creator does, to make sure your fangs are growing in your infancy,” Minho explains. “From there, it's just nice. Comforting.”

He can feel Changbin’s eyes on him; he'd never explained it to him in so many words and he'd never had to. It's instinctual for Changbin, and something he's denying himself in his stubbornness.

But Jisung’s eyes go wide and he nods, opening his mouth wider. Minho treads gently, smoothing a finger along the ridges of his molars before dipping them where Jisung’s venom glands would be, if he had any.

His mouth is wet with spit, not venom, and it pools in his mouth as Minho hums and prods. It’s thicker than their venom, he thinks, and he isn't sure of the exact purpose of it, but it's nice that they have something analogous.

When he brings his thumb to Jisung’s canines, he's gentle when he applies pressure. Jisung’s teeth must not ache or need the pressure, but Minho gently presses upwards, anyway, surprised at the little whine that Jisung makes. It isn't a noise of pain, but he’s wriggling in Minho’s lap, his hands bunched in the front of Minho’s shirt.

He remembers checking Changbin’s canines before he’d turned him; they’d been pretty prominent for a human, if dull. Jisung’s aren't prominent at all, blending in with the surrounding teeth, but Minho pays them special attention nonetheless.

Then he's pulling his fingers away, letting Jisung swallow the accumulated saliva. Minho curls a hand around the back of his neck and brings their lips together shortly, chastely.

“Very pretty,” he praises as Jisung blinks down at him, dazed.

“I—should I do it back?” he wonders, his fingers twitching for Minho’s mouth.

But he captures Jisung’s wrist and gently directs him away. “No, love,” he says, pressing a kiss instead to his palm. “My fang is sharp,” he says, considering the soft little pads of Jisung’s fingers. “It’d cut you.”

Changbin is waiting silently at their side, watching but not commenting, and Minho slides his gaze over to him. “Do you want to check them, Changbin?” he asks, already settling his hands on Jisung’s waist to slide him over.

Jisung is sliding his mouth open again, even before Changbin is stretching for him. He seems less certain than Minho, hesitant somehow. But Jisung holds his mouth obediently open for him, and he prods at the highlights. He depresses Jisung’s tongue and watches the spit pool. Runs a fingertip delicately along his gums. And, like Minho, gently presses on his canines as if he has little fangs.

“Pretty,” he agrees. “Just like the rest of you.”

Jisung knows that it’s coming this time, the connection of their lips, and he takes advantage. He leans against Changbin’s chest, presses firmer into the kisses, moves his lips softly against Changbin’s. Minho sits off to the side, watching them, supervising.

But Changbin’s hand is settled on the small of his back and he's open and receptive to Jisung’s lips. There's a not negligible part of Minho that is really fucking into watching them together—they're coven. He doesn't have a way to mark Jisung physically as coven—typically it'd be with a bite, which is absolutely off-limits—but he feels the draw to him anyway. Such bonds are deeper than physical signs, he thinks.

But then he spies Jisung’s tongue slipping into Changbin’s mouth. There’s a soft moan, and Minho is insistently tugging Jisung away.

“Hey,” he pouts, settled unhappily in Minho’s lap, still reaching for Changbin.

“Fangs, dear,” Minho reminds him, rubbing his hip soothingly. “We can't risk him nicking you accidentally.”

Jisung sniffs, tugs at Changbin’s shirt. His human strength is nowhere near enough to topple him, but he goes easily anyway, crashing against Minho’s side and running a hand through Jisung’s hair.

“He wouldn't hurt me,” Jisung insists.

“I wouldn't,” Changbin agrees, glancing sideways at Minho.

“I’m not risking that fact still holding with his blood in your mouth,” Minho says gently, then addresses Jisung. “You smell too good, dear.”

He perks up at this, like it's a compliment. Maybe it is, Minho isn't sure how a human should take such a thing. “I do?”

“Not too good,” Changbin corrects, glaring sideways at Minho. “Not like I want to eat you.”

Jisung doesn't seem to care, sprawling across both of their laps. “So no tongue kissing,” he determines, pouting slightly. “I can live with that.”

There are probably more sacrifices to be made, Minho thinks, on all of their parts. He isn't quite sure how a human fits into their coven, but Jisung is easy to love, and Minho hardly minds a few sacrifices to keep him close.

Despite Minho’s misgivings about having a human in the coven, Jisung fits in beautifully. He seems determined to approach every new bit of their life as if it's normal, as if he's unfazed, and Minho can't even tell how much is playing pretend, for him.

“We’ll stay until you sleep,” Minho mumbles into his ear as Jisung is sprawled across his chest in bed. It's not quite his usual bedtime, but it's dark, and they're wasting valuable time. “We need to hunt tonight.”

Changbin needs to hunt tonight, but Minho knows better than to blame their outings on him. Changbin still resents hunting, and he lays beside Jisung and strokes his hair gently.

“I can wait another night,” he determines, because Minho can tell he's antsy about leaving Jisung. Hell—Minho is antsy about leaving Jisung, but he'll be safe in his apartment.

“No, you can't,” Minho says gently, a statement he'd ordinarily resent.

But before he can buck back, Jisung mumbles, “It’s fine, you'll either have to go tonight or tomorrow night. Tonight’s fine.”

“We’ll be back in time to get you to work,” Changbin promises, though they're already cutting it close, wasting precious evening hours.

“How often do you two go?” Jisung wonders—this is the first time they've gone since they've brought Jisung in to the coven.

“A couple times a week, at least,” Minho murmurs. It's for Changbin—Minho could easily go a couple times a month and be fine. And he won't let Changbin hunt alone. Whether Changbin would admit it or not, he thinks he likes that Minho is there to keep him in check, and to encourage him to feed more.

“Not tonight,” Jisung says, “but you could start going the nights I don't have work the next day. I sleep late those days, and you could stay out until daylight.”

Minho brushes his lips over Jisung’s brow. “That's very considerate, baby,” he praises.

Changbin is fidgety at Minho’s side. “It doesn't bother you?” he checks with Jisung. “The hunting?”

Jisung blinks over at Changbin, his cheek mooshed atop Minho’s chest. It’s probably lethal how cute he looks, Minho thinks, and Changbin is getting the full force of it.

“Well,” he considers, “it isn't something you can help, right? You’re doing it because you have to, not because you want to. How could I be upset with that?”

Changbin still looks upset, running his fingers through Jisung’s hair. He leans forward to press his lips to Jisung’s forehead, preoccupied. “Okay,” he says quietly, and Jisung squeezes his hand reassuringly.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “You two need to go. Let me try to sleep.”

And he nuzzles closer into Minho’s chest, his fingers still tangled with Changbin’s, closing his eyes firmly and resolutely. Again, it's cute—Minho doesn't think humans can force themselves to sleep. But he and Changbin go still, and eventually Jisung’s forcible slumber turns genuine, his face softening and his muscles relaxing.

Minho is gentle slipping Jisung off of his chest, and he doesn't stir. Changbin quietly tucks the covers all up around him, and they tiptoe out, leaving their slumbering human alone but cozy.

“Don't humans cook their own food?” Minho asks curiously, spying the pastry from work halfway hanging from Jisung’s mouth.

Jisung flops on the couch and grabs the pastry, taking a bite. “If you're, like, a real adult who's good at that,” he admits, pouting. “I’m trying, but I’m no good at stuff like that.”

Minho turns to Changbin, who has gently wrestled Jisung into his lap, letting Jisung find something to watch on TV while he mindlessly munches his pastry. “You were human not long ago,” he reminds Changbin. “Don't you know how to cook?”

Changbin frowns. “I don't think I cooked much,” he admits, then squeezes Jisung fondly around the waist. “Must not have been much of a real adult,” he says as Jisung giggles.

Minho’s brow furrows. Again, he doesn't know much about humans and their nutritional needs, but he doesn't think that sweet pastries cut it. And, again, things fall to them.

“I bet I can figure out how to cook,” he asserts. How hard can it be—humans do it every day, unless they're named Han Jisung.

This seems to amuse Changbin, who stifles a laugh into Jisung’s shoulder. “You’re going to learn to cook?”

