Chapter Text
the first daffodils of spring seem to blossom overnight.
wonpil catches sight of them in the morning when he’s bringing in water from the rain barrel, the few peeking yellow buds like distilled sunlight. he doesn’t think much of it, not then, as he is washing the red peppers for breakfast, but then his brain catches on a thought, a passing memory and it unfurls in his mind.
he glances over at dowoon’s form on the carpet as he dozes beside the fire amongst a few other furry animals curled up together. the idea fully blooms then in his head and he can’t hide the excitement from bubbling forth from inside his chest to flourish across his lips.
dowoon doesn’t ask where they are going after an early lunch a few days later, just follows one half-step behind wonpil, and somehow it makes something warm and expansive spread in wonpil’s chest. the gentleness, the inherent trust.
the footprints that wonpil had left before are still faint as they retrace them deeper and deeper into the thicket of trees until they break out into a clearing in the heart of the forest, a carved out space in both the ground and a piece of sky.
wonpil makes a gesture to tell dowoon to take a few steps back into the tree line and waits before dropping the heavy knapsack bag from his shoulder and tugging open. it’s filled with a mix of wood shavings, pine needles, and dried moss, all shredded into palm-sized pieces. he digs his hand into it and starts striding around the perimeter, doing his best to spread the mixture on the ground evenly.
once he returns to where dowoon is standing half-lit in the shadows, wonpil claps his palms together and, flashing a smile, starts to sing.
immediately fire sprites appear all around him from thin air, popping into view like flames crackling over tinder, their pupil-less eyes alight and grins cheshire wide. before they can be left to their mischiefs, wonpil is directing them with his lyrics without breaking pace and they’re more than eager to comply.
round and round they sprint through the air from the shavings trailing behind fine golden sparkling paths, then up and around. dowoon lets out a low gasp as the snow starts to melt in their wake, lush green grass pushing through months too early like a sped up movie. the sprites, glowing off their powers, are still spiraling up, up, up until- they’re all meeting in a crashing but soundless burst of scarlets and golds. a firework in broad daylight, dissolving into just blinking lights behind the two onlooker’s eyes.
the magical dome glitters in the sunlight in their wake and am unnaturally warm breeze slithers lazily around them like a purring cat.
for a few heartbeats, dowoon is rooted to the spot, transfixed, before with a shout-laugh, tumbles right to the forest floor, spread eagle, not caring in the slightest that he’s getting grass stains all over his clothes. wonpil chuckles and settles gingerly cross-legged beside him.
dowoon inhales deep and around the end of his exhale and says, “I missed this.”
wonpil grins even wider and tips his head back towards the sliver of sky, closes his eyes and inhales fully too. the warmth thrums happily through him as the creation magic ebbs away and a couple of sprites hang lazily like airborne ashes.
when he opens his eyes again, dowoon is sitting up, watching a remaining pair of sprites fighting over a large piece of wood shaving before it cracks unevenly, making them tumble in opposite directions. they both chuckle.
then dowoon turns and says, voice low and heavy with appreciation, “thank you, wonpil.”
the other doesn’t reply, just takes dowoon in: the line of his broad shoulders, the way his clothes stretch across them, the piece of tree branch stuck in his hair.
wonpil is careful to be with dowoon without touching him unnecessarily. there is an unspoken understanding about it, though wonpil can’t quite explain it. he tells himself it’s about respect, to not cross that hazy line into something blurrily unknown and he doesn’t want to be hurt again.
but now there’s a shift, hardly noticeable, enough that wonpil could easily let the sensation go and just enjoy this. yet it’s also strong enough that it emboldens him, suddenly unafraid of the consequences, whatever it may be.
so wonpil reaches in the air between them, watching how dowoon’s eyes flicker ever so slightly at the movement, and he gently brushes the branch from the black locks, just beside the white tuft of hair.
dowoon watches him as he does this with the same deep, unfaltering trust. when wonpil’s retreating finger passes by his mouth, trailing against the skin, the slightly cracked lips part and separate at the touch and wonpil can feel the heated breath released against his skin, even hotter than the air around them.
then dowoon closes his eyes. gently takes wonpil’s hand and cradles it in place. then he follows his lips to the streetlines of wonpil’s palm, and kisses it right in the center. lets it linger.
