Archive of Our Own ^beta

Fifty-nine stories is high enough for certain death.

But fifty-nine stories high gives too lovely a view to die just yet. In books, Europe is painted like a dream - ancient cities whose histories and architecture fused perfectly with their modern concrete giant counterparts. Here, atop the Montparnasse Tower, all of Paris’ sacred monuments scattered across the districts are within sight, and Paris in real life is like the monster under your bed - a big, nebulous creature that thrives in the night, that plays an alluring tune to fascinate you into wanting to leave everything else you’ve ever known. This is the Paris that has become his home, his prison, his hunting ground, and his nightmare.

It’s fifty-nine stories above the bustling roads, but it’s never too high up or far away for the hunger to fully dissipate. The smell of sweet flesh pierces through the stench of urine, dog faeces, and regrettably, even the beautiful aroma of freshly baked bread.

It’s fifty-nine stories too far from food, so Mingyu’s body moves too fast for his brain to compute, taking a leap off the Montparnasse Tower just large enough to land on a neighbouring building, rinkaku kagune arching out to pierce the columns of the structure to steady his vertical climb down. In that brief moment when he’s flying over the skyline, he can believe that he is invincible. The pain as the kagune breaks through his skin is white-hot and lovely, the power coursing through the muscles flowing like the waves of an ocean - malleable and destructive.

“Could there be any race more superior than ours?” When he’s flying over rooftops, he finds it easy to agree with Jeonghan’s words. He’s stronger, faster, and feared. But when his feet touches the ground once more, a cloud of doubt always settles above him, and always the same sentence turns over and over in his mind for hours with no definite answer.

The ground rushes up to meet the pound of his strong body on the pavement. He’s crossed over into the sixth arrondissement, where midnight heralds the beginning of life, where young blood is in abundance. The majestic walls of the Sorbonne, the grand dome of the Pantheon, the famed halls of the Théâtre de l’Odéon, the brightly-lit pedestrian walkway along which the reputed Cafe de Flore rests - these Parisian grandeurs that give an air of intellectuality and possessiveness for those who reside there. Mingyu still feels but a long-time visitor - an outsider - to these cultural shrines even though he’s trailed his fingers over the classrooms, poured over the silverfish-bitten texts, lain on the interred remains of Victor Hugo, Marie Curie, and Jean-Jacques Rousseau in the Pantheon’s necropolis as if he could share their greatness just through sheer proximity. But he doesn’t mind as long as he can walk amongst them freely.

It’s just past nine-thirty when he turns onto the Rue de Rennes, meaning the mart has lowered its shutters about halfway to remind patrons of its strict ten o’clock closing time. A few last-minute stragglers - most likely university students - are scurrying about grabbing late-night snacks to fortify their bellies into the wee hours of the morning. He sees cups of yoghurt, granola bars, and juice bottles line their baskets, and thinks about how he would have dumped in packets of uncooked Korean noodles, gochujang sauce, semi-cooked sausages, and coca-cola to tide him over.

He’s in a hypermart, but the distinct miasma of human prevails everywhere. An internal battle rages to win over the olfactory sensors and it’s a gaggle of voices screaming breadfleshbreadflesh. Two French girls are chattering gaily behind him and he can imagine how easy it would be to lure them with a flash of his smile and a quick banter in French. They would be piqued by his well-accented French, he knew they would, and they would put their hands on his arms shyly, and he would pretend to reciprocate in kind. As it is, he knows he’d already caught their attention from when he shuffled past them to get to the bread aisle; their flitting glances were not conspicuous, and he doesn’t think they intended for it to be.

Groggily, he pushes a loaf of bread and a bottle of water into the counter. The cashier gives him a smile slightly more genuine than the one she’d given to the previous customer. Easy, so easy to let the demon out. The cashier isn’t pretty, but he just needs her flesh. Even a finger would do to satisfy the thirst. Tendrils of red begin to cloud over his left eye and sheer power thrums silently under his skin, waiting to be acknowledged, accepted, used.

“Monsieur?” Mademoiselle Cashier’s voice is layered with weariness from standing for hours, but it’s still rife with innocence and concern. And just like that, a band snaps back into place and when he looks at her, it’s with twin brown eyes and a ghost of a smile. She makes to gesture to a box of candies that are going at half-price, but just as quickly he is slamming out four euros fifty onto the counter and dashing out the door into the cool November night.

***

Each shove of bread into his mouth is pure torture. Every morsel tastes like stone, and every sip of water is like poison. His stomach walls lash out against the unwelcome intrusion, dealing sharp pricks into his digestive lining to say get out. Get out!

He throws up everything into the alleyway, bile and saliva mixing with his tears as he sobs over the cold, wet floor.

“Gyu?” A soft voice slices through the fog of sorrow and hunger. It’s mellow and warm. He spits out another round of bile in answer before settling back into the wall behind him, leaning his head against the grey tiles and closing his eyes. He can feel the cold air drying the tear tracks on his face. What an ugly thing I must look like, he thinks.

“Am I selfish, Junhui?” His voice is raspy and barely above a whisper.

“What answer do you want me to give?” And he knows that Jun heard the self-pity and the pleading within his question all too clearly.

“It’s unfair,” he murmurs. “I never asked to be saved. I never asked to be made into this...this evil thing.” It must be evil, if he has to kill his own kind to survive. It must be evil, if his life means another’s life draining before his eyes.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to greet the night sky. It’s black, and the only stars glittering are those of the city’s twinkling lamps and artificial lights dotting the city and its suburbs. Every bit it’s namesake as the City of Lights. Mingyu had once dreamed about scouring Paris’ underbelly and befriending all sorts of exciting, unsavoury characters, about standing under the Eiffel Tower after midnight, about lifting an espresso to his lips thrice a day, each one in a different cafe. It had been a wonderful childhood fantasy, and when his feet had finally touched Parisian soil, everything became possible. Six months later, they’ve all come true, albeit in a sick, twisted fashion.

Junhui has shifted to sit next to him now, the both of them side-by-side along a row of backdoors for the stretch of shops lining the other side of the street. He slips his right hand into Mingyu’s left, rubbing his thumb over the juncture between his index finger and thumb in slow circles. “Unfairness is a frame of mind,” he says quietly. A puff of air follows his words. “You are what you are now. Do carnivores feel guilty chasing down prey to live on their raw meat?”