Minho bristles, resenting the implication that he can't. “How hard could it be?”

Changbin cocks his head, amused. “I’ll go to the library when the sun goes down, get you a book about cooking, then, Minho.”

Jisung looks between them, popping the last bite of lunch into his mouth. “I mean, have at it,” he encourages. “My kitchen is your playground, Minho.”

Changbin stays true to his word and abandons the two of them on the couch once the sun goes down; Jisung is braced over Minho and kissing him messy and desperate. They produce more venom when Jisung’s mouth is on theirs, and in return Jisung goes dizzy and pliant when he ingests too much of it. Minho doesn't think it's bad for him—it isn't in his bloodstream, anyway. And Jisung always snaps out of it after an hour or so.

It’s bedtime when Changbin sneaks back in, Minho having already coaxed Jisung under the covers and now laying by his side and stroking his hair. He’s spoiled, and aside from hunting nights he insists on at least one of them sleeping with him.

“Got you the ingredients and everything to try,” Changbin says with a smirk, a cookbook in one hand and a paper bag of groceries in the other. He’d braved a human grocery store for this?

“In the morning,” Minho mumbles, because Jisung is spoiled for a reason, for their indulgence. “Don't wanna leave Sung.”

Changbin rolls his eyes. “I'll put this stuff away, then, yeah?”

Minho nods—there’s no way he's leaving Jisung when he’s pressed into his neck, breathing evenly and comfortably, to cook a meal he can't even eat right now.

He takes care of it in the morning, when Jisung is already safely at work. Changbin hovers, as if he's dying to see Minho attempt something so human as cooking.

But he thinks the directions are clear enough. And Jisung’s laptop is accessible—he’d taught Minho to type in queries and have the laptop spit solutions back at him, and when he gets stuck on a term or a step he patiently consults the laptop.

As a result, it probably takes him longer than it should, and he does have to send Changbin out bundled for the sun for some implements Jisung doesn't own, like a meat thermometer, but he has what he thinks is a passable human meal by the time Jisung is stumbling in the door.

“Here,” he says immediately, handing him a plate full of noodles, meat, vegetables. He doesn't know how much humans eat, so he’s filled the plate and assumed that is an approximate human serving size.

Jisung blinks down at the plate, still gently steaming, then breaks into a wide smile. “Did you cook for me?” he asks, and Minho nods.

“It wasn't so hard,” he admits, then nods at the laptop sitting open on the counter. “I consulted the laptop.”

“Chopsticks, here,” Jisung says, making grabby hands at Minho for said utensil, sliding into a kitchen chair. He takes a bite, considers, then nods at Minho approvingly. “It’s good,” he says enthusiastically. “And probably better than the pastries I brought home for lunch.”

Minho nods. “I can make it again.”

Jisung looks at his overflowing plate. “I think there will be enough leftovers for a few days,” he admits, and Minho frowns. Are the plates not a human serving size? That's stupid.

“And humans like more variety than we do,” Changbin reminds him from across the room.

Minho considers. “I can figure out how to cook more things,” he determines.

“Not if you don't want to,” Jisung insists, somehow never getting it through his head that his human needs are not a bother to Minho or Changbin.

“I want to,” Minho immediately insists, and Jisung shrugs.

“You won't hear me complaining, anyway,” Jisung promises, shoveling more noodles into his mouth.

Jisung is more worked up than usual, whining and writhing prettily beneath Changbin, clutching weakly at his front. Usually with the venom he goes buzzy and distant, but he's more present than usual, more desperate.

“Love,” Minho mumbles, running a hand along his throat, warm and temptingly bared. “What’s wrong? Are you distressed?”

Distressed isn't quite the word for how he's acting, Minho thinks, an arm slung around Changbin’s neck like he can't bear to have him pull away from his lips. Frenzied, maybe, Minho thinks.

He whines and arches into Minho’s touch, and Changbin’s forehead come to nuzzle affectionately against his temple.

“Sorry,” he gasps, wriggling under Changbin’s body. “Just, like—sex? Is that something we can do?”

Changbin looks to Minho for guidance, and he restrains a sigh. “Dear,” he says, and winds a hand through Jisung’s hair, damp with sweat. “You’re a bit fragile.”

His pupils are blown, his chest rising and falling. Somewhere pinned beneath Changbin, Minho is sure he’s hard and aching. His blood has risen to the surface, his tempting smell stronger than usual.

This is closer to a physical need for humans than it is for them, Minho recalls. Not that they don't partake and not that it isn't important to them—but they don't tend to get like this, so achingly desperate for it.

“I can take it,” Jisung swears.

It probably isn't fair to deny him, Minho thinks. This is something that Jisung expects in some measure from a boyfriend, or whatever they are in his human head. And he isn't opposed to it—just, it's a vulnerable thing and Jisung is so fragile and it's—it's animalistic on their part. Too easy to lose control, he thinks.

And Changbin probably wouldn't know that, Minho thinks.

“It's dangerous,” he informs Changbin with a sigh. “Like hunting.”

“We can still do something,” Changbin insists, stroking his cold fingers down Jisung’s flushed face.

“I’ll be good,” Jisung pleads, reaching out for Minho, tangling their fingers together. “I’ll do anything.” And he brings their combined hands to rest over his frantic, fluttering heart.

“No mating,” Minho muses softly. It’s a shame for Jisung to be coven and off-limits for mating, but it isn’t technically a prerequisite. Minho and Changbin haven't, and they're still begrudgingly coven.

“Mating?” Jisung gasps. “That’s a—like, a particular word—”

“Sex, he means, Jisung,” Changbin explains, still stroking his flushed skin. “But—something else?”

“Of course,” Minho says, and unable to resist, leans forward to press a kiss to Jisung’s tempting neck.

“Anything,” Jisung begs. “Just—both of you. I want both of you.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” Minho promises, even though he and Changbin exchange an awkward little side-eye again. He’ll keep Changbin in check, he decides, just as he always does.

“So,” Jisung wonders, craning his head back to look at Minho, his head situated in his lap. Changbin has his feet, rubbing at his ankles, massaging his socked feet. “You really can't feed from a human without killing them? Like, at all?”

It seems like something he's been mulling over and over, if his tone is any clue. “No, dear,” Minho says. “Too animalistic. And it doesn't make sense to bite a human and let it go. It's dangerous for us.”

“I wasn't talking about hunting,” Jisung says with a frown, and Minho suddenly recognizes the way his fingers are tracing along his own wrist.

“Absolutely not,” Minho says, shaking his head. “Dangerous.”

“Why do you want that, anyway?” Changbin mutters, though he doesn't break from the foot massage.

“So,” Jisung says, craning out of Minho’s lap, because of course he has an explanation ready. “Your venom makes me feel really good when we’re kissing, right? Wouldn't it do the same thing if you bit me? Just, like, stronger?”

Minho thinks it's true. Humans fight only for a few seconds when they're bitten before the venom makes them lax and pliant. Maybe it's pleasurable for them; Minho hasn't even much considered it.

“And you guys always tell me I smell tasty, anyway,” Jisung adds in a mutter.

“I have never told you that you smell tasty,” Changbin protests immediately.

“What if I have, like, a paper cut?” Jisung wonders, despite the fact that Minho has never once seen him with a book in his hands. “You’re telling me you would just, like, hand me a bandage?”

“Yes,” Minho says determinedly. For all Jisung’s clumsiness, he's somehow avoided bleeding in their presence. He kind of thinks it's inevitable, actually—but it hasn't happened yet.

“That’s lame,” Jisung huffs, but he doesn't push the subject—he knows it's a sensitive topic.

It is inevitable, and unexpected. Jisung gets up to go to the bathroom, and rams his shin into the pointed edge of his coffee table.

“Motherfucker,” he swears, an apparent human reaction to pain. “Goddamn—”

Minho and Changbin flinch in tandem—they've had to have a talk with him about religious-based swears. This one can be forgiven, since he's apparently out of his mind, but then his scent peaks. Stronger than it is when he's blushing, or aroused, or any other thing that brings blood rushing to the surface of his skin.