and all wonpil can feel in that moment is something so akin to the fire sprites’ dance – vibrant and glowing, spiraling around and around, higher higher, until the warmth inside him just bursts. a firework in broad daylight before descending in a shower of gold magic.
nothing really changes after that, despite wonpil’s fears. they walk home, this time with wonpil a pace behind. they are still in their patterns, moving around, away, toward each other in an unspoken dance that only comes with familiarity.
except now, wonpil helps dowoon tie the bangs back from his face and thumbs away dirt or food or stray hairs across dowoon’s cheek. except now, dowoon runs an open hand across the line of wonpil’s back when he’s hunched over while pouring over a book or massages wonpil’s hands or muscles when he’s worked too long.
except now, though neither of them say, they can’t remember the world – much less, live in it – without the other in it.
(in retrospect, wonpil should have known that the fact that nothing changed after that meant that they are already the closest they can be without being even more.
yet truthfully, even if he had known, he doesn’t think it would have changed anything.)
one particularly cold night, not long after that day in the forest, dowoon crawls into his bed, his hair ticking as he slots his head against the juncture between wonpil’s neck and shoulder.
just wrapping his arms around wonpil’s hips, thumbs pressing into the soft give of wonpil’s waist, and holds him a little tighter. not asking for words or anything beyond just simple feeling of being close.
wonpil lets out an ageless sigh and closes his eyes against the moonlight, listening to the winter chill outside slowly quieting in their sleep.
somewhere before they fall asleep and somewhere between the wooden ceiling and shaggy fur rug, their lips find each other – every touch a silent affirmation that in this cold, isolated world, that they at least have each other.
“why are you here alone?”
they are bundled together after dinner, thick blanket thrown over their shoulders to keep out the early spring chill. the stars are slowly blinking awake as the sun dips below the horizon line.
wonpil had known that this question was coming, only surprised that it had taken this long. from sharing beds then to sharing secrets to sharing even deeper parts of himself to dowoon, he finally feels ready to answer.
tipping his head back, wonpil takes a few seconds to gather his thoughts, the overlapping threads of narrative weaving itself into a tapestry of story.
he starts here:
“I grew up in the countryside, playing with fairies and sprites and woodland creatures that I soon learned that not many could see. they are such capricious things, but they liked me. they told me that humans were losing their sight and that it’s been so boring because there was no one to talk to anymore.”
“my family loved me, but couldn’t explain the strange occurrences of things that kept happening. never harmful, only silly, mischievous things. I had sworn to secrecy in exchange for teachings they passed on to me. only a traveling shaman recognized me for what I was – a mage and one that needed teaching and to be around others like me. my family was ecstatic, so happy that there were more like me, and wanted so badly for me to attend, if they would have me. how could I say no to that?”
he pauses here, history never comes back easy. dowoon leans ever so slightly to be resting fully into their shoulder touches. so wonpil continues there:
“I learned early on that my type of magic – the relationship with faeries and sprites – was… discouraged, even hated at the academy. the elders felt that magic was too wild, too unpredictable, so they found rules and patterns to teach students with even a drop of magic ability into something trainable and useful.”
“I took it the best I could at first, avoiding, ignoring, suppressing my innate powers to make room for theirs. but then things would happen. things I didn’t agree with, so I’d stand up to them, little things at first, then bigger. they tolerated it, punished me in ways, but ultimately did nothing lasting for a long time.”
“but then…”
squeezing his eyes shut, he can’t hold it back any longer. the shakes, the overflowing of memory. he feels dowoon’s hand reach out to touch him, maybe in comfort, and a scene flashes across his mind.
they see this (wonpil knows from dowoon’s gasp that he sees it too):
sungjin, younghyun, jaehyung, two elders, five soldiers… their faces and silhouettes swimming in and out of focus, with the same horror etched in their expressions… wonpil could see himself in their eyes, consumed in bright gold flames that didn’t hurt him or junhyeok in the healing bed, but scorched those who got too close, fae spirits snarling, feeding off his rage and power.
his tears evaporated, his throat burning, from both the smoke and screams that tore through him, almost disembodied.
jaehyung is now shakily reaching out his hand, determination pushing the fear from his eyes, his voice loud only to speak above the flames and reigning chaos.
