Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.”

— Mary Oliver.

“Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you also feel responsible for everything. And you cannot turn away. Your destiny is bound with the destinies of others.”

— Andrew Boyd, Daily Afflictions: The Agony of Being Connected to Everything in the Universe.

🐺

Mark Lee’s bedroom wall is almost as polluted with posters as his bedroom floor is crowded with laundry, and claiming it to be messy might be the harshest of understatements.

Jeno sits on a spinning chair amidst the mess, private school dress shirt loosely hanging onto slim muscles as he switches flashcards one in front of the other, pushing one to the back of his neatly organized deck as a new one comes to the front. Mark has never seen him study so intensely for a test before, but he might as well agree that it is a long due effort — with midterms coming up, and his raging of a father monitoring Jeno’s every grade, it must feel just as oppressive as it looks. His dark grey sweatpants are pulled up to his ankles, bare feet swaying to the sound of an aggressive guitar solo coming from Mark’s radio set, the slurred words of a punk female singer almost echoing through the room’s marine blue walls.

The handful of papers scattered all over Mark’s bed tell a tale of good wits with little to no theoretical knowledge, the red B’s and C’s staring back at him accusingly. His ashtray holds down a pile of assignments, not allowing them to fly over due to the fan, and Jeno’s legs rest over Mark’s desk, heavy and ever so intruding with his back turned to the bed.

“The fact you don’t even know how your room absolutely reeks of weed is baffling and, honestly, appalling,” Jeno comments, spinning around to allow Mark into his line of vision. “I wonder how your mother doesn’t know.”

Mark shrugs, visibly uninterested. “If she knows, she doesn’t care. For once, her hippie deal has done more use than harm.” He rolls around in his bed, laying on his stomach, and supports his torso through his elbows. His hand comes to rest against his cheek, bored. “And anyways, what the fuck does appalling even mean? You steal one of my old private school shirts and suddenly you’re Charles Dickens himself.”

“You’re being dumb on purpose,” Jeno puts down the flashcards, letting them rest on his lap as he stretches his arms out, squinting against the afternoon sun coming from Mark’s barely closed blinds. “You could’ve gotten the meaning from context. It means shocking, terrifying. Marijuana is rotting your brain.”

The older boy scoffs, changing positions again. This time he lies on his back, head dangling from the edge of his mattress, neck fully exposed. Jeno makes a point out of averting his gaze, focusing it on the Amy Lee poster contrary to Mark’s desk. “It was already rotten before,” Mark argues, his black tank top riding up to his stomach. “Marijuana just sped up the process.”

“I suppose not,” his best friend mumbles, reaching for a pillow and throwing it over Mark’s exposed torso, trying to cover it up. “Don’t be a slut.”

He laughs out loud, grabbing the hem of his top and pulling it down almost viciously, its straps tightly glued to his shoulders. “Don’t be such a puritan,” his eyes blink against the sunlight, once dark and now a yellow-ish tone of soft hazel, illuminated. That’s a thing people like on the internet these days, Jeno recalls distantly — brown eyes against the light. “This is my house and this is my bedroom and the only reason why I’m not naked right now is because you’re a pussy.”

Jeno gasps, offended. “I’m a pussy because I don’t want to see your dick while I’m trying to study?”

“Precisely!” Mark shoots up, kneeling on the bed. His duvet is a lighter shade of cream, printed with pink roses and muted green stems. Jeno thinks it’s pretty; makes the room softer. “If you were really my best friend you’d at least consider making out with me just to see what it felt like. Besides, I’ve got to be ready for when Na Jaemin falls in love with me.”

At that, Jeno groans in defeat, turning around in his chair once again to offer Mark his back. Knowing him, Mark can see it coming before he even says it. “Give up on the ten year plan. He doesn’t even know you exist and we’re almost seniors.”

Though Jeno can’t see it, he shakes his head stubbornly. “No can do. It may turn into a fifteen years long plan, but it will happen. I’m very sure of it.”

“You are pathetic.”

“You are a sociopath. I’ve once seen you wipe off a kiss from a girl who liked you while she was still in the room.”

Jeno sighs. “I didn’t know she was looking!”

“Of course she was looking, Jeno.”

He grunts back, clearly bothered, and Mark bites down a mischievous smile. “I’m just saying, Jeno. If you weren’t such a cold blooded monster, you’d probably have someone by now. When he heart is open,” he starts quoting, perching himself to peek over Jeno’s shoulder. “Love falls out on everything. Your heart isn’t open.”

“Don’t want it to be open, don’t care, won’t try it. Fuck off.”

“Alright, alright. Don’t get your panties in a twist because of a little teasing,” Mark giggles, jumping out of bed to look over Jeno’s flashcards, hands resting on his shoulders. “Are you going to be studying for much longer? I’m bored.”

“Then back off and find something else to do other than pulling on my dick,” Jeno bites back immediately, though his shoulders untense easily the second Mark’s hands touch them. Mindlessly, he starts massaging the muscle underneath, curiously reading the next flashcard. “It’s just essential vocabulary.”

“Don’t you want my help?” He asks. “I’m good at English.”

“You are an English native speaker,” his best friend rolls his eyes. “You’d be super dumb if you weren’t.”

“Fair enough,” Mark rolls his eyes back, though he didn’t see Jeno doing it in the first place. His right hand finds the boy’s nape, then, gently squeezing. “But I could help, still.”

“I should leave, actually,” Jeno drops his flashcards against the desk’s flat surface, nervously piling them up. His sudden movement startles Mark, and he uses it as an opportunity to spring upwards, pocketing the deck of flashcards. “My dad is not really your biggest fan. He’s home by now.”

“I’m not really his biggest fan either,” Mark inspects his fingernails, making a show out of it. “I can’t believe you let him control you like that, by the way. He can’t prohibit you from being friends with me.”

Jeno shrugs, grabbing his backpack from beside Mark’s unmade bed. “No, he can’t, which is why I’m here.” He points out, lacing the straps around his shoulders and slipping his fingers under it. Mark watches him gather his belongings — the backpack, a jacket, his phone — with mild interest, eyebrows arched up. “This,” Jeno points to himself, motioning his sudden flee. “Is damage control.”

Mark offers him a mocking expression, eyes squinted and lips pursed. “And what a mighty control it is if you’re getting home while reeking of weed and disappointment.”

“It’s what I get for being around you,” Jeno points out, though he doesn’t seem bothered by it. He straightens himself on Mark’s full body mirror, tucking his shirt inside his pants and unrolling its sleeves. “Weed and disappointment are Eau de Mark. Whenever you’re around it’s like I could feel it from miles away.”

Despite himself and his previous annoyance, Mark smiles brightly. “And you like it.”

Jeno turns around wearing a tight lipped smile. “And I like it, yeah. But my dad doesn’t, and I know better than to piss him off.”

“Fine,” he sighs, dragging out the last syllable. “But call me when you get home, and tell him I think all cops are bastards. Including him. No, no, even better — especially him.”

Jeno laughs, leaning down to drop a kiss onto the top of Mark’s head as a goodbye. “Will do.”

“My mom’s opening the door for you,” Mark mumbles, throwing himself on his bed again. A few papers fly around from the impact, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “See you tomorrow?”

From the bedroom door threshold, Jeno smiles brightly, offering Mark a thumbs up. “If I’m alive by then.”

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up. Go.”

And he does.

The walk home feels like a limbo, almost as though it was the luxurious stripe of time after something wrong is done and the consequences of it have yet to catch up to its wrongdoer. His sneakers steadily touch the concrete, fully trusting against the flat ground, and Jeno feels himself growing wearier the closer to home he is. Clouds gather together to watch, a weave of dark grey matter stitching itself up and stirring awake in interest for Jeno’s misery, quite like a warning. By the time his keys click against the front door, a thin drizzle starts to form, washing over the city and making it anew all over again.

The misty weather wears him down considerably, the front yard’s light bulb flickering helplessly against the raindrops. Jeno walks past it, his backpack’s strap held tightly between his fingers, and heads for his bedroom immediately, not bothering to announce his arrival.

“Jeno,” his father calls from the living room, voice straining around Jeno’s ears. “I heard the front door. Come here.”

He sighs, dropping his backpack to the floor unceremoniously. “I’m tired,” he tries to argue, yelling back. For a moment, he thinks it worked — a relieved sigh makes its way through his lungs, though it’s cut off quite soon by his father’s footsteps, approaching and louder by the minute.

Jeno only has the time to sit down on his bed and kick his backpack under it before his father storms into the room, almost as if he was trying to catch Jeno in the middle of doing something wrong. From the doorway, he watches Jeno suspiciously, arms crossed.

He’s still in his uniform — a blue shirt and black slacks, his tie loose around his neck. “Where were you?” He asks, squinting. His moustache is thick enough to hide half his face; Mark has made fun of it multiple times before.

Jeno shrugs. “At a friend’s.”

“You should be studying, not hanging out,” his lips press themselves into a thin line. “A friend won’t get you into a good college.”

“I know,” he nods, blinking tiredly. Jeno’s shoulders slump helplessly, hands gripping his bed’s duvet almost forcefully. “I was studying there.”

“Liar. You were with that Mark kid again,” his father’s jawline locks into place, though it comes as no surprise that he knows. A friend was a bad excuse, anyways — Jeno doesn’t have enough of those for it to be a mystery. “I thought I told you to stay away from him.”

“I can’t stay away from him,” Jeno measures his words carefully, laying them down one in front of the other like delicate stitches on fine embroidery. “We have a science project together.”

It’s not a lie, though Jeno had finished that project long ago. Mark paid him ten bucks for the effort of doing it on his own, but it’s not like it bothered him; Jeno believes his life would be much easier if people just allowed him to work and figure things out alone. His father raises an eyebrow. “Then he should’ve come here.”

“He knows you don’t like him. It would be uncomfortable.”

“I don’t care.” His father frowns. His anger is well hidden, but Jeno knows it’s there — he’s learned to find it even in the most uncanny of places. “I don’t want you hanging around him, Jeno. He’s not a good kid like you.”

He sighs. “Look, dad, I’m not in the mood to talk about this.”

“You leave me no choice, Jeno. You know we’ve talked about this before.”

“Yeah, and you were extremely rude about it. To Mark’s face, on top of that,” Jeno bites back, his annoyance level rising up the deeper his father’s frown becomes. If anything, he should be the one bothered about this situation. “Like a child.”

“I don’t care about what you think,” he uncrosses his arms, stepping into the room. By instinct, Jeno steps away immediately, until the distance between them is farther enough to not feel threatening. “I know he’s a bad influence, and you’ll thank me for it in the future.”

“Don't see why I should be thankful that you’re pushing away the only friend I have.” He gulps down an entire speech, feeling the hollowness of his words warp its way into his heart. What won’t be said will be wept, and Jeno has had enough of wailing for a lifetime — he’s growing too tired of feeling impotent against his father.

“Because it’s better for you to be alone than to be in his company,” the man states, leaning against Jeno’s desk uninterestedly. “My word is final. I don’t want you to be around him. Are we clear?”

When Jeno doesn’t answer, he repeats himself, this time louder: “I said, are we clear?”

“And if I still hang around Mark?” He asks, deviant.

It’s not his nature to be so forward about his disagreement, but desperate people find faith, and Jeno is not above desperate measures. For some reason above him, the simple ordeal of having to let go of Mark — even for a few days, even so loosely it doesn’t feel like letting go at all — feels like ripping apart a vital organ; feels like losing a lung; feels like… Something, something Jeno wouldn’t be able to get over.

And anyways — what would he do without Mark? No one else in this town would enjoy Jeno’s presence quite like he does.

“There’s not an if to this,” his father slowly puts down. Jeno sees it in slow motion, then — the anger building up, and its consequences already so close he could taste them. “You can’t convince me Mark is a good person.”

“But what if I can?” Jeno stubbornly argues, standing up in his adrenaline. He doesn’t know why Mark is such a delicate subject, and why it feels like his dad just touched on a very sensitive nerve, but he knows it’s there — he knows, because nothing gets a reaction from him quite like this does. “What if I can prove to you Mark is a good person?”

“Jeno, why are you so attached to this kid?” The man sighs in exhaustion, bringing his hands to his face. Jeno almost feels bad for him, but then again: This man holds no moral ground over him, and he can’t control his life to this point. Mark was right — Jeno shouldn’t allow him to. “There are thousands of teenage boys in this town. Why Mark, of all people?”

“Because…” And he’s not quite sure of what to say. Why Mark? Well, there’s no reason for love. Not really. It just happens to someone; like lightning, like luck, like lottery numbers and statues of waving white cats. Jeno doesn’t believe he has control over it, and he doesn’t believe it to be something that could be about just anyone — it is Mark, specifically, and it would not be anyone else. “Because he’s my best friend.”

“Well, find another.” His reaction to Jeno’s affection is little to none, face stoic and carved into marble. Nothing stares back when Jeno searches for it; almost as if it got lost in translation, as if something stood between them and made communication impossible. “If I find you around Mark again, I’ll have no choice but to search around his house.”

“You can’t do that,” Jeno frowns, hands nervously gripping the hem of his shirt. “Not without a warrant.”

“I can get a warrant, Jeno. That is the easiest thing to do.” His father’s eyebrows rise in competition, one upping Jeno’s own thoughts. “It’s not like people don’t know. It’s not like Mark doesn’t stink of weed every damn day.”

And though it’s true, and Jeno knows just as much, it feels unlikely that his father even knows about it. He’s bluffing — he can’t do that. “I’ll tell someone. I’ll call your boss. You can’t search around someone’s house based on a rumor.”

“No, maybe not. But would you want that to happen?” He starts, approaching Jeno’s form. He feels small, then, as small as he’s always been. “Would you want that to happen simply because you couldn’t stay away?”

The thing about manipulation is that it’s a craft more than it’s an art. It takes more than bad will to partake in it — it takes knowledge, it takes nerve, it takes an unbelievable amount of apathy towards the receiving end. Jeno is no stranger to detrimental power structures, but it has never been as crystal clear as this; it has never been so explicitly a threat as it is now, intertwining around the image of Mark like an ill-intended vine, until his face is no more visible than the dark green leaves.

“You can’t do that,” his throat begins to close, tears clogging his vision like white noise on an old TV. He should not be crying — though it falls, turned open like a leaking faucet, filling up the room. It’s not sadness; it’s anger. “You can’t do that,” he says between two violent hiccups. It feels so pathetical it’s almost as if his conscience had fled him for a minute, too fragile to experience such embarrassment. “Mark has never done anything wrong.”

A lie, of course, but it’s when a loved one is in danger that they come out. Jeno believes he has made good use of his own set of unbelievable lies, and he’d tell another if it meant protecting Mark for a little longer.

“Then why are you so worked up about it, Jeno?” Comes his question, ever as stoic. It comes as no surprise — fathers often use too much force. “If he has nothing to hide, nothing to worry about, then why are you so worked up about the idea of an inspection?”

“Because you’re insane,” he sobs, though his words come out much more than just desperate. The underlying feeling of impotence is not just one he’s familiar with, but one he became a friend to, in order that it revels in the hidden, like a weapon. “Because you’re putting my best friend and his family through an awful situation based on nothing but the wish to punish me, like a fucking psycho—”

“Language.”

Jeno takes a deep breath, feeling the blood run cold underneath flushed skin. Someone always needs to go first, he realizes — someone always needs to take the fall, in order that someone else, somewhere else, can go on unharmed a few days longer. It’s chess, really; or maybe cards, the Gods throwing a dice to decide on his destiny, his reality pending between two extreme outcomes. The likes of his life will forever be changed, then, and Jeno has no control over it; not in the slightest, not at all. Though he holds onto Mark with teeth and claws, it’s not enough for him to stay locked in place.

“You don’t wanna do this,” he settles on saying. Something burns behind his eyes — an animalistic urge, scaring out his instincts and putting them to long awaited use. Jeno is afraid there is a bruise on his ribcage, exactly where his heart beats its harshest. “You don’t wanna do this. I’ll never, never forgive you for it.”

His father blinks, unthreatened, though Jeno can smell the fear in him; can smell his will crumbling like it’s short coming rain. “You will, eventually. You can’t hate me for the rest of your life.”

“Mom did.”

And, well — that does it.

But it’s not a lie, no; Jeno doesn’t tell lies. The more he knows about his father, the more he’s sure his mother knew well enough when she decided to flee, even if her methods were uncanny and left wounds that would never truly close. He sees it better, clearer — the way she felt, and what caused it.

The man in front of him is cold as a statue, and maybe twice as soulless.

“Your mother killed herself, Jeno. I don’t think her opinion counts like you think it does.” His father says after a second of wavering silence, his eyes as fleeting as the wind. “I’m done going easy on you. If you’re old enough to use her death as an argument, you’re old enough to get over it.”

“Well, unless you want me to go down the same path, I suggest you leave me and my one friend the fuck alone.”

His father sighs, eyes closing in annoyance. “I’m done with this. I don’t know what it is that you and your mom had against me, but I’m done with it. You’ll stay in your room until further notice.”

“You can’t ground me!” He starts, but the door is already closed and the man is already away, leaving him to his own belonging. Jeno reaches for the handle, hands shaky, but there’s no need to — it’s locked. Of course it is.

He bangs his fists against it, the noise thundering through the room, but no response comes. “You can’t ground me for being right!” Jeno bangs his fists harder this time, feeling the ache from the impact before it even begins to spread. “You can’t fucking ground me for this!”

But what can’t fathers do? Who would take Jeno’s side on this?

Know thy enemy, Jeno remembers, though it’s useless. Knowledge in his situation is nothing but the universe’s own way of humouring his lack of power, and it comes as a double edged sword — it gives him the means to fight back, but not the room to do it.

He’s not sure how it happens. Maybe it’s Mark’s shirt, drenched in something much deeper than just his scent, and maybe it’s the way sunlight filters through the window, illuminating the dents on his spine and making the skin on his wrists translucent, yet another reminder of his own fragility as a human being. The atmosphere seems to build up into carefully fitting puzzle pieces, hitting every note of a melody Jeno would know how to hum to despite having never heard before.

The thing about circumstances is that, when just random enough, they can result in something entirely new. This is a tale as old as time itself, and perhaps a few years older — existence is owed not to the philosophy behind its creation, but to the topsoil it got birthed on and the fact that it rained, the means spitting back humanity as Jeno knows. In a way, everything is a formula; in a way, everything is creation.

The Jeno that got into that room is not the same that got out of it. He fusses with the window, shakingly propping it open, and passes right by its threshold, almost as if it was meant for him to go through. He falls onto the ground with little to no sound, landing on his feet, and suddenly the house in front of him is far smaller than it looked like from the inside. Nothing is ever as scary from afar, Jeno comes to realize. He tries to fish for his phone, but his hands fail him, violently shaking.

For a moment, he thinks he might be able to do it. He thinks he might be able to run into the street, just quick enough to catch up to Mark’s house, maybe reach the police before his father does — hope grows inside of him like a willow tree, and its roots are longer than life, coloring Jeno’s vision and filtering his gaze through green colored goggles. It lasts shortly enough, though, because of course it does; there has never been a path traveled by Jeno that didn’t end up in his father’s displeased frown.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

He stops cold on his tracks.

“I can’t believe you. You can’t even stay in your room when I ask you to?” His father leaps off his parked car, walking straight to Jeno’s direction with an abominating scowl. “Who do you think I am? Do you think you can play me for some kind of fool?”

At each approaching step he takes, Jeno furthers the distance between them by taking two steps behind, until he’s standing in the back yard and there is nowhere else to run to. Until he has to stay still on the ground and wait for his father to find him, which, in itself, feels quite too much like being a prey hiding from its hunter for it to be healthy. Adrenaline is not a feeling, then, but an armor — it takes Jeno wherever he wants to go, and makes him run twice as quicker than he usually could, even if it meant hitting a dead street sooner than necessary.

“Do you think you can run from under my own roof?” His father reaches him, footsteps hard and angry as he corners Jeno against the fence that divides their house from the neighbor’s. “Is all that even worth it? Is it making you feel better? Because Mark is going down either way, and you’re just wasting your time.”

There is a moment after mistakes are done where everything is peacefully working like intended to, though it rarely lasts long — Jeno watches it happening almost as if he was out of his body, simply observing from somewhere beyond this mortal pile of flesh as it flickers from its human existence to shape itself into something entirely new, a face he’s never once seen himself wearing before.

The claws appear first. They rise from his otherwise childish fingertips like tiny blades, so sharp they were almost invisible — Jeno wouldn’t have noticed them, were they the only thing to change, but suddenly his vision shifts. What once felt like a static horizontal overlook became a panoramic view that grasped the strangest of scenes, things Jeno would’ve never seen with just one pair of his human eyes. A low buzzing became ever so present against his ears, almost like the sound of electricity, and his father’s heartbeat became ten times louder; as if played through a speaker.

Suddenly he sees his father hesitate, stammering behind in throat-ripping shock. The human part of Jeno is conscient, watching the scene unfold, but something else seems to be piloting the plane — it’s as if he had suddenly been pushed to co-pilot, and an urge to survive took his place. A minute before, he was cowering against a wall, but now he feels like coming closer, closer enough to catch a sniff of blood.

Blood is what makes him step behind, pulling away from his own instincts. It happens too fast: Jeno is there, and suddenly he is not. The image of his father on the ground is the last thing he sees before he sprints onward, the feeling of the ground against his hands almost animalistic. He follows a scent he knows well — the one scent he knows well. Weed and disappointment.

It’s easier to find Mark than he thought it would be. The house is the only one in this town with a dreamcatcher hanging from the door, though they’ve discussed time and again how offensive that is. Mark’s mom didn’t seem to agree with their thoughts on it, and eventually they gave up. Jeno finds himself flooded by memories — small things he never once gave much thought about, though now they take stake at a much more important part of Mark’s image in his head. It’s almost as if Jeno feels it clicking into place; the memories and the scent. Suddenly, his urge and his attachment had not just a name, but a face and an address.

He circles around the house breathlessly, tiring himself at each turn. He needs to get rid of the adrenaline that courses through him, though the image of his father on the ground keeps the violent beating of his heart as fast as it has always been. Jeno worries — worries for what he would see in the reflection of Mark’s eyes once their glares meet, but something deeper runs through it. The only thing he knows is that, whatever he was before, is surely not what he is now.

The claws disappear after the twentieth leap around Mark’s house. The adrenaline dies out after the twenty fifth. Jeno’s self inflicted punishment ends around the forty. It takes him three more until he’s brave enough to reach for his phone, shakily dialing Mark’s number as he leans behind one of his mother’s dying petunias, the tall, uncared for grass absorbing his frame.

Mark pics up after the third ring. “Hey, buddy, did you get home yet?” Comes from the other side of the line, muffled by its distance. “I was getting worried.”

For a minute, Jeno doesn’t know what to say. What now?

“Jeno?” Mark calls after the eerie silence takes over, only soft sobs being heard from Jeno’s line. “Are you okay?”

It takes him a few more minutes to have his voice come out, between hiccups and the vague yet powerful sound of a wailing wolf. “Mark,” he starts, the name loosening the knots of his heart. Something inside of him goes very pleased at the prospect of having Mark around — something Jeno wouldn’t like to name. “Mark, I think— I think I did something stupid.”

He hears shuffling from the other side of the line, and hears it even louder from Mark’s window. His heart bruises against his ribcage, leaving behind dark, soft spots as though overripe fruit. “What did you do, Jeno? Are you okay?”

Jeno sobs. “I’m okay but— My dad and— And I don’t know how it happened, it was such a blur, you know how I get angry, it was so…” his thoughts come out all at once, blending and breaking over each other like the waves of the ocean.

“Hey, calm down,” Mark tells him, voice coming out twice as soft than anyone else’s ever has. “I don’t understand. Can you gather your thoughts for a second?”

“No, I don’t have a second,” he answers almost immediately, already guilty enough for putting Mark through this situation. “I’m outside your house. Please come get me. Please.”

He hears shuffling from above him, exactly where Mark’s window is placed. It is open abruptly, as if searching for Jeno, and then closed right after when he doesn’t find him. “Can you stay with me on the phone?” Mark asks. “I can’t seem to find you. Where are you?”

“Under your window,” Jeno breathes out, closing his eyes against the tears. “Please, please, please.”

And he’s not quite sure what he’s so desperately asking for. Some unrealistic part of him, a fraction of his soul that comes to life much more than it should, is thrashing against the walls of his body to get out, calling for something he doesn’t even know exists. The human part believes Mark can do something about its undenying misery, though Jeno fears they are both unreliable.

Mark finds him not longer after, a concerned frown on his features that Jeno reaches a hand to smooth over as he’s dragged inside the house, arm around Mark’s shoulder as if he’d fall down if not held up by stronger hands. He’s unceremoniously placed against the kitchen counter, limp like a doll ran raggedy, and the silence between them feels like a living, breathing thing they don’t know what to do with yet.

“What happened?” Mark is the first to break it, hands resting against Jeno’s knees gently.

“I just— You should’ve seen it, your mother was right, it was insane— God, I don’t even know where to start— I’m sorry—”

“Jeno.” Fingers wrap around his wrist ever so delicately, Mark’s thumb pressed right where his skin is at his thinnest, feeling Jeno’s pulse. “Start by the start. Breathe.”

Jeno takes a sharp inhale of air, feeling it fill up his lungs and make them new again. His hands still shake almost unbearably, but Mark covers them with his own, even if only to steady them. “Okay,” he exhales an entire lifetime of doubt, feeling his shoulders untense slightly. “You have to promise you won’t think I’m crazy. You can’t even laugh.”

Mark eagerly nods. “I would never laugh at you.”

“Alright,” Jeno takes another deep breath for good measure. His lips shake, but Mark is a man of his word — he doesn’t laugh. “My dad was so pissed. I don’t know; we were just talking and then it turned into yelling and then I mentioned my mom and he just lost it. He grounded me and locked the door.”

A small crease births itself between Mark’s eyebrows, and he makes to say something, though Jeno stops him first. “And he threatened you. He’d said he’d search around your house— I didn’t know what to do. It all went down so quickly.”

“Alright,” Mark nods in understanding, squeezing Jeno’s hands a bit tighter. “What happened after he locked you in your room?”

“I jumped through the window,” Jeno licks his lips shakingly, the harsh reality of the cracked skin sharp against his tongue. “And he saw me, and he just kept coming to me, and I didn’t know what to do. And then… Something shifted.”

“Something shifted?”

He shakes his head. “No, not something. Me. This is the part where you have to promise you won’t think I’m crazy.”

Mark brings two fingers to his mouth, kissing their fingertips. He shows them to him just afterwards, in a quiet promise. Jeno hums in acknowledgement to it, though it eases his heart no less. “It’s like… In a minute I was just me, and in the other… It was like I was something else. Like, like… A dog or something. I don’t know. I just thought of you, and him, and he was so close, and I just… Shifted. Changed. It was like I could hear things I shouldn’t hear, see things I shouldn’t see.”

Silence colors the atmosphere almost immediately, Mark’s lips twisted in a full-face frown. Jeno hears his breathing like it’s through a megaphone, amplified and echoing through his skull — a haunting, maybe, but maybe not. He’s so incredibly attuned to it he hears Mark’s heartbeats picking up before it happens, like a presage, an omen, something, Jeno is something.

“You don’t believe me.”

Mark blinks in surprise, round eyes coming to meet Jeno’s as if they didn’t expect his to be staring back. “I didn’t say that.”

“I know it,” Jeno argues. And he does — he doesn’t need to hear Mark’s heartbeat for that. He knew Mark’s every expression like the palm of his hand long before he could read them from listening alone. “But you should. It was like I could smell my dad’s fear, Mark. I could smell it. And I think… I think I hurt him. I don’t know. There was blood, and I… I just ran.”

“Jeno, you know you can’t do that. Humans can’t do that.”

“I know what I did!” He raises his voice, frustrated. Mark steps back, startled. “Listen — you have to trust me on this. He fell to the ground, like, like… Like a corpse. Like he had been struck by claws. I know what I saw.”

Mark sighs, exasperated, but gently brings a hand to Jeno’s lap, patting his thigh. “Jeno, I believe you saw that. I believe in you. I do. But sometimes the things we see aren’t exactly what they are.”

“But this time they are,” he insists, gripping his wrist like he could somehow transfer his memories to Mark. “If you just trust me on this, please — I’ll show you. I’ll show you the claw marks on my dad. You won’t be able to deny it once you see them.”

“Jeno,” Mark starts, and his voice is somewhat worse now; as if he pitied Jeno more than he understood him. “Jeno… I don’t think this is good for you.”

“Let me show you,” Jeno grabs Mark’s face, placing his hands on both sides of it and bringing him impossibly close, the twinkle on his eyes nothing short of lunatic. Mark stares back at him with eyes twice the size of the moon, blown wide in surprise. “Let me. I promise you I’m not lying. I promise it’s real.”

It takes his best friend a moment to recover from the shock, though he doesn’t push Jeno away. With a defeated sigh, Mark agrees: “Okay. Show me.”

And while Mark might have not trusted him before, the claws are quite the visual story on their own.

They stand in Jeno’s backyard, gathered around his father’s unconscious body as if it would spring upwards at any moment, calling it out as a prank and successfully scarring both of them forever. Mark doesn’t know what would be worse, but something tells him that wishing for it to be a joke won’t erase the gravity of the situation Jeno got himself — and Mark, by association — into. The aforementioned stands above his father like it’s a graveyard, lips pulled into a tight, displeased line. It’s almost as if he’s not looking at a possible (or soon-to-be) dead body, but at a particularly difficult client that keeps obnoxiously asking for a discount he can’t possibly give.

He always thought Jeno looked just like his father, anyways — minus the indifference, and a few years younger, but still just like him. The resemblance is kind of uncanny now, though, because there is no space for laughing about it between them.

“Is he going to die?” Mark breaks the silence, crouching over Jeno’s father. “I know I said beating up homophobes was morally correct, but now that you did that I’m starting to rethink it.”

Despite their situation, when Jeno lets out a watery chuckle, Mark smiles back at him. “Shut up,” he answers in a small sob, still hiccuping. “He’s not dead. He’s just hurt. The scratches are superficial.”

“What are you going to tell him when he wakes up?” He carefully asks, observing the way Jeno pokes the body with his toe, as if appalled by it. He is so objectively indifferent to his father’s own suffering, it’s almost as if he lost his capability to feel amongst the shifting.

“I’m going to tell him it was an animal attack,” Jeno shrugs, clutching the red flannel he stole from Mark’s room tighter. “I don’t know what else to say. He probably won’t remember; he hit his head pretty hard.”

Mark hums, not knowing what to say. How do you comfort your best friend after he knocks his father unconscious?

He wouldn’t know. Mark wouldn’t blame Jeno for what he did — he’d do worse things to his own father, and they have only spoken once or twice through his lifetime. All in all; whatever wounds gotten from this will heal maybe sooner than expected.

“Um, well,” he breaks the silence again, unable to keep his mouth shut. “How are you handling the… Um…”

“The shifting into a beast thing?”

Mark nods, awkwardly clicking his tongue against his cheek.

Jeno’s hands fidget with each other nervously, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself now that they have blood on them. “I don’t know yet.”

“It’s really… Not that bad of a thing, you know,” Mark crosses his arms, joining Jeno in poking his father’s unconscious body with his toes, even if just to find something else to do other than staring shamelessly at his best friend. “I mean… People love dogs.”

“I don’t think it was — I was a dog, though.” He folds the too long sleeves of Mark’s flannel, bringing it to his elbows, and hooks his arms under his father’s armpits, motioning for Mark to grab his feet. When he hesitates, Jeno glares at him. “Can you please grab my father’s unconscious body so we can bring him inside?”

Mark fusses with his feet for a while before grabbing a hold of them, the body being lifted off the ground with much effort from both parts. He’s sweating by the time they drop him on the couch, bringing the back of his hand to his forehead in order to wipe it off. When his head is finally propped up by a pillow and his feet are shoeless, he brings himself to speak up: “Why are we doing all of this again? I thought he was an asshole. I thought we hated this dude.”

“We do hate him, but it’s more likely he doesn’t think I attacked him if I don’t let him lying on the cold, hard ground until he wakes up,” Jeno points out, sitting by the couch’s armrest and peeking over his father’s unconscious body as if it was a science project. “I’m trying to not catch a case.”

“Clearly,” Mark leans against the other armrest, steadying himself with his two hands as he does the same as Jeno, curiously watching the scratches. “These don’t really look deep, but I don’t think a dog could do this.”

“Yeah,” his best friend agrees easily, bringing a hand to his chin in thought. Mark resists the urge to laugh, though he really shouldn’t — it’s hilarious. “Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. It looks like… I don’t know. A bigger animal.”

“I don’t know any animals,” he says, looking even closer. The shirt is ripped, blocking the vision to some of the bigger scratches, and he asks before he loses the nerve to: “Don’t you want to take his shirt off?”

Jeno stares at him with a neutral expression for what feels like ten minutes, though it might have been just a few seconds.

Mark blushes. “Shut up, it’s your homophobic father I’m talking about. It’s not like I asked you to take his underwear off.” The horror that goes through Jeno’s face as soon as the words leave his mouth is enough comic material for an entire year of laughs, though their situation is by far what they should be worrying about. “Why would you take his underwear off—”

“It was an example—”

“A terrible one—”

“This man absolutely hates me—”

“Wouldn’t have been the first terrible dude you’ve had a crush on.” Jeno pointedly stares at him, back to his natural state of harmless sass and easy to swallow banter. Mark is pleased by it — seeing Jeno cry might’ve been the worst thing about this day.

“Na Jaemin isn’t terrible and you know it.” He jabs a finger at Jeno’s side, poking it until it hurts. “You just hate him because his six pack is harder than yours.”

“First of all,” he points a finger to Mark’s chest, pushing him away. “Mine is harder. Mine is way harder. Jaemin doesn’t even have a six pack anymore, I saw him at practice earlier today. Huang Renjun could’ve beaten his ass if he wanted to and he didn’t because Jaemin is the only girl on the team.”

“That’s misogynistic.”

“Sorry, moving on: Mine is harder. Shut up. My dad is dying.”

“You can’t use the fact you attacked your dad to make me compliment you, you are sick in the head for that—”

They both jump in surprise as Jeno’s father groans in his sleep, turning around unconsciously because of the noise. Mark’s feet work faster than his body — he sprints towards the hallway that leads to the rooms like his life depended on it, hiding behind the bathroom’s door frame like it could possibly protect him from a dying man’s anger.

Unfortunately, it did not protect him from Jeno’s hysterical giggles from the other side of the house, barely holding onto a gasp of air as he fails to shut himself up, a hand brought up to his mouth in a failed attempt to cover it. Mark only has a few minutes to catch up on his breath before Jeno makes himself welcome into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a smile that got Mark stepping away, surprised by his own heartbeat picking up.

“He’s not dying, at least,” Jeno points out the moment he catches his breath, leaning against the bathroom sink with half the heart to actually talk about their situation. “Like… He moved and shit.”

“Yeah, I saw.” Mark rolls his eyes, sitting cross legged on the toilet. “Jeno, what are we going to do?”

“Like, right now?” He asks, looking between them as if Mark had just grown a second head. “Um… Talk?”

Mark slaps his face against his hands, mortified. “No, Jeno, what are we going to do with the unconscious body of your father?”

“Listen, I don’t know either!” Jeno smacks him on the back of his head lightly, unprompted for in all the meanings of the term. Mark gives him the stinky eye, but doesn’t return the smack — he’d do it later on, when Jeno won’t be expecting it. “I think… Maybe we… Take his shirt off?”

“If you’re not willing to sew his skin together, I don’t want to hear about damage control.” He gets up from his previous seated position, crouching over the drawer under the sink and opening it in search of a first aid kit. “What kind of psychopath uses three in one body and hair wash?”

Jeno scratches the back of his head awkwardly. “Can you please not look into my drawer without my permission?”

“Can you please not knock your dad unconscious without his permission?”

At that, Jeno nods. “Alright, alright. Points were made. Touché. Just know that the c—”

“What the fuck do you have condoms for?!” Mark screeches the moment his fingers touch a package of condoms, jumping away from it immediately. “Jeno—”

“My dad got me a mug full of them, okay?” He crouches down beside Mark, pushing him away from the package. “He didn’t know how to give me the talk so he just didn’t. He gave me a mug instead.”

“Jeno.”

“What?”

“Jeno,” Mark calls, suppressing a laugh.

“What?”

“What did the mug say?”

Jeno bites down on a smile of his own, but doesn’t answer. Mark pushes it further, kneeling beside him in front of the drawer; he grips Jeno’s wrists, putting them away and forcing him to look directly at Mark.

“Jeno,” he repeats, a hint of a laugh still ever present in his tone. “What did the mug say?”

“The mug said…” Jeno suppresses a chuckle of his own, closing his eyes to keep himself from breaking into another fit of hysterical giggling. “The mug said… ‘World’s best little boy’.”

And while Jeno is still on the right mindset to keep his laughter to a civile tone, Mark is not. He jumps back giggling, hands plastered over his mouth as if he couldn’t help himself at the same time he couldn’t imagine waking up Jeno’s father, and it really shouldn’t be this funny, but it always is. He kicks his feet out against Jeno’s lower back, squirming, and for a moment there is no unconscious body to take care of — for a moment it’s just him and his best friend of years, the one person in the world Mark could never let go of.

His laughter dies down a few minutes after, bruising his lungs, and Jeno stares at him as if Mark just… It’s even hard to say. It’s as though Mark hung up the moon and the stars on the sky, as if he made the waves of the ocean through his own two hands, and it’s a very funny feeling to be loved this much.

They end up sitting with their backs against the bathroom’s cold white tile, heads naturally leaning against each other as if they couldn’t bear to be apart. Mark does feel as if his broken bones were mending — it’s a different type of love, but just as worthy nevertheless.

“God,” Jeno starts, turning around in the slightest to nuzzle his nose against the back of Mark’s head. “You’re such a blessing to my lungs.”

Mark giggles, allowing him to do as he pleases. “Why is that?”

“Because,” he shrugs, unsure of where he was even going with this. “Laughing with you. You pluck the anxiety right out of me; it’s a talent.”

Mark knocks his head against Jeno’s, the aftermath of laughter taking its shape into a breezy, airy chuckle, his breath lulling himself into the closest a human being can get to R.E.M without actually falling asleep. “Well, no amount of sweet talk will get you out of taking off your dad’s shirt. I’m not fucking doing it.”

He feels Jeno heaving out a soft breath against his ear, an almost giggle. “Fair enough.”

They gather first aid equipment, stuffing them onto available pockets and into Mark’s hoodie, in order that none of them fall out. Jeno makes to put a discardable mask onto Mark’s face, for safety measures, but they end up bickering over its utility — in the end, Jeno just softly states he doesn’t want Mark to get either hurt or recognized. He doesn’t wear the mask, but assures it will be fine.

They’re in the kitchen organizing supplies when the doubt breaks out. “But what should we do? We gathered all this stuff but… I have no idea what to do with it. I assume you don’t, either.”

Jeno hums, distractedly piling up bandages from when he was trying out for another school’s Exy team. Mark frowns at his lack of attention, moving closer to poke him until something comes to mind. Sneakily, he positions himself behind Jeno’s broad back, standing on his tiptoes with a raised hand. It hits him before he can register it — Mark slaps the back of his head with the anger of years and years of getting smacked, the sound caused by the impact between his palm and Jeno’s skin loud enough to make them both jump in surprise. Jeno’s hand instinctively comes to protect the area, and Mark offers him a victorious grin.

“You weren’t paying attention. And you deserved to be slapped.”

“Slapped, not having my head recalibrated because of you,” he scowls at Mark, nose scrunched up in pain. “And yeah, I don’t know shit about scratches. He’d wake up if we tried to sterilize them.”

“Good thing I have a plan, right?” He mischievously holds his phone up, a proud smile appearing on his face. “Who do we know that has a nurse for a mother and went to nursing school last summer?”

Jeno rolls his eyes. “Na Jaemin.”

“Ding ding ding!” Mark claps his hands together excitedly, squealing like a middle schooler.

Jeno approaches him as he’s typing out Jaemin’s contact, hand heavy on the small of Mark’s back as if he could offer him any protection under this roof. Neither of them comment on it, and when Mark turns to him with a brighter-than-the-sun type of grin, Jeno only offers a meek smile back.

“How did you even get his number, anyways?” He asks, watching Mark with careful eyes. “I thought he was with that one senior still. What’s her name? Jung… Something?”

Mark shrugs. “I asked him and he gave it to me, so no, I don’t think they’re together anymore.”

“Oh.”

Jeno doesn’t say anything else, and Mark follows his lead. Jaemin picks up at the fourth ring.

“Hello?” The voice from the other side of the line calls, loud enough for Jeno to pick it up completely. Mark presses the phone to his ear tighter, a bashful smile plastered to his features, and sends Jeno an excited thumbs up.

“Hey!” He answers Jaemin, skipping around the kitchen and throwing victorious punches against the air. Jeno stands where he first stood, not one emotion detectable on his face. “How are you?”

“Oh, hi Mark!” Comes Jaemin’s voice from his phone. Mark can almost hear his smile — it’s disgustingly endearing. “I’m fine! How about you? Do you need anything?”

“Um yeah, actually,” he motions for Jeno to come closer, switching the phone from one hand to another. “I — me and Jeno, actually, we have a question about, um, first aid.”

“Is everything alright? What do you need it for?”

Mark’s eyes widen twice their size, looking straight to Jeno’s own wide awake ones. What do I say? he mouths, visibly panicking.

Animal bite, Jeno mouths back, hands cupping his mouth as if it could shelter the noise.

“Um — yeah, we’re fine,” Mark tells him, making a point out of staring right into Jeno, panicked. “Just… You know, Jeno’s dad… He’s so clumsy…”

Jeno slaps a hand against his own forehead. Mark physically cringes. “Oh, is Mr. Lee alright?” Jaemin asks sympathetically, his tone as ginger as it always is.

“Yeah! He just… Got into a fight, with, um,” he searches for Jeno again, deadpanning. Jeno mouths wild cat. “With a wild cat. He’s, like, all scratched up. We were wondering what to do…?”

“Can I talk to him?” Jaemin asks once again, still as patient as ever.

They both stare at each other, alarmed. After a quiet debate on what to do, consisting of pointed glances and aggressive gesturing, Mark answers: “Ah, you see, um… He’s…”

Jeno smashes his head against the wall out of second hand embarrassment, a small thud being heard from the impact. Mark scrunches his nose up, squinting though Jaemin couldn't possibly know, and turns to see a small rupture on the spot Jeno banged his head against. “He’s… Very, um, old. He fell asleep. We’re just worried, is all.”

“Oh,” Jaemin answers, coming out perhaps more confused than he intended to. “A wild cat, you say? Then I assume the scratches are small.”

“Does it, um…” Jeno finally speaks up, bringing Mark’s wrist closer to be heard better through the phone's speaker. “Does it matter the size they are?”

Mark taps him to mouth that’s what your mom said, pushing the phone away as if Jaemin could've possibly heard it. Jeno rolls his eyes, and this time Mark can’t possibly blame him for it. “It matters because it could’ve been a wild cat with rabies, or some other disease, and the bigger the cut the bigger the chance to get an infection.”

“Oh, no, it…. It didn’t have rabies,” he stares straight into Jeno as he says it, leaning his head to the side just to prove a point. “It was just very unpleasant.”

Jeno gives him the stinky eye, but Mark pays it no mind as Jaemin chuckles from the other side of the line. Suddenly, it feels like quite a big deal to have made Jaemin laugh — Mark wanted to do it again and again and again. “I see,” he laughs, a soft rustling coming from his line. “Since he’s asleep, I suggest you just bandage it up for now. When he wakes up, it’d be nice if you cleaned it up. You know…”

“Yes?” Mark presses the phone impossibly tighter against his cheek, eagerly waiting for Jaemin to end the sentence.

His words come out slow, well put, neatly organized to mean something. “Some species of wolf actually tend to their ill,” Jaemin tells him, and Jeno’s attention sirrs awake at the mention of the word ‘wolf’. “They don’t just feed it. They offer physical and emotional support through excessive grooming.”

“Oh, that’s… Fantastic,” Mark answers. He’s afraid there’s a crown of spinning red hearts pairing above his head, but he supposes Jeno would point them out if there were. “Um… Why are you telling me this again? Not that I don’t enjoy it. I’m a big fan of wolves myself. They are very… Wolfy. I’m really into them.”

Jaemin giggles from the other side of the line. “They’re beautiful creatures,” he tells him, as if it mattered. As if there were any creatures more beautiful than him, but then again — Mark is quite biased. “I just thought you’d like to know. Goodnight, Mark.”

And though he’d like to not be the type of person who does this, his voice comes out melty and dreamy, as if it would dissipate into a cloud of pink gas the moment Jaemin hung up. “Goodnight, Jaemin. See you at school tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Mark allows Jaemin to hang up first, and slowly puts down his phone, eyes blown wide in wonder. He immediately turns to Jeno, heartbeats going so quickly they start to become one, turning Mark’s chest into a strawberry scented, pink blob of mush. “Did he just — did I just — hello?”

Jeno presses his lips into a thin line, but doesn’t say anything else. Mark is too stunned to care. “Jeno — Jeno, you heard it. He said he thought I’d like to know. Jeno. Jeno.”

“My dad, um — is still unconscious.”

“Jeno, your dad is going to wake up. Na Jaemin is never, ever going to talk about wolves with me again.”

“You said you liked them because they were… Very wolfy.”

“You can’t tell me shit right now,” he sighs dreamily, eyes lost somewhere beyond this mortal plane. “I said they were very wolfy and he still said he’d see me tomorrow. Who else in the world would do that? Exactly, no one. Jaemin is too good to be true.”

“Um, well… My dad?” Jeno takes a step forward, motioning to his father’s still very unconscious body. “My unconscious dad? Whom I’ve attacked when I turned into a literal werewolf—”

“Wait, what?” Mark frowns, placing a hand on Jeno’s arm. It's almost as if he stops dead in his tracks, expression shifting in a matter of milliseconds. “Werewolf? What do you mean?”

Jeno averts his eyes to the ground. “I mean, I figured…” He looks up, gaze meeting Mark’s. He looks… Desperate. For something — something Mark doesn’t know of. “It’d have to be something like that. Some sort of… I don’t know.”

“Oh, dear,” he places a hand on his forehead, massaging his temple. “Oh, dear. We have a lot to worry about.”

“We?” Jeno raises an eyebrow, curiously moving closer as if he didn’t know much about Mark’s kind. And, well — of course he does. No one knows as much of Mark’s own nature than Jeno does; he was a native of his long before he knew. “I’m the wolf. You’re just the pretty little thing that got in my way.”

Mark rolls his eyes, tapping his palm against Jeno’s broad chest as in warning. “Pretty, yes. Little — not exactly.”

Jeno smiles victoriously. “That’s what she said."

“Well, anyways,” Mark changes subjects easily, seamlessly moving towards the doorway. Jeno follows along, mesmerized, though Mark supposes that is just the person he is, all around — someone who is constantly impressed. “Are you bandaging him up?”

“Maybe,” he smacks his lips in thought, looking over his father. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

Jeno shrugs. “Don’t think he’d do it for me if I were unconscious.”

“Um, well, yeah, but you knocked him unconscious and scratched the fuck out of him. It’s the least you could do.” Mark gives him a weirded out look, pulling on the sleeves of his hoodie to cover up his hands. “Besides, you’re the good one. I should be the one telling you to let him bleed to death; don’t inverse our roles.”

“Shut up,” Jeno rests his head against the threshold, still staring, though Mark feels it’s more of a way to pointedly avert his gaze from him. “I don’t know what I’ll do. You should go home.”

Mark frowns, putting a hand on his shoulder. “And leave you to fend for yourself? I don’t think so.” His best friend rolls his eyes, yet fondly enough for it to come out as exasperated banter. “I don’t think there’s anything else you can do.” He leans his back against the doorway, turning to Mark. “Things have changed. I can… Feel it. When I shifted, something — I don't know. It clicked into place; almost. I think I can take care of it.”

“But that’s the thing about help, right? You don’t offer it just because you think someone can’t fend for themselves,” his frown deepens, arms crossing against his chest. “You do it because you love them; because you don’t want to see them struggle.”