“Jisung,” Minho says, shooting Changbin a warning glance. It seems he’s already stopped breathing, Jisung’s blooming scent too tempting. “Jisung, sit, you're bleeding.”

“Jesus fucking Christ—”

“Just say fuck or shit like a normal human,” Minho scolds as they flinch again, skin burning. He grabs Jisung firmly and wheels him around to sit on the couch, propping his injured leg on the coffee table.

“Oh, shit,” Jisung says, seeing the rivulets of crimson on his shin. The skin has flaked up from the scrape, ghostly white, and in the spaces of broken skin, there's Jisung's blood welling up.

“You’re fine,” Minho insists firmly. He throws a wad of paper towels from the kitchen at him. “Don't bleed all over the place, I’ll go grab a bandage.”

He knows Jisung keeps a box under his bathroom sink, but he's fucking messy, and Minho has to dig through half of Jisung’s belongings before he comes away with the box. He also finds a bottle of antiseptic—he thinks he should use that, too, since humans are susceptible even to microscopic little things in their bloodstream. Really, they're so fragile it's a wonder they've survived so long, Minho thinks.

When he returns, Jisung has messily pressed the paper towels to his scrape, no apparent regard for hygiene, and is looking curiously over at Changbin. “It’s not that much blood,” he says. “Is it really that bad?”

“Don’t tease him,” Minho mutters, falling to his knees before the couch. He holds the antiseptic up for approval. “I need to use this, right?”

“Oh, cool, I didn’t even know I had any,” Jisung says, and Minho rolls his eyes. A human who seems to hold his own health in utter disregard.

Jisung winces at the antiseptic, which apparently stings, and Minho has to layer a few of the adhesive bandages to cover the length of the scrape.

And Jisung is obviously still bleeding, just into the cotton pads of the bandages rather than the open air. It’s still a strong scent, but slightly dampened.

Jisung doesn't seem to recognize this. “All better,” he announces, and slips his leg off the coffee table. He still has dried blood smeared on his skin, and Minho snatches the paper towel from him and works to clear it off with the antiseptic. “Couldn't you just lick it off?” Jisung asks.

“I guess,” Minho mumbles, though there's no shot he’ll do that.

“We could heal the cut,” Changbin says quietly, and Jisung’s head lolls over to him.

“Really? Then why am I wasting bandages?” Jisung asks.

“Because we’d have to get our mouths on the cut and you'll probably taste too good,” Minho says irritably, focusing on the sting of the antiseptic in his nostrils rather than Jisung’s sweet blood.

“Might be worth it,” Jisung considers anyway.

Changbin's phone sounds from across the apartment, and Minho is there in a second.

Whatever phone Changbin had had as a human is long gone, possibly gone even from when he'd been turned, but Minho had never paid much attention. Now, Jisung has insisted that at least Changbin needs a phone again so he can call them if needed, and even Minho could see the sense in that.

And—it can't really be anyone but Jisung, Minho knows. Sure enough, there's a picture of him on the screen as the phone chimes.

Minho hasn't used a phone before, but Changbin is also curiously watching him, waiting for him to answer. The phone takes a second to respond to his icy finger sliding the bar across the screen, but then it finally works, and he holds the phone to his ear.

“Jisung?” he tries.

“Oh, Minho,” Jisung says, and he sounds… miserable. Weak. “Hey, ‘m coming home. Wanted to let you know.”

“Home?” Minho asks, and twists around to check the time on the oven—nowhere near time for Jisung to be home from work. “What's wrong?”

“Just sick, I think,” he mumbles, and Minho can hear the commotion of a train station in the background. “Gonna come home and pass out, probably.”

Minho blinks. He doesn't know anything about sick little humans. “Do you want me to make you food?” he offers.

“No,” Jisung whines. “Just—not hungry. Need to rest and hydrate.”

Okay. Minho can handle a sleeping human, fetching water. That isn't complicated. “Changbin and I will meet you,” he says. “And walk you home.”

“No,” Jisung says, and his voice is staticky now, breaking up. “Sun’s out—please don’t—”

“Jisung?” Minho tries, wondering what's wrong with the phone.

“Hey—gonna lose you—underground,” comes his voice. “Be home in 30, probably.”

And the call drops, an annoying beeping in Minho’s ear to indicate as such. He turns to Changbin, though he knows he's heard the entire call. “Jisung is sick.”

Changbin frowns. “He didn't smell sick this morning.”

“Maybe he got sick suddenly?” Minho wonders—he really doesn't know how humans work.

The frown remains. “I’m going to go check what medicine he has.”

That would be helpful—Changbin knows far more about that than Minho would. Except there's nothing really productive for Minho to do. He might cook, except Jisung had seemed put off by the idea. In the end, he paces the living room worriedly.

Jisung had indicated 30 minutes, and Minho doesn't usually bother with time. But he notes that 30 minutes pass, then 45, then an hour. Changbin has finished his assessment of Jisung’s medicine cabinet, and also frowns.

“Should we go find him?” Minho asks.

“Maybe try calling him first,” Changbin suggests, because sometimes his knowledge of humans is annoyingly helpful.

This time, Minho runs his finger under hot water for a few seconds before attempting the phone—the stupid thing responds to the heat of human fingertips, and his own are too frigid for it to register.

The thing is stupidly intuitive, though, enough that even Minho can figure out how to call Jisung on it. He answers quickly, sounding weary.

“Sorry,” he says, rather than a greeting. “I—wasn't feeling well. Stopped in the station bathroom to puke. Wanna be home.”

“How far are you?” Minho wonders. “We can come get you.”

“I’m, like, in sight of the building,” Jisung mumbles. “Don’t bother.”

“I’ll get him up the stairs,” Changbin decides, and exits the apartment before Minho can say anything.

“Changbin is meeting you downstairs,” Minho informs.

“‘Kay,” Jisung says. “Thank you. Love you.”

It’s something Jisung mumbles frequently, tucked in bed at night or when he's sleepy. Before he leaves them for work. Changbin has started to return the sentiment, eagerly and earnestly, but Minho…

He doesn't know what love is. Is that what their kind feels? It comes from the heart, and he doesn't have a beating one to feel such a thing as love. Even Chan—was their relationship love? If it was, neither ever felt the need to verbalize it as such.

But whatever his feelings for Jisung, they're strong. They make him feel choked, at times.

So, unsure if it's the exact thing he feels for Jisung, he murmurs back, “I love you, too.”

“Oh, gross,” Jisung gripes back immediately. “the first time you've told me that and my mouth still tastes like puke. Can you give me a redo when I’m not all disgusting?”

It is important to Jisung, then, Minho deduces. To hear the words. Humans are peculiar—or maybe just Jisung?—but he thinks he's figuring them out.

“Sure, Jisung,” he mumbles. “Whenever you want.”

“Love you,” he repeats again, maybe just because he feels like it. “Listen, I’m walking into the building, see you in a second.”

It takes longer than a second—Changbin must be moving at human speed. The few times they've taken Jisung at their own supernatural speed, he'd complained of nausea, of dizziness, and so they try to avoid doing that.

But Changbin eventually bursts in with Jisung in a bridal carry, huddled against his chest. And Minho can see why immediately—a sheen across his forehead, a radiating heat that Minho can feel even from here.

He’s burning up, and Changbin’s skin probably feels good. Humans are warm, but Minho thinks they can get too warm.

“Did you check your temperature at work?” Changbin asks, pressing a cool hand to Jisung’s sweaty forehead, his flushed cheeks.

“Didn't have to,” he mumbles. “Got a fever, obviously.”

“Minho,” Changbin says. “There’s a thermometer I left on the bathroom counter. Will you grab it?”

Minho knows what a thermometer is. He goes to the bathroom, finds it easily among the pill bottles that Changbin has laid out. When he returns, Changbin has Jisung in the bedroom, working on tucking him in.

Humans don't usually sleep during the day, but maybe sick ones do. In any case, he passes Changbin the thermometer, who in turn coaxes it into Jisung’s mouth, under his tongue.

“Come here,” he whines, trying to pull Changbin into bed, against his flushed skin.

“In a minute, Sung,” he mumbles.