Mingyu’s fingers twitch in Junhui’s at that. “But I’m human.”

Junhui’s eyes soften as he squeezes his hand once. “Yes.”

Mingyu nods his head quickly. “Exactly. I’m human. Those mammals you mentioned are different. They aren’t of the same species. They aren’t...they aren’t...”

“Monsters? Cannibals?” Junhui supplies. He smiles wanly. “You’re human. But Mingyu, you are a ghoul too.”

“I don’t - I’m not - I can’t -“ He shakes his head as if shaking the thought of Junhui’s words away and out of his mind. “Junhui,” his voice is hoarse and desperate again, seeking for lies to be told to him and redemption from wishing for those lies. He looks down into a puddle of rainwater and his reflection morphs into one of himself tearing into his sister’s arm, drinking his brother’s blood that leaks from a wide, gaping hole in his throat, and licking his parent’s eyeballs, clean before sinking his teeth into the soft mounds, their hollow eye sockets staring back at him into his soul and his stomach growls in anticipation. Nononononono. It’s not me. It isn't. “Leave me alone!” He punches the water and screams until his throat is rendered rawer.

Junhui’s arms are warm when they wrap around his torso, and he cries fresh tears against his ratty shirt when he pulls him to his chest. He makes soft, soothing noises as he rubs his hands up and down the length of his back, and Mingyu has a phantom memory of when his mother used to comfort him in the same way, hugging him tight enough so that he could feel the warmth and love pulsing through her and into him.

“I’m human. I’m human, Junhui. I’m human,” he mutters to the world, and he drifts off like that, a warm hand stroking his hair in a dirty alley surrounded by his own sick and wretchedness.

***

Before his Transition, Mingyu had never imagined that non-blood-related ghouls could co-exist to any degree of success. But now there are nine and a half ghouls sharing a three-storey building at the Le Havre - Seungcheol, Seulgi, Soonyoung, Jeonghan, Seungkwan, Vernon, Junhui, Minghao, and Wonwoo, and now, Mingyu. They fit sometimes, and the other times they pretend to for survival’s sake.

“He found all of us,” Seungkwan had told him about Seungcheol in his first week of coming to know all of them, and Mingyu can see now the fierce protectiveness that burns merrily in his eyes and carries purposefully in his every move.

“Bonjour!” Soonyoung chirps cheerily at their newest patron - the third in the hour. Mingyu’s surrogate ghoul family runs a bookstore-cum-cafe in the 15th district - a peaceful neighbourhood with more affluent residents, meaning more reserved, reticent, and less-likely-to-poke-their-noses-into-anyone’s-affairs sort of residents. It’s a perfect spot for a pack of ghouls to set up shop for an extended period of time.

The customer returns the greeting and gets his coffee order - a hot macchiato to go. His stomach rumbles loudly, but Le Havre doesn’t sell anything but coffee and books, so Soonyoung cannot offer anything but a sympathetic smile and his takeaway cup to go.

“I really could bake something,” Mingyu says from where he’s wiping down tables after the man is out the door. He had proposed this idea during his second week here when he’d noticed that not even a biscotti was served together with the coffee, but it was quickly and unanimously shot down by everyone else, much to his dismay. In Korea, Mingyu had baked all the time for his family, friends, neighbours, and anyone else who would try his concoctions on a whim. “Just let me do a simple butter one, or pistachio ones since it’s nearing the Christmas season.”

“For the gazillionth time, we can’t serve food here, Mingyu,” Jeonghan sighs loudly. As the second-oldest, Jeonghan assumes the role of manager, and doesn’t really have to play barista or busboy. Still, he can often be found behind the counter, trying out the brewing of newly-sourced beans with Seulgi. His keeps his hair long and tied into a low ponytail, his apparent trademark hairstyle and his easy charm combined the reason why their more regular customers keep coming back. Mingyu knows that his abilities to read people and ease into their conversations are precisely Seungcheol’s reason for naming him his second.

“You’re already doing great, Mingyu,” Seungcheol’s words are always warm, welcoming, and encouraging. Still, Mingyu feels that he could be doing more than just wiping tables, washing dishes, mopping the floors, and taking out the trash.

“But that’s because you guys have never tasted human food,” he says obstinately. “I know how it’s supposed to taste like and how much ingredients to add without tasting it. Not to rub salt into the wound, but it’s true. I baked - ”

“- all the time in Korea, yeah I think we got that part down pat the first thirty times, thank you Mingyu. But you’re in France, and you’re a ghoul now, and we can’t know what what we’re serving tastes like, so when in Rome, halfling.” Wonwoo is slumped in his usual teal armchair that stands next to the Victorian-section bookshelf in the store, nose in a book as always, but his words resound clearly across the first floor. It’s empty now, the afternoon lull seeping in as is common with the onset of winter.

Mingyu grits his teeth but clamps his mouth shut in favour of peace, something he knows Seungcheol greatly cherishes. His eyes start to prickle with tears so he clenches his teeth even harder. “Sarcasm may look good on you, Wonwoo, but spitefulness doesn’t,” Seulgi’s tone is soft but authoritative.

She places a freshly-brewed mug of coffee in Mingyu’s hands, making sure his fingers are cupped tightly around the handle before letting go. “It’s a Rwandan blend - let me know what you think?” This one she addresses to Mingyu, lips quirking up briefly before slipping back to the barista counter.

It’s just the six of them manning the shop floor today - more than enough for a Wednesday. Minghao had gone out with Vernon and Seungkwan to snap pictures of the city, while Jun was probably upstairs in his room watching choreography videos. Mingyu wishes he hadn’t turned down Minghao’s offer to go along after all.

“Where’s mine?” Wonwoo drawls out from his corner. Laced with a tinge of jealousy perhaps, but he manages to mask it as playful irritation. But Seulgi is already halfway across the room in his direction when he phrases the question.

“Here, one glaringly inferior cup of single-origin Colombian lungo for the cantankerous monsieur,” she gripes - also playfully - as she sets it down on the small ornate glass table with gold filigree markings on its legs. Wonwoo merely laughs it off with a snort, sipping at it gingerly.