Jeno steals a glance at Mark’s face, but quickly avoids it. “I know, but… I think it would be better for you to go. I don’t want him to see you when he wakes up.”

A soft exhale births itself from Mark’s nose, gently pairing above his upper lip and dissipating in the air between them. It comes out dragged, a melody of disappointing sighs and the underlying knowledge that, though Jeno is his most precious friend, there is not much he can do to fend for him once he’s decided Mark has done enough. Unknowingly, Mark pouts. “Okay,” he answers, unsure of what to do with his hands. “But I want you to call me when you can, and we’ll discuss the werewolf thing. For real.”

For a second, Jeno’s silence is deafening enough for it to be uncomfortable. “What if I’m just…” He exhales tiredly, shoulders slumping. “I don’t know. I don’t suppose there’s much guidance on how to be a shape shifting beast on the internet.”

“Then we’ll find it somewhere else and turn it into a book,” Mark pats his shoulder. “And we’ll keep it, and everytime you feel insecure I’ll pull out ‘shape shifting for dummies’ to make you feel better. How’s that sound?”

At that, and though Mark can physically feel how he holds back from it, Jeno lets out a small chuckle. “Fine. We can talk about it later on. But, seriously — go home. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

“Will you be alright?” He asks before he can contain himself, purposefully making his frame smaller to fit between Jeno’s legs. Mark gently presses his forehead to his chest, feeling the vibrations of his heartbeat against his skin, and it’s a gentle reminder that they’ve lived to see another day yet again — even if sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.

“Of course,” Jeno answers, clumsily dropping a kiss on top of Mark’s head like he does when he’s unsure of what to do to retribute all the love he gets. “I’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

“I sincerely hope we will,” Mark murmurs, closing his eyes for a second. Jeno’s heartbeat is louder than his, but it’s okay; any and every proof against Jeno being a fraction of his imagination is very welcome. “Will you at least give me back my flannel?”

He hears Jeno chuckle above him. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“‘T was worth the try,” he sighs as he untangles himself from Jeno, like tree roots growing apart.

His mom is waiting for him by the front porch when Mark finally reaches home, the chilly breeze of a Spring night finally making itself ever present around the measly ways of their little town. Her hair is past her shoulders now, entering the neutral limbo between long and short, and her glasses slide down her nose in curiosity the closer Mark is. Her cardigan is far too colorful for the season, but Mark guesses it’s just how she always has been; he has learned to love it, though maybe out of necessity. It’s okay — the people one loves will rarely ever measure up to their image, and it shouldn’t be that big of a problem if forgiveness comes easy and arms open into long awaited hugs without the need to ask for them.

And, well, anyways; it would be buzzcut season soon. If Mark is smart enough about it, she might shave her head along with him after some nagging and begging, and it would be just about the best bonding exercise they’ve ever tried. This is where they’re at, right now, in their relationship as mother and son — could be way worse, considering he is a gay teenager with a knack for sarcastic comments and impromptu rendezvous.

He buries his hands inside his pockets as he stands before her, eyes averted to the ground. His red converses are getting too dirty, Mark realizes; he should wash them soon.

“Is everything okay with Jeno?” She carefully asks, eyes round and big just like Mark’s own are. They meet his halfway through, searching for his face in quiet understanding.

Mark shrugs. “He’ll be okay.”

Lillian Lee heaves out a gentle sigh, her hands coming together to rest atop of her bony legs. “He seemed pretty shaken up when you two left. What happened?”

He takes the prolonging of the subject as a clue to sit beside her, knees spread apart and sneakers against the doorstep. Though he’s taller and broader, something irreversible makes her appear as the bigger person, the familiar structures they’ve been put to follow still as recurring as the fleeting wind.

“Just his dad,” Mark’s shoulder slump tiredly, his head coming to rest against her small shoulders. “They’re having problems. He said his dad wants to search around our house.”

Lillian hums. “He can’t do that without a warrant.”

“Cops can do anything they want,” he reminds her. “Even if it’s wrong. Especially when it’s wrong.”

“I know, baby,” she pats his shoulder delicately, calloused hands coming into Mark’s line of vision. “But he won’t search around our house, I promise you that. I’ll give him hell for it.”

Mark chuckles. “Will you bang pots and pans?”

“And mugs and plates,” his mother adds, humor interlacing itself into her words like the downing of a tea bag against boiling water. “I won’t let him in; no one touches my son.”

And it’s in moments like these that he remembers why he’d follow her to the ninth circle of Hell, and perhaps even lower — because he adores her, even if the outcomes of their interactions aren’t always that peaceful. Mark never needed therapy sessions or family discussions to know he loved her; he always felt like it came implied, though now it feels as if she’s just been looking the other way.

“Okay,” he sighs in relief, the worrisome knots of his hair being untied one by one. “Thank you for making a scene, in advance. That man really deserves to be embarrassed to a point of no return.”

Lillian laughs, throwing her head back. “Oh, baby, I’ll make a scene. I’ll yell and shake fists and even cry — he’s going to regret even thinking of it.”

Mark joins her in the easy mirth of a joke, chuckling to the beat of his own heart, heavy against his ribcage. It’s so big, so restless; he’s worried there’s much more to it than just muscle. He’s worried that the hollow space where his heart should be is infested with the most fragile of ecosystems, and no one else has quite the will to kick it out. Or maybe it’s like an old rental book from their school’s library: a heart kept, read and adored, but only to a certain extent. But never forever.

Or maybe not. Maybe a heart is just a heart, and no amount of unfiltered rambling can ever make it anything else. Maybe a heart’s unchanging nature is what allows it to take the kicks and roll with the punches and still come back alive.

“You should tell Jeno that,” his mother ultimately comments, placing her hand on top of Mark’s. “Don’t let him go to bed worried sick about you. Tell him nothing bad will ever happen to either of you as long as I’m here to fight it.”

“I will,” he promises, springing upwards and dusting off his jeans. “I’ll just take a shower and have something to eat; I’m exhausted.”

Mark doesn’t have to see her to know she’s nodding. “Okay, dear. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, mom.”

He ends up dozing off at the bathtub, soaked to the neck in warm water and hair a wet mess of tangles and spotty hair dye. It’s not the first time it happens; Mark is known to fall asleep wherever possible, and he read somewhere that even lukewarm baths can feel like a human embrace to the brain — as if a drug store replacement to it, the illusion of love and care that aren’t really there.

But aren’t they, really? Mark also read somewhere that time spent alone is still time spent with the Universe, in order that it need not be lonely.

The short dream that comes to him as he dozes off doesn’t really matter, and it’s one he keeps having for a while now. In it, he’s watching himself from somewhere above his own head, as if away from his body though still conscious it belongs to him, while dream-Mark is simply strolling along with Jaemin by his side, arms intertwined together and in synched up steps. They seem to be having a good time, laughing at each other as if time couldn’t tear them apart like it often does to high school couples, but the Mark that’s watching can’t really hear what they’re talking about.

It always gets weird soon enough — a weird, vague blob of a vult starts to approach them as if in a hurry, though neither of them turn around. The Mark that’s watching tries to catch their attention and warn them about it, but his voice doesn’t come out quite like he intends it to, and the figure follows them so closely it feels like a horror movie in the making. It’s not a nightmare, per se, since nothing bad truly happens, but Mark watches, helpless, as Jaemin keeps almost getting caught into hunting traps along the way, and dream-Mark doesn’t seem to notice them. He’s too busy staring at Jaemin’s cheer team uniform, visibly distracted by it. The vult gets closer, closer, closer, hands almost close enough to cover Jaemin’s eyes, and then—

Then he wakes up. Mark has never seen the end of this dream; he always jolts awake before it happens.

Water splashes against his face as he presses the heel of his right hand against his eye, and he is out of the bath as soon as possible. Dreams can be unpleasant even if they are not nightmares; he wishes he would stop having this one in specific, because at some point the panic gets old, and he’d rather dream about other things instead. Mark figures that, if he’s going to dream about Jaemin, then it should have some kind of kissing or grabbing — it has to happen at least once in his life, even if through a dream.

He dreams about it once more in bed, in the same exact order of events and outcomes. Mark thinks it’s somewhat fine; it’s not that big of a bother, but rather a mild inconvenience he’ll have to put up with until his subconscious decides it’s time for another, weirder dream to repeat in his sleep. All in all, he doesn’t care — there’s more to worry about in real life, the one he goes through while he’s awake.

Jeno walks him to school the morning after, still in Mark’s red flannel from yesterday. They haven’t changed — not really. There is no dead body standing between them, gladly, and when Mark makes an obscene joke about their school’s football team, Jeno still slaps him with the same amount of strength he’d use in the day before he attacked his father. They’re fine; they’re okay. Whatever it is that happened, this now, this them — Mark and Jeno can cope with it.

“So… Your dad?” Mark asks as they’re nearing the corner of their school, pushing Jeno away lightly with a chuckle.

“He’s okay,” Jeno tells him, distracted. Then, he seems to remember something, and turns to Mark with a grin. “He believed me when I said it was a wild cat. But, guess what?”

“What?”

“He completely forgot about the fight.” He gives Mark a victorious smile the size of the sun, thumbs hooked under the straps of his backpack. “He has no idea, Mark. None. All he remembers is getting home for his lunch break and wondering where I was. I told him I was at the library.”

Mark hums, though he can’t help but to break into a smile of his own. “So God really does exist, huh? Who would’ve thought?”

“Yeah, well. Now the only consequences to deal with from yesterday are that I turned into a maiming beast at the mere sight of anger. Very fun.”

He rolls his eyes, lightly throwing his body against Jeno’s shoulder to destabilize him. “Shut up about being a maiming beast, will you? I told you people love dogs.”

“I’m not a dog,” he huffs, furthering the distance between them. “I’m… A wolf, I guess. But it was so weird. I don’t think wolves have such sharp senses. It felt like I was getting double the usual senses; it was… Peculiar.”

Mark hums, eyes lighting up once they step into the school, the hallways full to the brim with transitating teenagers and their own little worlds. “Well, think of it as a second puberty. Can’t say turning twelve didn’t make me a furry monster, myself.”

“Shut up,” Jeno trails after, squished between Mark’s backpack and the student coming behind him. He towers behind Mark like an ill-intentioned vulture, but that’s just usual Jeno behavior. “It’s not puberty. It felt like nothing I ever knew, you know? Like Cerberus or some shit, I don’t know. I could’ve killed him if I wanted to.”

“Okay, maybe no talking about murder while we’re on the hallways of a public school?” Mark scolds, turning around to glare at Jeno, who turns him back around by his shoulders with a laugh.

“Murder is the one thing that brings all public school students together, Mark. Don’t be such a prude.”

The hallways clear up as the bell for the first period rings, clumps of teenagers dispersing from their respective cliques as they disappear into blue-rimmed doors, a quiet chatter wherever they go. They share the first period — History, and the teacher had announced earlier today it would be free due to his own complications with finding a parking spot. Mark guides Jeno to his locker, shoving his backpack into it mindlessly and switching it for the only two learning tools he uses for school: a Ryan pencil case and a beaten down sketchbook, the sewing on its brochure a courtesy of his mom’s late night embroidering.

“Dude, we can find some info on the werewolf thing but I doubt that it will be of help if we don’t even know what animal you’re shifting into,” he tells Jeno as he closes his locker, the sound echoing through the hallway and disturbing the other students with first period also free. Mark pays their grumpy complaining no mind, leaning against the closed locker door. “You know what I think we should do? We should get you shifting on camera. That way we see how it happens and what you turn into.”

Jeno makes a face. “You know what I think about recording highly confidential information with a cellphone.”

“Jeno, I promise you Samsung and Apple have more shit to do than spy on your data,” Mark raises his eyebrows pointedly at him. “Besides, if they wanted to, it’s not like they’d find anything else but pirated anime and pictures of shirtless K-pop stars.”

“That’s so not true. I don’t save them, Mark, so they’re not data. They’d find pictures of my cats and illegal downloads of K-pop songs instead; keep it up.”

“Actually, data is everything from your browser story to the information you put on social media,” Na Jaemin approaches them with his permanently blinding white grin, kissing his teeth as if no one in the entire world has ever been this fresh and cool before. His backpack hangs from his left shoulder lazily, though his cheer uniform is neat and spotless clean, white and blue jersey a size too big and a few centimeters too short. Mark makes a point out of not staring at his lower belly. “It can also be the things you download, but it often implies your entire digital footprint.”

Jeno grits his teeth. “Jaemin,” he says in lieu of a greeting, though Mark is too stunned to add on anything to the conversation.

Jaemin smiles sheepishly. “Sorry, couldn’t help but overhear. I just got the data part, though; don’t worry.”

“It’s okay!” Mark sobers up, eagerly smiling back. “I was just about to tell Jeno data isn’t only the things he downloads.”

“Oh, sorry for stealing your thunder, then,” he grabs the base of his backpack’s left strap, fidgeting with it almost shyly. His eyes stare straight into Mark, boring holes into them, but it’s as pleasant as it can be — he swallows down a mouthful of butterflies. Jeno scowls. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I also have my first period free,” Jaemin’s eyelashes are terribly long. Not that Mark has been paying special attention to them; that would be creepy. “History II, isn’t that right? I sit a few rows from you two.”

Mark knows that already — he spends most of his time trying to get a glimpse of Jaemin’s face at the front row, even when he sits at the back of the room and it feels almost impossible. By now, he thinks he’s gotten the way the back of Jaemin’s head looks down to perfection; along with the rest of him.

“Yeah,” he nods, blinking against his own inability to see Jaemin through anything but rose colored glasses. “I didn’t know you knew we were in that class.”

Jeno scoffs, but it goes unnoticed by Jaemin. He gently shakes his head, taking a step towards Mark. “Of course I do. You’re always together — it’s impossible not to notice.”

“We’re very close,” Jeno intervens, shoving his own backpack into his locker. “Isn’t that right, Mark?”

Mark stammers. “Yeah. The laughs we have. Um, anyways — what are you doing to spend the first period? You know, since we don’t have class and all.”

Jaemin shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe practice? Football finals are coming up.”

“Oh, yeah — that makes sense,” he hums, mortified by his own awkwardness. “Um, are you going to the field alone?”

The boy blinks for a second, but it dawns on him quite soon enough. He smiles: “Why, would you like to come with me?”

"Would I like to come w— Yes!" Mark almost cheers on his spot, his varsity jacket suddenly too hot. "We'd love to, I mean."

"Alright," Jaemin's entire face opens up in a bright grin, warm like the morning sun and a blessing to Mark's entire system. He reaches into his bag, letting it fall to the ground and squeezing into a black hoodie, then picks it up again, smile intact. "See you in five, then?"

"Yeah," and if Mark was a cartoon character, he'd be floating a few inches above the ground, covered in a cloud of pastel pink gas.

Jaemin nods at their direction, then turns the opposite way, towards the entrance to the gymnasium. Once he's far enough to be a small blob of black clothes and black hair, Mark turns around on his heels, barely breathing.

"Did you just see that—"

"Mark, I don't trust that dude."

He blinks. "What?"

"I don't trust him," Jeno shrugs, slamming his locker slightly harder than necessary. They both ignore the fist-shaped dents on its surface. "He's weird. You've had a crush on him since, like, sixth grade, and he's never once noticed you before. Why now?"

Mark frowns. "He can't be interested in me just because I'm interesting?"

"You know that's not what I mean."

"It's what it sounded like."

"I'm not fighting with you because of Na Jaemin," Jeno decidedly states, crossing his arms. "I'm just saying we — you — should be careful. He's weird."

"No, we're weird," he rolls his eyes, already one foot out of the hallways. Jeno trails behind, although grumpily. "Jaemin is perfectly normal and we're the weird ones."

"We're not weird," comes out of Jeno's mouth once the September wind hits them in full force. "We're just… Unique. Unusual."

Mark chuckles, previous disagreement long forgotten. "You're a werewolf and I'm the son of a hippie and a failed politician," he points out, intertwining arms with Jeno. "You know what? People may not like us, but we are the main characters. All this pain and embarrassment will be worth it in the end."

"Oh, will it?" Jeno mocks. "How so?"

He smiles, guiding them through the gymnasium and into the out-in-the-open football field. "Isn't it obvious? We're both the underdogs. I'll get the hot popular girl and you'll become the Alpha of your pack by the end of this. You'll get all buff and brooding and… Stuff."

"I'm already buff," he makes a face. They get to the bleachers, accommodating themselves against the cold metal. For good measure, Jeno lays out his jacket against its surface, urging Mark to sit on top of it. "Which hot girl do you have your eyes on?"

As if on clue, Jaemin appears into the field, waving to them as if it was a happy surprise that the three of them ended up in the same field, even though they all agreed to meet up there. He's still in his hoodie, but wearing the same pants he uses for cheering when it's cold — Mark would know, because he's never missed a game in which Jaemin would be cheering, though he did lay off of watching the football team out of pure lack of interest. None of the players are as interesting as Jaemin is, and he kinds of disappears between them when he's playing matches. It's truly a pity.

Usually, to match with the other cheerleaders, Jaemin wears a pair of white shorts and his jersey, but in the cold they resume to plain white slacks and black turtlenecks under the blue and white uniform. Mark doesn't know which one he likes best, if he were to be completely honest; he just thinks Jaemin looks good in everything.

Mark nods to his direction with his chin. "Jaemin is the hot girl, obviously."

Jeno sighs exasperatedly. "Of course. Don't know who else I was expecting it to be."

Jaemin's routine is not something Mark has kept track of, and it's, in all his honesty, not something he cares about. He's fine with just watching him stretch near the bleachers, pulling his leg so high up it's almost painful to watch. He's far enough to not hear them, which is probably why Jeno starts on the werewolf subject again, but Mark only has half the mind to care.

"I'm letting you record me shifting, but you'll have to do it from a safe distance," he ultimately decides, poking Mark with his pointer just to be a bother. "And we have to find a way to get me to shift."

That catches his attention, forcefully taking his eyes out of Jaemin, who is now doing a split. "Well, you can just — what did you feel the last time you shifted? Like… What triggered it?"

Jeno frowns. "You were in danger. I wasn't really thinking about the situation; it was like I had to do something, anything, and then… It just happened."

"Ah, yes," Mark snorts. "Nothing to make you feel more like a man than the prospect of protecting me. My hero."

"Shut up," his best friend rolls his eyes so far into his head Mark got worried they'd disappear into his brain for a second, like a demonic possession. "I'm saying that because what triggered it was the adrenaline. My heart was beating so fast it's like I'd die if I didn't stop it."

"And shifting has made it slow down?" He asks, though curiously stealing glances at Jaemin. He's stretching his arms now, pulling them to each side of his head, and Mark almost gets distracted by it. Keyword: almost.

"Not slow down," Jeno disagrees, shaking his head. "But it felt like it was more in my control. Like… I don't know. Like I could turn the tide, maybe, because I could hear it more clearly and it seemed to behave to my liking."

"Alright, I'm totally ignoring the fact that you have gone absolutely and irreversibly insane," Mark answers, bringing his knees to his chest. "But I have an idea."

"What is it?"

"Well," he starts, turning around in the slightest to steal a glance at Jaemin. He's humming a song underneath his breath, probably about to do a kick or a flip or something of the sort. Mark drags his attention back to Jeno. "Since it was adrenaline that triggered it in the first place, we just have to get your heartbeat rate to speed up constantly until it gets to the point of shifting. "What gets you nervous like that?"

"Um," Jeno brings a hand to his nape, scratching it awkwardly. "Um… You, dying."

Mark resists the urge to facepalm. "Be more specific?"

"I think 'you, dying' is very specific as it is," he bickers back, leaning against the bleachers. "I don't know, dude. Does it have to be adrenaline in an angry way?"

"No, I suppose not." He rests his chin above his knees, observing Jaemin, but it downs onto him soon enough. Mark turns around to stare at Jeno with wide eyes, mortified: "Jeno Lee—"

"I'm just saying," Jeno laughs, moving away from Mark's glare. "I read somewhere that being… Excited gives you the same amount of adrenaline than taking a, say, marathon."

"The fact you called it being excited—" Mark physically cringes, shoulders up to his ears. "God, I hate you. I hate you for this."

"You're saying it like I'm making you take my shirt off," he pokes fun, though the mirth dies as soon as he realizes what he's saying. Then, awkwardness takes over. "I could just… Watch porn or something."

"Jeno, I am not letting you support the porn industry. Do I have to tell you again what it's like for those poor wom—"

"I know, I know. I watched the documentary with you; I was there too." Jeno exhales softly, defeated. "But then… What should I do?"

Mark shrugs. "I'll climb on your lap."

"What?"

He shrugs again, this time harsher. "I'll do it. It won't be a problem; you're my brother from another mother and I love you."

“Mark—”

“No, won’t hear it, don’t care. Think about it, Jeno,” Mark puts his hand over Jeno’s knee, sensing his distress. It comes as no surprise — Jeno might be the most jittery person in the world, given how he jumps back in shock each time something mildly strange is said to him. “You and I are the only two people that know about your shifting, and it would be dangerous to have anyone else do it for you. Besides, who knows what might happen when you shift? And be honest with me for a second, who would just randomly accept making out with you like that, out of the blue?”

It takes him a few seconds to answer. Jeno clears his throat, uncomfortable. “Um… Someone would. I’m not that ugly.”

“You’re not ugly at all, but we’d be putting both you and that someone at risk,” his voice softens considerably, molding itself to the atmosphere and coming out of somewhere between Mark’s tongue and the roof of his mouth. “You could hurt them, Jeno.”

“What if I hurt you?”

Mark shakes his head, stubborn. “Then I’ll break your neck. Of course you won’t hurt me, dumbass.”

“What if…” Jeno sighs. “What if it changes something between us?”

“Nonsense.” He leans his head against his crossed arms, resting on the bleacher behind them. Jeno’s eyes are huge in expectation — like a lost puppy. “It’s us. It won’t be weird. I just have to get you nervous, right?”

Jeno nods.

He nods back.

“We can get an HRM from the nurse’s office,” Mark suggests, suddenly stricken by the years spent together and the trust Jeno puts in him. Though life is often terrifying and hurtful, it’s as though Mark has only tasted love when Jeno was there to spoon feed it to him — it’s only fair he returns the flavor. “You know, borrow it.”

“Borrow?” Jeno raises an eyebrow. “You mean stealing.”

“I mean taking it without permission for unknown reasons,” he scoffs. “Shut the fuck up. We should do it after school.”

Mark turns his eyes back to Jaemin, and finds him tapping a damp towel against his face, skin glistening in sweat. Sometimes, people are so good looking it feels unfair — as if, in the big game of faces and identities, they had hitten jackpot sooner than anyone else, leaving all the other players with only slightly worse options to choose from.

Though Jeno was right: Jaemin doesn’t have rock hard abs anymore. When his jersey sticks to his torso because of the sweat, Mark can only make out faint muscle and an inches-smaller-than-average waist, the one that gets him promptly looking away in fear of getting caught staring. Jeno stares at him with a frown, as if he knew everything that went down on Mark’s mind for the few seconds Jaemin turned back to smile at him, and he most likely does.

“Your heartbeat is so loud right now,” Jeno mumbles, shoulders slumped. “It’s distracting and almost deafening. I wonder how you don’t get bruises.”

He blinks, stunned. “You can hear my heartbeat?”

“Your breath as well,” his best friend nods. He turns his face to Jaemin, pointing his chin at him. “His, too. It’s stable.”

“But he’s practicing,” Mark frowns. “Shouldn’t it be at least a bit faster than usual?”

“I told you he’s weird.” Jeno leans the back of his head against the bleachers behind them, eyes trained up to the cloudy sky. It’s been like that since last morning, though the cold is new and exciting — Mark has been waiting for it to come since last year’s Summer started, and maybe even sooner. “I just can never get any instability out of him. It’s like he’s always level headed and calm.”

“If you had that body, would you ever be anything less than chill all the time?” He raises his eyebrows at Jeno, wiggling them in mischief. “I mean, seriously. Be honest.”

“I have that body, Mark.”

“Oh,” Mark answers. “I haven’t been paying attention. Why don’t you take your shirt off so I can see it—”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” Jeno raises his hands in surrender, creating more distance between him and Mark. “I’m moving away because you’re just dying to jump me.”

Mark shrugs, turning his attention towards the field. “You said it, not me.”

“Well, you’re not disagreeing,” he pokes Mark’s shoulder, chewed on nails digging against the fabric of his hoodie. Distantly, he wonders what his hands would look like with claws; Mark has yet to see Jeno as the terrifying beast he describes himself as.

“Do you ever stop barking?” Mark offers him a smile, beyond proud of his joke.

Jeno’s face turns into a scowl as quickly as the clouds gathering in front of the sun on a rainy day. He snarls: “You think you’re so funny—”

Mark doesn’t pay attention to the rest of his sentence. Jaemin sends him finger guns from the field with a smile twice the size of the moon, and suddenly nothing can ever truly be as bad as it seems.

But the thing is that Jeno should’ve known Mark’s idea would do more harm than good.

There isn’t anything as self destructive as letting what you love come near enough to kill you, but not allowing it to throw the first punch. There isn’t anything as self destructive as letting the best friend you’ve been in love with for the past two years climb into your lap, his thighs hot and heavy on top of yours, a weight almost catholical when Jeno comes to think of it.

This — this is the closest to repenting his sins he’ll ever get. Mark is so careful about it it feels like he knows, like he sees beyond just what Jeno lets on, as if his thoughts were clear as water and his chest had a screen on it, revealing his better kept secrets like they were nothing but material to study about. The empty highway they chose to try it on might be the most ironic things of them all, since Jeno would gladly choose this hill to die on, and the ever expanding green around it does no effort in easing his nerves.

“You don’t have to be this tense,” Mark murmurs, steadying himself against Jeno’s knees and pulling away slightly to look at him. They’re only touching where their legs meet, as in an oath of respect from Mark’s side. “It’s just me.”

I know it’s just you, Jeno wants to say, but he doesn’t find it in himself. It’s never just Mark — it always comes implied that, even at the darkest of times, Jeno would follow him to wherever he’d like to be, the blinding follower to a haunted lighthouse he’s been desperately trying to make a home out of.

Mark tentatively rests a hand against his shoulder, squeezing it gently enough for it to feel like a shiver. “Is it working?”

Jeno clears his throat. “Um,” and he’s not sure of what to say, not really sure if there even is a way to say this without making his feelings known, so he lies. “No. Not at all.”

His best friend sighs, shoulders slumping. Jeno feels bad for a second, but then again, lying to Mark is a necessary evil. “What should I do, then?” He hesitantly brings their hips closer, though they barely touch. “What, um… What do you like?”

“What do I like?” Jeno repeats, unsure of what he even heard.

“Yeah, like…” Mark awkwardly pulls down his hoodie, fidgeting with its hem. “What do you usually… You know… Ugh, Jeno, this is so awkward. You know what I’m talking about.”

He does know, but he’d rather not think about it. He’d rather not read into the implied words written between the lines of Mark Lee asking what he likes, because Jeno is not ready to go there, at least not yet. And, well, besides all that — no one has ever done that to him, so he doesn’t know. All Jeno is sure he likes is Mark, but that doesn’t seem to be making the trick work.

“Mark, I don’t… No one has ever…”

Mark nods in understanding. “Think about it, then. You must have imagined it at some point, at least.”

It takes Jeno three seconds to understand what he meant by “you must have imagined it at some point”, and three more to gulp around the fact that Mark meant it in a platonic way. Jeno has to remind himself of it before he answers; he is not asking if you imagine about him. He’s asking if you imagine, in general.

“Um,” he coughs out, turning his face away from Mark’s. There is not a good way to say this, so he does it with his eyes turned to the empty highway ahead of them. “Um, your face… I think…”

Mark frowns. “Spit it out, Jeno. We don’t have the entire day.”

Delicately, Jeno brings a hand to Mark’s nape, guiding it to his neck wordlessly. He seems to get the memo, nuzzling his nose against his prominent neck bone, and Jeno brings his head back, feeling his heartbeat getting impossibly louder. Not just his — Mark’s, too.

He’s too shaky to maintain both him and Mark held up, so he keeps his hand against his nape, even if just for balance. Mark is stubborn, brushing the very tip of his lips against Jeno’s neck and leaving a trail of goosebumps behind him, hands carefully resting against his shoulder as if they couldn’t fathom moving somewhere else. In a way, Jeno is glad he keeps them steady and still — he doesn’t know what he would feel like if Mark allowed them to wander.

Jeno grabs a hold of Mark’s hands, delicately guiding them to his own hips, then presses their palms firmer against his skin. They squeeze against it so gingerly it’s almost like a mosquito bite, but Jeno feels it as if it had left a purple mark behind. He doesn’t know what that says about him, or Mark, or their friendship — he just knows he’s been thinking of this for too long to not let himself get lost in it.

“You’re nasty,” his best friend — mind you — whispers with a laugh, trying to light up the mood and easen Jeno’s tense muscles.

He lets out a nervous, shaky giggle, feeling his heartbeat growing more and more violent the closer Mark’s hands become. Jeno has to remind himself this isn’t what his body thinks it is, and he has no business being this affected by a simple comment, though it might be the hardest of tasks when Mark is, even statistically speaking, one of the prettiest people he’s seen in his short sixteen years of life. He’s so good looking it might be a cruel joke — as if, even after several attempts of dimming his beauty through failed stick-and-pokes and spotty hair dye, Mark can’t help himself from being mind blowingly attractive.

Or maybe he is, acts and looks just like a normal teenage boy, and Jeno is the fool who fell for it from day one.

“Loosen up,” Mark whines against his ear, taking a bunch of skin from Jeno’s torso between his thumb and pointer finger and squeezing it. “You’re hard like an uncooked pasta stick.”

He realizes the insinuations of his words a few seconds later. “Wait, no— You know what I meant.”

Jeno does as he’s told, loosening up against Mark’s hands and not expecting them to keep him steady, though they do. Because no matter what he thinks this is, it won’t change the fact Mark loves and cares for him, even if not in the same way — especially not in the same way. The things he’s going through are not reserved for him; they’re reserved for someone else, the person who’ll get to have Mark like Jeno has wanted to for years now. The feelings he’s feeling and the touches Mark is so carefully placing against his skin aren’t Jeno’s to keep — they’re Na Jaemin’s, and that seems to be the worst thing he could’ve possibly thought about in a moment like this.

Mark pulls away the second Jeno’s claws start to show, and maybe it’s for the best. It goes down soon enough after it. He watches as Mark slowly furthers the distance between them, leaning his hand against the pavement as he stands up easily, taking more and more steps away from Jeno until he feels like a distant memory.

“Holy shit,” he starts, voice getting lost somewhere between them. “Whatever you’re thinking about, keep it up. It’s working.”

And Jeno does as he’s told, because he’s nothing if not a well trained dog expecting to get a treat. They once read a book for class that said a rabid wolf will break its teeth trying to destroy the chains holding it back, and will permanently change its spine by the sheer strength it takes as it pulls back from its jaw. Jeno never thought that to be true, always discarding it as fantasy, but he gets it now; he does. As flashes of Mark’s face disappearing into Jaemin’s neck show up on his mind, he gets why they fought the wars and fired the guns. He gets it now, though he might not have before.

Mark takes careful steps towards him, eyes round and wide like they’ve always been. He doesn’t look terrified, or even slightly afraid — the wonder that simmers and revels against the dark brown of his orbs is maybe the one thing that keeps Jeno from whimpering in pain, the distance as cruel as a knife buried between his lungs and twice as painful.

“Jeno,” he says, kneeling behind him with his hands up above his head, as if showing he means no harm. Jeno knows that. “Can you hear me?”

Jeno tries to answer, but what comes out is nothing a human mouth can sound like. It’s a meek howl — barely there at all, but an answer still.

Mark nods. “Holy shit, you’re gonna wanna see this. Wait, fuck, um — wait there. Don’t move. I’m just — I’ll get my phone.”

He watches as Mark takes a few steps backwards, still turned to Jeno as if he couldn’t take his eyes away from him, wonder tattooed permanently on his features. Jeno wants to say something — anything — but nothing comes out of his mouth, the snout in his line vision sniffing the air around it curiously. Everything is twice its size and smell, then; like the world had suddenly gone into High Definition mode, contrary to its previous 240p quality.

Mark is furiously searching inside his backpack for his phone when Jeno catches a glimpse of a white deer over his shoulder, hidden between two large trunks and staring straight into him, its eyes dark and round like blackberries. Its antlers bump against the wood, the sound traveling a few meters before it gets to Jeno’s ears, and once it realizes he is staring back, it slowly moves backwards, threatened.

He doesn’t know what happens to him, then, as he watches it disappear into the woods. One minute he’s sitting by the highway, Mark Lee on his lap, and in the other he’s jumping right over his head to get into the forest, avoiding branches and weirdly placed plants with maestry, as if he’s done this a billion times before. The scent is nothing like he’s ever felt before — it’s familiar, as if a gas station Jeno’s been going to ever since he was a child, though he couldn’t possibly know. The deer gives him hell, going down the shadiest paths and jumping over trunks twice the size of its legs, but Jeno gets to it with relative ease, gasping for air by the time he corners it against the start of a grassy hill.

Jeno doesn’t know — doesn’t know what he’ll do to it once he gets it, but he knows he has to. A force above and beyond him urges him to get to the deer, though it might as well be inside of him as much as it is in the atmosphere, burning behind his eyes and under his feet. The deer struggles to go up the hill, long legs shakingly grasping against the earth, but it’s too late; Jeno was so close he could feel the bite of his bark forming around his tongue, buzzing between his teeth, ready to sink through flesh.

He’s on top of the deer in a second, paws holding it against the ground as he sniffs it suspiciously, unsure of what to do now that he caught it. It’s only when the deer struggles that he gets angry, a low growl making itself known from the back of his throat to the front row of his teeth, their sharpness unusual and close to uncomfortable. Jeno doesn’t think it’s its urge to flee that got the voice in his head so angry — he gets it, to a certain point, and would probably try and run himself if he were in its situation. What gets him angry doesn’t have a name to it yet, though he guesses it’s something quite like recognition; as if the deer shouldn’t even dare to doubt his ability to render it defenseless.

The deer isn’t the deer for long enough, though. As if on magic — or shapeshifting, just as Jeno would know it as — the deer slowly flickers in and out of reality, like a spinning mirror, until what lays under his paws it not an animal, but Na Jaemin’s own dirty body, his eyes as wide as Mark’s and twice as mortified.

Jeno’s breath gets caught under his tongue, harsh against Jaemin’s delicate features, and he doesn’t know whether to attack or back down, confused of his own nature. Suddenly, his ribcage feels like it’s the size of Jupiter, crushing his lungs and keeping Jaemin in place under him, the color vanishing from his skin like he didn’t know how to get out without losing a limb in the process.

A sick part of Jeno felt proud of it — the human part, on the other hand, was terrified enough to force him to shift back to human, the claws that held Jaemin down turning into boyish hands that shook violently, barely holding him up.

Mark catches up to him a few minutes later, his voice being heard from miles away. “Jeno! What the fuck are you even d— Oh.”

Jeno doesn’t move, paralyzed by shock, and Jaemin stares back at him with something terribly close to a feeling he wouldn’t like to name; recognition. He looks as if he knows something Jeno doesn’t, and it didn’t feel right to keep holding him down, a big, angry-red scratch starting on his collarbones and ending at the very base of his neck caused by Jeno’s claws.

“Um, Jeno—” Mark starts, his footsteps and the leaves breaking under them thundering against Jeno’s ears. “Are you— Are you seeing Jaemin too, or have I gone completely mad?”

Jaemin blinks in surprise as Jeno pushes himself off of him, throwing his body to the ground beside his laid form with a painful groan. His hands meet the scratch on his collarbone as he answers, breathless: “I’m here, Mark.”

“Oh.” The Mark in question drops his backpack to the ground, rushing to kneel next to them as if he didn’t quite know who to tend to. “God, um, fuck. Hi. I don’t mean to be rude but — would anyone like to tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Jeno’s eyes meet his for a second, but he sighs out right after, frustrated: “The fucking deer. He is the fucking deer, for God’s sake.”

“And you’re the… Thing,” Jaemin turns to look at him, his eyebrows furrowed. “What — what are you even? What are you shifting into?”

“We have no idea,” Jeno answers despite himself, feeling the world wear him out just a little bit more. Of course, this, too, might as well happen — being a teenager is already so weird as it is. “We were trying to figure it out.”

Mark gulps, fishing for this phone with shaky hands. When he finds it, he brings it to his chest, screen turned to them as he slowly, but surely says: “I think… I think I figured it out.”

While still shaking violently, he taps against the screen a few times to show a picture of a moving figure, its outline barely there as the woods engulf what Jeno recognizes to be the deer Jaemin turned into, only its back legs visible. He’s about to tell Mark he doesn’t see it when he slides his finger against the screen, passing it to another, sharper picture.

The creature staring back at him is not to the likes of anything Jeno has ever seen. Its fur is a deep grey, a few spots covered in something that feels almost like strawberry blonde fur, though it barely shows against its massive body. The color is the least odd thing about it — Jeno’s eyes move to its neck, and the surprised sound that comes out of his mouth when he realizes the creature’s neck divides itself in two, separate heads is enough to make Jaemin flinch next to him, springing upwards as he grips Mark’s wrist to bring the picture closer.

Jeno would growl at the contact, if only it were socially acceptable to do so as a human. Despite its strangeness, the creature doesn’t look like something Jeno would fear — rather, it’s like a beast straight out of a fairytale, or a folkloric monster that kills not for sport, but for revenge. It looks like a biblical image, almost; he wouldn’t believe it if he didn’t know it was entirely unedited.

“Is that—”

“Nine tails, yes,” Mark nods, staring fixedly at Jaemin’s hand hanging from his wrist, a gentle blush to his cheeks. “Two heads and nine tails.”

“And three rows of teeth,” Jeno adds, coughing out against his closed fist as he brings his torso up, sitting cross legged in front of Mark.

“And three rows of teeth,” Jaemin agrees, letting go of his wrist to lean back against his hands. He offers Jeno a smile, though it comes out as almost mocking.

Jeno would slit his throat open in his human form, if only it weren’t a crime. He settles for rolling his eyes, turning to Mark: “What do you think it is?”

“Nine tails…” The older of the three mumbles, blinking in thought. He clumsily scrambles to sit down, bringing his knees to his chest as he does when he feels unsafe. “God… What does that remind me of?”

Jaemin hums. “A Gumiho.”

It takes Jeno exactly five seconds to say something stupid. “Like Naruto?”

Mark rolls his eyes, but nods. “Yes. But in Naruto it’s Kurama. I’m surprised you know the Korean version.”

“I read,” he shrugs, a hint of a smile pulling against the corner of his lips. Only Mark — only Mark would be able to make him smile in a situation like this.

"But that's not just a Gumiho," Jaemin points out, breaking the eerie silence between them. "I know a wolf head when I see one, and there are two of those in that picture. Growing out of the same body, mind you."

Something stills when he says it, as if the memories had clicked together to the sound of his voice. Jeno gulps down, the beginning of a headache hammering through his skull, and Mark gently taps against his knee, calling for his attention.

“Why’d you attack him?” He asks, in the softest voice Jeno has ever heard him use before. Jaemin turns to him, in expectation.

“I — I don’t know,” Jeno rubs his eyes, the adrenaline slowly dying out and leaving him so tired it’s like moving would shatter his limbs entirely, as if they were a small pile of sand. “I just — I saw him, as a deer, and I just… I moved on my own accord. I didn’t know what to do once I caught him.”

Jaemin hums in understanding. “It’s alright,” he says, though directed at Mark. “This is going to sound weird, but… I’m used to it.”

“To being hunted down?” Mark leans his head to the side curiously.

He smiles at him, sheepish. “When’s the last time you saw a white deer?”

“I’ve never seen one,” Jeno butts in, if only to contribute to the conversation.

“Exactly,” Jaemin answers, crossing his arms against his chest. His hair is a mess, spiking out to all sides, as if the human version of his antlers. “If the hunters weren’t enough, other creatures, like you,” he pointedly stares at Jeno. “Are very keen on hunting me down, though not for the reasons you’d expect them to.”

“It’s not because of feeding,” he explains after taking a look at both of their confused faces. “Deer antlers… Shape shifting deer antlers, I mean, are very… Spiritually charged. I’ve never met another because—”

“They’re all dead,” Mark breathes out, slightly mortified. Jeno tunes into his heartbeat for a second, and finds out a loud, but stable bang, as if he were slowly easing himself into their universe. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

Jaemin shrugs. “Never met any of them, but I haven’t died yet, so there’s that. A few tried, but I don’t think Jeno was one of them.”

“Could’ve been,” Jeno sighs, carding a hand through his own hair, distressed. “You’re the last of a dying breed and I could’ve killed you right then and there if you hadn't shifted back on time.”

“Don’t sound so guilty,” he frowns. Jaemin seems to be trying to comfort him, in some way, but Jeno notices the hesitation on his gestures — as if still unsure if he’s a threat or not. Hell; Jeno is unsure if he’s a threat or not. “I’ll assume this was one of your first times shifting. You would’ve killed me if you wanted to, trust me.”

“I don’t get it,” Mark speaks up, smacking his palms against the ground in confusion. “What do you mean by spiritually charged? Jeno couldn’t have possibly known that.”

“That’s why I don’t think he was trying to kill me,” Jaemin answers, dusting off the dirt from his jeans. “He acted out of hypervigilance; probably trying to protect you. Shifters do that.”

Jeno thinks it’s a smart decision to hide the fact that he was, in fact, thinking of killing Jaemin when he shifted, so he opts for saying the second hardest thing: “You have to help me.”

The boy raises an eyebrow at him. “Pardon?”

“You clearly know more than I do about shape shifting,” Jeno leans back on his hands, giving Jaemin both the physical and metaphorical space to think. “And you’ll teach me how to control it to compensate for the fact you've been spying on our conversations.”

Jaemin cocks his head to the side, clicking his tongue against his cheek. “It’s a matter of safety for me,” he says, though he doesn’t deny that he did spy on their conversations. “Someone calls me out of the blue, being weird about animal scratches and knocking their father unconscious, I had to keep an eye on the two of you. I don’t need another predator shape shifter coming after me.”

As if on clue, Jeno pointedly glares at Mark, who reciprocates it with the same level of both enthusiasm and bite. He asks the question they are both thinking, then: “So you used Mark’s crush on you to get information out of us?”

Jaemin blinks in surprise, taken aback. “Mark has a crush on me?”

The aforementioned slaps his own forehead in annoyance. Jeno squints at Jaemin, though he can tell he’s not lying simply be the sound of his heartbeat — it stutters when he says Mark’s name.

“For years now,” Mark murmurs, closing his eyes around the embarrassment.

Jaemin’s eyes soften. Jeno hates him to bits. “I didn’t know,” he answers, truthfully. “And no, I didn’t use him to get information out of you. I really did want to give him my number,” his eyes turn to Mark ever so gently, batting his eyelashes like the fluttering of a hummingbird's wing. “You could’ve told me.”

Mark offers him a meek smile, deeply embarrassed. Jeno knows he’s going to say something snarky before it even comes out of his mouth: “Yeah, it’s not like I ever thought of it in the six years of liking you.”

Jaemin rolls his eyes fondly. “Better late than never, I think.”

Jeno’s eyes travel from Mark to Jaemin like a confused tennis ball being tossed to both extreme ends of the court, watching what he feared the most from this lifetime to the next unfold right in front of his eyes.

The human voice inside of his head tells him to get used to it, but the newly found snarl of a wolf seems to disagree, Jaemin’s face blending into a weird deer-shaped blob and overwhelming his senses, the also recently gained murderer tendencies making a show out of sizing Jaemin up as he reaches out to squeeze Mark’s hand into his. A low growl makes its way out of his mouth without him noticing, and they both jump apart in surprise.

When he notices what he just did, Jeno slaps his hands over his mouth, eyes widening.

Jaemin is the first to try and calm him down. “Don’t worry, don’t worry,” he gently brings Jeno’s hands down by holding onto his wrists, fingers cold against Jeno’s skin as he does so. “It’s okay. Part of your brain is naturally wired to want to murder me and eat me whole, so it’s only understandable that you’re reacting like this.”

Mark frowns from behind him, though Jeno can only see half of his face with Jaemin this close. “Are you feeling okay, Jeno?”

“Yeah,” he answers, placing a hand on top of his beating heart in order to steady himself. Mark raises an eyebrow as if he didn’t quite believe him, and Jeno repeats it, this time firmer: “I’m fine.”

He nods, though he doesn’t fully convinced. Jeno turns to Jaemin: “You have to help me.”

“I will,” he licks his lips, watching Jeno curiously. “But, in return, you’ll have to protect me for as long as it's needed. You’ll have to swear on it. I’ve been getting far too many attacks these past few months and there’s only so much a gun can do.”

“You walk around with a gun?” Mark’s eyes widen in surprise for what seems to be the seventh time that day. Oh, the things life does and the places it takes you to.

Jaemin shrugs. “I’m sixty kilograms of pure, unrestrained hatred and wobbly deer legs. You’d be surprised at the things I can use as weapons when put under enough pressure.”

"Then why didn't you pull it out on me?" Jeno asks out of impulse, furrowing his brows.

Jaemin turns to him with a coy smile. "Pretty face like yours wouldn't look good with its brains blown out. Plus," he nods his head towards Mark's direction. "He likes you too much."

Both Mark and Jeno fall into mortified silence. Jaemin chuckles at the quietness, eyes trained to the cuffed hem of his jeans, and gets up in a swift move, dusting off his clothes.

"I'll see you two around," he hums to no one in particular, flickering like a hologram for a few times before shifting back into his deer form, disappearing into the woods again as the sun begins to set over his antlers.

Jeno swears that, when Jaemin looks back, the deer is staring right through his soul — though the feeling fades not longer after, leaving him and Mark to sit alone in the middle of the forest, a crazy beautiful sunset above them and too many secrets piling up under their feet.

"I hate this dude," Jeno breaks the silence first, voice coming out fuzzy like a peach and warm like the outside of a tea mug. It drips, mostly; simultaneously honey on a cup and blood from a wound.

Mark lets out a soft chuckle. "I like him."

Jeno offers him a tight lipped smile. "I know."

He ends up walking Mark home, despite the latter's insistence that he'd be fine nonetheless. Jeno knows that, but Mark and him bloom from the same rose — when it comes to their bad habits, they're native to each other to the likes of something no one has ever seen before, and Jeno knows the walk home would be lonely were it alone.

Their way home is a silence full of little surprises, like a novel waiting to unravel. Jeno wants more than just the mundane realities of life, but he's learned in the past couple of years that no amount of wishing can result in raw, unfiltered truth, and no amount of loving can result in anything shorter or simpler than wonderful. Though he still wishes to maim the tide and walk over a path of vortexes, there is an underlying feeling under the gruff of real life that manages to make it undeniably beautiful, even despite his own cynicism.

Or maybe it's just the way Mark Lee looks under the light. Jeno wouldn't be surprised; he's mistook him for a star quite a few times before.

"You don't have to walk me home every time you think I'm scared," Mark tells him as he steps over his front porch, dangling his set of keys and revelling in the metallic noise. "I can take care of myself."

"I know," Jeno answers, interlacing his own fingers behind his back. "I know you can."

Mark wiggles his eyebrows at him, clicking the front door open easily. "Are you coming in?"

He hesitates. "My dad— Maybe I shouldn't."

His best friend in the entire world — and the next one, mind you — makes a non-committal sound, pushing Jeno inside. "Don't worry about it. He can search up my house all he wants; I'm not dumb enough to keep weed lying around."

"Then where do you keep it?" Jeno asks, stepping into the house and immediately shrugging off his coat and sneakers, suddenly ten times more vulnerable than he was when he hadn't walked through the door yet.

"What do you mean where do I keep it?" Mark slams the door closed behind him. "I don't keep it, I don't stock it. When I have weed, I smoke it 'til I'm out."

Jeno hums in acknowledgement. He doesn't know why he never thought of that; it would've spared him of a few traumatic experiences along with the last two days.

As he looks over at Mark, hugging his mom in lieu of a greeting and waving him over with a sharp teeth smile, Jeno wonders to himself if he'd ever want to forget even a minute spent with him.

Of course not. He doesn't know what that says about him.