The change in his scent is obvious now, his blood tinged with bitter fever. It's the least appealing he's smelled, but Minho still feels a surge of affection for him, anyway.

The thermometer beeps and Changbin pulls it from his lips to check it with a frown.

“Minho,” he says, “you stay and keep him cool. I’m going to grab him some medicine to bring his fever down, and some water.”

“Wait, I wanna brush my teeth,” Jisung protests.

“I’ll bring that, too,” Changbin affirms. “And maybe a trash can, if you're not done puking.”

“I better be done,” he whines, and latches immediately around Minho, pushing his blazing arms up under his shirt to get at his cool skin, greedy and needy.

Minho tries to stay still and be a good, cool surface for Jisung, who nuzzles his damp forehead and blistering cheeks into his neck.

“Changbin says I smell sick,” he mumbles, dragging Minho’s hands to his back. “Is it bad for you?”

“You just don't smell as tempting as usual,” Minho affirms, pressing his lips to Jisung’s forehead. “Do you… need to go to the doctor?”

Minho doesn't know what he's doing, even if Changbin has a vestige of knowledge in caring for ill humans. Jisung groans and shakes his head. “No, hate the doctor. ‘m fine. It’ll pass.”

Changbin returns with a glass of water and two pills, which he coaxes Jisung to sit up and take. There’s a trash can he sets on the floor—for Jisung to throw up into, Minho thinks. It seems counterintuitive, for them to get rid of sustenance when they're sick. Maybe that's why they feel so bad. And he passes Jisung a toothbrush already loaded with toothpaste. Jisung scrubs his mouth mostly to get rid of the taste, the acid of his stomach, and spits into the trashcan that Changbin holds up to his lips.

“I'm not this helpless, I promise,” Jisung grumbles, falling back against Minho.

“You’re fine,” Minho says. “Changbin knows better about this stuff than I do, anyway.”

“You’re a good ice pack,” Jisung says charitably, patting his chest.

Jisung doesn't really get out of bed for the next few days. His fever never entirely breaks, and sometimes spikes to levels that Changbin threatens the hospital. Jisung always wins out, tiny and frightened, scared of the human doctor for some reason.

He barely eats, and by day 2 Minho is determined to make him eat something. He wants to cook something spectacular and tempting, but Changbin tells him to keep it bland and unappetizing.

By the fifth day of this, of forcing fluids into him and trying to tempt him to eat, Changbin puts his foot down.

“Hospital,” he says. “We’re going.”

“No,” Jisung whines, still blazing in Minho’s arms. “I’m not getting worse.”

“But you're not getting better,” Changbin argues. “And it's dark out—perfect time for us to take you.”

Jisung protests more, but he's weak from his illness and still doesn't feel well. His protests grow weaker and weaker as they help him shower, get him dressed, and eventually shove him out the door.

Minho wants to carry him but Changbin says it would look weird. He settles for holding Jisung’s hand and letting him lean heavy against him at crosswalks.

The human hospital is terrible, Minho thinks. The whole place smells of sickness, worse even than Jisung’s acrid tinge, and the buzzing fluorescents overhead are so unpleasant it's a wonder that humans are meant to improve here. There’s a stronger scent of blood, but it's mostly all sickly and unappealing, and he doubts Changbin will have an issue.

Minho walks with Changbin and Jisung to a check-in desk, lets Jisung talk to a weary-looking nurse. She can't quite bring herself to make eye contact with Minho or Changbin—humanity’s natural aversion to them that somehow Jisung is too dense to possess, his hand clutched in Minho’s for comfort.

They're told to wait, and Minho wants to draw Jisung into his lap. Changbin denies this, too, shaking his head firmly at him. He settles for letting Jisung rest his head on his shoulder, wrap both of his arms around one of Minho’s needily.

“Love you,” he mumbles again, maybe because he just feels like it.

Minho returns the sentiment with a kiss to his hair, and Changbin watches them quietly.

They have to wait for a while; Minho is kind of concerned they'll be here until morning and have to figure out how to get home with the sun.

But Jisung is called to a room eventually. Minho isn't sure if he's allowed to come, but Jisung tugs him along.

The room smells of burning antiseptic and sickly blood, and Minho wrinkles his nose. A nurse takes his pulse, blood pressure, temperature, and they're left alone again.

“This sucks,” Jisung says, kicking his legs on the side of the exam table.

“We tried to manage it at home and we couldn't,” Changbin says reasonably. “The doctor is the next best choice.”

“If he takes my blood, one of you have to hold my hand,” Jisung grumbles. “Hate needles.”

Minho nudges Changbin’s shoulder with his own. “You're doing alright?”

They haven't left Jisung to hunt, and Changbin is overdue. The scent of blood here isn't exactly tempting, but newborns often don't care.

“I’m fine,” Changbin asserts. “Everything smells terrible here.”

“Even me?” Jisung asks sulkily.

“Yes,” Changbin says frankly. “And you should be glad that you do.”

They're interrupted by the arrival of the doctor, who averts Minho and Changbin and tries to speak only to Jisung. They go through symptoms and duration. The doctor swabs Jisung’s throat and nose.

“I'll have someone in to draw blood, too,” he insists, and Jisung visibly deflates.

“Hate the doctor,” he reiterates.

“What are you?” Changbin wonders with a half-grin turning his lips down. “A child?”

“I need a lollipop after this ordeal,” Jisung asserts.

“Deal,” Changbin says. “We’ll go to the convenience store on the way home, and I'll even hold your hand for the blood draw, you big baby.”

Minho is about to ask if it's advisable for Changbin to be so close to Jisung’s blood, but Jisung is sick and Minho trusts Changbin with him, anyway. All it will do is make Changbin upset at him.

Someone from the lab comes and prods at Jisung’s free arm, the one that isn't clutching at Changbin. There’s a needle inserted in the crook of his elbow; Jisung screws his eyes shut and looks away, burying his forehead on Changbin’s shoulder. It's a pretty dramatic reaction, Minho thinks. A thin needle shouldn't hurt him so much, but maybe it does.

His blood flows into a vial that’s connected to the needle, but it's never exposed to the air, so the scent is at least somewhat contained.

When the vial fills, the needle is taken out and the nurse presses a cotton ball to the crook of his elbow, advises him to hold it there a few seconds.

Jisung keeps it held against the pinprick until the nurse leaves, then he pulls it away and inspects the tiny amount of blood left behind.

“Do you want this?” he asks Changbin in a deadpan. “Like, to eat?”

“You’re a fucking brat,” Changbin says with full fondness, a smile spread across his face.

“Minho?” Jisung offers. “A tasty snack?”

He frowns. “You’re not bleeding, are you?”

“No,” he says, balling the cotton ball in his fist instead. He prods at the place the needle had gone. “I think it’ll bruise.” And he extends his arm to Changbin. “Will you kiss it better?” he asks, deadpan again.

Changbin bends his head to press his lips to the crook of Jisung’s elbow, chaste. “Better?” he asks, and Jisung pouts.

“Minho, you too,” he requests.

Minho blinks, then crosses the short distance to the exam table where Jisung is sitting. He presses his lips the same spot that Changbin had, gentle, then stretches to dust his lips over Jisung’s forehead, which is still prickly and too-warm.

Jisung’s hand reaches out to clutch at him, too, nuzzling against his cool forehead. “Love you,” he mumbles again. Maybe he just likes saying it, Minho thinks. “And you, Changbin. Love you both.”

Changbin dots a kiss to Jisung’s neck. “Love you, Jisungie.”

The doctor hurries back into the room, flinching slightly at Minho and Changbin huddled around Jisung, which Jisung frowns at.

But the doctor goes through the medications he’s prescribing and how Jisung should take them—it all means nothing to Minho, so he hopes Changbin is paying attention.

And then they're ushered out with paperwork in hand—it's still late, no danger of the sun coming up, and despite everything, being out seems to have given Jisung a little more energy.

“I didn't like that doctor,” he insists with a frown, arm entwined with Changbin’s. “Homophobic, or something.”

“Jisung,” Changbin says. “Any human with sense is naturally wary of us. We generally repel them.”