Mingyu wonders at how easy it is for her to make Wonwoo either laugh or shut up. Even after all this time, Jeon Wonwoo remains an enigma and a real tough cookie to break through.

Mirroring Wonwoo, he too takes a sip of his own brew and his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god, this coffee is delicious! Jeonghan, have you tried this? This bitterness would balance perfectly with the tartness of lemon-flavoured cookies, really.”

Jeonghan just sighs into his own coffee cup.

***

“No, thank you,” Mingyu shakes his head politely and sweetly in French, showing his canine teeth, and his belly hurts a hundred times more with the utterance of those three words.

“No strawberries, monsieur? But these are our finest and in season.” Monsieur Comberre pulls his wrinkled features into a pout, which makes both Mingyu and his companion for the morning, Junhui, laugh.

“None for us today, Monsieur Comberre,” Junhui chirrups back, and he slips his arm through Mingyu’s to pull him through the sea of Sunday market-goers.

“You were going to buy those strawberries, weren’t you?” He chastises.

A sheepish glance passes over Mingyu's face. “We rejected his pears and apples in September,” he reminds him. “What? I couldn’t face him out of guilt for a month!”

He chuckles lightly but maintains his firm grip over Mingyu’s arm. “If we come again next week, we can buy a punnet. But just a punnet, mind you.” And with that, they’re weaving through the countless colourful stalls lining the district that stretches at least three metro stations wide from Boucicaut, to Felix Faure, to Commerce. During that period, Mingyu steps on Junhui no less than four times, and smiles at a total of three children, and they leave with absolutely nothing, and it’s perhaps one of the more fulfilling Sunday market experiences he’s had in a long while.

It’s about lunchtime when they emerge from Invalides, just several hundred metres from the Eiffel Tower. There’s the usual hullabaloo of tourist buses and gullible tourists who make for easy pickings for pickpockets. Mingyu had been exactly one of these before, and he coughs out a short laugh at the strangeness of the universe.

“What’s so funny?” Junhui asks. He’s smiling too, Mingyu’s laughter being a little too infectious.

“Nothing. Just that I was just like them barely 6 months ago,” he jabs a thumb in the direction of a group of Asian tourists. “I got off a tourist bus around here too. It was our first day, and we got to see the Eiffel Tower. Mom and dad…” he trails off, the realisation of what he’s saying dawning on him.

“Anyway, it was a great first day.” He glances away from the direction of the tower, tightening his fraying, hand-me-down trench coat around his person.

“Well, I was thinking of exploring more of Invalides, if you don’t mind,” Junhui says. “I also don’t want to be mistaken for a tourist.” Mingyu gives an exaggerated shudder, and Junhui laughs, pulling gently on Mingyu’s forearm to guide them to the other side of the crossroad.

The two of them settle into a tiny cafe in an as-of-yet unexplored street. Junhui had picked it for their quaint decorations they’d seen through the window - a mishmash of weaving thread twisted into all sorts of animal shapes dangle from the ceiling or are pinned to the walls; autumn shades are the colours of choice for the paintwork, and the furniture pieces are seemingly paired at random - round tables with squarish stools or armchairs, and oval-shaped tableware served with trapezium-shaped teacups or mugs - very odd and altogether very eccentric, and very Junhui’s cup of tea indeed.

They opt for two americanos instead of espressos so they get to “stay a little bit longer”, and Mingyu presses himself into a plush burgundy armchair while Junhui takes a seat next to him in a wooden chair lined all over with soft velvet.

“How are you holding up after last week?” Junhui is the straightforward sort, something that he wouldn’t have pegged the quiet boy for at first sight. But Mingyu knows now that he’s quiet because he’s observant, and because not a lot of people would appreciate his bluntness. He does, though.

He takes a deep breath before beginning. “Better...” It’s definitely progress since last week, when he’d been hacking up a horrible emulsion of acidic bread and water. “I think it’s always going to be hard...I still don’t think I can eat meat.” He stresses the word with his eyes because they’re in a human-run cafe. “I just...I’m still me, Kim Mingyu, the same kid who loves baking and fixing things, who likes watching TV and Netflix, and hanging out with friends after school, like any other regular high school kid, you know?”

But Junhui doesn’t really know. He’s never known what it’s like to never stop running and hiding. Survival has been engraved into his every cell. “I stopped going to school after I turned 14, and I was a street rat until Seungcheol took me in 3 years later. I’m sure you already know this, but we would have been killed by the Lilies by now if not for him.”

“But I can guess at what you mean, in that your whole life has turned upside-down. But you’re not just Kim Mingyu, Korean high school student anymore. You’re Kim Mingyu, a half-ghoul Parisian refugee, and that’s something different and something important to remember now.”

Mingyu gives Junhui’s words a chance to be mulled over because it’s Junhui. “Does it ever get easier, eating...you know?” It’s more than that when he has to walk on the path of the predator and not the prey, but this part is the one that trumps all other aspects of being a ghoul, after all.

“I think that it is our fate to have to survive on the blood and flesh of humans. I eat what I have to to live, and for everyday that I live, it’s another day that I wish I had the strength to end myself.”

“So why don’t you?” He had said it because it was the first thing that had popped into his mind. So he’d said it.

His smile is watery and his eyes are forlorn when he looks into Mingyu’s eyes, and it’s like all the grief in his heart is collected in that gaze, and perhaps it is. “Because I’m selfish.”

“I can understand that,” Mingyu says. He doesn’t have it in him to be able to say an appropriately kind or comforting or sympathetic word. He’s never been good with words, not really.

“I don’t doubt it,” Junhui replies, but not unkindly. There’s a simplicity to him that Mingyu greatly admires. He’s forthright, and hardly second-guesses anything anyone says.

Mingyu’s eyes flit to the two servers stationed around the cafe, tracing how their veins flex beneath their pink skin. His eyes are back on Junhui in a second, but Jun had already followed his glance and looks back at Mingyu with full clarity reflected in his eyes.

Mingyu’s cheeks and ears turn a light shade of red, and his fingers tighten their grip around his cup, but Junhui simply signals the server for two more americanos and pushes his own now-cold half-drunk mug closer to the edge to be exchanged for a new one. “If we changed how we saw ourselves, there’s a lot of good that we could do.” The non-sequitur throws Mingyu a little off guard, but he tries to follows the new train of thought nonetheless.

