A Spell for Blooming - kenthel (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

Monday

Kim Hongjoong conducts the funeral alone. He greets the mourners and accepts their flowers, their pitying looks, and soft-spoken platitudes. He gives his thanks and close-lipped smiles in return.

The air in the house is thick with the combination of unfamiliar perfumes and the earthy incense that had burned freely in the living room for as long as Hongjoong could remember. He only recognizes a couple faces that come to pay their respects, all remarking on how he’s grown into a fine young man.

Soon, the visitors clear and the roar of reminisce fades with them. Only one guest remains, standing tall and solemn with his hands in his pockets as he approaches.

Hongjoong loosens the black tie from his neck and breathes at last. “Finally done.”

Song Mingi shifts his gaze around the now cluttered room: emptied finger food plates and disposable cups, withering white bouquets aplenty, the portrait of Hongjoong’s grandmother resting on the piano. He moves to shrug off his oversized black blazer.

Mingi’s gruff voice is for once, soft. “Let me take care of this, you-”

“No,” Hongjoong interjects. He winces. “I mean, thank you for coming, really. I’m sure she would have been happy to see you.”

“Are you sure? I really don’t mind.”

Hongjoong claps Mingi on the shoulder. He sniffs and his eyes start to sting with tears anew. “I’m sure. Thank you. I know you’ve got work early tomorrow.”

He bites his lip to stop it from trembling. His deep breath to buries the grief for later.

“You know you’re more important to me than those assholes,” Mingi says. “But uh, just call me if anything then, okay?”

“I will.”

Hongjoong walks him to the door. His own footsteps sound too heavy and echo in the emptied house. With the door open, the buzz and chirps of the countryside leak inside, louder than he remembers.

Mingi lingers on the doorstep. He takes out his earbud case, pops it open, and snaps it closed. His smartwatch lights up with an incoming call and he rejects it.

Hongjoong crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. The spring breeze rings the bamboo wind chimes and carries the scent of mud to his nose. The sky’s clear save for the last sliver of crescent moon and the stars he learned from her on this very stoop. She’d be quick to remind him not to look for answers. And to not leave the door open.

“Thanks again,” he says. “Get home safe.”

Mingi nods, reluctant. He finally steps onto the stone walkway. “See you soon, be good.”

Hongjoong waits until Mingi rounds the corner of the tiny sidestreet before he finally closes the door. It clicks shut, cutting the insect cries short. Out of habit, Hongjoong reaches out to twist the bolt, but the door has no lock.

He’s never stayed the night at the house alone before. He shuffles in the old house slippers he’d been assigned as a teenager across the pink carpeting, collecting the scattered paper hors d'oeuvres plates and cups. He carries them down the long narrow hallway. His family watches him pass from framed photographs: weddings, family gatherings, and school pictures. He meets his own eyes, squinted with joy as he stands proud in his cap and gown.

The next frame hangs empty in anticipation of the birth of the first great-grandchild.

The baby had been born within minutes of his grandmother’s death, a happy healthy baby girl.

Hongjoong’s parents are much too busy cooing and fussing over the grandbaby to bother with this saddening business. Besides, they'd been estranged from the woman for years. She probably hadn’t even left them anything in the will, but Hongjoong should surely inform them if she had because every little bit will help with the new baby and all.

The kitchen countertops were laden with the generous offerings from his grandmother’s friends and acquaintances. Containers upon containers of food, wreaths of fluffy white flowers, and a messy stack of envelopes. Hongjoong doesn’t know what to do with it all. He tucks the trash into the bin and takes a deep breath.

There’s an old, thick candlestick on the island counter. Hongjoong opens the first drawer and pulls out the matchbox. With a flick, he sparks the match and lights the remaining nub of a wick at the top of the candle. The candle glows faintly and releases a floral scent. He extinguishes the match with a shake. Its smell wafts up in a dark curl of smoke.

He goes to return the matchbox and notices there's a circular cutout in the bottom of the drawer. He blinks. The hole is dark and Hongjoong finds himself wiggling the tip of his pointer finger into the perfect little circle. His finger brushes something soft and smooth and he yanks it with a yelp. He shakes his head at himself before he lifts the clear organizer of various stationery items, strings, and twines out of the drawer.

His heartbeat quickens in his ears. He tucks his finger back inside the cutout and pops out the false bottom of the drawer with ease.

Inside, there’s a handbound book with a leather cover. It’s embroidered with the blossom of a bright orange flower. On top of the book, there’s a slim envelope. It’s addressed to him.

Hongjoong swallows and takes the letter gently into his hands. The small letters of his name in his grandmother’s handwriting are prim and familiar. The corners of his eyes threaten to sting anew. The envelope is unsealed and the creamy, thick paper is cool to the touch. His arms break out in goosebumps.

Dear Hongjoong-ah,

I still remember the first time you touched a piano. You were only three years old. And tiny too. Your small hand reached out and landed on the C key with such confidence. Your eyes sparkled. I knew from that moment that you would always love and pursue music, no matter what I, your parents, teachers, friends—anyone, wanted for you.

I’m so proud of you. Proud that you’re living your dream. Listening to the recording you sent me warms me like a nap in the sun. You have a bright future ahead.

Hongjoong settles down right there on the kitchen floor with his knees tucked up to continue the letter. There are details about his grandmother’s last wishes, the location of the relevant documents and the number for the lawyer that “still owes her a favor.”

I’m sure that right now you may have more questions than answers. That’s good. Young people should be curious. Make sure that you eat well (including vegetables).
I love you.

Hongjoong hugs the letter to his chest and lets himself cry.

The clock hanging on the wall strikes midnight. The chimes drone on, each of them lasting longer and ringing flatter than the previous.

Hongjoong looks up from his laptop and squints at the clock. It must be running out of battery.

The candle on the island is burned down to a nub, the wax dribbling over the catch and down the length of its stick. All the food is stowed away. The envelopes had been opened and the gifts recorded. The flowers remain, filling the room with their fresh, almost fruity scent.

He shuts the laptop and turns his gaze to the book. The book wasn’t mentioned specifically in the letter, but he can’t help but assume that this was her way of leaving it to him. He runs his hand across the cover, feeling the stitches in the embroidery. He opens to the first page and smiles, bending over in his seat.

Recipes

Sauces, Condiments, Seasonings
Rice
Soups
Meats
Vegetables
Notes

Of course, it’s a recipe book. Hongjoong shakes his head. He takes his time flipping through, looking at her notes and hand-drawn pictures, but he notices that the Notes section hasn’t been sewn into the book. He lifts the book and the entire chapter spills across the counter.

The pages are a mess of diagrams and numbers and tiny scrawled notes in margins. There’s a similar drawing added over and over again of three circles connected by a triangle.

Hongjoong’s head swims as it takes in what appears to be mathematical formulas connected to the image. At the very end of the chapter, he finds a last message.

If Park Seonghwa is still in the house at the corner with the black, iron fence, bring this to him. And tell him I’m sorry.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

Tuesday

The gardens rustled with curiosity. Leaves and petals and vines alike billowed and whispered as though set adrift on a breeze. Even the patient monstera leaned towards the window, dragging its waxy fingers across its caregiver’s face in its reach.

Seonghwa blinks away the haze of his afternoon nap. He pets the underside of the leaf with the back of his hand.

“What’s got you so excited?” he asks.

Then, he hears the doorbell.

Through the bay window, the ever present black peaks of the wrought iron fence loom, but the vine covered gate stands open.

Seonghwa shakes his head and brings himself up from the quiet comfort of his armchair. The monstera slowly retreats to its favorite place just beyond the sun’s gaze. He gives the plant one last pat before he finger combs his mussed hair and gets himself to the intercom.

It’s a man. The dense collection of ivy and clematis clinging to the gate clumsily reach their arms out towards him. They brush the loud neon colors of his letterman jacket and the bleach blond of his hair. He shies away from their touch and offers a closed lip smile and a small wave to the camera.

Seonghwa presses the button. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m sorry to bother you,” he answers, polite, but unsure. “Is Park Seonghwa home?”

Ah, Seonghwa realizes. Another referral. “Just a moment.”

He waves a hand over the white formation painted onto the back of the front door and the door swings open.

Face to face, Seonghwa notes the man is shorter than him, despite his black heeled boots. He’s wearing a luxury brand shoulder bag and a cologne of moss and bergamot. His bare face is smooth. His nose is perfectly pointed. He quietly clears his throat and offers his hand.

“I’m Kim Hongjoong,” he says.

Kim Hongjoong’s grip is small and firm and his fingernails shine a glossy black in the mid-afternoon sun. “Park Seonghwa.”

The hands fall apart naturally.

Hongjoong steps over the threshold out of the reach of the vines with a slight bow. He bends over to unzip his boots. “Your garden is very beautiful and, uh, friendly.”

“Thank you.” Seonghwa smiles and leads him to the living room. “Take a seat. Would you like tea, coffee?”

Hongjoong settles into the corner of the small plush loveseat. “Ah, I’m okay, thank you. You’re too generous. I’m sorry to intrude on you like this.”

“It’s not a problem.”

Seonghwa sets up the kettle on the stovetop, considering. Usually, his referrals demand tea from him, berating him with a litany of their complaints, their aches and pains and discomforts in excruciating detail before they’ve even said hello. The union tends to keep all the pleasant people for themselves, it seems.

“So, how can I help?” he asks.

Hongjoong shifts, bringing his bag into his lap. “Well, you see, actually, my grandmother-” He pulls out a stack of papers, medical documents? A patient file? “-she wanted you to have this.”

Seonghwa hesitates. “Does she . . need my help with something? Is she injured, sick?”

His gaze drops to the floor. “She passed away last week. This was one of her last wishes.”

Oh.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” Hongjoong hands him the stack of papers. He asks, “May I ask how you knew her?”

“What was her full name again?” Seonghwa asks, reading the note on the front page with confusion.

The answer fills his ears with his heartbeat and his own sharp breaths. Memories swarm him.

The heat of magic igniting his soul, his mother’s cries, the taste of pollen choking him like smoke.

The pages fall from his hands and scatter across the floor. He holds the side of his face.

“. . . this is forbidden, cursed magic . .”

“Anyone who corroborates this research is subject to expulsion henceforth . .”

Seonghwa blinks, relaxing his hands. He feels pinprick cuts on his scalp where his nails dug until they drew blood. He breathes and sees Hongjoong beside him, hand hovering over his shoulder, eyes wide with concern.

Fear and anguish press into his heart like the spires of his wrought iron prison.

“Leave,” Seonghwa commands. The warmth of his magic pumps alongside the fading adrenaline in his veins. He can see the green glow of his eyes reflected in Hongjoong’s.

Hongjoong stares at him, transfixed, mouth agape.

Seonghwa pushes himself to his feet. The drips of blood on his face recede into the wounds and the cuts knit closed seamlessly. “She-” he spits, “is the reason I am trapped here. She was cast out of our community. Her and her entire bloodline.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hongjoong backs away towards the front door. He has his hands out in front of him in a small surrender. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a twinge of guilt in Seonghwa’s gut. He stops and funnels the excess power into the ground. Outside, the clematis winding itself into the fence spontaneously prematurely sprouts buds and bursts into pink and purple blooms.

“I didn’t know,” Hongjoong repeats. “I’ll leave. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.” He takes another step back and stumbles over his own shoes. He shoves them on and tugs on the front door without zipping them up. He doesn’t acknowledge the ward on the back of the door and tries to find a lock, fingers feeling around the handle. He whispers, “Will you just open?”

The wood in his door splits down the center of the ward, severing the spell in two as though someone had taken an ax to it.

Hongjoong yanks the door open. He looks back at Seonghwa, brows knitted together in hurt and confusion, but leaves. His heels thump down the cobblestone path to the street without another word.

“Wait,” Seonghwa calls, too late. He rushes to the door and into the yard in just his socks and catches just a glimpse of the blond hair and neon jacket disappearing down the corner. He comes to a sudden stop at the fence and shies away, feeling the familiar thrum of the spell domed over his home. Defeated, he closes up the gate.

As his hand brushes the iron, it flakes off, revealing a patch of rust. After twenty-four years, the fence is finally beginning to show signs of wear.

He retreats inside his house to get his phone to call-

“Jung Wooyoung!” Seonghwa scolds. “What did I say about coming over unannounced?”

Wooyoung finishes materializing in the center of the living room and lands shoes-first onto the white area rug, crushing some of Hongjoong’s pages underfoot. His overgrown black hair is pulled half up into a messy ponytail and he’s dressed in matching tee and workout pants.

“Park Seonghwa! You trying to burn your house down?” Wooyoung squawks in return. He walks into the kitchen like he owns it and plucks the whistling kettle off the burner.

Seonghwa rushes to the discarded pages and starts to gather them into a neat stack. Even though the idea of burning them had briefly crossed his mind, they may as well be organized while he determines their fate. He frowns down at the bits of dirt now left on his pristine rug.

Wooyoung returns to the living room with the two drinks in hand. “Oh, my bad,” he says. He toes off the shoes and kicks them towards the front door. Instead of flying through the air, they leave his foot and instantly appear neatly arranged by the entrance. “I always forget about that.”

“Why are you here?”

“So rude!” Wooyoung complains. “You were about to call me and ask me to come over. Why else?”

Seonghwa takes the stack of papers and leaves them on the low table before returning to the comfort of his armchair. He accepts the drink and enjoys the warmth on his palms. He brings it to his lips and, to Seonghwa’s surprise, it’s sweet. Wooyoung always knows how to cheer him up.

His gift of premonition helps explain what transpired earlier without Seonghwa even needing to open his mouth.

Wooyoung takes a loud slurp of his coffee. “So, this Hongjoong guy brought over some random spell from the crazy old lady that got kicked out of the coven?”

“Union,” Seonghwa corrects.

He waves him off and snatches up the papers, going through them page by page. He occasionally makes a thoughtful sound, an “Ah” or an “Oh,” without further remark.

Seonghwa thinks about the face Hongjoong made when he first saw his powers. In awe of him.

Wooyoung snickers.

“Stop.”

“I can’t help it when so many of the futures have you gushing about how handsome heretic Hongjoong-ssi is.”

“You’re overexaggerating,” Seonghwa states firmly with a roll of his eyes. “I’m thinking more about how he honestly didn’t know anything. This man is walking around with his grandmother’s magic in his blood and just, lives a normal life.”

“Lived a normal life, at least.”

Wooyoung reaches the end of the stack and hesitates on the last page, lips pressed together. “Hmm.”

“Well? What is it?” Seonghwa asks.

“I think it has to do with your curse,” Wooyoung explains. “A lot of the formulas and notes discuss ‘stabilization’ and ‘exponential growth,’ or whatever, but the real giveaway is this note to you at the end apologizing for not figuring it out before she died.”

“So, she just wanted to clear her conscience at the very end?”

“It actually looks like she started her research in 2002? At least according to the dates on the notes, but who knows.” Wooyoung shrugs. He rests his chin on one hand and his eyes light with mischief. “But you know who might really know what this is?”

Seonghwa sips his cocoa and waits for the inevitable.

“That’s right!” he declares despite the lack of response. He raises his hand, displaying the intricately woven pewter ring on his finger. “The one and only, Kang Yeosang.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Tuesday

It’s too early to get a drink.

Hongjoong trudges out of that situation all the way down to Main Street and realizes it’s still only 3PM on a Tuesday. He supposed he could simply pick up a bottle to bring back to his late grandmother’s house to self-medicate, but he’s been trying to do better with that. Despite not having walked the streets regularly in almost ten years, his muscle memory carries him to the locally run coffee shop in town.

He hardly recognizes it. There are new signs, a new front window, new pastries and baked goods out on display, but it’s the same old radio station playing in the background. The cozy atmosphere has been converted to sleek and modern, all the way down to the marbled, shiny countertop.

The barista punches in his order and gives him a once over as he hands him his receipt. His hand is pale and bears a single slim ring. The nametag pinned to his apron reads, Kang Yeosang.

When he meets his eyes, Hongjoong thinks of the vibrant green that had glowed in Seonghwa’s. The blood crawling back up his cheek. The softness of his smile and the delicate floral scent trailing in from the tiny, immaculate garden.

He can’t imagine what could have transpired between his late grandmother and Park Seonghwa. He considers himself a rational man, but today that faith was shaken by the tickling touch of ivy reaching into his hair.

“So,” Kang Yeosang says suddenly, the ready drink waiting, sweating in his hand. “Has anyone ever said you’re hard to read?”

“What?”

“You’re really closed off,” he comments.

“How open am I supposed to be at a coffee shop?”

Yeosang considers this for a moment and nods. He places the drink down on the counter for Hongjoong at long last. “Fair enough.”

Hongjoong takes it and finds himself a seat near the furthest window. He takes out his phone and checks his messages. The top three are from his parents and older brother, checking in on him and sending pictures of the red-faced bundle of joy that takes so much after her mother. He returns their love and assures them that yes, he’s fine handling this on his own and that they’re worrying too much. He can’t imagine taking them away from such an important moment.

He takes a long sip of the bitter drink.

The door to the cafe opens with an automated chime. Hongjoong wishes they’d kept the bells. He’d get a thrill of excitement each time he’d heard them while waiting for his near-daily after school date in high school. It’s like he’s become a teenager again, in his brother’s hand-me-down uniform with the clip-on tie and the too-long slacks. He’s wearing entirely too much cologne, having just sprayed it on in the restroom of the cafe when he arrived.

And then he walks in.

Twenty-seven year old Jeong Yunho, now well over 180cm, with his sweet face trimmed of its baby fat and his hair combed and parted (for once), walks into the cafe. He sees Hongjoong and stops dead in his tracks, his long leg hovering over the threshold. His mouth falls open. Then, he promptly retreats whence he came.

The door chime plays a new jingle to bid him farewell.

Hongjoong blinks and lets his breath out in a huff of relief. God, that would’ve been awkward. Of all the people he’d brought home, his family had always loved Yunho the most. He was friendly and earnest and the reigning champion of family game night. He cleaned his plate and washed the dishes. He looked at Hongjoong like he was the entire world. Or used to, at least.

The cafe landline begins to ring, loud and shrill over the radio.

Yeosang stares at the phone, bemused, but then snorts and picks up the phone. He’s nodding and he walks through the swinging counter door. He stops at Hongjoong’s table and passes him the phone. “It’s for you.”

Hongjoong hides his face behind one hand, mortified. “Thanks . .”