Jisung’s eyes go wide and pleading; he clutches Minho’s hand with his free one. “I’m not repelled by you.”

“Because you don't have any sense,” Minho asserts, and Changbin veers them into a convenience store.

Minho hasn't been in one of these, either, but there are magazines and snacks and drinks and medicines. Changbin shoves Jisung to a cooler at the back.

“One ice cream,” he announces. “For being very brave.”

Jisung gives a sheepish grin. “I was kidding, Changbin. I’m still not really hungry.”

“Buy it and we’ll stick it in the freezer,” Changbin insists. “I’ll pick up your medicines tomorrow, and then you can have it once you're better.”

Jisung carefully selects one ice cream bar, then thrusts it to Minho to buy, since he's generally in charge of money. Jisung has his own money from his job, but with how much hunting they're having to do, Minho and Changbin find themselves unexpectedly flush with cash from the wallets of their victims.

Minho keeps the ice cream cold in his own hand on their way home, then puts it in the freezer as Changbin had indicated. Jisung had been flush with energy, but he seems tired again now, and whines until Changbin acquiesces and lays in bed with him.

“You two can hunt tomorrow, I promise I’m almost done being pathetic,” Jisung is mumbling as Minho shuffles in the room.

“I’m fine, Sung,” Changbin insists, stroking his hair.

“We’ll go tomorrow and be quick about it,” Minho decides, and Changbin shoots him a look of annoyance.

“I’m fine, I said,” he insists more forcefully. “I’m not leaving Jisung to fend for himself.”

Jisung looks between them, concerned. “I’ll be fine on my own, I promise. I just—don't fight on my behalf.”

“It's not about you, Jisung,” Changbin promises, wrapping around him firmer.

Jisung’s blink through the bulk of Changbin wrapped around him, looking at Minho. “You two don't get along.” It isn't said as a realization, because it isn't—Jisung knows. Minho likes to think that Changbin is more civil and less bitter as a result of Jisung, but the animosity is there nonetheless.

“It’s complicated,” Minho says cryptically.

Changbin nuzzles closer to Jisung, like he's unwilling to talk about it.

“Just,” Jisung tries, sounding teary, “we’re a coven, right? So we should all get along?”

“We should,” Minho agrees earnestly. Changbin stays silent, and Jisung sighs.

“Whatever,” he says. “I’m—I’m fucking exhausted. Gonna go back to sleep.”

There’s a soft smack of Changbin’s lips to Jisung’s throat. “Go to sleep, then. I’ll be here. Minho will be here.”

Jisung drops to sleep quickly—maybe it's the fever or the fatigue. Minho drops into bed on his other side and works to cool down his flushed skin.

Changbin braves the sunlight to pick up Jisung’s medications, and Minho is kind of expecting him to be immediately better. But that isn't how human medicines work, and he knows that. Jisung still stays in bed all day, but he does accept a bowl of soup that Minho makes.

But once the sun goes down, he nudges Changbin. “Go hunt,” he insists. “I’m feeling better, and I’ll probably sleep the whole time you're gone, anyway.”

He is doing a little better, Minho thinks. He’d eaten, and he hadn't resisted their attempts to give him water. His fever hasn't broken, but it hasn't been so consistently high.

“We should go, Changbin,” Minho agrees, and he can tell Changbin needs to, the thick way he swallows. His throat must be aching.

“For a little,” he relents. “We don't have to be out all night.”

“Sure,” Minho agrees—though when Changbin hunts, especially if he's put it off a tick too long, he's ravenous. Insatiable. Probably they'll have to be out all night. Minho cocks his head at Jisung. “Do you want us to get you in bed?”

“No, I’m gonna stay up a little more,” he mumbles. “Been sleeping a lot.”

“We'll take my phone,” Changbin says. “If you need us.”

Jisung nods, then shoves at Changbin to signal him to get off the couch. Minho pockets Changbin’s phone, and Changbin makes a big deal of fussing over Jisung before finally turning to the door. Minho presses his lips to Jisung’s quickly, chastely.

“Be good,” he mumbles.

“No,” Jisung says rebelliously. “Gonna stay up late and eat the ice cream in the freezer and watch television that isn't age appropriate.”

“That’ll all be fine, dear,” Minho says, a smile curving against Jisung’s lips. “Just stay inside.”

“I’ll miss you,” he whines, and Minho indulgently kisses him again.

“Just a few hours,” he reminds him.

And Minho and Changbin head out, for the woods surrounding the city this time. Minho strives for variety—they don't need the human authorities catching on to their hunting. And hikers go missing all the time, anyway.

Minho doesn't drink much, but Changbin is predictably ravenous once he gets going. He’s strong and quick and always sure to kill the human before it knows what's happening—Minho guesses it's less cruel. Again, he hasn't even given it much thought.

He runs corpse round-up, instead. Changbin is still good at healing his bite marks, leaving them bloodless and unmarked, but Minho wrangles the corpses he leaves behind and takes any identifying information, any cash, and sets to digging a hole for them. This isn't how they do it in the city, but it's easy enough in the woods.

Changbin staggers his direction after his frenzy, fangs descended and prominent and a distant look in his eyes. “Good?” Minho checks, using his thumb to lift Changbin’s lip, inspect his fangs. Changbin doesn't really let him check them anymore; this is the closest he can get.

“I’m fine,” he insists, backing away from Minho. “Just—take care of them so we can go.”

They have time before sunrise, Minho determines. He fills the hole in and packs the dirt back down; he thinks it's a passable mass grave once he's done. If the humans find it, it'll be years from now, and their little coven likely won't even be in the area anymore.

“Let’s go,” Minho says, a hand on Changbin’s shoulder. And—he hates hearing it, but he tacks on anyway, “You did well.”

Changbin shrugs his shoulder off and orients towards home. “I thought we’d be able to be home sooner,” he notes.

“You fed enough we won't need to leave Jisung for a few days, at least,” Minho encourages. Changbin doesn't seem cheered.

When they make it home, Jisung’s apartment is still dark and quiet, but with his scent swelling unusually to fill the place. Not like he's actively bleeding, but the way he does when he blushes or gets aroused.

And Minho’s ears immediately prick up to hear the soft moans coming from the bedroom.

Changbin makes it there first, and when he opens the bedroom, Jisung’s scent wafts out, strong and hot.

Minho can see why quickly—Jisung is writhing in his sheets, wet-eyed and desperate, pushing fingers into himself.

“Aren't you meant to be resting?” Minho asks, rounding on him and murmuring close to his ear. Changbin has already replaced Jisung’s fingers with his own, being gentle the way he should, the way he always is with Jisung.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he gasps, trying to drag Minho’s hand between his legs. “Missed you too much.”

Changbin grabs Jisung’s hand and pins it to the mattress, maybe too much in his way.

He’s still feverish, but less so. Getting better—and maybe that's why he suddenly has the energy for this. Minho surges for his lips, imagining it won't take long with Changbin working, anyway, and Jisung is open and receptive, mewling against his mouth and eagerly accepting his venom.

Minho isn't paying attention to Changbin, nor can he, positioned as they are. He has Jisung whining and begging prettily against his lips, gripping at Minho with the hand not pinned to the mattress.

He flinches and gives a little cry—maybe Changbin had been a little rough. Minho doesn't need to check on it because it will only irritate Changbin, and because he's never been anything but careful with Jisung.

But Jisung loses his gritty desperation, sinks instead heavily into the mattress, stops being able to kiss Minho back. He catches a whiff of Jisung’s scent, yet stronger, like he’s—like he's bleeding.

He whips around to Changbin, who has his mouth firmly latched around Jisung’s wrist, his fingers still pumping insistently inside of him.

Minho moves fast, wrestling Changbin to the ground, pinning him by his throat and baring his fang at him. It wouldn't intimidate a normal vampire, but Changbin is his creation, and still young, and he cringes appropriately at Minho’s display.

“It’s—” Jisung gasps, like he's still trying to comprehend the sudden change, the lack of fingers, the wound on his wrist. “It’s okay,” he insists. “He didn't hurt me.”