“How do you mean?”

“I just mean that our perspectives about ourselves has an effect that goes beyond just our own bubble or world. It has a large external effect on people around us, much more than what we imagine.”

He looks at Mingyu with an inscrutable countenance, and Mingyu feels an edge to his words that he’s supposed to be grasping but failing miserably at. “Why are you saying this to me?”

He tips his head forward to thank their server when he brings their drinks over, and then cocks his head to the side to regard Mingyu carefully before answering. “Why does a bard tell his stories and experiences to any wandering or lost listener?”

Mingyu feels as if his head is filled purely with cotton. “Sorry, what?”

“Drink up,” Junhui gestures to his mug of coffee. Mingyu had forgotten to thank the server in the midst of all the jumbled things being said to him. “I want to get home before it turns dark.”

***

“What are you reading?” Usually, it would take more that to muster up the courage to say so much as a word to Wonwoo, but they’ve been assigned to run errands together this morning, so Mingyu has reason to have a bit more mettle in his bones, if only that he's going to need it to combat his uptight personality.

“You’re interrupting me,” Wonwoo shoots back within seconds. He’s at the bar counter instead of his usual place in the armchair. He spies a bottle of cold brew coffee by his hands and surmises that Seulgi isn’t awake yet to brew him a hot cup for they leave.

“We need to go pick up some stuff at 9.” He thinks his voice doesn’t quiver when he replies. Mingyu already considers himself an extremely patient person, but when it comes to Wonwoo, he very much doubts a paragon of patience even exists. “It’s nearly 8.45, so I came by to remind you.”

“I don’t need reminding, thank you very much,” Wonwoo downs his coffee in large gulps, draining the bottle in seconds.

“Don’t fancy cold coffee?” Mingyu asks in a small voice.

That catches Wonwoo’s attention, and he whips his head towards him swiftly, mouth a little agape. “No, I don’t actually,” he says, clearly surprised at the question.

“Oh, um, okay, yeah. It was just a guess.” Mingyu says, words tumbling all over the place.

Wonwoo reaches over the counter to dump the bottle into the sink. “A good guess,” he says shortly, and he bookmarks where he’s stopped reading with a blue ribbon before sliding it back into place in the American literature row in the not-for-sale shelf.

“Let’s go.” He doesn’t spare Mingyu a backward glance when he slips on his jacket and scarf and tugs on his shoes, and Mingyu hurries to follow after, remembering to hook a couple of canvas shopping bags over his shoulder.

They take the metro to quartier chinois - Chinatown - stopping at Place d’Italie, one of the stations nestled in the heart of the district. Flashes of mainly Chinese, Vietnamese, and Korean restaurants and commodity stores pop up at almost every turn and corner. Over here, people take shouting for talking, and they leap into crowds rather than avoid them. A part of Mingyu feels like his soul is at rest.

Wonwoo observes the range of items of all shapes and sizes at a packaging and general kitchenware store where they’ve stopped to pickup items for the cafe. He’s never known that one needed whisks in 5 dimensions, or chopsticks made of at least 3 different materials.

He tries to read off the items that they need from a piece of paper, but the shopkeeper starts speaking in rapid Chinese and he’s effectively lost. He scowls a little, handing the piece of paper to the woman in lieu of repeating himself. This is why he always tries to beg off Chinatown errands.

He feels a light hand on his shoulder, but it vanishes just as quickly. “Let me talk to her,” Mingyu says, stepping up beside him with a flourish and a greeting in Chinese. “He watches in half-amusement and half-fascination as Mingyu converses with the shopkeeper in a spew of broken Chinese and French for a minute or two, and then they’re paying and making their way to their next errand.

“I didn’t know you could speak Chinese,” he says in a low voice, concentrating on not getting lost or robbed as people bump into them every now and then.

“I learned a bit when I was in high school. It’s a really beautiful language,” Mingyu says, smiling at a lion dance troupe rehearsing in the middle of the square. A few more people crash into each of their shoulders, but Mingyu is as hyper and unaffected as when they’d first stepped out of the metro.

“You love it here.” It leaves Wonwoo’s mouth with a full sense of wonder.

“I do,” he says, nodding at the same time. “It reminds me of when I used to tag along with my grandmother to the marketplace back home in Anyang.” Home. It’s funny how Anyang has now become the dream, and Paris the home and reality.

Wonwoo doesn’t reply, simply looks at him for a beat longer, and then he’s facing his head forward towards Avenue de Choisy, and Mingyu remembers why they’re here.

They’ve both run errands around this area before, except with different people, so they know that Tang Frères is their main stop for the morning. It’s a gargantuous Asian supermarket - the one place where you can get all sorts of condiments, spices, cuts of meat, and miscellaneous items typically found in Asian dishes and households. In sum, a place nothing short of amazing.

The mart is ten times more raucous than outside and is always packed to the brim with an endless flow of shoppers. Mingyu loves Chinatown, but he still has a slight fear of braving the shoal of human piranhas swimming their way agilely and with vigour up and down the narrow aisles. He’d almost lost sight of Jeonghan the first time he’d been taken on the trip, and had yanked on his ponytail in a moment of panic. That was the first and last time he’d been paired with Jeonghan.

The items they get are the same as usual - rice, Chinese five-spice, oyster sauce, fish sauce, a mix of Korean and Chinese vegetables, Korean red pepper sauce, Thai vermicelli, and 10 packs-of-3 instant noodles.

“We always get the same things,” he remarks offhandedly as he checks off the list mentally, the statement more to himself rather than to Wonwoo.

“It’s for ghouls who run Chinese takeaway food businesses,” Wonwoo says almost dismissively as he tries to determine which noodle brand is cheaper.

“Takeaway food businesses?!” Mingyu half-shouts.

Wonwoo frowns and wrinkles his nose. “There’s no need to shout.”

“Right, sorry. It’s just.” He makes sure to whisper at this point. “I thought we don’t sell food? We as in, we?”

Wonwoo looks like he’s about to say something derisive, but seems to change his mind. “We don’t. But there are plenty of others who do. They have to make a living, somehow.” He senses Mingyu’s next question because he answers before it drops from his tongue. “We do the purchasing because this place is a nightmare to navigate around, plus it’s easier for us to blend in or move quicker.”