He doublechecks the caller-ID and sure enough. He sighs and presses the receiver to his ear. “Jeong Yunho, what are you doing?”

“Sitting in my car, feeling kind of stupid, wondering if you’re really back.”

“And you couldn’t have just come up and said hi like a normal person?”

“. . I wasn’t sure if that was okay with you.” A pause. “You changed your number.”

“I did. And it would have been fine, it’s been almost ten years already.”

“Ten years in March,” Yunho corrects gently.

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

Hongjoong is now all too aware of how Yeosang is waiting in the corner of his eye. He’s taken a seat at the next table over, pretending to read something on his phone.

Yunho takes a deep breath, the air rushing into the receiver. “Hongjoong, do you want to get a drink? Catch up?”

No, he thinks. He feels the old pang of loneliness that gripped his heart on the long nights he spent freshly single in the dormitory room at his university. The tortured drawls of broken love songs echo in his memory.

“I-” The rejection catches in his throat. It might be nice to be comforted. To let himself be taken care of again.

“-As friends,” Yunho clarifies quickly. “No pressure.”

“Okay, sure,” he replies, immediately wincing at himself.

And yet, next thing he knows, he’s rattling off his new phone number and checking out the location of the bar he’ll be meeting Yunho at tomorrow. Somehow, he’s also offered to get Yunho a coffee sometime soon too.

He hangs up the phone and hands it back to the nosy barista. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be,” Yeosang reassures him.

A question springs to mind. “Say, did this place change hands?”

“No, there was a fire.” A strange look comes over his face, eyes fixed off in the distance with his facial features frozen in place.

Before Hongjoong can react, snaps out of it with a shake of his head.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters, a lisp sneaking into his voice. He returns to his station behind the counter and starts to prepare a new drink, the espresso machine whirring to life.

Hongjoong’s palm is damp and the ice is just about melted. He can’t wait for Mingi to get here. He checks his phone again and sees new text messages from Yunho, under the same contact he’d always been, thankfully clear of their last heartbroken conversation.

He wishes that he’d gotten Park Seonghwa’s phone number before everything had gone south. Park Seonghwa, who invited him into his home with his hair mussed with sleep in his cozy sweats with mismatched socks. Who had dark, thick eyebrows and a wide mouth that flashed perfect teeth. A pretty stranger hidden in his hometown.

Someone else has to know him. It’s a small town, after all.

He looks up at the barista as he finishes making the drink, brings it up to the front counter, and takes out his phone. He pulls off the hat and fixes the way his black bangs fall on his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. Then, he smiles sweetly for the camera at different angles before suddenly stuffing the phone out of sight under the counter.

The playful melody plays again and in walks Mingi. He’s in all white from his backwards baseball cap down to his converse. There’s paint along the underside of his jaw and buried beneath his fingernails. He slides off his dark sunglasses and reveals the pale bridge of his nose compared to his suntan.

He shoots Hongjoong a smile and a finger gun on his way up to the counter.

“Hello, Mingi-ssi!” Yeosang greets, eyes big and sparkling up at his new customer.

“Uh, hi.” Mingi squints up at the chalkboard menu, sucking his lower lip between his teeth as he considers his options. “I’ll have the uh, iced-”

“- latte special with whipped cream?” He places the freshly made drink in front of Mingi. “It just so happens that I’d just made this for a customer who . . who decided they didn’t want it anymore, so, it’s on the house.”

“Oh, cool, thanks man.” Mingi takes the drink without a second thought and gives it a loud slurp. He gestures vaguely around the room. “Like what you’ve done with the place. New furniture really brings a modern charm.”

Yeosang shrugs shyly, tucking a piece of his hair behind one ear. “Well, I think it’s the colors you picked out that really brings it all together.”

“Make sure you mention that to the business owners’ association for me.” Mingi winks. “You still got my number, right?”

Yeosang deflates. “Yeah, sure do.”

“Great! Well, see ya around.” Mingi raises up the drink in farewell. He crosses the room and the big smile that spreads across his face makes him look seventeen again. From before seeing him every other day became every other year.

Hongjoong gets to his feet and lets Mingi wrap him in a hug. He awkwardly pats his shoulder and breathes in the scent of fresh paint and sawdust.

Mingi makes a face at Hongjoong’s black americano. “sh*t’s disgusting. Here, try mine.”

“It’s an acquired taste.” Hongjoong says before dutifully taking a sip from Mingi’s straw. He feels eyes burning a hole through him. “Oh yeah, yours is definitely better. Walk and talk?”

They walk out of the cafe, Mingi rambling on about the place he’s working on for the week. He’s waving his coffee up and around like the sloppy brushstrokes of his coworkers. He distorts his voice into gravel to retell the homeowners’ baseless complaints. Even with the jokes, Mingi is pointing out houses and buildings where he’s had a hand in their beauty with pride.

They’re making their way up the hill to Hongjoong’s road and the black iron fence dotted with the flowers and crossed with vines comes into view. The house itself is a two-story with a window box of yellow flowers watching him from the gabled dormer.

Mingi points to the house with a now-empty coffee as he crunches on the ice. “Now that house is my finest work. Family gave me the color palette and a collection of magazine clippings and let me take it from there. That guy Seonghwa is pretty cool, he’d always make me coffee and sh*t. Played cards with him and his buddies a couple times.”

Hongjoong stops walking. “Wait, you know him?”

“Well, yeah?”

He drops his voice to a whisper. Hongjoong recounts the earlier events for Mingi, from his grandmother’s pages to the otherworldly eyes. He gets to his frustration with the impossibly locked door and how he’s feeling for the lock and he’s hearing a messy cacophony of chords playing over one another and-

“-I’m gonna stop you right there,” Mingi states. He considers Hongjoong very seriously. “Guy’s a witch.”

Time slows. Hongjoong lets out an uncomfortable laugh. A dissonant ringing echoes in his ears.

“What?”

“I’m serious, man. Town’s full of them.” He starts counting them off on his fingers. “He’s a witch, his best friend’s a witch. Hell, the guy working the cafe is a witch.”

“How do you know?”

Mingi shrugs. He looks back up at the window. “I fell off the roof when I was doing the finishing touches on the box. Broke my arm so bad the bone was sticking out.”

Hongjoong sucks in a hiss.

“I was starting to black out from the pain, but Seonghwa ran out and put his hand on my shoulder and all I could see was green.” He twists his wrist in tight little circles, looking down at his livelihood. “When I came to, my arm was good as new. Everything felt good as new - my f*cked up shoulder, the black and blue thumbnail from my dumbass coworker. Like, I felt so good I thought I’d actually died.”

“That’s . . unbelievable.”

“I guess belief is in the eyes of the believer,” Mingi replies. Then, his eyebrows furrow. “Nah, that’s not right, but you know what I mean.”

Back at his house, the door swings open before Hongjoong even finishes reaching for the knob. He gets a shiver of deja vu, recalling the way Park Seonghwa’s iron gate had unlatched and screeched open on its rusty hinges at his approach.

Hongjoong leads Mingi into the kitchen. He passes the altar just inside the living room atop a well-stocked cabinet of different incenses his grandmother had seen from seed to sachet. He remembers learning to read the names of the herbs and flowers in her towering cabinet with its seemingly infinite drawers. As soon as he was tall enough, he was standing over the mortar and pestle as she supervised, telling him stories about his father’s childhood.

The hallway of photos regard the hall silently and he meets the eye of his grandmother in the picture of her standing with his father on the day of his high school graduation. The picture is bathed in a gentle orange from time. His grandmother is wearing a long flowing dress with a wool overcoat. The scenery around her is distorted as though seen through heat.

He never knew why she and his father had stopped talking. It seemed like one day when he was about ten years old, he started rejecting her calls. She wasn’t being invited to any of Hongjoong’s recitals. She wasn’t mentioned good-naturedly when one of her favorite songs came on the radio nor when they prepared one of her recipes for the holidays. His parents never directly forbade him from seeing her, but it wouldn’t have done any good anyway. Ten year old Hongjoong could be held by no doors. He’d be practicing on the piano when she returned from her daily errands regardless.

The old clock starts to chime. Or it tries to, at least. A mechanically mangled croak crackles through its speaker once, twice, and stops abruptly.

“That wasn’t ominous at all,” Mingi says, crowded up against Hongjoong’s side, much too tall to actually hide behind him.

“It’s just the batteries.” Hongjoong goes up to the clock and lifts it off the hook. On the back, there’s a chipped and fading painting of an electric circuit within a series of concentric circles. It reminds him of the notes his grandmother had bequeathed to Park Seonghwa. He feels around the edges of the clock for some kind of battery compartment or screw hole or mechanism. He feels around the inside where the pendulum swings and his fingers brush along the cold circle of a tiny speaker. It pops off the clock with ease.

“Hongjoong?”

“Yeah?”

It’s so small and cheap in Hongjoong’s hand, no sign of wire or battery in sight.

“I think your grandmother was a witch.”

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

Tuesday

“He’s coming!” Wooyoung yells over the scream of the vacuum cleaner.

Seonghwa curses and unplugs the vacuum before shoving it into his bedroom and slamming the door. He’s been cleaning for the past couple hours, finding peace in deep cleaning his refrigerator and dusting his Lego collection. He hasn’t made significant progress in analysis of the schematics of the spell, which consisted mostly of him staring at the pages and lamenting his lack of proper magic education.

Seonghwa’s confinement meant that he did not attend any of the classes offered by the union officials. He made due with nuggets of wisdom from his mother such as, “A crescent for a stranger, a half for my friend, a gibbous for my family, and a full moon brings my end.”

Of course, he had tutoring sessions. With Wooyoung, their childhood was spent out in the garden not interfering with the important adult conversations and learning how to use their respective powers practically. Wooyoung cheated at cards. Seonghwa asked the young dogwood tree to swivel and bend to continue to provide them with shade over the course of the afternoon. They also had taken to playing tag blindfolded - Wooyoung guided by his divination, Seonghwa by the whispers of the garden. Any resulting injuries were soothed by Seonghwa’s touch, but their parents would frown down at tears and stains in the knees of their pants.

When Seonghwa started to make the garden beautiful, his parents took to hosting garden parties instead, leaving the boys locked up in his room with a stack of books on applications and history of magic. Unfortunately, they’d also left them in a room with an Xbox 360, so Seonghwa learned significantly more about soccer than anything else.

That is, until Wooyoung started to bring Yeosang around. Then, he had trouble learning about anything at all.

Seonghwa rushes into the bathroom and runs a comb through his hair. Behind him, the lush pothos draped over the shower rod swings behind him like a dog wagging its tail. In stark contrast, the single orchid bloom stares blankly at its own reflection in the mirror, unbothered. Seonghwa takes up the dark bottle of perfume and spritzes his wrist and throat, letting the familiar sweetness of fruit and coffee fill his nose.

He smiles at himself in the mirror. It looks painful.

“Thirty seconds!” Wooyoung calls.

Seonghwa curses and flies back into the living room, doing a last once-over for anything out of place. He finds a single sock hanging off the lip of the great monstera’s pot and snatches it away with a huff before depositing it in the basket hidden in the hall closet.

Wooyoung has that knowing look on his face. It’s hardly fair when Seonghwa is perpetually cornered. He’s taken three cold beers from the fridge and set them out on the counter. He makes no comment, just pops one bottle open with a flick of his thumb and waits.

“At least someone is enjoying himself,” Seonghwa mutters.

Wooyoung takes a deep gulp and lets out a satisfied sigh like an old man. He tips the bottle towards the door. “He’s outside, by the way.”

“Oh.”

He hears the excited chitters of the garden. They certainly remember him well.

The doorbell rings. In the ten years they’d been friends, he’s never felt the need to use something as meaningless as the front door let alone the doorbell. But Seonghwa supposes that’s what happens when you stop speaking to someone for a year.

With a deep breath, Seonghwa swings the front door open.

Kang Yeosang has only grown more beautiful. His black hair hangs down to his jaw, wavy and glossy. A single silver earring dangles from his right ear. He’s swapped his cafe uniform for a fitted black button down with a pair of wide-leg black slacks.

He also sees how the year without Seonghwa has worn him down. The pain of living hunched over the coffee counter by day and his keyboard by night and a fresh, blistered burn on his forearm glow faintly to Seonghwa’s magic sight.

Words catch in Seonghwa’s throat. Questions he’d had, his anger and abandonment, shrivel and wither.

Yeosang rolls one of his shoulders and the contents of the bag of takeout hanging from his hand rustles. The paper is spotted with dark, shiny spots of grease and reeks of oil.

“I brought chicken,” he tries. There’s an apology in there, somehow, his big eyes looking up into Seonghwa’s.

He can’t help but shake his head. “Come here.”

He wraps Yeosang in a swift, firm hug. Warmth channels where they touch, seeping into his old friend. The old bitterness of copper is left in his mouth.

Yeosang slumps against his shoulder with a groan, his breath hot on his neck. He clutches at the back of Seonghwa’s shirt.

Wooyoung quips from behind, “You two certainly don’t waste any time.”

They spring apart, leaving Seonghwa’s arms covered in goosebumps. He lowers his gaze to the floor and waves Yeosang inside.

“Your perfume’s nice,” Yeosang comments.

“Thanks,” Seonghwa replies dryly. “You bought it for me.”

“Oh, right.”

Even though it’d been ripped from the ground by the root, the weed that is his love for Kang Yeosang simply refuses to die.

The dinner is greasy-fingered and comfortable, Yeosang returning into the fold of Seonghwa’s home as naturally as a seed sprouts towards the sun. The three of them settle on the rug in the middle of the living room.

Seonghwa licks his thumb clean before flipping through the stack of pages to hand the puzzling ones over.

Yeosang takes them in one hand and his eyes go vacant and lifeless for a moment. He swallows heavily and shakes himself back to focus.

“Not too bad,” Wooyoung comments. He swirls the nearly empty beer bottle in his hand, a light flush across his cheeks and down his neck. “For a rookie.”

Yeosang doesn’t even spare him a glance. “Last time you visited my parents’ house, you teleported into their master bathroom while it was occupied instead of the landing pad by the door.”

“That was a compliment! See, this is why I never say nice things.”

Seonghwa looks between the matching rings on their hands. There was a time when he had once dreamed of sharing Yeosang’s power, of sitting in the ceremonial circle and holding his hand as the ritual tangled their magic together irrevocably. But after the incident, the union decreed him unmarriageable and the honor was passed to Wooyoung.

“-like the time that you completely forgot about my birthday.”

Wooyoung slaps his arm. “That was ten months ago!”

“Wow, it seems like you might actually remember it this time.” Yeosang crawls over to the hardwood and starts to lay the pages out on the floor. From his breast pocket, he draws a piece of white chalk and begins to take notes directly onto the floorboards.

Seonghwa leans over and sees that he’s writing out a list. “Did you figure something out?”

He finishes the notes with a firm click of the chalk, sending a chip flying off the end and settles back on his heels.

“It’s just incredibly familiar in some way like I’ve just seen it,” he explains. He holds his hand to his chin. “The shape is different and the spell components are different and the incantation . . but it’s still familiar.”

“Well, what have you been working on lately? Maybe we could refer to your other research and find what it’s reminding you of.”

Yeosang taps the chalk on the floor again, a displeased deep hum vibrating in his throat.

“Oh,” Wooyoung says softly. He sets down the beer on the coffee table and wanders over to the altar by the entranceway housing the Park Family Spellbook. He opens the book to the exact page he’d been searching for and brings it back to Seonghwa, an uneasiness flattening his mouth into a line. “It’s this.”

A Spell for Blooming

The spell that supercharged Seonghwa’s budding magic out of control. The mistake his parents made that trapped him for life in an iron playpen.

The diagram of circles whose origins make the points of an equilateral triangle. The full moon. Three participants of great power.

He realizes that he’d recognized it too. He takes the book up in both hands and sets it down next to Yeosang’s notes.

“It’s a counterspell,” Yeosang says. “It’s not just similar, it’s the opposite.”

Seonghwa’s hope unfurls in his chest. Words fall off his lips half-formed. “This is, couldn’t this, can’t it help?”

But his friends remain silent, communicating with each other through pointed looks and miniscule shakes of their heads. Wooyoung has his arms crossed around his middle and his lower lip pulled into his teeth, his quiet as unnerving as a frost in June.

Yeosang wipes the excess chalk off on his thighs, leaving a swipe of white dust across the black. He starts to speak slowly and halting, letting his fledgling divination guide him word-by-word. “Not. . quite. While one nurtures magic. This kills it.”

“Kills?” Seonghwa repeats.

He’d heard whispers of the woman who’d been researching how to destroy someone’s magic. The greatest taboo.

“It’s only a theory,” Yeosang adds quickly. “I can’t actually see what would happen if we cast it.”

“Nothing happened at first,” Wooyoung corrects, his tone level and serious. “But the air goes cold. Then, I’m laying on the floor and it all goes black.”

Seonghwa looks to Yeosang for an explanation. His bloom of hope sheds its petals one by one.

“The futures are gone. Once we glimpsed what might come to pass after the ritual, the probability of them happening dropped to zero and vanished,” Yeosang says. His eyebrows are pinched together and his eyes shine. “We’d never do that to you.”

Seonghwa slumps back against the front of the couch and picks up his untouched beer. The glass is cool and damp to the touch and the smell of citrus and barley wrinkles his nose. He offers them an attempt at a smile.

“Well, so much for that.”

The papers are stacked and squirreled away into the hard to reach cabinet above the refrigerator. The fried chicken bag and beer bottles are tossed into the appropriate bins and the coffee table is polished clean. The little herbs in their hanging pots sway as they watch Seonghwa wash the sauce out from beneath his fingernails. When he’s done, he lifts his fingers and flicks the water off at them playfully.

While the other herbs rejoice, Thyme cowers, leaning back against the glass of the window.

Seonghwa mutters an amused, “Sorry.”

“I should probably get going,” Wooyoung announces. He steps into his shoes by the doorway and eyes the destroyed ward on the back of Seonghwa’s door. “Oh, right. Yeosangie, come here.”

Yeosang walks over to the door, pushing his hair out of his face to get a better look. As he reaches within arm’s length of Wooyoung, he suddenly steps backwards.

But Wooyoung only smiles, he steps out of reality and re-emerges just behind Yeosang, neck already craned into position to plant a kiss on Yeosang’s cheek.