“Stay,” Minho says harshly, squeezing Changbin’s throat with his full strength in warning, before getting up to address Jisung.

He’s curled in the sheets, frightened, cradling his bleeding wrist to his chest. “Let me see,” Minho says gently, and Jisung shakily extends his wrist.

“It’s not a big deal—” he tries, but Minho shushes him harshly enough that he falls silent.

There are two pretty punctures on the inside of his wrist, insistently oozing blood and matching up perfectly to Changbin’s bite. There’s no mere bandaging these, Minho knows—they won't heal properly on a human, and he’ll be left with scars.

There's that, and it's probably also distressing to Jisung, disgusting, having the bite mark of a monster embedded in his wrist.

“Hold still,” Minho says gently, bracing himself and wishing he’d fed a bit more tonight after all. “I’ll heal them, I’m not going to suck any.”

Jisung trembles and sniffles. “Y-you can,” he offers, which Minho ignores.

He traces his tongue up the tracks of blood dripping from the punctures, straight back up to the source, and then flattens his tongue against the punctures, licks firmly over them.

Jisung tastes heavenly, which he tries very hard not to focus on. Even with his blood tinged a little sour from his illness, it's still delicious, but Minho has enough self-control to not suck him dry, at least.

He waits until he's licking at smooth, unmarred skin, and then he inspects Jisung’s wrist for him before letting him cradle it back to his chest protectively.

“It—” he tries, saddened, rubbing his thumb over his smooth wrist.

“Jisung,” Changbin tries, kneeling on the floor to stretch for him. “I’m so sorry—”

“You got rid of them,” Jisung whines to Minho, then extends his wrist out. “They were so pretty, let him bite me again.”

“No,” Changbin insists, horrified.

“Absolutely not,” Minho concurs. “Are you okay? Do you hurt? Feel weak?” He’s gone soft between his legs, probably the shock of everything.

“I’m okay,” Jisung says gently. “And I’m not mad. It felt good.”

“How much did you drink?” Minho demands, his tone unkind as he turns to Changbin.

“Not much,” he admits. “I was drinking slowly. A few mouthfuls? I—I was going to stop. He just—” And he looks at Jisung with wide, adoring eyes. Jisung stretches for his hand and Changbin offers it, timidly.

“Minho,” Jisung says, his voice small. “Don't be mad, okay? It's all fine.” He pauses, then thrusts forth the hand that isn't holding Changbin’s. “Do you wanna try?”

“Isn't it time for your medicine?” Minho decides, and snatches Changbin by the back of his shirt, drags him out the door.

“It wasn't even like I lost control, Minho,” Changbin insists, stumbling after him as Minho sorts through pill bottles. “And Jisung liked it—his blood went sweeter immediately—”

“I didn't think don't bite the human was such a hard rule,” Minho hisses, and Changbin flinches back again.

“Um,” comes Jisung’s voice—he's thrown on underwear and padded out into the living room. “We should talk about this as—as a coven, right?”

Minho abandons the confusing pill bottles and softens immediately, dragging Jisung into his lap on the couch. “It’s vampire stuff, dear,” he insists. “Let Changbin and I work it out.”

“But we’re a coven,” Jisung insists, adorably determined to use the proper terminology. “And I want to be included. It affects me.”

Minho purses his lips, as if annoyed that Jisung has made a decent point. “Changbin, sit,” he instructs after a moment’s pause, keeping Jisung protectively tucked into his lap. Changbin falls on the opposite end of the couch.

“It isn't safe to bite Jisung,” Minho asserts. “End of discussion. It's too easy to lose control.”

“Changbin was very controlled,” Jisung says. “And I liked it.”

“It is very easy to become uncontrolled,” Minho says flatly.

“I don't think he would,” Jisung says, then peers over at Changbin. “You like me too much, right?”

“I do,” Changbin says, his eyes softening perceptibly.

“That doesn't factor in to instinct,” Minho insists. “If you're hungry enough—”

“But I wasn't,” Changbin says. “I’d just fed, so I was clear-headed.”

“Clear-headed enough to bite him?” Minho says doubtfully.

“I wanted him to be close. Feels like he's not all the way part of the coven,” Changbin says, crossing arms over chest.

“I liked it,” Jisung reiterates, twisting in Minho’s lap. “Felt close, felt right.”

Minho… gets it. Unexpectedly, it knocks him straight in his unfeeling heart. There’s a lot he wants to do with Jisung that he can't, too fragile and too human. No mating, no biting, no checking his fangs—not properly, anyway. They're missing a bit of closeness with Jisung, and Jisung is maybe missing it, too.

“I can understand that,” he says sympathetically. “I just think it's irresponsible.”

“It doesn't matter what I think?” Jisung huffs.

And, well, no. Not really. Minho is the leader of the coven and he can snuff out any idea he’d like. But Jisung is human, doesn't get it and probably won't respond well to it.

“Not if it carries the risk of your life,” Minho says gently.

“We can't even try?” Jisung argues.

“No.”

And Jisung huffs cutely, slumps against Minho’s chest grumpily. “Let me go,” he decides. “I’m going to Changbin.”

Minho unlatches his arm from Jisung’s waist hesitantly, and he crawls across the couch to straddle Changbin’s lap, instead.

“He’s being mean,” he mumbles against Changbin, who gives him a reassuring pat.

“He’s good at that.”

Jisung tries harder to get Minho to bite him, seeming to think that this will change his mind. Changbin holds fast against Minho’s direct order—no biting the human—no matter how bad he wants to.

But he's more affectionate with Jisung, clingier. Jisung gets well and goes back to work and Changbin mopes when he's there, morose.

Jisung’s attempts to get Minho to bite him are frankly adorable, like he has no idea what's appealing about biting him.

“Hey,” he says, tipping his head back to gaze at Minho. He's in his lap watching a movie; Minho is supposed to be paying attention to it but isn't, thinking about the pulsing warmth of Jisung against him. But Jisung holds his wrist up, smoothing his thumb over the skin there. “Aren’t my veins pretty?” he tries.

Minho barely conceals a smirk. “Everything about you is pretty,” he affirms, and presses a gentle kiss to his inner wrist. “Veins and all.”

But Jisung scowls at the compliment, flopping back against Minho’s back, defeated.

He attempts to appeal to reason, as well. “So,” he says conversationally one day, sitting at the kitchen table and waiting for Minho to finish cooking his meal. “You have one fang.”

“Very astute,” he praises.

“So basically you're not even biting me all the way, you know?” he tries, and Minho glowers at him.

“Han Jisung,” he says in warning, and Jisung’s head drops.

“That's offensive, right? I thought it was probably offensive.”

“I’m not offended, dear,” Minho insists, a half-truth. “And biting you with one fang is the same as biting you with two.”

He tries during sex—Changbin had bitten him during sex, so Minho thinks he can follow his train of thought, there. He’s between Jisung’s legs, working a pair of fingers in and out and kissing up the insides of his thighs.

“Be easy to—to just bite me—huh?” he tries shakily, his legs slung over Minho’s shoulders. Changbin snorts in amusement from somewhere overhead—he, like Minho, mainly finds Jisung’s attempts amusing. “Humans do that to each other, too, you know. That's not even something that vampires have a monopoly on.”

“If I had dull little human teeth, I’d bite you all over,” Minho says, and presses a kiss to the joint between his leg and his hip.

Jisung makes a frustrated little noise, and Changbin’s amused laugh rings in his ears.

His attempts are all cute, until they aren't. Minho knows it's something he wants, something he's willing to ask for, but he hadn't considered the lengths he would go to.

Jisung is doing his lazy morning routine for his day off work; Minho and Changbin have returned from hunting. Jisung is locked in the bathroom to shower, to shave.

It’s a normal routine, the same they do every one of Jisung’s days off. But Minho hears a small cry of pain from the bathroom, and then the blooming scent of fresh blood.

Changbin is at the door before Minho, banging on the bathroom door. “Jisung?” he tries, and Minho considers how angry Jisung might be if they broke the door down.