There is beauty in wanting. There is beauty in desiring; yearning; longing; aching. There is — Mark just never knew there would be beauty in being wanted back.

It’s not like he never liked anyone besides Jaemin; of course he did. At some point in the Summer between ninth grade and his freshman year of high school, Mark decided to, at least, try and see in someone else what he saw in Jaemin, though it felt quite inutile back then. He knows better, now, and believes the Mark from before had his heart in the right place — he’d never like anyone the way he liked Jaemin, but that doesn’t mean he’d never like anyone else, for love is particular to its receiving end the same way medicine is.

There was Matteo, the exchange student from Spain that left him the Summer after with nothing but a handful of dried out roses and the vague feeling they met the right person at the wrong time. Then, Mingi — Mark never really got to meet him in person, though they send each other songs sometimes and talk about how lovely their relationship would have been if Mingi didn’t live all the way across the country. Ten was three years older, and anyways, Mark knew he’d never think of him as anything but a little brother, so it lasted for about two weeks before he decided to take a break from boys, said break having lasted until now despite a few, fleeting crushes on strangers he’d certainly never see again.

He never stopped liking Jaemin, even when he fell for others. It’s almost as if his feelings for him were always there, quietly waiting to come to surface again, even when all of the odds were against them — especially then. Mark never felt the need to prove it to himself that he liked Jaemin; it was always there, underlying, the soft sigh of a ‘if you’re down, I’m down’ that never really went away. He guesses he always had hope about them one day getting together, copious amounts of it.

Which could never have prepared him for this, though, well — it’s Jaemin, and Mark is never prepared. He should know better, but he doesn’t. Love is the industry of fools.

The few days following Jeno’s second time shifting were delicately wired like any other day, peaceful in the luxurious way the past two have not been. Mark does most of his homework, promptly avoids staring into his mother’s eyes, and spends the rest of his time looking into lycanthropic myths and Gumiho sightings over the past decade — odd pastimes for an even odder reason, yet he supposes it has its beauty. He reports everything he finds out to Jeno, who decides to ignore it when he finds it useful in order to keep studying for his midterms, those of which start in only a handful more days. All in all, life as a high school Sophomore is just as boring as it has always been, with the addition of a two-headed werewolf and Jaemin ominously nodding at them every time they see each other on the hallways.

Though, you see, trouble never backs away; not really, not for long enough. Mark swears to himself he doesn’t look for it, but it finds him anyway — even if through the form of Jaemin violently body slamming him during a lacrosse match in gym class.

It happens too fast. One second he’s avoiding the ball like it’s the plague, running the other way when it gets too close to him, and in the other he’s spread over the floor limply, Jaemin’s entire body weighing him down while he struggles under it, flopping clumsily as he gets no success in pushing Jaemin off of him.

“Hey— Why are you squirming— It’s just me!” The human-deer in question whispers, looking around as the world seems to slow down for Mark, head spinning. Maybe the fall was too harsh; he should’ve wore his pads like Jeno told him to. “Oh, Jesus, I’m sorry. Um, okay, wait. Hang on with me for a second, okay? Then I’ll take you to the nurse’s office.”

He tries to answer, but nothing comes out. Jaemin’s face is so close it could just as easily be the moon, though Mark suspects he’s delirious for this. “I need to talk to you. Only you. Keep your dog back; no competing for your attention.”

In his stunned state, Mark can only frown. "Jeno doesn't—"

Jaemin shuts him up with a look. "He does. Tell him to let me take you to the nurse's office," he makes to get up, but takes a second look at Mark and decides against it. Then, he drops off a kiss on his cheek, and apologetically whispers: "Sorry for slamming into you, pretty. 'T was the only way of getting you alone."

Jeno is pulling him to his feet again in a matter of seconds, a scowl the size of Jupiter on his face as he all but bats Jaemin away from him, teeth bared ever so slightly. There's just something about the energy between the two of them — a static that stirs alive once Jaemin and Jeno are in the same room, and Mark can't quite put a finger on what it is. At first, he supposed it was Jeno's own primal instincts to hunt Jaemin down, but now… It feels almost as if he's showing off, like he knew all the things he could do to Jaemin and isn't ashamed of hinting on them.

And, Jaemin, well — he never seems to take anything seriously, but Mark has watched the way he swings towards Jeno in a mocking attack quite a few times to know he is not afraid, but rather deeply entertained.

Mark doesn’t think he does it to be annoying; he just thinks Jaemin loves being chased after, no matter what for.

Their coach strolls lazily towards the commotion, blowing off his whistle to announce a short break from the game. Mark doesn’t even care to know about what the others are doing — he’s too focused on the thought of talking to Jaemin, alone. “Are you two okay?” The coach asks, resting a hand over both their shoulders. “That was a pretty hard fall. How’s your head, Mark Lee?”

“A little dizzy,” he answers, bringing a hand to his temple as to emphasize it. Mark would know, since he’s been laying off lame excuses for not playing in matches since elementary school. “Could use some painkillers.”

Jeno is the first to speak up. “I can take you to—” he offers, though it sounds like a demand, but the coach stops him by landing a hand on his chest.

“No, it’s better Jaemin takes him,” he ultimately decides. “That way your team doesn’t get prejudiced by losing its best player.”

Jeno tries to argue, but the coach is already blowing his whistle again, ten times louder to reach every corner of the field. Mark watches as he turns back in his gym uniform to talk to him, but Jaemin is already gently pulling him by the wrist to the other direction, urging Mark out of the field and into the school as if whatever subject he wanted to talk about was a matter of life and death. They walk for a few minutes before Jaemin drags him into an empty, dark classroom, Mark trailing behind rather disorientedly as he just allows the aforementioned to do whatever he wants.

He realizes soon enough that the classroom they’re in is the Literature one, the second of the two classes they share together this semester. Mark leans against the teacher’s desk as he watches Jaemin crouch down to look into the drawer where the teacher keeps most of the books they learn about, mumbling to himself as the dim sunlight coming from the window frames his side profile ever so daintily. He looks so beautiful — Mark can’t quite breathe.

“I could swear it was in here,” he hears Jaemin whisper to himself, a frown stitched between his eyebrows. He turns to Mark, then: “You wouldn’t have a flashlight just hanging around, now would you?”

Jaemin sighs in defeat when he shakes his head, motioning Mark to come closer. “Okay, whatever. Come here.”

He gulps down a lifetime of unsaid confessions as he kneels beside Jaemin, watching the light from the window cast a soft shadow against his features. Again, Mark thinks he’s gotten Jaemin’s face to perfection — he’s stared at it too many times to not know what it looked like, even in the dark. He tries to remember how it looked like when they were children; a little softer, a little lighter, a little less confident about itself, but still the same features he’s grown too fond of to ever forget.

Jaemin catches him staring and offers Mark a dandy smile. “Is this okay?” He asks, because they aren’t all that close, but close enough.

Mark understands what he’s asking for: In is this okay? comes implied that Jaemin is asking for his permission to be anywhere near him, now aware of his feelings and delicately maneuvering himself over them, as if to not do Mark any harm.

“It’s okay,” he breathes out, at sudden overwhelmed by the care Jaemin has put into his words and behaviors. It’s almost like he’s gingerly crouching down over his own words, like a — well, like a deer perching its long neck to the moon. “What are you looking for?”

“A book,” Jaemin answers in a soft, low tone, resuming his search after a few more seconds. He closes the drawer and leans against it, then, his head falling behind with a sigh. “I just can’t find it now. I’m sorry. I’ve wasted your time.”

Mark licks his own lips, taking a gentle exhale before copying Jaemin’s position. “It’s okay,” he repeats himself, trying to emulate the same patience Jaemin always seems to have. “What was it?”

“It’s just…” He hesitates for a second before answering, as if gathering his own thoughts. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t memorize it because I thought the book would still be here when I showed it to you. But it was like I heard — I don’t know, this is going to sound really weird, but I may have been... Hallucinating.”

“I can deal with really weird,” he tells Jaemin, matter-of-factly. “I can even deal with crazy, but there are no punches to roll with if you don’t tell me what’s up in the first place.”

But his words don’t seem to surge that much effect, as Jaemin has his face tense and turned away from Mark, jaw locked into place like the trigger of a gun. He doesn’t get it. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Jaemin exhales heavily, closing his eyes and leaning his head against his palms as if he held the weight of the world over his nape. Mark doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything — rather, he stays still, unsure of which limits he can and cannot cross in order to comfort Jaemin. Ultimately, he decides on very gently patting his knee, a wave of hot and heavy embarrassment hitting him the moment he does so. Even then, it seems to anchor Jaemin out of his meltdown, a long, dragged sigh escaping his lips.

“I’m sorry,” he explains, shoulders slumping. “I know I’m acting weird. It’s just that the full moon is coming up and it makes me so incredibly jittery.”

Mark hums, palms burning from where they come in contact with Jaemin’s skin through the rips in his jeans. “I get it. Deers are very nervous animals, aren’t they?”

Jaemin's lips stretch into a tired, meek smile, though directed at Mark and only him, still. "Yeah. You've done your research."

"I have," he shrugs bashfully, playing with the hem of his jeans with his free hand. "Maybe I'm just interested in deers."

"Maybe," Jaemin nods. He stretches his legs out, straightening them and accidentally bumping his sneakers against one of the leftovers chairs.

A stretch of his ankles show as his cuffed jeans fail to cover it, and Mark averts his eyes from it as if staring was a crime in itself. Here goes nothing, he thinks. "I'm a big fan of reindeers, myself. Rudolph, I mean… Wouldn't you smash?"

Jaemin stares at him for half a second before breaking into a breathy cackle, teeth twinkling against the sun. Mark catches a glimpse of a particularly sharp tooth, almost a fang, and it makes him wonder how such a docile creature can look like this.

"I don't know whether to be scared or relieved that the only thing you have to ask about the fact I turn into a deer sometimes is if I'd smash Rudolph," Jaemin tells him between chuckles. Once it dies down, he answers: "No, I wouldn't. I have a hard time connecting with deers that don't have a human inside of them."

Mark blinks in surprise. "Oh," he answers, turning to stare at the windows. He frowns lightly. "Oh, I guess I never thought of that. It makes sense. No shape shifter would ever come back to mankind if they had the chance to live as an animal."

"Yeah, that and the fact it would just feel weird," the boy says, blowing his words out to the wind. "Anyways, the thing I was going to tell you about... Some student is walking around the school with a book — some sort of bestiary, I don't know — because I keep getting glimpses of it in the hallways and I thought I had seen it here but… Maybe not." Jaemin lets out a sigh, deep from within. "Maybe I'm imagining it."

"Maybe," Mark agrees. He turns to Jaemin, then, but only for a few seconds before turning his gaze back to the window. "But you'd be amazed at the things your mind can do."

Jaemin looks surprised. "So you believe me."

"I'd believe anything that comes out of your mouth," he says, the if you say it with your hands coming implied. It doesn't sound like a confession, because it isn't one; he's just being honest.

"Oh."

For a moment, Mark regrets having ever said anything, but the sun decides to do its job and the once askew sunbeams manage to wash over the entire room, hitting Jaemin's face in its entirety and casting a shadow the shape of his shoulders just a little beside Mark's own shadow. Like this, it's hard to ever regret anything — they are bodies illuminated under the sun, and whatever it is that has gone wrong can once again be made right. Jaemin's shadow is quite the one thing he hasn't paid attention to in the last six years, but now that he sees it, Mark is once again met in breathlessness.

It's nothing truly striking, but the curve of his eyelashes — those of which that are so long they cast a shadow — seems so sharp against the sun, in order that, by association, life and everything else that lies under its unimaginable light appears just as beautiful.

His mouth moves at its own accord. "Wow," Mark breathes out, reaching a hand to trace over the silhouette of Jaemin's shadow. "Look at your eyelashes."

It takes Jaemin a few seconds to understand it, blinking confusedly around the light, but once he gets a hold of where Mark's gaze is turned towards his face blushes a gentle shade of punch pink, his own eyes pulled downwards in almost shyness. "Woah," he says, though it barely comes out of his lips. Mark could've swear it came out of his own. "How do you notice these things?"

"I pay attention," Mark hums back.

"You do. You see things that no one else does," Jaemin mutters, amazed.

He raises an eyebrow towards his direction. "That makes two of us."

"I don't—" the boy stammers for a second, pressing his lips together in a straight line afterwards. "I don't know if it was real. Sometimes I just… See thing that are not there. I hear them, I touch them, but the second I want to show them to someone else… It's like they vanish."

"I believe you," Mark states, because he doesn't plan on committing the same mistake again. Whatever it is that he has to believe, it's better to do it sincerely and with an open heart — even if it's a lie. "The bestiary… How did it look like? Have you touched it? Who is carrying it?"

Jaemin's eyes get caught onto him like butterflies on a net. "It's an old book. I know it is, my dad used to have bestiaries lying around the entire house. It was a great party trick." He shifts from his previous position, entire body facing Mark like a sunflower to the sun. "The cover is… I couldn't read it. I think it was in some old language, I don't know — a lot of shifters, back in the old world, would write about the supernatural in a coded language."

"A coded language," he repeats.

"Yes, a coded language," Jaemin nods. "The student… I don't know if you know him. It doesn't matter. He's human, only human. I've checked several times before. I think he's just interested in the subject."

Mark hums. "Who is it?"

"Lee Donghyuck," he tells him, leaning closer to Mark as if on a whisper. "He works part time at an ancient library downtown and is part of my older sister's Overwatch team. I've met him once or twice, but not enough to ask for a favor."

"I know him," Mark frowns. Of course he knows Lee Donghyuck — no one is quite as good as he is at Exy, and, for some reason beyond him, he always seems to pick Mark to be a part of his team. "I think my mom worked with his family once. As a personal tutor."

"Yes, it's what I've heard," Jaemin nods again, anchoring himself in the subject. "Donghyuck is an only child with learning disabilities, and his parents never call back when the school tries to reach them. I've looked through his reports and I checked his rental history at the library but… To no success."

"Oh, wow," he leans back, impressed. "You've really done your research."

"I've been at it for longer than you and Jeno even knew about shape shifters," the boy answers matter-of-factly, though Mark sees the twinkling of pride molding around his pupils. "The thing about Donghyuck is that he doesn't have many friends besides Renjun, and for what I know, Renjun's family runs deep into this town's history. I'm talking old, old money — they've been peaceful with supernaturals for at least a thousand years."

"Supernaturals?" Mark asks. "As in… More than one kind?"

Jaemin hums in agreement. "Of course. They say this town was built upon the supernatural, but they started gradually fleeing around the time the Civil War started. My dad used to say it was because of the militarization."

Mark remembers Jaemin's father vaguely, but the day he died is still freshly engraved in his memory, like a smudged Polaroid. He remembers one particularly rainy day in fifth grade, when Jaemin was asked to come out of the classroom for a few minutes and Mark almost glued his ears to the wall trying to overhear what he was being told. He came back to class an hour later, teary eyed, and Mark had organized and packed all of his things in order to lessen the burden — that was the first time Jaemin had smiled at him, even if his entire face was red and sore from crying.

Mark remembers thinking the constellations of tears on his lashes were a handful of the prettiest things he had ever seen in short, 12-year-old life. Even now, at sixteen, he still takes the same view.

"How did he know all of this?" He carefully asks, unsure of how Jaemin would react to it.

"My father was a believer," Jaemin simply puts, sitting cross legged. "You know, long before we were the lunatics of the town, he was a believer. He saw things no one else did, and he kept quiet about them, and he understood."

"Did he know about you before he…?" Mark asks, regretting his words a second after they leave his mouth. "I'm sorry," he says, covering his lips in shock. "You don't have to answer that."

"No, it's okay," he hums in a low tone. "I like to believe he'd be happy about it if he knew." Jaemin smacks his lips, changing subjects: "Well, anyways. I can show you what I know after school today, but I don't want the other Lee in my house. My mom is afraid of wolves."

"Does she know?"

Jaemin seems to consider his answer for a second. "She knows enough," he ultimately says. "She'll warm up to him after the full moon, but for now… Please tell him we'll report back tomorrow."

"Okay," Mark gulps. He's imagined being alone with Na Jaemin on an empty classroom several times before, but being invited to his house is new, dangerous territory he is not sure he's prepared for.

There's something so intimate about knowing someone's home; there's something so intimate about being not just allowed in, but invited and welcomed. He tries to imagine what Jaemin's house would even look like from the inside, but, well — he's sure whatever image there is in his head will not come close to what's real, because it'll inevitably be Jaemin's, and Mark is fond of all of these little things that come along with him.

"Oh, and—" Jaemin starts as he pulls himself up to his feet, stretching his arms out for a second before offering a hand to Mark, who grabs it although shakily. "I'm stopping by the cemetery before I get home today."

"Oh, um, are you seeing anyone in particular?" Mark asks as they head out of the room, Jaemin's hand finding the small of his back to gently guide him towards the nurse's office.

The way he says it makes Jaemin chuckle. "No, just… Visiting the ones that came before me."

"Other shifters?" He asks in a low voice, just as they're about to walk into the nursery. Jaemin turns around to meet his eyes, a tiny grin tugging at his lips.

"And other creatures, yes," he says, almost fondly. "They had no one to look out for them in life, so I figured I'd do it in death."

Mark nods. "I see.” He hesitates for a second, then asks: “May I come with you?"

Jaemin smiles. "If you don't make any loud noises."

But, well — if there is one thing Mark Lee is good at, it is making loud noises.

After a brief explanation as to why Jeno wouldn't be able to follow them and a few minutes of convincing him that he'd be fine on his own, Mark hopped onto the back of Jaemin's beaten down yellow bike and allowed him to take him wherever he wanted to, so as long as his shoulders stayed warm and broad under Mark Lee's fingers.

Their small town's graveyard is an oval shaped, ominous looking park nestled right near the outskirts of the small town neighboring theirs, a shared area where both of their populations come to grieve their dead under the usual cloudy weather, not even the sun daring to come any closer than necessary. As a child, Mark used to come and skateboard in front of the cemetery, the flat pavement adjacent to it always empty aside from a few unfortunate workers that have been seen walking in and out of the graveyard for the past ten years.

Mark hasn't visited in a little less than five years, the last time having been when Jeno’s mother died, though barely anything has changed. Jaemin parks his bike near the entrance, its bright yellow color contrasting against the muted grey gates separating them from the graveyard, and waits for Mark to hop off before locking it to the nearest hydrant, mumbling about a new wave of grave robberies and how he would sooner lose an eye than his bike.

Once they're already past the gates, Jaemin pulls out of his backpack a bouquet of admittedly crumpled roses and a small pair of house scissors, dangling it in front of Mark's eyes with an apologetic grin. "I know it's not much, but I was thinking of maybe emulating what we do for our ancestors in Chuseok. Most of these people were never recognized as their family's ancestry, so I thought I might as well."

Mark hums in agreement, taking a step closer to Jaemin as a blow of wind hits them right in the face. "So you're just… Cutting off weeds growing on their graves and leaving a rose?"

Jaemin has the decency to blush. "I didn't say it was a good plan. I was thinking of, maybe… I don't know, talking to them."

"Talking to them," he repeats, incredulous.

"I thought I would maybe ask them about… The Jeno thing," Mark's first and everlasting love brings a hand to his own nape, scratching it awkwardly. "If the living don't know much, then I figured the dead would be of help."

"The fact that sentence made sense to me is infuriating," Mark grips the back of Jaemin's denim jacket, as if expecting for guidance. "Lead the way."

Jaemin turns his face around to smile at him. "Gladly."

They walk through a crooked path between two long stretches of grass, those of which filled with graves to a point of almost no ground to walk on. Jaemin tells him about the people under the dirt as they walk past them, softly murmuring about nurses who died in the war, teachers having been found with bullets through their heads and elderly patients who seemed to be getting better before they got worse. Jaemin seems so comfortable with the dead it felt almost compelling — Mark is slightly embarrassed for being with the living.

Many people have claimed over the years to feel an uncomfortable sense of danger while visiting graveyards, the buzzing of the dead that still quite refuse to let go of their beloved livelihoods, but Mark doesn't seem to be attuned to it the same way others are. It just feels… Sad, the same way watching news of a tragic murder does, no haunting in sight as he looks over the flowers and gifts left by the living. He's not disturbed, but rather endeared; even in death, human beings have yet to find a way to not be tender and loving.

"How terrible it must be," Jaemin comments as they stop to stare at a particular tombstone, the names of two people engraved on it even though there is only one grave following its label. "To love something death can touch. Don't you think?"

He thinks of all the times Jaemin has been hunted down to an almost certain death while Mark did not even know, and nods. "Yeah. Terrifying."

"They're together for eternity, at least," the boy says, delicately pulling out two roses from his bouquet and placing them over the grave, if only as a final act of kindness. "I'd leave them something else if I could. What do you think lovers would want even after death, Mark?"

"Peace," he answers, eyes trained to the tombstone.

Jaemin takes it in consideration for a second before agreeing. "You're right. They want an eternity of peace." He unhooks himself out of his backpack, holding it out to Mark along with the bouquet. "Don't freak out."

Mark's eye widen. "When you tell me to not freak out it makes me want to freak out even more, if that's possible—"

Rolling his eyes, Jaemin kneels down beside the grave, gently tracing its sharp edges as he slowly eases himself next to it, as if to not disturb the dead. Mark's breath gets caught somewhere inside his throat, his own feet guiding him a few steps behind, until it feels safe enough to just stare. He watches as Jaemin traces the names on the tombstone with his fingers, stay still for a second before his eyes shoot open with a painful sigh. Mark observes, helpless, as Jaemin throws himself back and away from the grave, as if he had just been burned.

"What did you do—"

"Be quiet," Jaemin shushes him, eyes trained to the grave. "I took some of their pain. They're listening now."

Mark kneels beside him, laying his own jacket against Jaemin's back to shield him from the cold. He whispers: "What are you telling them?"

"I don't know yet," he whispers back. "I don't know if they'd understand."

Mark hums quietly. "Try, at least."

He sees Jaemin nod from the corner of his eye. When he speaks again, his voice is louder: "I see you," he tells to the grave, delicately placing the tip of his thumb against the harsh stone. "When no one else does, I do. I will."

Nothing happens, and Mark doesn't know if it's a good or a bad thing. Jaemin stays still, staring at the grave as if they were having a telepathic conversation, and only pulls back after a few minutes of complete, utter silence, a chill making its downwards the slope of Mark's spine like a falling dove. He turns back to Mark with a frown, hugging his jacket closer.

"What did they say?" Mark asks.

"They said…" Jaemin's frown deepens. "They said to not fear the dead, but the living. But they weren't talking to me; they were talking to you."

"To me? Why would they talk to me?" He mirrors Jaemin's frown, suddenly washed by something quite like fear. "How come they were talking to me? I'm not even — I'm a human boy."

Jaemin shakes his head softly, springing upwards and shrugging Mark's coat off of his shoulders, offering it back a few seconds after. "It's okay," he says, sending the grave one last look before continuing with their stroll. Mark has to quicken his pace to catch up with him. "The dead will talk to anyone who is willing to listen, and the things they say — you don't take them personally."

They walk in absolute quietness for a second, but breaking the silence is Mark's number one favorite hobby. "How come you know all of that?"

"Because…" Jaemin starts, not sparing Mark even a glance as they keep up with their walking. "Well, because many of my kind have fallen, and many more will fall. That is my family border. We — I know death intimately, because I had to."

"I don't get it." Mark furrows his brows. "I thought the only family you had was your mother, grandmother and sister."

He nods. "That's right. The rest are dead; I had to find a way to communicate. How else would I throw birthday parties?"

Mark makes to let out a chuckle, but stops cold in his tracks as Jaemin’s face comes into vision. “Oh, you’re serious. Um — I’m sorry.”

“‘S okay,” Jaemin shrugs, seemingly unbothered. He gently pulls against Mark’s wrist, guiding towards another group of tombstones. “Come this way. I know these ones.”

I know these ones, like he was at a party and about to introduce Mark to a group of his friends. Jaemin is strange — stranger than he thought he’d be, though Mark doesn’t see it as a bad surprise. For someone who falls in love a little bit every day with someone new, a dash of weird might just be endearing through his admittedly rose colored glasses. At some point, they end up with their fingers interlaced together, if only just so Mark doesn’t stray away from Jaemin as they pass through graves.

They’re dropping off roses at a young child’s tombstone when he finally gathers the courage to ask: “How do you… How do you take away their pain? Is that why they talk to you?”

“Yes and no,” Jaemin tells him, distractedly cutting off a handful of weeds from a particularly covered tomb. “It’s a very complicated thing I don’t expect you to understand without any backup knowledge on the supernatural world.”

He doesn’t elaborate on it. Mark kicks a rock, still as curious as ever. “Then explain it to me. I have time.”

Jaemin wipes off sweat from his forehead, somewhat breathy from picking up weeds. “I will. Later, I promise. Can you help me with this?"

They end up staying for a little less than an hour, Jaemin gently coaxing Mark to not be any more scared of the dead than he is of him. Mark gets it — he does. The people Jaemin honors usually tell him good things as he gives them his kindest regards, and he reports them back to Mark with a soft smile, announcing their thankful words. At some point, the graveyard stopped being frightening; with the way the sun started to filter through the crumpled roses, he felt more at peace with not just his, but also others', mortality.

Jaemin takes him to his house during the mid-afternoon sun, the knots of his shoulders twice as loose when Mark holds onto him for the ride. He felt weirdly peaceful, the serene beat of his heart moving along with the wind. There is something about the dead — there is some sort of morbid comfort in knowing where you’ll end up, the surrender in not only acknowledging your own ignorance but embracing it and accepting it to be over your head. Mark is alive now, but one day he will be dead, and therefore free. One day it will finally get him; and there’s comfort in that.

Jeno would pop a vein were he to know about this, but Mark is not sure if he’ll ever get to. It’s okay — they are not intertwined people, bound to each other’s destinies, and it would be lonely to have all of his personhood tied to Jeno’s own. He always felt like that, anyways; as if Jaemin was an entirely different part of who he was, and discussing him with Jeno was out of limit simply because, as people, they would never merge together. The lines between the both of them are blurring, Jaemin is closer than he’s ever been, and Mark is not quite sure of what that could mean for his and Jeno’s friendship.

But maybe it doesn’t have to mean anything, and Mark is spiralling down an well-known rabbit hole, the one he keeps having to dig himself out of time and again. It’s okay. It should be okay.

Jaemin’s house is a secluded cottage a few minutes from the cemetery, the neighbouring buildings consisting of stacked bungalows and a handful of motels. It’s not the suburban image Mark is used to, but then again, Jaemin’s family has always been the talk of the town — it’s better that they’re away from most residents. Mark knew his sister, but very barely; she left for college a few months ago, and hasn’t appeared anywhere near their high school since she graduated, leaving behind a trail of unusual accidents and academic overachieving that never quite repeated itself. Jaemin’s mother, well… Mark’s mother knew her from school, but they grew apart soon enough. They say she’s gone mad; whether by grief or disappointment, no ever knows.

Mark knows little about her aside from the fact she used to be a highly respected pageant contestant and that her contributions to their school’s cheerleading team have lead them to thousands and thousands of wins, back in the day. All in all, they wouldn’t be such a hot topic weren’t they so strikingly stubborn believers of the supernatural, rumors floating above Jaemin and his sister’s heads as if they were a point of reference. His mother told him the stories long ago, about a man and a woman so adamant about an existing spiritual plane they got themselves involved in a cult-like research group, the one that got Jaemin’s father — and many others — killed during a fire.

Mark supposes it would be rude of him to bring it up, but as he waits in front of Jaemin’s front porch, the rumors seems so real and everlasting it’s like he could touch them in the air. Their doormat is a rectangular piece of black nylon, the words “may death never stop you” imprinted on it like a bad joke, and he has half the mind to chuckle at it before the door clicks open, Jaemin’s frame disappearing into the threshold.

It’s a nice looking house, with wooden walls and trinkets at every corner, matching pictures of Jaemin and his sister hanged up on the hallway that leads to the living room. It’s much less modern than Mark first imagined it to be, but then again, Jaemin is quite the traditionalist himself, so it makes sense he got it from his family. A fireplace gathers every other piece of furniture around it, and a beautiful piece of tapestry adorns the ground under them, covered in red and golden spots. Mark doesn’t know what he was expecting, but he didn’t expect it to be this cozy.

“Mom,” Jaemin calls, neatly stacking his shoes under the coat hanger and doing the same to Mark’s. “I’m home,” he announces, ignoring the lack of response.

Mark waits by the couch, shyly bringing his hands together as Jaemin excuses himself to the bathroom. There are one too many porcelain trinkets hanging from the walls through sharp hooks, pots and plates and teacups of all sizes and colors making the room ten times more childish than it would be if it weren't there. For one, Mark really likes it — he always believed cottages to appear a bit haunted, but this one doesn’t seem to be upset by its haunting. It’s quite the opposite, actually; it’s almost as if it welcomes it.

In a cabinet dear the door, bejeweled crowns and faded gold awards are neatly organized by color and size, the three levels of it divided by dark wood plaques with “Na Jaemin”, “Na Jinsoul” and “Na Eunhye" engraved onto them. Jaemin's part of it is the emptiest, though still quite full in itself, since Mark doesn't have any awards to begin with. They're mostly related to sports, although one in particular calls for his attention; a handmade award with "best brother in the world" written on it. It makes Mark unconsciously frown — he didn't know Jaemin was that close with his sister.

Jaemin's mother finds him before anyone else does, long, dark hair almost floating behind her back while she steps into the living room, round eyes delicately widened when she stares at him. "Oh, you really are Lillian's boy," she exhales softly, looking at Mark as if he was the newest, most expensive designer bag. "You've got quite the wide eyed gaze, now haven't you?"

Mark chuckles politely, unsure of what to answer. He gets up immediately, offering her a discreet bow as a sign of respect. "Hello," he smiles, keeping a polite distance. "You must be Jaemin's mother, right? I'm Mark. Mark Lee."

"I'm well aware," she hums, emulating Mark's bow. "Jesus, you look just like your mom — it's insane. I could've sworn it was Lillian sitting on my sofa."

He's heard that before, somewhere between a million and a billion times, so he simply laughs, nodding. "I get that a lot," he tells her. Behind her, a huge picture of a burning yellow sunflower hangs near the TV, as tacky as decoration comes. "Um, thank you for letting me in. Jaemin and I are going to…. Study."

She nods, tightening her robe around herself. "I see. Well, I shouldn't bother—"

"Mom?" Jaemin calls, walking into the living room with the sleeves of his jacket now rolled up to his elbows. The thin black bracelet he is always wearing is visible now, and for some reason, Mark wants to gasp at the daintiness of his wrists. "Are you okay? You weren't picking up texts. Have you eaten yet?"

His mom waves her hands around, slowly turning to face him. "Oh, you know how it is. I'm a frail old lady, I don't get texts."

Jaemin patiently nods. It's a joke, but he doesn't seem to get it. He repeats himself: "Have you eaten?"

She blinks at him, confused. "Have I not? I suppose I woke up too late."

"You haven't."

She nods in understanding. "You're right. Maybe I should."

Mark watches as Jaemin takes both her hands into his, mumbling something for only her to hear. She nods at him again, a delicate smile tugging at her features, and waves Mark goodbye as she takes her leave from the living room. Jaemin sends him a tight lipped smile. "Shall we?" He asks, offering him a hand.

He gladly takes it, allowing Jaemin to guide him upstairs and into his room.

The second they're alone, Mark is not the first to speak up — though that might be unusual. "I know what you're about to ask, and I don't want to hear about it." Jaemin says, picking up a handful of papers from a desk nearing a round, white-rimmed window. "The rumors are not true. She is not crazy, insane, a lunatic — you name it. She just has a lot on her plate."

Mark sits by the very edge of Jaemin's edge, straight like a mirror. He awkwardly interlaces his fingers over his lap as he answers: "I wasn't thinking that. I would never—"

"Yeah, you better not," Jaemin cuts his sentence short, holding out the same papers he had just organized into a pile. "Read this. It's all I have on Lee Donghyuck. For now, at least."

He tries not to stare as Jaemin wanders through his room, as if confused about what to do with his limbs, but Mark is never one to look away; not now, not ever. It’s a clean room, overall — he knew that already, considering Jaemin is quite the neat freak, but he did expect it to be a little more crumpled, if only with posters or family pictures like the rest of the house. There are some few posters hung up on the wall, a collage of monuments and touristic points just above Jaemin’s bed, but aside from that it seems to be a pretty empty space.

He fiddles with the research papers on his hands, finding out all of what he already knew: Donghyuck’s ties to Renjun and, by association, his family, his history of rented books, a few school files Jaemin must have definitely stolen from the main office. Mark loses his focus soon enough, eyes travelling to a nightstand completely crowded by pictures of people he doesn’t recognize, but has a feeling about. He turns to Jaemin, nodding towards it: “Your family?” He asks.

Jaemin nods. “Yup. The dead ones.”

Isn’t that sad? Mark wants to ask, but doesn’t. It doesn’t seem to be sad, at least — with the care and love Jaemin puts into it, it’s almost as if the handful of ritualistic behaviors he appears to have towards the dead become therapeutic, at some point. He took “always be with you” to a whole new level, but Mark supposes that is okay; these people keep him company, and he knows one or two things about loneliness himself.

“We already know this,” he refers to the papers, leaning back against his hands. Jaemin hums, throwing himself on his bed.

“I know,” he says, staring at the ceiling. “I thought you’d have a better insight on it, at least. You’re the smart one, aren’t you?”

Mark scoffs. “I’m not the smart one.”

“Oh, come on, Mark Lee,” Jaemin turns to his side, supporting himself by his elbows as he stares at Mark with the glint of a tease in his eyes. “You’re the smart one, you know that. You come up with the plans, you know the riddles, you see beyond what you believe. Sounds very smart to me.”

He stares at him, draped all over the bed like a snake, and once again wonders why is it that anyone would ever believe Jaemin to be an easy prey. Mark knows, for one, that he’ll be dreaming of this image for at least a month. “I’m not very smart,” he ultimately answers. “But I have a very big stack of hope. I believe in a lot of things.”

“I know you do,” Jaemin smiles softly. He reaches under his bed, lazily pulling out a shoe box and holding it atop of his lap. “This is all I have documented for the past years. It’s mostly uncanny cases, or people who act just a little bit weirder than most, but even then… No one is like Lee. No one I know, at least. You can be the judge for that.”

Mark watches as Jaemin places the box between them and delicately takes the lid off, the content inside of it a mix of messy notes and handwritten reports, those of which separated in a few topics such as date, location and time. The afternoon melts down very easily after that — with Jaemin's witty comebacks and Mark's own ability to be all up in other people's business, it just made sense that they would be the perfect fit for analyzing those cases.

Jaemin's filing is neat, organized and divided by differently colored washi tapes; red for solved, blue for unsolved and green for mysteriously dropped charges. Mark knows, for one, Jaemin should not have most of these records, but he has never been above stealing in the first place. He supposes that as long as Jaemin is safe, it's okay.

"So you think the daughter ran him over?" Mark asks after a few rounds of crime solving, legs up in the wall and back to the bed as Jaemin hums from his desk.

"Of course I do," he answers, spinning around in his chair to show Mark a picture of a middle aged man, his eyes a bright yellow in it, probably because of the flash. "I don't think she didn't have a reason, per se, but I do believe she might've just been… Creeped out. There are way too many cases of people supposedly sighting weird creatures and flooring them out of fear, you know?"

"But that doesn't make sense." Mark frowns, in thought. "Because she left town a few months before, didn't she? And her mother was supposedly a supernatural too?"

Jaemin hums, eyes trained to the picture. "Yes, the mother was a Banshee. My mom knew her from the neighboring city. Do you think she did it on purpose?"

"I think she did it for other reasons," he tells him. Mark crawls to the very edge of Jaemin's bed, close enough to be able to touch him if he extended an arm, and peeks over the picture. "The mom is a Banshee and the dad is a shifter, so why would she be creeped out? She had their exact same genes, and was probably a mutation of the two."

Jaemin gasps. "You're right!" he says, scrambling to get the other printed image of the entire family. He holds it to Mark's line of vision, squinting at it against the late afternoon sun. "Then why would she… Oh." He turns to Mark. "Do you think… Vengeance?"

"Maybe," Mark answers, reaching out to grab ahold of the picture. "I just think that, as some sort of mutation of the two of them, she wouldn't have gone fast without actually acknowledging her abilities. It doesn't seem, to me, that she would kill for anything other than the urge to."

"It depends on which type of shifting she had in her, but yeah," Jaemin agrees. He brings a hand to his chin in thought. "I never really thought of that. I suppose different creatures who get together end up giving birth to weird mutations of their own supernatural abilities, but that would mean the human part is extremely weak, and therefore vulnerable."

"What do you mean?"

"Because the child's percentage of purely human genes would be lower than the average supernatural," he explains. "They'd be much more vulnerable to shifting in moments of stress." Jaemin starts folding the pictures together in well kept manners, mumbling almost as if to himself. "And I suppose the final product of their shifting would be quite disturbing. A Banshee may not be a bad looking person, but mix their loud wailing with the howl of a wolf and you get a deeply unsettling creature. It'd be almost like… Like…"

Mark stares, admittedly. "Like what?"

Jaemin stares back blankly. "Like a two headed calf; a genetic mutation."

"I don't get it—" he starts, but it takes him only a few seconds to process it. "Oh my God."

"I know."

"Holy shit—"

"Yes."

"Do you think—"

"I do."

"Woah," Mark's eyes widen, an amazed exhale escaping his lips. "Should I call him— I mean— Are we sure?"

"It's a lead." Jaemin reaches out to grab a few markers from his desk, popping the lid open with his teeth as he writes down "genetic mutation" and "look into it l8r" on a random post-it. "I still think the bestiary is our best shot at figuring it out, though. If there's someone who can give us detailed information on the supernatural world, it's the Huang family."

"But does Renjun know?" He asks, pointedly.

"I don't think Renjun cares," the boy ultimately says. "I think Donghyuck does know and care, which is why I place my bets on him. They're always together, so it all comes back to this: If you want to find Renjun, you have to find Donghyuck first."

"But — the genetic mutation thing... Wouldn't that mean Jeno's parents needed to be… You know… Shifters?"

"Maybe." Jaemin considers it, biting the end of his marker distractedly. "Maybe not. Sometimes people turn for other reasons — a curse, rituals, a bite, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. These things are very vague; there's little to no accurate science to it."

"Then how do we know?" Mark pulls himself up to straighten his back, leaning impossibly closer.

His chin hovers over Jaemin's shoulder, though the latter doesn't comment on it. "I think the bestiary is a good start."

And the thing is: Mark sees. Mark sees things, and he understands, and he keeps quiet about them, but it hits him time and again that the one thing he is unable to see is what anyone sees in anybody else but Jaemin. The billions of love stories and the piled up thousand sonnets, the songs and the tears and the blood and the sweat; it seems like a waste if it's not for Jaemin, even in an objective sense. Mark just — it seems, to him, that he's got quite the knack for getting his heart broken.

Jaemin takes him home around a quarter after seven, biking through the illuminated streets as if the entire city molded itself to his likings. Mark always wondered what someone like him would be doing on such a small place, but eventually came to the conclusion that home is wherever the heart is, no matter the size. It's a quiet, cloudy place hidden somewhere a few thousand miles from Seoul, with houses so old and unchanging they make every turn just a bit more haunted. Mark loved it then and loves it now, though it might be the first time he realized others do, too.

It's unbelievable that Jaemin's family stayed in town after his father's death, considering all the history these stone streets hold, but Mark understands it. The only thing they might share in this lifetime is this small down, and it need not be anything shorter than beautiful, in order that no single memory is lost. He instinctively puts his hand out to the wind, watching the moving lights passing by ever so fleetingly, whispering soft goodbyes.

Jaemin notices it, and tells him over the loud sound of the wind. "Careful!" he says, breathless.

"Always am!" Mark answers, in an almost yell. Jaemin offers him a thumbs up.

It's a heart wrenching tale to love, love, love and have it lead you nowhere, but he's gotten sure over the time that he would end up here, in this city, in one way or another. If Mark closed his eyes and started to wander, he'd surely find his way to this very place almost through muscle memory alone — the same way he's been finding Jaemin's face in every dark corner and empty alley for at least six years. In a way, all is well ends well.

He parts from Jaemin at the very front of his house with a half smile, unsure of what to do now that they're somehow friends. Mark leans back against the fence, holding his hands behind his back, and stares up at Jaemin. "Thank you for giving me a ride home," he settles for saying. "You're very kind, and you have a lovely house. It was really, really nice."

Jaemin smiles with his lips closed, eyes sparkling against the moonlight. "Yeah, it was very nice. We've known each other for years but we never really hung out until today, and it was better than I could’ve ever imagined it to be." He leans closer, if only to see him better. "Thank you for today, Mark Lee. I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you," Mark answers, fighting off the dreamy sigh escaping from his lips.

He pulls out and away with his bike, and Mark has to take a minute to breathe in and out, walking in circles around the front yard and between his mother's garden. He knew they wouldn't be making out wildly from day one, but being Jaemin's friend — Mark can deal with that. He'll get anything he can have, and leave claw marks on it.

His mother makes him go into the shower the moment he steps into the house, saying he smells of death and lovesickness, and Mark prays before bed for the first time in a couple of years, if only to politely ask God to keep Jaemin close and around for a very long time.

"So he wants the bestiary?" Jeno asks, shoving five soggy fries into his mouth at the same time. "That's easy. We just have to steal it."

Mark makes a face, pushing a stack of napkins towards Jeno's lunch tray. "We want the bestiary," he corrects, taking a sip of his soda. It's eleven thirty in the morning — he wonders how Mark isn't as hungry as he is. "If we know what you are, we know how to control it. And what's up with the two of you and stealing? Can't we just borrow it?"

"We can borrow it," Jeno answers, stealing one of Mark's fries, and deservingly getting his hand slapped away. "We just have to do it without Donghyuck's permission."

His best friend raises an eyebrow. "That's stealing."

"Oh," he says, then shrugs. "Then, yeah, we're stealing it. Case closed."

Jeno takes a bite from his hamburger, feeling it basically crumble from his hands and into his tray. School lunches may not be the best, but he's never been as excited about food as he is now — which, in itself, might not be a surprise at all, considering a part of his brain is wired like a wolf's is. Mark rolls his eyes at him when he tries for stealing another french fry, but allows it to happen, even pushing his own package towards Jeno in order to focus on his burger.

"Yeah, well, we're not sure yet." He tells him, searching for Jaemin in the crowded cafeteria. Jeno rolls his eyes at it.

"Stop searching for him and eat," he says, pulling on Mark's wrist. "You look like the whipped main character from a shitty romantic comedy."

"Shut up," Mark mumbles. "I'm just wondering if he found out anything else. You had to see it — he had all these reports and every case was color coded, like a real life Sherlock, it was so cool."

Jeno kicks his shin under their shared table. "I thought you hated that TV show."

He kicks back, initiating an intense game of footsie for the first, but certainly not the last, time of the day. "I do," Mark kicks him on his knee with a crooked grin. "Just didn't know what to say. I didn't want to say, you know, like a detective because—"

"Because fuck the police," Jeno nods, kicking back. "I get it. Are you going to eat those?" He points towards the pile of uneaten tomatoes standing in Mark's tray, pulled out from his food.

Mark shrugs, holding them out for Jeno to grab. "Bon appetit."

Despite what Jeno initially thought would happen, their didn't change in the slightest after what happened in the highway, mainly because, to Mark, it was purely platonic. He intends to keep it that way, at least for now — with so many things coming up, it seems better to lay off of his own feelings for some time, even if it means having to sit through another session of hearing him babble about how soft Jaemin's hair is. Things would be easier, were there a right way to handle such a situation, but there is none; at least not when it comes to love.

It’s alright — it has to be. In the grand scheme of things, Jeno knows it should not be taken personally that Mark would choose his first love over him.

He’s slurping on a weird mix of both his and Mark’s strawberry gelatin when Jaemin slides into the seat next to him, his tray of food untouched as he settles his backpack on top of their table, along with theirs.

“Well, hello,” Jeno greets, both his eyebrows raised. “Wasn’t expecting us to hang out outside of our animal forms.”

Jaemin shrugs, shoving a handful of fries into his mouth just like Jeno did earlier. “For the greater good, Lee,” he says, hiding his chewing mouth behind his palm. “And, anyways, I’ve talked to Renjun. There is no way he’ll let us borrow that book without knowing what we need it for.”

Jeno shrugs. “Just lie to him.”

“We can’t lie to him.” Jaemin greets Mark with a nod, a rosy smile blooming from his features. He turns to Jeno, and it fades to a neutral expression: “The supernatural part of town has lived in harmony and peace with the Huang family for a thousand years, and in return they’ve studied and documented our history in order that newly turned shifters could still go on with their lives even after most of our people vanished. If we lie to him and he finds out, we break a millennial bond of trust and respect.”

Like most situations, it takes Jeno a few seconds to say something stupid, but he doesn’t disappoint. “So?”

Jaemin turns to Mark as if quietly asking is he serious? and Jeno watches as his best friend slaps his own forehead, pointedly avoiding their conversation with his eyes casted downwards. “So we’re not doing it, Lee.” He ultimately decides.

Jeno scoffs. “And stealing it won’t break his trust?”

“It would be, but I found a loophole,” Jaemin excitedly announces, sneaking out a handful of folded papers from his jacket inner pocket. He presses it open against the table as Mark and Jeno gather around it, and whispers for only them to hear: “This is a copy of the centuries old treaty between the supernatural representative and the Huang patriarch. My dad used to have it locked in a safe; I printed at least seven copies of it with my sister’s library card.”

“I wonder what you told to the person behind the counter to explain what all of that means,” Mark murmurs, delicately tracing the edges of one of the copies.

It’s a folded over piece of paper handwritten in antiquated Korean, declaring the terms of the agreement and what rules should be followed in order that their mutual agreeing is kept intact. Jeno’s head starts to hurt more the longer he reads it, so he settles on staring at Jaemin expectantly, sipping on his soda.

“I told them it was for D&D,” he answers, popping a marker open and highlighting an entire paragraph. Jeno sends him an incredulous look. “See it, here? This line says these conditions may be broken in a situation where one’s life is threatened. We can excuse our stealing — if we get caught — by saying it was a matter of life or death.”

“But I’m not,” He frowns, stealing a glance at Mark, who seems to be dutifully listening. “We’re not.”

“Obviously.” Jaemin pulls out from their gathered circle to take a bite of his food, visibly hungry. “But we can pretend. I can pretend. You just have to make it seem like you’re going to eat me if I don’t get you the book.”

Jeno’s eyes widen in shock, leaning back in his chair. “Why would I do that?! They’re going to — they don’t even know I shift. They’re going to send me to… Supernatural jail or something."

"The Huangs can't punish you," he explains his plan from behind his cup of soda. "Supernatural affairs are not their business, the same way we don't pass judgement onto their own quarrels. You'd get out of it unharmed because you're not integrated in our community, so no one would know."

"Are you integrated in the community?" Mark asks, squinting at him curiously.

Jaemin smiles. “Answers may vary.”

“Oh, he’s so pretentious, what does that even mean—” Jeno starts, but has his ramble cut short by a kick in the shin, Mark’s eyes finding his in a matter of seconds. He pouts in response, but drops the subject.

“You don’t have to do it,” Jaemin ultimately says, eyes pointed directly at Jeno. “But I think it’s our best shot to figure out what you are and how to control it. We could — ask around to others shifters, especially the ones that are older, but I’m not sure if anyone knows about someone like you.”

Jeno shivers as he wonders when he and Mark became an “us” with Jaemin, though he might guess this is all his fault in the first place. Oh, the things he would do to turn back in time and stay into place when he saw that goddamned deer.

“I think asking around… Would be a safer first choice,” Mark is the first one to speak up, fidgeting with his own fingers in thought. “And if no one truly knows anything, we move onto Jaemin’s plan.”

Both Jeno and Jaemin fall into thoughtful silence, both looking at Mark as if he were the meddler in their situation rather than just a common friend. He rolls his eyes, sipping on his soda, and waits for them to digest his suggestion.

“Fine,” Jeno breaks the silence. He turns to Jaemin abruptly: “But I’m only pretending to threaten you if you give me your fries.”