“Makes sense,” is all Mingyu says. There’s really more than that that he wants to ask, but he figures that now isn’t the right time or place to voice them.

Mingyu locates the rest of the items with startling swiftness, so by the time they’ve paid for and bagged the purchases, they’re about 45 minutes ahead of schedule.

Mingyu’s stomach growls, and their eyes meet at the same moment. Mingyu knows that a terrified expression crosses his face because he sees Wonwoo’s mirror it.

“Vietnamese coffee tastes good too,” Wonwoo says, and he’s gliding off again, and Mingyu feels a sense of deja vu creep up on him.

In the quartier chinois, they really do look just like two regular Koreans sitting along the sidewalk sipping away at their morning coffee. They’ve placed their copious bags on the ground in-between their legs as an extra precaution, but Mingyu notices Wonwoo remains constantly alert, the bags always kept in his line of sight out of the corner of his eye. You can never really trust anyone not to grab anything they can get their hands on even in broad daylight.

“You’re right,” Mingyu says after drinking a particularly long gulp. “It’s really good.”

“They say it usually tastes the best with condensed milk, but we’ll never really know,” Wonwoo has finished his cup already, and he crushes it in his palm and lobs it in the direction of the nearest trashcan. Mingyu winces but doesn’t say anything.

“Oh.” He’s nearly done with his own cup, and he takes tiny sips instead of sloshing the rest down.

Wonwoo leans against the wall behind him. He’s dressed in his usual dark sweater, with a navy blue scarf knotted artfully around his neck in true Parisian fashion. He’s skipped a coat for a black leather jacket, and now that Mingyu is looking properly, he is quite handsome. A pity about his less-than-winning personality.

“You’ve never tasted flesh, have you?”

“Why?”

“No need to get all your hackles up, I was just curious,” Wonwoo’s voice is pitched low when he answers, and his eyes are partially closed. His head and the rest of his body is still supported by the concrete wall.

“I haven’t.” Mingyu fights to keep any tinge of defensiveness from seeping into those two words.

“You know, we’re a little like vampires,” Wonwoo breaks out into a small smile at that. “We need to feed on humans to survive. We hide in plain sight. We’re hunted and killed by humans in turn.” Mingyu shivers at that. “But we’re also just like humans. We love the sunshine. We need to eat to live. We can have families and children of our own.” He opens his eyes and kicks a stray stone on the ground away.

Mingyu knows what he’s trying to say, but there’s still a stone wedged in his stomach whenever he looks into the mirror and sees an alien left eye looking back at him.

“You need to decide, Kim Mingyu.”

They look at each other for a long moment, Wonwoo’s black irises boring into his own brown ones. Mingyu finally breaks it to finish the last few drops of his coffee and walks to the trashcan to dump it there. Wonwoo rolls his eyes but allow him while hefting the rest of the bags onto his forearms, and they round the corner back the way they came to the metro.

Wonwoo leads the way, as always, but he stops so suddenly that Mingyu crashes into him. “Sorry!” He yells, rubbing his back in apology, but he receives a sharp jab to his stomach in response.

“Shut up and stay close.” Wonwoo wraps his hand around Mingyu’s wrist, gripping it extraordinarily tightly if the sole intention is just to not lose him in a very wide street. Wonwoo ducks his head down, pulling his beanie over his ears and his eyebrows before moving to flip Mingyu’s jacket hoodie over his head.

"Lilies,” he hisses under his breath. He makes them cross the street, making sure to walk at a relatively leisurely pace so as to avoid suspicion, Wonwoo holding on to Mingyu all the while. It’s a tad uncomfortable when he’s carrying so many bags, but he lets it happen.

“How do you know?” he whispers back as softly as he can.

“Their white trench coats. It’s what every ghoul investigator wears when on duty.”

Mingyu thinks it might be a stupid question but asks anyway. “What if they’re off duty?”

This makes Wonwoo scowl, meaning that yes, it was indeed a stupid question.

“I just happened to know,” he finally says after they’ve tapped their Navigo metro cards at Tolbiac, another nearby metro.

“How - “

“I recognise them. Now will you just get in and stop talking?”

Mingyu supposes he’s close to reaching the end of his tether, so he acquiesces, and the ride home is drenched in total silence. The only time Wonwoo acknowledges his presence is to dip his head ever so slightly when Mingyu tugs lightly on the edge of his jacket to let him know he’s trespassing onto the bicycle pathway.

“On the Road,” Wonwoo suddenly says when they’re a few steps from the bookstore.

“What?” Sometimes, Mingyu feels incredibly stupid and slow-witted when around the 9 of them.

“The book I was reading. You wanted to know earlier.” He shuffles past Mingyu to push open the doors with his shoulder. Both their hands are full with packages, so it swings shut behind Wonwoo, the bell hanging above the door tinkling lightly.

“Oh,” Mingyu says where he’s been left standing outside on his own, and something odd blooms in his chest.

***

Monday mornings are everyone’s favourite mornings of the week, because it’s when they’re closed. Mingyu hadn’t known that this was a general European trend until he’d come here, and at first it had been difficult also to wrap his head around how the shops turned out their lights as early as 5 or 6 o’clock. After six months here, Mingyu’s disposition is now entirely European too; he simply can’t fathom opening on a Monday, ever. Paris has spoilt him.

Seungkwan is typically the first to wake, tying on his adorable alpaca apron and grinding the beans and turning on the machines with a pleasant whirr. At Le Havre, the aroma of coffee is perpetually in the air, and Mingyu is glad that this is at least one taste that he can still hold on to.

“You make the best coffee, Seungkwan, seriously,” Mingyu sings as he leans over the counter to watch the crema form over the espresso surface. He’s already had 2 shots this morning, but he’s feeling more peckish than usual, so he’d requested for another.

Seungkwan beams. “You’re officially my favourite housemate, Mingyu,” he says as he procures his newly-declared favourite another cup. Mingyu pastes on a bright smile in return, showing his teeth.

“I thought I was your favourite,” Vernon grumbles. He’s up early too because he doesn’t like to waste their off days.

“You’re my favourite roommate,” he clarifies cheekily, and sets down a cup for Vernon too.