But it's unnecessary; Jisung fiddles with the doorknob for a moment before getting it open. “Don’t freak out,” he says, and Minho spies the cut at the top of his neck, the base of his jaw, which is streaming blood. It flows down his neck and wells in his collarbone, before streaming down his chest and threatening to stain the towel flung around his waist.

Minho grabs a spare washcloth and hastily traces the blood trail up, locating the cut in his neck. It's more than a nick, a small gash that insistently oozes. Too big for the paltry bandages Jisung buys; he'd bleed through it in an instant.

But probably not serious enough for a hospital, Minho considers.

Despite Jisung’s warning not to freak out—Jisung is, ironically, freaking out. “It’s bleeding a lot,” he realizes, panic rising in his voice. “It—can you just seal it? Please?”

It’s the best option, Minho realizes begrudgingly, and he leans forward to smooth his tongue over the gushing blood, warm and wet coming from Jisung’s neck.

He doesn't suck, just smooths his tongue over until the blood flow stops, then steps back to assess Jisung. He doesn't know how much blood loss is bad for humans, and Jisung makes a gory scene.

“Are you okay?” Minho asks gently, steadying him in case he needs it. But he looks more unsettled from the shock than from the blood loss.

He gives a stiff nod, and Minho turns him around, nudges him for the shower. “You can clean the rest of it off, okay?”

There's something like betrayal in Jisung’s eyes, though he nods obediently and turns the shower back on.

It does cross Minho’s mind that it had been intentional—but Jisung is a little clumsy, and he'd been very panicked, and surely he isn't that stupid. Minho decides to let it go, against his better judgment.

And Jisung really has a flair for freak accidents, for bleeding profusely and unexpectedly.

He scrapes his thigh against their too-pointy coffee table and drips enough blood that Minho considers taking him to the hospital. But no, he seals his mouth over it (and doesn’t suck) and gets it sealed, slowly but surely.

He attempts to make himself breakfast and ends up slicing a gash across his hand, ruining his omelette, which he seems more concerned about than the blood dripping down his fingers.

And he comes home early from work with a dishrag wrapped around his hand, dripping blood and probably having done so halfway across the city.

“Jisung, what the fuck?” Changbin mutters, holding his breath.

“They told me to go to the hospital,” Jisung explains, eyes wide and wet. “But doctors are scary and you've healed bigger gashes than this, right?”

“What did you do?” Minho asks flatly, removing the stained dish towel and seeing a sizable gash across his palm.

“I, um,” Jisung says, and he's paler than he should be, trembling on his legs. “Sorry, it—Fuck—”

He swoons, going limp, and Changbin catches him before he thuds to the floor in a pathetic crumple. Blood loss, Minho thinks in a panic, seeing the sheen of sweat on Jisung’s skin.

He sets to healing the cut immediately, figuring that stopping the blood loss would be helpful. Changbin props him against the door and Minho goes to root for the half-drunk orange juice Jisung had bought—in a bid to convince Minho to bite him, he'd asserted that he could drink orange after to get his blood sugar back up and be perfectly fine.

Jisung is stirring by the time Minho returns, blood-splattered and pale. Changbin has a hand on his forehead, his chest, trying to cool him.

“Jisung,” Minho says gently. “Drink this.”

He has to tip the bottle to his lips, but Jisung obediently drinks what he's offered, his throat working as he swallows.

“Better?” Minho asks, and Jisung nods, crumples against Changbin, who isn't breathing for the quantity of fresh blood. They're due to hunt tonight, and he's probably desperate.

They revive him, get him in the bath and changed into pajamas. Minho fixes him a proper meal and makes him drink the rest of the orange juice.

And when he’s lucid again, Jisung prods benignly at his palm, settled in Minho’s lap, encircled in his arms.

“Jisung,” Minho tries. and Jisung shifts his eyes over to him curiously. “I don't believe you've had a serious of freak accidents that results in you gushing blood everywhere.”

“‘m clumsy,” Jisung insists in a mumble, still worn out.

“Han Jisung.”

“I just,” he starts, clutching Minho tightly. “I want you to bite me.”

“You won't tempt me into it by bleeding everywhere and passing out.”

“Didn't think I’d pass out,” he murmurs. “Cut deeper than I meant to.”

“Jisung,” Changbin scolds, the other side of the couch.

“Jisung,” Minho says, serious. “I’m never going to bite you, so stop injuring yourself. It will never work, and it's only going to make me mad.”

“Then can Changbin bite me?” Jisung asks, and Minho bares his fang, draws near his throat in a disciplinary action.

But Jisung tips his head back, an invitation, and Minho has to physically come back to himself to convince himself not to sink his fang in to discipline him.

“I just want us all to be together,” Jisung says, teary. “A coven.”

“We are, dear, whether we bite you or not,” Minho asserts.

“But you and Changbin don't like each other and neither of you will bite me or have full sex with me and it feels like it's not enough,” he vents, tears wobbling over and crashing down over his cheeks.

“It’s—”

“Complicated, I know!” Jisung shouts, frustrated, cutting Changbin off. “Minho turned you without asking because that's what vampires do so he doesn't think he's in the wrong and you resent him for it and you hate each other!”

“I don't hate Changbin,” Minho murmurs, trying to calm him, rubbing at the nape of his neck like he was a naughty newborn. He doesn't think it works on humans, but Jisung slumps against him anyway, maybe worn out.

“I know,” Changbin says, brows furrowed and arms crossed. “But I can't forgive you. You had no right.”

Jisung is still crying, fat tears leaking out over his cheeks, which Minho tries to halt. Imagine, blood loss and dehydration all in one day. “How long ago were you turned?” Jisung asks. “A decade or so?”

“Or so,” Changbin concurs.

“So you wouldn't have met me without Minho turning you,” Jisung points out, crossing his arms stubbornly over his chest.

“You've been the one high point of this existence,” Changbin acknowledges.

“And you and Minho have been the only things I have going for me in my adult life,” Jisung insists stubbornly. “So I agree with Minho. I’m glad he turned you. Do you hate me?”

Changbin frowns. Jisung's point is a little nonsensical. “No, of course n—”

“What's done is done,” Jisung interrupts. “And I’m sure Minho is sorry.”

“Not particularly,” he admits.

“Could you not fucking lie?” Jisung scolds, hitting at his chest in his frustration.

A sinister grin spreads across Changbin’s face. “Maybe I’ll forgive him if he admits he was wrong.”

“It was wrong from a human perspective,” Minho acknowledges. “Which I unfortunately lack.”

“Okay,” Jisung determines, scrambling out of Minho’s lap. “I’m not going to be the glue that holds us together. You two work out your issues; I’m going to bed. I’m not a fucking mediator.”

“Jisung…” Changbin tries, reaching for him.

“Don't touch me,” he says. “I’m gatekeeping myself. Work it out, and don't bother me until you do.”

He slams the bedroom door behind himself, and the lock clicks. Not that the lock could really keep either of them out, but it means that Jisung means business. Minho’s sharp ears pick up on Jisung flinging himself into bed and curling into a tight little ball.

“I think you should try harder to see my perspective,” Minho says, blinking over to Changbin, who’s still staring at Jisung’s bedroom door. “I can see from a human perspective why I was wrong. But I’m not human, and haven't been in a long time. Do you get mad at a cat for not being trainable like a dog?”

“You don't care about my feelings about it,” Changbin accuses. “You made me a monster.”

Minho shrugs. “We’re the top of the food chain. We’re monsters in the same way that a lion is a monster.”

“We’re undead.”

“That's not inherently monstrous, either,” Minho says placidly. “Just a fact of our existence.”

Changbin takes a deep, stabilizing breath. “You don't care that I’m upset at what you did to me. And that bothers me.”

Minho cocks his head. “I’m upset that you're upset,” he insists. “I wish you had embraced this life, embraced the coven. It makes me upset that you didn't.”

“I didn't embrace it because I didn't want to be this,” Changbin says through gritted teeth.

“I am sorry I made you something you didn't want to be,” Minho tries. “Permanently. I didn't consider your feelings when I decided to turn you.”

“And that was wrong,” Changbin presses.

“That was wrong,” Minho obediently repeats. He keeps the quiet part in his brain—It was expected, how human of him.