“Are you serious—” Mark asks, but Jaemin is already passing Jeno his fries, blinking at him as if it was a fair condition. “Jesus Christ, I can’t with you two.”

He grabs a hold of his own food tray and gets up, visibly exasperated. Jeno and Jaemin are left alone, exchanging confused looks.

The school day went fairly well after that, though Mark’s constant stinky eye would follow him wherever he went, like Medusa’s very own prized impersonator. Jeno doesn't mind it — over the years, he's gotten used to the fact Mark will always have the intellectual upper hand over him. He does well with physical activity; where Mark architects the plans and writes the notes, Jeno's job has always been doing as he's told and applying physical strength where needed. That's the whole point of their friendship: They work. Everyone gets a part.

Jaemin doesn't get a part. Jeno doesn't want him to — point straight and simple. He does more harm than good when he's around, as Jeno has been observing over the past week, and Mark is too blindly stunned to see it. Jeno wonders how he manages it; wonder what he even sees in Jaemin past the pretty face and the smart mouth, but he eventually guesses that there is no reason for love except for, well, a tender curiosity that deepens. Still… Love is often foolish — they shouldn't be ruled by its morals.

He's sitting through two English classes in a row when his hearing spikes up in interest, the sound of hushed steps echoing around his brain and flexing his muscles involuntarily, alarmed. The steps get louder the more students start to pick up at the noise, looking between each other in curiosity as the teacher makes a point out of asking them to calm down. A commotion is heard from the hallway adjacent to the classroom, some odd mixture of painful yelps and struggling whimpers, and Jeno’s eyes unconsciously travel to Mark, who is watching the closed window between them and the hallway fixedly, as if trying to find a clue.

He’s about to move from his chair to get to him when he feels fingers tapping against his shoulder. Jeno is met with no other than Jaemin, face just bordering the manic. “It’s Renjun,” he whispers, chair dragged all the way to the middle of the room and crookedly standing between Jeno’s and the girl who sat behind him. “We have to see what happened. Punch me.”

“How do you know—” Jeno whisper-yells, stealing glances at the teacher. When he deems it safe enough, he turns around. “How do you know?”

“Renjun is my teammate,” Jaemin answers matter-of-factly, eyes trained to the window. “I know his scent. I know the sound of his voice. I know he attacked someone.”

His eyes widen. “Attacked s— Why would he do that?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Punch me,” Jaemin commands again.

“I’m not punching you—”

“I know you want to. Punch me. Punch me.”

“Jaemin, I’m not—”

Jaemin’s closed fist comes in contact with Jeno’s nose almost a second later, pushing him backwards with surprising strength, the impact hard enough to make his ribs hit the edge of his desk. His hands come up to protect the area, and Jeno has half the heart to scream in horror before Jaemin’s hand shoots up, as if in question.

“Mr. Nam! Jeno has a nosebleed!” He all but yells, the sound of his voice overpowering the loud murmur of the classroom. Jaemin doesn’t wait for the teacher’s response as he hoists Jeno out of his desk, manhandling him into leaning against his shoulder. “I’m taking him to the nurse’s office!”

Jeno watches, in horror, as Jaemin drags him out of the classroom in a hurry, only letting go of his arm when the door closes behind them and the commotion appears to be done, nothing left of what they heard but the faint, tangy smell of despair. He pushes Jaemin away rudely, pressing the back of his hand against his bleeding nose.

“What the fuck was that for?” Jeno glares at him, voice not a decibel above a snarl.

“Shut up,” Jaemin snarls back, searching around the hallways with a frown. “Don’t be a fucking dog now, Lee. Help me find him.”

“Who—”

“Renjun! He can’t be far.” He sniffs the air almost animalistically, though Jeno supposes it would be hypocritical of him to make a joke out of it. Jaemin hesitantly takes a step towards the left end of the hallway, the one that leads to the administration part of the school, and turns to Jeno with wide eyes. “Can’t you smell that? The scent of… Of…”

“Of sweat,” Jeno hums, brows furrowed. “But not just sweat. It’s too sour. It’s almost like—” “Like struggle.” Jaemin completes his sentence for him, taking a step further towards the smell. “It’s coming from there. I know it. It’s like Renjun was… Fighting. Struggling. Just a few seconds ago — maybe not even that; maybe less.”

And when he says it, Jeno gets it. Desperation has a particular scent, one that sort of never leaves the nose once you get a whiff of it. It’s human, meaty, as if blood that has gone sour and milk that stayed too long in the fridge — Jeno could recognize it miles away, because it is exactly what his nose picks up when he’s driving past roadkill. He doesn’t know Renjun’s scent, but his struggle is strong enough to be almost a living, breathing thing standing between him and Jaemin.

“Why would he be at the principal’s cabinet?” Jeno’s frown deepens, if that’s possible.

“Maybe not the cabinet,” Jaemin kneels down, pressing his fingers to the ground. His checkered vest looks like it has never been worn by someone who kneels in front of anything before, but then again, Jeno doubts Jaemin would ever care. Honor is such a trivial thing. “The library. It’s quiet and it’s empty and it’s the best place to hide an unconscious body in the entire school.”

Incredulous silence falls over them. “What?”

Jaemin averts his eyes from Jeno. “Nevermind. I’m going. You stay if you want.”

But if there’s one thing Jeno has learned, is that trouble will seek him out no matter where he is, so he follows Jaemin when he takes his leave. The scent does get stronger the closer they get to the library, even if it might be just as fleeting as the wind, flickering in and out of reality as Jeno struggles to track it down. Jaemin doesn’t seem to be met with the same trouble, though neither of them can be too sure when it comes to such a vague, impromptu plan. Again, Jeno is not and will never be the brains of their duo — it has always been Mark, but he is not here to help.

As it seems, their duo is not even a duo anymore. Whether Jeno wants to accept it or not, it might be the very end of history as he knows it.

“You stink of jealousy, did you know that?” Jaemin breaks the silence as they make their way to the library, quietly waiting by the door as a flood of freshmen walks by it while giggling to each other. An exasperated teacher follows them right after, and they take it as their clue to enter, finding nothing but tall, large shelves of books and empty tables.

“Then stop fucking smelling me,” Jeno barks back, baring his teeth. He smacks the wall beside Jaemin’s head. “Beat it, creep.”

The boy rolls his eyes. “Are you done? Or do you have another bone to pick?”

Jeno, for one, hates him. He does.

They carefully move towards the shelves, parting from each other to check every possible corner. The intersection of vertical and horizontal shelves make the dimly lit hallways they create appear like a labyrinth, forcing Jeno to step back for a second to rethink his path. He’s somewhere between the romance and mythological sections, rapidly approaching the back of the room, and close enough to hit a dead end. The smell is stronger near the dark corners, but the silence is deafening — Jeno almost wishes he had Jaemin nearer, if only to hear him make snarky comments near and there, in order that the experience felt any more safer.

He’s about to turn around and leave when he hears a soft sniffle, coming from the same dead end he swore could never not be empty a few seconds ago. Jeno pushes forward, then, ignoring the shiver running up his neck as he approaches the back of the room, right where light struggles to filter in. Jeno is about to walk right into the shadows when he feels a hand covering his mouth, pulling him downwards with somewhat of an ease as he loses his sight completely, both of their bodies tumbling down and ending up on the ground.

“What the fuc—”

“Quiet!” A voice snarls at him in a whisper, presumedly coming from the person holding him down. “He’s going to hear you. Shut up.”

Jeno quiets down, though unwillingly, and the hands covering his mouth and pulling him down let go. He blinks around the darkness, feeling his eyes gradually adjust to it: “Who’s he?”

A loud gulp echoes through his mind. Jeno blinks a couple more times before being able to make out the person’s face, their features blurry but visible nonetheless.

He doesn’t know who this is. Not at all.

“Who are you?” He asks again.

The boy smacks his lips together, avoiding Jeno’s eyes. “Lee Donghyuck. Can you shut the fuck up?”

“Where’s Renjun?” Jeno presses closer to Donghyuck’s frame, almost shielding his body as the pieces of this story start to make sense. “He attacked you?”

“How much do you know?” Donghyuck asks back, refusing to give out answers. He doesn’t look hurt, but then again, the smell of blood is undeniable.

“Enough,” he answers. Jeno pulls himself up to his knees, shrugging off his jacket and clumsily placing it on top of Donghyuck. “Press it down where it bleeds. Where does it hurt?”

He watches as Donghyuck stammers with his answer, confused. “It’s just— It’s just my wrist. It’s fine. Renjun needs more help than I do.”

“Where is he?” Jeno patiently asks while Donghyuck pulls his own wrist to his chest, a few splotches of dried blood all around it making him flinch. “Is he here? Are you hiding from him?”

“It was so sudden,” Donghyuck explains, distressed. “One second we were just doing a project, and in the other — I don’t know what got into him — he just… He just… Shifted.”

“Shifted,” he repeats in a whisper, eyes casted downwards to meet Donghyuck’s own, wide ones. “It wasn’t triggered? Nothing happened at all?”

“No — we were doing a project,” the boy highlights. “It was silent. We were sitting in silence. It’s like… Like he suddenly went rabid.”

"Hey, Lee?" Jaemin's voice comes from somewhere over the other side of the room, stacked under the weight of the handful of shelves that stand between them. Jeno's entire body tenses up, if only out of alarm. "I think you're going to want to see this."

Jeno turns to Donghyuck, watching as he stares back, twice as alarmed. "He's going to see you. He's going to attack you too," the boy says, gripping his wrist.

"Don't worry about it." Jeno gently pushes his hand away. He stands still for a second, unsure of what to say, then completes: "He'll be held back."

Donghyuck frowns, averting his eyes to the ground and then back up at Jeno's. "Don't hurt him. Not any more than necessary."

And though he can't possibly promise that, he does anyway. Jeno knows that sometimes, in order to move on towards the next step, you have to give in to a side of yours you otherwise wouldn't.

He meets Jaemin halfway through the shelf path on the other end of the room, back into good lighting and the ever excruciating silence of four, silent mouths, all waiting to be hunted down by the other. Jeno is about to tap Jaemin's shoulder when the boy turns around, holding out his arm to him in order to show the long, black-and-yellow snake wrapped around it, its flat head leaning against the back of his hand.

Jaemin smiles. "I think I caught someone."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Jeno's eyes widen as he takes a few steps back, distancing himself from the snake. "A fucking snake—"

"Oh, come on," Jaemin takes a step closer, raising his eyebrows. "Aren't you big bad wolf? What's the matter? I'd love to see you bare your teeth at it like you did to me a few minutes ago."

He glares. "Don't humor me. You're not funny."

"Just saying," the boy chuckles, gently bringing a hand to pet the snake's head. It accepts the caress, though Jeno supposes all snakes must before they devour their victim.

"You're going to get your circulation cut out." Jeno murmurs, looking back to the empty pathway of shelves.

"Now aren't you worried about me, bunny?" Jaemin rolls his eyes. He brings his arm closer to his face, making kissy noises at the snake, and Jeno could just push an entire shelf over his head and grab Donghyuck on the leave. He could. "It's not going to do me any harm. Wanna know why?"

"Not really, no." He crosses his arms.

"It's an Asian species," he hums, letting his fingers cascade down the snake's scally back. "King cobra. It's venomous; the longest venomous snake in the entire world, and an adult one is longer than you and me. Combined."

"Jaemin, I don't really care—"

"But this one is small, isn't it?" Jaemin persists. "Yet the damage it has made doesn't seem small at all. Donghyuck is somewhere out there terrified, isn't he?"

Jeno stays silent. He continues: "Don't you think that, if it wanted to hurt me, it would?"

"I don't care about your stupid snake knowledge," Jeno frowns. "Where is Renjun?"

"Oh, Jeno," Jaemin sighs, almost mockingly so. He holds out the snake closer to Jeno's face, as if introducing the both of them to each other. "There is no Renjun, Lee. This is it — this is him."

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Jeno breathes in and out, eyes closing.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

"What the fuck—" He holds himself back from swinging at Jaemin full-force. Jeno can deal with many, many things; not overreacting fails to be one of them. "How can he possibly— How come— A snake—"

Jaemin raises an eyebrow. "Are you done?"

"No, I'm not!" Jeno massages his temples, feeling the panic take over. "You're telling me that another classmate, mind you, is a snake? You're literally saying that and you expect me to do anything about it — he attacked someone — Jaemin." He takes a deep breath, gulping down a leaking faucet of words. "I am sixteen years old. I have my Chemistry midterm in a week. I cannot— Whatever this is, I cannot."

Jaemin brings the snake to shoulder level, letting it serpentine from his arm to encircle around his neck, and takes a step towards Jeno, gently so. "Lee, you can't run from the supernatural." He takes another step closer, as if approaching a wounded animal, and Jeno allows him to, if only by the delicate nature of his words. "Now that you know it exists, you'll never be the same. There is no going back to normal."

"There should be," he refuses to sniffle, though his eyes burn from the frustration.

Jaemin nods. "I know. There should but there isn't, so get your shit together and find Donghyuck so we can get the hell out of here."

Jeno fumbles with his thoughts for a bit, but eventually complies. He knows well enough — though life might've been different before, there is not much to do once one is put upon the inevitable tides of change. Jeno wishes he could stomp his feet on the ground and whine loudly like a little kid, demanding everything to go back to what it was, but cowardice is never a good look on him.

So he moves. He pulls Donghyuck up from the ground and meets Jaemin by the exit, the snake still tightly wrapped around his neck as he sneaks a hand under it, pulling it towards Donghyuck in expectation. "Is this him?" He asks.

Donghyuck lovingly brings his thumb under the snake's chin, caressing the spot with round, warm eyes. "Yeah. He's too agitated to shift back."

"How can we help?" Jeno steps in, turning to Donghyuck. "What can we do?"

Jaemin stares at him for a second, a small smile tugging at his features, but Jeno pays it no mind. Donghyuck's eyebrows furrow. "I'm… I'm not sure. He needs to calm down to shift back."

"Or he needs something to trigger it." Jaemin raises an eyebrow at the snake, bringing it to eye level. "Hey, dude, um… Hypothetically, would you heal if I twisted your neck really hard?"

"Jaemin—" Jeno reprimands.

At the same time, Donghyuck steps closer, grabbing the snake from Jaemin's hands. "Don't do that!"

"Okay, Jeez," he lifts his hands in the air in surrender. "He can't walk around the school in his snake form. People will freak out."

Reluctantly, Jeno agrees, adding: "He can be put down if they find out you got bitten."

"Then they won't find out," the boy's frown deepens as he allows the snake to encircle his torso, its head resting against his chin as if it was a human backing. "We just have to get him to shift back."

"Don't you want to go to the nurse's office?" Jaemin asks, pointing towards Donghyuck's wrist and Jeno's jacket tightly wrapped around it to contain the blood. "That looks bad. King cobras are a venomous species."

"I feel alright," Donghyuck answers, defensive.

"It's the adrenaline," Jeno tells him. "It'll hurt like hell when you calm down."

"I'm not leaving him, if that's what you're suggesting."

"You have to."

"You don't tell me what to d—"

"I can heal him," Jaemin intervenes, cutting their argument short. Both Jeno and Donghyuck turn to him at the same time, a short stream of silence running its course through the atmosphere. “What?” He asks. “I can.”

“Then do it.” Donghyuck speaks up, deviantly crossing his arms.

“On the condition you’ll let Lee take Renjun somewhere else so he can shift back,” he answers, crossing his arms as well. “I understand you don’t want to lose your boyfriend from your sight, but hysteria won’t help him calm down.”

Donghyuck blushes a crimson red, spluttering. “He is not my boyfriend.”

“He should be,” Jaemin blinks lazily. He reaches a hand to the snake’s mouth, forcing it open and smearing his thumb on one of its fangs, opening a wound almost half the width of his fingertips. He holds it up for Donghyuck to see, and the previously fresh cut slowly start to close, the only proof of its existence being the spilled blood. Jeno gapes. “See? I can help, but only if you help too.”

“Fine,” Donghyuck ultimately decides. He turns to Jeno, unwinding the snake around his torso and passing it to him with a pointed glare. “You, take care of him. I’m not scared of shifters, and I’m not scared of your dad. You do him any harm and I will make hell out of your life.”

Despite himself, Jeno grins as he accepts the snake into his arms. “I expect you to.”

Renjun is cold and scally, though he has to remind himself it’s not really Renjun, but a fraction of himself that is stuck somewhere inside this snake skin. Jeno wonders how it must feel like to never shift back from your original form, but he kind of understands it — living inside of human skin is also a terrible experience. There is no form of existence that is safe from harm, it seems. Jeno wants to believe that there is one that’s at least worth it.

Jaemin grabs him by the hem of his shirt as he passes him by, and whispers loud enough for only Jeno to hear: “Don’t get caught. I’ll drive your backpack to your house after class is over.”

He nods, then walks through the library exit with a snake shoved to the back of his shirt, the dents of its shape being covered by Jaemin’s jacket as he sneaks out of the school pretty easily for someone with little to no experience in skipping class in the first place. He walks an average of ten to twenty minutes until he finds himself somewhere far enough from the school to let Renjun out of his shirt, hooking the snake into one of his pockets as he decides where to go to in order to help him shift back.

It takes Jeno five seconds to convince himself to pay a visit to Lillian Lee, though he guesses any sane person would in times of trouble. Every road in this city leads back to her home, anyways, and he has made this path at least a thousand times before to ever forget it, blushing a soft gingham through the memories. Sunshine is a place and Jeno walks right into it, a snake encircling his left arm and no direction to go but forward, the perfect start for a story whose ending can only go lower and lower. It has to be okay, because Jeno doesn’t know what else it would be otherwise.

Lillian opens the door with half her face covered in powdered sugar, her dark hair a mess of loose curls and faded blue streaks that match the color of Mark’s own moss-green locks. Her lips get pulled into a bright smile the second her eyes meet Jeno’s face, but the same grin slowly melts away as she notices the snake wrapped around his arm.

When she opens her mouth to scream, Jeno cuts her silent. “Don’t yell, please,” he softly says, pulling Renjun closer to his torso to hide him (or it?) under his jacket. “It’s docile.”

“Jeno,” she exclaims in a breathy screech. “That is a snake.”

“I said the exact same thing!” he tries for joking, but eventually gives up on it after observing her mortified expression. “Lillian, please. I promise it’s fine.”

Her eyes widen. “The snake can come in, but don't ever call me Lillian in that tone again.”

Jeno smiles. “Deal.”

She allows him in, maintaining a good distance from the snake as she maneuvers herself around Jeno in order to not come in contact with neither him or Renjun. When her face scrunches up in fear, she looks so hauntingly like Mark he has to blink a few times before going on with his life, the illusion of genetics holding him back by the scruff of his neck like a kitten.

The snake peeks its head out of his jacket curiously like a human would, and Lillian stands by the doorway as if she just saw a ghost. Jeno likes her long, printed skirts and the colorful cardigans, mainly because her way of dressing contrasts ever so drastically with what his mother wore back when she was alive. Jeno doesn't remember her all that well, but the vague image he has of her is of a woman who wore black and white most of the time, with clean, short hair and delicate features that rarely ever showed any displeasure. Distantly, he believes her and Lillian would've been friends, had they met in a better moment of her life.

"Are you going to tell me what's up with the snake?" Lillian hums, standing before the kitchen table where a handful of random ingredients rest atop of.

Jeno ignores the question. "Whatcha’ doing?"

"Jeno." She turns her gaze to him, ever the person who goes straight to the point and leaves no space for ambiguities. "Does this have anything to do with the fact you and my son have been acting impossibly strange nowadays?"

"Maybe."

Lillian rolls her eyes. "Then you know where his bedroom is. Don't make a mess you can't clean up."

"Thank you," he breathes out, relieved. Mark’s mother has raised a son to her image, and their kindness has widened and touched Jeno’s grace many times before to be ignored now.

When he smiles at her, he tries to convey every small kind thing she has done to him over the years, the ones that have piled up in his heart and created an unbearably strong web of adoration for her family and everything it represents, no matter how small or flawed. Jeno is bad at saying things — his words fail him and often work like the ever fleeting rain, coming in storms and then sometimes not at all — but he is good at keeping people close to his heart, essentially plucking them from their lives’ contexts and bringing them to heights unknown, closer than any human could ever be to another.

There are few people Jeno loves, and even fewer he cares about; Lillian’s family is on both these lists.

Mark’s bedroom is a safe haven from a world Jeno is not quite sure how to describe, though comfort presses to his shoulders warmly the moment he steps into the room, once again sheltered and once again loved. It’s as messy as it always is, clothes thrown around carelessly and Mark’s duvet sticking out in weird positions as he grows closer to the room’s center, the living, breathing heart that hides just underneath the ceramic floor where Mark’s bed lies above making the entire house buzz in excitement. His shoulders unwind from their usual tension as Jeno settles himself by the end of the bed, taking an oceanic-deep breath.

He brings Renjun to his line of vision again, and waits a few seconds of blissful silence before he asks: “Okay, you can shift back now. Come on.”

The snake stares back at him, unmoving, and Jeno cheers: “Come on! You can do it. I believe in you.”

He waits for a few minutes, going as far as closing his eyes tightly and expecting a human to be in front of him the second they open, but it amounts to the same brand of nothingness Jeno is ever so used to. He cocks his head to the side, frowning at the snake. “Don’t you want to shift back?”

Silence.

Jeno nods to himself, untangling Renjun from his arm carefully and laying the scally body on top of Mark’s bed, taking careful steps behind as if a bomb disarmer in front of a threat. Then, he crosses his arms, leaning his back against the wooden door.

“I see, you want privacy,” he hums. Jeno turns around and opens the door, announcing: “Tell me when you’re done. I’ll be waiting outside.”

He waits by the door as promised, head leaning against the door and boredly inspecting his nails, the same dull color they’ve always been — a coat of chipped black nail polish adorning the higher ends of his nails and barely getting to his cuticles, those of which are fucked up enough to be a particular subject of their own. Jeno knows they’d look better if he’d simply stop biting his nails, but then again, old habits may be the only thing he is able to call home in such a fleeting world. He’s not sure of how much of himself he is willing to give up on.

After ten minutes of nothing but silence, he walks into the room again, if only to check up on Renjun and guarantee he hasn’t jumped out of the window in a sudden flee. Precisely enough, Jeno finds him on the floor, hissing softly at the foot of Mark’s bed and trying to bite it off, jaw unhinged and twice the size of its head.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he grabs the snake by its presumable throat, pulling it away from the wooden foot and extending his arm to further their distance. It hisses at Jeno, impatient. “Don’t fucking do that. I don’t want to be dealing with your ass either, but maybe you should’ve thought twice before you went and attacked Donghyuck in a public school—”

Renjun’s hiss gets louder, longer, more vicious. Jeno frowns. “Don’t be such a little bitch. I’m trying to help you.” He resists the urge to flick the snake on its shiny forehead, but eventually settles for shaking it slightly, if only to make Renjun pull back his fangs. “Oh my God, you’re so irritating. You’re such a privileged, piece-of-shit rich teenager.”

For a moment, Jeno considers throwing him out of the window to see how he reacts to the adrenaline, but the snake starts to flick like a light into his hands soon enough, just the way Jaemin did when he first shifted back from a deer in front of Jeno’s eyes. Suddenly inspired, he continues: “You’re a capitalistic cliché with no personality and an attitude almost no one can put up with. You’ll peak in high school, your hairline is already starting to retreat out of disgust for your own oily forehead, and your hair has been bleached so many times we are all just betting to see when it’ll fall out. You’re—”

When the weight on his left hand starts to make his arms give out, Jeno jumps back in surprise, watching as Renjun shifts back in front of his eyes before he even hits the surface of Mark’s bed. In a moment, he’s staring back at Jeno in silence, and in the other he’s jumping him with little to no regards to noise or safety, Jeno’s back hitting the wall so painfully he has to keep himself from groaning out loud and alarming Lillian. Renjun fists his shirt and smashes him against the wall a few more times before he deems it enough, a low snarl settling in his features and coming from deep within his bones.

Jeno kicks back blindly, paralyzed by the suddenness of Renjun’s movements, and ends up hitting him somewhere below his chest, making the once snake, now boy fall back due to the impact. For one, Jeno knew wearing Doc Martens was a good outfit choice for today — the footprint stain onto the fabric of Renjun’s shirt is enough to make him mentally pat himself in the back as he kneels beside the fallen boy, holding his fists together with a frown. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He asks.

When he does not answer, but makes to unhinge his jaw like a snake again, Jeno has no restraints from punching him back down, closed fist meeting Renjun’s mouth easily. It takes the boy a few more seconds to snap out of it, struggling against Jeno’s hold, but he eventually does, relaxing against the floor as if his heart had violently beaten itself out to peacefulness, draining him from fight completely.

“What was that for?” Jeno patiently asks, still holding him down just in case.

Renjun turns to the side to spit the blood in his mouth before he says, plain and stoic: “For being fucking mean. And for calling me a capitalist.”

“I was trying to shift you back—”

“And you failed multiple times before you resumed to being a bitch, so the violence was well deserved,” Renjun answers, pulling his wrists back from Jeno’s hold hastily and lifting himself off of the ground, back leaned against Mark’s bed. “Why didn’t you shift when I smashed you against the wall?”

Jeno frowns, appalled. “Because I’m not a fucking animal. I don’t resort to violence every time I’m in a conflict.”

“And yet you did some pretty bad damage on your dad, haven’t you?” He raises an eyebrow at Jeno, pulling his knees to his chest. It’s the first time he realizes Renjun’s hands are shaking almost uncontrollably.

“How does every other person in this town know about that?” Jeno leans against Mark’s drawer, staring straight into the other boy.

Renjun scoffs. “Not every person. Only the ones that are around you, though you really should refrain from talking about it in the hallways of a high school.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fair enough.” Jeno mirrors his position, pulling his knees to his chest and crossing his arms atop of them, if only so he can avoid staring at Renjun. “You could’ve killed someone,” he points out, softly. “It could’ve been fatal.”

When the other boy gulps down spit, he hears it so clearly it feels disturbing. Renjun hums in agreement, closing his eyes. “I know.”

“Then why did you do it?” Jeno asks.

“I don’t know,” he answers, eyes still closed. He brings his fingers to his temples, gently massaging it, and takes a deep breath before continuing. “That never happened before. I looked at him, and I just felt… Like I had to get to him. I had to keep him down. I don’t — I didn’t want to kill him. I just really, really wanted to make it seem like I would.”

Jeno nods in understanding. “You felt the need to hunt him down even if you didn’t know what you’d do if you got to him.”

Renjun’s eyes open curiously. “Yes. I remember — I remember biting him because he was struggling and making too much noise, but not hard enough to kill. Never hard enough to kill.” He comes closer, sitting cross legged in front of Jeno. “How’d you know?”

“I felt that too,” he says, eyes averted to his knees in thought. He smacks his lips, turning to gaze at Renjun. “When I first saw Jaemin... As a deer, I mean… I could’ve killed him. I gave him a scratch so big he’s been wearing turtlenecks and vests all week. I could’ve killed him.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Renjun offers, leaning back against his hands. Jeno has to take a moment to digest the situation — him and Huang Renjun, football team captain with an Exy scholarship ever since freshman year, hanging out in Mark’s bedroom as they ever so usually chat about their supernatural experiences and their shared unusual, but powerful bloodlust. How has life come to this? “Jaemin has been hunted down by the best of the best; always came back alive. I think it’s a superpower by now.”

Jeno’s words come out before he even registers them. “What’s his deal, anyways?”

The boy raises an eyebrow at him, like a curious teacher, always looking down even when he’s looking up. “Pardon?”

“His deal,” he repeats, suddenly embarrassed. “What’s his deal?”

“I’m supposing you meant to ask what’s wrong with Jaemin,” comes from Renjun’s mouth, a mild laughter to his tone. He adjusts his position before saying: “He’s just… Weird. Always have, always will. I guess you can’t really avoid it when you’re a Na — eventually, the crazy kicks in. I’m surprised he managed to last for so long.”

When Jeno doesn’t say anything, visibly confused, Renjun rolls his eyes. “You’re curious because you care. Remember that.” He lazily stretches out his arms, arching his back, then continues his explanation. “Jaemin’s grandma is a failed tarot reader that lives off of selling spells and potions to her equally sketchy clients. Jaemin’s mother is a former miss Korea and cult member that went crazy long before grief ever became part of the picture. Jaemin’s sister is a die-hard nerd with a 4.0 GPA and the worst case of ‘wrong place, wrong time’ I’ve ever seen.” With a cheshire cat smile, he turns his gaze to Jeno’s face. “See? It runs in the family. The crazy is passed down by generation. One day, Jaemin is going to finally lose it — and we’ll be watching it happen from the front row.”

“What about his dad?” Jeno murmurs. He knows about all of that well enough — you can’t be best friends with Mark Lee and expect to not have a deep insight into Jaemin’s whole lineage.

“His dad… A good man, but also the perfect main character to a perfect sob story,” Renjun says, bending over his words as if they were laced with venom. “He was kind, but just as insane — though he might be the only Na that actually got something right. He knew about us, the supernatural, and protected the secret with his life. Should’ve lived far more hadn’t been his willingness to believe. Maybe he’d still be walking among us if he hadn’t gotten himself and his family in a cult,” he makes to finish his answer, then adds: “Though he might as well still be walking among us. I don’t put it past Jaemin to perform rituals to keep his soul alive every full moon.”

“You sure do know a lot,” Jeno points out, pointing his chin at Renjun accusingly. “Are you sure you mean no harm?”

The boy chuckles. “As if. I’d push you off a cliff to save Jaemin’s life in a heartbeat, you know,” Renjun gives him a half smile. “He might be a spaz, but he’s my friend. You, on the other hand — you’re a real fucking bitch, Jeno.”

He considers it for a second before answering. “Fair enough.” Jeno pulls himself off of the floor, standing tall, and offers Renjun a hand. “Come on, Donghyuck is going to be worried about you. Let’s get back to the school.”

“Jeno,” he ignores the hand and pulls himself back up alone, sending Jeno a weirded out look. “School’s over for the day. The sun’s about to set.”

“What?” Jeno frowns, hastily moving to the window to take a peek at the sky. He’s right — a small orange dot is already dusting the late afternoon sky a soft shade of pink, the vastness buzzing with life like a fresh peach. It is so unbelievably immense, and yet, it is; Jeno has seen bigger hearts getting broken before. “Oh, you’re right. I can walk you hom—” he turns to say, but Renjun is already nowhere to be seen.

When he makes his way downstairs, both Lillian and Mark turn to stare at him with scaringly similar confused frowns. Jeno offers them a meek smile. “Hi?”

“Go home, Jeno,” Lillian places a hand on his shoulder, comforting and demanding at the same time. She makes to guide him to the door, but he turns around to smile at Mark.

“Text you when I get home?” He asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

Mark rolls his eyes fondly. “Yes, dummy. Now go.”

He is escorted out of the house with a smile, one that doesn’t wear out for the entire way home and one that widens when he realizes his father had gotten a night shift, meaning he had the entire house to himself. Jeno packs himself a full bowl of instant ramen and potato chips on the side, humming along to the melody of a song he doesn’t know from where he heard, and makes his way upstairs to his bedroom, already considering one of his unbelievably long list of to-watch TV shows.

Jeno blindly reaches for the light switch in the dark after he puts down his plate over his desk, squinting until he reaches it and turns it on. As he turns back around, he jumps back in shock, hands immediately flying to his chest.

“What the fuck, dude?”

Jaemin blinks at him from his window, legs dangling from where he’s patiently sat on Jeno’s windowsill, not a care in the world. The sun sets behind his back, coloring the room and leaving Jaemin’s shadow to divide it into two, and Jeno doesn’t want to admit to how pretty of a sight it is until it settles somewhere between his bones, haunting like the opposite of Amnesia. “What?” He asks, shoulders slumped. “I told you I’d swing by to give your bag back.”

Though he wishes he could, Jeno knows Jaemin means it when appears to not notice the strangeness of his behavior. One day, he remembers Renjun’s words, Jaemin is going to lose it — and we’re going to watch it from the first row. Jeno wonders how soon is soon.

He sighs. “Not like that. How did you even get in?”

“I just… Broke in,” Jaemin frowns from the window. “I thought your dad was a cop. How come your house is so unsafe?”

“Well,” Jeno shrugs, sitting in front of his desk with little to no regards to Jaemin’s presence. “No one ever tried to break in before. I did try to sneak out, though — several times.”

“I see,” he hums, nodding ever so softly. Jeno doesn’t even know why he’s giving Jaemin his back with so much trust and ease; it’s almost like he’s begging to be stabbed. “Live and let live.”

He turns to look at Jaemin, weirdly touched by the way he looks when the sunset engulfs his frame and makes it someone else. “Something quite like that, yeah,” Jeno murmurs back.

He wonders if he should offer Jaemin some of his food, maybe ask him to stay, but the boy beats him to it by stretching his arms out in a yawn. “Well, bag given, bag received,” Jaemin offers him a tight lipped smile and a thumbs up, already unhooking himself from Jeno’s window ever so gracefully. He holds himself by the very edge of the window like a damsel gripping a parapet, nonchalantly waving goodbye. “See you soon, Lee.”

Jeno doesn’t answer. When he turns around once again, Jaemin is already gone. He moves to his window as if he couldn’t bear parting from it, placing his palms against the windowsill and watching as Jaemin lands onto the short grass around his house safely, dusting off his clothes out of habit. “It’s rude to stare,” he says, not even sparing a glance upwards.

“I wasn’t staring,” Jeno huffs, indignant. He leans even closer to the windowsill, letting his head out of the window and staring down at Jaemin, only one or two meters separating their stares. “Thank you for bringing back my stuff.”

Jaemin shrugs. “No problem, bunny.” He runs a hand through his hair, so dark it merges with the night sky, and raises his chin to stare right at Jeno’s own head of impossibly raven locks. “Take care.”

Despite himself, he says it back. “You, too.”

Jaemin smiles. Jeno closes his window hastily, almost as if he got burned by it.

Needless to say, he’s mortified when he finds himself smiling back.

Mark's window is briskly open, allowing an entire symphony of one too many sunbeams to tangle all around his room like golden, angel-like curly locks.

He brings his pillow to cover his face, pressing his palm down onto the soft material with a groan. His feet wiggle from where his blanket fails to cover them — it's a few centimeters shorter than necessary, though too much of an attachment to ever be replaced by a new one. Mark closes his eyes even tighter, urging sleep to come and come easy, but peace is only ever as precious as it is unattainable. His mother grabs the back of his pillow in a swift move, barely trying at all, and forces Mark's eyes to spring awake and aware from their slumber.

"Get up," she says, jewelry dangling like wedding bells and twice as shiny. "Your friends are waiting for you in the living room."

Still in his half asleep daze, Mark squints his eyes around the room, blinking confusedly. "Friends plural?"

"Yeah," Lillian agrees, walking around the room to pick up the leftover laundry Mark will sure get an earful of reprimanding for later on. "Jeno and Hyojin's youngest. Black hair, thick eyebrows, weird, ten-rows-of-teeth smile. The one you keep pretending you don't like in front of me."

Ah. "Jaemin," he answers matter-of-factly, rubbing his eyes. "Thanks, mom. Can you tell them to wait five minutes?"

Lillian raises both her eyebrows at him, but doesn't say anything. Her long skirt floats in the air as she nods and leaves the room with only a bit more scolding concerning the state of absolute chaos that Mark's room finds itself in, her grumbles drowned out by his own drowsiness. It takes him five minutes to get out of bed and ten more to actually look presentable, his hair a wild mess of uncared for blue curls he’s considered shaving off time and again ever since he decided it to grow them out. The image that stares back at him in the mirror is not Mark, not really — it’s just an illusion, someone he thinks he knew once, a trick of light that will disappear surely once he’s not here to stare at it.

Well, anyways; he recognizes his corporeal form enough for it to be a somewhat healthy relationship, though Mark is no big fan of the Aristotelian mind and body dualism. It takes effort to realize that he doesn’t own a body as much as he is a body, and that the world is nothing but a continuation of his own arm, every single one of his movements an autobiography in the making. It is what it is, because it has never been anything else.

His sneakers yelp against the ground as he makes his way downstairs to the living room, the bright yellow contrasting with the dark carpet and announcing his presence to both Jeno and Jaemin, who sit in opposite sides of the couch and awkwardly make a point out of staring away from each other, legs crossed with intertwined hands atop of their knees. Mark wants to laugh at the sight, though he guesses anyone would — with the way they seem like parallel lines repelling of each other, Mark has to swallow down a cackle as he walks right past them, leaded to the kitchen.

His mother is reading the news when Mark swings by the kitchen table to grab a banana, munching on it all the while he pours himself half a cup of milk and coffee. Lillian makes a disgusted face at the odd mix of flavors he’s putting himself through, but turns her gaze back to her newspaper soon enough, tapping her undone nails against the surface of the table impatiently. Mark leaves the kitchen with a quick kiss to her cheek, waving goodbye as he disappears into the threshold, once again meeting Jeno and Jaemin’s awkwardly pointed stares when he finds himself standing in front of them.

Jaemin is the first to break the silence. “I have a list of all the elderly supernaturals in town who might know something about Jeno, but I have to warn the both of you — these... People are weird.”

“You talk to the dead,” Jeno points out, leaning back against Mark’s couch with an incredulous look adorning his sleep-droopy eyes. “You literally talk to the dead. That is just something you do, on the daily, for fun.”

“Not for fun,” Jaemin’s eyebrows furrow. “For necessity. And, anyways — they aren’t all people, which makes them even weirder.” He points his chin towards the empty seat between him and Jeno, motioning for Mark to sit, and he complies if only out of pure wonder. “Are any of you familiar with the court of the Unseelie?”

When silence rushes over them like rouge powder against a pale cheek, Jaemin tries again. “The Shining Throne? The Shadow Court?” He looks around in disbelief. “Come on, The Golden Ones? Scottish folklore?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, no,” Jeno hums.

Mark agrees, although somewhat shyly. “No, not really.”

The boy sighs. “You two are disappointing. Well, anyways — the Unseelie are fae who differ from the Seelie by applying a different moral code to their judgement, and they are well known for their mischief and their rather radical beliefs when it comes to rejecting tradition and, um, peace.” They both stand in silence, blinking at Jaemin with eyes the size of the moon like alley cats in the dark, and he rolls his eyes before simplifying his explanation: “They’re evil fairies, okay? Most legends claim that they assaulted travelers and made them shoot at cattles for fun. They value chaos and discord.”

Mark raises an eyebrow. “Sounds lovely. Can’t wait to meet them.”

Jeno chuckles. Jaemin gives both of them the stinky eye. “The Unseelie guard secrets,” he explains, furthering his point. “They’ve been around for longer than this town exists, and will be around for longer than we’d ever be able to acknowledge. Their Court is a mock-up of the Seelies’, who solve internal affairs within the fae, and they’re the only type of fairy that would agree to allow a human in their facilities. They won’t answer to anything without getting something in return, but then again — we all must have some secrets to spare.”

“Why them?” Jeno asks, folding his sleeves like he does when something gets him fidgety. Mark knows what the next step will be before he even does it; he brings his finger to his mouth, biting down on his nails anxiously. “There must be someone who is willing to help out of the goodness of their heart, right?”

“No, there isn’t.” Jaemin shakes his head, plain and simple. “The other three people are the owner of the ranch down my street, my grandmother, and the witch coven that lives three blocks away from the police station.”

“I’m not stepping anywhere near a police station,” Mark speaks up the moment he sees Jeno’s mouth opening. “And I’m not fucking with witches. My mom would kill me.”

He huffs. “Fine. Continue about the evil fairies, then.”

Jaemin nods, getting up from his position on the couch to sit atop of the center table, gathering their attention around him. Mark flinches at the thought of his mother knowing someone sat there, but it’s not like he’d tell Jaemin to get off. “Listen very closely: You do not, you absolutely do not, tell them your name. If they ask, you’re going to make something up, okay? Promise that. Promise neither of you are telling them your names.”

They both mumble a promise, shoulders slumped. “I’m serious.” Jaemin uses the tip of his sneakers to jag against Mark’s knee, making his point known. “There are precautions you take before interacting with the Fae. You don’t tell them your name, you don’t accept their gifts, you don’t allow them to take you to a secondary location, and you — for the love of God — are not rude to them under any circumstances.”

“Why not tell them our name?” Jeno asks, voicing out Mark’s own curiosity. “I thought fairies were nice little creatures who lived under mushrooms and shit.”

“Because,” the boy starts, though he’s holding back a chuckle of his own. “Names hold power; names hold identity. You’ll be giving them control over you, and nothing good comes from that. Have I made myself clear?”

They both hum in agreement. Jaemin continues: “Unseelies are trickster spirits. They’ll do everything in their power to get you to slip up, which is why it’s important that we stick together and don’t allow them to break us apart. They know one is more vulnerable when one is alone, so I expect you two to be on your best behavior.”

“What happens if they trick us?” Mark crosses his arms, suddenly too interested. “Like, what are the consequences?”

“They may vary. Sometimes it’s something meaningless, a minor inconvenience — an itch you can’t scratch out, not being able to change out of your clothes for two weeks, being suddenly only able to talk in rhymes.” He leans closer to them like a kid telling a scary story at a sleepover, perching himself to the conversation and demanding their utmost attention. Mark wonders why does Jaemin even believe he has to ask for it; for one, his eyes fly to him every time he walks into a room. “Sometimes they’re not as kind. I’ve heard of people whose blood turned into cherry wine, and there are rumors about someone having been cursed to stay with them forever, never being able to leave or grow old. It’s really pitiful.”

“But they’re just rumors, right?”

Jaemin smacks his lips, but says nothing. Something tells Mark the answer is nothing any of them would want to hear. “We’ll be okay,” he ultimately answers. “We just have to stick together. Let me do all the talking, and don’t give them a secret that can be used against you — remember to be hyper aware.”

Mark turns to Jeno with the corners of his lips pulled upwards. “It’s like that one ‘interacting with cops’ etiquette manual I showed you,” he points out, tapping him on his knee. “If you remember they’re not your friends and that everything you say will be used against you, you’ll be safe enough to make it out unharmed.”

Jeno nods, unsure. He focuses his gaze on Jaemin. “What happens if the Unseelie don’t know anything?”

The boy sighs. “Then we go to my grandma.”

His unwillingness to meet his distant family is both odd and understandable, though it leaves Mark to wonder if there is even a way of knowing Jaemin without going through the tall, towering walls he built around himself, if only to keep everyone else away. He tries to remember if he has ever seen Jaemin with a friend before, someone he seems to be close and comfortable with, but no face comes to mind — as far as history like Mark knows it goes, Jaemin has always walked alone, an ever moving prey with no herd to call his own. The thought makes him unconsciously frown.

Jeno insists they have lunch before going, whining about the unrefrainable hunger he’s been experiencing ever since he shifted for the first time, and Mark makes sure to drop by a Chinese restaurant drive through before they follow Jaemin’s directions on how to get to the Unseelie Court. They eat in Lillian’s car with the care of a mother, avoiding stains so intensely one would think it would be a matter of life and death. When Jaemin tries to pay him back for the food, Mark makes a show out of rejecting it, going as far as ignoring his extended hand until he eventually gave up.

It takes them ten minutes to drive past the outskirts of town, and twenty more to find a small clearing between a heavy blanket of consistently emeraud forestry, hidden just far enough from the road Mark was ready to give up by the time they got to it. A relatively big stretch of short grass and ashy tree stumps rests over harsh earth, the sun braided within the ever so ominous green, everything light can touch surrounded by a grove of majestic trees. Mark makes to press his fingertips to one of them in wonder, but Jaemin beats him to it by encircling a hand around his wrist, gently bringing it down afterwards.

“No touching,” he warns in a whisper, stitching his eyebrows together. “This is their home. How would you like it if I went to your bedroom and started putting my hands over everything?”

He gulps down a tease like it’s sweet hibiscus tea, pressing his lips together. “Sorry.”

Jaemin doesn’t let his wrist go. Mark allows his fingers to grip the hem of his long sleeve, if only so they don’t stray apart, the fabric trapped between his middle and pointer fingers like it would leave a dent once he let go.

“I don’t get it,” Jeno frowns as they circle around a particularly destroyed attempt at a fairy den, the ones Mark remembers crafting with his mother as a child. “There’s nothing here.” He crouches down to analyze an agglomeration of brown, flat-headed fungi, hooking his fingers under their caps and pressing up against their gills. “Nothing besides cool as fuck mushrooms, by the way. D’ya know which species of fungi this is?”

“No idea.” Jaemin smacks his lips curiously, towering over Jeno’s figure to peek over the mushrooms. Mark is pulled towards them both through Jaemin’s hold on his wrist, but he’s not complaining about it. “But yeah, this is the right place. Fae appear when they want to be perceived, and vanish once they deem it enough exposure.”

Mark snorts. “Don’t we all?”

“Can’t they wish to be perceived before three?” His best friend complains loudly, dusting off his palms as he springs upwards once again.

“Why?” Mark asks, cocking his head to the side with a smile. “Are you on a tight schedule?”

Jeno rolls his eyes. “I have better things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Like watching BATTLICA kick O2 Blast’s ass for the second time this Overwatch season.”

“The fact you — unironically, mind you — watch eSports tournaments is so—”

Mark’s sentence is cut short by the suddenness with which a pile of dried out leaves falls over his head, covering his frame from head to toe with them and leaving his hair bigger a mess than it already was. Jeno yelps in shock and takes a few steps behind, surprised, while Jaemin distractedly bats a few leaves away from Mark’s hair, a fond yet exasperated look building up into his eyes. Unconsciously, he steps closer to him, gulping in embarrassment.

“They’re here,” he announces. Jaemin points a finger towards Jeno, them motions him to come closer. “You, here. Unless you want to be showered in something worse than just leaves.”

Grumpily, Jeno makes his ways towards them. He’s about to fully reach Jaemin when he trips down onto a clear trap, being immediately hoisted in the air by a handful of small, giggly creatures that pair above his head like bats, their bodies a deep raven with fuzzy wings and round, bright red eyes. Mark’s entire body tenses up immediately, taken a step towards Jeno’s figure, but Jaemin presses a palm over his chest to hold him back. “Don’t do that,” he mumbles in a frown. “There might be other traps.”

“He is hoisted up in the air—”

“He’ll survive.” A voice comes from behind them, melodical and rough like the sound of a flute. Mark goes under a full body shiver before fully turning around to meet a tough looking woman, with wide, prideful shoulders and a ponytail snatched so high over her head it felt like a continuation of her skull. Her arms are crossed and covered by almost transparent white fabric, a gown adorning her tall frame with bouffant sleeves and a mid-leg lace skirt. “A wolf can be tied down and still be a wolf. A fox can be outwitted and remain a fox. There is no need for a human to save him.”

Mark blinks, dumbfounded. She turns to Jaemin, an empty smile tugging at the corners of her lips: “Oh, aren’t you your father’s son. You must be incredibly courageous — or incredibly foolish — to show your face so deep into these woods.”

Jaemin’s nose twitches in annoyance. “Not all those who wander are lost.”

One of her eyebrows is pulled upwards slightly, face stoic in careful manner. “Hunger awaits those who prey in the dark,” she humours. “For their food is hiding in the light.” When she takes a step towards him, Jaemin pulls Mark behind, standing between them. The Unseelie chuckles lowly. “I love good, old lovebirds. What brings you to my home?”

“Information,” Jaemin answers plainly, hiding Mark’s body behind his own. Out of curiosity, he steps to the side, though his grip on Jaemin’s sleeve tightens. “A trade. A secret for a secret.”

“A trade,” she repeats, words molding between her teeth. “The Court doesn’t do trades.”

“It does,” he insists, neutral characteristics sewn tight against his skin. “The Court does anything it is asked to as long as you get something out of it. I have plenty of secrets to share — I suppose so do you.”

The Unseelie stares at him for a second, pressing her lips together into a thin, straight line before answering: “Should you regret it, now is the time to back out.” Her gaze turns to Mark, pointedly so. “I mean you, specifically. Your silence won’t protect you.”

“Talk to me,” Jaemin butts in before he can answer, a deep fink between his eyebrows. Mark holds his breath when he feels his fingers intertwine with his own, heart stuttering and eyes widening. “Not to him. To me.”