“Why are we playing favourites so early in the morning?” Jeonghan yawns as he comes down the stairs. His hair falls around his face in messy curls, cowlicks sticking to his forehead.

“Good morning!” Seungkwan hands him his coffee, and Jeonghan wordlessly sticks out his hand perfunctorily to take it. He walks out the door in his pyjamas and fluffy slippers with the mug still in hand to pop into the bakery along the same street, something so routine every Monday that Mingyu no longer questions the absurdity.

“Remember to save a croissant for old man Jacques when he comes by later!” Vernon calls from the door before he races out for his morning run, leaving Seungkwan and Mingyu alone.

“Who does he think needs reminding?” Seungkwan grouses, but a tiny smile is still very much apparent on his lips.

Mingyu crosses over to one of the bookshelves, pulling out a book to occupy himself for the day. He hums a song he’d heard over the radio recently as he settles into the chair, blowing and sipping on his coffee.

“Hey, Mingyu?”

“Hmm?” He looks up from his book to give Seungkwan his full attention.

“I really like having you here. We all do, you know that right?”

Mingyu’s heart warms with affection. “I…Thank you, Seungkwan. I-I like being here too.” He smiles in earnest.

Seungkwan grins and goes back to pouring more beans into the hopper, and it stirs a memory.

“Hey, Seungkwan?” Mingyu calls. “Do you think we could consider buying Vietnamese coffee beans?”

***

It’s nearly Christmas, so the bookstore’s ghouls are crowded around the first floor to decorate the place for the season. Their coffee menu is still without fanfare and as stale as every other month, and Mingyu is a little disappointed that their coffee will be bereft of any sort of holiday flavours.

“What if we just drank coffee for the rest of our lives?” Mingyu muses. Living out his days as a coffee farmer deep in the countryside, far from humans - Mingyu could imagine himself being able to do that.

“Why don’t you, then?” Wonwoo quips from where he’s curled up like a cat on the armchair instead of helping to sort through the tinsel, assuming his signature air of boredom and sauciness. A book rests in his hands, as is customary when he's downstairs and doesn't want to talk to anyone. It’s a different one from yesterday, meaning that he polished the five hundred-page volume in just under a day. Wonwoo never reads two things at the same time. This one is a poetry anthology, and he recognises it as the one Vernon had thrown out when clearing out his room after Seungkwan had complained about the chaos sullying their shared room four days ago.

“It was just a theoretical question,” he says huffily. Trust Wonwoo to put a cloud back over any silver lining.

“Was it? That’s too bad - you already look like a farmer with your horrid fashion sense and dark skin - it wouldn’t take too much of a change physically anyway.” Mingyu hadn’t realised he had spoken his thoughts on the farmer bit out loud.

He looks down at the book that he’s in the middle of re-shelving instead of at anyone else. It’s an older one - Wizard of Oz. Mingyu wishes a cyclone would whisk him away to a faraway land with no sarcastic ghouls in tow. Said sarcastic ghoul should also have a house land on him.

“Leave him alone, Wonwoo,” Soonyoung pipes up from the barista counter, always one for peace. Mingyu had noticed that he was in an unusually bad mood from the early afternoon. He wonders what had caused it.

“He should leave us alone.” Wonwoo suddenly snaps out. “He doesn’t belong here and he knows it. Do you think that little breakdown he had last month won’t happen again? We were just lucky that Junhui happened to be on the way home when he found him two streets from here.”

“Wonwoo.” Minghao’s tone is one of warning, but once Wonwoo is on a roll, it’s difficult to shut him up or get him to back down.

“It’s true, and you, I, and everyone else here have thought the same thing at least once. You said yourself that he’s lucky we live in the 15th or we’d all be a Lilies’ fucking quinque by now.”

Minghao’s face turns the picture of horror and hatred, while Mingyu’s is ashen.

“You’re such a fucking asshole, Wonwoo,” Mingyu spits shakily, lips quivering. Fat tears have already begun making their way down his cheeks, and he isn't able to stop it much to his chagrin. “Why can’t you ever just leave me alone?”

“And you’re a self-righteous and self-obsessed baby whose daily ethical dilemma is going to have all of us found and killed by ghoul investigators.” Seungcheol stands up at this, flanked by Jeonghan and Junhui, and a storm of disappointment rages in his eyes. Wonwoo is standing up now too, book discarded on the floor. He points a sturdy finger at his leader but takes a noticeable step back.

“Just wait Seungcheol, even our heads won’t be good enough for their platters. They’ll use our bodies for their psychotic experiments, while our kagunes will make their way into those briefcases before the year is out.”

“I think that’s quite enough damage now, Wonwoo,” Jeonghan’s eyes are hard.

Wonwoo has never been as stubbornly obnoxious as he is tonight, and it's obvious that he's wont to stop, now that the proverbial Pandora box has been opened. The edges of his lips twist, the beginnings of more callous words readying to drop from his tongue. "If he wants to be a human, why not give him what he wants? If he's human, it's only natural that we eat him."

“Jeon Wonwoo!” Seungcheol shouts, whipping his kagune out and casting the room into a deathly aura and silence. “I don't know why you're being like this, but this is too much, even for you. Apologise to Mingyu now.”

“I don’t want his fucking insincere apology,” Mingyu manages to spill the words out in an even tone without his voice breaking, but his legs are so close to giving out on him. Had he always been this useless, except he hadn’t really seen it? It’s with this thought that he crashes through the cafe doors, tears streaming down his face.

“You really went overboard, Wonwoo,” Seulgi says, breaking the awful quiet. “You pushed him too far this time.”

Wonwoo drops himself back into the armchair, opening the poetry book at the halfway mark to place it over his eyes. “They’re sniffing us out, Seungcheol,” he murmurs, and the reason for his anxiety makes itself known. “I saw Kim Dongyoung and Lee Taeyong prowling around the markets in Chinatown last week, and they were in the 14th just a day ago.” His voice drops to a whisper. “You’re a fool if you think we could ever be safe here.”

***

They had said not to wander around the 20th district, but Mingyu has never been particularly good at listening.

When the skies darken, the city is a whole new creature. The night lends a sweet cover for ghouls. It is their time, and so he supposes it is also his time. Even so, he still finds himself hovering in alleyways and crouching behind trashcans. Mingyu’s spirit still belongs to the day.