“Ugh!” Yeosang recoils away from him, cradling that side of his face as though he’d been burned. He admits, “That was a pretty good one.”

“I know.” Wooyoung grimaces and massages between his own eyebrows. “Though I think I just gave myself a migraine.”

I missed this, Seonghwa thinks to himself.

But he must have thought about saying it, because Wooyoung and Yeosang both look to him, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

Wooyoung looks away first, hand up in a wave. “Okay, I’m leaving for real now. Bye nerds.”

With that, he pulls open the front door and he stops dead. Wind gusts through the door in a howl, carrying in the smell of flowers tainted with iron. The temperature of the room drops. A heavy clang resounds from outside.

Seonghwa races to the door, losing a house slipper along the way. The warmth of his magic settles in the pit of his stomach, but he notices something strange: it’s leaking, out of his control. The floor creaks. Then splinters. Flowers burst through the wood floor. Tiny blue blossoms turn to all stare up at Seonghwa, resolute. Forget-me-nots.

The gate to the cast iron fence has fallen into the front yard, each of its spokes a furious orange and pitted with corrosion.

“Seonghwa!” Yeosang yells. He has his chalk out in one hand and is drawing a sloppy line across the garden path, but the flowers keep breaking it.

He hears his name, distant somehow, unfamiliar. He feels the need to grow and spread. To sink his roots deep into the earth and stretch out to the sun. The heat inside him burns hotter and hotter.

He has to stop it. Seonghwa clenches his eyes shut. He won’t let it happen again. The memories of the smell of smoke, of Wooyoung’s blood wetting his hands, of Yeosang’s tears smearing the ash on his cheeks. He focuses, grounded, seizing his power and stifling the flow out of him to a trickle. Sweat builds on his forehead, makes his t-shirt cling to his chest. He holds his breath, refusing to let the life magic escape, but he can only hold for so long.

Wooyoung curses. A match sparks to life. The pouring of salt. The tap left running in the kitchen.

Yeosang’s baritone reciting the incantation, his pitch and rhythm varying like a song.

And it stops. The fire threatening to consume him from inside is snuffed like a candle. He falls to his knees and blinks, struggling to stay awake. His hair drips sweat onto the faces of the forget-me-nots before him. Their petals curl and brown.

A cup of water is pushed into his hand and his hair brushed out of his face.

He tilts the cup back, gulping greedil. Water spills out of the corners of his dry lips and down his jaw. His stomach gnaws at itself with hunger.

“What happened?” Seonghwa gasps.

“The spell is failing,” Yeosang explains. His eyes are glazed over, looking towards the fence. “But it’s falling apart so quickly, the weave unraveling like its source has. .”

“Died?” Wooyoung snaps. “That’s exactly what happened. The old lady decided to screw you over one last time after all these years.”

Yeosang shakes his head. “No ward of this size and detail can persist without maintenance. It would have fallen long ago.”

His body feels so heavy, so weak. A sense of foreboding branches from his heart into his soul, its thorns dull but persistent. “How long do I have?”

Wooyoung hits him on the arm. “Don’t say that. You’re going to be fine. We’re going to fix it.”

But Yeosang answers, “Until the next full moon.”

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

Wednesday

Hongjoong sees his grandmother’s face, but it’s obscured, blurred and censored. Her mouth moves in unreadable shapes and her voice is the drone of horns. In a single outstretched hand there’s a marigold, its stem broken and the bloom barely hanging on. Hongjoong’s arm moves as if through glue and his fingers grasp at the stem. He just can’t grab it. His hand fumbles it once, twice, and then the flower falls to the ground.

He falls with it. His stomach swoops with sudden gravity and he opens his mouth to scream. The horns grow louder. The ground opens at his feet and swallows him whole. The darkness wraps around him, its weight comforting.

There’s a diminuendo now, a fading lullaby.

His phone rings in his ear from beneath his pillow. He blinks awake and takes a deep inhale of the light mint and lemon smell that clings to the bedding. He squints at the unfamiliar number. He’d shared his number with a handful of strangers in preparation of the funeral and settling affairs, but what were they doing calling at 7:30 in the morning? He swipes to answer the call and brings his phone up to his ear.

“. . . Damnit, he’s not going to answer. See, I told you we should’ve just gone over to his house and-”

“Please don’t,” Hongjoong interrupts, his voice little more than a croak.

There’s a yelp and a sudden clatter. Distantly, he hears the hiss of a curse. With another crackle of static the voice returns, this time oozing sweetness and sunshine. “I’m so sorry about that and forgive me for calling you so early in the morning. Kim Hongjoong, we need your help.”

Hongjoong hangs up. He lays back in bed, humming the tune to the song from his dream. The other details fade save for the uneasy remnants of frustration and fear.

The hollow drumming of a woodpecker in the yard draws his attention. From the window, he sees the entire neighborhood’s worth of birds making a mess of the multiple hanging feeders and the ornate bird bath out back. He pulls up the camera and zooms in carefully on the tiny spotted bird drilling into the tree with its bright green spring leaves. His grandfather had been the family bird watcher for his childhood and his father had taken up the mantle. He’d be happy to see that she’d kept the bird viewing patio well-stocked.

The phone rings again.

Hongjoong sucks his teeth and swipes the call away, but the woodpecker has bounced up to a different limb, partially obscured. He snaps a picture of the scene anyway, but the wind is out of his sails.

There’s a knock at the door.

He looks down at the boxers and black tank top he’d worn to bed and sighs. He pulls on yesterday’s pants and the waiting pair of slides.

The inside of the front door is intricately carved with interlocking diamond, a pattern he’d once traced his fingers along as a child until it disappeared into banality. But now, the grooves seem rough and amateur, as though they’d been chipped away by hand and stained over.

Another sharp knock ricochets off the door and the strength of it pushes the door open just enough to reveal the visitor, whose mouth is parted in surprise.

The man stands eye-to-eye with Hongjoong in a black baseball cap and an Adidas tracksuit. He recovers, relaxing his weight into one leg and says, “Right, as I was saying. Wait, don’t-”

Hongjoong closes the door with a solid click. He shakes his head and turns to see the man inside the house, casually inspecting his fingernails. He falls back against the front door with a gasp.

“Listen,” the man says, now. “I can do this all day. Why don’t you just get it over with and hear me out?”

Jung Wooyoung is quick to help himself to his late grandmother’s cabinets. He finds the almost empty jar of instant coffee and sets the kettle to boil. He explains that he’s the friend of a friend of Mingi’s, but that he’s here on the behalf of his friend, Park Seonghwa.

“I don’t know, he’d made it pretty clear that I wasn’t welcome.”

“He was just shocked,” Jung Wooyoung explains. He sticks his head into the refrigerator and assesses the contents before taking out a couple containers of donations from the funeral.

“Oh, yeah, help yourself, I don’t mind.”

He ignores the quip, dumping leftover rice into a bowl and popping open the next container. “You’re going to need your energy.”

“For what?” Hongjoong settles into one of the stools around the kitchen island. The face of the defunct grandfather clock stares up at him.

“For magic, obviously.” Wooyoung places the bowl into the microwave and slams the door shut. It lights up and hums to life just as the kettle starts to sing. He switches off the burner with a twist of his wrist and sets to filling the two ceramic cups he’d set out before.

“But I don’t have magic.”

“Yes, you do. Congratulations.” Wooyoung watches the bowl of food circulating in the microwave. He takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces. Without hesitation, he pulls open a cabinet, pushes aside some canned goods, pulls out the air-sealed jar of sugar.

“I think I would know by now if I did,” Hongjoong argues.

“Well, yeah, but your family’s magic is subtle. Tell me, why doesn’t your grandmother’s front door have a lock?”

He shrugs. “Because she lives in a small, trusting community?”

“Incorrect. Because only her and her descendents can open it.” He adds a few teaspoons of sugar to his own coffee. He puts his hand around the second coffee and it dematerializes and reappears right besides Hongjoong’s hand.

“. .Thanks.” He takes the coffee, but doesn’t drink. “But didn’t you just open the door now before I got there?”

“Well, yes, but well, when she passed on, her magic went with her, so to speak. . .” Wooyoung falters. “I’m sorry. You seemed close.”

“We were.”

“Your aura looks just like hers.”

“What does it look like?”

“Like a blur. I can barely see you at all.” Wooyoung squints and then shrugs, taking a loud slurp of his coffee. “I can see into the future. It’s an imperfect science at best, but when it comes to you - your aura blocks me out. I can’t see sh*t.”

The microwave dings. Wooyoung jumps and spills coffee down his front, letting out a curse.

Hongjoong huffs a laugh. “‘See into the future,’ huh?”

“I just said-, ah forget it.” Wooyoung tucks a pair of chopsticks into the food and slides him the bowl. “Eat, you have a long day ahead of you.”

“And why is that?”

“Long story short, I need you to fix the super fancy warding spell your grandmother cast on Seonghwa’s fence to keep his magic contained by the next full moon,” he explains. “You’re currently useless, so you need to start learning now.”

Hongjoong takes up the chopsticks and stares down into the food. “I don’t know about that. I’m only supposed to be here for a week, I have to go back to work and-”

“Then, you'll figure it out within the week,” Wooyoung insists. “You are the only one who can do it.”

“Aren’t there quite a few other-” Hongjoong drops his voice to a whisper. “-witches? Surely there must be another person who can help you.”

“They’ve tried, over the years,” Wooyoung admits. “It’s never worked. After last year, the coven decided he was a lost cause.”

Hongjoong falls silent. He picks at the food, appetite replaced with an anxiety building in his gut in a tense tremolo. He still has to spend time wrapping up his grandmother’s affairs, clean up the house, and meet with lawyers and real estate-

Wooyoung interrupts his thoughts. “What do you need to do it? Money? I can get you money.”

“No, I don’t need-”

“Then, what?” Wooyoung sets down the cup and walks around the kitchen island to Hongjoong’s side, eyebrows lifted, pleading. “Seonghwa is my best friend. I can’t lose him. Please.”

Park Seonghwa’s front garden is in complete disarray. The path is overgrown with dried husks of dead flowers and impeded by the rusted over gate. The vines that had reached for Hongjoong as he approached the house lay pinned beneath the gate’s weight, squirming helplessly. The yard is darkened as though caught behind a cloud.

Hongjoong takes a deep breath at the threshold of the fence. The iron spokes are flecked with orange in the soft morning light. He feels a sense of foreboding, of warning bells ringing in the back of his mind. At his feet, there’s a crooked chalk line across the stone walkway. It sparkles furiously. He lifts a hand to test the entrance, pushing a fingertip over the line.

Wooyoung snaps, “Don’t!”

A sudden shock of electricity shoots down Hongjoong’s arm and through his body all the way down to his toes. He yelps and jumps away from the line. He shakes the feeling back into his fingertips and blows on the forming blisters. “What was that?”

“Discount version of what I’m asking of you. Try not to go near it,” Wooyoung warns belatedly. He offers his hand to Hongjoong. “Come on, we have to take the backdoor.”

“Yeah, thanks for the heads up,” Hongjoong grumbles. “Lead the way.”

“I’m trying.” He huffs and snatches Hongjoong’s hand.

The world goes dark. A rest of perfect, complete silence. He’s spinning, infinitely, in every direction all at once. His stomach flips. And then, within the same breath, his feet land heavily with a crunch onto damaged wood flooring.

The room sways slowly into focus. Plants hang in each window. A cozy couch is covered with throw pillows. A tall slender display cabinet displays Lego creations. The smell of dried leaves and stricken matches linger like a warning.

His dizziness and nausea fade in the warmth of the house that welcomes Hongjoong with open arms.

“Good morning.”

Park Seonghwa is seated in the armchair beside the bay window, shaded by the enormous leaves of one of his houseplants. His pretty brown eyes sit above dark circles and show none of the eerie green light from the day prior. The cream v-neck cardigan sags a bit off his shoulders and the flowy black dress pants cover the feet he has tucked up onto the armchair.

The floor of the entrance creaks beneath Hongjoong’s feet. Corpses of flowers lay in the seams of the wood. He takes a step further into the house and winces at the pops elicited from the battered floorboards.

He offers an awkward wave. “Good morning.”

“Did you eat?” he asks. His knees crack as he brings himself to his feet. He gestures towards the kitchen and his stomach gurgles. “Ah, I’m starving.”

“Don’t even look at that kitchen, I’m taking care of it,” Wooyoung insists. He stomps over to Seonghwa and eases him back into the armchair. “Rice? Eggs?”

Wooyoung takes down the order: anything, everything, and a promise to order a pizza the moment a place opens up. He makes his way over into the kitchen, takes out his phone, and starts to play an upbeat song. He sings soft and breathy under the music as he pours the rice and sets to washing it.

Hongjoong folds his hands to stop himself from cracking his fingers and comments, “So, does he just always start a house visit with helping himself to the host’s kitchen, or. .?”

“Only for people he likes,” Seonghwa replies. “I’m not sure whether to congratulate you or offer condolences.”

“Huh, I don’t think I left a particularly good impression.”

“You’d be surprised.” Seonghwa dips his head and his teeth find their way into his full lower lip. “At least you didn’t lose your composure and scare him out of your house.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Hongjoong corrects. Uneasy, yes. Unwelcome, certainly. But he had wanted to get to know the man who personifies his plants and invites him in for coffee when he shows up out of the blue. “It was just. . hard to process.”

“I’m sorry.” Seonghwa wraps his arms around his middle, doing nothing to silence his stomach’s complaints. He closes his eyes, embarrassed. “Ah, sorry, I’m not usually like this.”

Hongjoong shrugs. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t want me in your house anymore and you told me to leave. That’s completely fine.”

“But you were just trying to give me something to help me.”

“So?”

The two meet eyes.

Seonghwa lifts a brow. “So, I could just tell you to get out again right now?”

“Absolutely. Though I am kind of trapped by that magic barrier thing outside.”

“Hm, I don’t know. Sounds kind of like an excuse.”

“I mean, it is,” Hongjoong admits, but he lifts up the burned tips of his fingers. “But it did hurt like a bitch.”

“Come here,” Seonghwa instructs.

Hongjoong does as he’s told. “That’s kind of the opposite of get out.”

“Just trying to lull you into a false sense of security. Give me your hand.”

Seonghwa’s hand has long slender fingers, short rounded nails, and a soft palm. He squeezes Hongjoong’s hand once and he cracks like a hot pack. A warmth like summer afternoon sun on the blacktop sinks through his skin. Hongjoong’s vision tinges green and the tips of his fingers itch.

In a matter of seconds, the burn is gone. When Seonghwa releases his hand, Hongjoong resists the desire to chase after him.

“Is it working?” Seonghwa asks.

Hongjoong rubs his thumb over the healthy pink skin of his fingertips. The calluses from his years playing the guitar throughout undergrad are smoothed and softened.

“Perhaps a little bit too well.”

Breakfast for Seonghwa is a multi-course affair. Even before the rice finishes cooking, Wooyoung brings him a bowl of cut fruit, a protein bar, and a yogurt drink to hold him over.

Seonghwa fills his mouth with fruit until his cheeks bulge, jaw working furiously and juice leaking down his chin. He inhales the protein bar and washes it down with the yogurt in a long slurp. The bottle caves in and he shakes the last drops into his mouth.

Wooyoung just shakes his head. “It’s like I never feed you.”

“Is the real food ready yet?”

“You barely had any ‘real food’ for me to work with! Ten more minutes.”

The room fills with the sound of bubbling oil as the meat hits the pan. Soon, the air is saturated with the scent of garlic and spice and seared pork with an undertone of steam from the rice cooker. Seonghwa has more color in his cheeks and sits straighter in his seat, recovering like a wilted flower placed in water. Even the plant behind him relaxes and retreats from hovering over Seonghwa back into the shade behind the armchair.

Hongjoong chooses the same seat with the Star Wars well-loved throw pillow on the floral printed loveseat. He tugs on his fingers. There’d been so much urgency as he pulled on yesterday’s outfit while Wooyoung pestered him to move faster and time feels as though it’s slowed.

“So,” Hongjoong starts.

“So,” Seonghwa continues.

“How do I learn to . .?” Hongjoong waggles his fingers unsurely.

Seonghwa starts to laugh and tries to cover it up with a cough. “Oh, you’re serious.”

A flash of embarrassment strikes a dissonant chord in his heart. He takes a deep breath and nods.

“Well, uh.” Seonghwa reaches out to the thick tome out on the coffee table and heaves it into his lap with a grunt. He flips through the beginning pages of the book and hums. “Can you tell me about your awakening?”

“Awakening?”

“Oookay. .” He flips a few more pages forward. “How does it feel when your magic manifests? Most people experience some kind of sensation such as warmth, or dizziness, or light sensitivity . .?”

“I really don’t know,” Hongjoong explains. The chorus in him grows, strings twittering teasingly between his ears.

“There has to be something. Your aura is too strong for you to have never experienced an awakening and you did quite a number on the ward on my front door yesterday.” Seonghwa keeps reading on in the book. “How about a natural advantage in a certain skill? Like, with sports, or language learning, or knowledge of the human body . . ?”

A gong crashes over a furious piano interlude. His thoughts drift to music, a part of his life since his earliest memories. Of humming along to Vivaldi on the record player in his grandmother’s. He spent countless hours at the piano, in practicing studios, studying music theory.

“What are you thinking?” Seonghwa prompts gently.

Hongjoong massages his temples. The smell of rosin lingers in his nose and the back of his throat. Strings join at a viciousness that has horse hair breaking and a violin bridge snapping free into the air.

Wooyoung shouts over the symphony, “Kim Hongjoong! I can’t even think!”

The ensemble plays its last chord, a firework of fortissimo, then falls into silence.

Hongjoong slumps back against the couch, breathing heavy, with sweat beading on his brow. His eyelids grow heavy. He fights just to see the way Seonghwa’s hair falls across his forehead as he props his face up on his hand.

“I think whatever that was is going to be a great place for us to start.”

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

Wednesday

The Park family baby grand piano serves as the most expensive succulent and air plant shelf known to man. Passive and unbothered, they barely turn a leaf at being plucked from their home and relocated to the kitchen counter. The piano shines with a mahogany finish, dusted and polished at least once a week from Seonghwa’s guilt of never having learned to play. He can sound out a couple simple jingles and run through a C major scale, but his mother had been the one who played. The soft smile on her face as she played her favorite songs for herself showed her unburdened, for once.