She blinks in surprise, taken aback. “Don’t you just love the attention,” the Unseelie raises her eyebrows, focus once again shifted to Jaemin. “I’d believe someone of your family to have higher standards than high school boys, though I get it — your sister was too strong minded, you had to go and be the weak link instead.”

"High school boys are lovely," Mark frowns. “They’re the young minds that will, eventually, lead or break societ—”

The Unseelie shakes her hands ever so slightly, and another pile of leaves falls over Mark on clue. At that, he gets the memo — no talking. When Mark huffs in annoyance, Jaemin lightly squeezes his wrist; funnily enough, it unwinds the tension out of his muscles like magic.

With another shake of her hand, the sound of Jeno's surprised yelp is heard long before the impact of his body against the ground is, though he is back to standing besides them with only a short course of thinly veiled mumbles, grumpy in the way Jeno often is. Mark rests his free hand on the small of his back, if only to offer him stability.

The Unseelie takes a few steps back hushedly, until they are about half a mile apart, and copies the motion of a bird spreading its wings as her arms open in contemplation, almost artistic moves guiding her palms until they create something out of nothing, matter out of thin, voided air. The ground shakes from somewhere deep within, the sound of a thousand cacophonic flutes turning gradually louder and louder as it comes from the heart of the florest, sneaking through trees and surrounding even the smallest of weeds, pied pipers to the Earth's devotion.

It is not a pleasant melody — though Mark supposes it doesn't have to be, as art doesn't require beauty in order to mean something. Nature, in its essence, rarely ever fits the extrapolating criteria of human beauty; for it is made to be felt, not admired.

What builds itself from the ground upon them is a tall, wooden mockup of a courtroom, a surprisingly large jury sat in front and around them as an army of at least thirty to forty small creatures blink in expectation. Four Unseelie stare back from the center of the grade, their faces stoic and their eyes twice the size of the moon, pitch dark and round like a doll's would be. They all, in one way or another, appear to be deeply haunted creatures — with tennis ball-sized black eyes and small, frail bodies, Mark couldn't help but hold back a breath, suddenly hyper aware of his own mundane fragility.

The Unseelie in the center keeps her eyes wide open as she claims the first word. "Who are you?" She asks, unblinking and unsettling.

Both Mark and Jeno stand quiet. Jaemin takes his cue: "We are three of a larger group of researchers looking for information on crossbreeding between shapeshifters." He takes a careful step closer, puffing his chest. "More specifically, we'd like to know about a cross between a werewolf and a Gumiho."

"Are you aware that there is a price to be paid?" The Unseelie in the left end of the board asks, her voice deep and husky. "The Seelie ask for wine and flowers, but real gods require blood. Is that something you've considered?"

"We have secrets to make up for the information given," he answers, convicted. For good measure, Mark takes a step closer to Jeno, the two of them standing behind Jaemin in not so courageous manner. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. It's a fair trade."

"Careful about losing an eye, deer." The Unseelie in the center speaks up, their entire body seemingly dead as no muscle except the mouth is moved. "If you think about it enough, the Gods will find a way of doing it for you. Wouldn't be such a sleek prey with only one eye, would you?"

Jaemin closes his eyes for a second, to regain his patience — or so Mark believes. "I am not prey," he says, words calm and collected. "I have never been prey. There is more to me than the price of my head."

One of the Unseelie from the other end of the board chuckles lightly, though the sound makes every hair in Mark's body stand up. "Dead or alive, you are prey." She leans closer to the table in almost action movie-like intensity, so slow it could as well be an illusion. Her eyes travel to Jeno. "And you know which hands will be dirtying themselves with your blood once time comes."

Mark understands, then, why their movements are so unsettlingly slow — it's so they match the Earth's own endless spinning, the pained drag of a wounded animal.

"But seeing you asked so nicely," the same Unseelie continues, in spite of Jaemin's raised eyebrows and angry blushing. "And seeing that there is nothing to lose, you may allow us to see inside your brain. Choose the secret you'll be sharing wisely, and stick to it — pluck it out of your subconscious, because the beauty of a secret is that you are supposed to keep it."

Three of the same small, fuzzy creatures that tricked Jeno into falling onto a trap make their way towards them, each holding a jar with one single dandelion in it, and stand ominously still. When no one says anything, the center Unseelie instructs: "That is a promise dandelion. Once you blow it out, our deal will be sealed; meaning no one is able to leave our facilities without doing their part."

"Unless they're dead," Jaemin adds, springing his chin upwards. "No one leaves unless they're dead."

The center Unseelie raises a single eyebrow discreetly, but ignores him otherwise. "Very well," they start, bony hands interlaced over equally frail legs. "You may blow them."

Mark turns to look at Jaemin the second the dandelion is trapped between his hands, searching for some sort of confirmation. The boy inspects his own dandelion carefully before nodding — once to Mark, once to Jeno, a simple sign of you can trust me that has him blowing the weed in his hands in the fracture of a second, the petals flying away easily enough and being held up by the strength of his breath, like the tide carrying out waves. Jeno takes a second too long to blow his dandelion, but ends up doing it after Mark does it. Jaemin's had completely stepped out of its petals before they were even urged to do it.

"All we know about crossbreed animals and shapeshifters is in this scroll," the Unseelie besides the one from the center announces, showing them a bottled scroll the size of fist. It doesn't look like much; but then again, nothing ever does. She places the bottle right where they can see it, over the board, and settles back impossibly slowly. Her eyes meet with Mark's. "Tell me a secret."

At sudden, he is alone. When he turns around to meet Jeno's eyes, there is no one there — he is alone, in a dark blue room, the Unseelie waiting expectantly in front of him. There's a respectable distance between them, a matter of a few feet, but Mark takes one step back for good measure; better safe than sorry. Slowly, his breath starts to come out harsher and faster, anxious in ways Mark doesn't ever remember being, though the Unseelie stares at him unimpressed, lips pulled into a thin straight line. "Tell me a secret, Mark Lee." Her voice thunders through the room, the echoes of her words blending together and turning into different sentences, as if they had a mind of their own.

Mark closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. The only way out is through. He has to remind himself of that a few times before he starts, voice coming out shaky. "I think I'll never love anyone else in my life aside from Jaemin. I don't think — I'm terrified that I'm unable to love anyone else but him."

It feels silly when he says it — like a middle school confession, an infantile whisper to a teddy bear, a midnight breakdown, but that is how love works. It loses its boogeyman image once it is addressed as the terrifyingly mind-boggling ordeal that it is. If you're someone who's anyone, you'll know.

The Unseelie offers him an empty smile. "Turn around, Mark."

He does, but only ever so hesitantly, keeping the rest of his body locked into place as he turns his neck around as far as it goes to find Jaemin standing behind him, just as confused. The Unseelie commands: "Kiss him."

"W-what?" He stammers, eyes widening to widths unknown. Mark turns to take a second look at Jaemin, but it's almost as if he is not listening — as if he is somewhere else, his palpable presence only there to be gawked at.

"Don't you want to?" The Unseelie asks, raising an eyebrow. "I am giving you what you want. This is your deepest, most subconscious wish."

Mark blinks. "Not— Not without his permission. I wouldn't want that."

"He is not real," she confides, though it is unlikely that that is the truth. "I am not letting you go until you kiss him. That is my one condition."

"But why—"

"Because you want to."

"Who says—"

She frowns. "It is written all over you. It is hidden in the deepest parts of your psyche. It is so ardent, so unrelenting — you have summoned every young lover's rage into the wish of a kiss. Kiss him."

And maybe Mark shouldn't, but made up decisions are often only one night stands. The only way out is through. The only way out is through. The only way is through. The sooner he does it, the sooner he'll be back to reality — the sooner he'll see Jeno again, and hopefully get the hell out of this place, to never come back again.

He takes tiny steps towards Jaemin, who meets him halfway with an outrageously scared look on his face, green with fear like the greenbrier Mark used to pick up from his grandmother's garden back in Canada. He looks so tall — like Mark was punching upwards rather than downwards, though they might be only a few inches apart. Suddenly, this doesn't feel like a good idea; not when he is so close, and so beautiful, and Mark would never move again if he asked him to stay.

Jaemin is native to his heart. Jaemin is the repeating image in the morgue made out of Mark's brain. Jaemin is the forager of a love that has never been anyone else's but his. Jaemin — Jzemin. Mark had lost himself to him the second he walked in.

He gently lays a hand over his cheek, cupping his jawline. A kiss feels like the iron bullet to a heart-shaped barrel, though Mark has never known love like this; though Mark has never been this close. Should he dissolve like sugar cubes under Jaemin's tongue today, it would be worth it. The care he holds for him is Japanese knotweed, invasively growing between his heartstrings in the sure path to break them apart, so Mark brings his face closer and closer anyways.

A string of lavender marmalade disappears between his and Jaemin's lips as they touch, sweet and raw and wild like animals often are. A lover never tells, but — Mark wants more, more, more, though he knows well enough what happens to those who take more than they need.

When his eyes open again, he is back at the clearing, and Jaemin is not Jaemin. When Mark opens his eyes again, he and Jeno jump away from each other in a violent wave of shock, eyes meeting in disbelief. They are only allowed to smother their disturbance for a few seconds before Jaemin — the real one, this time — falls to his knees with a loud wail, his weeping so loud and clear it broke Mark's heart before he even acknowledged it to be Jaemin's. His face is red like a rose, eyes bloated as he sobs out, vulnerable in ways no one has never seen him be before.

Jeno acts on it first. Mark is still standing behind, stunned, and has to be called into action when Jeno does his best to hoist Jaemin up despite his struggle, hooking his arm around his back and pulling him upwards if only to give him stability. His stillness vanishes after a few seconds, and Mark gets to the bottled scroll before he gets to Jaemin, in order to make this shitshow of a visit any more worthwhile. Once it is secured, he hooks Jaemin’s flailing arms around his neck, pulling him away along with Jeno as he weeps like a child, echoing through the woods. He seems to be in some sort of a trance, allowing himself to be carried away, but eventually his crying comes to an end — what is left of it is a quiet sniffling and hiccuping, shaky hands grabbing at the back of Mark’s shirt as he gently tries to coax him into the car.

Once he eventually gets into the backseat, Mark takes his place in the driver’s seat, and Jeno… Also takes the backseat, averting his eyes when asked why. The three of them sit in silence, the only sound being Jaemin’s light sniffling coming up time and again.

Mark resists the urge to smash his head against the wheel, but breaks the silence anyway. Someone always has to go first — he knows this, so he goes first. “What the fuck was that?”

Silence meets him. That is okay; Jaemin is shaken up to his core, and Jeno is always silent. Mark is supposed to be the one who fills up the silence. “That was so weird. They were so weird. Did anyone else feel like they looked like Funko Pops?”

Jeno snorts. It fills him with hope, but he doesn’t add anything else. “Come on, you guys,” Mark deadpans, leaning back against his seat. “I hated those dolls as a kid. For one, I thought the Unseelie appeared to be very homophobic.”

“Why?” Jeno asks, if only to make their situation less awkward. Jaemin is still deadly silent, face turned pointedly to the window. “They were unpleasant, but not homophobic.”

“Exactly,” he answers, trying not to think too much about how he had Jeno’s lips on his a few minutes ago. That is not the priority, he tells himself — he’d deal with it later. “Gay people are often pleasant. Anyone who is unpleasant is, by association, homophobic.”

Jaemin exhales harshly, almost like a laugh. Noticing that, Jeno continues: “Um, yeah — they were, um, very… I found them… Too… Unseeli-y.”

“Yeah, so Unseeli-y. They looked like the people who message you on Instagram to get you to join MLM’s.” Mark turns around, catching a glimpse of Jaemin’s face within the corner of his eyes.

Jeno frowns. “Men loving men?”

“No, it’s—”

“Multi-level marketing,” comes out hoarsely from Jaemin’s mouth. He’s still avoiding their stares, knees pulled to his chest and face directly turned to the window, but still — it’s progress. Mark flinches at the wrecked state of his voice. “Pyramid schemes.”

Mark hums, not wanting to lose his attention now that he had it. In a somewhat frail attempt at distracting him, he splurts: “Hey, Jaemin, did you know that when I was in seventh grade I had braces and I took them off by myself with my mom’s pliers because I was tired of looking like a nerd?” He asks, all in one breath. “I did know that. I did that.”

Jaemin gives him a tight smile, visibly forced. “I’m alright. You don’t have to try and make me laugh.” He turns to Jeno for a second before getting back to his previous position, shielding himself from their stares. “Neither do you. I’m fine.”

“I don’t know, dude,” Jeno breathes out, still avoiding Mark’s eyes like the plague, which made two of them. “You were really shaken up. What did you— I mean— What had gotten into you?”

“I told them a secret and it backfired. It always backfires. I should never have even thought it wouldn’t when they’re known for playing tricks on people.” Jaemin sighs, shoulders slumping. “I’m so stupid. I’m so sorry. I thought I knew better, and that I’d one up them, but it’s just — It’s impossible. I’m so dumb.”

“That’s alright,” Mark jumps in immediately. “You’re not dumb. You’re so smart. We don’t even know if it paid off yet, anyways — don’t beat yourself up. Seriously. Don’t cry.”

“Yeah,” Jeno awkwardly agrees, scratching his neck. “Yeah, we couldn’t have expected it. It’s fine. We got the information, didn’t we?”

“Wait, no— I didn’t—” His eyes widen. “Oh God, I didn’t get it. Did any of you—”

Mark smiles. “I did.”

Jaemin sighs in relief, finally facing them for the first time since they got into the car. “Thank you. Where is it?”

He pops the bottle from his jacket, holding it towards him with a proud smile. Jaemin doesn’t reach out to it, but nods in agreement either way. “I don’t think I should… It’s better that you and Jeno go on about it. I think it’d be invasive.”

Jeno cocks his head to the side. “Nonsense,” he says. “You’ve gone through great lengths to help, I don’t see why it would be invasive now.”

“Yeah! That makes no sense.” Mark shakes his head. “You can’t get rid of us now. It doesn’t work like that.”

He purses his lips. “I don’t think I can do this today. I’m sorry, I am, but… Too much. I can help next Monday at school.”

"Hey, it's fine," comes from Mark's lips immediately in a delicate attempt at gentleness. "That was… A weird situation. It'll be fine. We'll wait for you, isn't that right, Jeno?"

The aforementioned stammers. "Uh — yeah, sure."

The corner of Jaemin's lips gets pulled downwards in the slightest. Mark doesn't know why he notices those things. "Okay," he answers softly, barely a whisper. "Can you take me home, please?"

"Will you be okay alone?" Jeno asks in unusual careful manner, leaning against the seat in front of him.

"I'm not sure," Jaemin shrugs nonchalantly. "I don't have anywhere else to go."

Mark is about to answer, but Jeno cuts his sentence short by naturally suggesting: "You can help me and Mark shave my head."

All eyes turn to him in surprise. "What?"

He blinks. "What? I've always wanted a buzzcut."

"Just like that? Out of nowhere?" Mark turns his entire body around to face Jeno, who pointedly looks away. "Why?"

"Because," he answers. "Why not?"

Why not? is a very fitting question, since everything from this world to the next can be justifiable through it. Why not? — there is no such a thing. Mark is just maybe not half as brave as Jeno is.

And that is how he ends up watching Jaemin curiously operate Mark’s mother’s hair clippers, holding it up to his line of sight and watching it buzz in a feeling that looks quite like wonder. Jeno sits by the bathtub, eyes huge, and Mark leans against the doorway for supervision — better safe than sorry, he had said, though something inside of him stirrs awake in interest at the thought of watching Jaemin shave Jeno’s head. He doesn’t think much about it, mainly because he is terrified of finding out what that could mean.

Jaemin’s face is bloated and puffy, the delicate skin surrounding his eyes irritated and matching the red of his nose, yet they don’t comment on it. His voice is still hoarse, small, but they don’t comment on it either. There is something about not only acknowledging sorrow but also making friends with it, allowing it to simmer under the skin without feeling the need to poke the wound in order to show that you are suffering — Mark doesn’t get it, but it seems to be how Jaemin works. He never goes down without a fight; never lets himself surrender.

“Are you sure about this?” He asks, looking straight at Jeno, who cards his hands through his hair in thought. “It seems like a pretty rushed decision.”

Jeno positively nods. “I am. Hair is just hair — it’ll grow back. I don’t want my self esteem to be dependent on it.”

Jaemin turns the clippers on again, clearly distracted from their conversation, and Mark frowns. “Since when have you wanted to do this, exactly?”

“Since last Summer,” he mumbles, still avoiding Mark’s eyes. He takes a deep breath before standing up, positioning himself in front of Jaemin with his chin held high, brave in ways no one has ever been. “It’s going to be fine. Jaemin, do it.”

“Okay?” Jaemin asks in a soft whisper as he holds the clippers towards his hair, voice coming out smoothened and softened like warm caramel before it hardens. He turns to Mark, meeting his eyes like mint leaves, and goes back to staring at the back of Jeno’s head.

The boy blinks a few times before answering. “Okay.”

When the clippers meet Jeno’s head for the first time, the entire building holds back a breath. Jaemin’s palm rests against his back, right between his shoulder blades, and he continues shortly after; no time for regretting, no time for second thoughts. Jeno’s hair falls to the ground in graceful dark locks, coating the floor with livelihood gone dead, and Mark just… Watches. He watches, because it feels like his eyeballs will fall out if he doesn’t — he watches, because something bends until it breaks at the very dip of his spine, almost like an entire cloud of blue butterflies, their wings pressing up against his skin.

He wouldn’t like to think about it, but of course he does. Seeing them together, it’s impossible to not notice how much they’ve grown, their silent mouths sewn shut as Jaemin works his way up Jeno’s head, a hand leaning against his nape. Mark doesn’t get it; each time he thinks he’s close to getting used to this troubled life of his, he keeps on growing. They all do. They were children just yesterday — Jeno used to be a head smaller than him, and Jaemin had braces all throughout middle school, and Mark was just Mark. He wasn’t anything else, because he didn’t have to be.

Now he is someone: Someone’s son, someone’s friend, someone’s student, someone’s first and last kiss, someone. It’s a pity — he had gotten used to being no one’s.

When Jaemin is done, and Jeno’s buzzcut is presentable enough for him to be able to see it in the mirror without screaming out in horror, Mark stands behind curiously, letting his fingertips travel through the buzzed ends of Jeno’s hair with great interest. It’s so different, so inherently un-Jeno-like, it becomes his to the touch. A path of flowers would’ve grown on his head where Mark’s hands had been, were he a little better at manifesting his thoughts.

Mark wants to cry. He doesn’t know why he wants to cry. Maybe it’s because he is growing older and he is growing softer but he is not growing wiser, and maybe Jeno’s hair is all gone, which means the world is done for and has been for a long time now. Maybe he is growing up, after all, and the restless animal living inside of him has grown too tired to fight it.

“Do you like it?” Jaemin asks, standing behind Jeno’s imagine in the mirror awkwardly. His hands are interlaced together on their own, no bite or wits to his voice, and Mark notes that this is the most vulnerable he’s been in years.

Jeno raises a hand to the top of his head, pressing his palm down against the dark buzzed hair. “I do.” He breathes out, unbelievably beautiful. “I actually do. I like it a lot.”

“Yeah,” Mark agrees, trying to swallow down the lump inside his throat. “You’re going to— you’re going to save a lot of money with shampoo and conditioner now.”

He laughs. “I will.”

“And you’ll save water too,” Jaemin hums, staring at them through the mirror. “Because your showers are going to be shorter.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, they will.”

“And you’re a shapeshifter,” Mark points out. The three of them stand squished in front of the mirror, a sour note in the shape of twin brown eyes and the smell of cheap Chinese take out. “That’s gotta be a new chapter of your life, right?”

Jeno nods, eyes trained to the mirror. “Yes.”

They keep staring — at themselves, at each other, at the flickering lamp standing behind them. Mark is not sure of what he feels when they’re together, at three, but it’s something quite like the animalistic ideal of belonging; like growing flowers around roadkill and golden fishes swimming in round aquariums. At some level in time and space, they are birds of a feather who had just landed together for the first time.

“I really like it,” Jaemin comments eventually, leaning against the wall. “I think I’ll open up a salon. Any thoughts?”

“I can’t believe I just let you shave my head.” Jeno steps away from the mirror to stare at Jaemin in disbelief. “I mean— I didn’t even like you until… I don’t even know if I like you now. Jury’s still out.”

He chuckles. “Why, thank you.”

But Mark, for one, knows that Jeno does like Jaemin — rather he had noticed it himself or not. There’s nothing to dislike, and eventually all ends must meet, no matter how unlikely. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Jeno mumbles, pushing Jaemin away — although gently — from him. “You’re still such a dick.”

Jaemin laughs, throwing his head back. “And he’s back to being rabid,” he whistles, wiggling his eyebrows towards Mark. He looks much happier than he was before; it makes the atmosphere lighter, easier to swallow. “Took you long enough. Was it the stress from being groomed? Do you need a bone to chew on?”

“I’d take your bony ass—”

Mark tunes out of their bickering. There they were — the two halves of his heart, and they are just as unpleasant as they seem.

Jaemin and Jeno continue to pull at each other’s pigtails for the rest of the afternoon, though Mark sees it well enough when the latter refuses to take it a step further, stepping around Jaemin delicately as if he didn’t mean to do any more harm than has already been done. He knows; and he sees; and he cares — Jeno is tender like an open wound.

There’s not much to do. There never is. The afternoon melts away from him like magic, thoughtless as time often goes, and in between he waits, talking like he has anything to say. Mark seems to never be done with killing time nowadays, living in a never ending teenage lethargy with an ever expanding body count, Jaemin’s presence now deeply braided within the fabric of his reality and dragged into his daydream-like inertia.

He’s sitting in front of the living room’s television with Jeno a few inches from him, both their naked feet touching the cold ground, and the lights are so dim so blue Mark is afraid they’ll leave dents on his skin once they go away. They’re farther enough for it to be noticeable, but close enough for him to question how much the distance matters, if at all. The television reflects against the dark oceanic trench inside Jeno’s eyes, the bright lights getting drowned under waves and waves of blackness, and Mark keeps himself above water if only to be able to stare a few minutes longer.

He’s had Jeno’s lips to his just a few hours ago. How long would it have taken him to notice, Mark wonders — how much time would we have spent chasing Jeno’s mouth without knowing it was him at all, had he not opened his eyes. The thought is terrifying; the idea that such a moment didn’t die just there, but lingered long enough to be the only thing that survived from a troubled existence he is not sure he can account for. It comes back to the great fear that a memory doesn’t survive, and to the even greater fear that it does.

Mark doesn’t want to talk about it. He doesn’t, no — he doesn’t want to give this subject such a power, doesn’t want to acknowledge it as an issue, doesn’t want to allow it to live in his mind by the rent of his own sanity. Anyone would’ve enjoyed themselves in a kiss, and it’s not like Jeno is someone whose proximity has never gotten Mark into questioning his own feelings, but even then; why would love be kind to him when it hasn’t up until now? Why would it change anything when things were good as they were, in the blurry limbo between codependent friendship and wiggling eyebrows? Why should Mark make this a bigger deal than it is?

Well, he knows why. Because ignoring something like this is like avoiding your eyes from the light in hopes it doesn’t reach you — eventually, it does. Because Mark, more than anyone else, should know what it’s like to balance out two big devotions into just one tiny teenage body. Because Jeno kissed him, and as far as it goes, Mark doesn't think he hated it.

He rests his chin over his arm, watching Jeno’s eyes as they purposefully avoid his. How would Mark even begin to tell him that? How would he even explain it to him, in loud and clear words, that the fact he likes Jaemin (and most likely forever will) does not exclude him from the equation as much as it adds him on? That is too much for any teenage boy, but Jeno happens to be equally as sensitive as he tries to hide he is, and hurting him is nowhere near Mark’s to-do list.

His eyes stay trained to Jeno, and Jeno’s stay averted from his. Mark somewhat likes that — to know he has that effect on him, to see himself in the fraction of light nearing his pupils and know it is the reason why Jeno can’t bring himself to stare back. Mark likes making him nervous as much as he likes making him laugh, and as far as it goes, not all platonic friendships should feel like this.

“Stop it.” Jeno steals a glance towards him, but occasionally settles for staring at the TV. He murmurs: “I can see the engines in your brain working and I don’t want to hear about it.”

“You’ll have to, eventually,” Mark answers, voice muffled. “You’ll have to.”

“Mark,” his best friend whines, dragging out his name in a high pitched tone. “I don’t want to. I know what it is that is bothering you and I don’t want to talk about it because we both know well enough about this situation.”

At that, he purses his lips. “I don’t know well enough. I want to talk about it.”

Jeno’s shoulders slump. “I don’t,” he sighs out. “I seriously don’t. You’ll go all soft and tender on me, and you’ll grab me by the nape, and you’ll find a way to let me down gently because that’s who you are. But I don’t want to hear it and I know you don’t want to say it, so, please, for the sake of—”

“Who says I’m letting you down?” Mark frowns. His eyes widen the second the words leave his mouth, and he backtracks: “I mean—”

“Mark, keep it.”

“No, listen,” he insists, even going as far as positioning himself in front of the TV to get Jeno to pay attention, even if he still avoids his eyes. “Listen to me. Listen.”

Jeno stays silent. Mark continues: “I didn’t hate it, Jeno.”

“Jeez, thank you—”

“Let me speak.” He raises his hands in surrender. “You know how I feel about you, Jeno. You know how blurred the lines between platonic and romantic in our relationship are.”

Jeno considers it for a second before adding: "But you like Jaemin."

Mark blinks, taken aback. "I like Jaemin, yes."

"Then there is nothing to talk about." He clenches his jawline, already done with the conversation.

"Jeno."

"No."

"Jeno."

“No, Mark.”

“Jeno—”

"I'm not going to be second option to Jaemin," he snaps, brows furrowed. His words come out through gritted teeth, every muscle in his body tense. “I’m not going to let you have me because you couldn’t have him. It’s not going to fucking happen, Mark, so hop off my dick.”

Mark frowns, pulling himself up from the ground. He knows it’ll come childish before he even says it, but Jeno has that effect on him — he evokes feelings in Mark to the likes of nothing he knows of. “Fine,” he stomps his feet on the ground like a little boy, crossing his arms. “You keep your conclusions, then. I’m not fucking entertaining your paranoia anymore.”

He storms into the kitchen, then, if only to not have to be in the same room as Jeno. Jaemin is quietly sitting by the very end of his dining table, thick-framed black glasses sliding to the tip of his nose as he goes over the scroll the Unseelie had gave them, having kicked them out of the kitchen long to examine it silently, hence why they were in the living room in the first place. The artificial lighting of his kitchen bounces off the bridge of his nose, illuminating the top of his face and casting a glasses-shaped shadow against his cheekbones.

When Mark takes a seat at the other end of the table, he looks up to meet his eyes. “Hello?” He greets, voice quiet and patient. "Are you here to join me in my reading?"

Mark huffs. "No."

“Okay.” Jaemin nods, turning his eyes back to his reading. “Be quiet, then. Please.”

He doesn’t answer, sitting silent and letting his feelings simmer under his skin. Jaemin dutifully ignores him in order to keep reading, grazing his fingertips against the table’s surface as he does so, keeping his fingers occupied. Mark watches, trying to take his head off of Jeno’s annoyed expression, but it hardly pays off — forgetting was never his strongest suit.

Fortunately, he didn’t have to break the silence this time. Jaemin takes his borrowed glasses off, folding them to the table, and studies Mark before announcing: “I can’t concentrate with you reeking of anger. What's wrong with you?"

"Jeno," Mark answers simply. He knows he's being irritatingly vague, but then again — he doesn't feel like talking about it.

"Ah, yes," he hums in agreement. "Jeno. What a guy."

“Yes.” He grits his teeth. “What a guy.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow. “You’re fuming. What did Jeno do?”

Mark doesn’t want to discuss his relationship trouble with the third half of it, but Jaemin looks interested enough, and he’s fairly prone to reckless decisions anyways. “Did you see what we were doing back at the Unseelie?”

“No,” his face hardens considerably at the mention of the Unseelie, but Jaemin masks it well by blinking it away. “I was crying.”

“Well, yes.” Mark crosses his arms, leaning them against the table. “Me and Jeno… Kissed. But it wasn’t really — it wasn’t really Jeno. It was like…”

Jaemin nods in understanding. “An illusion. A trick. Yeah, it’s what they do.”

“Yeah; it was that, yeah,” he gulps down the part of the story that concerns him kissing Jaemi, and continues: “I don’t know. We just… I tried to talk to him about it and he didn’t want to at all. I told him — you know, that we are kind of… Weird friends. But he thought I was making him my second option.”

“Because you like me?”

Mark resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, because I like you.”

“Well,” Jaemin thinks for a second before asking. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Are you making him your second option?”

“No, I’m not,” he sulks, leaning his chin against his closed fist. “I don’t think I am, but he won’t listen to me. He doesn’t understand that— That it’s different.”

The boy cocks his head to the side. “What’s different?”

“It’s different.” Mark’s shoulders slump unconsciously, explaining himself through big, bold hand gestures. “I like the both of you in different ways. Always have. It doesn’t mean one is exclusive to the other.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow discreetly. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. I don’t know how to tell him that without making him think he’s a second option.”

“How can he be, anyways?” He asks, genuinely curious. “It’s not like you and me have ever done anything. I mean… Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Mark’s eyes widen thrice their size in disbelief.

The corner of his lips get pulled upwards slightly. “I thought our graveyard date was kind of lovely.”

“That was a date?”

Jaemin makes a face. “Wasn’t it? I even brought you to meet my dead relatives."

"I just— I didn't—" Mark stammers. "I thought you were just… Being nice."

"Not at all," the boy frowns. "I am very serious about courting you back. I thought I had made that crystal clear."

He wants to scream into his hands. He would, if only he had the energy for it. Out of the small high school aged masculine population in this town, filtered to an even smaller dating pool, Mark had just managed to pick the very two oddest there were — and at the same time, on top of that.

Mark sighs. Jaemin chuckles lightly, as if aware of the trouble he brings by simply standing there, but changes the subject at the prospect of furthering his own interest on the scientific side of the supernatural. “Do you wanna know what I got from this?” He points towards the open scroll with his chin, a manic glimpse on his eyes. Distantly, Mark thinks he looks like a mad scientist.

“I do,” he agrees easily, reeling in closer until their shoulders brush and Jaemin’s hands are close but not enough. We haven’t done anything yet — how is Mark supposed to live that promise down? “What have you found out?”

Jaemin clears his throat. “There is an specific name for what Jeno is, though it’s… Somewhat rare,” he explains, pushing the scroll to Mark’s direction. “Chimera. It’s a Greek creature — usually a hybrid between two or more animals, but often depicted as a lion with a goat’s head coming out of its spine with a snake for a tail. It’s as terrifying as it sounds.”

Mark nods. “So Jeno’s that?”

“I think so,” he answers excitedly, as if a child cladded over a fairytale book. “But, well, you know; there is much more to it than just what we know. The earliest reference of a Chimera known to men is in the Iliad, and it’s described as something non-human made, meaning it can’t be passed down by shapeshifters. Which brings me to my main question: If Jeno wasn’t born a Chimera, what turned him into one?”

When he doesn’t say anything, Jaemin answers his own question with a squeal. “Exactly! We don’t know! This city is eerie as it is, but I know, for sure, the strangeness would not be enough to turn Jeno into something out of nothing.”

“Maybe a ritual?” Mark asks, curiously leaning over the scroll. It’s mostly information about the Chimera — things they could’ve figured out by themselves, though maybe not as quick and maybe not as detailed. “Something of the sort.”

“A ritual that permanent can only be prepared by a group of people who believe in it dearly,” Jaemin says, in thought. “Or by a powerful creature — something, say, Titan-like. Some say a Chimera can only be Echidna’s direct offspring.”

“Who’s Echidna?”

He gives Mark an estranged out look, as if it was obvious. It isn’t, but then again, this is Jaemin; he grew up surrounded by those myths. “Mother of all monsters. An immortal, ageless half woman half snake. I find her very neat, in the premise that it’s just a myth, but if the bitch’s real I might have to change my mind. Legend says she got killed in her sleep, but monsters that powerful don’t die; not entirely.”

“What do you mean by ‘not entirely’?” He frowns.

“It means that, if she’s real, and if she’s the only possible way to get a Chimera,” Jaemin starts, a somewhat haunted look to his otherwise pacific brown eyes. “Then she is very much alive and well — to the point of having a sixteen-year-old child.”

“But those are just myths, right?” Mark cocks his head to the side. “They don’t hold any historical accuracy, right?”

The boy scoffs. “Of course they do, Mark Lee. Myths are never just myths — eventually, some truth must be held in them, even if man-made.”

“Does that mean there is a giant snake woman somewhere out there, and that she, mind you, is Jeno’s mother?” He asks again, patiently enough to burn like the spread of a wildfire. “Is that the idea you’re trying to convey?”

“Maybe.” Jaemin bites his lower lip. “I’m just saying that, if there is, we should be prepared for a future confrontation. I mean… She must want her creation back, no?”

Mark sighs out dramatically. “Are you serious?”

“More than I’ve ever been.”

He averts his eyes to Jaemin’s pale hands, suddenly too overwhelmed to stare anywhere near his face. All snake monsters and Chimeras considered, Mark would like, for once, to focus on something else other than the ever recurring ache of his heart — howbeit selfish that might be.

When he goes to sleep that night, Mark dreams of a place where he is safe and good. It switches into something darker soon enough — a blurred image of a wolf swallowing down a blue butterfly, but the feeling of safety remains; as if no other force in the world had it in itself to compete against the enormous weight of Mark’s devotion, though that may not be even close to reality.

Oh, well.

Chapter Text

“You know you’re going to have to talk to him eventually, right?” Jaemin asks, his basketball jersey hoisted up to his mid-belly, showing the black turtleneck underneath as he hangs upside down from a particularly thick branch. “I mean, Mark. You’re going to have to talk to him, eventually, even if so we can meet my grandmother.”

Jeno snarls, on his hundredth pushup of the afternoon. “Not now.”

The boy pulls himself upwards, using the same branch he was hanging from as a seat, legs dangling in Jeno’s direction. “When? People like us don’t have much time before something bad happens. We are currently in the luxurious stretch of time where nothing occurs, but the only way from here is downwards.”

“What if Echidna just leaves us alone and means no harm to anyone, at all?” Jeno hums, resuming to doing one-hand pushups now. “What if she doesn’t care?”

“That’s not possible,” Jaemin chuckles as if it was a joke, draping himself across the branch in lazy manner. “Everything in the supernatural world that is stolen or strayed eventually gets back to its original owner. The Furies make sure of that, you know — they balance the world out. Destiny is going to start to catch up to you whether you want it to or not.” He peeks over to where Jeno is working out, a curious glint to his eyes. “You know, when I said working out is a good way to control the shift, I didn’t think you’d go all fitness maniac on me.”

He scoffs, only slightly out of breath. “Working out I can deal with. Turning into a maiming beast at random, I cannot.”

“Aw, don’t be so self-deprecative,” Jaemin singsongs, looking pretty while blanketed by the tree’s heavy foliage. Jeno rolls his eyes before he even continues his sentence. “I’m serious! Out of everything you could’ve been, a Chimera is not bad at all. At least you’re a predator.”

“Why?” Jeno asks between deep breaths, finally tiring himself out after some time of constant exercise. He throws himself to the ground unceremoniously, staring up at Jaemin. “Are you unsatisfied with being prey?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Not exactly, bunny. I can fend for myself well enough, I just suppose you would not were you in my shoes.”

“Must not be too hard,” he exhales out his words, stretching his arms in order to avoid cramps. The forest ground is so welcoming, so true — Jeno doesn’t ever want to get up. “You’re not roadkill yet, right? That’s something.”

To his surprise, Jaemin laughs. “The way you said ‘yet’ is bone-chilling. Are you planning on hitting me with your car anytime soon, Lee?”

To his own surprise, Jeno also laughs. “No, not on my to-do list, though don’t be surprised if I add it one day.”

“Dutifully noted,” he says, clearly unscathed by Jeno’s half-hearted threat. Jaemin is easy to banter with — other than being an absolute fun killer, he gets along with Jeno well enough. “I must warn you I’m a travesty to kill, though. You’re not the first to try, you know? A lot of people want to walk on the wavelength only I can walk on.”

It is a weirdly intense thing to say in such a lighthearted context, but then again; this is Jaemin. Jeno understands him better now. “What’s all that about, anyways? Is it the horns?”

“No.” The boy pulls himself up again, leaning against the trunk. “The word you’re looking for is ‘antlers’. And, well, yeah — it’s part of it. But then there’s also the, you know, the environmental issue. Deers are prey animal in both the supernatural and human world.”

“That must be fucked,” Jeno murmurs, unsure of what else to say. “Like, super fucked. I’m sorry, dude.”

Jaemin shrugs. “It’s a pretty big ego boost to know so many people are chasing after you at all times, you know? Keeps you on your toes.”

“Dude, don’t pop a boner over being sworn dead by so many people,” he laughs, letting the light filtering from the tree crowns bathe him in long awaited peace, however fleeting it must be. “You’re so fucking weird. How’d you even get so popular at school?”

He peeks over to meet Jeno’s eyes, wiggling his eyebrows from so up in the air he is scared Jaemin will fall down if he takes one wrong step. “Jealous, much? I don’t know, myself. I’m just very easily pleased when it comes to people; I love socializing.”

“Huh. Makes sense.”

They sit in the silence of the woods for some time. It’s funny — it feels like home in a way it has never felt before, but maybe that is the possible cliché response to being a shapeshifter in the first place. Jeno never thought he’d find so much peace within the deep roots of these lands, but he understands it better now; like an otherwise hazy, now cleared mind, the way the trees go all the way down to places he can never be is a concept Jeno makes much more sense out of nowadays. The motherland is not especially kind, but it takes him under her wing anyways; like she knows, like she sees, like she understands. Jeno has never belonged to the world more than he does now.

Jaemin hums along the line of this discussion sometimes — he’ll hint at his own relationship with the earth that surrounds them, and Jeno will, surprisingly, find himself agreeing. In a way, their lives have been intertwined together by the strange ordeal of community, however severely they might’ve strayed apart from each other before. It’s a strange combination of factors that happened to pull him somewhat closer to the boy he swore to hate forever, but then again; this might as well happen. Jeno’s life has been weird enough as it has, so befriending the enemy may be the smallest of his problems right now.

But he does miss Mark. That is a role Jaemin could never take on, and he’s afraid no one ever could — both as a friend and as a romantic interest, Jeno can’t bring himself to be apart from Mark for too long, and the fact he’s lasted about one or two weeks is still mind-boggling. He’s made a goal out of not thinking about it, but, well; has Mark ever not been a big part of his thoughts? Jeno is not sure. As far as he can tell, this silent treatment of his can’t endure for much longer.

“Did you hear that?” Jaemin asks, hopping off the tree with a swift move and eventually landing somewhere near Jeno’s stretched out figure, the impact of his white sneakers against the forest floor a soft impact that doesn’t go unnoticed by his ever-attuned ears.

Jeno pulls himself to sit up, bending his knees. “No. What is it?”

The boy frowns, standing on his tiptoes as if to reach the sound better. “It’s nothing, just… Some girls, giggling. Two, I think. But then it disappeared so quickly — like it got cut off.”

“Were they just giggling?” He asks, looking up at Jaemin. “No talking?”

"Didn't hear any of it." Jaemin shakes his head. "Eavesdropping is quite rude. The only reason I've noticed the lack of giggling at all was because the sudden silence turned… Eerie."

“Should we… Do something about it?” Jeno blinks, searching for Jaemin’s eyes. “Should we help them?”

He giggles, moving to sit cross legged on top of a tree stump. “No, superman. We don’t have to save everyone because we saved one or two people before.”

Jeno clears his throat, feeling slightly embarrassed. “They might be in trouble, Jaemin.”

“We’re in trouble, too,” he hums, raising his eyebrows. “Everyone is. We are not to play God here, Lee. Keep that in mind before you want to mindlessly throw yourself into everyone’s daily struggle.”

“I’m aware of that.” Jeno rolls his eyes. He leans back on his hands, feeling the dirt prickle on his palms. “You don’t have to sound so cynical.”

Jaemin offers him a tight-lipped smile. “I’m not cynical at all, bunny. I believe in the heart of humanity dearly, but don’t you think I’ve had my fair share of reckless idealists to know how that looks like?”

It comes out of his mouth before he registers it. “Your dad,” Jeno whispers, instantly regretting them as soon as the words spill from his lips. “Oh, I’m sorry—”

“It’s fine,” he answers right away, playing it off as nonchalance, but Jeno hears the gulp going down his throat well enough. “But, yeah, my dad. I’m… A firm believer that giving yourself away does more harm than good in the long run. You have to keep a respectful distance from the supernatural if you don’t want to go crazy.”

And Jeno knows it’s good advice, and that Jaemin, out of anyone, does not need his pity, but it comes back to it — it does, at the end. It comes back to the fact Jaemin has seen and lived down things no other person has, and that trying to understanding it will result in frustration for both sides, because it’ll be like trying to communicate something incommunicable.

Still, Jeno would like to understand. Jeno would like to offer him some sort of ease, because he knows not everyone has the privilege of being consistently smothered by Mark’s love each time something mildly difficult happens, until his heart beats its pain away on its own. Jeno lost a parent, too — he knows how it feels like, but there’s not a way to communicate that without outwardly bringing it up, which could cause more harm than good.

Jaemin seems to notice his internal turmoil, probably because of his scent, and comments: “It was him, you know.”

“What?”

“It was him,” he explains, pursing out his lips. “When we went to the Unseelie, I saw him. It was an illusion… Of him. It was like he was really there, and I— I don’t know. I didn’t want to believe it was a lie. I thought it would be too cruel to be true.”

Jeno silently nods, but ends up adding: “Grief is an odd experience; I get that.”

Jaemin sighs. “Yeah, it is. It’s very weird. You lost your mom, right?”

“Yup,” he answers. “Around the same time you lost your dad; maybe a few months after. ‘T was the end of fifth grade.”

“Fifth grade,” Jaemin repeats, as if testing the words on his tongue. “It’s been five years. And, well — you’ve seen it. I’m not… Over it. Not yet.”

“I don’t think there’s a way to be over it,” Jeno chimes in, weirdly invested in the conversation. “I think you can get used to it, but not over it, per se. How do you even, you know, how do you even cope with death? There’s that, too. I don't believe it's that easy.”

“Yeah.” The boy’s shoulders slump, his eyes trained to a particular trunk in order to avoid Jeno’s eyes. That’s okay — it’s too heavy of a topic; Jeno gets it, despite being able to talk so naturally about it. “I think… Maybe the worst part isn’t the, well, the death itself — though that’s shitty too — but, like… What happens after. The impact it has on a family. I always find myself walking around my house and, you know, thinking to myself… ‘Oh, this was a home once’, you know?”

Jeno presses his lips together. “Yeah, I get it. Death doesn’t happen to you, really, it just… It happens to your loved ones. But you can’t blame them for being dead, so it’s like — who is to blame?”

“No one is to blame,” Jaemin juts his lower lip out, the corners of his mouth trembling slightly. Jeno is scared he’ll start crying at sudden, but he doesn’t — the emotion appears to be controlled soon enough. “But you can’t, right, you can’t pretend it’s the same. It’s never the same.”

“It never is,” he agrees. “Are you in good terms with your mom? And your sister?”

Jaemin considers it for a second before answering. “My sister, more or less. My mom… Well, I wouldn’t say we’re in bad terms. I just think that, sometimes, it feels like…” He turns to Jeno, exhaling softly. “Like I’m my father’s son and my mother’s mother.”

“Like you’re the parent?”

“Yeah.” The boy smacks his lips. “Like I’m the parent. Both in the sense of… You know, that I take more care of her than she takes care of me, but also… Every trace of mine I hate is inherited. I keep thinking about it. I wonder… When I’ll start to get like that, too — and if it’ll get me killed, like my dad, or if it’ll get me devastated, like my mom.”

One day, Jeno remembers Renjun's words yet again. Jaemin is going to finally lose it, and we'll watch it from the front row.

"I'm sorry, Jaemin," Jeno breathes out to the forest air, trying to get his voice to a lighter, softer tone. He really is sorry — for many things, and having been extremely rude to him before might be one of them. "I truly am."

Jaemin shrugs, nonchalant. "It's fine."

Jeno stares at him for a second before looking away. "You're very honest," he points out, unsure of how else to make it better. "Doesn't that scare you?"

The boy smiles mildly. "No. No one can do me any more harm than this dear life of mine already has." Jeno is already thinking of a good way to answer by the time the words leave his mouth, but Jaemin beats him to it by springing upwards, arms stretched out for a second before falling limp against his sides. "Come on, let's go home."

He extends a hand in Jeno’s direction, the deep forest a halo surrounding his entire body, and pulls him upwards when Jeno accepts it. Jaemin smiles cheekily for the half second they stand face to face, stitched together by the pull of their intertwined hands. “Aw, don’t look so sad for me, Lee. I promise you I could’ve had it worse.”

Jeno rolls his eyes. “I know. Shut up.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow in his direction, but shuts up anyway. Jeno likes him better when he’s silent.

They stroll into the woods in quiet, old-fashioned manner, the empty space between them a vacuum Jeno is too scared to come any closer. Jaemin keeps his hands to his back politely, oftentimes slowing down his steps to simply stare at the sky as if it contained the most interesting of secrets, and Jeno has to convince himself to wait for him rather than just keep walking. It’s a nice place to be in the daytime, the soft murmur of the forest birdsong twinkling like golden bells over the atmosphere as though a shy wish of ‘good luck, good luck to you’. Jeno likes it here — he does. He just would rather stay away in the nighttime.

“Full moon’s tomorrow,” Jaemin points out as they bypass a thick, fallen trunk, so large it almost reached their knees. He jumps over it easily, throwing one leg after the other, and waits until Jeno does the same before continuing. “How do you feel?”

He raises an eyebrow. “How do you feel?”

“I asked first,” the boy offers him another cheeky grin. “But I’m fine. My sister’s home from college, so… Yeah, not really bothered by it.”

“Should I be?” Jeno asks, the loud sound of a branch cracking under his sneakers making him flinch in discomfort. Nature has no business sounding like the cracking of bones — at least not when it sounds like such mockery.

Jaemin kicks away a small, round rock nonchalantly. “Don’t think so, but maybe it’d be better to stay in for the night. With the way supernatural creatures have been acting so aggressive lately, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Purge broke out tomorrow.”

“Aggressive, you say?” He questions, ears perking up in interest. “Why is that?”

“Dunno, Lee,” he shrugs. “Something’s been building up, I think. The air is weird nowadays — buzzing in expectation. It’s making everyone agitated.”

“Are you agitated?” Jeno hums curiously. “I haven’t noticed anything.”

“I’m always agitated,” Jaemin answers, studying his face for a second before turning away. “It’s been making me nervous, though, admittedly. Sometimes my hand start to shake and I don’t really know why.”

“Like danger’s near?” He suggests.

“Yup,” the boy nods. “Like something bad is about to go down, but the feeling goes away eventually. My dad used to say this town was created in an intersection of two ley lines when I asked why we had these weird, sporadic bursts of supernatural energy. To this day, I’m not sure if it’s true — but it’s a good theory as to why this tiny piece of land attracted so many supernaturals in the first place.”

Jeno almost trips over a particularly narrow stump, but regains his balance soon enough before threading onwards with only a slightly embarrassed yelp. “Do you think it means something?” He asks, burying his hands in his pockets in order to appear calm and collected.

“Maybe.” Jaemin jumps over the same stump, basketball jersey tucked neatly into his jeans. “Maybe it comes back to Echidna and her alleged offspring, you know? I’ve been thinking about it. The fact you shifted for the first time out of anger, and that you don’t remember anything odd happening in the last, say, two to five years other than your mother’s death. Maybe this random burst of supernatural energy was what triggered your shifting in the first place.”

Jeno is about to answer, but Jaemin continues with his rambling: “Or maybe not. Maybe you triggered this energy disbalance when you first shifted.”

“How could I even do that?” He frowns. “I’m not that powerful.”