“wonpil,” he says. “wonpil, please.”
turning to him, wonpil feels the skin of his cheeks stretching almost past breaking point, feeling himself being consumed.
“please…” jaehyung says, “wonpil, please. trust me…”
wonpil can’t read lips, can’t hear anything else past the roaring in his ears. but he reaches out anyway, across the licking flames that do not hurt him, to grasp jaehyung’s wrist just as the older does the same. he notices how cold jaehyung feels against his skin when jaehyung says something again with more intensity that has him visibly breaking as he squeezes wonpil's hand, saying something wonpil can't understand, can't make out. and all at once, at the same time, it all goes-
black.
(not transcribed: wonpil returns from these memories with dowoon’s lips against his forehead, grounding him, soothing the dying flames inside.)
“when I woke up, I was alone in a dungeon,” wonpil continues, a while later. (it could be an hour or a minute or days.) “cuffed my entire hands and mask covered my nose and mouth, collar around my throat, chained to the floor. completely cut off all of my magic and being able to call the fae or friends or anyone.”
“I don’t know how long I was there. the longer I was trapped there, the more I realized then that there was impossible that they could have made those in the few hours that I was unconscious. they were specifically catered to holding me, to stop my wild magic. maybe for the chance that I went rogue? or what if they eventually had the full intention of locking me up forever?”
(also not transcribed: the tightening of dowoon’s muscles beside him like the tensing of bowstring, but it steadies wonpil in a way that, at any other time, would wonpil might cry.)
“younghyun came to take me to my trial. though he handled me with care as he always does, just him holding the chain to my collar, still muzzled and handcuffed…sungjin sat on my trial and spoke vocally in my defense. he’s a council favorite, so he was able to get many on his side, but it became a draw. it’s a mercy that I was granted exile as opposed to death.”
there’s more, still so much more, but wonpil feels drained from everything, from reliving it so intensely, more than he had ever thought possible. so he finishes here:
“but I knew then, truly for the first time, I was abandoned by the academy. because I’m different. because I wasn’t good enough.”
“no.”
wonpil snaps his head up to see dowoon almost glaring at him, with a fierceness that has him trembling.
“no,” dowoon repeats. “they were afraid of you, of what you can do. of what you can do that they can't explain, what they can’t control.”
wonpil wants to argue, disagree, tell dowoon that there’s no possible way that he could be right, or a million other contradicting things. but as he takes in dowoon’s expression, so passionately determined that it almost rivals the piercing beams of afternoon light, he finds that suddenly has nothing to say.
they just look at each other beneath the stars for a long time, as if doing so speaks words.
and in a way, wonpil thinks that it just might.
dowoon is out hunting again when younghyun appears a few days after that.
wonpil is preparing dinner when the dark purple portal draws itself into the floor and widens. a few fire sprites that had been happily chewing up the discarded vegetable skins by him flare up at the intrusion and emit some threatening sparks, only settling down when wonpil assures them that their guest is friendly.
younghyun is dressed simply for travel, tugging his thick woolen scarf from over his nose and mouth, dirty blonde hair shorter than what wonpil remembers last. there is a long cut on his right cheek that looks a few days old, and the sentiment reflects as well in the seriousness of his lip and shoulder lines. yet it does not detract from the warm eyes that sweep over wonpil’s body before meeting his.
there is no greeting except exchanged nods with wonpil turning back to his cuttings before younghyun says, simply, “come back.”
wonpil hums as he continues to shred carrot stalks into a bowl. “no, I don't belong. I never did, and I never will-”
“the master has died.”
the carrot and knife clatter from wonpil’s hands against the metallic container, making the fire sprites disappear, spitting, but he hardly notices. he whips up to really look and meet the older’s gaze. “what? then...?”
a wan smile quirks at the corner of younghyun’s lip and dips his head slightly in confirmation, his dangling earrings swinging down past his shoulder line. “sungjin would have come with me to retrieve you, but coronation is the day after tomorrow. and there is still much to prepare.”
when wonpil doesn’t speak, only moving to look out through the windows, younghyun says, his voice is still soft and gentle, but it’s slightly pleading. “come back, wonpil. come home.”