But Changbin seems to accept it. “It’s a start,” he considers.

“I don't want you to be mad at me,” Minho insists. “I mean, I really wish Channie were here, because he would know exactly what to do and he’d be able to sympathize with your humanity probably—”

“That’s—your creator, right?” Changbin checks. Minho is sure he's mentioned him intermittently over the last decade. “You two were separated?”

“I had to hunt,” Minho says. “And I had to travel pretty far, then. There was a vampire hunter in the adjacent village, so we had to be careful. I hunted, and when I came back, a landslide had leveled the village.”

Changbin blinks. “So why wouldn’t Chan wait there for you to come back?”

“Hunters probably drove him away,” Minho says. “They were relentless back then, and we were blamed for about everything, natural disasters included. It was several centuries ago, and I checked with every coven or loner I came across. I never found him.”

“I’m sorry,” Changbin says with genuine empathy. “I mean, we can—look for him…?”

Minho shakes his head resolutely. “Not with Jisung. We’re not taking him around to random covens like he's an offering.”

Changbin hums thoughtfully, acknowledgment, and there's an awkward pause hanging between them.

“So,” Minho checks. “You don't hate me?”

“I am working on forgiving you,” he clarifies.

He nods earnestly. It’s a start—possibly the best he can hope for a decade’s backlog of negative emotions. “I, um,” Minho says. “I don’t really know how to make it up to you. But I could—I could check your fangs? You didn’t let me do that much when I first turned you. And you’d like it—it’s instinct.”

There’s a stumbling from the bedroom, a fumbling with the locked doorknob, and then Jisung is throwing the door open. “It’s—There’s—My two boyfriends doing stuff without me to witness it?” he huffs, as if he had sensed it. “Are you two gonna kiss? I wanna see.”

“I thought you were ignoring us until we made up,” Changbin says, sly.

“I didn’t think there was a shot you two would move to physical affection so quickly,” Jisung says, and plops on the coffee table in his boxers, as if it’s a proper seat. He motions between the two of them, to indicate they should scoot together. “So, kiss.”

“Checking fangs,” Minho corrects, though he presses Changbin down against the couch, thrilled when he drops his jaw immediately, instinctively.

He’s thorough, pressing on his venom glands hard enough to make him gag and testing the give of his fingers against his fingers, their razor-sharpness. The last time Minho had been able to inspect properly, his mouth was still overwhelmingly human. Now, his teeth have all shifted to emphasize his fangs, undeniably vampiric. Something frightening and awe-inspiring, especially juxtaposed with Jisung’s dainty, harmless mouth.

“Very pretty,” Minho insists in a murmur, not missing the tender way Changbin is looking up at him. He’s seen that look directed towards Jisung, but never to him. “You’ve grown well, despite everything. Powerful and strong and fearsome.”

“I like pretty better,” Changbin breathes.

“You’re that, too,” Minho insists, a surge of fondness overtaking him. He cups Changbin’s face, brings their lips together gently. “Pretty, pretty, pretty.”

“Can I…?” Changbin wonders, his fingers twitching for Minho’s mouth.

Minho hasn’t had anyone check his fangs since Chan—definitely not since he’d had the one extracted. But—Changbin is his charge, his creation, and it’s not uncommon for them to return the favor when they’re old enough.

It takes a little bit of convincing to make himself drop his jaw, but Changbin is gentle, prodding his venom glands and brightening visibly when they leak into his mouth. He presses on Minho’s fang and surrounding teeth, cooing when Minho gives his fingers a little nip. And then, after a moment’s consideration, he swipes his thumb in the gap in his teeth, the absence of his fang. He presses on bare gum, assesses the teeth surrounding the missing fang, and withdraws his finger quietly.

“Pretty,” he insists.

“My fang,” Minho says quietly.

Changbin shakes his head. “You lost it trying to find your creator, right? That’s a noble reason to lose it. Something to be proud of; you’re loyal.”

Minho surges forward to kiss him deep, more recklessly than he lets himself kiss Jisung. Venom pooling between them and fangs gnashing together, tongues dipping into mouths. It’s the kind of thing that could very organically lead to mating—but Minho is abundantly aware of Jisung there, and it’s the type of thing that can’t happen in his presence, no matter how much he cries and begs.

“So,” Jisung says, interrupting them. “I’m kind of hard. And I kind of had my orgasm ruined earlier this evening. If either of you care.”

Changbin pulls back to consider him, his mouth slick with venom. Minho’s, his own, it doesn’t really matter whose. It’s both of theirs, really.

“No biting,” Minho insists sternly, directed more towards Jisung than Changbin. “No mating.”

“Fine,” Jisung says, starry-eyed and already heading back to the bedroom. “As long as I get to see you two kiss more.”

They feel more complete now, more cohesive. A proper coven, not one in danger of falling apart, held together by a thread and plucky, insistent human.

And Jisung is part of the coven—he doesn’t have a visible mark to denote him as such, like Minho’s bite on Changbin’s neck, but it does not bother him. Jisung is just as much a part of the coven as either of them, whether he has a bite on his neck or not.

Minho realizes belatedly that they will have to talk about turning Jisung at some point. He’s human, and they are by nature fragile and temporary. Minho doesn’t intend to let Jisung go ever, and that means making him lose some of his most charming attributes.

But not yet. There’s time yet, and Jisung hasn’t even brought it up.

He does still make half-hearted attempts to get them to bite him, usually in an afterglow or when he’s tamped down by sleep, which might be one in the same to him, Minho isn’t sure. But he doesn’t injure himself, not on purpose, anyway.

Honestly, Minho thinks he holds out as long as is reasonable when a pretty, sweet-smelling human writhes in your lap and begs you to bite his neck.

He doesn’t even mean to, taken over by overwhelming instinct, the thing he’s always trying to avoid when it comes to Jisung.

Changbin is between his legs, Jisung balancing back-to-chest on Minho’s front, whining and writhing prettily. Minho isn’t doing a thing but mouthing tenderly behind his ear, trying to soothe him from Changbin’s work, digging deep inside of him and mouthing at his sensitive thighs.

Minho can see his bite on Changbin’s neck from here, the peculiar single puncture mark from where he’d turned him. Coven, he thinks in a dim hum, satisfied.

And the pretty thing in his arms is coven, too—undeniably so. What pretty human could he have like this if he didn’t fully belong to him, body and soul and living, beating heart?

Coven, a feeling he knows deep in his gut as instinctually as he knows about anything else. And with his pretty neck bared, an invitation, Minho realizes the piece that’s missing. He knows that Jisung is coven, but it feels like he’s failed him without the mark to prove it, especially when he’s asked and begged so sweetly.

It takes very little thought to stoop and sink his fang into Jisung’s pretty neck, bared for him. Jisung cries, tenses, then immediately relaxes with the venom.

He doesn’t even drink, really, content to have Jisung caught on his fang for now, and Changbin is at his side in an instant, stroking his hair. He withdraws and laps at the mark enough to stop it bleeding, then gently grabs Jisung’s forehead to tilt his head the other way.

“Bite him, Changbinnie,” he says, and Jisung whines in Minho’s arms. He’s moaning and trying to press closer to Minho, mumbles that sound an awful lot like Thank you thank you thank you. He doesn’t even need Minho’s guidance to bare himself for Changbin; he’s craning his neck hard against Minho, like he’s trying to tempt him.

“Hang on, love,” Changbin mumbles, gripping his chin gently to make sure he stays still.

His fangs sink in, and he drinks a mouthful or two before pulling off and sealing his punctures. Remarkable self-control, Minho thinks, pride stirring in his chest at the knowledge that he had chosen Changbin, and he had chosen well. Chan would be proud, he thinks distantly.

“Thank you,” Jisung mumbles, overcome, his arousal forgotten for now. He’ll be bossy about it later, when he’s lucid enough to remember it, but for now he reaches for Changbin and tugs him atop the pile, straight atop his beating heart. Three fang marks in his neck to mark him for what he is—they won’t stay forever, his stupid human healing probably ruining them, but he thinks Minho and Changbin will make a point of puncturing them again and again, keeping the mark of their coven displayed prominently on him.