“You’re not,” the boy agrees, gracefully maneuvering his words. “But power and energy are two very different things. One fuels the other. If they were in the right place, in the right time, anyone would’ve been able to bend the energy to their liking; we’re just lucky you got to it first.”

“Right place, right time? What does that even mean?”

He turns to Jeno, curiously sizing him up. “Have you lived in the same house all your life?”

“Why does that matter—”

“Answer the question.”

Jeno nibbled on his bottom lip for a second before answering. “Yeah. I was born in Seoul but moved here because of my mom, and we’ve lived in the same house ever since. It’s been, like — fifteen, fourteen years.”

Jaemin hums. “Maybe your mom chose that specific house for a reason.” He draws his lips back in a quiet sound, as if lost in thought. “You live downtown, right? In the inner city.”

“I do.”

“That’s where my dad thought the ley lines intersected,” he says, abandoning their stroll. “Right by the city hall. That’s, like, two blocks from your house, isn’t it?”

Jeno’s eyebrows stitch themselves together, recognition dawning on his face like the merging of two different horizons. “It is. My dad does shifts there, sometimes. The mayor is very paranoid about his safety.”

Jaemin raises an eyebrow, pleased. “Wonder why,” he almost singsongs, eyes twinkling in self-immersed satisfaction. “I wonder what could possibly freak the mayor out in the intersection of two ley lines.”

“Jaemin, can you dumb down your theory so I can understand it, please?” He pleads, trying to keep the whine off his tone. Jaemin is so frustrating — Jeno wonders how he manages it.

“I’m just saying there is a reason that you are the way that you are,” the Jaemin in question explains, once again resuming his walk and leaving Jeno to blindly chase after him, a low huff to his tone. “I think it means something that your mother chose this exact city and this exact house. You can turn people through rituals, you know — and the intersection between a ley line is the perfect place for one.”

“My mom was an anemic art teacher who struggled with depression for her entire life,” Jeno frowns, feeling slightly protective over his mother’s image. “What ritual could a woman like that ever perform?”

“Physical strength is overrated,” he answers, annoyingly vague. “You’d be surprised at how far someone’s supernatural lineage can go.”

“Jaemin—” Jeno starts, curling his lips into a scowl, but is cut short by a sudden howl thundering in the distance. His shoulders tense up: “Did you hear that?”

Jaemin wrinkles his nose in confusion. “No? What is it?”

He turns around abruptly, staring at the woods as if it would answer for itself. The howl doesn’t happen again, but Jeno’s ears catch a soft, muffled cry anyways, the sound of an upset wolf in the very distance. He frowns: “A wolf. In our way, maybe.” Jeno takes a step towards the sound, entire body tense, and turns his back to Jaemin. “I’m going to check it out. Stay here.”

The boy’s eyebrows lower. “Feel free. I’m not a friend of wolves.”

Jeno walks into the woods chin first, making his way around piles of leaves and narrow branches in order to not cause any more sound than necessary. The forest sings back to him eerily, layers and layers of yellowed-out greenery blending within themselves to form a color of their own, the one that Jeno steps in and is surrounded of. The sound ends up dying down soon enough, resuming its scratchy nature to something much more vague and deformed, to the point Jeno might’ve imagined it further had he tried hard enough.

Out of precaution, he walks a few more miles — until his eyes catch the side of the road again, partially blocked by a web of trees that bordered between the cement and the earth like forest-keepers, which Jeno assumes they most likely are. The answer do his questioning appears a few seconds later: a particularly majestic wolf sits by the very end of one of the taller trees, eyes and snout trained to its crown in interest as if watching a prey from distance.

Jeno freezes, but there’s no need to; the wolf barely bothers to take him into notice. It sits and stays, like a human would, quietly watching a blue butterfly hoam above its head and harboring a soft howl every now and then. He stays for a second, hands leaning against one of the particularly largest trunks, and observes the way the butterfly seems to deck closer to the wolf’s mouth in mischief, as if it weren’t afraid to get eaten whole. Jeno’s breath gets held back every time the butterfly dunks a little too close for comfort, but the wolf doesn’t seem to want to do it any harm. It’s almost as if… They were friends.

The butterfly ends up gently landing against the wolf’s dark snout, right between its eyes, and the animal perches its head to the sky as if howling at the moon. Jeno might be going crazy; he might even be hallucinating; but the way they sew movements in the fabric of time so gracefully and in sync is irredeemably human, like reborn friends who had met yet again and refused to let go of each other, no matter what shape or form they take in. The scene is so unbelievably tender Jeno feels like an intruder — as if he shouldn’t’ve seen it at all, as if the additive knowledge he might’ve once not known is now the main reason why he sees, and he keeps quiet, and he understands.

Jeno is sitting in the passenger seat of Jaemin’s mom’s car — a roofless, old vehicle he is sure enough is a family reliquary — when he recalls their presence, his forearms leaning against the open window and a whole amount of liquid sunsets dripping over his head like melted-out clocks in classic paintings. “It was so genuinely sweet,” he says over the music, wind blowing against his face. “It was like they were human — no, scratch that, I know they were human. They were friends; in love, even. The situation was just so easy to recognize. ‘T was like I felt it, you know? Like I could tell. I don’t know how I could tell, but I could. I know I could.”

“Is that so?” Jaemin asks in an almost yell, his ridiculous boxxy sunglasses shielding his eyes from the dash of webbed sunbeams that enveloped the car entirely. The wind makes his hair a mess of black strands, wiggling against the air like tiny tentacles. For one, Jeno is grateful for having a buzzcut — the way Jaemin’s locks seem to smack him in the face doesn’t seem pleasant at all. “A wolf and a butterfly?”

“Yes!” He yells over the wind. Jaemin is rushing into the sunset, it seems, and Jeno can’t blame him for it. “These sunglasses are so ugly!”

“Shut up," the boy yells back. He half-heartedly threatens, laughing to the sky: “Don’t insult the driver! I’m gonna throw you out of this car, and then what?!”

Jeno rolls his eyes. “Pay attention to the road.”

Jaemin does so with a giggle, turning up the volume of the radio in order to drown out the loud buzzing of the wind. It’s the same song played time and again — he said the tape got stuck in the nineties, back when his parents had first started dating, and his mom never got it fixed; every single direct family member he has knows this song by heart now, given how many times they had to hear it. Jeno doesn’t know what to do with all these small trivial facts about Jaemin, but he knows, for one, that he appreciates them more than he thought he would. Come what may, Jaemin is a pretty interesting person.

They get to Jaemin’s house in a matter of minutes, hence it standing tall and proud at the outskirts of tall rather than the inner city, which would usually take half an hour to get to from the woods. Jeno has been here before, once — just right after Jaemin had found out about his Chimera status, and was trying to perform some sort of tests on him to prove his theory before moving onto more studying to try and figure out how it happened and why. Jaemin is like that, Jeno supposes; he’s the odd one out, the friend you avoid your eyes from, someone whose devotion has never been anything not past maniac. A lot of people seem to find this a flaw, but Jeno takes the opposite view: where others may have failed to care enough, Jaemin cares too much. He balances things out.

“You’re home early,” Jaemin’s older sister hums the second they walk through the threshold, a book blocking out half of her face and only a mop of bright green hair seen from where Jeno awkwardly stands near the door, waiting for Jaemin to take his coat into his hands. “Didn’t find anything fun in the woods?”

Jaemin scoffs, kicking off his shoes to the side lazily. “We saw worms.”

His sister makes a non-committal sound. “We?” She asks, curious, and lowers the book from her line of vision to find Jeno’s huge eyes staring back, painfully shy. “Oh, dear. Hello.”

It takes him a second to answer. “Hello,” he bows, unsure of what else to say.

“It’s Lee,” Jaemin interferes, hanging Jeno’s coat delicately before motioning for him to come inside. “Jeno Lee, hence the nickname.”

She nods, gaze bored into Jeno as soon as he steps inside and into her sight. “Jinsoul,” she says, pointing at herself. “Name’s Jinsoul. I’m sure Jaemin hasn’t even mentioned me to you yet, so—”

“Why would I mention you—” The boy starts, but is ignored.

“Nice to meet you,” Jeno offers her a tight lipped smile.

Jinsoul smiles back. “Oh, you’re way too nice to be a friend of my brother’s.”

She looks just like Jaemin, and it’s terrifying in an old fashioned, chill-to-the-bone kind of way. They both have the same brand of wide, round eyes and long, thin noses, followed up by big smiles and pointy fairy-like chins, the ones that make the both of them exude mischief. The similarities start to stray apart when it comes to hair, considering Jinsoul’s is long hair in a neon shade of green, her bangs messily pulled back by two pink hair clips Jeno swears he saw in Jaemin’s bedroom just the other day. All things considered, they look like they belong together — which is more than most families can say.

“Jeno is a fucking bitch,” Jaemin frowns, black socks digging against the carpet like a small child throwing a tantrum. “Nice where?”

She giggles, bringing her book to where it was before and hiding her face behind it once again. “He’s very polite,” she murmurs, deeming the conversation over as she starts to flip pages again, dispersed.

Paying it no mind, Jaemin tugs at the cuffed sleeves of his shirt in order to pull him towards his bedroom, and Jeno allows him to if only out of the sheer pleasantry of being guided. He lounges around in Jaemin’s bed like it’s his own, stretching himself over the comforter entirely, and the aforementioned takes a seat by his desk, pulling his feet upwards and leaning them against its surface.

Jaemin has a very royal-like image, Jeno believes — but in plastic, artificial manner, as if he got crowned king of the weekend once and never again learned how to let go of his reign. Jeno wants to get him one of those Burger King paper crowns.

He stares at his own whiteboard, safely attached to the wall in front of his desk, and says with a chuckle: “You turned this city upside down when you first shifted, Lee. That’s one for the history books.”

Jeno groans in annoyance. “Shut up. Shut up about me being the chosen one and whatnot — I’m done with it. Can’t you put some TWICE on instead?”

“No, I cannot,” Jaemin laughs, throwing his head back as if Jeno had just said the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Seriously, I can’t. We do have to figure these things out eventually, you know that, right?”

“Why?” He huffs, kicking off some of Jaemin’s pillows in retaliation. A round, Ryan plushie suffers under the vastity of his anger as Jeno’s foot comes in contact with its innocent face, sending it to the ground with one swift move. Jaemin gasps. “Why do we have to figure it out? I don’t care; I really don’t. I always fucking hated Harry Potter or whatever his name is — why were these kids so nosy? Just do your homework and let shit to people who know more than you. Go pick snot off of your nose or some shit.”

“We have to figure it out because it matters,” the boy settles for saying, ignoring Jeno’s whole rant. “Knowledge is power.”

“But I don’t want power,” Jeno whines. “I want to finish high school and move out of this hellhole; that’s what I want. I’m not your protagonist! I’m not even my own! I don’t know shit.”

Jaemin pulls his feet from the desk, spinning around his swivel chair with a mocking expression. Jeno likes him, he decides — he doesn’t take pity on him, even though he knows he’s right on this one. “Save the dramatic speech for your reenactment of Lady Bird,” he teases, pulling his knees to his chest. “Or maybe for your secret emo singer career. I told you, Lee, this is life now. Get used to it.”

He glares at him anyways. “You’re so motivational, did you know that? Didn’t you want to be a nurse or something? Give that up, because you suck at making people feel better.”

The boy rolls his eyes, flipping Jeno off. “Fuck you want me to do, Lee?” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Do you want me to kiss it better?”

Jeno splutters. “Of course not—”

“Then stop being a baby,” Jaemin bites back. He swivels closer to the bed, leaning back against the chair and stretching out his legs over the comforter. “Hop off my dick, for real. Let me remind you that I’m not your dad.”

“Clearly,” he scoffs, flicking Jaemin’s foot away from him. “Clearly you’re not. I don’t even know what Mark sees in you; you’re just a huge bitch. You’re absolutely fucked in the head.”

“Is that so?” The boy raises his eyebrows at him, a smile tugging at his lips. “Do tell.”

Jeno huffs. “Gladly! You’re just another hot boy who’ll peak in high school and live out a mediocre life with your— I don’t even know your sexuality, so I’m not going there, but you’re like the personification of a stale loaf of white bread. Humble yourself.”

Jaemin giggles. “I’m bisexual.”

He hates him. He truly does. “Your future partner is going to drop kick you out of the bed every morning because you’re a fucking menace. You’re tall and skinny and flat like an enderman. Your arms are abnormally long and your face is too big for your head. I hope you always remember that because there is no way to fix or hide it.”

The boy cocks his head to the side teasingly. “Are you done?” He asks, throwing both his legs over the armchair with a charming cackle. “Is there more?”

“I’m done now.” Jeno kicks at him childishly with a scowl.

“Good,” Jaemin hums, inspecting his nails for a second before turning his gaze back to him. “You don’t offend me, Jeno. You’re a sour little boy and you can’t fathom the fact that you like me, so this,” he motions between them. “Is adorable. You’re like an angry puppy to me.”

“I don’t—” He frowns. “I don’t like you.”

Jaemin pops his tongue against his cheek. “You do.”

“I do not,” Jeno insists.

“The attention and time you put into analyzing every single thing about me so you can insult it later says the opposite,” he wiggles his eyebrows again, a smile forming around rows and rows of teeth. “And all the while you’re genuinely interested in what I think and what I say, so why bother putting up a front at all? I don’t get it, Lee. Just let yourself like someone other than Mark, won’t you?”

“Shut up.” He averts his eyes from Jaemin, feeling the ghost of a blush cradle his face. “I would never kiss you, just so you know.”

Jaemin cocks his head to the side. “Never mentioned anything about kissing, bunny. Is that something you’re interested in?”

“Do you ever shut up? Do you have to answer to every single little thing I say?” Jeno crosses his arms tightly against his chest, fighting off a smile.

“I do, actually,” he hums. “You’re in my house, lying in my bed, fucking up my sheets. It’s my state given right to complain your ear off. Search it up — it’s in the constitution.”

“It’s really not.”

“It should be—”

Their banter is cut short by the sound of Jinsoul’s voice calling out for Jaemin, and Jeno hears it bouncing out of the walls so clearly he has to tune it out in order to not hurt his ears. By the looks of it, Jaemin feels the same — he full-body grimaces before answering. “Yeah?”

“There’s a boy here!” She says, loud enough to thunder through the entire neighborhood. Jinsoul is quiet for a second, the faint sound of talking prickling against Jeno’s ear, and yells once again: “Mark Lee, allegedly!”

Jeno’s eyes widen as if on cue, pulling himself up from the bed in one swift move. Jaemin does the same, abruptly pushing the swivel chair away, and stares at him with two Jupiters for eyes. They have a silent discussion, one too many mouthed words and hand gestures used, and Jeno ends up fitting himself inside Jaemin’s closet within the snap of a finger, way too embarrassed to say anything else. The light filters through in stripes and dances around his face, but Jeno has half the heart to care as he tries to find a way to comfortably lean against a pile of unfolded shirts, heartbeat thundering deep within his bones.

He hears the door open a few minutes after, two pair of footsteps thumping against the floor, and holds back his breath as Mark’s voice says: “I got this map of ley lines from Naver but I think it’s kind of bullshit. These are all white people statues, so that’s how I know the person who made it had no idea of what they’re talking about.”

Jaemin laughs nervously, the sound making Jeno cringe to himself. “Um, yeah — Yeah, the ones on the internet are, um, pretty fake. I think my dad has one he made himself hidden somewhere in the guest room.”

"How come every time something weird is up, your dad knew and predicted it long before it happened?" Mark asks with a chuckle, the sound of Jaemin's mattress squeaking under his weight tapping against the atmosphere. Jeno gulps.

"Been asking myself the same thing for the past five years," the other boy says, a slight tremble to his voice Jeno is unsure anyone else would notice. The bed squeaks again, as if Jaemin had sat beside him, and he continues: "Thank you for trying to help, though. It's very sweet. Nothing more attractive about a man than when he supports your crazy."

Mark laughs. "You're not crazy," he answers, quite tender. Jeno would rather be punched in the very pit of his stomach. "I, for one, think you're unbelievably smart. It's a blessing you're even on this case at all."

"Shut up," Jaemin whines, embarrassed. It's such a ridiculously bashful situation — Jeno has to close his eyes in order to not cringe. "Don't drive all the way from the inner city if you're only here to flatter me. Trust me; I don't need any more ego strokes."

"I know," he hears Mark say, the sheets rustling ever so slightly. "Do you think we'll still have to pay a visit to your grandmother?"

Jeno hears Jaemin hum. "I do. If only to, you know — to figure out why you're having prophetic dreams."

"They're not prophetic," Mark answers, defensive. "I told you; it could've meant anything."

"Jeno saw a blue butterfly and a wolf in the woods today," Jaemin tells him, voice coming out smaller than usual. Jeno's interest stirs awake at the mention of his name. "Says he thinks they were shifters."

"There can be wolves and butterflies practically anywhere," the boy insists, stubborn.

When Jaemin next speaks, Jeno can practically hear the raised eyebrow in his tone. "And when you dreamt about a snake loose in the school two nights before Renjun attacked Donghyuck?"

Mark stays silent. Jaemin continues: "And when Jeno first shifted and you dreamt about a vulture trying to hunt me down?"

"...Your point?"

He sighs. "My point is that you two would make my life a lot more easier if you stopped hiding the weird things that happen to you." They stay quiet for a second before Jaemin adds: "And for your information, I do think you're prophetic in some way or another."

"Was your dad prophetic?" Mark asks quietly, switching subjects.

"I don't know," Jaemin answers, exhaling softly. "He could've been. My mom doesn't answer when I ask."

He gulps. Jeno mirrors it. "Your sister doesn't know?"

"Don't wanna talk about it."

Nothing else is heard, but Jeno assumes Mark has at least nodded in understanding. He hears rustling and the flipping of pages, but no one says anything; as if the both of them fell in comfortable silence, studying in some sense of the word. Jeno wonders how long he'll have to be here, intruding on their conversations, but trusts Jaemin enough to know that not for very long. It's nice to listen to Mark's voice — he hadn't noticed how much he missed it until now, the soft squeeze of his heart making the muscle burst at the seams like plums that are too ripe.

Mark breaks the silence a few minutes after, calling for Jeno's attention: "This is boring," he says, decidedly.

The sound of a handful of papers hitting the ground finds Jeno's ears not even a second later. Jaemin asks, confused: "What are you d—"

His sentence is cut short by the sound of louder, more agitated rustling, and the hum of denim meeting denim. Jeno wonders what could've possibly happened when Jaemin exhales gently, voice stammering. "Oh."

"Yeah," Mark breathes out. He asks: "Is this okay?"

"Totally okay," Jaemin murmurs back. "In fact, I wish you'd do it mor—"

His sentence is cut short, and the next thing Jeno hears is the unmistakable sound of lips smashing together. For a second, he doesn't know what to do — he doesn't seem to be able to tune out the sound of his best friend making out with his first love, and the wet sounds would be nightmare-worthy if he weren't so invested in knowing what was actually happening outside of the closet. Jeno can't even find it in himself to laugh about the irony of being a gay teenager stuck in a closet; he's too busy feeling mortified.

Of course it would happen eventually. Of course Jaemin and Mark would get together — why wouldn't they? Why would a boy that pretty ever settle for a loser like Jeno, when he could have anyone he wanted within the snap of a finger? It doesn't make sense that he cares so much, because he knew it would happen. It's just another between many displays of the Universe's cruelty that he has to listen to it, and that he's been blessed with dog-like auditive capabilities in order that every small sigh seems to be bass boosted.

"Mark—" Jaemin calls, breathy, but doesn't seem to care enough to repeat it as the kisses go on. Jeno listen to more rustling, skin against skin, and someone's back hits the mattress — Jaemin's, he supposes. "Mark," he calls again, in a sigh.

"Yeah?" Mark answers, apparently flipping their position again. Jaemin yelps in surprise, and he giggles. "What's up?"

"Not— not now," he hums, the sound of Jaemin's arms wrapping around his neck a melody Jeno would never forget. "I have things… I have to do."

Mark hums back, lips smacking against skin. "What things?"

"Things," Jaemin answers simply, with another dragged sigh. "Sorry."

"Hey," the boy says, though in a mirthful voice. "It's okay, pretty. One more kiss for good luck?"

Jeno hears him laugh, and then comes the sound of a chastened peck. His cheeks turn red unconsciously at the prospect of Mark speaking like that — even if he heard it before time and again. "Go home," Jaemin whines, a faint sound of nails scratching against skin that makes Jeno wonder who's doing it. "Seriously, go home. You're too much of a distraction."

“But I don’t have anything to do at home,” Mark complains, dragging his words. “You’re so much more fun.”

“Unless you want to study AP Government with me, I suggest you go back home,” he insists. Jeno knows he’s doing it for him, but still — Jaemin can be such a party pooper sometimes.

“I mean, I could—”

“Mark Lee, go home.”

Jeno hears him detach himself away from Jaemin with a huff. “Fine,” the pout in his voice is so visible, so clear, it’s ridiculously endearing. Jeno does miss Mark; maybe even more than he hates him. “You’re no fun.”

“I know,” Jaemin giggles. Jeno hears maybe a thousand other kisses before both Jaemin and Mark leave, the tapping of their footsteps getting smaller and smaller the closer to the front door they are.

He stays still, unsure of when to come out. Jaemin opens the closet door abruptly, a bashful smiles to his features, and preaches: “I’m sorry.”

Jeno glares at him, stepping out. “You should be.”

Jaemin’s face and lips are both flushed to the darkest shade of rosy, his hair a mess by the doing of Mark’s own fingers, and Jeno, for one, hates him. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t look good, but rather that he should be angrier than he is now, and Jaemin’s pretty face makes it worse. All in all, it always seems to — it’s a gift. He scoffs, crossing his arms, then sits down on Jaemin’s bed.

They’re silent for a second, but Jeno can’t keep himself from staring around curiously, gaze dancing around the room before it settles in Jaemin’s face and stays like a hungry dog. The boy smiles awkwardly: “Want a kiss too?”

Jeno splutters. “What?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You seem like you do.”

“I don’t. If you want attention that badly, create an OnlyFans and leave me alone.”

Jaemin snickers. “You’d buy a membership.”

“I would not—” He scoffs, keeping his annoyance at bay. In the end, this is what Jaemin wants — he wants to get under his skin, to make Jeno sway, to get a reaction. And, as far as it goes, he always succeeds. “Why do you enjoy being a bitch so bad?”

“I just enjoy teasing you,” he shrugs. “You’re fun to rile up, and I think you’re pretty when you frown. I get why Mark is so obsessed with you.”

Jeno’s eyes soften, head sunk to the bottom of a dream-filled pool. “Mark is not obsessed with me,” he settles for saying, because he doesn’t trust himself to answer to the rest.

“Yeah, he is,” Jaemin offers him a tight lipped smile. “You’re his best friend, you’re the one person he never really stops thinking about. There’ll never be enough of you, for him.”

And when he says it, it doesn’t feel like he’s jealous. The tone he uses is one of respect, as if he knew, and saw, and understood — there is more to the world than just what it lets on, and it’s in the small twitches of a glance that Jaemin makes home in, in order that there’s a screen where the skin that hides Jeno’s chest should be. “He’s in love with you, though,” Jeno murmurs. “Always has, always will.”

“Don’t choose to be blind, Jeno,” he advises, voice gracefully tending to his wounds like the soft caress of a flame against his skull. “Don’t pretend you don’t see what I see. Mark has never chosen between us because there isn’t a choice to be made; it’s me and you, you and me. Both of us.”

Jeno’s eyebrows furrow. “What are you trying to say?”

Jaemin bites his lip. “You know what I’m trying to say.”

And maybe he does, but something prickles at the bottom of his stomach in anxiety anyways. “You can’t…” He frowns. “I don’t see how that would work.”

“I’m not above sharing,” he smiles playfully, wiggling his eyebrows at Jeno. “As I said: I get the hype. I truly do. You’re a delight under all the gruff and mysterioso; I’ll give you that.”

“I never know if you’re flirting with me or about to start a fight, you know,” Jeno hums, avoiding the way Jaemin’s eyes follow his silhouette. “It’s incredibly misleading.”

Jaemin cocks his head to the side. “Let me make it easier for you, bunny,” he says. “This time I’m flirting.”

Jeno smacks his lips together. “Dutifully noted.”

But he doesn’t really forget those words for the rest of the evening, if only because they’re the said version of a feeling Jeno can’t fully comprehend. Jaemin looks at him like he’s separating salt from water, obsessively hitting all the right spots and bending Jeno until he breaks, and he understands why Mark likes him so much now, though he may not have before. There is something deeply enticing about having someone’s undivided attention, and Jaemin has got it down to an art form.

He lounges around Jaemin’s house until he is sure his father will pull out a searching order on him if he stays for any longer, and Jinsoul offers to drive him home as the night arises darker over their heads like an all-swallowing vortex. Jaemin leans against his own doorway while saying goodbye, as coy as a person can be, and offers Jeno a Cheshire cat grin.

“Text me when you get home?” He asks, dark locks of hair falling over his forehead gently. Distantly, Jeno misses having longer hair — he wonders if he looked as good as Jaemin does when he had it.

“I will,” he smiles back, tight lipped. “I’ll think about what you said.”

Jaemin’s eyebrows raise in a tease. “Oh? About Mark?”

“Yes.” Jeno nods, perhaps a bit too eager. “But, also, you know… About the, um, the flirting thing. I realize I may have been a menace to you for some time now, and it’s really not your fault, so I apologize for that.”

The boy purses his lips. “It’s okay. I figured out you and Mark have very different ways of asking for attention; you just so happened to take a liking in pulling on my pigtails.”

“I already have it, though,” Jeno answers, if only because his judgement is too clouded by the way Jaemin looks under the light. “Your attention. I already have it.”

“You do,” Jaemin agrees easily, in a delicate exhale. “So does Mark. It comes back to it, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” He blinks around the nighttime, multicolored and braided within his pores. “Yeah, it does come back to it. Us three.”

The boy smiles. “Goodnight, Lee,” he says before disappearing back inside his house, the door softly creaking before it closes fully.

He’s about to turn around when Jinsoul honks loudly, parked just before the doorway, and Jeno jumps back in surprise. She yells from inside the car: “Come on! You can’t just stand there and yearn! It’s getting late!”

When he's fitted in the passenger seat with the seatbelt securely holding him back, Jinsoul turns to the side to look at him, wrists draped over the steering wheel. "So I've been trying to figure it out," she says, ever as nonchalant as Jaemin is. "What's up with you, my brother and the short one?"

"The short one?" Jeno asks.

"You know," Jinsoul starts the car, head turned all the way around in order to pull off safely. "Blue hair, yellow flannel, ugly thrifted tees. Mark Lee, allegedly?"

He chuckles. "Mark's not that short."

"Suppose not," she hums as the car finally leaves their household, now soaring off into the dark streets. Jeno's entire body disappears under the shadows, but that is okay — he's always liked how easy it was to disappear under the moonlight. "But what's up with you three? Jaemin won't tell me anything, but I'd like to know if my little brother was dating someone, you feel me?"

"We're not dating," Jeno puts it down hesitantly, not very sure of it himself. "At least, I'm not. Mark and Jaemin may be."

Her hair is not all green, now he realizes — the two front strands are, but the rest is a bleached blonde that goes all the way to her elbows, like a blanket. "You don't sound very sure about that," Jinsoul steals a glance at him for a second before turning her eyes back on the road. "Jaemin seems to like you a lot. Personally, I'd think he had grown out of the idea of liking supernaturals, but I figured the heart wants what it wants."

"How did you—" He asks, but soon enough realizes this is Jaemin's family, and of course. Of course she'd know. "I'm still new to this."

"Clearly," her lips form around the words just like Jaemin's would, and Jeno feels it before he even sees it — the memory of childhood, when times were safe and good. "I think it plays a big part on why he likes you so much. Jaemin — well, my family loves everything they can die for."

"And you don't?" Jeno hums, ignoring the way she wanted to say 'Jaemin loves everything he can die for' for the sake of his own emotional wellbeing.

She considers it for a second. Under the night colored sky, every strand of blonde hair looks gray from a distance. "I don't know," she answers, somewhat truthfully. "But I think the reason why you three seem to play a big part on this hellhole's supernatural fabric is because you come together in a package deal. It's not necessarily, you know, the components as well as it is the coming together. You're the Chimera, right?"

He nods. "Yeah."

"A Chimera and a deer," Jinsoul contemplates it out loud, like a teacher enticing an answer. "With all the crazy things creatures have been doing lately, I must say I'm incredibly surprised you haven't tried to bite off his leg yet. For one, I know Jaemin is obnoxious enough to make anyone want to do it."

Jeno pulls his eyes downwards, thinking of all the times he's been close to actually harming Jaemin, and how Mark kept him from it every time. "It's a constant struggle," he jokes, even if it has a bit of truth in it. "But I don't… I don't think I'd do it. He thinks I'm not affected by this sudden outbursts of supernatural energy because I'm used to them."

She nods in understanding. "The ley lines, isn't that right? Have you grown up there?"

"Yeah," he answers. "I did."

"You know," Jinsoul starts as they drive right into Jeno's neighborhood, voice soft. "You three, as far as I'm aware, are kids. If you're going to dig deeper than you've already dug on your own, you'll need an adult."

"Like you?"

She shakes her head almost too eagerly. "No. I'd rather finish college without any more supernatural incidents, thank you very much," Jinsoul chuckles. "But I know Jaemin has been trying to get you two to meet our grandmother, and he's right. She may be a little… Unusual, but she's never failed in finding out the truth about anything."

"Then why doesn't he meet her himself?" Jeno frowns as Jinsoul parks the car in the curb in front of his house, all the neighborhood lights turned off already. This suburban tomb of his — when will it change?

"Many reasons," she turns to him, head leaning against the seat lazily. "He's scared of knowing too much. You know, the truth doesn't come in small, easy-to-swallow bits — if you go there, you'll have to be prepared to know the good and the bad. I don't think Jaemin has ever been ready to go there alone, but I believe he'd do it with you two."

He gulps. "I see."

"Yeah," Jinsoul agrees as if she knew what went down on Jeno's head. She unlocks the car, but turns to him before he gets out: "And I know this is a truth Jaemin doesn't want to hear from me, but I know he would hear it from you." She comes closer, motioning the importance of the subject. "When you're there, make him ask about the day our dad died. Jaemin doesn't like it when I try to tell him, but it's true — our dad died in a ritual, and the town has never been the same. To this day, I think… I think he left a door open, and no one's been able to close it yet."

Jeno nods, because he doesn't know what else to do. Many times he feels as if he's too young for this, but the belief that there is no going back keeps him from the noose of self-pitying anyways, if only so he can lay in bed at night and close his eyes without the lingering feeling that he's been made docile by the things he doesn't know, the things he doesn't understand.

He blacks out the second his lamp does, the television humming a movie he can't seem to care about and the night air suffering under the weight of his expectations.

“Anything alive means anything deformed, which, in itself, is our essence," Jaemin tells him, pointer finger tracing the shape of words mindlessly. He turns to Mark: "Get it?"

No, Mark wants to say. He never gets it — not fully, at least. "I see," he answers, stealing a glance at the taxi driver who seems to be pointedly avoiding their conversation. "And why do I care?"

Jeno grunts from beside Jaemin, head leaned against the car window. "Because knowledge is power."

From the middle seat, Mark's kind-of-boyfriend-but-not-really laughs. "Yes, because knowledge is power." He closes the book resting atop of his legs gently, pulling it to his chest. "But rituals are complicated things we should strive to understand better in order to protect ourselves and others."

"I don't know, dude," Mark mumbles, tightening his varsity jacket around himself. "My mom just sages the house when she feels the vibes are off. Why can't we just do that?"

"Because your vibes are rancid wherever you go," Jeno teases, a scowl on his face.

"Well, your vibes taste like acid battery," he answers, crossing his arms.

His best friend snickers. "That's what your mom said."

"Come on, dude, you know my mom—"

"You still make those jokes and my mom is dead—"

"We're here," the taxi driver announces, her curly hair pulled into a sloppy bun as she turns around from the driver seat.

Jaemin pulls out a few money bills from his wallet, and extends his other hand towards Mark and Jeno in a silent request. Grumpily enough, they both pay if only to make a point, sliding away from the backseat and into the streets as soon as possible all the while Jaemin chit chats with the taxi driver about the neighborhood, seemingly too interested for it to be a short conversation.

"Isn't it too dangerous out here as a driver?" He asks, looking genuinely curious.

The driver smirks. "Sometimes, but a girl's gotta eat. Besides, I have a baseball bat in the trunk."

Jaemin nods, humming in understanding. "Smart. Have you considered gluing spikes to it? The sharper, the better. You'll only need some screws and all-purpose glue—"

"Alright, that's enough," Mark intervenes, pulling Jaemin away from the car gently in order to prevent any more suspicious behavior. The driver waves them goodbye, visibly creeped out, and Mark sighs. "You can't say those things to people, did you know that? One day someone is going to call you out on it and you'll have to prove to them you're not a serial killer."

The boy frowns. "I was just being nice."

"You were being a fucking spaz," Jeno hums, digging the tip of his foot against the unpaved road curiously. "Like, a real creep."

Jaemin seems taken aback, but ignores it without further ado. He squints at the house they're in front of, then turns his gaze back at the address he wrote in the back of Jeno's hand, pulling him by his wrist to read it clearer. "It's the right place," he announces. "This is my grandma's house."

Mark didn't know what he was expecting, but he surely didn't prepare for a normal looking, medium sized suburban home with a mowed lawn and pretty paths of orchids adorning a stone road that leads to the front porch. There's a sign loosely tied to one of the big windows, words "YOU LIVE IN A DYING WORLD" written in big, boxxy purple letters, so incredibly ominous and misplaced Mark has to fight the urge to laugh. Distantly, he tips his metaphorical hat to the fact it looks very much like a cult house.

The door is colored light blue with an unnecessarily shiny heart-shaped knocker, and the doormat matches the one in Jaemin’s house in its irony, “Death is only the end if you assume the story is about you” stitched along with a crooked sunflower on yellowish fabric, sitting just bellow Mark’s boots. Jaemin knocks after taking a dragged sigh, and Mark makes a point out of pressing the heel of his hands against his lower back for comfort.

A wide-eyed girl opens it, her box braids pulled into a loose ponytail and her dress a pretty gingham fabric Mark would’ve loved to sew into a suit. She smiles ever so slightly, the twinkle of a silver tooth making its way through her brown lipstick, and says: “It’s been a while since you’ve paid a visit.”

Jaemin’s lips curl upwards. “You get prettier by the year, don’t you?”

She wiggles her eyebrows. “It’s what being away from men does to a woman.” Her eyes graze against Mark and Jeno for a second before they turn to Jaemin, an eyebrow raised. “Brought a crew with you?”

“More or less,” he answers, seemingly too distracted to introduce them to her. “Is she here?”

The girl hums, and motions towards Mark and Jeno: “Not gonna introduce them?”

Jaemin nods as if he had just remember, taking a step back to push them forward. “Varsity is Mark and buzzcut is Jeno,” he tells her, then turns to them with a smile. “And this is Kali. She’s one of Artemis’ hunters, and yes, the silver tooth is real.”

Kali snickers gracefully, playing with the two front braids of her hair distractedly. The golden rings adorning a few parts of the braids make her incredibly distracting to the eye, but Mark suspects it’s why they’re there in the first place, other than a clear display of royalty. “I would say it’s a pleasure, but it’s been way too long since we’ve let a man near this house. Either way, feel free to come in — you are still boys.”

She moves to the side so they can step into the house, Jaemin on their heel as Jeno shyly bows to her once he’s past the threshold. Mark does the same, unsure of where to keep his hands, and she flicks Jaemin in the ear playfully as he passes by her. The house on the inside is pretty much a normal home, cluttered with books and maps and the occasional wooden bow, but Mark finds the flower wallpapers particularly pleasant — it makes the entire place really seem like a grandmother’s home, and he misses his own as they venture down the living room, where a few more girls seem to be having painting lessons with an elderly woman whose face Mark thinks he saw on a movie once. Kali guides them to a hallway full of doors, and allows them into the last room, one where the walls are a light blue and painted white clouds stare back at them peacefully. A nursery, Mark realizes.

The pictures hung up on the walls denounce whose childhood bedroom it was; pictures of Jaemin’s father, mother and sister are intertwined with posters of speed-skating athletes and miniatures of all types of dinosaur and dragon figures, one single fabric doll sitting atop of a drawer with its surface totally covered by different types of fairytale books. Some early 2000s toys’ boxes are scattered across the floor, art supplies and Pokemon cards inside of them, and Mark finds himself holding back the urge to gasp at the intimacy that it is to even be able to see this in all of its childish glory, as if time had not touched anything between these four walls.

Kali leans her head against the doorway, a soft smile to her features. “Thought you’d like to see that we haven’t done anything with your room. Chun-ja said she wouldn’t get rid of any of this without your permission.”

Jaemin’s eyes get so impossibly rounder Mark wonders how is he not a cartoon character. “She did?” He asks, visibly touched. He walks around the room in wonder, picking up books and figures here and there, and eventually breathes out: “Woah, it’s been so long. I really was this young.”

“You were,” Kali nods, sitting by the twin sized bed glued to one of the corners of the room. Jeno settles by the pink bean bag just a few feet from it, and Mark stands his ground upwards, back against the closet as he observes Jaemin. “You were a little menace, too.”

“So were you,” Jaemin hums, going through one of the boxes full to the brim with Pokemon cards. He turns to Mark with a laugh, a card held between his fingers with the figure of a blob-shaped white creature he can only vaguely recall from his own childhood. “This looks like you.”

Mark huffs. “It doesn’t.”

“It does,” he insists, putting the card back into its original container and moving it to the bed, where he sits on to dig through it. Jeno curiously moves closer to do the same, head almost clashing against Jaemin’s, and Kali rolls her eyes exasperatedly in Mark’s direction as if they’ve been friends for years. Boys, she mouths, and for one, he agrees — boys. Jaemin shows Jeno a card with a huge grin: “This one is laminated. This would’ve been worth, like, ten normal cards.”

Jeno grabs it from him, hiding it in his jacket. “I’ll take that, thank you.”

“Give it back—” Jaemin splutters, moving to get it back. Jeno swings away from him easily with a smirk, but eventually gives it to him as a peace treaty. “You’re such a bitch. You would’ve stolen all my cards in second grade.”

“Not even going to debate that,” Jeno laughs, digging his hands in the box once again. They resurface a few seconds later covered in cards. “You had so many. Redistribute your wealth, dude.”

The boy rolls his eyes. “Shut up. I had this many because my mom used to fly to Japan all the time, which is why they’re all in Japanese. At age seven, I knew how to say ‘+20 for damage’ with immaculate pronunciation and grammar.”

“Impressive,” he hums, still looking through the cards.

They stay like that for a few more minutes until the sound of a knock echoes through the room, firm and direct in how it is repeated once or twice before the door is opened by an elderly lady Mark can only imagine is Jaemin’s grandma, her gray hair gently falling into a short bobcut and her face decorated with paper-like wrinkles, a huge black half-moon tattooed onto her left cheek. Jaemin straightens his back immediately as she enters the room, and Kali leans back on her hands with a smile, all the while Jeno is still immersed in going through Jaemin’s old Pokemon cards.

“My child,” she murmurs as she slips into the room like a shadow, her black shirt tucked neatly inside corduroy slacks and her round glasses resting gently on the tip of her nose. “It’s been too long.”

Jaemin springs upward hesitantly, fidgeting with his hands, and he towers over her in spite of the clear power imbalance between them. “Hello,” he greets politely, bowing. She pulls him into a hug before he can even finish his sentence, cradling him to her chest with a deep sigh, as if she was trying to breathe him in as much as she could. Mark understands that — Jaemin is such an airy person, he oftentimes finds himself wondering when it’ll be the last time he gets to hold him close. “Hi, nana.”

“You’ve grown so much,” his grandma says, lightly scratching his nape. Mark has to avoid his eyes before they water; he truly does miss his own grandmother. “You’re so tall, dear. You’ve grown so well.”

He slightly burrows himself into her hug, allowing himself to be embraced completely. Mark turns his gaze to Kali instead, and she sports the same delicate smile she offered them when they walked into the room, as if she knew something that they didn’t. Jaemin’s grandma holds him impossibly closer. “You’re so skinny,” she nags, tapping at his back. “Have you been eating well? Is the money I send enough? How’s your mother? Your sister? How are you?” Her gaze falls onto Jeno and Mark, peeking over Jaemin’s back. “Who are these?”

They break apart if only so Jaemin can introduce them, gripping on Mark’s arm rather disorientedly as he pulls him upwards. “Mark,” he says, then does the same with Jeno, pulling him out of the bean bag. “Jeno.”

“Chun-ja’s the name,” she introduces herself with a nod in their direction. “Friends?” She turns her gaze towards Jaemin’s direction, raising an eyebrow.

The boy thinks for a second before answering, in a quiet voice. “More.”

Chun-ja nods in understanding. “Two?” She asks, again, and Jaemin only nods before she smiles in their direction: “I’m happy for you. It’s a pleasure to meet you two, and I reckon you’ve already met Kali, so I apologize for having not been the one to open the door.”

“It’s okay,” Mark finds himself saying, fidgeting with his sleeves, and Jaemin gently wraps a hand around his wrist in order to keep him from it. He tries not to blush as he continues: “You have a lovely home.”

“It is!” Jeno chimes in.

“Why, thank you,” Chun-ja smiles, the same iron tooth Kali has twinkling around her otherwise suspiciously white teeth. Her grin is to the likes of Jaemin’s, though maybe even wider. “I suppose you’re the ones my grandson keeps sighing longingly about, though I wouldn’t know — he doesn’t tell me anything.” She pointedly stares at Jaemin, and he offers her a sheepish smile. “What brings you to my home?”

“We have a few questions,” Jaemin answers right away, playing with the hem of Mark’s jacket discreetly. “We — I was hoping you could, I don’t know, take a look on us.”

She raises an eyebrow curiously. “Is that so? Are you staying out of trouble, liked I told you to, or are you completely dismissing my clear orders to stay away from things you don’t understand?”

The answer is so painfully obvious Mark hears it in the silence Jaemin offers her. Chun-ja sighs. “Follow me.”

The three of them follow her all the way down to a small room in the back, Kali staying behind to help with the painting lessons. Chun-ja unlocks the door with a tiny, golden key, allowing them to go first and turning on the light as she trails behind.

Mark feels as if he’s seen this room before, maybe in a dream, but he can’t bring himself to remember it. The walls look the same from the ones in the living room, wallflowers staring back at him accusingly, and in the center of the room sits a few plastic chairs and what seems to be like a Tarot reading table, though with no deck in sight. A window connects the room to the backyard, but Chun-ja closes it fully, in order that the only light is artificial. He starts to feel confined soon enough, but Jeno and Jaemin press to both his side in reassurance, shoulders brushing.

She sits in front of the table, and motions for them to sit on the other end. When they do so, Mark feels Jeno try an attempt at playing footsie with him, and bites down a smile. “What is it that you want to know?” Chun-ja asks, tapping her fingertips against the tablecloth. Both Jeno and Jaemin grimace.

“Anything you can find,” he answers, eagerly. Jaemin’s are pleading as he continues: “I don’t even know what I don’t know, and it’s driving me crazy.”

She hums, face turning serious. “Knowledge is not always a blessing, Jaemin,” she advises, pulling out three mugs and a jar filled with an orange substance from under the table. Once it’s all set, Chun-ja reaches under to pull out another jar, this time full to the brim with sugar cubes and a package of plain, sweet biscuits. “Orange marmalade?” She offers.

Mark gulps. She continues: “Don’t worry. The trick’s in the sugar cubes — though it is true that consumption makes you docile.”

Jeno hesitantly accepts one of the biscuits, dipping it into the marmalade, and they watch in silence as he chews it. After a few seconds, when nothing bad seems to happen, they turn to Chun-ja. “It’s my mother’s recipe,” she rolls her eyes, pulling out a biscuit for herself. “Please, I’d hate to let three teenagers get out of my house unfed. I’m a grandma, through and through.”

Mark eventually accepts one for himself, and nudges Jaemin’s side in order to make him eat one. He politely declines, but accepts a bite of Mark’s own when he holds it out to his lips. “You see,” Chun-ja says between chews. “Reality is like sound waves. You have to tune in, not try and yell louder. Many of your generation don’t seem to realize that magic happens not in the planes of reality, but in the empty spaces between them.”

What the fuck, Mark thinks to himself, sharing a look with Jeno. She sounds just like Jaemin — it’s terrifying. “I’m explaining it to you, because I wish someone had explained it to me when I was your age,” she continues, leaning her elbows against the table and sinking it to her side slightly. “When Jaemin asks me to take a look on you, it means he wants me to access your wavelength — the one only those of your kind can walk on. Rarely ever two different beings can meet between planes, though it happens, sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” Jeno asks curiously, through a mouthful of biscuits. He has three sitting near him and another one in his hand; Mark bodily cringes at it.

Chun-ja nods. “There are creatures whose lives are so deeply intertwined, they start to attune to each other’s wavelength. And some are already born with it; means the Gods, for some reason, have put them together — be it by love or by hate. An example would be, say, Achilles and Patroclus.”

“I’ve read that book,” Mark murmurs. “In, like, middle school.”

Jaemin laughs, leaning his head against his shoulder, and Mark could not be any more in love, though he doesn’t say anything. Chun-ja looks like she knows, anyways. She smiles at him for a second, but it’s replaced by a neutral expression soon enough. “I’ll have to do it separately to each of you. Who would like to go first? I am warning you beforehand that this is going to hurt.”

“Why will it hurt?” Jeno asks, a few crumbs on the corner of his mouth, and Jaemin wipes them off just as Mark makes to. He avoids his eyes from them with a soft blush.

Chun-ja clears her throat. “Because I’ll have to almost — keyword: almost — break your necks. I won’t explain that part because none of you would understand and, honestly, I don’t really think it’s going to help if I do.”

Mark breathes in, then breathes out. He says: “I’ll go first.”

Someone always has to go first. Mark knows this — so he goes first. Chun-ja nods, getting up from her chair, and Jaemin squeezes his hand in comfort before creating a distance between him and Mark’s chair, consequently taking Jeno to the other end of the table and leaving him alone with Chun-ja on the opposing side. Her nails graze against his nape, sharper than he remembered them to look like, and the sound of her steps is almost none.

She picks up one of the sugar cubes from the jar sitting over the table, and puts it in Mark’s open palm, saying: “Eat it.”

“I thought you said the magic was in the sugar cube,” Mark murmurs, bringing it to his mouth and feeling it dissolve on the tip of his tongue in overwhelming sweetness.

Chun-ja shrugs. “Placebo effect,” she says, and the rest happens too fast: Her right hand finds haven in his chin and her left grabs him by the hair on top of his head, pulling it to the side harshly as if she was about to break his neck. For a second, his entire body tenses like a flexed muscle about to burst out of its seems until it relaxes entirely, to the point he’s afraid his heart will stop beating if he closes his eyes. Mark fights against it, trying to keep them open, but his vision keeps blurring and blurring, begging him to allow unconsciousness to take him under its wing.

He ends up almost blacking out, the muffled sound of a lullaby in a language he doesn’t understand coming from somewhere within the layers and layers of darkness plastered over his eyelids, as if the body and the mind were asleep but the subconscious was not. Mark tries to remember her words, fishing for them in his mind, and the sheer strength he needed to even remember a single sentence would be enough to turn the tide through his own willpower. The words stitch themselves together rather clumsily, in a daydream haze — Reality is like sound waves, Chun-ja had said. You have to tune in, not try and yell louder.

Mark tunes in. He fights off the lullaby weakly, until it is so distant he can’t make out the melody anymore, and tunes in to the buzzing sound of his skull clashing against the folds of his brain, like the woodwork of a Russian lighthouse quaking not because of, but along the same rhythm of the violent waves. Distantly, Mark tries to focus on that image — the beach, the sea, the lighthouse, the storm. He tries to imagine each of them separately, like filtering through tea, and the taste of the ocean roars salty in the back of his tongue.