When Seonghwa had turned twenty, his parents announced that they would buy themselves a new house across town to give him some space. Truthfully, they too were trapped with Seonghwa as he raged with teenage angst within the small confines of their home and desperately needed space.

Regardless, they left. They sometimes visit for the holidays or pop in to get the kink out of their neck, but mostly they’ve moved on. It’s odd to consider that Seonghwa had inadvertently become the empty-nester as his parents moved on to bigger, brighter futures.

The last time Seonghwa’s mother had visited had been just a few days ago for his twenty-eighth birthday. She’d come by herself and brought along a cake of strawberries and cream. She ran her fingers along the smooth edge of the piano, but never brought herself to lift the lid from the keys. He didn’t catch himself missing her often and yet, in this moment, with the fresh baby-powder scent of her perfume and the creases by her eyes as they sparkled with nostalgia, he wanted to hold onto her and not let go. But alas, she simply blinked away the memories, handed him a card with money, and that was that.

“It’s beautiful,” Hongjoong says. He frees the keys from their confinement and slides onto the bench. He goes to rest his hands on the keys and makes a face, reaching for the knob on the side of the bench instead.

Huh, Seonghwa thinks. One less sign that his mother used to live here.

But what he says is, “Thank you.”

“What should I play?” Hongjoong’s hands flit silently over the keys in different patterns as if tasting the ivory. His black fingernails match the keyboard below. He pauses to push his silver-framed glasses higher up onto the bridge of his nose.

Seonghwa regrets the years he’d spent gazing at Yeosang’s side profile instead of listening to his lectures on magical theory. He clears his throat and suggests, “Can you play what you’re hearing?”

“You mean like along with the radio?”

“Ah, no. You mentioned that you’ll hear music in your head, can we start with that?”

It seems gentler than what he’d experienced as a young toddler. He’d heard the horror stories of being baked in the summer sun and left to sweat under comforters at night to trigger his magic into manifesting as cute casual retellings over family dinners. He’s glad that he doesn’t remember them.

Hongjoong nods. He closes his eyes and gently presses one black key with his left hand, letting the note ring. He taps the key again and his brows furrow together. “It’s quiet right now.”

“What usually makes it louder?”

“Anger or frustration.” Hongjoong reaches with his left hand and adds one more note in peaceful harmony with the first. “I’ve always been best at meeting my creative deadlines when mad at myself for putting them off.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Perhaps, but I want to hold myself to higher standards.” A rhythm finally emerges, falling in threes as his fingers settle into waltz.

“Higher than us mere, procrastinating mortals?”

The waltz accelerates, its skirts whipping in swift circles across the ballroom floor. The muscles of his forearm working in time with his fingers as the melody grows louder. “I wouldn’t call . . the man who can heal with a touch . . a mere mortal.”

“And what exactly would you call him?”

“Hm, I’m not sure.” Hongjoong slows the song again and repeats the motif to look over his shoulder without missing a note. “Maybe I would call myself unworthy.”

He returns to the song before Seonghwa can piece together a new reply. The waltz falls into a series of disconnected fragments of different melodies. His left hand marches dutifully forward despite the lack of voice bringing the piece together.

The silver backs of his many earrings wink back at him playfully while Seonghwa feels the tips of his own ears burn.

Wooyoung yells across the room. “What about a man who can see into the future and teleport?”

The music turns sour and falls further into disarray.

“Annoying!”

Wooyoung just laughs.

The air around him grows colder and the everpresent chittering din from the garden softens into static. He steps in closer to Hongjoong, letting his aura engulf him entirely. He can’t even feel his own heartbeat. There’s peace despite the mess erupting from the piano, a solace in the fog that dulls the magic senses that he’s had his entire life.

The moment is shattered by the buzzing in his pocket and Kang Yeosang’s name and number flashing on the screen.

Hongjoong’s noise reduces to the scattered pinging of notes in the uppermost reaches of the piano and ends.

Warmth rushes back into the room with the anxious rustling of the plants. Even the succulents expressed their worry with the tips of their leaves yellowing with discontent.

“Just a moment,” Seonghwa blurts, vacating to his room. He closes the door behind him and wills himself to stop listening to his own breaths, to the childlike cries of abandonment from his plants, and lingering ring of Hongjoong’s final note in his ears. He holds his breath and brings the phone up to his ear.

“Oh, you answered!” Yeosang exclaims. He sighs loudly into the receiver. “I couldn’t see myself getting in touch with you. I was worried.”

“Yeosang-ah, everything’s okay, don’t worry,” Seonghwa reassures. A familiar thrill unfurls in his heart.

“I thought it was so strange. I’ve checked what would happen if I tried to call you and this is the first time I ever saw a future of you not answering.”

“Ah.”

Seonghwa sits on his bed, the sprout of excitement killed by a sudden frost.

“Did Wooyoung get him to come over?” he asks.

“He did.”

“How’s it going? I got the impression that he was a complete novice.”

“It’s going fine.”

Yeosang hums into the receiver. Cabinet doors Seonghwa will never see bang shut.

Seonghwa lets the silence linger.

Yeosang sighs again. “What did I say?”

“If you knew I would always answer, why did you never call?” Seonghwa lays back into his bed and pulls a pillow to his chest. He already regrets saying it.

“I’m sorry.”

Seonghwa takes a breath for courage. “I really did miss you.”

“. . I know, I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t-”

Yeosang interrupts him, “I did. I still do, just. You almost died.” His voice relaxes into solemn acceptance. “And it was entirely my fault.”

“There was no way you could have known what would happen,” Seonghwa reassures. He buries the bulb of his broken heart too deep to break ground. “You were just trying to help me. To give me a chance at a normal life for just one day.”

“I was so sure it would work.”

“We all were. It’s okay, it’s not your fault.”

“I’m going to fix it this time, Seonghwa,” Yeosang promises. “You’re going to be okay.”

The words weaken him like a rot. “Okay.”

Seonghwa half-listens to the plan Yeosang has sown, with its clever mathematics and expensive, rare reagents for which he’s never had a mind. There’s a mention of coming over later that day to explain further and of bringing materials to fix up the floor.

It all souns like a call back to the days past when they would brainstorm together late into the night and sip tea long cooled. He wipes a silent tear from his eye as he affirms the plan in during each pause and ends the call with “see you soon.”

He hears a gentle tune playing through his bedroom door on the piano. Clair de lune.

13 days.

Seonghwa isn’t going to waste them mourning unrequited love.

The piano’s lid has been propped open and its voice bellows throughout the house. The wild daffodils in the window box all crane their necks as if to have their trumpets join in accompaniment. The vibrations resonate in Seonghwa’s chest as he sits in his armchair, trying to pick out the tune. He holds two halves of a broken board together in his lap, bound with the simplest circle he could create.

Hongjoong flashes a frustrated look over his shoulder, angling his body away from the keys to glare daggers at the circle. The music lifts in pitch as his hands wander up in hasty trills. He bears his teeth and veins on his neck strain visibly with his exertion.

Wooyoung lingers nearby, seated on the armrest of the couch with a long-emptied mug perched on his knee. “I think you’ve almost got it.”

Seonghwa thinks he’s talking out of his ass, but that’d be nothing new. The board remains inert and intact in his hands, unmoved by the shrill chords nor the pointed look.

Then, Hongjoong’s hand stops on one key and his eyes widen. He scrambles to his feet, careful not to release the note. He gets as close to the board as possible with his ree hand pointed towards the circle.

The wood warms in Seonghwa’s hands. A sudden tremor shakes the board free and it falls with a heavy thump onto the rug. The circle glows brighter. The wood squeaks in resistance as the board contorts on the seam.

Wooyoung throws himself behind the couch with a curse. His mug shatters across the floor.

Hongjoong sings the note before the piano rings into silence. He pauses and sucks in a breath. His voice projects in inarguable command.

“Break.”

The circle burns as bright as the sun and bursts in a pop of sparks. The two pieces of wood explode apart from each other. One flies directly through where Wooyoung’s head had just been to crash into the kitchen. The other lodges itself into the wall.

Hongjoong claps both his hands over his mouth with his eyes widened in horror. “I’m so sorry!”

“I mean, at least you didn’t hit the piano.” Seonghwa offers. He gets to his feet and lets out a nervous chuckle.

Hongjoong looks to be at a loss, unable to meet his eye. He winces and takes a shaky step towards the mess of broken ceramic. He stops, blinking rapidly and holding his head. His mouth parts in a small sound of confusion.

“He’s gonna pass out!” Wooyoung warns.

“sh*t.” Seonghwa only takes two long strides to make it by Hongjoong’s side in time to catch his dead weight before he falls knees-first into the shards. He’s just barely keeping him up with his arms wrapped around Hongjoong’s middle.

His head slumps into his chest and Seonghwa can smell the the bergamot clinging to him from the previous day.

Seonghwa drags him around the mess and hefts him onto the couch with a grunt. He’s heavier than he looks. He tucks a throw pillow under his head and brushes the hair out of his eyes.

Wooyoung snickers. “And what was that, Park Seonghwa?”

“Just a little kindness,” he explains. He reaches over the couch and gives Wooyoung a shove. “Go clean up your mess.”

Seonghwa drapes a crocheted blanket over Hongjoong. Wooyoung blinks at him slowly.

“Stop judging me,” Seonghwa hisses. “I’m just trying to make him comfortable.”

“I’m literally just standing here, but okay. Whatever you say.”

Wooyoung and Seonghwa clean up the room together. A bluetooth speaker plays the top hits of their teenage years over the scream of the vacuum sucking up splinters, ceramic chips, and dust from the floor. They manage to pry the one piece of wood from the wall and collapse into a pile of limbs on the floor in the process. Wooyoung laughs, high-pitched and hysterical, at the look of jaw-dropping dismay on Seonghwa’s face as daylight spills through the damage to the wall.

The piece in the kitchen left a pronounced divot in the shining face of the refrigerator, but that was it. Seonghwa puts water to boil for tea and peels some oranges, setting the wedges out on the saucers.

Wooyoung shimmies near with the mop and bumps his hip against Seonghwa.

Seonghwa answers by feeding him a piece of orange.

The two settle on the freshly cleaned rug with their teas. When Wooyoung pauses the music, only the sound of Hongjoong’s deep, relaxed breaths remain. He’s curled onto his side now, with half the blanket and one arm hanging off the couch. The embroidered letters have left red marks on his cheek and his lips are slightly parted, allowing drool to leak onto the pillow.

“Shouldn’t be too much longer now, maybe twenty-seven minutes,” Wooyoung says. He blows on his tea, splashing it up over the rim before taking a tiny sip.

“It’s weird when you say ‘maybe’ like you’re guessing and then give a super specific estimate like ‘twenty-seven minutes.’”

“I could be more specific, if you’d like.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Seonghwa twists his cup on his saucer. The steam warms his palm. It didn’t seem safe to continue learning in the house. He had to admit, having the house filled with the noise that is Hongjoong’s inner soundtrack was a charming change of pace. He takes a sip of his tea, too hot yet to taste and recalls the heat of his magic threatening to boil him from the inside out. He sets the cup down with a firm clatter and snacks on the oranges instead.

“I’m gonna head out,” Wooyoung announces. He blows loudly across his tea again to get another slurp down. He lets out a satisfied exhale and looks down at what remains in his cup. With a shrug, he throws the rest of the back like a shot. “It’s been fun. Don’t be staring at him when he wakes up. It’s creepy.”

Seonghwa scoffs. “That’s rich from the guy that broke into his house and used his kitchen.”

“Yeah, well-” Wooyoung scoots over to Seonghwa, rests his head on his shoulder, and pulls him in a side hug. “-anything for you.”

“. . Thanks, Wooyoung-ah.”

Wooyoung squeezes him tightly. He then turns his head to sink his teeth into Seonghwa’s shoulder through his shirt.

“Ah!” Seonghwa goes to shove Wooyoung away, but he’s already gone. Only the imprint of his incisors and his empty teacup remain.

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

Wednesday

Hongjoong comes to in a room bathed in the dusty orange of sunset. His clothes cling uncomfortably to his body and one foot has freed itself of its sock in his sleep. The blanket around his middle is soft and too warm. He flings it up over the back of the couch. His head is clouded and his eyes crusted with sleep.

There’s a bottle of water and a box of tissues left on the coffee table beside the couch. He feels his hair sticking up on the side of his head. His head throbs in the temples as he clumsily reaches for the water. He cracks open the bottle and takes a swig, the water ice cold and soothing. He closes the bottle and presses it to the back of his neck with a sigh.

“Hongjoong?”

He twists around and sees Seonghwa stepping out of his bedroom. He carries a petite silver watering can with a long curved spout in one hand and a pair of gardening shears in the other. From inside, the tall sword-like, striped leaves of plant lean into the doorway menacingly as though defending the entrance from intruders.

“How long-” Hongjoong coughs some of the gravel out of his voice. “How long was I out?”

“Few hours, I think.” Seonghwa circles around to the kitchen to the relocated succulents on the kitchen counter. He dips his fingers into the soil of each pot and only ends up watering one of them. “How are you feeling?”

“Pretty bad,” he answers.

He recalls the music, the snap as the wooden boards flew from each other, and the climatic twin thunks of them sailing across the house. His stomach churns with anxiety and a faint ringing lingers in his ears. It’s been a long time since he’s passed out at the house of a man he’d met less than a day ago and he’s not even offered the reprieve of sneaking out to his walk of shame.

“Yeah, that was me yesterday,” Seonghwa replies. He wanders to the plant with the enormous split leaves by the armchair next, reaching down into the pot with his entire hand and pulling it out with a shake of his head, flicking bits of soil from his fingers. “Happens to the best of us. Not bad for your first day.”

“Can I ask a stupid question?”

“Sure?”

“Did I really do magic?” Hongjoong feels like the victim of the most unnecessary, elaborate prank of his life.

Seonghwa offers him a patient smile. “You did.”

“I can’t really believe it.” He looks down at his hands, but they’re still his. He scoffs and shakes his head. A thought hits him. “Wait, does this mean my parents are. .?”

“Not. . necessarily. It can skip generations.” Seonghwa takes a seat beside him on the couch, setting the tools on the coffee table. “My parents both have talents, but I ended up inheriting mine from a great-grandfather. I think, if either of your parents were, we would have met sooner.”

“I wish we had,” he replies. He’s terrified to let these people down even if it means burning his candle at both ends. He was supposed to have another call with the lawyer today and he needed to bring himself to box up his grandmother’s things, but all he wants to do is crawl back under the blanket and return to sleeping on Seonghwa’s couch.

“Might have been nice. Convenient, too, considering the impending doom and all.”

It’s lighthearted, but still stings. A deep warble like electric bass rumbles through his chest. Hongjoong massages his sternum to try and quiet it. “You seem to be, uh, taking it well?”

“I’ve had a long time to accept the possibility. I guess Wooyoung didn’t tell you all the details.” Seonghwa averts his gaze and turns it back to the piano. His dark, thick brows pinch together. “Do you want to hear them? I don’t want to unload my traumatic backstory on you right when you’ve just experienced your own loss.”

“I mean, if you’re okay with sharing. I would understand if you didn’t. We did just meet yesterday.”

“And yet, I feel like you should know.” Seonghwa pulls his feet up onto the couch and sits cross legged. He pulls the second throw pillow into position to support his back and relaxes against the armrest.

“When a witch turns three years old, they’re expected to experience an awakening,” Seonghwa begins. “Three year olds tend to be very tumultuous, so it’s not long before they have an emotional outburst that manifests their magic.”

Seonghwa’s lip curls bitterly. “There’s not a single picture from my early child of me smiling. I was an exceptionally unhappy child. I don’t remember my awakening, and no one does. My mother’s talents are with heat and fire, my father’s with electric current and my older brother took after him. My mother and I look so alike that there wasn’t a doubt that I would inherit hers.”

“So, they were looking for smoke,” Hongjoong reasons.

“But they needed to look for flowers blooming in April.” He exhales slowly through his nose. “Now that I’m older, I can understand how they missed the signs. And as my fourth birthday approached, they got desperate. People were beginning to talk. I was about to be the greatest shame on the family name.”

“You were just a little kid!” Hongjoong interjects. “And sometimes it skips a generation. That’s no one’s fault.”

“It didn’t matter. Besides, my parents had a plan.” Seonghwa drags the spellbook from the coffee table into his lap and throws it open. He only has to turn one page over to find what he sought. He flips it around and rests it on the couch between them.

A Spell for Blooming

There’s a bunch of circles and triangles and intersecting lines with a cryptic poem written through the middle.

“This is the last resort,” Seonghwa says softly. “There’s a small chance that a child’s magic is resting, dormant. I can’t tell you if it’s science or superstition, but they say that if you don’t manifest by four, you never control them. This spell wakes dormant powers, or so its creators believed.”

“What does it really do?”

“To be honest, I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure that out. There are certain magical laws and formulas and stuff that explain it, but-” Seonghwa waves his hand. “-what it comes down to is magic potential and control. Imagine someone unawakened as a bud.”

He makes his hand into a fist. “Very little magic can enter or leave through the bud, but when you awaken, the flower blooms.” He partially opens his hand. “The flow of magic is manageable, within your grasp.”

“But when you’re already awake . .” Hongjoong trails off.

Seonghwa brings his hands together, spreading his fingers wide. “It’s too much. I can’t control it. More magic flows out of me than I can handle. Trees grow from the ground at my feet, thorny shrubs tangle in their underbrush, trapping all in their path. Or so I was told. All I remember is unbearable, tortuous heat and the smell of pine.”

There’s a lull. Seonghwa picks at a stray thread on the hem of his pants, hair falling across his eyes. He straightens, laughing uncomfortably and holding himself around his middle. “Sorry, it got a little too dark there for a second. Maybe I should have opened a bottle of wine to get through this.”

“You don’t have to continue.” Hongjoong places a couple of reassuring pats on Seonghwa’s knee.

Seonghwa shakes his head, but makes no move to brush him away. “No, no, I’m okay. All that’s left to say is that your grandmother had shown up to object to the ritual and tried to interfere, but it was too late. She instead built the ward around this property during the chaos, essentially creating a funnel attuned to me of how much magic can flow at once. But if I try to leave the ward. .”

“Oh,” Hongjoong says softly.

“You see where I’m going with this.” Seonghwa pauses, letting it sink in. “And now it’s, literally, falling apart.”

“And if it doesn’t get fixed. .”