He emerges from the Chateau de Vincennes metro station with one other fellow passenger, cheeks puffing out wisps of cold air as the wind whispers eerily through the long, wide tunnels. When he’s finally above ground, it’s already dark, and a mass of thick trees and bushes dot the surroundings. This is when he knows he is in the banlieu - the suburbs - for sure, because the city isn’t able to possess such tranquility at nine o’clock, or at any time. Mingyu paces down the pavement languidly, and the only sound that distorts the quiet is the occasional grunt of another train coming and going below him. And in-between those it is wonderfully still.

Vincennes is a beautiful suburb just bordering the outskirts of the main city of Paris, and the air here is punctured with perpetual fresh dew. It’s because there are no flowers, Jeonghan had said. No flowers to ruin it with their sickly sweet or pungent smell. Mingyu loves flowers and so hadn’t said anything but he had secretly agreed. There were many things that Jeonghan always came to be right about, if he wasn’t already.

There’s a breeze, the cold hands of winter clawing their way into his bones. It’s late December, so not long enough in the season that it’s too chilly, but still enough to have him in constant shivers. He thinks he should have grabbed a coat after all, even though he had wanted to make a strong point when he had barged through the cafe earlier. Now he isn’t sure what the point he was trying to make is, and he feels deserving of the impressions of stupidity and naiveity Wonwoo - and maybe the rest of the ghouls - has of him.

Mingyu locates his favourite spot easily - an undergrowth hidden relatively deep within the woods of the Bois du Vincennes. He’d found it 4 months ago when Paris had been suffering in the dead of summer with no air -conditioning (unlike Korea). This place had offered a cool respite, and from then onwards it’s become a home away from home.

He presses his forehead to the cool soil, memories of his family interspersed with more recent ones, of walking along the river Seine in the wee hours of the morning, of emerging unscathed after plunging down from the top of the Notre Dame with a freewheeling spirit. Paris – once a dream but now a nightmare. They fly unbidden in and out of his mind, and then he’s closing his eyes and burrowing deeper into the short blades of grass.

How he longs for the slamming of doors, or the quaking, rising voices of his parents. He wants, and wishes, and prays. He tries to remember what it was like when Minsoo crept into his bed almost every night, even though he’d always try to push her away every single time. Now he crushes the grass in his palms, forcing himself to remember how those tiny fingers felt wrapped tightly around his hands, holding him like a lifeline.

“He doesn’t belong here and he knows it.” Wonwoo’s words slice into him like a thousand tiny icicles stabbing into him. It cuts into his entire person, leaving no expanse of skin scarless. He cries into the ground, digging his fingers hard into his stomach.

He shuts his eyes, rolling to the side to expose his back to the open air, drawing his kagune. It slithers up his back muscles, crawling onto his shoulders and hooking itself there. He brings up a hand to touch the tip of the tentacle. Is this really mine?, he thinks. He sends another message and the tentacles shift to curl around his chest, stomach, and upper thighs. “I should leave them, shouldn’t I?” He muses aloud. The kagune tightens, as if in protest. He chuckles weakly. “We’re such cowards, aren’t we?” In a ugly admission, Wonwoo ended up being right. He's an ant that will be trampled on any second, looking up at the others who would be gods, demons, monsters, titans, the stuff of myths and legends.

The shrubs dance a little dance in the chilling breeze, and the wind whistles a numbing lullaby. He sees figures prancing in front and around him, and one of them looks like his mother’s silhouette. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and he sees himself stretching out his arms for her to take him wherever she’s going.

***

Wonwoo is an excellent tracker. It’s what made him one of The Vulture’s stronger and deadlier assets. As part of the ghoul resistance faction then, he’d clawed, bitten, and sliced his way to the higher ranks over the years before he'd chosen to go with Seungcheol.

Wonwoo picks up a photograph of he, Seulgi, Jihoon, Jonghyun, and Minhyun, taken at the Vulture’s second-largest branch in France in Marseille. His lips curl up at the faces smiling back and him.

“Mingyu hasn’t come back.”

Wonwoo turns over the picture frame, slender fingers mapping out the way their arms are all linked around the 5 of them.

“I didn’t hear you knock, Wen.”

“You said yourself that Kim and Lee having been scouring the area. He could be in their hands by now!” Junhui spins Wonwoo around by the collar and slams him into the wall, hard.

Wonwoo chokes out a petty laugh. “If you want to go join his pity party, by all means. But let’s not pretend that we all care about him.” He jabs a finger into Junhui’s chest. “You’re just afraid that he’ll be picked up by the Lilies and he’ll spill our whereabouts. Because Kim is a coward, and he’s weak. He’ll squeal and cry like a pig about to be slaughtered, but he’ll make sure to bring the whole farm down with him.”

Junhui’s silence is a telltale admission of his guilt, however much he is worried about Mingyu. His blood burns under his skin, but attacking Wonwoo further would also be an admission. Wonwoo knows him too well, and the smirk he lets play on his lips for a second is a sign that he’s won both games – getting Junhui to shut up, and getting Junhui angry enough to lose control. “You just care about yourself at the end of the day.”

Junhui’s pupils glisten a dangerous red, and his fingers are white where they press into Wonwoo’s neck. “Why didn’t you say anything before about the Lilies tracking us? You’ve been keeping things from us!”

“Junhui. Stop.” Seulgi stands at the doorway, dressed in her hunting garb. She must have just come back.

“But Seulgi, he -“

“We’ll find him. Now please, let Wonwoo go so he can come with me.” Her words aren’t law like Seungcheol’s, but it is commanding all the same. Junhui releases him with a final, poisonous glare, and pushes past Seulgi.

Wonwoo meets Seulgi’s eyes. “You know something about Mingyu. What happened at the meeting?”

She gives him a piercing look of her own. “Why did you say all those things to him when you didn’t really mean them?”

”What happened,” Wonwoo repeats, grinding his teeth.

“I’ll tell you after we bring Mingyu home.”

“So it does have something to do with Mingyu.” After all these years, Wonwoo has become adept at reading what is unsaid, and especially when it comes to Seulgi.

“Yes, and no,” she says shortly. “Now let’s go. Mingyu needs us.” She leaps out of his window, and Wonwoo is helpless but to follow.