In ninth grade, they were asked to partner up with each other to write on each students’ favorite writer. That was the first time he had ever talked to Jaemin for a period of time longer than five minutes, granted Jeno was excused from school that day for being sick, and they did the assignment based on a shared favorite writer: Sylvia Plath. “I sometimes think my vision of the sea is the clearest thing I own,” she had said in her prose, one of Mark’s favorite lines, and Jaemin smiled when he heard it. The next day, Mark told Jeno about it excitedly over a shared can of grape soda.

Another song he heard on the radio, somewhere, back when he was still in Canada — “And I was never a child,” the singer had belted. “I was pulled right out of the sea / And the salt, it never left my body.”

A trip to the beach. The Busan curls riding down his mother’s back, her protuberant ribs the same bones Mark was born and made from. Another song on the radio, a poem, a seashell necklace, the back of Jeno’s hands with a wave drawn on it — Mark focuses on that, because reality is tuning in, not trying to yell louder.

He stands in front of a three paneled mirror, then, and aligns himself to the edge in order to see the long hallway of his reflections diminishing the farther away they go, like a thousand different Marks with little to no knowledge of his actual situation. He is, simultaneously, both the admirer and the admired — the brick thrown at the window and the shattered glass, the bloodied knife and the skin split open, the aggressor and the victim and the neutral bystander. Mark touches a hand to his face in the mirror, and so do all the other versions of him, staring back in curiosity.

What were you before you met me? He asks the mirror.

The Mark to his left hums. Drowning.

What are you now? The Mark to his left asks the Mark to his left.

He also hums. Water.

“Mark?” A voice calls from somewhere long ahead the mirror, but it might’ve been long behind it as well, as time and space pull at both of his limbs like they were fighting over who would get him first. “Mark?” The voice repeats, echoing through his brain.

His entire deck of reflections starts to become agitated, panic fllaring up each of their faces individually as they seem to disappear one by one, until the only thing staring back at him in the mirror is the empty space where he should be, a few rays of light filtering. Mark looks right into the very last mirror, the one where his reflection should be the smallest, and then back at the one where it should be the biggest. When his eyes meet it, it’s not his face staring back; it’s Chun-ja, and she winks at him like she knows.

“Mark!” Jeno’s voice brings him back to reality, quite as if he had been pulled by his arms from the deep bottom of a pool. The ache of hitting his forehead against a metallic drain is so real he brings his hand to his temple, and surely enough a scar that was not there before meets his fingertips, angry like the beating of a heart. “Mark? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, frowning. He digs his finger against the scar, if only to prove it real, and flinches at the nauseating pain that goes through his entire body as he does, filling up his veins. “What the fuck— What the fuck— This shouldn’t be here. I didn’t have this scar before.”

Chun-ja’s voice almost echoes through the room. “Maybe not in your physical form,” she says, back to the opposite side of the table with a frowning Jaemin by her side. Mark would ask him what’s wrong, but Jaemin is almost always pulling his hair out about something — it’s usual behavior for him. “But you have it now. That scar managed to travel from your subconscious and manifest itself into your physical reality; it happens. You can’t dive so deep into your mind and expect to be let out without consequences.”

Mark has to count until ten in order to not jump his boyfriend’s grandmother. “What have you found out?” He asks, instead, traveling down the safer path for now.

Her lips tug into a knowledgeable smile of their own. “Aren’t you the bad omen, Mark Lee,” she says, motioning for him to come closer with his chair. He does, but the pain in his muscles is rammed so deep within his nerves he almost falls down as he does so, and Jeno has to hold him up in order for him to keep his balance. “I fear Jaemin was wrong about you. You are not prophetic.”

Mark’s shoulders untense in relief, about to shoot a pointed look at Jaemin, but Chun-ja continues: “Are you familiar with Banshees?” She asks, sympathetically.

“No, I’m not,” he blinks.

“It’s a somewhat phantasmic mourner of the soon-to-be-dead, in its traditional myth,” Chun-ja explains, her hands quietly interlaced together contrasting with Jeno’s fidgety ones, tapping against the table’s surface and pulling Mark’s attention towards it. “It’s a creature of Irish descendance whose presence usually foretells the loss of one’s life. They’re not a harbinger of harm, per se, but their presence is nevertheless unlikely to be welcome. I say they, of course, but legends claim a Banshee can only be a woman.”

“Well,” Mark starts, stating the obvious. “I am not a woman. I don’t think I am, at least.”

“And you are not a Banshee, either,” she says, blinking rather tiredly. “You tap into their wavelength, though — like a distant cousin of theirs, a creature whose lineage intersects with a Banshee but is not quite it.” Chun-ja leans back against her chair, looking as if she desperately needed a cigarette, and that would make two of them. “You’re quite the bad omen, Mark. It’s almost as if you not only predict bad things to happen; you scare them away. You are both the curse and the cursed.”

He gulps down a handful of worrisome knots. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

She raises an eyebrow. “How long do you think you were out for?”

“Like, ten, fifteen minutes?” Mark frowns.

Chun-ja scratches the tablecloth mindlessly. “An hour,” she corrects him in nonchalance. “You were out for an hour.”

“That’s not possible.” His frown deepens. “That’s not right.” Mark turns to look at Jaemin and Jeno, who both empathetically nod in confirmation. His gaze falls back on Chun-ja: “What, and I say this with all the respect possible, the fuck?”

She makes a point out of ignoring him. "The three of you have the most tangled of destinies I have ever seen." Chun-ja cleans off her hands from any biscuit crumbs, the tattooed moon on her cheek staring back at Mark like a third eye. "It's to the likes of nothing else I've known, though there are legends about it. Are you, perhaps, familiar with the Greek myth of the Furies?"

Jaemin clears his throat. "The Erinyes."

"For one, I don't know those people." Jeno raises his hand as if he were asking to speak in class, eyes round and curious. "Like, at all."

"They're deities of vengeance," Jaemin answers, furrowing his brows slightly. "They come in threes and pass judgement upon human affairs, kind of like… They keep the world's balance through weaving the fabric of destiny and guaranteeing everyone gets their karma. We watched a movie about them in freshman year."

"I don't remember that," Mark chimes in, confused.

"I've got a feeling that the Marijuana is rotting your brain." Jaemin raises an eyebrow in his direction, nagging. He's got that face on, when he's about to scold him for something, and Mark smiles back sheepishly.

"The Furies don't just weave," Chun-ja hums, tapping her fingers against the table's surface once again. They make Mark shiver. "They're curses personified. Mortals would call upon them to bring justice to their crimes — and they would, by inflicting madness over the perpetrator." Her eyes fly from Mark to Jeno to Jaemin, sleek like a fox. "The strongest of their curses were those called by a parent against their children, or vice versa. Their destinies were bound together for much more than just righting mortal wrongs; they were inseparable strings of a long weave of curses and redemptions. Where the Gods failed, the Furies made sure to make up for it."

"I don't get it," Jaemin whispers, staring right at his grandmother. "I don't understand."

She looks at them, somewhat unimpressed. "My grandson, haven't you wondered before how are you still alive? Haven't it crossed your mind, that there were things you should not have survived — things someone other would've never lived down?" Her eyes turn to Mark, a chill grazing down his spine. "His love for you was not at random. You've been carrying the gaze of a curse on your shoulders, and it has protected you from horrors you've never seen coming."

"That's not possible," Mark gulps down a breath of fresh air, the scar on his forehead aching. "I would not — I don't know how to do that. I'm just some kid."

Chun-ja blinks slowly, gracefully stitching words together like hemming tailored clothes. "Why do you think you were attracted to two of the most endangered supernatural creatures in this town?" She asks, gorging on his confusion. "You are a bad omen; a cursed amulet turned lucky charm. It is no surprise your destinies are bound together — the three of you were cursed with each other long before you could walk." Chun-ja's eyes fall upon Jeno, her features softening. "Your mother was a powerful woman, Jeno. She knew about the curse the second you came out of the womb; everything she has done since was in order to protect you. So did Jaemin's father, so did your mother," she pointedly stares at Mark. "But you can't run away from destiny. Not for long, at least. Sixteen years is an impressive amount of time you three managed to spend apart."

Jeno blinks, dumbfounded. "My mother— What does that make us? What does that mean?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Chun-ja asks. "It makes it your responsibility to behave like a mediator not only to each other, but to the world around you. All the madness you've inflicted on others, all of the times you slipped right through destiny's hands — it's time to put your curse on reverse. It's time to take on your natural task of providing justice to those who can't do it themselves."

"Then what should we do?" Jaemin intervenes, eyes twice their normal size. "How do we do that?"

"Oh, my dear," the very start of her eyebrows curl around her face, softened to its core. "You're already doing it. But I'll suggest you a place to start, even if I know you would not like to hear it."

"Where?" He asks, looking every bit the child Mark once knew.

She cups her hands around Jaemin's gently. "The industrial shed where your father died has been rotting ever since that night. Something lives there — something that could use a bit of both your love and fury on this next full moon."

Mark watches as he nods, the ghosts of a past yet to unravel swimming around his pupils like a spoon of honey sinking into bitter black coffee. He looks at Jeno, then, lost in his own grieving towards a mother he never truly knew, and he understands — the curse is not one brought upon yourself, but the one you bring upon others. Mark walks into grief like it’s a home, creating rooms inside of rooms and making it a labyrinth, death happening at the other end of a long, long tunnel.

The three of them end up silently sitting by the curb in front of Chun-ja’s house, knees pulled in and shoulders heavy as no one makes the first move to call a taxi. Jaemin’s head hangs from his neck like it weighs the world, the strength of Atlas gathered inside the small, delicate spine that holds it up, and a long sigh is pulled out of Jeno’s mouth like an unwinding wire, twin miseries sitting at the same table with everything bad in the Universe. Mark’s bones feel like jelly, waiting for something to bloom or rot or soften, the heavy wings of destiny attached to his shoulder blades.

Sappho would’ve known what to say, but Mark is not Sappho. Mark is a boy, sitting between two of his most treasured devotions, and the only thing he can muster is a weak “I’m sorry.”

Jeno’s shoulders slump, but he looks at Mark anyways. “For what? It’s not your fault that our dead relatives have lied to us our entire lives. Not that it bothers me — I don’t give a fuck.”

Mark holds the urge to snort. “You do give a fuck.”

“I know I do,” he sighs. Jeno glances towards Jaemin for a second, dead silent like he usually is when he’s digesting information, then turns his gaze back on Mark. “It’s fine. He’ll be fine. It’s just a lot of shit to think about.”

“But Jaemin loves to think about shit,” he frowns, worried. “That doesn’t look like he’s thinking. It looks like he’s plotting murder.”

“I can hear you two,” Jaemin mumbles, eyes meeting Mark’s. “I’m not plotting murder.”

“Let me guess, then: You’re plotting to avenge a murder,” Jeno jags a finger at his shoulder, arm passing behind Mark’s back. “Am I right?”

“My dad was not murdered,” the boy answers, defensive. Then reconsiders: “I mean, I don’t think so.”

Mark hums. “But you do plan on avenging your dad?”

Jaemin rubs his eyes tiredly. “I plan on getting home and knocking myself out with ZzzQuil.” He leans back on his hands, legs extended and heels meeting the harsh concrete, and looks at their direction drowsily. “Then, after that, yes. I do plan on righting some mortal wrongs.”

“Dude, sleeping pills are not the wave,” Jeno sends him a disappointed glare, ignoring Mark sitting between them in order to do so. “And I don’t see why we’d go on with this Furies shit, anyways. Personally, it’s not my business.”

“It’s our business,” Mark corrects him. “It’s all of our businesses. There’s no running from it.”

Jeno pops his lips together obnoxiously. “Oh, that’s on you. I’m the best at running away from things; I can just get up and leave at all times. We are not the same.”

“And we’ve seen how that went down, right?” Jaemin bites back, unimpressed. “Last time you ignored something like this, you turned into a Chimera and almost killed your father. We all still remember that.”

“I didn’t almost kill him,” he gasps, offended. “And if I wanted to, I probably should’ve. The next time he makes a homophobic comment, it’s on sight.”

Surprisingly, Jaemin chuckles. “Shut up,” he says, sighing away the tension in his muscles. His voice softens: “I understand if any of you want to back out now. I’m sorry I’ve made you go through that.”

Mark wraps an arm around his neck, bringing him closer and basically manhandling him into cuddling to his side. “Don’t be stupid,” he frowns. “We’re a package deal now.”

“Yeah, dude,” Jeno agrees, getting closer to Mark’s other side. “If someone can do the work of an Ernie, it’s you. You’re like… Super smart.”

“Yeah,” Mark breathes out, reaching a hand to play with the hair on Jaemin’s nape. “And, you know, statistically speaking you’re the most… Prettiest boy I’ve ever seen. It’s going to be fine.”

Jaemin laughs. “Thank you,” he exhales gently, straightening his back. “We’ll be fine. We’ll be alright. And Jeno?”

“Yeah?”

“An Erinye,” he corrects, reaching out to pat him on his knee. “Ernie is the one from Sesame Street.”

Jeno shrugs, nonchalant. Mark has missed him so much, it’s ridiculous — at this point, they’re more each other than they are bones and blood. “Close enough.”

Eventually, they do get a taxi ride back home, if only because standing in front of Chun-ja’s house was starting to feel weird enough. They pile up in the backseat of a grumpy elderly man’s car, Jeno’s side pressing down to Mark’s like a knife, and he doesn’t realize how right it feels to stand as three until Jaemin has to go back home, leaving him and Jeno alone inside of Mark’s kitchen to stir convenience store ramen and murmur quietly about how reality television is the epitome of entertainment.

It’s easy, but then again, it’s not. Tension sits between them like a living personification of things they should’ve said, but didn’t, and Mark tries to stay still in order that love won’t find him, but it does and it will and it has. There’s no use in the silence that ties them together like a ribbon, a melody you have to tune in to listen, and Mark understands why there are tons and tons of crappy movies about teen romance — the ever thrilling roller coaster of emotions keeps his head above water, even when all he wants to do is sink.

“Jeno,” he calls, clinking his chopsticks against his mother’s favorite ceramic bowl.

Jeno sighs. “I know.”

And he does, because Mark has never been good at hiding anything. Jeno knows, but does he care? “I can’t,” he starts, carefully considering his words. “I can’t offer you what you want. I can’t trust myself to love you in the way you’d want me to, because then it’d mean that I’d have to choose between you and Jaemin, and I just — I don’t see that happening.” Mark pats his napkin against his mouth, if only to find some use to his fingers as he averts his eyes from Jeno. “And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you were a second choice, because truth be told, I’m crazy about you. I think you’re amazing. Sometimes I can’t even believe you’re my best friend, because, honestly... And I hate that we’re so at odds with each other; because I want nothing more than to be at peace with you.”

Jeno’s eyes curl around his cheekbones delicately, his eyeballs like two snowglobes, and Mark’s head is nothing but a navigating cloud, adorning his brain like cotton candy. “I’m sorry for not listening to you,” Jeno ends up saying, gulping down ramen broth. His hands fall nervous against the surface of the table. “I know — I know you like Jaemin. I know that now. I mean, I’ve always know, but; sometimes I feel like I didn’t. I was mean, and I was petty, and I lashed out on both of you because I’m terrified of losing you. I’m genuinely, utterly, tragically terrified.”

Mark nods, slowly. “I know. I understand.”

The boy continues, somewhat insecurely: “And I know there’s no excuse for that, and that I really should get a fucking therapist—” He breathes in, then breathes out, rearranging his thoughts. “But… If you still… If you and Jaemin still want me around… Then I’d be down to try. I know we clash, and I know that we fight, and I know I don’t make it easier. But I mean it, wholeheartedly, when I say I love you. I’d sooner cut my leg off before hurting you on purpose, I promise. I’m very sorry.”

“You say ‘If you still want me around’ like I’ve ever wanted anything else this much,” Mark offers him a mild smile, feeling his shoulders unwind and untense. “Sometimes I wish I could lend you my thoughts so you could see how amazed I am by you, Jeno. I look at you and there’s nothing wrong — there’s never been anything wrong. If there’s anyone I’d like to try this with, it’s you.”

Jeno smiles back, a light blush to the top of his cheeks that reminds Mark of lost innocence and star shaped stickers stuck to someone else’s ceiling. This is home, he realizes — and home he loves. “What is ‘this’, Mark?” He asks, so softly it could’ve disappeared into Mark’s pores. “I don’t know anything like this. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Do you trust me?” He reaches a hand to Jeno’s, interlacing them together. “I’ll soften every edge, I’ll go to hell and back to make sure I'll be good for you — I promise I’m not letting you hurt again.”

“Okay,” Jeno nods, a bit brighter than he was before, the touch of his hand almost a whisper. Where the world failed to give Achille more than one weakness, it has made up for it by giving Mark two. “Okay, I trust you. I do.”

Mark smiles. He smiles back.

There is a scarf stuck somewhere on top of his closet that used to be Jeno’s in sixth grade, but Mark ended up keeping it after a particularly stormy afternoon, where Jeno lended it to him despite being cold himself. Like that, it’s easy to see — it’s easy to know that love is not just what one can touch and see, but the small silent infinities that stand between words, like traffic lights just a second before they turn green. This entire city is Jeno’s to the touch, and Mark would gladly fade in the touch of his hand, the suburban tomb with his name on it already done and ready to go.

As he tells Jeno his goodbyes, Mark realizes he’ll never be the same after this.

What a relief.

“Dude, I’m just saying,” Mark hums through a mouthful of pizza, the hood of his hoodie pulled all the way through and tightened around his face, only a few locks of spotty blue hair adorning his features. “How are you going to base your entire personality around a band that consistently says ‘fuck the system’ and then, when it’s time to fuck the system, you don’t want to do it?”

Jeno laughs, popping a small, chocolate covered pretzel into his mouth. “Some of these bands don’t mean it, though. When they say ‘fuck the system’, it’s more like — ‘have an one night stand with the system.’” His eyes widen in surprise. “Wait, that would be a bomb Fall Out Boy song name.”

His best friend’s eyes widen. “Dude. That’s our band’s new name.”

Jaemin snorts from where he’s folding letters into tiny envelopes, his food untouched. Mark frowns, poking his side: “Can’t you let that go for a second so you can eat?”

“No, he can’t,” Renjun chimes in, his dark hair a mess of sweaty ends and big knots from practicing. Jeno never understood how people fell in love with sports the same way they’d fall in love with a person, but Renjun makes it an easier idea to digest — no one plays Exy so eagerly, so passionately if they’re only in it for a scholarship. “Jaemin’s obsessed with work.”

“This is not work,” Jaemin protests, still folding letters. “These are questions for different elderly supernaturals in town, asking for guidance. The next full moon is coming up soon enough, you know.”

Donghyuck groans, the headphone set tied around his neck appearing so unbelievably tight Jeno wonders how can he not choke on his food. “It’s literally a month away from now. You’re insane.”

“Why don’t you just send them emails like, you know, a normal person?” Jeno asks, raising an eyebrow in Jaemin’s direction, though it is barely malicious. He finds Jaemin’s attempts at maintaining an organic, old fashioned communication with the elderly admirable — it’s almost as if he was born already a seven hundred years old baby. Jeno wouldn’t be surprised if he was, thinking in retrospect.

“They don’t have emails,” he frowns, visibly avoiding Mark’s worried glare towards him. Jaemin eventually puts the letters down, shoulders slumped, and brings his soggy burrito to his lips, to which Mark smiles proudly. Jeno thinks they’re adorable nowadays — he never thought he’d ever think such a thing, but then again, perception is a tricky concept. “They’re old old. The type of people you’d see in History books; they don’t know how manage any technology.”

“That’s literally so weird,” Mark announces his opinion, as he does. He steals one of Jeno’s pretzels nonchalantly, trying to pass it off as normal, and Jeno bats his hands away immediately. “These people talk to God but turn around and say they don’t know how to operate Gmail or something. It’s humbling.”

Renjun frowns, visibly estranged. “God singular?” He turns to Donghyuck as if saying can you believe this dude? and Jeno has to hold back a giggle.

“Gods,” Donghyuck corrects Mark, eyes trained to his laptop. “No such thing as a supernatural creature who follows monotheist beliefs.”

Jeno points a finger in his direction. “You’re human.”

He rolls his eyes, unbothered, and remains typing on his laptop as if nothing was said. “No shit, Jeno. I thought I was just a closeted werewolf.”

“Look at us,” Renjun whistles, leaning to peek over Jaemin’s letters. “We’re just a little freak show of our own.” He turns to them with a wicked grin, the same one Jeno sees him use when he’s about to say something mean, or obnoxious. “It’s like we’re the little league for nutjobs.”

“That’s a cult,” Jaemin corrects him, immersed in his work once again. “A little league for nutjobs is a cult.”

Mark makes a protesting noise, pulling a letter right out of Jaemin’s hands. “We’re not just nutjobs. We’re also very queer.”

Renjun snorts. “Great. We’re the wackos and the queers — talk about picking a struggle.”

Jeno watches as Jaemin and Mark bicker over whether work or lunch is more important, and giggles once Jaemin ends up losing the argument, sulking towards the other end of the table as he is forced to actually have a meal other than just taking random bites of food and stealing snacks. Renjun seems to notice it too, and makes a puking noise. “I hate the three of you so much.” He points a hand towards them, including Jeno in the equation. “You keep giggling to yourselves because you’ve got little secret crushes on each other and it’s annoying. I didn’t know I was back in middle school.”

Jaemin rolls his eyes, lightly pushing against Renjun’s shoulder. “I don’t have a little secret crush on anyone. I’m very vocal about everything.”

“Wow,” the boy snarls, though Jeno can see him holding back a laugh as he clutches his shoulder. “That’s even worse.”

“You’re insufferable,” his teammate huffs. Jaemin is wearing one of Mark’s handmade cardigans, the ones his mom makes and sells, and the yarn is so colorful Jeno has to look away from it the second the cafeteria’s artificial lights braid into its fabric. With much struggle and many glares, he ends up putting down his letters for good, shoving them into his bag and pushing his tray of food closer.

Everyone in their table is doing their own thing, be it Donghyuck’s loud typing or Mark’s journey to get his boyfriend to eat, and Jeno feels a weird sense of belonging he’d rather not think too much of. Odds have gathered them as a team, since Jaemin had insisted they’d need one in case they were really going through with Chun-ja’s advice. Jeno is still unsure about it — not because he doesn’t want to help, but because he’s not sure yet of what that means for him, and if he’s even good enough to do it. Jaemin has been training him on the low, things like shifting at command and basic self-protecting etiquette, but there’s only so much knowledge he can absorb in such a short passage of time. It seems, to him, that Jeno has been fighting the urge to run away for the past month or so, and the battle is not as even and equal as he once thought it was.

It’s almost half an hour into lunchtime when a girl comes up to their table, black short hair pulled into a half-bun as the rest falls free against her nape, a good portion of her neck showing as the cut ends just under her chin. She’s wearing the same type of clothes they all wear — and oversized t-shirt with only one piece of their school’s uniform, except that hers is a white-and-blue gathered skirt almost fully covered by her shirt while Jeno’s is often the ugly blue sweatpants he can’t be bothered to change into jeans. Dress codes are stupid, anyways; what a weird, gender-roles-reinforcing concept.

She clears her throat loudly, approaching the end of the table where Jeno is with her arms crossed. “I want in.”

Jeno blinks, dumbfounded. “Huh?”

All of their eyes travel to her, in what Jeno imagines must be a pretty intimidating situation for someone as painfully shy as he is, but she holds her ground almost impeccably as she takes a seat next to him like she belonged there in the first place. “I said,” she repeats herself, now a tone quieter. “I want in. I know what you’re doing, and I want in.”

They would’ve stayed dead silent weren’t for Mark’s nervous laughter. “What?” He asks, clearly unsettled.

“The supernatural network you guys got going on — I want in,” she repeats herself again, completely serious. Her hands interlace with each other atop of the table like a businessman about to close a deal, and her eyes travel to Jaemin. “You know me. I’ve met your grandmother before; every supernatural girl has. You were there when my parents took me.”

Jaemin frowns confusedly, but the memory seems to down on him the more he looks at her. He sucks in a breath: “Heejin?” His eyes widen, but he leans closer to her with an excited glint to his eyes. “I thought you had moved overseas! When did you come back?”

Heejin bites on her lower lip. “Last month,” she hums, the assertiveness still there, but slightly softer now. “I’ve been keeping my eyes on you,” her gaze falls onto Jeno and Mark pointedly. “And I was surprised to see it traced back to you,” it falls on Jaemin once again. “But I know what’s going on. I’ve been asking around. They say the ley lines have been acting up again — like I always thought they would.”

Jaemin nods. Everyone else except Jeno stays silent, staring at her curiously. Jeno clears his throat: “Um, you’ve been spying on me?”

“No, of course not,” Heejin turns to him, unimpressed. “But I have been eavesdropping. You really should be more careful about what you say in the hallways of a high school, you know.”

Mark slaps his own forehead in second-hand embarrassment, and Jeno brings a hand to his nape awkwardly, avoiding her eyes. “Fair enough.”

“What do you know about what’s going on?” Jaemin asks, reeling the attention back to him. “We only know so much about the bursts of supernatural energy, but even then, our idea of them is very vague. I’ve been asking for guidance, but to no avail — every other supernatural elder seems to have fled the city. Do you know anything about that?”

Heejin hums in thought, making herself comfortable between Jeno and Donghyuck. “No, not about that, but I have somewhat of an idea about what could’ve caused it.” She unties the upper part of her hair, letting the short strands fall free and messy before explaining: “There have been weird things happening all over the county, my mom said. Sudden, unlikable murders; an alarming increase of rabid animals; violent car accidents that relate back to the city hall. They’re thinking sabotage, or gangs, maybe, but — But I think it has something to do with him.” Heejin nods her head towards Jeno’s direction accusingly.

Jaemin’s face swells in confusion. “Why?”

“Because he is the first Chimera in the last twenty years,” she explains, pulling the now-down hair into a short ponytail almost mechanically quick. “And that doesn’t happen out of nowhere. The Seelie know, too; fae everywhere have been wondering if this could be the doing of a higher being, a god of some sort. But you know—”

“Yeah,” the boy completes for her with a frown. “Only Echidna could’ve birthed a Chimera. The rules of the supernatural, while questionable, are to be strictly followed.”

Heejin nods. “Lest the perpetrator wants to suffer from the Furies’ vengeance.”

At the mention of the name Furies, the three of them tense up almost immediately, though Jaemin is better at hiding it than Mark and Jeno are. He clears his throat: “Yes, I know. And even then… Even if Echidna did it, it would be preying on the vulnerable, wouldn’t it? It would be considered a parent-on-children crime through supernatural guidelines.”

Jeno’s eyebrows furrow. “Why?”

Jaemin doesn’t look at him as he says it, intensely staring at Heejin. “Because you can’t turn someone without their consent.”

She cocks her head to the side. “You can’t.” Heejin’s stare moves to Jeno, and he knows, then, that she knew — she just knew. “I can help you figure it out.”

“But why?” Renjun chimes in for the first time, crossing his arms. “Why would you want to help?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Heejin answers, turning her head in his direction gracefully. “No supernatural survives alone in this town. I need a herd; you clearly need help. It’s a deal.”

Jaemin exhales softly, addressing the others: “Heejin is a Seelie.”

“The Funko Pops?” Mark gasps.

She full-body cringes. “No, God, no. These are the Unseelie. The Seelie are a little less thirsty for blood.”

Both his eyebrows raise at the same time. “A little less—”

Donghyuck clicks his tongue, all eyes turning to him. “I think she should be let in.”

“Let into what?” Renjun asks, huffing. “It’s not like we’re this secret supernatural society. I mean — some of you I’m not even friends with.”

Jeno rolls his eyes. “We are all friends, Renjun. That was established when Jaemin and I saved both yours and Donghyuck’s lives.”

The boy considers it for a second, but sighs. “Fine. So maybe there is a secret supernatural society, so what? We are five. Six, with her. Six people against a supernatural force so strong it managed to fuck with the entire county.”

Heejin smacks her lips together, a thin string of gloss connected to each of them. “I know more,” she says, as if passing down a secret. “I know there are others — two girls. Freshmen. A werewolf and a butterfly shifter.”

Mark and Jeno share a knowing look, but Heejin continues: “I know, for one, Park Jisung is also a shifter, but I don’t know what he shifts into. There should be a few more people, but… I don’t think they’d want to help.”

Renjun raises an eyebrow. “You’ve got quite a pack of your own, haven’t you?”

She shrugs. “Some people have friends, believe it or not.”

“A wolf and a butterfly,” Mark speaks up, pensively. “I’ve dreamt about that. I’ve dreamt about Seelie. I’ve — I’ve dreamt about that shit.”

“I thought you were just the token human,” Heejin whistles. “Let me guess: Prophetic? Oracle? Banshee?”

Jaemin’s head turns to her almost abruptly, surprised. “Wait a minute— What did you say? The second one?”

She bites her lower lip. “Oracle?”

“Oracle!” He groans, all but smashing his head against the table’s surface. “I’ve been wondering — which creature is a bad omen? Which creature predicts things almost as soon as they’re about to happen? An oracle.” Jaemin smacks his own forehead in exasperation. “I’m so fucking stupid.”

Mark presses his lips together, lightly pinching the bridge of his nose. “We have to stop talking about these things in a school cafeteria.”

“Then let’s talk about it at my house,” Heejin offers, not really giving them the space to disagree. She grabs one of the pens resting on top of their table, probably Jaemin’s, and motions for Jeno to extend his hand. He does, if only out of curiosity, and she writes down an address on his palm. “Today, after school. I’ll try and get Gowon and Olivia to come, but I’m warning beforehand that they don’t go anywhere without the other.” She nonchalantly drops the pen, taking her exit out of the table, and waves them a defiant goodbye before disappearing into the mass of students that the cafeteria has turned after the first bell had rang. “Be there.”

When she’s out of sight, Jeno is the first one to speak up: “What the hell?”

“Give me your hand,” Donghyuck asks, ignoring his previous sentence.

“Why?”

“Just give it to me.”

“No, why—”

He all but yanks Jeno’s hand in his direction, typing out the address written on his palm quickly like a machine and letting his hand drop to the table. After a few more seconds of typing, he hums out: “She lives, like, ten minutes away from Jaemin, but it’s still out of town. I don’t think it counts as the outer banks as much as it counts as a random farm in the middle of the road.”

Jaemin licks his lips in thought. “I trust her,” he announces, as if they had all been waiting for his judgement. Jeno doesn’t think the others were, but he probably was — hence why his shoulders drop in relief when Jaemin says it. “Maybe she didn’t seem like much to you, but I trust Heejin. There is no downside to allowing her to help.”

“Maybe not.” Renjun leans his head against his palms, exasperated, but quickly resurfaces back to pointedly glare at Jaemin: “This is on you. If we get there and she tries to murder our asses, I’m letting her make deer barbecue.”

Mark rolls his eyes, grabbing Jaemin’s hand on top of the table. “I’m not letting her do that. We’re not letting her do that, right, Jeno?”

“Yeah, not at all,” Jeno answers, truthfully. He wonders how weird it would be if he patted Jaemin’s knee, or went as far as grabbing his other hand, but decides on patting his back awkwardly a few seconds later. “You’ll be fine. We’ll be alright. She’s like… Five feet tall, anyways. What is she going to do? Bite my ankle?”

Donghyuck laughs, but comments offhandedly: “How mature.”

Jaemin rubs his temples. “I’m skipping next period,” he announces, turning to Jeno. “Lee? Do you want to do some training? I really do feel like beating your ass or getting my ass beaten. You know, just to feel something.”

It takes him a second, but he ends up answering: “Yeah, sure. Fine.”

But it comes back to the fact that Jeno rarely ever knows what to do with himself when he’s alone with Jaemin, because the ever present weight of their unlabeled relationship is always there, thick like theater curtains just as they’re about to open. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands or his legs or his mouth, mainly because Mark is not there to tell him what is fine and what is not — Jaemin is a whole new territory he never really thought he wanted to cross until he did, and the way things were before is now a small dot he keeps getting farther and farther from the more this fling progresses. Jeno never knows anything, because Jaemin always seems to know it all.

Renjun sneaks them out with his hallway pass, and they're out of school just as quick as the wind, Jaemin's sneakers squeaking against the concrete in excitement as he secures the straps of his backpack tightly. Jeno walks beside him, eyes trained to the sidewalk rather than the sun, and the streets seem more appealing once you should be somewhere else. Though they should not, Jaemin ends up buying milkshakes for the both of them as a warm up gift for the next few hours that will be spent with Jeno trying (and mostly failing) to take him down using Jaemin's very own tactics.

They're sitting at a table in front of a parked ice cream truck, Jeno's feet swinging in the air, and Jaemin hums from behind his own coffee milkshake: "I don't know how you can drink strawberry flavored shit. It's disgusting."

Jeno frowns slightly, staring at his drink. "No, it's not. It's much better than the battery acid you call caffeine, mind you — and it's not a drug."

"And it still sucks," the boy laughs easily, ignoring his words to stir his already half melted milkshake with his straw. "No, but seriously…" He raises his gaze to meet Jeno's, raising his eyebrows. "A penny for your thoughts on Heejin?"

"She's pretty," he shrugs, avoiding his eyes to the street. It's only a quarter past two, but there's little to no people out — it makes Jeno wonder just how many teenagers make up this town's population. "I thought she seemed smart."

Jaemin hums a long, agreeing noise. "Heejin's gorgeous," he points out eagerly. "But that's not what I meant."

Jeno knows what he meant. It comes implied — do you think I've made the right decision? —, but there's still some self-satisfaction in watching Jaemin search for words like a helpless gasp for air. "I don't know," Jeno ends up saying, clicking his tongue curiously. He looks at Jaemin: "I think she wouldn't let us into her home if she were planning to kill us all or something, right?"

The boy snorts, taking a sip of his milkshake before continuing with the conversation. "Suppose not," Jaemin says. "But even then — I wonder why now. Like, I wonder what made her parents come home, is all. Why would anyone come back to this place?"

"Maybe for work," he suggests, leaning back against his chair. "Small towns are easier to hold businesses in."

"They're not business people, though," Jaemin sighs, leaning his chin against his fist. "Both her parents are ambiental activists, because of the Seelie stuff and all that. Heejin moved to Brazil, I think, when they started working with indigenous organizations. They never tried to contact anyone I know ever since."

Jeno considers it for a second. "I don't know, dude. Maybe they were done with their work in Brazil, or maybe — I don't know. Maybe they just wanted to come back home."

The boy takes another dragged sigh. "Do you think I've inherited my mom's paranoia? Don't lie."

"I don't think so," Jeno tells him, truthfully, and leans across the table to pat Jaemin's shoulder. "It's just how it is, you know. You care a lot about things."

His shoulders drop. "Like an insane person."

"Maybe," he chuckles lowly, tapping his feet against the foot of the table. "But we like crazy, right? I mean, just look at us and the people around us — we love crazy. The stranger someone is, the better the chance that we'll become friends with them."

Jaemin smiles, staring straight through him like Jeno was made from thin glass. "Was that the criteria you and Mark were looking for when you decided to keep me in your lives?"

"Me, personally, it wasn't," Jeno shakes his head nonchalantly. "But Mark always had a thing for the weird ones. Clearly."

"What about you?" The boy asks, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Which kind of people do you have a thing for?"

He thinks about it for a second, deeply aware that he is setting himself up and walking straight into the lion's open mouth. "I don't know yet. I like big eyes and I like good hair, if that's what you mean." Jeno brings his eyes to the street for a few seconds before continuing: "But on a less superficial note, I think I just like people I can do nothing with."

"Nothing?" Jaemin raises an eyebrow, still grinning from ear to ear though maybe now softer. Jeno thought he looked quite tender, but would never say it out loud.

"Yeah, you know," he insists, milkshake long forgotten as he explains himself through big hand gestures. "When someone asks — what are you doing? And you say nothing. I like anyone I can just give all my nothings to."

Jaemin chuckles softly, eyes round in amazement, but doesn't say anything else. Jeno thinks he is lovely, if only a little bit too quiet when he's out of his comfort zone. It's okay — he loves fierce and quietly, and Jeno has always been good at listening; at tuning in; even when Jaemin watches every move of his. He's outclassed for the first time, it seems, and it's outrageous.

They sit in comfortable silence for a hot minute, no rush to do and say anything, but Jaemin breaks the silence soon enough. "I really like your hair," he settles for saying, eyes traveling towards Jeno's buzzcut. It's grown a bit since they shaved it, and should be due to another haircut soon, but Jeno brings a hand to it anyways, digging his fingers against the baby strands that refused to ever let go of his scalp.

"Me too," Jeno answers genuinely, a smile of his own tugging at his lips. "It's crazy how much time has passed since we shaved it, isn't it?"

Jaemin nods. "A lot has changed since, but it wasn't that long ago."

"Maybe not," he hums in agreement. "But, still — what a crazy idea that we are not the same we were then, even when it was only a few weeks ago."

The boy's eyes go up to the sky in thought. "It's the way it is, you know," Jaemin eventually settles for saying. "Eventually, everything must come to an end. We will most likely not be the same people we are a few weeks from now, as well."

"I guess not," Jeno sighs. He'd miss this moment more than he'd like to admit. "Do you still plan on beating my ass at training today?"

He laughs. "Yeah, I do. I'm a strict teacher."

"Don't know, man," he says, squinting towards the sun in order to avoid the inevitable judgement that will come with his next words. "For one, I want to bleach my hair."

Jaemin is taken aback, but eventually says: "Out of nowhere?"

"Yeah, why not?" Jeno shrugs. "You can beat my ass then bleach my hair later as an apology. It'd certainly throw Heejin off of her rhythm."

"So she won't murder us?"

"Yes, Jaemin, so she won't murder us. She's gonna think — ah, I can't do this, this guy is too sexy."

Jaemin lets out a loud laugh, and springs from his chair almost immediately, pulling on Jeno's arm with his free hand. "Then let's go."

And that is how Jeno ends up with his head sunk into a bucket of room temperature water as Jaemin rakes his fingers through his hair, trying to rinse out not only leftover bleach but also the same shitty blue hair dye Mark gave him for his birthday last year. They're sitting in one of the clearer spots of the woods, just a few minutes from Heejin's address, and Jaemin can't seem to stop giggling manically to himself as he does his best to not stain Mark's cardigan.

Jeno sneezes as soon as he is able to pull himself out of the water, feeling the droplets of blue water going down his neck, and Jaemin wraps him up in a towel almost immediately, like a mother would. He's still giggling to himself, using one of the towel's ends to gently wipe off any remaining water, bleach or dye, and Jeno has to keep himself from scowling too much at him. This was a terrible idea — he should've just let Jaemin beat him up in practice.

"Oh, come on, now," the Jaemin in question snorts, drying Jeno's hair with the towel gently. "You look like a kicked puppy. It looks good."

Jeno sulks. "It's cold."

"It's mid Spring," the boy points out, kneeling over the picnic cloth they're both sitting on in order to dry the back of Jeno's head. "And it's not that cold. Don't be a big baby."

"I'm literally shivering, Jaemin," he ends up whining, lowering his head to give him more access to his nape. "This was such a stupid idea. I can't believe you let me do this."

Jaemin laughs. "You are sixteen years old. I can't possibly allow or ban you from doing things."

Jeno whines again. "You should. This was fucking stupid."

The boy sits back on his heels to admire his work of art, now that Jeno's hair is somewhat dry and has only stained into his white t-shirt a little bit on the back of it. Oh, well; he'll cross that bridge when he gets to it. "It looks good," he ends up humming, reaching a hand to mess it up for a second before pulling it away, his palms now a deep blue. "I like it. It matches your… Vibe."

"My vibe?" He scoffs.

Jaemin shrugs with a smile. "I think it looks pretty."

"It's because I'm pretty, Jaemin," Jeno whines, still slightly freaking out. "What if it looks ugly? God, my dad is going to kill me. Why did I do this? On God, why did I do this?"

"Because you want to do things and you take action on them." He tries patting Jeno's back somewhat comfortingly, his fingers lightly scratching at his shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with that. And again — it looks pretty. It fits you."

His shoulders slump, though the freaking out subdues considerable as Jaemin rakes another hand through his hair, playing with the buzzed, freshly dyed strands. All in all, he is still very lovely. "Thank you," Jeno ends up humming, leaning into the touch like, well, like a puppy. "It seems that all we ever do is fight and do shit to my hair."

Jaemin snorts, scratching at his scalp and promptly ignoring the way his palms turn bluer by the second. "We change like the seasons," he says, softly, and turns his eyes to Jeno's in a way that makes him feel like a wild animal being watched. "And that's not true; we also flirt a lot."

Jeno rolls his eyes grumpily. "We do flirt a lot."

He offers Jeno a tight lipped smile, but says nothing else, tending to his head while also tightening the towel around his shoulders like he knew, and he understood, and he cared. In the afternoon sun, Jeno looks at Jaemin and desperately wishes for something to root, rot or ripe — if only from the sheer need he feels to just lean in and let his lips do the rest of the talking. Jaemin loves so very fiercely; Jeno's resume to ignore it crumbles by the second.

His daydreams are harshly interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing loudly against the dome of the forest, breaking into something much more sacred than any of them will ever be. Jeno searches for it in his pocket as Jaemin slowly but surely pulls away from him, seemingly taken aback by how close they were and how it would've taken him just a leap of short faith for his face to crash into Jeno's in a kiss. He watches, almost proudly, as Jaemin's hands and ears blush a scarlet red under the blue dye.

“Hello?” Jeno picks up the phone, eyes trained to the blue blotches all over Jaemin’s palms and tracing the inside of his wrists.

“Where are you?” Mark’s voice rings back at him, abrasive. “We’re in front of Heejin’s house. Where the fuck are you two?”

He suppresses a giggle. Jaemin looks at him curiously, washing off the dye from his hands as well as he can by sinking them into the bucket. “We’ll be there in five,” Jeno answers, imagining Mark’s stompy feet and crossed arms as he waits for them. “Don’t miss us too much.”

“I’m going to kill the both of you when you get here,” he threatens, but Jeno knows it is mostly empty and half-hearted. “Don’t be late.” Mark hangs up.

Jeno turns his glance upwards to meet Jaemin’s, clicking his tongue. “They’re already at Heejin’s. You good to go?”

The boy hums, waving his hands in the air in order to dry them off as he pulls himself up from the ground. The inside of his nails are of a bluish color, like the violet hour a few minutes before dawn, and Jeno feels quite as if Jaemin did not want to scrub the blue off completely, even if he had to. The now faded color of his hands and Jeno’s head of buzzed deep blue hair tell a visual story he is not sure he is ready to let go of yet, and that is okay — as far as it goes, Jaemin’s mark on him has been set into stone, however scrubbable the dye can be against his hands.

When he offers a hand to him, Jeno stares at his palm for a second before allowing himself to be pulled upwards. They shove their belongings into Jaemin’s backpack and leave without a trace of their stay other than a few footprints against the forest floor, hands bumping into each other rather clumsily as they take their leave towards Heejin’s house. Jaemin’s shoulder brushes against his, hands shyly refusing to come together and no one willing to take the first step, but Jeno hears it in the silence anyways.

Renjun, Donghyuck and Mark stand in front of a small farm entrance with their arms crossed, visibly impatient and twice as annoyed, though the latter drops the gloom immediately the second he makes eye contact with Jeno’s freshly dyed hair, eyes widening in surprise. Once they’re close enough, he exclaims: “What the fuck did you do this for?”

“Jeez,” Jeno snorts, leaning against the picket fence separating them from Heejin’s parents’ property. “Thank you for saying it looks nice, I appreciate it.”

“It looks awesome,” Mark points out, reaching a hand to mess up his hair, but eventually says: “We’re matching now, though. Blue on blue.”

Jaemin nods in agreement, his palms covered by the cardigan sleeves. “That’s true,” he says with a grin, wiggling his eyebrows towards Jeno. “Was this planned to leave me out?”

Jeno splutters. “Of course not— You’d look atrocious with blue hair, anyways. Humble yourself.”

But of course he wouldn’t. As far as he’s concerned, Jeno doesn’t think Jaemin even has it in himself to look anything other than strikingly kind to the eye. The boy snickers, anyways, resting his chin over Mark’s shoulder: “I somehow doubt that, bunny.”

Renjun moves one of the wooden gates hesitantly, ignoring their banter, and they spring open on their own without any further movement, basically unprompted. Donghyuck frowns at it, but is the first one to walk past the gates; as soon as they realize nothing bad would happen, the rest of the group seems to follow his lead, always a few steps behind. What’s behind the fences and the gates is a simple stretch of land that could barely be considered a field, a narrow stone path guiding to a cottage almost twice the size of Jaemin’s house as a few farm animals lounge around uninterestedly. A cow lays by the sun patiently as they stand at their front porch, deciding what to do next and taking in the peaceful view only a farm can ever entice.

“Do you think they eat these?” Mark ruin the mood by pointing with his chin towards a flock of chickens, little brown dots against the overwhelming green as they bicker away.

Renjun bites back laughter before he answers: “Modern Seelies are almost always vegan, so I suppose these,” he motions around to the animals. “Are Heejin’s friends, not her dinner.”

“Please don’t ask that in front of them,” Jaemin adds, flicking Mark on the ear. He yelps, jumping away from him, and Jeno laughs. “I’m serious. If you offend fae, I cannot get you out of here until you make it up for them. Physically, I cannot.”

He sulks. “Fine.”

Jaemin makes to knock on the door, but it is swung open in full force before he could even do it, leaving him with his wrist held up in the air. A tall woman in a dark, floor-length gown stares back at them with bone chilling white eyes, her dark hair falling in waves down her back like some sort of real life Morticia Addams, thin lips frowned curiously. “Heejin’s friends, I suppose,” she says, her voice low and rough. Her gaze falls upon Jeno for a second before she says: “Follow me.”

The woman — whom Jeno can only suppose is Heejin’s mother — steps aside, giving them space to walk through the front door as a group. Jeno feels her eyes on his back like a target, hot and heavy, but ignores it for the sake of latching closer to Mark and Jaemin, who walk a few steps ahead of him. She guides them to the back of the house, not really giving them any time to discover the minutiae of the place, but Donghyuck comments a few odd details to him as they walk side by side. The entire house is covered in different types of shrines and altars, all tied back to a statue or a picture of a Greek woman Jeno has no idea who is, but supposes is a goddess of some sort.

Donghyuck notices his curiosity, and leans closer to whisper: “Demeter; ruler of the Seelies.”

Jeno blinks at him, then nods in acknowledgement. The backyard she has guided them to opens into a big field divided in three sections a few miles apart from each other — one is for the animals, with food and what seems to be like a tent where a few cows and a dog rest under; one is a large pond, where a short middle aged man with surprisingly long hair seems to be practicing some sort of yoga; and the other is an old playground, a teenager in pigtails studying on the floor near one of the slides. Heejin is sitting cross legged by the pond, school shirt long gone and now changed into a baggy tank top Jeno would love to borrow one day. She leans to the side and smiles at them, waving in their direction.

Her mother leaves as soon as they enter the backyard, the door they had just went through closing behind her, and they have no choice but to approach Heejin in the pond. By the time they’re there, Jeno is already hot enough to have a swim on the pond by his own, though he just ends up with his ankles deep into the water, jeans rolled up to his calves. Jaemin sits beside her, hand swaying into the water, and Renjun is trying to convince him to stop doing that while Donghyuck seems to promptly ignore them. Mark leans his arm against Jeno’s shoulder, and Heejin looks at them curiously.

“Didn’t expect you to come as a group,” she hums, eyes trailed on the man standing at the other side of the pond. She motions towards him as if in greeting: “Meet my dad, everyone.”

The man looks in their direction, hands and feet moving gracefully, and Jeno realizes it’s not yoga that he’s doing — it’s dancing, and he’s swaying to a silent melody that appears to be unbelievably beautiful. His eyes are not white like Heejin’s mothers’ are, though Jeno sees their real color in the flick of the light, when the obviously fake brown reflects the sun too brightly for it to be true. When his gaze falls upon Jeno, he raises one of his eyebrows, stopping his dancing abruptly.

Jeno has half the time to gulp down a breath before he approaches them, a very clear yoga mat rolled under his arm. “Heejin, you didn’t say we had guests,” he tells her, not all that displeased by their presence. He turns to Jeno almost immediately: “I’m sorry, it’s just crazy — you remind me so much of someone. What’s your name?”