The weight of the task becomes crushing. His breath shortens. The ominous dirge of a bellowing organ predicts his inevitable failure deep in his gut. It’s too much.

“Hongjoong, it’s going to be okay,” he promises, but it sounds empty. He places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Lines of concern appear between his brows.

“I’m okay,” Hongjoong tells himself. He takes up the water and forces himself to drink. The music is drowned out. Air refills his lungs. He’s hyper-aware of the oil accumulated on his forehead and in his hair, of the dinginess of his clothes, of the soothing warmth of Seonghwa’s hand sinking into him.

“So yeah,” Seonghwa says. “No pressure.”

“Maybe we should open that bottle of wine after all.”

“You know what, why not?”

Seonghwa winds back around the couch into the kitchen and ducks into a cabinet. He sets the bottle of red on the counter. Upon peeling back the foil, he sees that the bottle has a screw cap before cracking it open with a swift twist of his wrist.

Hongjoong busies himself, folding up the blanket and resting it on the back of the couch. His fingers twitch and he sits back down at the piano.

“Do you take requests?” Seonghwa fishes two wine glasses from the depths of a shelf of novelty mugs.

“Try me.”

“How about IU?”

“Ah, well, you see, unfortunately we’re fresh out of IU. Perhaps I could offer you some of the musical stylings of the great David Bowie or the classic retellings of Ludwig van Beethoven? I’ve heard he’s got an excellent Sonata or two.” Hongjoong plays the first couple of notes to trigger the memory.

It gets a laugh out of Seonghwa at least, who’s pouring entirely too much wine into the still-wet glasses. “Bit early for moonlight, don’t you think?”

“So, I’m hearing Bowie, then?” Hongjoong jokes. He pulls up his phone, searches up “easy piano sheet music IU,” and picks the one that balances simplicity and how much he remembers the rhythm. He balances his phone on the piano and silently practices the opening riff before giving it a go.

It’s light and upbeat. He plays it under tempo and doesn’t fuss too much with the notes.

Seonghwa sings a couple lines in the verse, his deeper voice pulling up into the higher notes with ease.

He reaches the end of the page much too quickly and has to pause and swipe to the next one. He ad libs the left hand rhythm along the way. He plays right up until the drop of the chorus, which is hidden behind a paywall, so he ends the song with a chord. He stands up and takes a little bow.

Seonghwa claps from his seat on the couch with a wide, brilliant smile. The two glasses of wine waiting on the coffee table with the mostly emptied bottle.

“Thank you, thank you.”

“Best Bowie song I’ve ever heard,” Seonghwa remarks.

“That’s a little bit too far.”

Seonghwa offers him a glass. “Is it though?”

Hongjoong’s phone buzzes violently and falls from the music rack onto the keys. The piano lets out a short agonized cry.

“sh*t,” Hongjoong hisses. He pats the piano in apology and grabs his phone. The cry from the piano starts anew in his chest. A single new message from Jeong Yunho.

Hey, I’m here!

He was already twenty minutes late. Oh, he’s the worst. He clenches his phone in his fist.

“What’s wrong?” Seonghwa asks.

Hongjoong lets his eyes close for a long second before he turns to face Seonghwa. “I’m really sorry, I had made plans to meet up for drinks with a friend and with everything I just, it slipped my mind.”

“Oh.” Seonghwa’s face droops with disappointment and he sets the glass back down. He clears it from his face quickly enough, but it lingers on in his voice. “I understand. Next time.”

Before Hongjoong can suggest a next time, a man appears in the center of the room. He’s carrying a potted plant and the scent of freshly ground coffee. His soft smile promptly drops in confusion as he looks between Hongjoong and Seonghwa.

Seonghwa clears his throat. “Ah, perfect timing. Kang Yeosang, Kim Hongjoong.”

“We’ve met before,” Hongjoong says, unsure.

“Right, yes. Hello.” Yeosang awkwardly hikes the plant up higher in his grip. Little white bell-like flowers shake cutely on their dark green stems.

“Would you be so kind as to give Hongjoong-ssi a lift to wherever he has to go? I accidentally kept him tied up here and he’s running late,” Seonghwa explains.

“Ah, no, it’s okay, I’ll just be going,” Hongjoong says. He also desperately wanted to at least run back to his grandmother’s house and wash his face and put on a fresh set of clothes, but then he’d be even later.

Yeosang sets the plant down gently on the rug. “I suppose you could try.”

Right. The ward. His fingertips prickle with the memory and he hides them in his pocket.

Hongjoong tells him the name of the place, but he keeps looking at Seonghwa, who has since curled up on his couch and drained half his glass of wine. He feels the need to explain away the plan to meet up with his ex to Seonghwa, but instead he just thanks him for his time and hospitality.

“Yeah, anytime,” Seonghwa says lightly. “Have fun.”

Hongjoong resists the urge to wince. “Thanks, have a good night.”

Without another word, Yeosang grips Hongjoong around the wrist and whisks him through time and space directly into the bathroom stall of a bar. The sensation had barely been more than that of a high-speed elevator - just a slight pressure in his ears. The two of them stand nose-to-nose in the confined space.

A slightly acrid smell of urine lingers under a lemony cleaner. A hand dryer blows into the air as the bathroom door swings heavily shut.

Yeosang’s face is beautiful and unperturbed. His nose doesn’t wrinkle and his lips remain softly parted, eyes big and calm. He exhales softly and his breath tickles Hongjoong’s face.

“Okay, well, thanks again!” Hongjoong backs directly out of Yeosang’s personal space and heads for the exit. “I gotta get going so, good night.”

“I’ll fix up the gate tonight,” Yeosang says, “but take my number just in case it gives you any trouble tomorrow.”

Hongjoong stops short. “Tomorrow?”

“Everyday, until we figure it out,” Yeosang explains. He pauses, holding his chin. Then, he snaps his fingers. “I’ll bring you a coffee. Iced americano, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Hongjoong looks at Yeosang’s proud look on his face and doesn’t have the heart to argue further.

“Until then.”

Hongjoong blinks and Yeosang is gone.

For a small town, this bar is about as classy as it gets. Booths with smooth leather seating and sleek black tabletops that match the bar. Sage green accent walls and round light fixtures keep it dim enough for comfort. It’s got a few men in black suits nursing beers at a table. A single couple in color complementary outfits share the bench on the same side of a booth, taking a selfie.

Yunho is seated at the bar with his eye on the front door. His phone is out on the bar next to a short glass with only ice left at the bottom. He’s wearing a long sleeve white tee and a pair of dark wash jeans. He leans on one hand and sighs, a knee bouncing under the bar.

There’s nowhere to go but forward. Hongjoong steels himself and walks up to him from behind.

“Sorry, I’m late,” he announces.

Yunho whirls around and almost knocks his glass over in surprise. His face cracks in a smile and he pops off the bar stool.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says genuinely. “I’m so glad you could make it. You uh-”

He gives him a quick once-over, taking in his mussed hair and rumpled clothes.

Hongjoong takes the seat with a grimace. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I know I look like sh*t. I got caught up with something and lost track of time.”

“No, just, everything’s okay?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Alright, then first round’s on me, what would you like?”

“Whatever you’re getting is fine.”

Yunho flags down the bartender and orders their drinks. A scent of the same old cheap shampoo he’s always used hangs around him just like the gold cross around his neck.

“So,” he starts, “how have you been?”

“Pretty busy,” Hongjoong answers. “After I finished my master’s, I got a job TA-ing for my advisor, which means I more or less do all of his grading and create all his assignments, update his syllabus. You know, things like that.”

Yunho nods along, maintaining eye contact. “And you’re still doing private lessons on top of that?”

“Ah, yeah, TA-ing doesn’t pay dick, so.” Hongjoong shrugs.

“That sucks. Do they help with housing at all?”

“I get a stipend, but it’s nowhere near enough for a place by myself in the city.”

“Roommate?” Yunho guesses.

“Yeah, he’s actually one of my former students. He was in the same program as I was, but for vocal performance.”

“You two must have got along well,” Yunho notes. “It’s nice that you found someone you have so much in common with.”

Hongjoong smiles at that. “Well, it’s never quiet.”

The bartender places their drinks on co*cktail napkins - short wine glasses of orange bubbly with ice and a thick slice of fresh orange. She asks, “Would you like to open a tab?”

“Yes, please, thanks,” Yunho says. He picks up one of the glasses, the stem resting between his middle and ring finger.

Hongjoong takes up his, too. He has no idea what this is, but it looks refreshing, at least.

“To reunion.”

Yunho clinks their glasses. “To reunion.”

The sip Hongjoong takes is fizzy and bitter. He fights the instinct to make a face and offers a polite smile as he sets the glass back down.

“What’d you think?” Yunho asks.

“It’s uh, a new experience,” he answers diplomatically.

Yunho laughs, covering his mouth with his hand. “You hate it. Why didn’t you just order something else?”

“It sounded good!” Hongjoong takes another sip. The light, sweet fruitiness bubbles pleasantly before the bitterness washes over his tongue. This time, he can’t help but contort his mouth as he places the glass back down.

Yunho looks helplessly endeared, eyes full of puppy love like they’re teenagers again. “It’s hard to believe this is the first time we’ve had drinks together.”

“It is?” Hongjoong says, realizing. “Didn’t we all meet up for Mingi’s 19th birthday?”

“I was driving,” Yunho points out.

“sh*t, that’s right.”

Hongjoong gets hit with a wave of memories. He’d already been away at school for almost two years at that point. While the town had stayed the same, he felt like he’d changed so much that he no longer fit in.

“You should come out this year,” Yunho suggests. “We’ll probably just have the party back at the house. Beer, barbeque. Mingi’s buddy Wooyoung makes the best sauce, it’s to die for.”

Hongjoong looks at Yunho in confusion, his brain playing back what he’s just said in slowmo.

“Wait, you know Wooyoung?” he asks.

“Yeah? I mean, kind of. We’ve only met a few times over the years,” Yunho explains. “He’s interesting. Friendly, funny. Hot boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Hongjoong repeats.

It’s Yunho’s turn to give him a strange look. “Are you sure you know Wooyoung? They’re practically attached at the hip.”

“I mean, I just met him for the first time this morning. I guess I wouldn’t say I really know him,” Hongjoong admits.

“Ah, coffee shop again?” Yunho takes another sip and crunches on an ice cube with his molars. “Well, uh, sorry he’s definitely taken.”

Hongjoong waves a hand. “Oh, no, it’s not like that. He’s okay, but he’s not really my type.”

There’s a pause. The conversation feels like it’s guided on tracks to a particular subject and Hongjoong can’t seem to find the lever. He hears the Bruno Mars and Maroon 5 songs that used to play on the radio in Yunho’s first car. Remembers how big his hand used to feel tapping out the beat on Hongjoong’s thigh as they drove around the neighborhood until nightfall.

“Yunho, can I just say something real quick?” he asks.

“Yeah, just give me one second.” Yunho tilts the rest of his drink back and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. “Okay, go ahead.”

Hongjoong rolls his eyes. “It’s not that bad. I just wanted to tell you straight out that I’m really only looking for a friend in you. I am single and I did miss you, but not like that.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah, I’m in the same boat,” Yunho replies. He fishes out his orange slice from his glass and eats the fruit with a hum of satisfaction. “God, that’s good. If you’re not going to drink that, at least try the orange.”

“We’re definitely on the same page?”

“Same boat, same page, whichever,” Yunho says. He twists his orange peel and plops it back into the empty glass.

Hongjoong breathes a sigh. He starts to fish out his own orange despite the drink still being full.

“Okay, good, cool. Sorry, I was just feeling awkward waiting for it to come up.”

“Yeah, no, I get it,” Yunho reassures him. “I meant it when I said we were just meeting up as friends, but I understand you wanting to make that clear.”

Hongjoong bites into the orange. The bitterness is significantly cut by the fresh, juicy orange. It’s cool and refreshing and perfect. His eyes slide closed in bliss. He pushes the rest of the drink over to Yunho for him to finish.

“You’re right, it was worth it just for the orange.” Hongjoong makes eye contact with the bartender, tilts up his chin, and gives her a small wave. “I’ll get the next round.”

They’re finally able to settle. Yunho tells him all about how he has recently adopted a puppy and they gush over the pictures. Hongjoong hears about how Yunho became a jeweler, his apprenticeship under his uncle and starting to create his own designs. He’d ended up with an online associate’s degree in fine arts along the way. He still lives with Mingi, of course, but they’ve moved into a bigger place with a finished basem*nt he can use as a studio instead of taking up all the space in the garage. He’s only six months out of a break up of a relationship for which he’d already designed the engagement ring.

“I’m sorry, that’s rough.”

“Everything happens for a reason,” Yunho says. “And I believe it because literally the next day, I get a call from Jung Wooyoung of all people asking me for a design. Paid a lot of money for it too.”

“Wait, what?”

“Listen, I tried to give him a friends and family discount, but-”

“Yunho-ya,” Hongjoong interrupts, reiterating, “he asked you for an engagement ring?”

“He asked for a ring,” Yunho clarifies. The alcohol has a slight red flush on his cheekbones and he holds up his pointer finger dramatically. “It wasn’t for a proposal, he gave it to Kang Yeosang.”

Yunho considers this, eyes scouring the ceiling for the answer. “Well, come to think of it, they gave each other rings. But they don’t act like a couple and Wooyoung is definitely-” He emphasizes every syllable of the word. “-with that other guy. So, who knows?”

“Part of me wants to know how you’re so sure about that, but most of me absolutely does not want to know,” Hongjoong replies.

“Hang out with him long enough and you’ll figure it out.”

The bartender is about to take Yunho’s emptied glass away when he reaches out. She raises an eyebrow at him, but waits.

Yunho plucks the orange slice out of the drink and offers it to Hongjoong.

Hongjoong accepts it greedily, wishing it was more than just a slice. He then realizes that he hasn’t eaten since Wooyoung cooked for him that morning. The one drink has gone straight to his head.

“I think I should go,” he says abruptly.

“It is getting a little late for a Wednesday,” Yunho agrees.

They close out and walk outside. The temperature has dropped like an octave and Hongjoong shivers, zipping up his bomber jacket and crossing his arms.

The bar is towards the western end of the main strip, right by where the street lights end and the darkness of the new moon begins. The town is slowing to a stop with no cars left out on the street and most of the restaurants and shops already closed up for the evening. The main street is lined with beds of freshly planted flowers. The smell of the freshly turned earth and blossoms mix with the stale stench of cigarette smoke.

Yunho stands tall with his shoulders relaxed, unbothered by the cold in just his shirt. In fact, he smiles as the cool breeze pushes his hair up out of his face and buffets his shirt against his body. He thumbs up the road and starts backwards down the sidewalk.

“Next time, let's meet somewhere where you can bring the puppy.”

Yunho nods. a“She'll love that.”

“Alright, get home safe.”

“Yeah, you too.”

As Yunho walks away, he looks up towards the night sky and starts to hum “Starman” by David Bowie.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Thursday

“We actually have a buyer interested in your grandmother’s house.”

Hongjoong sputters on his coffee, coughing and setting his mug down.

“Already?” he gasps.

“Perfect inspection, walking distance from shops and restaurants, two car garage, beautiful yard, there was no way this house was going to be on the market for long,” the real estate agent explains. “We're looking to do a walkthrough later today. Will you be available or can I stop by for the keys?”

“The front door doesn’t have a lock,” he mutters, still stunned by how quick this is happening.

He’s sitting in the guest bedroom at the one desk in the house. The room had served as his music studio from his teenage years. The one filing cabinet is still a mess of sheet music and notebooks of poetry and lyrics. His old music stand sits in the corner in front of the case for his old electric keyboard. Both are routinely dusted. Cared for even though they were destined to be tossed. Behind the electric keyboard is the hole he’d punched into the wall after he and Yunho broke up.

“What do you say? 3 o’clock works or no?” the agent asks.

“Yeah, okay. Door'll be open.”

“Great.”

The call ends on that.

Hongjoong leans forward and rests his face against the desk. He feels tired to his soul despite having slept through the night dreamlessly for a full ten hours. He’d forced himself to eat breakfast and packed himself a lunch box for good measure.

His email inbox is overflowing with submissions and questions from students, calendar invites from the professor, and nagging from University HR to provide evidence that he attended services for his grandmother to justify his bereavement leave. The bereavement that had ended the previous day and he’s had to use two of his precious personal days just to stay the week. The dread weighs down his stomach like a stone. It’s already Thursday.

He picks up his head and opens his laptop.

There’s a flagged email from his landlord stating, “Payment Succeeded.” Confused, he clicks into the email and it says that they’ve accepted rent payments through the end of August. The payments are for the full cost of the rent too, not just his half.

Hongjoong grips at his hair, horrified. “No, no, no.”

He doesn’t even have enough in his savings to pay that much. He frantically opens up his bank account, the outgoing payments for both his savings and checking and pauses, confused. All his money is accounted for - his paycheck hit on the 31st and his half of the rent went out on the 1st as per usual.

He phones his roommate.

“It wasn’t me, hyung,” Jongho says. “I’m already talking to my bank’s helpdesk and they’ve confirmed that there are no payments made from my account.”

“So, neither of us paid it . . what if someone’s rent payment went through on our account by mistake?” Hongjoong sighs into the receiver. “We should probably report it to the landlord.”

“I think we should just wait and see what happens.”

“Jongho!”

“What? Wouldn’t we both be better off?”

Hongjoong is already considering the possibility of not having to pick up extra hours at the tutoring center at night. Or not panicking every time one of his private lessons cancels at the last second. He could even get back into composing. And he’ll have more to say than ever.

For Jongho, maybe it could be nights in the recording studio or at auditions instead of overnights at the karaoke bar. If it’s not free time, it’s a little more money he feels comfortable sending home to his family and his younger siblings.

“Maybe you’re right,” Hongjoong admits.

“You deserve to worry a little less.”

“We both do.”

“You know what I mean,” Jongho insists. “How is it going with the house?”

“There’s already a buyer? They’re coming today at 3.”

“That was fast. And how’s the baby?”

Hongjoong pulls the phone away from his ear to check the messages from his parents and forwards the pictures to Jongho. “She’s cute, looks just like her mother. She’s apparently sleeping well?”

“And how about you?”

“Am I sleeping well?”

He has slept more in the past five days than he has in the previous two weeks.

“Yes, but in general, are you well?” he asks.

The day before he’d left, he’d been distraught with the news of his grandmother’s passing. It’d been the first and likely only time for Jongho to see him cry.