wonpil bites his lips, not trusting himself to speak. this is his chance to go back. under sungjin he’d be safe, maybe even welcomed back. he could have everything back...
younghyun sighs, but not of exasperation. “I will return tomorrow afternoon to help you bring your things.”
with a small whoosh! he is gone back through his portal, leaving no trace that he had ever been there, except for the heavy feeling deep in wonpil’s chest that he can’t even begin to explain.
wonpil is so deeply lost in thought that he doesn’t hear the strong winds outside working themselves into a heavy storm, the skies darkening like fresh bruises.
if he had been any other state of mind, he would’ve started cooking again because the dishes of food, already cold, are haphazardly cut and reeking of inattention. if he had been any other state of mind, he’d be worried that dowoon wasn’t back yet, worried that he may be stuck in the storm, worried that he may not be coming back.
but then the slamming of the door against the wall as a massive gust of wind pushes leaves, rain, and a disheveled dowoon through its frame brings wonpil back to the present.
“do-” the rest of his words are cut off as dowoon crumbles to the floor.
panic flares up again in every piece of wonpil far too much like the first night they met. he dashes over to find dowoon is shaking so violently against the hardwood floor that it is almost like his bones are alive and are fighting to burst from his skin.
“dowoon? dowoon! are you sick again?”
“you...” the normally deep voice is rattling too, pain etching itself over every syllable and wonpil is suddenly wounded too. “you...must make a wish or I… I can’t… I won’t…”
“ssh,” wonpil tries to soothe him by trying to lead him to the couch, when a deep-seated thought bursts forth before he can stop it. “come with me. come back with me to the academy. I need to go back, dowoon, will you come back with me?”
forehead against the floor and collapsing even more against himself, somewhat muffled, dowoon bites out, “I-I can’t...I...can’t leave...”
it’s not an outright “no” but the evident rejection shocks wonpil so deeply that he’s suddenly numb. everything skids violently to a stop. except for punishing hurt and angry tears start to overflow unbidden.
wonpil lets go immediately, falling back against the floor, can’t stop the small sob.
“I-I wish…” he chokes, dropping his head and tangling his hands through his hair. “I just wish that… I wish that you would stay with me… always, forever…”
suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped, dowoon is still, his shaking stopping immediately. still holding his arms around himself, he slowly raises his head. stares at wonpil through the white tuft in his fringe, looking horribly worse for wear, aching pain etching into his skin.
but his expression becomes less anguished and almost shock, almost awe, troubled in another way. almost...
then it weight of what he had just said hits wonpil. “oh… oh, no.” now he’s shaking and burying his face in his hands, his voice muffled, “oh, I’m so sorry, dowoon, I shouldn’t wish for something that takes your choice, against your will- you don’t have to, I- can I reverse- is there any way-?”
wonpil starts when he feels dowoon’s larger, more calloused hands gently but strongly from his face. lets himself be pulled up to his feet and into dowoon’s steady arms.
the other’s breathing has evened out and he drips down to trail his nose up along the line of wonpil’s neck to his jawline to his nose to...
the kiss is tender and warm, but also resolutely firm in demanding all of wonpil’s attention. this is not the first time they’ve kissed, nowhere close, but it’s nothing to the secretive touches passed under downy blankets and over soft sheets. wonpil’s voice and breath are trapped inside his chest, his heart bursting into a thousand fleeting birds.
dowoon pulls back first, his eyes deep and unreadable except for a loving intensity that makes wonpil shiver. he stops any words before wonpil can even think them and slides his hand down to lace his fingers with wonpil’s. stops anything wonpil could ever think with a low, “I want to,” as he guides them to wonpil’s bed.
the next minutes, hours (days? years? lifetimes?) pass like the breaths they share in the darkness of wonpil’s room, in between diffused moonlight.
wonpil’s eyes grow heavy as the shadows shift and gradually lighten. he’s tucked into every open space in dowoon’s arms, hearing his heartbeat fall in time with dowoon’s.
“I wish…” he whispers, his lips barely moving, “I wish that you can stay with me... forever...”
he never knows if dowoon answers this or not, or even hears it at all. he’s already slipping beyond consciousness.