“Um, Jeno. Lee Jeno,” he answers, unsure of what else to say. Jeno lifts his eyes to meet his figure, squinting around the sunlight, and asks: “Maybe my dad? He’s the sheriff.”

Heejin’s father shakes his head eagerly. “No, no. You remind me of a girl I once knew. By now — well, maybe —, how old is your mother?”

Mark grimaces next to him, but Jeno answers nevertheless, with a mild smile. “She would’ve been forty-two this year.”

His eyes widen. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Jesus, I’m so sorry. I just — I never knew Eunju had children.”

“She died five years ago.” He bites down on his lower lip. This is a tale as old as time, and Jeno has become quite numb to it by now; though a spike of pain goes through his heart nevertheless. Jeno clears his throat: “Um, thank you, though. I get that I look like her a lot.”

Heejin’s father’s eyes soften. “You’ve got just your mother’s eyes, Jeno.”

He musters a genuine smile, still squinting through the sunbeams. “Thank you.”

“Dad,” Heejin whines, bringing his attention back to her. “They’re here to talk serious business; supernatural stuff. You can leave.”

“I’m a Seelie, Heejin, I know everything about supernatural stuff,” he rolls his eyes at her, but eventually messes with her hair affectionately. She glares at him, and he continues: “Though I shall take my leave now. Very nice to meet you guys — I’ll be inside if you need anything.”

The second he is far enough to not hear them, Heejin turns to him with an apologetic smile: “I’m sorry, I promise he’s not an asshole. He just doesn’t have any filter.”

Jeno shrugs. “It’s okay.”

And it is, truly — he’s gotten better at grief over the years, and it doesn’t hurt as much as it did once. Mark whistles, noticing the tension in his shoulders: “So, what do you know, Heejin?”

She stretches out her legs, sinking them into the pond all the way to her knees, and says: “I know just as much as you do, but my mom’s been saying Demeter has been acting weird lately; as if She knew something Her followers did not. So do other Gods. For one,” she clears her throat. “I think it has something to do with Echidna.”

Jaemin nods. “Do you think she’s alive?”

“Maybe,” Heejin hums back to him, leaning her back against the grass. It’s so peaceful here, Jeno notices — he wonders how easy it must be to just exist amidst so much nature. “I think there’s just something we don’t know yet. Like something’s missing; an important piece of knowledge, maybe.” Her face turns to Jeno for a second, palms covering her eyes from the sun. “‘Why you?’ may be the question. Why Jeno, of all people, and why them?” She nods towards Jaemin and Mark. “Why the three of you, specifically, are everywhere and doing everything?”

“Because we’re nosy,” Mark answers, matter-of-factly.

“And the thing that ties everything odd going on together, as well,” she says, closing her eyes and relaxing against the grass. Jeno fights the urge to do the same; desperate for any peace of mind he can get. “Your parents, your grandparents, yourselves — it comes back to it, right? So that’s the lead I think we’re missing. I think the three of you haven’t been looking inwards, and rather have been searching for an answer in the wrong places.”

“What do you mean?” Jaemin asks, softened by the atmosphere. Renjun is splashing water onto him with a giggle, promptly ignoring the main reason they visited in the first place, but he looks happier, softer anyways. Who doesn’t love farms? “Like… Do you think this may be our fault?”

Heejin shakes her head gently. “No, of course not.” She turns her face towards Jaemin like a sunflower to the sun. “I just think there’s a reason everything points back to your father’s death and Jeno’s mother. I think… My dad used to say this city was almost too peaceful before, but it changed somewhere along the way; a matter of a decade and a half. I think it changed because of you three.”

Donghyuck snorts, caving in first and using his backpack as a pillow all the while he’s stirred on the ground near the pond. “Wouldn’t that be ironic?” He jokes to no one in particular, eyes closed.

“Like a curse,” Jaemin murmurs, staring at Heejin for a second before trading an alarmed look with Mark. “But this place was fucked up before, wasn’t it? The entire town used to hunt down supernaturals of all sorts before the Huang treaty. Maybe it wasn’t a curse, but— But rather revenge, of some way. Justice.”

Heejin nods, eyes opening almost too gracefully to be true. Her pupils reflect the light just like her dad’s do, and it’s all sorts of terrifying. “Yeah,” she says, breathing soft and steady. “Yeah, like the Furies do. Maybe it was a curse, after all, and everything your parents have done up until now was to try and protect you from it. I mean — it must mean something that things got weird once your father died.”

And Jeno knows she has a point, but he can’t possibly bring himself to care. He falls prey to the farm lethargy easily, lying on his back with his eyes closed and allowing the sun to swallow him whole, sinking into a bath of pure, unfiltered golden rays. Jaemin and Heejin continue talking, but Jeno tunes out of it soon enough — whatever it is, he trusts them both to come to a conclusion that will help their case. He stays under the sun for one too many minutes, but so does everyone else. At some point, Jeno almost catches himself drifting off to sleep, and it seems okay; there could be worse things to do after school, and a nap has never once harmed anyone.

They all end up snacking on sandwiches at the wooden table near the main house, courtesy of Heejin’s dad, and Jeno watches fondly as Jaemin and Renjun try to do cartwheels against the soft earth, their palms covered in dirt. Gowon and Olivia tag along about a few minutes after the clock hits five, two freshmen whom Jeno grew to really enjoy the presences of the moment they started listing all of the things they’ve seen and heard while in their animal forms. All in all, Jeno doesn’t know why he ever thought adolescence would not eventually catch up with him — as all bodies lying under the sun do, he would inevitably end up soaked in the light, no matter how unlikely he believed it to be.

It’s a few lifetimes away from the sunset when they start discussing a name for their little supernatural group, sipping on overly industrialized soda and laughing out words Jeno has never learned before. “No, seriously — what the fuck did you say earlier today?” Mark giggles behind his can of soda, turning to Renjun. “You called it the nutjob little league, or something?”

“But that’s too derogatory!” Gowon whines, her blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail. She leans her cheek against her palm, thoughtful. “We’re not a little league, either. We’re too old for that.”

“We’re not that old,” Jaemin chuckles, face buried into Jeno’s shoulder. He’s too giggly lately, and Jeno doesn’t have the heart to move away from him. “Heejin called it a network. A supernatural society.”

“That’s too broad of a statement,” Heejin clicks her tongue against the inside of her cheek, legs propped up on the table lazily. “We need to be the society of something. Like in fantasy novels, you know? Just ‘society’ sounds like a cult.”

Jeno hums, staring at the can in his hands. It stares back at him, lifeless and bright. He shakes it in the air, and says: “How about the Diet Soda Society?”

Olivia slaps her hand against the table excitedly. “That’s the one!”

The chatter gets louder again, drowning Jeno’s doubts and fears like a Greek chorus, and he settles back against his seat with a proud smile. Eventually, all parts of a bigger plan must come together, even if through the sheer strength of destiny alone — though Jeno does not know many things, he does know that he’s been waiting for his entire life to be in this place, and that it has never felt this right because it needed to have felt that wrong to get to it.

Life goes on, then; as it does. Heejin goes on to be a big part of his life, given how much time and effort they put into trying to link back her father and Jeno’s mother to their main mystery, and everything fades into a handful of moments Jeno rinses and repeats every time he has the chance to. He trains shifting and self-defense with Jaemin most afternoons after school, hangs out with Mark during all of his free periods, and tries not to think about how quickly the next full moon is coming up until it is strictly necessary. More evidence of energy bursts and Echidna’s troubled steps get found buried under tons and tons of theory and discussion, but he leaves most of it to Jaemin, who seems to be more than happy to take that place. All in all, everyone gets a part — no one in the Diet Soda Society has been left behind.

He’s sitting on the floor of his bedroom with Jaemin a few days after their first encounter with Heejin, surrounded by pictures of his mother and her life Jeno got from his grandmother last Christmas and never had it in himself to go through. The weather is better lately, hotter than he remembers it being in Spring, and Jaemin's white shirt sticks to his skin as if it couldn't bear to stay away, much to Jeno's chagrin. The pictures are sprawled all over the place, film cameras and high waisted jeans adorning the parts of his mother he never knew, and Jeno has to keep reminding himself that it's okay to look.

"You know," Jaemin hums, lying on his back under the fan. There's a pile of pictures sitting on his chest that rises and falls with his every breath, but Jaemin has given up on looking through them long ago. "Was your mom a Sikh?"

Jeno makes a non-committal sound as an answer. "She had a boyfriend who was a Sikh before she had me." He dives into a pile of pictures to offer the one he knows is of his mom and her ex boyfriend, a South Asian man Jeno only got to know through stories. "They got married and traveled the world trying to practice some long awaited kindness, but eventually fell apart. That's when she came back to Seoul and had me."

Jaemin nods curiously, reaching for the picture and pulling it towards himself. There's nothing particular about it — it's his mom, back when her hair was long enough to be pulled into cheeky pigtails, and Haran, with his arm around her and a smile so big it makes Jeno cut his teeth at it. "What's his name, again?" Jaemin points to him in the picture.

"Haran," Jeno answers easily. They have never met, per se, but Haran is good enough of a man to keep sending him cards for his birthday from time to time — Jeno supposes he remained friends with his mother after they fell apart, but wonders if Haran knows about her death. It makes him impossibly sad to imagine how many letters he might've sent her during the past five years, with no response in sight.

"Oh, like the city?"

He shakes his head. "No. It means 'deer', I think — with Punjabi pronunciation, at least."

Jaemin looks like he has no idea of what he's talking about, but nods in respect at the word 'deer'. "I see, your family has a history of falling in love with deers."

Jeno rolls his eyes. "Shut up."

The boy snickers, turning around to lie down on his stomach against the cool ground, cheek squished against the carpet of Jeno's bedroom. They continue their own endeavors in comfortable silence, only the soft sound of Jaemin tapping against his phone being heard, and eventually Jeno gives up on the pictures to — well, to stare. There's a black spot between Jaemin's shoulder blades that the shirt fails to fully hide, and while Jeno can barely make out the shape of it from so far away, he finds himself wanting to know.

"Jaemin?" He calls. The boy almost groans in response, too immersed in doing nothing, and Jeno asks: "What's that on your back?"

As if on instinct, Jaemin brings a hand to his back curiously. It takes him a few more seconds for him to notice: "Ah, you mean the… It's a family tattoo."

"You can't get tattooed," Jeno frowns, inching closer to see it more clearly. "Legally, I mean."

Jaemin chuckles, angling his head to meet Jeno's stare. "You look like you really want to see it, though."

He presses his lips into a thin like, but otherwise keeps his hands to himself. "Maybe," Jeno answers almost dryly, tracing the tattoo with his eyes. "Maybe I do."

The boy pulls himself up from the ground easily, facing the opposite direction as he sits with his back in front of Jeno, pulling his shirt to reach his shoulders. The tattoo is, well — a tattoo, though Jeno doesn't know why it matters so much to him that he got to see it. It's a black half moon, just like the one Chun-ja had on her cheek, and it makes him wonder whether Jinsoul or his mom have one to match. Jaemin's back is broad and somewhat pale, scattered with moles that compliment the moon tattoo and make do for stars, those of which Jeno feels an inexplicable urge to touch.

He breathes in, then breathes out. "Can I—" he starts, but Jaemin understands it before he finishes his sentence, and hums in agreement.

His shoulders tense the moment Jeno's fingers meet the tattooed skin, gently tracing the shape of the moon, but eventually relax against his palms. It's nothing important, Jeno has to remind himself, but he cares for it — he does, inevitably. Because it's a part of Jaemin he might have not been able to meet before, and now that he does, he wants to keep digging and digging, until there is nothing left to know. Because love, to Jeno, is a tender curiosity that deepens with time. Because he cares. He does.

"I like it," Jeno settles for saying, in a breath as soft as the dawn. He pulls his hands away, and watches as Jaemin slowly lets his shirt cover it up again, turning to face him with a smile.

"I know, bunny," he says, simply, Jeno sitting back on his heels and Jaemin with his legs and knees spread, leaning back on his hands. It's a perfect fit, but Jeno won't make the first move — he never does. Jaemin points with his chin towards the pictures on the floor: "Done with your research?"

Jeno shakes his head. "Not yet," he all but whispers, still hypnotized by the distance between them and how easy it would be to just break it and put an end to his suffering. He exhales softly as he catches Jaemin's eyes travelling down to his lips and lounging there enough for Jeno to know that he's not hiding it. "Why don't you ask to kiss me?"

Jaemin smacks his lips nonchalantly, bringing his gaze back to Jeno's. "Do you want me to ask?"

He gulps down copious amounts of Jaemin's scent before he answers, words heavy with tension he doesn't know how to let go of: "I want you to want to kiss me so bad that you don't even ask."

The boy inches closer and closer, ever so gingerly pressing the tip of his nose to Jeno's in a way he never imagined he would. It feels… Odd, to have Jaemin in the same way Mark craved to have for all of these years, but there's some grace to it; there's some grace in knowing all of the things he's imagined them to be doing once Jeno looked away. It's as if he has been let into a huge secret he might've not known otherwise. "Then you've got what you wanted, bunny," Jaemin lightly rubs his nose against Jeno's, so incredibly tender it felt like the delicate braiding of hair and the smell of vanilla scented soap. Their lips brush so quick so delicate that Jeno found himself chasing the contact after Jaemin pulled away, even if just a little. "It's nice being the prey sometimes, right?" He softly asks. "It's nice to be chased after."

"Yeah," Jeno exhales, closing his eyes. "It is."

Jaemin nuzzles his face gently, eyelashes tickling at Jeno's cheeks.

The kiss, though, only comes a week or so later. As most things do, it all starts and ends in the woods — what was supposed to be a few minutes of training became a sudden attack from Jaemin's part, claiming the element of surprise would help sharpen his senses, and Jeno only had a few seconds to prepare as Jaemin all but smashed into him, back hitting a particularly strong trunk as he manages to hold and defend all of Jaemin's punches, though very barely.

"Keep going!" Jaemin demands breathlessly, trying to tie Jeno's hands together while maintaining his balance with only one foot, knee stuck between the latter's legs in order to leverage himself off of the fight in case it gets too heated. "Take me down! Don't be merciful!"

"How the fuck—" Jeno asks, struggling under Jaemin's weight and cursing his abilities for even allowing himself to be pinned down. He desperately claws against Jaemin's legs and torso, though lightly enough to not leave too many scratches, and eventually gets a gap of peace for a few seconds after successfully pushing him away. Jeno has no time to think, no time to architect a plan as Jaemin inches towards him again, so he uses his own trick against him — with a little too much force than he usually would use, Jeno slams him into another tree, pinning him against it with both his hands held behind his back and his cheek squished against the trunk.

He pants, using his shoulder strength to pit Jaemin harder as his elbow rests just under his shoulder blades, keeping him in place. "Is this right?" Jeno asks as Jaemin regains his breath, digging his elbow just a bit deeper to get a reaction.

"Yeah," Jaemin coughs out, his drive to struggle against it dying down soon enough as his shoulders relax. "You can let go now."

Jeno does, but only partly — he takes off his elbow from Jaemin's back and uses it to relax his grip against his wrists, though he doesn't let go of them completely. He nuzzles the freshly buzzed undercut in the back of Jaemin's head with a breathy laugh: "But I like you so much better when you're not poking fun at me."

The boy snickers, easing into Jeno’s grip and allowing himself to be manhandled. He turns his head to the side to tease: “I can poke fun of you at any time I want. The only reason that I haven’t broke free yet is because this,” he points his chin towards their situation. “Somehow boosts your ego. I’m not above letting you have your fun for a little bit.”

He raises an eyebrow, though Jaemin wouldn’t be able to see it. “You’re so condescending.”

Jaemin giggles. “You are too. Pride’s gonna be the death of us; what a surprise.” He flips himself over, and Jeno allows him to while still caging him against the tree, wrists held tight. Jeno knows better than to give Jaemin the benefit of the doubt — he’s a dirty fighter, and it’d be foolish to think this fight is over just because they’re not actively at each other’s throats. “You learn quick, though. It’d be a major slip up if you had let me go now. I’d have slashed your throat.”

“Would you, really?” Jeno mocks, physically unable to back down. “I don’t think you would.”

“Well, me, I wouldn’t.” He struggles against Jeno’s grip on his hand, but eventually gives up on it, bringing his eyes back up and staring uncomfortably close into Jeno’s eyes. “I told you — pretty face like yours doesn’t deserve it.”

“Jaemin, flirting is not going to work.”

Jaemin wiggles his eyebrows. “I’m curious as to what you think I gain from flirting with you, bunny.”

Jeno rolls his eyes back so hard it actually hurts a little. “I don’t know,” he scoffs. “Maybe a stroke to your ego? The rush of knowing you can piss me off? Attention? The list’s endless.”

“Hm, yeah,” the boy considers it for a second, but settles for answering: “Maybe. I think your list lacks the main reason, though.”

“Which is?”

Jaemin’s stare falls back upon him. “That if I apply enough pressure, you’ll finally snap and do something about it.”

Jeno raises an eyebrow, fully aware that he’s indulging into Jaemin’s ways too much for it to be safe. “Why can’t you just ask, like a normal person?” He scowls, but his hands find Jaemin’s waist anyways, finally allowing his wrists to spring free from his grip. Jeno waits for it — for the sudden twist, the first punch, something that would make this move favorable to Jaemin, but it doesn’t come; it’s unsettling to say the least.

He’s taken aback when Jaemin simply wraps his arms around his neck, putty in his hands. Jeno knows this is a trap — he just doesn’t know how yet. “Because I’m better when there’s no you in my life, Jeno,” he hums, though he squeezes Jeno to himself. “Yet, it’s no fun. All you do is confuse me and leave me waiting; but it’s no fun without you.”

Jeno snorts. “You’ve never heard the words ‘I’m not interested’, have you?”

“Not really, no.” Jaemin nuzzles his face against Jeno’s jawline, melting into him. “But I’ve been hoping I’d get my turn with you.”

He rolls his eyes. "I'll chew you up and spit you out."

At some point, it just starts working. Jeno is bent until he breaks, the tension piling up on his spine and holding him upwards, and he just… Snaps, like Jaemin said he’d get him to. Maybe there is no trick, after all — maybe there has never been, and Jeno has been acting just like he wanted him to from the beginning; with the fighting and the snarling and the ‘listening to you make out with Mark Lee from the closet’. Maybe he’s been played like a chess piece for all this time, and maybe he doesn’t resent it. Maybe he doesn’t.

Jeno brings him closer through a hand on his nape, smashing their lips together with all the frustration he’s been gathering ever since he saw Jaemin shift back into a human at the woods for the first time. He is just as bad for Jeno as every other boy is and has been — endearingly strange endeavors be damned. As he dives deeper into the kiss, angling himself to the sound of Jaemin’s breathing, Jeno can’t help but think Mark would be proud. His lips are red and angry once he pulls away, and so are Jaemin’s, and maybe that is the trick in itself. Jeno knew once he got too close he’d never be able to be away again, and still went on to kiss him anyways, so his life might as well be over with.

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Jaemin murmurs as he peppers kisses all over Jeno’s face, tracing a path of pecks from his forehead to his chin. Jeno closes his eyes and accepts the attention despite his best judgement, indulging in love where he can’t indulge in hate, both opposites violently intense. “You could’ve done it sooner.”

“You, too,” Jeno bites back, squeezing Jaemin’s nape obnoxiously. “You could’ve done it way sooner.”

He feels Jaemin shake his head, and can even imagine the teasing smile that comes along with it, simply because Jeno has it imprinted on his eyelids. “Could not. I refuse to not be chased after.”

“Dickhead.” He snarls, though half hearted, and allows Jaemin to do as he pleases with the kisses — as long as they keep coming. “Entitled jerk.”

Jaemin hums, bringing his hands to cup Jeno’s cheeks and pulling it closer, planting kisses everywhere. Jeno does adore him, but would never say it out loud. “I know,” Jaemin presses a peck to the empty space between his eyebrows, cradling him closer. “I’m well aware.” Another kiss, this time to the tip of his nose.

“You better be,” Jeno mumbles, feeling small and harmless like he almost never does. It’s a new, odd experience to be taken care of; he wonders how long has it been. When the kisses stop for a second, Jeno cracks an eye open: “What is it?”

Jaemin chuckles. “You like me,” he announces, as if he had just found out, and cocks his head to the side. He repeats it, in awe: “You like me.”

Jeno frowns as if it was obvious. “I do.”

Admittedly, he’s not the brightest or the sweetest — when Jeno deems Jaemin to be apart for too long, he chases after him, all but headbutting him in the lips with his forehead. He doesn’t realize the ridiculousness of his situation until Jaemin bursts out laughing, knocking their foreheads together. “Did you just headbutt me—” He asks between giggles.

“Shut up,” he complains, but laughs along to the sound of Jaemin’s giggles. “Shut the fuck up. If you wanted perfect romance you should’ve asked Mark to kiss you.”

And it’s true that he should have, but Jeno came to learn that doves and ravens fly just the same, which means love can be for everyone — even the cynical, and especially them. Promised as it may be, Jeno hopes Jaemin at least has the decency to kiss his knuckles before throwing punches at him from now on.

But as things come, they must surely go. Time flies away from him like a flock of excited mockingjays, humming to a promise of revenge Jeno never truly felt was his until it had his mother’s name written all over it, alongside Jaemin’s father. Perhaps this town was just one mystery away from crumbling into ruins, anyways, and perhaps it was never his story to tell; though he would, and he is, and he will. The deeper they dig into the night Jaemin’s father died, the more Jeno believes what Jinsoul said: When he died, he left a door open, and no one’s been able to close it yet, though time and again he wonders if there is such a thing as doing the right thing simply because you were born for it.

Yet secrets work like poetry; once the reader has gotten a grasp of the author’s version of the story, it’s time to create their own. Jeno lies in bed at night and wonders about all the little things his mother could’ve, would’ve, should’ve lied to him about, and then tosses and turns to lay down beside all the lies he has told himself — not with a gun put to his head, but simply because they came to him as dainty as a wish, so delicate the bones had him unwinding his jaw around yet another non-truth. He’d like to believe there is an unforgivable side to his mother’s persona, the only one he ever got to meet, but Jeno knows best; he knows the similarities between them are deeper and thicker than blood, for they settle in his bones. Jeno has not been caught in a lie as much as he has been born — perhaps even forged — from it.

These are things only his shadow knows, and these are things that will die with him as all withering creatures do. Though Jeno would like to believe otherwise, it is safe to say that maybe the start of everything was not that no one looked over his cradle, but that someone did and it was a person Jeno would not trust to love him in a way he’d enjoy. These are things that seem like they matter, nowadays, but that’s quite a long run of shouting to the unknown and wearing out sneakers whose bottom is never found — because the person who has hurt him is long dead, Jeno is unsure of how much matter he should put on a discussion that is painfully one sided.

He was too young to understand, then; he was too naive to know, then; he didn’t see the full picture as it was, then. The worst side of being lied to is not the lie in itself, but having not been deserving of the truth, however harmful or confusing that might’ve been at the time. Like a snoring cat, Jeno contorces himself around versions and versions of his mother, trying to figure out which one is the truest without breaking his spine in the process. In the end, it all comes back to it — Jeno has been wronged, and the wrongdoer is long dead, so who is he supposed to be angry at? Who is to fill the void of bitterness left behind, and whose are the bridges he’ll torn apart?

And though he hates her for what she did, Jeno still misses her like a little kid. He still looks around, trying to peek over his colleagues’ shoulders to know if he’s doing it right, and the truth is that Jeno has no idea if he is. To be born into a world parentless — be it through death or spite — is to be born into a world where you are not tied to anyone, and thus not belonging to anywhere. Like a neuron whose sole purpose is to cease to exist one day, he finds himself floating alone in a room of connections without any to call his own, in an office booth where his walls are the only ones to touch the ceiling.

The night before the first and last full moon of the month is spent at Mark’s house, as some sort of sleepover Jeno isn’t sure can ever feel any more normal than it is, though they try. Everyone leaves when the clock hits ten except for him and Jaemin, who are left behind to pick up empty take out packages as Mark takes a shower upstairs, silence thick like a veil between them. It' the beginning of the end of history as they know, that much Jeno is aware of, but Jaemin seems to be much more concerned than any of them are, constantly picking at his nails and frowning at no one in particular.

Once they're settled in Mark's room and the night colors the sky just enough to make the hue of Jeno's hair disappear along with the blue, he asks Jaemin, who is wide awake at the sleeping bag near him: "Can't sleep?" Jeno whispers, though he knows Mark is still very much awake where he lies on his bed.

Jaemin blinks, turning his face towards Jeno with a sad smile. "Never can."

Before he can answer, Mark speaks up: "This is weird."

And it is weird, but for all the wrong reasons. To be apart, now, feels somewhat foolish and frivolous of them, as if they were trying to hinder back a connection that was long due. Jeno cannot find one reason as to why they are not huddled together in a bed like intertwined snakes, but he can't bring himself to say it, and he's too scared to sound whiny to ask for it. Jaemin smacks his lips together in the dark. "This is awkward."

"It is," Mark agrees easily, in a half whisper. Jeno hears him shuffle in bed, tossing around like in deep thought, and he mumbles: "Aren't we too grown for this? Both of you had each other's tongues on your mouths before, but you can't cuddle me?"

Jaemin snorts, and Jeno can make out his silhouette in the dark as he springs forward from his sleeping bag, hair sticking out to all sides. He hears more shuffling, and Mark's bed makes a sound that denounces someone else had jumped into it. Suddenly, Jaemin calls: "Jeno?"

"Yeah?"

"Get your ass over here."

He does, but only because Jeno is better at receiving orders than he is at giving them. He approaches the bed with half his usual common sense, heartbeat thundering like the engines of a motorcycle, and watches as Mark and Jaemin fight to make space for him, though they do and that's what matters. Jeno settles behind Mark, who's in the middle, and gently squeezes his arms around his torso, leaning his forehead against his nape as Jaemin cuddles to the other side, Mark's shoulder covering what Jeno believes to be Jaemin's head resting on Mark's chest. This feels right, Jeno wants to say, but doesn't — he's too tired to gather the strength needed to do it.

In the end, all relationships are like this, he realizes. A lot more goes on in the unsaid, the vacant space between two big blocks of happenings, and a lot else goes on through small, whispered words. Jeno knows he learned through movies what love ought to be, but he understands it better now — where all the romantic comedies had only about an hour and a half to figure out the main characters' relationships, Jeno has an entire lifetime to unwrap and unravel the many different things that make up the people Mark and Jaemin are, and that is no easy work. It feels worth it, though; it does.

Rabbits on the moon and whatnot, the day after goes by in a blur, with mostly Jaemin printing out signs with their pictures and "Have you seen me?" written in big, red letters as a last minute attempt at preparing for the full moon. Jeno thinks it's disturbing, to say the least, but Jaemin copes in weird ways, so when he walks into the living room to show him the signs, Jeno only settles for praising his editing abilities and pressing a mindless kiss to the corner of his lips. Gowon drops by a few hours ahead of the sunset to gift them a small gadget — it's nothing much, inherently, but Jeno pins it to his shirt anyways.

It's a handmade diet soda bottle cap pin, and when asked about it, she just shrugged and told them it was because they were a team. As Jeno watches the sun set over the hills, he understands it better, fidgeting with the pin as Jaemin murmurs the plan to himself all over again. The industrial shed they stand upon has been left to rot after the accidental fire that caused the death of Na Jun-young and five more victims, those of which were speculated to be members of a secret research group centered around supernatural activity. It's a short, white building a few miles from the city, the paint job rusted from the passage of time and every window sealed shut with bright yellow police tape, the ones Jeno used to play with as a child.

The burn marks adorn every wall on the outside, big dark splotches of a memory that is not his to relive and no passage of air to come out. They stand in front of the entrance, screwed shut by wooden boards that have, too, rottened over the years. All in all, it feels like an entire lifetime left behind, and Jeno has to take a step back as the sun slowly but surely melts through his fingers, a full moon rising over the county and taking its place.

Jaemin presses his lips together as he pulls out a hammer from the back of Lillian's car, the tool sinking to the ground easily as he holds onto its unusable end. "Are you going to smash us in?" Jeno asks, though it is obvious that he will.

The boy doesn't answer, eyes still trained to the building. Mark clears his throat: "Jaemin, words. Communication."

"I will," he hums back to Jeno reluctantly, refusing to look at either of them in the eye. "It's the only way in."

Jeno nods, bracing himself for the noise. "Okay."

Once the full moon is at its peak, staring down at them with her ever so unimpressed glare, it takes Jaemin three to two seconds before he swings at the boards covering the entrance, the same glimpse of wilderness Jeno has seen in the woods resting over his eyes, clouding Jaemin's vision. What stares back is an empty, dark shed with little to no special features aside from the faint outline of burnt books scattered all over the floor and the violent smell of smoke, thick and dark all over. Jaemin steps into the darkness first, wearing the Greek tragedy of his father's death like a crown, and Jeno follows behind with his flashlight pointed towards nothing in particular, the beam of light it creates almost incomprehensible to his vision, which seems to struggle to decide whether Jeno has wolf or human eyes.

After a few blinks, his eyes get used to it enough for him to be able to make out most of the things that stand ahead of him. It's not much — from what Jeno can recognize and understand, it's mostly the books and a handful of other, creepy trinkets that seemed like a child's toys, one small blanket covering a pile of… Well, of bones. He hesitantly takes a step towards it, senses enhanced to their best ability as he pokes the pile with the tip of his boot, kicking the blanket away to find a desinteriorating deer skull along with other thin, sharp bones, a bouquet of blue flowers hidden in the sockets where the dead deer's eyes should be.

He makes to gather the flowers with his hands, but Jaemin smacks the back of his head. "That's wolfsbane, dumbass. It's poisonous."

Jeno jumps back in surprise. "Since when have you been watching?"

"Since I saw you inching towards what is very clearly a rotting deer skull," Jaemin huffs, crouching down next to the pile to analyze the blanket that covered it up in the first place, now with a footprint on it. "This is yours."

He frowns, looking around. "No, it isn't."

"Yeah, it is," the boy insists, pulling himself to his feet with the blanket on his hands. Jaemin holds it to Jeno's line of vision, and surely enough, there it is: Lee Jeno embroidered in baby blue letters, contrasting against the white background. "It has your name on it. How come the police didn't take it? It's evidence. Could've been proof of arson."

Jeno grabs the blanket from his hands, unsettled. He doesn't remember this — he doesn't remember. "Jaemin, this isn't mine. This is a baby's blanket."

This is Jaemin's time to frown. "Motherhood rituals often require one."

"Jaemin."

"Lee, I'm serious — this is yours. If it's not, it's supposed to be."

"Jaemin. Words. Explanation."

"Nope. No time." Jaemin ignores his plea, grabbing the blanket back and stuffing it into his backpack. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it." He pulls out one of the bigger flashlights, directing its overwhelmingly white beam towards the miles of uncovered corners in the shed they'd probably take the entire night to search around. What's beyond them is still empty space, though a pattern continues — only a few feet away from each other, more and more piles of bones and what Jeno hopes is animal meat are adorned by bouquets of wolfsbane, connected by a ridiculously long vine that takes over most of the room.

The child toys don't stop just by the entrance. Different dolls, toy cars and other tiny blankets are scattered around the floor, though always inside the circle created by the vine. They stand outside of it, silence eerie and deeply unsettling, while the vine traces the room into two different atmospheres. Jeno opens his mouth to say something, but Jaemin beats him to it: "If that's human meat, it's a werewolf-turning ritual."

He inhales. Then exhales. "And if it's not human meat?"

Jaemin smacks his lips together quietly. "Sacrifice to the Gods."

"And if it's not?" Jeno insists.

"Then I have no fucking clue."

A loud sound of metal clashing against metal makes the both of them startle in surprise, shoulders tense and breathing heavy as they maneuver the sinewy paths of the mystery that surrounds this place. "Mark?" Jaemin calls, turning around in his heels. "Mark, where are you?"

The sound happens again, though smaller now. Jeno walks in its direction on instinct, resting his hand atop of the kitchen knife Jaemin convinced him to bring, and the hesitance in his steps make the path look twice as long from the inside. He's about to peek out of the entrance when Mark appears into the shed, a bashful smile on his lips. "Sorry," he murmurs, scratching the back of his head. "I forgot the keys in the car."

Jeno smacks his own forehead in exasperation, but pulls Mark closer to him by his wrist anyways. "Stay with us," he all but demands, pulling him towards where he and Jaemin previously stood. Mark allows himself to be carried away easily.

"I don't get it," Jaemin mumbles with a frown as he points his flashlight towards one of the meat piles. "This should be rotting if it was my dad's doing. This should — it should smell."

Jeno makes a face. "It does smell."

"But it should smell like a corpse," he insists. "It should be rotting, Jeno. It looks very fine to me."

"Like supermarket meat," Jeno adds, curiously digging the tip of his foot into the vine-circle. Nothing happens, per se, but he wouldn't risk entering it fully without Jaemin's clear recommendation. "Yeah. This seems fresh."

Jaemin's eyebrows furrow to the bottom of the ocean. "If it's a ritual, it needs someone to trigger it. Whoever set this up needs someone else to trigger it. You can't do a ritual by yourself; it'd be like having a cult of one." He keeps quiet for a second, digesting his thoughts in that creepy way Jaemin does, and Jeno uses it as a cue to give his back to them and crouch near the deer skull again, its empty sockets staring back at him soulessly. This is decay, Jeno knows, and it's a life form as all others; he doesn't doubt it for a second that this deer is alive. "Jeno," Jaemin calls.

"Huh?"

"Jeno."

"What is it?"

"Jeno."

He winds his neck back. "What, Jaemin—"

Jeno's sentence is cut short by the sheer shock of seeing Mark point a knife to Jaemin's direction, the very sharp tip of it standing just between his shoulder blades as one of Mark's arms holds him by his neck, tightened enough for Jaemin's words to come out as gasps. "I think— I think we're the trigger," he struggles to say, body limp against Mark.

"What the fuck, dude?" He almost yells, inching closer to them with careful steps, as if approaching a wild animal. When he gets one inch too close, Mark presses the tip of the knife to Jaemin's skin a bit firmer, making Jeno raise his arms in the air in surrender. "Mark? What's going on?"

But that's not Mark. Jeno should've known.

What he supposes would be his Mark's eyes roll back in his head in almost gory manner, the sound of his optic nerves splitting in half ringing against Jeno's ears and making every hair in his body stand up through the discomfort. The eyes that stare back at him, then, are not Mark's — they're someone else's, with full-blown white orbs and a scaly iridescent center where his pupils should be, texturized like skin and scanning him up and down, just before Mark unhinges his jawn into a screech so loud and clear it made Jeno stumble back in pain, palms pressed to his ears.

Jaemin struggles against his grip, but Mark pays it no mind, turning to Jeno with eyes so big so round they could swallow the entire place. "My child," comes in a voice that is not his, scratchy and breathless as if it hadn't been used in eons. "My beautiful child. How I've longed to see you."

Jeno coughs out half his brains as Mark takes a step closer, resulting in him taking one step back. "Oh, you've grown so well; you've grown so strong. Your father said you wouldn't, but — I knew you would. You'd claw your way out of Tartarus yourself if only you put your mind to it." When he comes even closer, Jeno scurries away, tumbling down into the ground. "Fear no slithering creature, Jeno; the shadow is yours and so is the valley."

He pants violently as he observes Mark detach Jaemin from himself as if he was a small bug, throwing him to the side nonchalantly and not bothering to watch as Jaemin's body hits the nearest wall, the clear sound of bones breaking ricocheting through the room when he falls limp to the ground, shifting into a deer mid-fall. Jeno's gaze turns to Mark, whose hands are now free, but he doesn't make a move. Instead, he stands in front of him like a general. "Get up, Chimera. You are not to kneel ahead of any creature — dead or alive."

"What do you want from me?" Jeno hesitantly pulls himself up from the ground, defensive as can be as he takes even more steps back, farthering the distance between them. "I— I don't know anything. Jaemin does all the research."

"Oh, Jeno," Mark pops his lips obnoxiously, raising an eyebrow towards him. "I want you. And I know you want me too; for I'm your mother. Your real mother. We belong."

He chokes around his own confusion. "W-what?" Jeno gulps everything else that exists in the world to make space for the words in his throat. "I— No, I… I have a mom."

Mark bites down on his lower lip in thought. "Do you really, though?" He walks around Jeno like he's sizing him up, ready to unhinge his jaw and eat him whole. "Do you have a mother, Jeno? Or were you just given to her?"

When he doesn't answer, Mark continues: "You are mine, Jeno. I've let someone borrow you, but that does not make you theirs." He gazes towards the encircling vine and the piles of bone and flesh, eyebrows raised. "They tried to keep me away. They made you a monster, instead. You were never supposed to make it this fair by yourself." Mark's eyes fall upon the wounded deer nearing the walls, unimpressed. "Your parents tried, but you can't put a curse on reverse. It doesn't work like that."

"What are you talking about?" Jeno heaves out through bruised lungs, his heartbeat violent against his ribcage.

Mark walks past him in torturing slow steps, standing inside the vine circle with something quite like wonder tracing his feathers, though Jeno wouldn't know. That — whoever it is — is not the Mark he knows. "Jun-young thought he'd be satisfying the Furies' anger when he sacrificed himself," he hums, blinking slowly like he was reserving energy. "He thought it'd make the Gods take mercy on his family. Poor man — wanted a deer, but raised a wolf." Mark reaches out to one of the deer skulls standing by the walls, pulling it towards him and into his line of vision. "It's a pity I couldn't have convinced you to kill him when you had the chance. Jaemin would be better off with his father."

With a flick of his fingers, quite like a lighter in itself, Mark blows a flame into the skull. It doesn't burn its outside, but the wolfbane inside of it fires up like hay, a wildfire ready to spread. Mark puts it back to where it was, and moves on to another skull, repeating the process. "It's not personal, Jeno, you know," he deflects. "You and I, we are monsters. We are destined for bigger, better things," his glare meets Jaemin in his deer form once again. "We have no time for little boys who think they can be like us."

Another skull set on fire and given back to its original location. Mark hums, grabbing the pieces of meat with his bare hands and using it to fuel the fire in small bits, the sound of flesh being managed by human hands nauseating. "Don't feel bad for him," he tells Jeno by the time most of the skulls have already been set ablaze. Mark carefully pulls himself out of the circle, crouching down where Jaemin is blacked out in his deer form and picking him up in one go, almost as if he had the superhuman strength Jeno has been working so hard to perfectly control. "You will get to keep one of them, the Oracle. I must say it has never been this easy to take a body for myself before." Mark all but throws Jaemin into the circle, the deer skulls burning all around him like blinding lights. "His father did this to him. His father invited me in, his father revived this place's energy enough that I could feed from it, his father deserved the punishment he got when his son was born cursed."

"What are you doing?" Jeno asks between heavy breaths, trying to scurry his way towards the circle.

Mark keeps him from it by standing between him and Jaemin, a smile tugging at his lips. "I'm taking back the power his family stole from me, isn't that obvious?" He clicks his tongue, digging the heel of Mark's sneaker into Jeno's hand. He presses down so hard Jeno is sure he heard the cracking of his bones, but he can't be too sure with the buzzing against his ears. "All these years, feeding off of my ley lines, teaching his incompetent children how to bend and break them, thinking I would never repiece myself together."

He crouches down to Jeno's height with a wicked grin. "But we did it, Jeno, didn't we? We shifted and we fought and we attacked. All those times you were gathering energy — you did it for me. You turned the tide to our favor." Mark eventually lets go of his fingers, and Jeno brings them to his chest with a pained yelp, trying to create more distance between them. "You gave me this body, Jeno. Jaemin's father simply let me in."

"But—" He starts, feeling shame dread all over him the minute the words come to his mind. Jeno has to know. "My— My mother…"

Mark's lips spread in a bone chilling smirk, white scaly eyes making Jeno shiver violently. "She tried, Jeno. She tried to pretend you were a normal child, but she knew what she was doing when she accepted you into her home. She knew she'd have to return you one day, and she killed herself thinking it would hinder my search." He whistles. "What a waste of blood and sweat that woman was. Eunju was maybe one of the weakest humans there were on Earth, though she did not fight like it. I suppose human skin is always hard to live in, no matter the effort."

He turns on his heels, bringing yet another skull aflame and moving on to the next. A few one are left, Jeno realizes, and he has no time to think of what Mark could've possibly meant about his mother as he pulls himself up from the ground, panic flaring up inside of him when his eyes meet Jaemin's unconscious form slightly stirring out of place. "Echidna," he heaves out in acknowledgement.

Mark turns around in pleased surprise. "So you do know me, after all. Ain't you my child at the end of the day?"

Jeno presses his lips together nervously, blood rushing to his ears as he all but forces himself into the circle, inching closer to where Mark is. The plan is — there is no plan. This is it. This is where Jeno's heroic, altruistic role has to come in, he just doesn't how to pull it off yet. "Why are you doing this to him? To me?"

"Because monsters are not made for love, Jeno," he answers simply, setting fire to yet another pile of flesh. "You were made and forged from fury. You were my perfect beast, and you let yourself be softened by the worse of the worst. I am doing you a favor." Mark turns to the last unlit skull, and Jeno grabs his wrist without thinking, taking advantage of Echidna's surprise and twisting it to the point Mark's body tumbles onto the ground.

"What are you doing?" A voice says, and it's neither Mark's or Echidna's — it's a mix of both, as if they were fighting for control. Jeno tries to remember what Jaemin told him about body control and pain, about anchors and whatnot, but nothing comes to mind. Remember me, Jaemin had said as he made him practice shifting for an entire night, from dusk to dawn. If you remember me, you'll be able to do anything. Remember my voice, remember my words, remember me.

Jeno twists Mark's arm harder, more thoroughly, and the white in his eyes almost flickers for a moment, like fog when it's slowly dispersing. Pain, he remembers Jaemin's nag as he put on a bandaid over yet another big, bloody scratch Jeno had given himself. Pain makes you human. Pain is the place you go to when you want to take control of your body. With his eyes tightly shut, Jeno pulls Mark's arm between his knees, twisting it all the way so very quickly it must have hurt just a bit less, though he doesn't check it as Mark's body becomes limp under him.

Jeno watches, terrified, as Mark's jaw unhinges like a snake and pukes out what seems to be an entire desert worth of wine-red sand before he falls unconscious to the ground. He doesn't have much time to react — the pile of sand turns into a bloodied torso soon enough, the other half of the body desperately trying to grow and failing to do so as the flickering features of Echidna burst into different types of rageful screams. She claws her way towards one of the skulls, and Jeno sees it when she breathes right into the fire, until a ghost-like snake tail grows right out of the bloody end of her waist with a guttural scream.

He grabs the business end of his kitchen knife and pulls it right out of his jacket, throwing himself near Echidna violently and attempting at cutting off her tail before it grows completely. They clash together as she tries to, quite literally, claw his eyes out, her claws long and sharp enough to scratch away the first layer of Jeno's skin as if it was nothing. His eyes widen as he sees the remainings of the skin from his neck on the back of her claws, and Echidna uses his moment of vulnerability to flip their position, snake tail wrapping around the lower part of his body.

Jeno struggles against it, but what is done is done. She wraps her webbed fingers around his throat with one of her hands, choking him to the ground, and raises her other hand, throwing a punch right at his nose while bloodying his entire face with her knuckles. Jeno's lips are cracked and split open by the time she decides to finally stop, raising a handful of sharp claws in the air to finally give him his last breath, and Jeno closes his eyes tightly in order to not see it.

He waits for it, and it doesn't come.

When Jeno opens his eyes, he is able to catch a glimpse of dark, long hair before Echidna's body falls limply on top of him with an ugly screech, her head rolling to the side as Jeno all but pushes himself off from under her torso, drenched from head to toe in something that he supposes should be blood, but is too dark to be. He looks up to his savior, eyes wider than the Moon, and finds a girl he's never seen before looking back at him with a maniac smile, bloodied sword in her hands.

She raises an eyebrow at him, eyes round and cat-like as she makes to bow in front of him gracefully, as if she were a knight. "Kim Hyunjin's the name," she introduces herself, kicking Echidna's body to the side and offering him a hand.

Jeno takes it, allowing her to pull him upwards, but he can barely stand. "Who are you?" He settles for asking in a gasp, voice rough and scratchy as Hyunjin holds his ground by throwing an arm around his waist. "Did she— Is she— Why—"

Hyunjin giggles, guiding Jeno to sit down by one of the walls as she does the same with Mark's and Jaemin's unconscious body, the latter no longer in his deer form as he mumbles something incoherent, clutching his leg. When she's done piling up limp and sorry teenage bodies, she wipes her hands against each other, nonchalant. "Someone really wanted you to die," she answers. "And someone really wanted you to live. I'm here to make sure that person gets what they want."

"Who—" Jeno tries for asking again, but a sharp sting hits him in full. The multiple scratches on his torso and neck will most likely leave scars he'll have to spend a lifetime covering up, but the ones on his face seem… Manageable enough. A single tear runs down his face, but it's not out of sadness — it's frustration; anger.

Hyunjin makes to answer, but a woman appears from behind her, and Jeno knows before he knows. Na Eunhye smiles at him with the same set of teeth as Jaemin, a black moon tattoo twinkling from the very center of her throat and one hand resting over Hyunjin's shoulder, far from the frail lady Jeno knew back when he first met her. "I believe the answer you're looking for is me, Jeno."

Jeno splutters. "But— Jaemin… Your husband— What? What? Why?" He tries moving, but the scratches on his beg stick to his shirt uncomfortably when he does so, and Jeno whimpers in pain before he can ever finish his sentence.

"Because Jaemin is his mother's child," she hums, crouching down to be at eye level with him as her hands gently undress him off of his blood-drenched coat. She pulls out a small handkerchief from her jacket pocket, reaching out to wipe the blood and sweat from Jeno's face with a kind smile. "And he'd die before he'd ever let any harm come to you." When Eunhye deems Jeno's face to be acceptably clean enough, she springs upward once again, taking a step back from them to announce: "We'll be waiting outside. Ambulance's going to be here in ten; your dad in five. Be quick if you want to make up a story."

She leaves before Jeno can answer, and he hurries to Mark's side the second she's gone, pulling his head on his lap as Jaemin's head falls limp against his shoulder. Jeno cups his cheeks with his hands, fighting back a sob, and Mark's eyes open in a breathy gasp. "Jeno—" He pulls himself up by his good arm, clutching the broken one to his chest as he turns to Jeno almost desperately. "Echidna— She— The car— God, I— And Jaemin— Are you okay?" Mark asks in one breath, struggling to keep himself up.

Jeno licks his lips with a sigh, cupping his cheeks as delicately as he can with bloodied hands, and smashes his face onto Mark's in a kiss. His eyes shoot open in surprise, but eventually Mark's healthy hand grips his wrists gently, allowing Jeno to do as he pleases. He doesn't know how much time he spent with his lips glued to Mark's, salty from the tears and drenched in blood, but he can remember the ER ride almost perfectly.

Hyunjin sat with him in the ambulance as the nurse eased sedatives for the pain into him, and even allowed Jeno to squeeze her hand when his cuts were being clean. He can't tell the exact time he passed out, but he sees her face staring down at him as they move him out of the ambulance. Jeno tries to mouth something important, a 'thank you' of some sort, but what comes out of his mouth is a failed attempt at a joke: "See you on the other side," he says through chapped lips.

Jeno sees Hyunjin shake her head with a smile. "Oh, Jeno, there is no other side. This is it."

He wants to ask her what does she mean, but settles for sighing out a deformed giggle as the artificial lights come into his vision, the hospital ahead of him and nowhere to swim to but to unconsciousness.

Jeno ends up getting hospitalized for a week in order to take care of the deeper scratches, and his room is just besides Jaemin's, who ended up needing to get admitted into the hospital for back problems not even one day later. They chat and laugh over crappy hospital food and vitamin pills, complaining about the TV that's always stuck in the same channel and how Mark's pink arm cast makes him look incredibly stupid. Jeno doesn't mention what Echidna said about Jaemin's dad, and Jaemin doesn't ask him about it — in a way, things even out as well as they could.

Despite everything, Jeno actually does nd up finishing Sophomore year of highschool with only a few scars to tell the story. Life goes back to normal, mostly, except now he has two dates for prom instead of one.

How lucky.