“I’m doing a little better, thank you.”

“Call me if you need anything, really.”

“I will.”

They say their farewells.

Hongjoong stretches back in his chair until his back pops. He decides to head down into the kitchen and pack up his bag. With his lunch and the bottle of water, he decides to add one of the candles his grandmother always burned while she worked. Seems fitting.

Today, he opts for a pair of chunky sneakers instead of his boots and his toes sigh in relief.

The sky is overcast and dreary. The morning air is filled with song, with birds swooping for worms in the soft earth and flitting from tree to tree. The high pitched whine of a saw pierces the air from down the street.

A black pick-up truck is pulled up to the curb of Seonghwa’s house. There’s a ladder strapped to the rack in the back and a big silver storage box sitting in the bed against the cab. A large silver decal sticker of the outline of a cat’s face stares inquisitively from the tailgate.

Hongjoong gets to the edge of the property when the saw shrieks to life again just beyond the garden fence. He flinches, hands flying up to cover his ears.

The fence is a maze of flowers in purple and pink clumps. A single vine of ivy lifts itself up from the fence to reach for him, grazing the sleeve of his cardigan.

Hongjoong stops and offers the ivy his hand.

The plant eagerly wraps around and between his fingers. The very end of it settles comfortably in the center of his palm. After a few moments, it slowly unwinds and retreats back into the thick of leaves as if it had grown bored.

“Cute,” he whispers to the wall of greenery.

A new iron gate has been installed across the walkway. It’s shining and naked - not a single vine has yet dared weave through its bars. There’s a sign hanging from the gate that reads, “Fresh paint.” The air is significantly warmer by the gate, radiating power in warning waves. The gate is flanked by brick columns on both ends topped with lamps, one of which has the mailbox and an intercom.

Beyond the fence, the front door lay wide open. The destroyed flooring has been stripped exposing the cracks in the concrete subfloor. A thick orange cord snakes from the house and through the lush bed of white flowers with three petals and ruffled leaves to the saw set up on a pair of bright yellow horses.

Hongjoong presses the intercom and hears it ring inside the house.

The man that comes to open the gate greets him with a wide, brilliant smile and charming dimples. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves roughly cut off as if done with a knife, bearing thick, muscular biceps and shoulders. He swings open the gate with his safety gloved hands.

“Hi!” he greets. “I think you’re a little early. Seonghwa’s still in the shower, but feel free to come in.”

“I can come back,” Hongjoong begins, shifting his bag’s strap up higher on his shoulder and stepping away. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“It’s fine,” he insists, beckoning him in. “And don’t worry about the zapping, Yeosangie fixed that up last night after you left, but make sure you don’t touch the gate with your bare hand.”

Hongjoong gives a slight bow and nods in compliance. He closes his eyes as he crosses the threshold, but true to the man’s word, no smite of magic comes.

The man closes up the gate carefully behind him and then pulls a glove off with his teeth before tucking it under his arm. He sticks out a hand, eyes nearly crinkled closed with sincerity.

“Choi San.”

“Kim Hongjoong.”

San’s palm is rough and uneven with calluses. His grip is effortlessly firm and his fingers thick. His short nails shine with a fresh clear manicure.

“Watch your step on the way in, shoes stay on,” he warns. “I’ll have it all patched up by the end of the day.”

The gloves are back on and he heads back over to his work area. He pulls on a respirator mask, a pair of noise reduction ear muffs, and safety glasses and hefts up the saw. He makes eye contact with Hongjoong and tilts his head towards the door.

Hongjoong heads inside. The smell of sawdust in the air reminds him of Mingi. The door to Seonghwa’s room is closed over and a hairdryer whirls inside. The house has all its windows and the sliding door leading to the back thrown open. The billowing curtains in front of the back door beckon Hongjoong near.

The rear patio is made of large flat rocks with wild chamomile filling the spaces between them. There’s a wide planter full of leafy green shrubs with bundles of little flower buds, still a ways from blooming. The backyard is a bed of clover and wildflowers in the shade of a proud flowering dogwood tree. Petals loosed by the wind cascade gently across the yard like snow.

Hongjoong considers how he might get to the tree to settle against its trunk, but dares not tread on the yard.

“Hongjoong, you’re here?”

Seonghwa’s eyes are bright and he walks with a spring in his step, his hair fluffy and shining. He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe in a simple striped t-shirt and jeans.

“Ah, yeah, San let me in,” he explains.

On cue, the saw revs to life again, slicing through the damaged flooring like butter.

Seonghwa walks out onto the patio in his bare feet and shuts the door behind him, doing little to silence the sound.

“Sorry, I’ll set up a sanctuary soon,” Seonghwa says.

Unlike Hongjoong, Seonghwa has no qualms stepping on the clover. He walks with his arms spread, carefully flattening the flowering lawn underfoot in a circle around the dogwood tree. When he completes the circle, he takes a large step inside and faces Hongjoong as his eyes begin to glow.

“There are two ways to use magic,” Seonghwa explains. “One comes from channeling from within and it’s highly specialized from person to person. Another comes from trapping energy and giving it very specific instructions of what to do.”

Seonghwa pulls one hand back and the flattened circle shrivels and browns in an instant. A translucent curtain shimmers above the circle, distorting the view within like a funhouse mirror. He waves Hongjoong inside.

Hongjoong walks into the barrier and it feels slick and watery over his skin like raw egg whites. His skin breaks out in goosebumps and the hairs rise on the back of his neck, but he emerges clean on the other side.

The whirl of the saw is a distant memory, muffled until it resembles the hum of a refrigerator. The call of birds are mere plinks of pizzicato.

“I know, it’s gross,” Seonghwa says.

“How does it work?” Hongjoong asks. He sticks his finger back into the barrier and retracts it with a shiver.

“I borrowed the energy from the plants and asked politely to prevent outside sound from entering the space with a very specific image in mind.”

“That’s it?” Hongjoong deadpans. “There’s not more theory or technique to it than that you could share?”

Seonghwa takes a seat near the trunk of the dogwood tree, crosses one ankle over the other, and pats the spot next to him.

“It feels a little different for everyone,” he explains. “You just have to get used to it. I know you had some success with the piano yesterday, but you used too much of your energy at once.”

Hongjoong shrugs off his bag and settles down in the indicated spot.

“When I reviewed the union records, the details about your grandmother’s magic revolved around warding - keeping things in and out. She was the one that designed the sanctuary. Originally, people would put up ‘soundproof’ wards and end up accidentally cutting off their air.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yes, but what I mean to say is, you should have the same or similar abilities. The goal is to recreate the ward designed specifically to keep my magic in.” Seonghwa places a hand on his chest. “So, you’re going to need to learn to recognize my signature.”

“Okay.” Hongjoong closes his eyes and strains his ears, listening for the sounds of his own power, but only hears the softness of his breath.

A brief flash of pain blooms the center of his forehead. Drums and cymbals crash.

Hongjoong leans away, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”

“Thought you might need a little inspiration.”

Seonghwa’s middle finger is already drawn back for a second hit.

“Hey, stop-” The second hit lands on the exact same spot as before. One of his eyes begins to tear as the entire percussion section attacks their note from triangle to slapstick. “-that hurts.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Are you really though?”

Seonghwa shushes him. He grips Hongjoong’s forearm in his hand, green flashing for a moment across his pupils and his palm growing warm. “Try and listen.”

Hongjoong blinks in surprise and then he feels the faintest flow of that warmth crawling up his arm. He feels a resonance in his soul, too deep to articulate. He can sense the thrum growing stronger as the power encroaches on the blemish. The itchiness returns as the wound is soothed and he hears the hush of a summer spit of rain. The hands fall away.

“For a moment, I could hear it!” he announces triumphant. He shifts onto his knees and leans his head forward. “Hit me again.”

“I didn’t think you’d be so into this,” Seonghwa jokes lightly.

“Oh? And what does your eagerness say about you?”

He smiles, lining up his next flick. “I think you already know.”

The clouds have cleared and the midday sun shines, rays of light sneaking through the cover of the dogwood tree.

But a storm rages inside Hongjoong: rain falling in sheets, the cracks and booms of thunder, and the rush of wind through the trees. He fights the persistent slog of Seonghwa’s magic coursing through his veins about as well as an umbrella fends off a typhoon. His shoulders shake.

“You can do better,” Seonghwa taunts, slouched against the tree without an ounce of effort. He lifts his fingers from Hongjoong’s arm until just one fingertip remains hovering on the twitching muscle.

Slowed to a trickle, the tempest calms into a midnight drizzle. The branches creak and rustle. The mist coalesces into fat drops on the tips of leaves that fall into puddles. The umbrella still feels useless as the mist swirls around its cover on the wind and the damp heat sinks into his bones.

But then he hears the rain hit a window. Drops strike the panes at a steady tempo and the wind blows harmlessly past in a wave of tremolo. As the phrase comes to its end, there’s a breath of rest and a flash of heat lightning bouncing harmlessly in the clouds. A rumble of thunder is an afterthought in the distance.

Hongjoong is safe. He’s inside, listening to the rain as he sits at his piano. The faint, dull ache in his forehead persists.

Seonghwa’s encouragement leaks in from outside. “Keep going.”

A second finger is placed on Hongjoong’s arm.

The tree crashes through the window, soaking Hongjoong in rain as hot as bathwater and making him sputter. The roof is torn from the house and the hair lifts from his head with static. His throat runs dry as he tilts his head up. The flash of lightning descends from the heavens and strikes him. His nerves jumble as he tries to escape the heat.

Seonghwa’s power engulfs him, filling him with fire and then Hongjoong is floating.

There’s no pain, no discomfort. His head is weightless on top of his shoulders. He finally releases the tension in his jaw as his mouth drops open. His mind is awash in euphoria.

Seonghwa releases him.

He falls back against the clover, hard, and the breath flees from his lungs in a rush. He coughs a laugh. He stares directly into the sun for the first time.

The magic begins to fade and the sun glares angrily. He lifts himself back upright and rubs his eyes. The baseline of anxiety creeps back into his heart’s rhythm, clenching it ever so tighter.

Seonghwa is just beside him. His black bangs frame his face so sweetly. His red mouth flashes his teeth when he says his name.

“Hongjoong?”

“I think that’s the best I’ve felt in my life,” he says honestly.

“I’ve heard that one before.”

Seonghwa’s gaze seems to drop to his lips and Hongjoong’s heart trips over its notes, but then he leans back against the tree again with a groan.

A cuckoo’s voice sings over the yard. It calls the first note and drops a major third for the second. Repeats. The sharp snap of a nail gun comes from inside the house, followed closely by two more. The compressor hums to life in the front yard in response before shortly falling quiet.

The rear garden is in focus. The dead circle of clover is light green with fresh sprouts, already healing.

Seonghwa hugs himself, gripping both his shoulders. His eyes shine with power.

“What’s going on?” Hongjoong hovers over him. A turmoil of trumpets and trombones bleat in warning.

There’s a screech of metal and a man's distressed cry.

Flowers erupt from the ground around Seonghwa, their tiny blue blooms innocent and naive. Their surge knocks Hongjoong off-balance and he falls forehead-first into the trunk of the tree.

He lets out a curse, holding his head as he feels the knot already beginning to swell. The opening of “From the New World” echoes dimly between the throbs of pain. He fumbles to get his phone out of his front pocket and swipes it open to get to Yeosang’s contact.

Seonghwa gasps, his eyebrows flying up into his hairline.

Thick thorny vines grow in a tangle from the earth surrounding him. They wrap themselves tightly over his legs and pin him to the ground. One curls away from Seonghwa and snatches Hongjoong by the wrist. Its thorns bite deep, drawing dark beads of blood.

Hongjoong cries for help. He peels off his cardigan and uses it to shield himself from the prickers. He yanks himself free of the plant and hits dial. He puts it on speakerphone and backs away, wary of the thorns as they creep closer.

Yeosang answers on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Seonghwa needs help!” he yells into the receiver.

Yeosang is there in an instant in his coffee uniform. He holds his phone in one hand and a portafilter in the other like a mace.

The vines immediately wind around Yeosang’s ankles.

He drops everything with a hiss of pain and pulls a stick of chalk from his apron. He shouts, “Where’s the break?”

Hongjoong recalls the scream from earlier and his ears ring with realization. San.

“Front!”

Yeosang nods. “Call Wooyoung.”

Yeosang dematerializes again, cleanly severing the roots that had dared cling to him.

Hongjoong ends the call with Yeosang. Blood snakes down his hand to his fingertips and smears across the phone screen. He ends up shouting orders at the phone and it finally starts to ring. He backs onto the stone patio, chased by thorns.

The rocks beneath the patio shift beneath his feet and the planter trembles. Roots edge the stones out of its way and a tree shoots up from beneath the planter and sends it tumbling into the yard. The tree unfolds with dark green needles and weeps thick, amber sap.

Seonghwa turns his head towards him, wrapped up to his neck in the vines. The thorns pierce his skin, but no blood spills. His sightless eyes are pinched in agony.

The call goes to voicemail.

Hongjoong presses redial once, twice, three times before it begins to ring again. He slides open the glass door. He smells smoke.

Black smoke billows into the house through the front door and bay windows. An entire section of the wrought iron fence has collapsed into the yard. A gloved hand reaches up through the greenery. The leaves blacken from the touch and burst into flame. Yeosang runs up to the hand and takes it, pulling. San phases through the fence and the momentum has him falling into a roll across the ground.

Yeosang assesses the yard and hefts the nearest piece of plywood over the opening. He carefully draws across its surface with the chalk. His strokes are slow and deliberate.

In the center of the room, Wooyoung flickers into existence about a foot above the ground. He hits the ground hard on his heels and falls forward on all fours, dry heaving.

“San,” he wheezes. He forces himself to his feet and stumbles towards the door. “San!”

Hongjoong goes to follow after him and trips over Seonghwa’s basket of gardening tools. He bites his cheek and pulls on the too-big gardening gloves. He rips a jean jacket from the coat rack and adds that too. Lastly, he takes up the steep lopper and goes back out into the yard.

The pine tree is now as tall as the house, branches sprouting from its trunk like spines. The clover has been taken over by the short, invasive blue flowers. The thorns have busied themselves with climbing the dogwood. The tree quivers and sheds its white flowers like tears.

Hongjoong swallows. The steady beat of the drum in his chest propels him forward. He maneuvers over the roots decimating the patio and runs to Seonghwa’s feet. He digs the clippers deep in the thorns and snaps them shut. He chops again and again and bends down to tug the vines off of him. He works as quickly as he can, ignoring the twinge in his shoulders and the burn in his arms. His teeth grind as he pulls one of the vines out from its root and tosses it across the yard with a grunt.

Seonghwa’s eyes go out. The brown of his iris shows for just a moment before his eyes slip closed. His head lolls lifelessly forward towards his chest.

Hongjoong hurries back to work, cutting the vines and pulling. Sweat drips into his eyes, obscuring his vision. He gets to the ones around Seonghwa’s torso and his arms are clumsy with exertion. He carefully lines up the blades of the loppers and they bite through the vine with a distinct snap.

Hongjoong pauses and crouches. The vines holding Seonghwa in place are shrinking and drying out. Their leaves yellow and develop black spots, dying before his eyes. He takes a serrated leaf between his fingers and it crumbles to dust. Hongjoong tosses the loppers aside and rips the weakened restraints apart with his gloved hands.

“Seonghwa,” he calls softly. He reaches out and gently pats the side of his face.

No response.

Seonghwa seems unscathed, not a drop of blood or a scab marring his pristine skin. The jeans are torn and ripped across the front and the t-shirt has some snagged threads. Even his hair still carries the fresh, clean smell of his shampoo.

He shakes him by the shoulders. He tears off the gloves and digs his fingers into Seonghwa’s throat, feeling for a pulse. He fumbles a bit, unsure, but then he feels it—strong and true. He lets out a sob of relief and lets his head fall against Seonghwa’s shoulder.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

Thursday

It’s been a long time since it was crowded in Seonghwa’s kitchen. The counter is laden with bags of different take out and beers and sodas. The candle from Hongjoong is lit in the center of the table, slowly filling the room with the smell of lavender. The windows are shut and locked and the curtains are tightly drawn and fastened.

Someone has pulled Seonghwa’s armchair over to the table from the living room. He sits slumped against the back of it, drinking over-steeped tea to try and rid the bitter taste of pine from the back of his throat. His stomach growls impatiently. His mouth pools with the saliva as he glances up at the take-out bags, wondering if they’d ordered enough.

Wooyoung stands in the kitchen in Yeosang’s apron, spooning rice into a bowl. He has a smile on his face and he’s in control of the music playing on the bluetooth speaker. Closer by the Chainsmokers. He sways back and forth, singing some lyrics and making up the others. He passes the bowl to Yeosang.

Yeosang accepts it. He’s changed into a pair of Seonghwa’s gym shorts after the khakis failed to survive. Both of his ankles are a mess of gauze and medical tape from the puncture wounds. There’s also a rash of weeping blisters along the inside of one of his arms.

From the selection of take out, he picks through the bags until he finds the one from his favorite chicken delivery place and takes one of the boxes for himself.

“You know, Wooyoung-ah, I feel like I’m finally learning the real words to this song,” he comments.

“Shut up.”

“‘From that roommate that you stole, like that tattoo on your shoulder,’” Yeosang repeats. He nods appreciatively. “There really is so much depth to these lyrics.”

“Fine, I’ll just skip it.” Wooyoung shrugs and picks up his phone.

“Wait, wait, you don’t have to do-”

The song changes to Fake Love by BTS.

Wooyoung sings louder and prouder, ignoring Yeosang’s pout.

San joins him. He slides in behind Wooyoung, settles both his hands on his waist, and digs his thumbs into his lower back. San has bruises up and down the back of his body, mild burns on his right forearm, and a strain in his neck.

“Smells good, love,” he says.

“Please.” Wooyoung looks positively smitten. He smiles from ear to ear and presses back against San. “It’s just rice.”

“Still.”

San accepts his own heaping bowl of rice and plants a kiss on the back of Wooyoung’s neck. He gets himself a more diverse array of food and a can of diet soda. He cracks open the soda and drinks it like a man at an oasis. It rings empty when he places it back down on the table.

He points to the food and asks Hongjoong, “Aren’t you gonna go get some?”

Seonghwa can barely bring himself to look over at Hongjoong, who’s sitting right next to him.