***

They bound over the districts, Wonwoo swooping up, down and around building after building as he leads the two of them around the city.

“Why aren’t we tracking from the streets?” Seulgi shouts from behind.

Wonwoo doesn’t stop - there’s no time - so his answer is carried by the wind. “Mingyu prefers flying!”

Seulgi doesn’t know whether she’s heard correctly but can’t be bothered to summon the energy to shout again.

They land somewhere closer to the outskirts of Paris. Wonwoo places a palm to a tree and tastes the bark and the leaves, and does the same to the next one, and the next. Like this, they move even deeper into a great forest, until there are no lamps save for the light of the moon.

“This is the 20th district,” Seulgi whistles lowly to him, her tone suggesting a fear that Wonwoo also feels take form like a second skin all over his person.

“I know.” It comes out as irritable, which Seulgi takes to mean that he isn’t fully sure if Mingyu is indeed here.

He takes them through more pathways and under trees - all of which look frighteningly the same as ones they’d passed before, yet Wonwoo traverses the woods with such grace and surety that she cannot help but feel that no one else would be able to find Mingyu if Wonwoo couldn’t.

“We’re close.”

Her heart picks up speed, and she lets her kagune unfurl halfway around her shoulders.

“Under the shrubs.” Wonwoo’s eyes are red too, his kagune also curled around the entire length of his arm and finishing in the shape of a scythe. They dash to the undergrowth and Wonwoo cuts through the mass of vines and weeds with his blood-red scythe while Seulgi keeps watch for both humans or investigators.

“I’ve got him! Seulgi, help me pull him out.” His voice is worried when he next speaks. “I can’t hear him breathing.”

Together they yank him from the tumble of greenery and soil and out into the cold, open air. Seulgi is thankful that it hasn’t yet begun to snow. “His skin is freezing. We need to warm him up.”

She shrugs off her coat to place over him and crouches down to put her ear against his chest while fumbling for his right wrist. “There’s a pulse, but it’s weak. We need to get him somewhere warm.”

“I heard you the first time,” he grumbles, and Seulgi is amazed at how he can still be snappy at this time. He too pulls off his coat to place over Mingyu, but also moves to pull Mingyu’s head onto his lap, prying Mingyu's mouth open.

“What, are you going to give him CPR and do mouth-to-mouth?”

“Don’t be stupid,” he says, eyebrows frowning and crinkling his forehead. “I’m giving him blood.”

He bites into his wrist before Seulgi can come up with a reply, positioning it over Mingyu’s mouth so that it trickles onto his tongue and down his throat. Cannibalism.

“Wonwoo -"

“I’m concentrating.”

Seulgi shuts up.

No signs of life can be heard even that deep into the forest; it’s deathly quiet all around with two and a half ghouls on the ground, one pumping life into another. Minutes pass, and Wonwoo keeps his teeth clamped onto his wrist to prevent the skin from healing over.

“Wonwoo, you’ve given a lot. Let me take over.” Seulgi places a hand over the hand not currently being bit into, but Wonwoo shakes it off while making an effort to keep his left hand still.

“We need one of us to be strong enough to fight if a Lily chances upon us,” he says logically. She really dislikes his pragmatism at times.

“Wonwoo, I -"

Mingyu gives a sudden cough, and they both freeze. He coughs again, this time more violently, and a pool of Wonwoo’s blood spills from his mouth.

Wonwoo curses and slaps him.

“Wonwoo!” Seulgi cries in horror.

Mingyu’s eyes fly open but they close shut almost immediately like a doll. “Mingyu, wake up!” Wonwoo shouts. He pats his cheek a few more times to try to get the same effect without having to slap him again, mindful of Seulgi's watchful eye.

“Mingyu. Fucking wake up, you weak son of a bitch.” He hits his temples this time while Seulgi runs her hands up and down his arms to warm his body enough to bring his consciousness around.

“Mom.” Mingyu’s eyes flutter open a little, and they both can see how they’re clouded over.

“He’s in REM.” Seulgi knows this is Mingyu's own way of retreating and hiding. “He won’t be able to wake up.”

“Like hell he won’t,” Wonwoo growls. He slaps Mingyu harder than the first time. “Junhui needs you to come back!” He bellows into his ear, and then Mingyu has both eyes open, and his body slowly starts to tremble as the cold registers in both mind and body.

Seulgi lets out a palpable sigh of relief and stands up, telling Wonwoo that she’ll be keeping watch nearby. She extends her kagune wings to its full wingspan, the tips glittering a dark red. “Don’t say anything stupid,” she says, and then she disappears into the trees but doesn't go too far.

“Wonwoo?” Mingyu looks up to see his constant source of torment staring back down at him, seeing a mixture of worry and relief on his usual stony features. Thin lines of blood pour out of his mouth and he licks it subconsciously with his tongue. His eyes widen. “What -"

“It’s mine. I fed it to you,” Wonwoo says, going for the truth like he always has done. “It was either that or freezing to death.”

Mingyu’s eyes narrow and his lips purse.

“Don’t say you’d have been okay with freezing to death,” Wonwoo cuts in.

So Mingyu’s mouth asks a different question. “Why did you come?”

Wonwoo smile is wry. “Because I’m an asshole who can’t leave you alone.”

When Mingyu laughs, more blood drips from his lips.

“You idiot,” Wonwoo says, and bends to lick the blood on his chin. Mingyu shrieks in surprise. “Stop wasting my blood.”

“Sorry.” His tone is contrite, but a smile involuntarily escapes him. He can taste Wonwoo in his mouth, pumping his body with life and warmth. He can feel another power bubbling next to his own, and for the first time since joining the ghouls at Le Havre, he doesn't feel alone. He sweeps his tongue along the seam of his lips, catching more remnants of blood. The flavour dances on the tip of his tongue and he lets it roll over his mind, searching, calculating, concluding. It isn't heavenly, but it's a start, perhaps.

Wonwoo sees all this in slow motion - that tentative realisation and acceptance and still-present apprehension. He lets Mingyu’s head fall from his lap, but he’s just as quickly looping his arms around his shoulders and under his knees. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

“Home?” Mingyu whispers.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo says, shifting to press his forehead to his for a brief second before pulling away. “Home.”