“Yeah, thanks.”

He has a plastic baggie of ice wrapped in a hand towel up to the bump on his forehead. He's just about bled through the gauze that’s wrapped around his right wrist. He has strained muscles in his shoulders and upper back, the discomfort achingly visible under Seonghwa’s gaze.

Hongjoong looks at him. “Do you want me to make you a plate?”

“Well-”

“-Wooyoung is already getting it ready, but thank you,” Seonghwa lies.

“Oh yeah?” Hongjoong twists around in his chair with a wince. “Can you get mine ready too, then?”

Wooyoung stops mid high-note to squawk, “Huh?”

He stares incredulously at Hongjoong, who’s already turned back around.

Yeosang finishes chewing on a piece of chicken and holds a hand up in front of his mouth. His eyes widen.

“Oh, that’s crazy. Wooyoung is actually going to do it.”

San snickers. He’s got a piece of beef hanging from his chopsticks. “I like this guy.”

Seonghwa watches Wooyoung pretend to scowl as he makes the plates, each balanced and artfully arranged, and allows himself to smile.

When San collects the dishes for washing, he hesitates before taking Seonghwa’s. “You sure you’re good?”

Seonghwa hides a burp in his fist and frees up some real estate for additional food.

“Maybe just one more piece of chicken?”

“Yeah, of course.” San reaches over to the counter to grab the last wing from the box and placing it on his plate. “Wooyoung could always make something too.”

Wooyoung clears his throat. “Since when am I at everyone’s beck and call?”

“Is there a time he hasn’t been?” Yeosang asks the room.

“Not that I’ve seen,” Hongjoong agrees.

“You barely even know me!”

“And what did you do when I called again?”

Wooyoung throws his hands up in the air, gets up from the table, makes it two steps away before he turns around and returns to his seat.

Seonghwa picks up the piece of chicken with his fingers and bites off the end of the wing. He sucks down the meat from the bones and slurps them clean. His tongue darts out to get the last bit of sauce from the corner of his mouth.

His plate is a battlefield of bones and wrappers. Four drained diet colas stand judging him. The artificial sweetener clings to his teeth and his tongue like film. His hands are sticky with various sauces and his chopsticks are no better.

But at long last, he’s finally satisfied.

He stands and his vision flashes with a headrush and reaches out to steady himself.

Hongjoong takes hold of his arm. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry, just stood up too quickly, I guess.”

Seonghwa excuses himself to the bathroom. He washes his hands and digs the residue out from under his fingernails. His pulls his hair back into a messy ponytail and moves on to his face. He l rubs his forehead in small circles and waits until the water runs warm to splash the cleanser away. He adds just a moisturizer to his clean skin and stares at himself in the mirror, expecting the green to flash in his eyes at any moment.

The orchid on the sink has started to droop in despair. It still fights to see itself in the mirror, keeping one last healthy bloom aloft.

“Same,” Seonghwa murmurs. He takes a hand mirror from a drawer and props it up next to the flower.

As he turns to leave, the pothos waves eagerly, its rustling a rush of gratitude and appreciation.

Seonghwa reaches out and smoothes his thumb across one of its thick, waxy leaves before returning to the impromptu dinner party in his living room.

Terse whispers stop. Wooyoung and Yeosang glare at each other across the love seat. Yeosang slams the Park family spellbook on his lap shut and leans forward, massaging his temples.

Hongjoong has joined San in the kitchen, separating the garbage and wiping down the counters as San wraps up with the dishes. The music is lowered but still playing over them.

His armchair is back in its spot by the monstera. Seonghwa longs to return to his throne, but he needs to attend to his friends first.

Yeosang is the closest, so he goes around the back of the couch and rests a hand on his shoulder.

Power smolders in his stomach like whiskey and he eases it from his palm into Yeosang at a trickle. His tongue shifts uncomfortably in his mouth, unable to escape the taste of iron.

“I’m scared,” he admits softly, hoping San and Hongjoong can’t hear him. “Is it going to happen again?”

Wooyoung’s face pinches in pain. He twists the ring on his finger.

“It’s going to.”

His throttle on the flow of magic falters and the heat works its way up into his throat. He swallows heavily and leans forward on his elbows to rest his head against Yeosang’s.

Yeosang takes his hand and knits their fingers together as naturally as they always did. The vibration of his deep voice is reassuring.

“I can hold up about a quarter of the barrier at once. Wooyoung can probably do about half of that. All of the damaged parts of the barrier show corrosion on the wrought iron of the fence, so in theory we should be able to predict and prevent the next failure without. . another incident,” he finishes.

“So how long-”

Wooyoung answers the unspoken question, “Until First Quarter.”

“Monday,” Seonghwa breathes. An entire week less than they had initially projected.

“At least, that’s what I can see,” Wooyoung backtracks. He throws a pointed look over into the kitchen. “He always comes and throws smoke into the visions.”

“Speaking of Hongjoong, I’ve been thinking that there is a shortcut we can utilize in order to, uh, expedite his attunement to you.”

“. . I’m not sure I understand what you’re implying,” Seonghwa replies slowly. He stands back upright and relaxes his hold around Yeosang’s hand.

“No, wait,” Yeosang stammers. The tips of his ears go red. “I’m not, no. I’m talking about the bonding ceremony.”

So that’s what they were reviewing in the spell book.

Seonghwa drops his hand. “Absolutely not.”

“I told you he wouldn’t like it.”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Yeosang insists. “Look at me and Wooyoung, it’s purely out of convenience.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“You two are best friends,” Seonghwa argues. His face feels hot.

Hongjoong empties out the mostly melted ice into the sink and tosses the emptied plastic bag. The ugly bruise on his forehead is starting to speckle with purple. He and San are talking about the middle school they’d both attended and how much it’s changed.

Seonghwa had never been able to go to school. He sighs.

“We don’t even know each other.”

“That can change. The fact that the ward is coming down will not.” Yeosang sighs and his tone softens. “I’m sorry, Seonghwa. If I had another answer, I would tell you.”

“I need time to think.”

Wooyoung gets to his feet and comes around to Seonghwa. He rubs his upper back. “It’s been a long day. Sleep on it and see how you feel.”

“I’m going to look into the counterspell,” Seonghwa decides.

“No, you can’t,” Yeosang objects.

Wooyoung snaps in return, “It’s his decision.”

Seonghwa puts his hands up between his friends, his heart aching. “Please. I don’t want to see you fight. Let’s just pick it up tomorrow.”

When Seonghwa finally finishes healing San, he walks him and Wooyoung to the door out of habit. San gives him a brief, firm hug, complete with a couple awkward pats for good measure.

“I’ll finish up the floor and fix the fence tomorrow,” he promises. “I know a guy who can take care of the tree in the back too.”

“Thank you.”

Wooyoung’s hug crushes him until his back releases a satisfying pop. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

The hug lasts until Seonghwa taps out, unable to breathe.

“Alright, we’re out.” Wooyoung tugs on the front of San’s shirt. “Hold on.”

San grabs Wooyoung’s ass. “Ready.”

Wooyoung barks a laugh, hitting San on the chest. Then, they’re gone.

Yeosang is next, lingering by the door. He looks around the living room. “Where, uh, did you end up putting the flowers?”

“Oh, well, they’re very poisonous so . . I put them in the upstairs bedroom,” Seonghwa explains. “They don’t need a lot of direct sunlight anyway.”

“Ah, that makes sense.” Yeosang absently itches at the inside of his elbow.

“Thank you though, they’re lovely.”

“I feel like I keep letting you down.”

Seonghwa pulls him into a hug and claps him too firmly on the back. “Stop it. You’re doing your best.”

Yeosang just hums in response, patting his back just once. The lights flicker briefly and he vanishes into thin air.

“Your friends seem like really good people.”

Hongjoong has reclaimed his seat on the couch and has pulled the throw pillow into his lap to rest his forearm while Seonghwa works his magic on his wrist. He’s wearing one of Seonghwa’s hoodies. It sags off his shoulders and he has it pushed up to his elbows to keep it from trapping his hands.

“They have their moments.”

Seonghwa can’t keep the looming decision off his mind. Three days really isn’t enough time to consider if he’s willing to enter a lifelong commitment with someone.

“What do you do for work?”

“This, I guess?” Seonghwa replies, squeezing Hongjoong’s forearm. “I’m like an on-call doctor for the entire union and the few people trusted enough to know about us. We exchange favors more than currency and I’ve . . never really had to worry about money.”

“Ah, I see.”

The room is saturated with the scent of lavender now. The candle drips wax down its side onto the kitchen table.

“How about you?”

Hongjoong tells Seonghwa about the ins and outs of university life. He goes into detail about his college experience: the papers, the group projects, the unstable calculations of work hard vs. play hard. He talks about homesickness and nostalgia and how he hasn’t felt at home in this town since he left.

“I kind of hope to feel that one day,” Seonghwa says.

“Well, if you were to leave, where would you like to go?”

“Paris, I think. Maybe New York.”

He dreams of walking the streets of a big city. Thousands of strangers paying him no mind. The sounds of traffic and sirens and life all around. Walking into a restaurant and ordering off the menu.

“Do you have a passport?”

Seonghwa frowns, considering. “I don’t know if I am legally documented at all.”

“Maybe we can start somewhere local, just to be safe.”

The thorns had bitten particularly deep, leaving pockets of white scars on Hongjoong’s wrist. Seonghwa turns his attention to the bruise on his forehead next and brushes aside his bangs to rub the wound directly with his thumb.

“The beach. I’ve always wanted to go swimming.”

Hongjoong smiles. “I’ll get you a big sun hat.”

“You should get me ice cream instead,” he jokes. “I do kind of wish they’d ordered dessert too.”

“I can probably make that happen, the convenience store is only fifteen minutes away.” Hongjoong peeks out the window. “Less than five if I steal San’s truck. You think he left the keys in there?”

“You can drive?”

“In theory.”

“I do not need dessert that badly.”

“Maybe you deserve it. Have you considered that?”

“I think for today, between the two of us, maybe you deserve it more.”

“I only did what anyone would do.”

“I don’t believe that,” Seonghwa states.

He finishes up with the bruise, leaving the skin smooth and unblemished. The warmth extinguishes in his stomach, leaving it gurgling once more. He lets his thumb skim briefly along the side of Hongjoong’s face before he pulls away.

The hairs on Hongjoong’s forearms stand on edge. He pulls the sleeves of the borrowed hoodie down to cover them.

“I overheard what Wooyoung and Yeosang were arguing about. About the uh, bonding ceremony?”

Seonghwa sits up straighter as a spike of discomfort gives him a second wind.

“What about it?”

“That it’s the only way I’ll be able to manage to fix the ward. That I’m too weak and ignorant to learn in time without it.”

“That’s not-”

Hongjoong shakes his head. “I think he’s right. I have no idea what I’m doing and I can’t. .”

Seonghwa waits, ready to reassure him that he’s made excellent progress and to not be discouraged over less than two days of work.

“. . stay here. Tomorrow is my last day of time off for bereavement and I’m expected in for a 9AM class on Monday.”

“Oh.”

“I have an entire life that I can’t just put on hold. Job, friends, apartment full of stuff,” Hongjoong lists. “A credit card bill, one hundred and eleven work emails. Hell, my brother just had a baby and at this rate, I don’t know when I’m gonna meet her.”

Seonghwa doesn’t say that his life has been put on hold since the day before his fourth birthday.

“I’m sorry.”

Hongjoong winces. “No, I’m sorry. You’re, you’re just trying to survive and I’m sitting here complaining about my stupid job.”

“You’re trying to survive, too.”

“I think the stakes aren’t really the same, but yeah, I guess.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” Seonghwa replies at last. “We’ll, I’ll figure something out.”

“I was actually thinking that we should go through with the ceremony. It’s the only way. I don’t really know how it works, but we’re going to need every advantage that we can get.”

He’s right, but Seonghwa’s heart sinks in his chest. He remembers how he thought his bonding ceremony would go when he was younger, imagining a traditional wedding with food and celebration. And most importantly, his true love with whom he would share the most intimate part of him: his power.

“You seem . . disappointed.”

“I know there are more important matters at hand, but I was expecting this moment in my life to be a little more romantic,” Seonghwa admits.

Hongjoong considers this for a moment, then timidly takes his hand. When Seonghwa doesn’t pull away, he holds more firmly.

“Seonghwa,” he starts, soft and earnest, “meeting you has felt like fate. You've shown me kindness and patience and you’ve already taught me so much in the short time I’ve known you. And you, well, you deserve the world and I don’t even have a ring, but-”

He shifts off the couch and gets on one knee, looking up at Seonghwa. He clears his throat.

“What are you-”

“Park Seonghwa, will you . . . perform the bonding ceremony with me?”

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters.

Hongjoong, who looks up his favorite artist’s songs to play for him on the piano. Who fits right in with his group of friends. Who's handsome and talented. Who selflessly went into battle with a jean jacket and gardening tools to save him.

He could do worse, really.

“Yes.”

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

Friday

It’s hard to throw anything away.

Hongjoong carefully opens a fan from her collection and reveals proud orange flowers and woodpecker feathers. His grandmother’s red seal is pressed into the paper. He eases it back closed with a sigh.

“I’ll just keep one,” he tells himself.

But it’s impossible to choose. When her family had found out that she liked them, she received one for every gift-giving occasion for years: wedding anniversaries, birthdays, souvenirs—the list goes on. The next he checks is an elementary school art project made by his older brother with him and their grandmother as stick figures in front of a box to represent the house. He sets this one aside too.

He sorts to a Saint-Saëns vinyl, another of her favorites. His back aches from slouching over the drawer. He opens the last fan and it tears immediately. He inhales sharply and places it on the pile to be discarded.

The house is so full of things. From the furniture, to the dishware, to his grandfather’s antique watches, their fate is now in Hongjoong’s hands.

Midday finds Hongjoong hunched over a family photo album, flipping through his father’s life. He’d been a cute baby with his toothless mouth always smiling. The smile had faded into a firm line by the time he’d become a teenager with empty, unenthused eyes in each of his school-aged photos. But the sparkle had rekindled in his wedding photos and the quirk in his lips returned in awe of his first child. He seemed happy still in the pictures for holiday gatherings taken around the piano with Hongjoong in his lap. The book ends abruptly, many pages left unfilled.

His phone vibrates in his pocket. A video call from his brother. He sets aside the photobook and rushes to lift the arm off the record player before he accepts.

His brother’s face is puffy, his hair is in disarray, and the call has caught him mid-yawn. He shows Hongjoong the baby sleeping flat on her back with her little hands up beside her head. After he steps out of the bedroom, he’s still whispering, making light of the challenges of parenting combined with having their parents move in.

Hongjoong simply listens and nods along. He doesn’t tell his brother that he’s not worried or that he’s known he would make a great dad since they were kids themselves.

“And what about you? How are you holding up?”

The living room alone is a sea of sorted piles of knick-knacks and memories and cardboard and garbage bags adrift in the petrichor of incense. But what really comes to mind are petite blue flowers, the sharpness of thorns, and Seonghwa. Seonghwa with his endless appetite, the soothing warmth of his magic, and his days numbered.

“It’s been . . . a lot to process,” he replies.

A shrill cry in the background tears his brother’s gaze away from the phone screen.

“Sorry, I gotta-”

“Yeah, of course. Take care.”

“You too.”

Hongjoong settles into the old, faded couch with the cushions flattened from use and stares up at the ceiling.

He calls Mingi at work.

“You’re what?”

“I’m getting married tonight,” Hongjoong repeats. “Kind of, it’s a long story.”

“Married?!” Mingi squeaks. “Tonight?!”

“Yeah, I know it’s sudden, but are you free?”

“Of course!” Mingi’s voice pulls away from the receiver. “Hey guys, my best friend’s getting hitched!”

A chorus of woos follows.

Mingi waits on the threshold, dabbing sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. His hair is slicked back and hairline freshly touched up. He’s smoked his eyes and penciled his eyebrows behind a pair of thin-rimmed glasses. His suit is black on black, with a marigold boutonniere in vibrant orange pinned to the lapel.

He lets out a low whistle as Hongjoong approaches.

“Park Seonghwa is going to wish this was real.”

Hongjoong lets out a puff of laughter. “Thanks.”

His suit jacket is still warm from the iron. He resists the urge to run his fingers up through his carefully styled hair. Half his bangs are artfully draped across his forehead and sprayed into submission. His ears feel strangely light. Only the pure silver rings and studs remain in his lobes and his cartilage is bare.

“I’m kind of nervous.”

“It’s not every day you get magically bonded to some guy you just met,” Mingi replies, clapping him on the shoulder. “It’s gonna go fine. You’ll say some words, wave a wand, and we’ll drink the night away. What could go wrong?”

There’s no guarantee that he will be able to reseal the ward after the bonding, which would mean he’d robbed Seonghwa of his chance at a genuine ceremony for nothing.

On his way out, he pauses at the altar near the doorway and lights an incense cone, leaving it smoking in its bowl. He rereads the letter from his grandmother and tucks it into his inner pocket. He’s never believed in the afterlife, but he allows himself to imagine his grandmother watching over him tonight and giving him the strength to succeed.

Dusk falls over the town. The sparse street lights flicker to life. A black cat struts through the overgrown grass and wildflowers along the side of the road. Dark clouds creep over the horizon, their plumes stretching ominously towards the heavens.

The street feels infinitely longer. The beacons that are the rounded lights above Seonghwa’s fence softly illuminate the gate below. A new section of wrought iron fence has been installed, black and barren. The white flowers of the front garden stare out towards the street, their view expanded overnight.

The emptiness makes Hongjoong uneasy and he misses the nosiness of the vines as he passes.

Mingi absently reaches out to tap the fence as he passes, a whistle on his lips.

A warning gets caught in Hongjoong’s throat, but no cry of pain follows.

Mingi’s fingers skim harmlessly from bar to bar. Then, he pushes open the gate into the front yard with his palm, holding it open for him.

Hongjoong blinks, confused. He steps through the gate, hearing the now familiar warning of the horn section bidding him to tread lightly.

Above, the dormer window beckons them inside with the flickering light of fire. The daffodils in the window box cast dancing shadows across the walkway inside. The front door swings outward at their approach and votive candles lead the way up the stairs to the left through the darkness.

Mingi lingers just behind him, too tall to really hide. “It’s kind of creepy.”

“I’m used to it,” Hongjoong replies, surprising himself. He steps into the house as the first streak of lightning races across the sky, flashing their silhouettes across the newly replaced floors.

Every electric light in the downstairs is doused. The furniture appears as shapeless masses lurking in the darkness. There’s a faint whirl of the vent working in the kitchen to rid the room of the smell of grilled meat and cooking oil.

He takes the first step up the stairs and the fingerstyle major arpeggio swells in his heart. On the next, he hears a promise of hope in a wordless melody. His hands itch by his sides for the cool wood of his acoustic guitar and his notebook. The beauty of anticipation is seldom recorded.

The stairwell ends with an intersection of three doors and the votive candles lead towards the center of the door ahead. The door itself is a solid darkly stained wood with a single perfect circle carved through its center. It has no knob.

The high-pitched peals of Wooyoung’s laughter ring within.

Hongjoong turns to make eye contact with Mingi and they both hold back laughs of their own. He sobers and considers the door, hovering his palm above the center of the circle before pressing down.

It does not budge.

“Hongjoong?”

He focuses, trying to feel for a resonance with the spell holding the door closed. The chromatic scale drones within him as he attunes. He doesn’t feel anything. He pulls his hand off the door and looks down at it in confusion.

Mingi climbs up to the landing and turns the knob on the door to the right.

“That’s a wall.”

“Oh.”

As the door swings open, he promptly forgets his bruised pride.

The trail of candles leads to Seonghwa.

Bathed in firelight in a full white suit cinched in at his waist. Tapered pants accentuate the length of his legs. Peachy lips parted in surprise. His hair is half pulled back to display his face like artwork framed in soft waves.

There’s a swell of strings in the absence of his breath.

His feet carry him closer unbidden. The notes of fruit and coffee tickle his nose. He offers his meager hand.

And Seonghwa takes it.

The phrase repeating in his mind finally escapes.

“You’re beautiful.”

Seonghwa smiles and squeezes his hand. “Thank you. You’re not too bad yourself.”

“Oh my god,” Wooyoung whispers. “San, are you getting this?”

San drops his phone with a grin. “Yeah, I got it.”

Wooyoung and San are there too, in their own black and white suits, respectively. Wooyoung fans himself with one hand, his own bonding ring catching the warm light.

Behind Seonghwa, Yeosang, also in white, gathers a series of materials on a large workbench. He turns and looks pointedly past Hongjoong, expression unreadable.

Mingi greets Seonghwa with a polite wave and makes his way to San. He shakes his hand and pulls him into a one-armed hug.

“The f*ck have you been?” he complains affectionately. “The other builders in this town can’t follow a plan with a leash.”

“Been building a little something of my own just into the woods,” he explains, a shy pride on his face. “We’re still framing, but set aside a few days in the summer for me.”

“I’d be honored.”

“Just don’t let San pick the colors,” Wooyoung comments. “I can’t live in a purple bedroom.”

“I’ll just build you a separate bedroom then.”

“Ha. We’ll see how long you last in this ‘separate bedroom.’”

Their conversation continues like a comforting hum in the background.

“Your hair,” Seonghwa whispers.

Hongjoong’s free hand just grazes the stiff styling of his hair before he stops himself. The freshly dyed black bangs hang just visible above his eyelashes. His roots had just started to show and he didn’t think they’d survive box bleach.

“What do you think?”

Seonghwa considers, taking his time dragging his gaze down.

“You look powerful,” he decides at last.

The next bolt of lightning is but a glint in the reflection of Seonghwa’s eye. Rain pelts the roof in a steady pitter-patter. The thunder rumbles deep in the back of the storm’s throat.

Yeosang calls, “It’s time.”

The room is lit by a single brazier, its flames dancing mirthfully with no fuel. There’s a white, stark circle painted on the shining floorboards and on it lay a ring of flowers and leaves braided into a chain. Within the circle stands a triangular black altar of glossy stone. Two gleaming silver rings wait atop it.

Yeosang passes a wooden tray containing a terracotta pot of soil, two watering cans, and a satchel of seeds to San. To Wooyoung, he gives a single glass of white wine and a bowl of chocolate covered strawberries. The two of them take their places just outside the circle. And lastly, Yeosang guides Mingi to the front near the brazier and hands him a thick wad of crisp ten thousand won bills.

Mingi looks down at the money, perplexed. “Uh, what’s this for?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Yeosang replies. “Just stand here and wait for instructions.”

Yeosang returns to the workbench and retrieves the Park family spellbook. He holds the tome open and balances it carefully on one hand.

In his soft voice, he asks, “Are you ready to proceed?”

Hongjoong gives a firm nod, but he realizes as the fingers tense in his grasp that the question is for Seonghwa.

“It’s a little ironic, how it’s worked out,” Seonghwa says to Yeosang, tone light.

“Fate always has a sense of humor,” Yeosang agrees.

Seonghwa lets out a breath and his grip thaws. “You may begin.”

“Family and friends,” Yeosang starts, eyes cast down towards the book, “we are here to participate in the ceremony of bonding between Park Seonghwa and-”

“Kim,” Wooyoung whispers.

“-Kim Hongjoong,” Yeosang continues. “To begin, break the earth and sow your seed.”

He jerks his head in the direction of San, who waits with a bright, cheery smile.

Seonghwa touches his fingers to the loamy soil and sinks them in. He gently coerces the hole open and inviting.

Hongjoong opens up the satchel and shakes the contents out into the dirt. The seeds are yellowish, hairy, and entirely too big for the pot.

“Please tell me this is not wild oat,” Seonghwa deadpans.

Hongjoong chokes on his own saliva and thumps his own chest to clear it.

San presses his lips together and his shoulders quiver to resist a giggle. He offers his best innocent shrug.

Hongjoong ignores the empty, embarrassed twang of a failed barre chord in his chest and buries the seeds into the soil.

“This bond merges streams of power into one river so that the floods may nourish their lives and bring prosperity and great bounty.”

These streams are not quite contributing to this river equally. One is a plastic green five liter weathered beast and the other is the silver watering can barely larger than an americano.

Hongjoong takes the silver watering can, sufficiently humbled.

The two water the seeds together. Immediately, several green sprouts spring joyfully from the soil and their leaves unfurl.

Yeosang then proceeds, unbothered, “The seed represents their potential and their new beginning together so that they may grow towards their goals as one.”

“Oh,” Seonghwa murmurs.

“As they continue on their journey together, they will encounter moments to rejoice as their love bears fruit.”

They continue around the circle towards Mingi, who awkwardly hands Hongjoong the stack of cash and gives him a thumbs up.

“However, they will also face hardships where it feels as though all has been lost.”

Besides Mingi is the fire.

Mingi’s mouth drops open in horror.

A spike of reluctance pierces the drum skin in Hongjoong’s mind. He glances at Seonghwa who nods ruefully.

Hongjoong sighs and drops the stack into the brazier. The fire snaps and pops in glee. The bills curl inwards like autumn leaves. An acrid smell and a puff of black smoke overtakes the room.

The wind picks up, spraying the dormer window with rain as the storm churns ever closer.

“The bond will keep them safe in the face of adversity as they will be able to call upon the other for as long as they shall live.”

“Such a waste,” Mingi mutters, staring at the charred hunk in the belly of the fire.

Seonghwa coughs and makes a face, trying to wave the smoke away from his face. Flakes of soot dance up into the air and drift teasingly towards the pure white of Seonghwa’s suit.

Hongjoong backtracks around the circle and swipes the watering can. Water showers across the fire, eliciting a sharp hiss as the flames cower and die. The room grays with the sudden darkness.

“Good call, honestly,” Wooyoung says. He absently brings the wine glass up to his lips and jerks it away with the cut off beginning of a curse. “I almost forgot.”

“And most importantly,” Yeosang emphasizes, now using the light of his phone to read aloud, “the bond will celebrate the joy and happiness between them as their connection becomes immortalized.”

Seonghwa accepts the glass from Wooyoung and raises it in a toast to Hongjoong. He drinks and lets out a pleased sigh at the taste. His tongue swipes languidly across his lower lip as he passes the glass to Hongjoong.

There’s a waxy peach imprint of Seonghwa’s mouth on the rim. Hongjoong sips from the stain. His eyebrows raise in surprise at the pure sweetness of the mead sliding warm down his throat and leaving a nutty aftertaste in its wake.

“They will always provide for the other and they will selflessly give themselves to each other, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.”

The two of them each pluck a chocolate covered strawberry from the bowl. Hongjoong offers his to Seonghwa with a hand hovering below to catch any chocolate shell before it dare consider landing on Seonghwa, but it was not necessary.

Seonghwa easily fits the entire strawberry in his mouth, lips brushing Hongjoong’s fingers.

A pulse of bass thrums through Hongjoong at their softness. He opens wide in anticipation.

The chocolate of the strawberry is melty from Seonghwa’s touch and smears across his lips as he takes it. The strawberry itself is beautifully tart and juicy beneath the shell. He washes it down with another sip of mead.

“The last step of the ceremony is the physical manifestation of the bond: the rings. With their intent declared and demonstrated, they will cross the threshold of the circle as two souls and emerge as one.”

The pelting of the rain crescendos into hail. Wind howls and shreds through the wild daffodils in the window box. Lightning streaks and forks across the sky and the clap of thunder shakes the house.

But Seonghwa is calm and resolute. He lifts his chin and steps into the circle in time with Hongjoong.

The circle comes to life—bursting with pure white light that leaks in motes up through the flowers. The air is humid with power. Hairs rise on the back of Hongjoong’s neck as his ears ring with the highest pitch he can fathom.

The rings lay patiently on the altar before them.

Hongjoong hesitates. “Do I put it on you or . . ?”

“No, you put it on yourself. It’ll only work if you truly and freely will it to,” Seonghwa says.

Hongjoong picks up the smaller of the two. The metal is smooth and cool to the touch. It sits heavy on his finger. His hand falls flat onto the stone like it’s magnetic. The panicked twitter of a piccolo enters for just a measure before fading to rest.

He thinks of Seonghwa’s hand warming his own as his burns fade. Singing over the piano in a sweet head voice. Doting on the plants in his home. The way his cheeks round fully as he eats in too big of bites. The floral, humid air of his garden. A compassion that draws Hongjoong to his side and makes him never want to leave.

The ring tightens to the point of pain. His hand squirms uselessly against the rock. He lets out an agonized cry, but does not pull away.

Seonghwa is calm as he closes his eyes and slides the ring onto his own finger, his mouth working silently. He touches the altar feather-light.

Hongjoong takes a sharp shuddering breath. His lungs fill to bursting as his vision sharpens. His mouth fills with a metallic tang and his lips stick together with the tackiness of pine. He coughs, spraying their hands and the white, pristine cuff of Seonghwa’s sleeve with blood. His stomach turns and fills with heat like molten gold.

His heart floats through mist in his chest. Mist becomes a drizzle, becomes rain that pelts the inside of his chest. His breath comes in gales, whistling between his gritted teeth. His body courses with the symphony of adrenaline as his knees quiver under his weight.

The blood in the center of the altar ripples. From it sprouts a single, stained flower.

A marigold.

The light of the circle fades.

His hand relaxes, the ring comfortably snug around his finger.

Seonghwa’s eyes are watery as they open and his lip quivers. “Hongjoong.”

He’s pulled into a tight hug. He can barely lift his arms to wrap them around Seonghwa’s waist. He rests his face against the side of his neck, undeterred by the sweat clinging to his hair.

The rain comes to a stop. The last growl of thunder fades like a purr. Footsteps shuffle carefully around the room and step quietly down the stairs in a retreat of hushed whispers.

Seonghwa finally relaxes. His fingers unclench from Hongjoong’s suit jacket to simply hold him, arms lax. He lifts his head and his exhale tickles his ear.

A smooth lilting melody accompanies the shivers down Hongjoong’s spine and he sways to it. An easy slow song with a muted guitar and he hums along.

“I can hear it,” Seonghwa whispers, moving with him.

They gently rock in place to their own music.

Downstairs, there’s the distinct pop of a champagne cork and cheers.

Seonghwa goes to slide his hands off Hongjoong’s shoulders.

Hongjoong squeezes him closer. “Not yet.”

“At this rate, we’ll never go down to the party.” But he’s wrapping his arms around Hongjoong’s neck.

“One more minute.”

“Maybe two.”

The bluetooth speaker is back on by the time they get downstairs. When they turn the corner, hand-in-hand, their friends shout and whistle and clap in greeting. Wooyoung rushes them first, sloshing champagne he’s drinking from a coffee cup onto the floor. He grabs them both in a hug and places a loud kiss on each of their cheeks. This is followed by clumsy hugs from a red-faced San, who has since ditched his jacket and tie since the ceremony. Next, Mingi gives them each a clap on the shoulder and a handshake, gracing them with his brilliant smile. Yeosang comes last with an awkward, distant hug for Hongjoong with stiff pats and a real one for Seonghwa.

The remainder of the bottle of mead is passed around, each drinking directly from its mouth. They feast on Wooyoung’s famous barbeque and talk of weddings and ceremonies past before concluding this was one to remember.

Hongjoong is strangely ravenous. The sight of the meat has the underside of his tongue pooling with saliva and his stomach groveling. He takes up a pair of chopsticks in his left hand and fights to get his first bite into his mouth.

San laughs at him. “No one’s taking him away from you.”

“I know,” he replies, holding Seonghwa’s hand more firmly in his right.

Seonghwa chuckles around his mouthful of food and lifts a piece of meat up for Hongjoong to take. “It’s okay, I’ll help him out.”

Hongjoong gratefully accepts the meat and savors the sauce on his tongue. Yunho wasn’t kidding.

Wooyoung asks Yeosang, “Wow, were we this bad?”

Yeosang answers, “Sadly, we were worse.”

“Definitely worse,” San agrees.

The night winds down, as all nights must. The guests clean up and clear out in varied forms of the stumble.

Hongjoong stands in the doorway, still attached to Seonghwa by his fingertips.

“It’ll pass sooner or later,” Seonghwa explains. “We’ll adjust.”

“Not sure if I want it to.”

Hongjoong reluctantly releases his fingers and dread lances him through the middle. He feels incomplete. Empty.

Seonghwa’s face pinches in a grimace as he takes a single step backward. He brings a hand to his chest and starts to pant.

“I can’t,” Hongjoong says. His grandmother’s house is an endless stretch away. The fabric of his soul is tearing at its fresh seam.

“Stay. Just for tonight.”

Seonghwa’s life is played out on the wall of his bedroom in photographs and letters and drawings. There’s a family photo of the parents he so clearly inherited his beauty from, each parent holding a young boy in their arms. Toddler Seonghwa wears a bucket hat and holds a fist full of daisies with his mouth widened in a silent cry. Gangly teenage Seonghwa makes peace signs at the camera with Wooyoung, their faces pressed together. As they get a bit older and sure of themselves, Yeosang joins the pictures while the three of them still have baby fat and spots of acne. Seonghwa is absent from their high school graduation picture, but they’re holding magnificent bouquets the size of their torsos.

Hongjoong squints at a photo of Yeosang in front of a somewhat familiar building, but realizes that based on its neighbors and the barista uniform that this must be the cafe before it had undergone renovations.

Then, there’s a picture of San standing on Seonghwa’s roof. His muscular back is bare save for the suspenders of his toolbelt and he’s turned away to stare at the sunset.

San joins the group photos thereafter. There’s also a picture of him cuddling a siamese cat and trying to kiss it but receiving its little paws against his lips.

There’s even one picture with Mingi as they play cards. His face is dropped in dismay while Wooyoung’s head is thrown back in a crackle.

“Okay, I’m done,” Seonghwa announces, stepping out of the bathroom in a tank-top and pajama pants with his long, wet hair dripping on his shoulders. “I left you some clothes.”

“Thanks.”

Hongjoong steps in next. He goes to close the door out of habit and decides to leave it ajar. The vent whirls away the humidity and the mirror is only partially clouded. The bloom of the orchid on the counter is starting to wrinkle. There’s Seonghwa’s toothbrush and toothpaste, a soap dispenser, and a skincare set standing in a row.

A rustling reaches his ears, eager and curious. Behind the shower curtain, a leafy green plant with hanging tendrils shakes excitedly. Its leaves shine from the steam. Palpable happiness radiates from the plant, pulling Hongjoong’s lips into a smile.

“Hi,” he greets. “I’m gonna join you for a few, if that’s okay.”

The plant shivers, overjoyed.

The shower runs hot and heavy, pounding on his back and shoulders. He reaches for the shampoo and a tendril reaches for his hand. He lets the endmost leaf rest in the palm of his hand for a moment and gives it a little pat with his thumb.

As he steps out of the shower, he hears the hair dryer working in the bedroom through the wall. He pulls on the clothes left for him, soft and comfortable, and leaves the room contentedly enveloped in Seonghwa’s scent.

Seonghwa is perched on the edge of the bed with his head hanging upside-down, finger combing as he goes.

The carpet cushions his footsteps and he eases himself onto the bed next to him. He waits until the dryer is clicked off and Seonghwa flips his hair back to ask his question.

“What’s the name of the plant in the shower?”

Seonghwa tilts his head. “Pothos, why?”

“He’s . . chatty.”

A snort. “Yeah, he is. My friends used to tease me for taking long showers, but he’s so cute sometimes that I don’t want to get out.”

“You should introduce me to them all.”

“My friends? I think you’ve already-”

“Your plant friends.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’d like to do that. They’ve been dying to know you since you walked through the gate.”

Hongjoong hadn’t thought he believed in fate until now. He points to the hairdryer. “Mind if I . . .?”

“Can I do it?” Seonghwa asks, but then he immediately retracts. “Ah, sorry, I don’t know why I-”

“No, it’s fine, yeah. Let me just-” Hongjoong slides off the bed and sits on the floor cross-legged between Seonghwa’s knees. “-is this good?”

Seonghwa dries his hair with much more care than his own, actually using the brush he’d brought out. But with his shorter hair, it’s over much too soon. He slowly winds the cord and sets it onto a nightstand. He gets up to turn out the lights.

“Do you need anything else?” he offers.

Hongjoong pulls back the covers. To see him all the way across the room feels like pressing into a bruise. “Just you.”

When Seonghwa climbs into the bed in the darkness, he rolls onto his side and pulls Hongjoong’s arm around his middle, lacing their fingers. Hongjoong scoots closer until their bodies are flush together and he presses his lips to the back of Seonghwa’s neck.

Nothing’s felt more right.